Dark Season

by Joanna Lowell

  “Jenkins is sending the coach around.” His voice came from far above. A footman appeared with her cloak and Isidore’s coat and hat. He was leaving with her. He’d never said he was going to leave with her. That wasn’t part of the plan. She didn’t speak, just stood by his side, reminding herself to breathe. The coach he helped her into was not Mrs. Trombly’s coach. It was his coach. And he followed her inside.

  She fell back against the bench. As soon as the coach began to move, he slid toward her. He drew her head down on his shoulder and held her while tears leaked from her eyes, dampening the wool of his coat. It was grotesque, her crying, and ludicrous that he should comfort her. He thought she was compassionating with him, no doubt, crying for the bride he’d lost, or out of horror, knowing her murderer had stood among those elegantly clad gentlemen. She didn’t deserve sympathy. She was crying in a helpless rage, but not for Phillipa, not for him. She was crying for herself.

  “Let me go.” She straightened, wobbled a smile. “I’m fine.”

  “I shouldn’t have forced you to dance.” He studied her, his expression shuttered. “That much of your mourning I could have respected.”

  He thought she was crying for Papa? Shame made her shrink. Her woe was entirely selfish. Papa was dead. She was the one doomed to live.

  “But I wanted it too badly.” His voice was soft. They were together again in a tiny, vibrating box, the wet, black night held at bay beyond the windows. The lamplight gave her the golden tones of his skin, the proud planes of his face. The darkling blue of his eyes. It wasn’t fair that his face could still startle her. It wasn’t fair that his looks could lay siege to her senses.

  “Indeed.” She defended herself with irony, unnerved by the intensity of his gaze. “I was the belle of the ball.” She laughed. He didn’t.

  “You are the belle of the Elfin grot.” His mouth quirked. “Now I’ve heard your faery song.” He took her hand. Her fingers were cold. She swallowed at the firm heat of his grasp. He bent her hand back and spread her fingers with his, so their palms pressed together. The callus on his thumb rubbed the soft fold between her thumb and first finger.

  “Keats.” She tried to ignore their joined hands.

  “Her hair was long, her foot was light.” He slid his free hand into the mass of black curls anchored to her head. “And her eyes were wild.”

  His hip bumped hers. Thank God for the crinolines, for all the gathered folds of silk that cocooned her. He leaned over, leaned down until she could feel his exhalation against her eyelids.

  “I made a garland for her head. And bracelets too, and fragrant zone.” His breathy recitation made her shiver. She closed her eyes to shut him out.

  “She looked at me as she did love … ” Her lids flew open. His eyes were wild as they traced her features. His lips were parted as though to utter the next line. He hesitated. He cast his gaze up as though the words eluded him.

  She couldn’t stop herself. “And made sweet moan.” Too late she saw the trap. His gaze snapped back. Flared with triumph.

  “Ah,” he whispered. “Did she?” His head dipped, and his lips nuzzled her throat. His teeth scraped her earlobe. The moan this elicited made him smile. She felt it against her neck. His weight pressed her back into the padded bench. She was still inside out, that was the only explanation for the intensity of the sensation. Skin couldn’t be this sensitive. Her undergarments felt as though they rubbed on raw nerves.

  “Witch.” His lips found her jaw. “Fairy.”

  She wanted his touch.

  But he hadn’t made a garland for her head. He had given her a black wig. The wild desire in his eyes was not for her but for that black-haired girl. She did not move a muscle, but she retreated nonetheless, fighting to detach herself from her shivering skin, from the tension gathering in her belly. Somehow, he sensed it. He was still attuned to her, interpreting cues so subtle she had barely formed the corresponding thoughts.

  “Where did you go?” He pulled back, eyebrows lifted in question. “You know, I could learn from you. I always escaped the hell I was in by train, by boat, by gypsy caravan.” His smile was enigmatic. He was teasing, but something deadly serious underlay his playful tone. “But you … ” His fingers laced hers more tightly. “You just … float away.”

  She glanced down at their hands. His fingers were so exquisitely shaped, so sensitive, it was a shock to feel her fingers stretch to accommodate their width. They were so much larger than hers.

  “Will you tell me why?” His smile had faded.

