“Come,” she said and led him to her bed.
He hastily threw back the covers and swept her off her feet, cradled her in his arms and kissed her softly before laying her on her back. He stood over her, admiring the beauty of her creamy skin, as she let down her chignon. Her loose hair tumbled beside her neck and shoulders. With a hand, he traced the long lines of her toned body, from her shoulders to the ends of her toes, and then returned upward toward her hips, where he stopped to circle the sensuous curve of her torso.
She let out a sigh of encouragement as she opened her legs, and he quickly moved his hand to touch her. She was impassioned, moist with desire, and the more he explored, the more fully she opened her legs, until he could wait no longer. He grasped one of her thighs and urged her legs open more fully, until nothing remained hidden. Her orchid was enflamed, a deep crimson. Her pearl, bursting through its stigma, awaited his touch. And the moment he touched her jewel, she gasped.
“Newland,” she whispered, as she reached for his manhood. Once she held the crown in her hand, she began caressing him as he gently circled her pearl. Then he slid his fingers lower to mix her passion and dip a finger inside her velvety sheath. She was tight, supple, and needy.
“Make love to me,” she said.
He lowered his head and ran his tongue along her delicate flower before he positioned himself over her. He circled her in his arms and pulled her close so that her breasts were next to his chest. Then he touched the crown of his staff to her sheath. They stared deeply into each other’s eyes, anticipating the moment that they would finally be complete. And when she moved her hips desirously toward him, he waited no longer and pushed inside her wet, velvety purse, sliding slowly to the end.
“You’re so beautiful,” he whispered as he closed his eyes and began to thrust.
They moved slowly with their bodies sliding easily over one another. But as their passion flourished, their pace hastened until they were racing through the final measures. Like a symphonic masterpiece, the crescendo intensified with each thrust, and then finally, they climaxed in a perfect beat. With her locked in his embrace, Newland rolled to his side, and they continued to kiss.
When their lips parted, they held each other near, and continued to swirl the tips of their tongues. And when their tongues withdrew, they continued to share gentle kisses.
He kissed her forehead, and then he said softly, “How shall I ever live without you?”
She offered no reply.
He wished he had never asked the question. Her silence was more painful than if she had sent him away with words. The ache in his heart was debilitating. He dreaded to think about tomorrow or the future, or how he would he ever leave her tonight. He glanced down at her face. Her eyes were closed, and she wore a pleasant, satisfied expression, almost as if she had not heard a word he had said.
Pushing the thoughts from his mind, he embraced her tightly and began stroking her head. As long as he held her close, she belonged to him, and he to her. If he lived not a second more in this life, he could rightfully say that it had been a life worth living. He closed his eyes because it was all he could do to hold onto the moment. They lay arm in arm, dozing and sharing one and the same breath, until sometime late in the night, he was compelled to take his leave.
Half an hour later, when Archer unlocked his own front-door, he found a similar envelope to the one Ellen had received, it was lying on the hall-table on top of his pile of notes and letters. The message inside the envelope was also from May Welland, and ran as follows: “Parents consent wedding Tuesday after Easter at twelve Grace Church eight bridesmaids please see Rector so happy love May.”
Archer crumpled up the yellow sheet as if the gesture could annihilate the news it contained. Then he pulled out a small pocket-diary and turned over the pages with trembling fingers; but he did not find what he wanted, and cramming the telegram into his pocket he mounted the stairs.
A light was shining through the door of the little hall-room which served Janey as a dressing-room and boudoir, and her brother rapped impatiently on the panel. The door opened, and his sister stood before him in her immemorial purple flannel dressing-gown, with her hair “on pins.” Her face looked pale and apprehensive.
“Newland! I hope there’s no bad news in that telegram? I waited on purpose, in case—” (No item of his correspondence was safe from Janey.)
He took no notice of her question. “Look here—what day is Easter this year?”
She looked shocked at such unchristian ignorance. “Easter? Newland! Why, of course, the first week in April. Why?”
“The first week?” He turned again to the pages of his diary, calculating rapidly under his breath. “The first week, did you say?” He threw back his head with a long laugh.
“For mercy’s sake what’s the matter?”
