"Tess, I was prepared to encounter some asperity. I confess I did not expect dreamy-eyed vacantness." It was said with the regret of a client who, in looking over a fine Swiss clock, discovers that the chiming mechanism does not work.
Alarmed that he might yet decide to take her shop away, Tess quickly apologized. "It's the cognac, I think. I'm not used to drink. She fairly leaped back into the conversation. "You seem very knowledgeable about wine. At Beau-Rêve Mr. Winward always has the best wine on his table, but he leaves all the selection to his butler, since he himself knows very little. Nor is his son any more well versed."
She had hit exactly the right note.
"As a matter of fact, my people are from the Cote d'Or region in France. All of the last generation were expert winemakers. One uncle of whom I'm particularly fond was considered a genius in the fields. He emigrated to California for the great Gold Rush. Unfortunately, he dug a bit too far west of the Comstock Lode, which as we know had the ill grace to be discovered by Tessie Oelrichs' people instead. Which is why she has a grand cottage in Newport, and he has not. In any case, Uncle Ben returned to what he knew best: winemaking. I visited him the year before last. Quite a character, still."
"How did your father ever end up in finance?"
"Little by little he gravitated to the vineyard offices, obviously more comfortable with a pencil in his hand. Monsieur Rochefleur was impressed and brought him to work for him in the city. My father made a habit of never looking back. Learn from that, Tess."
The advice was given in a startling change of voice, intimate and urgent. Tess, who had been fingering the embroidered AG on her napkin, looked up; instantly she understood that they were entering a new phase of her contractual obligation.
"Enough talk about money, Tess. There are other things in life," he said in a low voice.
"For those who already have it," she could not resist saying.
"And now you do. Come here, Tess."
She rose and stood before him. He held her hands in his. "You're very beautiful. Even half-drowned, you are very beautiful. I should like to see you in your twilight years," he said rather wistfully. "I'm certain you will be a great beauty still."
And then he was standing eye to eye with her. As Tess waited for his kiss, the first kiss of her adult life, she thought, Is there some other way?
He took her by her shoulders and whispered, "Never, never look back." His mouth came down on hers, not at all in the wretched, clumsy manner of the stableboy in Wrexham, but in a sweet, slow caress, a butterfly's touch. It surprised her; she'd expected him, despite all the evidence, to grab eagerly at what he'd paid for.
A murmur of gratitude sounded deep in her throat. He responded to it, nudging her mouth open with his lips, taking advantage of her naïveté with his tongue. A tonguing kiss by a man of the world: it thrilled her. She had nothing to compare it to, but it seemed stunningly intimate. The warmth of cognac, the faint taste of cigar, the inviting, coaxing movement of his tongue—is this how sophisticated adults did it? And what about unsophisticated ones? Peter Boot, and Enid—and Bridget—and what about her mother and father, dear God? Had they kissed like this, really?
He drew his mouth away from hers and guided her arms around his neck. "Your tongue is very sweet, Tess. Where did you learn to kiss that way?"
"I never learned!" she answered, shocked. "I never kissed that way—I mean, this is my first, that way."
"Oh my dear Tess," he said with a shaky laugh. "Then perhaps I'm too old for you, after all." And he returned to her mouth, nipping her lips gently, testing their softness, seeming to go more warily now. His trimmed-back mustache prickled the sensitive area above her mouth; his goatee brushed against her cheek as he dropped skimming kisses along the line of her jaw. They were reassuring kisses, attentive and charming, and she thought, Even mother and father might have kissed this way.
But then he was at her ear, tonguing its curve, his warm breath heating the inner chamber. Gasping, she reconsidered. But never like this. There was something too dangerous, too irresponsible about lovemaking that tied your judgment in little knots and tossed it aside like a rag. Only reckless people kiss this way. People with leisure and energy and privacy. Parents don't, nor Catholics, nor anyone else who has to work for a living. It wouldn't be right. It wouldn't be possible.