  When she spoke, she found that her voice had dropped an octave. “I never had such means at my disposal. No Nile barges.” She tried to smile. “Besides,” she said hoarsely, “trains, boats … they don’t help you escape from who you are.”

  His face changed. “Ella.”

  No. She pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. His mouth was soft. The breath that hissed through his clenched teeth moistened her skin. No. He didn’t see Ella. He didn’t want Ella. And suddenly this fact no longer caused her pain. It was the very condition of her freedom. If she wasn’t Ella, she could have him. They could press together—flesh and blood—and incarnate a fantasy, a make-believe love.

  He caught her finger between his teeth, sucked it, his cheeks hollowing. The wet, gloving pressure made her gasp. She felt a twinge lower down. That night, if Phillipa hadn’t been murdered, they would have done this. Sucked. Stroked. Phillipa had been reckless. Passionate.

  She pushed off the seat so that their clasped hands were trapped between their bodies, flattened, her wrist straining. She pulled her finger down over his lower lip, down over his chin, skimming the length of his throat. She brought her lips up to his. Surprise made him growl against her mouth. She wrapped her arm around his neck, knotted her fingers in his hair. He kissed her, devouring her with teeth and tongue. With a ragged breath, he broke her grasp and caught her face between his hands.

  “Decide.” He grated out the word. “Decide now. I will take you to Trombly Place if you wish.” He left the alternative unspoken. Or …

  She could go home with him. She could share his bed.

  He hovered over her, dark as shadow, but so dense, so heavy, inundating her with his heat. He smelled of smoke and peat and wool and that heady, tugging musk she couldn’t define that made her want to twine her whole body around him, to sniff and suckle, to claw at his skin until she got inside. Heaven help her, she wanted to tear him to pieces. Wild. Like a beast. Inhuman. She would not let Alfred’s voice intrude. There was no room for Alfred here.

  She kissed him in answer. She opened her mouth, delved with her tongue. Deeply, yes. No timidity now. She wanted to force herself inside him. He yielded beneath her then pushed back, tilting her head up so he could slide his tongue over hers, filling her. His hand moved inside her cloak, working down beneath the taut red silk, stroking the slope of her breast. The roughness and the warmth of his caress made her shudder. He dragged his thumb down her cheek, along her jaw, callus scratching the flesh inside her lower lip.

  Pretend. She was safe if they pretended. But, oh God, the light flicks of his tongue didn’t feel like make-believe. His lips pressed against her temples, against the wet corners of her eyes, licking the salt.

  She turned her face away sharply, breathing hard. Now his lips were in those shining black ringlets. Yes. Like that. Phillipa’s crown of curls. It wasn’t real. It wasn’t her. She could let it happen. She fell against the panel of the coach, the rattling cold a relief.

  Take Phillipa home.

  His ragged breath was at her ear.

  “You’re with me now,” he said. “Stay with me.” She buried her face in his coat, clinging to him, humming deep in her throat so she wouldn’t have to listen. She couldn’t hear what he was saying. She didn’t want to understand. She felt the pounding of his heart, heard only that beating. Flesh and blood, speaking to her, at last, without words.

  Chapter Seventeen

  He let himself into his house.
The hall was dark. He’d given his staff the night off. He led her up the stairs. When they reached the top, he looked back at her.

  “You’re still there,” he said, softly, wonderingly, foolishly. Of course she was still there. He held her hand in his, too tightly. He was grinding those delicate, bird-boned fingers. Becoming brutal in his haste. His eagerness. He lifted the hand and kissed her fingertips. The music they made could put the birds to shame.

  He couldn’t master the urgency that made his heart hammer in his chest. Now that he had her, he was afraid she would disappear. He backed into his bedchamber, never taking his eyes off her. The room was cool. The fire had dwindled to embers. Nonetheless, he helped her out of her cloak and threw it on the chair along with his coat and waistcoat. She wouldn’t be cold for long. He lit the candles. She turned a circle on the carpet, looking around his room. He watched her. Was she gazing at his bed or trying to make out the title of the book on the bedside table? The shadows that hollowed her eyes made them seem even larger. She looked so fragile—an illusion, perhaps. Assurances, promises, again rose to his lips. But when she turned her gaze on him, he could only say, “Come here.”