“Nothing’s the matter, except that I’m going to be married in a month.”
Janey fell upon his neck and pressed him to her purple flannel breast. “Oh Newland, how wonderful! I’m so glad! But, dearest, why do you keep on laughing? Do hush, or you’ll wake Mamma.”
About the Authors
Coco Rousseau
After successfully adapting E. M. Forster’s A Room with a View to explore that novel’s erotic potential, Coco decided she would continue her passion for retelling classic love stories on a more intimate level by adapting an American classic.
Edith Wharton
In 1921, Edith Wharton became the first woman to win the Pulitzer Prize for Fiction for her twelfth book, The Age of Innocence. A remarkable chronicle of an important period in American history, the story portrays the public and private lives of the upper class in nineteenth-century New York. Wharton creates a tragic, poignant love story among Newland Archer, an idealistic young lawyer, May, his society-conscious wife, and the Countess Olenska, a beautiful, mysterious woman with a scandalous past. In Coco’s adaptation of the timeless classic, the plot takes on a new twist, while also more explicitly exploring human passion and sexuality in ways that Wharton could not.
The Age of Innocence
Wild & Wanton Edition, Volume 2
Coco Rousseau
Edith Wharton
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Coco Rousseau and Edith Wharton.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7493-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7493-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7494-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7494-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/Arpad Benedek; powdr_dayz
Dedicated to Edith Wharton
“The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Edith Wharton
“The air of love is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Coco Rousseau
Avec amour,
Coco Rousseau
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Crimson Romance, for enriching the world with stories of the heart. Without love, we would be mere flesh without soul. As Mahatma Gandhi said, “Where there is love there is life.” Thank you, Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, Beth Gunn, Jess Verdi, and the tireless staff of Crimson Romance who helped make this adaptation of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence another shining star in the world of romance.
Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
> Dedication
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
About The Authors
Chapter 1
The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar.
Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church.
The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy—or equally painful, as one chose to put it—in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth.
This should have been the happiest day of his life, but all Newland could think about was the last time he had seen Countess Olenska—his Ellen. Only a month ago, when he had visited Ellen at her quaint house and they had made love, he believed after he departed her company he would never be intimate with her again. She told him that she could not love him unless she gave him up, that he had changed her view of life. She had not realized how vile she was regarded by society, and she was thankful to him because he had changed all the ill cast down upon her with his good deeds and kindness. She said that she could not go back to her old ways of thinking. She had falsely believed that running to America to be with her own kind would allow her to be free, to be able to live the kind of life she wanted, but he made her realize that the divorce she sought would only create scandal. It would ruin not only her reputation, but also the reputation of her family and friends. In essence, he had saved her. When they parted that night, they bid each other a sad farewell.
Regret had plagued Newland ever since. He had never known a woman like the Countess. She had consumed him—mind, body, and soul. Not a minute passed that he did not think of her. The last night they were together, he had confessed his feelings and urged her to run away with him. But then, the letter came from May, explaining that she and Newland were to be married in only a month’s time, that the family had been persuaded by his recent visit to move the marriage ceremony forward to this earlier date rather than making the couple wait another year. Not for a moment had Newland believed this would happen. In fact, he had counted on the quite opposite so that he could untangle himself from May. But with the arrival of the letter, he had only become more entangled with May.
A week after Newland departed the intimate company of Ellen, he ventured out of his club and into the streets of New York City. The night was crisp without a breeze or a drop of moisture in the air. To clear his head, he decided that he would walk home. But as he passed the van der Luyden’s home, he saw the Countess descending the steps of their front stoop. He froze, considered turning, but the sight of Ellen was magnetic. He approached her.
“Good evening,” he said, trying to sound formal. He had longed to see her, but had chosen to remain at a distance.
“Newland,” she said, her voice filled with surprise. “I was just about to take a carriage.”
“It’s such a lovely evening. I thought I’d walk home.”
“Yes, it is quite lovely … shall we walk together?”
“Do you think …?” He wanted to walk with her. He wanted to be with her. But it pained his heart to be near her and not to be able to touch her. “I’m afraid I’m going in the opposite direction.”