She listened to the sound of the little steam launch that had brought her to the Enchanta, but it was really the sound of her own breathing, a series of panting strokes that was leaving her dizzy. The cognac again; it was worse than the sherry.
"No, please …." she said aloud, vaguely convinced that she was on her knees and begging for mercy. He withdrew his tongue but she kept her arms around him, steadying herself.
"Perhaps neither one of us is strong enough for the other," he whispered, and he led her to a settee covered in supple, tufted leather. She took a place beside him, thinking: will it be here?
Again he brought his mouth to hers. This time her lips parted automatically, inviting him in. She was intensely curious to know why his kisses took her breath away, intensely thrilled that they did. It didn't seem possible; she hardly knew him ....
She broke away. "I do like this," she admitted, baffled.
It brought a low chuckle from him. "I promise not to tell," he murmured, dropping a light kiss on her nose. "Tess—whisper my name," he said wistfully.
"Aaron?"
"Without the question mark."
"I couldn't! Because you're ... older."
"Oh my God—say it, Tess." He began to unbutton the top button of her gown.
"Aaron?"
"Try again." Another button.
"Aaron ... no."
"Again." Another.
"Aaron, please …."
Another, and another; and then two or three embroidered hooks, and the loose-sleeved gown fell away from Tess as easily as her illusions about the cruelty of the upper classes.
Because Aaron Gould was gentle, subtle, in a way she'd never have expected. His hands, finely sculpted and as soft as her own, were made to caress. Like any artist, he understood his medium well. The intricacies of her corset fasteners bothered him not at all; he had traveled the tortuous route through women's underclothing before.
But he wasn't kissing her as he undid the hooks of her corset, and that gave Tess time to reflect on it all—and to falter. "Eh-h—Mr.—Aaron." She searched for something to say. "The windows—people can see."
"My crew would never walk aft," he explained patiently. "But never mind; we can do better."
He led her through a door to his sleeping cabin, a small but richly appointed stateroom quietly aglow with hand-rubbed mahogany. The bed was a little smaller than full-sized, but had access from either side and was covered with rich red velvet—a far cry from the horsehair mattresses in steerage. She turned to Aaron, suddenly frightened out of her wits, but said in a brave little voice, "I feel silly, half dressed. I'd rather have on nothing at all."
He nuzzled the curve of her shoulder. "Are you expecting an argument from me?"
"No, but—I'll do it myself." Then she gestured for him not to look.
"Come now, Tess." For the first time there was a mild displeasure in his voice. But he took a seat in a handsome side-chair, crossed his legs, and waited.
In retrospect her attempt at independence did seem ill-conceived. Steeling herself, Tess undid the rest of her corset and let it drop to the floor. Next came her drawers, her hose, their supports and finally her tights and silk vest. Each new skirmish with a garment cost her dearly. Standing in the ruins of her modesty, not knowing where to put her hands, she tried to make light of the pain she was feeling. "I thought you promised that there would be no cruelty involved."
He was stroking the hairs of his chin. "If there is, it's on your part for having banished me. Step forward, Tess, to me."
She did, and an expression almost of pain crossed his brow. "What beauty," he whispered. "What perfect, exquisite beauty. Venus de Milo, ris
ing from the sea."
Her mouth was slightly parted, her deep green eyes questioning. Her thick unbound hair felt strange on her bare back and shoulders. She had no idea what to cover first, so she let her arms hang naturally at her side. And yet, as the time ticked by she felt less embarrassment. There was something in his awestruck face that made embarrassment seem inappropriate. Did the sun feel self-conscious when it retired in a rainbow of glory, or the Milky Way, when it splashed across a midnight sky? Aaron Gould made her feel like those things, awakening Tess to the power of her beauty. Dizzy with a sense of her own allure, she gave him the first truly seductive smile of her life.
He rose and came to her, easing the combs from her hair, tossing them on the little pile of shorn clothing. Fanning his hands through the thickness of her hair, he said in a voice low with yearning, "I'll give anything to have you, Tess. Anything."