  He reached for her, and she stepped forward into his arms. The rustle of her dress maddened him. One by one, he ripped the roses from the bodice. The sound she made was like the sound of the tearing silk. He slid his fingers along her collarbones and followed the edges of the bodice down, his two hands meeting at its lowest point. He let his fingers rest there, feeling the rise and fall of her breasts.

  “I can’t stand the sight of this dress,” he murmured. He gripped the bodice and pulled his hands apart, splitting it down the middle, all the way to the waist. He pushed the two halves from her shoulders. Now her slender torso in its white undergarments rose from the masses of red and black silk. Aphrodite emerging from a sea of gore. Yes, he would burn the gown himself. He would buy Ella new gowns, silks silver as starlight. Green as moss. Forest shades. Colors Phillipa would never have worn.

  Ella’s dark eyes were wide open. Her lips were parted.

  “I want to see you,” he said. No gown was best. No fabrics padding and pinching, distorting her shape. Her hair loose around her face, her throat, her breasts. She caught his wrist as he felt for the pins holding the wig in place. The expression on her face didn’t change. She looked mesmerized. Almost blank. He couldn’t allow that. He couldn’t let any part of her vanish, not by any means.

  He fumbled with her lacings in his impatience. Almost reached for his knife to slice the corset from her body. The air sawed in and out of his lungs. There. He tugged skirts, crinolines, petticoats, corset, linens, down around her hips. She made no move to help him. She was watching his hands work with fascination.

  He felt, suddenly, like a snake charmer. He didn’t like it. He didn’t want her hypnotized, pliant. He wanted to rouse her. He wanted to take her into his mouth, taste her, feel her break against him. Communion. Like the moment they’d shared in the coach, freezing, desperate, fiercely alive. He wanted this experience to feel like the sonata, give and take, sun and moon, joy and sorrow. He would rouse her. But first, he had to step back and look at her. Luminous. Darkness pooled in the hollow at the base of her neck, spilled along her collarbones and between her breasts, curving beneath, highlighting their pale swells. Her body was not symmetrical. Her hips were slightly uneven, the right riding higher, closer to the lower ribs. The dip of her waist was slightly shorter, shallower on that side. This irregularity moved him, queerly. He couldn’t have predicted this hint of displacement in her contours, couldn’t have composed her correctly in his mind with abstract formulae. He felt suddenly humbled before her, by her presence, frail, naked, mortal, facing him. Singular. For the briefest of moments, he had a glimmer of who he could become if he accepted her, if he carried, instead of guilt, the burden of love. Responsibility for another. Grief and jubilation mingled with his desire.

  “You’re beautiful,” he whispered, closing the distance between them, grazing her nipples with his palms, sliding his hands down the smooth curve of her belly, veering just below her bellybutton to grasp her hips and pull her against him. She staggered, feet tangling in the puddle of ruined silks, and threw her arms around his neck to catch herself. He hoisted her, hooking her knees around his waist. She was panting, wiggling to get free, and he cupped her soft, full buttocks, holding her firmly, grinding the sensitive folds between her legs against his arousal. He looked down into her face. She wasn’t watching any longer. Her eyelids fluttered; the deep, rosy indentation of her upper lip held a bead of sweat. In two strides, he deposited her on the bed.

  He put a knee on either side of her, pressing kisses to her throat, sliding his head to her breasts. He kneaded them, forcing them up, kissing the damp creases beneath. He closed his teeth on her nipple, teased it with his breath, his tongue. She arched against him. He kept his palm flat against her breast and found the rim of her ear with his tongue. The black curls tickled his nose. They didn’t smell like her. The wig had been scented with citrus in the shop. His nostrils flared. He wanted to inhale her only, not scent, not soap, just the salty-sweet essence of her skin. He dug his fingers into the chignon. Her arm shot up. She was trying to pull away his hand.

  He hadn’t expected it—this particular battle—but he knew how to rout her. He caught her bicep, kissed the tensed muscle, and bent her arm back, kissing the hollow inside her elbow. He pushed her arm down to the bed, trapping it above her. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her cheekbones, parted her lips with his tongue, sweeping the silken inner flesh. Ah, now her tongue followed his, entered him, mouth opening fully. He broke the kiss, face hovering an inch above hers.