She came close to him. “Oh, my dear man. I know we agreed that we mustn’t see each other again. And I’ve stayed away, kept my distance. But …”
“No,” he said. “We can not think like this, not any longer.”
“You spoke freely to me. I feel that we are friends enough that I can speak freely as well.”
He drew back. “I’m afraid it is quite impossible.”
“I’m leaving in the morning.”
He grimaced as though he was in physical pain and stood even more rigid. “This is sudden.”
“I must rescue my aunt from that dreadful Dr. Agathon Carver. He seems to have cast a spell over her, possessed her, if you will.”
Newland did not speak of the night that he secretly watched the sexual escapade between Ellen’s aunt, Mendora Manson, Dr. Carver, and his journalist friend, Ned Winsett. But none of that mattered now. Newland could readily understand Ellen’s need to separate her aunt from the doctor.
“When will you return?” he asked.
She shook her head without answering.
“Can I see you to the Browne?” he asked.
She neared him again. “I thought I might remain at a distance from you. To try and forget your words, but it seems I am possessed.”
“And the Count?” he asked.
She placed a hand upon his chest. “I promised, but if I could see you just one last—”
He removed her hand. “No. We can not.”
She persisted, raising the other hand to his chest. But he grasped it, and now held both. She tilted her head up toward his face, letting her mouth part.
“You see, I need you,” she said. “My mind and body crave your touch. If we could make love just one more time.”
He tried to hold her back. “And where shall we go from there?”
She stood on her tiptoes and leaned toward his mouth, but he held the distance. “Kiss me, Newland.” Her breath was hot, the vapor rising as she exhaled. “Make love with me.”
When he turned his head, her lips brushed across his cheeks. Her mouth came to rest upon his ear, and she did not withdraw, but instead, touched her tongue to its flesh and slowly began to lick along the rim.
“Ellen,” he said, his voice quavering.
“You like that, don’t you?” she whispered and then pressed her body closer to him. He could feel her firm breasts pushing against his chest.
“No,” he said, feigning protest. But she continued to slowly and seductively slide her tongue down until she found his earlobe. She circled the soft lobe and then gently clasped it between her teeth and sucked lightly, while circling her tongue along the supple and tender skin.
He groaned lightly, aroused by her delicate touch.
“Just once more,” she whispered.
“There’s nowhere we can go. Our homes are occupied with curious eyes.”
She pressed her lips to his cheeks and kissed him. When his jaw grew slack, she reached for his face and turned it toward her. She began kissing his mouth, and before long, he responded, releasing his pent-up passion.
He spoke between kisses, his voice tense and low. “Oh, my dear, dear Ellen. How could this be happening?”
“I need you. I need you now like I have never needed a man. Oh, Newland, dearest. Do not deny me, my love.”
He drew her tightly into his arms and continued to kiss her more passionately, their breathing steamy and quivering. “I need you,” he said when he broke from the kiss, repeating her words.
She glanced over her shoulder toward a quiet courtyard. “In the shadows,” she said.
“Our passion will keep us warm. Come.” She grasped his arm and led him through the entrance, which was veiled in vines. She stopped in a corner up against the side of the building. “Here,” she said, and then opened her full-length cape, casting it over his shoulders to surround him. She pulled her hood up and used it to cover their faces.
His hands moved quickly to her bosoms, his lips returned to hers. He massaged her supple breast through the fabric of her dress, but did not try to unbutton the bodice. She wrapped a leg around his and pulled him closer, and soon their bodies warmed inside the shelter of her cloak.
“How?” he asked.
“Like this.” She quickly unfastened his trouser and found his rampant, throbbing member. She began stroking the length of it, circling the crown with her slender fingers.
He eased up her skirts only to discover she wore no undergarment—she was often naked under her dress—and with her leg raised, his hands soon migrated to the warmth and wetness of her impassioned feminine folds.
“Oh, yes, Newland. There,” she said as soon as he circled her pearl.
He caressed her gently at first, but soon hastened the pace. “I need you, now,” he said, and then quickly secured her skirts in one of her arms before placing her free hand on his shoulder. He lifted her leg so that his member touched her intimate folds and he slowly slid his crown to the entrance of her sheath. They stood face to face, coupled in mutual lust.
Literary Love Page 109