She saw his eyes close and his brows draw together as he slid his hands slowly along either side of the curve of her spine, over her buttocks, along the sides of her hips and the curve of her waist. He might have been blind; all of his senses seemed channeled into one: the sense of touch. He was drawing a picture for her of the curves of her body, and the picture pleased her very much.
He kissed her again, a deep kiss that left her dizzy. "Come with me to bed, Tess. Come with me now."
She stood alongside him as he pulled back the cover, aware that she had sold herself, aware that there had been no exchange of love between them. It would be impossible not to resent him and despise herself, and yet, if the world had ended then, Tess would have been disappointed. She had come too far.
She lay down and began to draw up the covers, but Aaron said, "Don't. It would be sacrilegious." He undressed himself carelessly, apparently unaware that Tess had never seen a man aroused before. She allowed herself one shy glance, taking in his slender build and the hairs on his chest. After that she focused on his attractive face, and then he was alongside her, stroking her hair.
Taking her hand in his, he whispered, "Touch me." When her eyes opened wide he smiled and said, "It won't burn."
So she did, startled by the baby-fine softness of the skin, so much softer than anything on her body. He began to kiss her again, and before long she was matching the rhythm of his tongue with strokes of her hand. His kisses became more fierce, and Tess responded with a fierceness of her own, until he tore his mouth from hers and said roughly, "No more, Tess," and drew her hand away.
"Am I doing it wrong?" she asked timidly.
"Only too right," he answered with a rueful look. "Let me cool down. Let me heat you up."
"But I am heated up," she protested, not wanting to seem uncooperative.
That brought a grin from him. "Oh my darling, how little you know about yourself."
His worldliness distressed her. It was her first little taste of jealousy, but she didn't know it.
Nor did she have much time to analyze the emotion, because it was soon replaced by a far more powerful assault on her senses: with his tongue Aaron began slowly, methodically, to reduce Tess to cinders as he traced red-hot paths of fire along the inside curve of her shoulder, then down to the tips of her breasts. He lingered there, then lingered some more, until Tess cried for him to stop while at the same time lifting herself to his kisses.
Aaron went on to discover a dozen other flashpoints: the hollows under her arms; a small spot, easily missed, just below her ear; a rambling trail between her breasts and her belly button. She seemed to herself a pile of tinder, waiting to go up in flames.
The match was lit when Aaron moved lower. Tess was waiting for the moment; if all else was kindling, here was the pyre. But it was much more than she'd both dreaded and hoped for. The touch of his tongue on her not only destroyed her illusion of independence, but made him as necessary to her life as the air she was breathing.
"Oh no, oh yes ...." It was a whisper of despair. In one night she had gone from merely wanting one man to absolutely requiring another. And yet after a moment it didn't matter; nothing mattered—not survival or reputation or money—nothing except the intensity of the fire. It burned hotter and higher and she fed it with long, ragged gasps of oxygen until it consumed her, and her body was convulsed in a series of shudders, and she became convinced that her soul had fled forever.
Aaron came back up to her after that and she opened her eyes. "Why did you do that? That wasn't part of it," she murmured, exhausted and vaguely resentful.
He looked at her carefully and said softly, "But it was, Tess. Now you are relaxed."
His entry, in gentle stages, was surprisingly easy; Tess felt almost no pain. After that he lay completely still for a moment. Don't move, Tess," he said, near to a groan. "It will be over if you do."
She did as she was told. Something in her wanted to say, "It's your money," but she held it back. Odd snatches of thought floated like dust-bits through her head: just then was she technically still a virgin? Would it be less of a sin if she refused the money? Were all laundry maids whores, as popular wisdom had it? She was feeling more sad than resentful, more vulnerable than sad.
And he was hurting her, a little. Her face must have shown it, because he gave her a look of pained sympathy and soothed her hair as he whispered, "It will be better next time, my darling."
Tears glazed her eyes as she nodded a silent assent.