  “Open your eyes.” He meant to coax her, but the words emerged as a command. Nothing. The lids didn’t lift. He let go of the arm and inched himself backwards, pressing kisses between her breasts, down the curve of her belly. He laid his hands on her thighs, felt them shiver. He dug into the flesh of their inner slopes with his thumbs. As he moved his hands up, she squeezed her legs together.

  “Do you want me to stop?” Nothing. She was breathing quick, shallow breaths. He spread her thighs, roughly, wide enough to fit a knee between. Then the other. He splayed her. Feasted his eyes on the sight, the darker flesh glistening. Like glimpsing a fruit in a briar. He pressed his palm to her, felt the pickling heat, the softness beneath. She gasped. Her eyes snapped open.

  “Ella,” he said, rubbing, giving her this broad, crude pressure: a chord in the key of the finer melody he was preparing to play. Now. He stroked with his thumb. As he flicked the nub at the top of her moistening folds, her upper lip lifted in a snarl. Yes. She was fighting her way back through the mists. Here. He slid a finger partway inside her, groaning aloud as the wet passage constricted. She jerked up, and he pushed her chest with the heel of his hand, pinning her with his weight. He slid the finger deeper, rubbed harder with his thumb, forcing her legs farther apart with his knees. He wanted to lower his head to taste the slick skin, but he couldn’t. Not yet. He had to watch her as her head tipped back. He saw a flash of white as her eyes rolled toward the ceiling.

  “Look at me.” She didn’t meet his eyes, but her gaze followed his hand as he removed his finger. He could work with that. He smiled slightly, lifting his hand, sliding the finger into his mouth. His mouth flooded. Rich, coppery. Blood. Her eyes flitted to his. Did she read his surprise? Confusion slowed him. He lost focus as his mind raced, and he lost her in that moment. Her gaze fell; she took a deep, steadying breath. He felt her limbs stiffening. Goddamn it. He leaned over her, pushing two fingers inside, noticing now the narrowness, so slippery, but so tight. She struggled to rise. He dropped his face to her breast, bit her nipple, hard enough to make her gasp. He pressed up with his fingers, searching for the sensitive, roughed patch … She bucked against him. Moaned, sweet and wild. The urgency of the cry ignited the passion he’d tried so hard to bank, to keep at a low smolder. He slid his arm beneath her back, lifted her int
o a sitting position. Her weight drove her down on his fingers. She rode him, thrashing her head from side to side. He lowered her upper body slightly, her buttocks sliding up, resting just above his knees. Her bent legs butterflied, opened wider. His wrist burned with the angle, wedged between them. Again he moved his fingertips, working the ridged center inside her. A short cry burst from her. Sharp. Staccato. He gritted his teeth as her convulsive movement sent a tremor through his legs to his groin.

  Her head hung back, the wig askew. A glimmer of fair hair peeked out, slanting across her forehead. He had always fancied that her beauty was like the moon, mutable, shifting its portion of light and shadow. It was true; she could dim herself to a sliver. She could slip behind a cloud.

  “Don’t hide from me.” There was more he wanted to say. I want all of you. But the constriction in his throat didn’t allow speech. His words became motions. He thrust his fingers rhythmically inside her, and she jolted. He couldn’t wait any longer. He pulled her up so her chin ground into his shoulder. He gripped the back of her neck, buried his fingers in the wig, and yanked. The pins that held it in place had loosened, but a few silvery strands of her hair still went with them. Pale, drifting, like spider silk. He threw the wig from the bed, surging with a triumph so strong, so primal, he nearly spurted. Restraint hurt. He cupped the back of her skull, turning her head, claiming her lips. She was whimpering into his mouth. He felt the first contraction grip his fingers, the pulse of her pleasure. She shuddered, and he pulled her head back, exposing her face, her features blurring, straining, mouth opening wide. He hungered for this, this moment. She looked at me as she did love. The horror in her eyes froze the blood in his veins. Her sweet moan changed pitch, became a wail. She kicked, clawed, and he let her break free, too stunned to hold her. She scrambled back on the bed, huddled against the headboard, knees drawn up, face pressed into them, arms crossed, knuckles white where she gripped her own elbows. Her body twitched. Shook.