"But for now... oh my dear Tess, for now—"
He began a slow, easy movement back and forth inside her while Tess—guilty, sated, angry—did not at first respond. But the movement became more fluid, and with the end of pain came pleasure, first subtle, then devouring. Aaron paused, trying to hold on to the moment, but she clasped his face between her hands and pulled his mouth down on hers in a searing kiss. His rhythm quickened then, hurried on by Tess; a hundred rapid heartbeats later, he collapsed on her breast with a low, protracted groan of satisfaction.
"No—not yet!" she cried, and tried to keep the movement going.
His groan dissolved into a hoarse laugh of pleasure. "I'm sorry, Tess. Ordinarily I have more control than that. But you made me so ... hot."
"Did I?" A smile of baffled sweetness curled her lips. She hadn't tried to make him anything, and she couldn't help wondering: what if she had?
The question was still on her mind when she drifted off, still in Aaron's arms, into the sleep of the emotionally exhausted. It was not a satisfying sleep, but troubled and dream-ridden. One sequence particularly haunted her: she was trying to catch up to Aaron, to tell him something of great importance; but he was either in his coach or on his yacht or, once, on a sailing ship with neither helm nor helmsman and Tess, always on foot in her tight new patent leather-tipped shoes, could never catch him.
Deep in the night she was awakened by the sound of her own quick breathing; her pillow was wet with tears. A cabin light burning low oriented her to her new surroundings. Next to her lay Aaron, still naked, his breathing deep and even. The wind howled and the rain drummed the decks of the Enchanta; the storm was at its peak. The tumult around them frightened Tess. It was too much like her life.
"Aaron?" she whispered, her warm breath falling on his sleeping form. He was awake at once. It occurred to Tess that on board a boat he had learned to be prepared for any emergency.
"Tess." He said only the one syllable, and yet she knew, suddenly, what it was that she needed and that he was willing to give.
"Love me, Aaron," she said in a voice filled with heat.
"Ah, Tess—gladly."
He came into her quickly. It was lovemaking without preamble, fierce, focused; satisfaction demanded and—in a single, thunderlit moment—achieved. It left her breathless with the shock of eroticism, but most of all, it left her in peace.
Chapter 12
Morning brought clearing and the strong northwest wind that Aaron had forecast. The Enchanta, a hundred-foot, heavy-displacement yacht, rose and fell gently on her anchor, not enough to be uncomfortable, but enough to stir Tess from the best
sleep she'd had all summer. Her eyes fluttered open: Aaron was sitting on the side of the bed, a dark green robe wrapped loosely around him.
"Good morning," Tess whispered, but she did not smile.
Nor did he, as he reached his hand out to move a strand of auburn that lay across her cheek.
She held his look. "Don't feel sorry for me," she said, though she was falling apart at the thought of leaving him.
A weak laugh escaped him. "Sorry for you! All my pity I reserve for myself, sweet lady—because I've run myself straight up on some rocks," he added sadly.
"If it's about the money—" she blurted out naively.
"The money?"
"I don't care about it, not at all." In fact she wanted no part of it, only the remembrance of their night together.
"You dear little witch—the money is nothing. Take ten times the money—only don't go, Tess. I can't let you go." His hand caressed the curve of her neck and shoulder.
She took his hand in hers and held it. "I can stay longer," she said, her eyes shining with pleasure. "Only I have to let Maggie know—"
"I don't mean for the morning, Tess, or for an extra day. Come away with me on the Enchanta."
"Away ... where?" she asked, stunned.
"Does it matter?" he asked lightly. But he saw that it did. "Not far—we'll tuck into half a dozen deserted harbors between here and New York. The Enchanta is due among the spectator fleet for the America's Cup Races, which begin on the seventh of September. Stay through the races," he said in a soft voice. "It's not so very long."
"But—"
"But—your family. I understand. Send the money ashore with a note."
She laughed out loud at the suggestion. "A note! It's not as if l'm declining tea!" In a softer voice she said, "I'd love to stay with you, but can't I see my sister first and explain all that's happened?"
She had no idea how she would manage her entry into Beau Rêve, but surely she could figure something out. "It wouldn't take long," she added.
By The Sea, Book One: Tess Page 11