Lilac

by Louisa Trent

  Surly as a goat in a boat, he grumbled, “I received your list of mining demands this morning.” They reflected most of the changes he had already told Owen to implement. Not that he intended to tell her so. “They seem reasonable.” He, on the other hand, was not reasonable, not anymore. She had crossed him, and his guards were up along with his hackles.

  Not her. Now that she had gotten her way, she offered him a radiant smile, as if all things were forgiven, including her deceit.

  He would not forget…or forgive…so easily. His good name was all he had, and she had conspired to dirty it. Bad enough folks talked about him because of his blighted background without her starting additional rumors about him ravishing her. He had never ravished a woman.

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “No need to—”

  “Oh, but there is every need.”

  “Not when I intend to take my thanks from your pretty ass,” he said crudely.

  “A compliment! How very kind, sir.”

  He scowled. “What compliment?”

  “You called a certain region of my anatomy pretty. I never, ever expected to receive praise about my posterior, but only a fool turns down a complimentary turn of phrase.” She leaned forward in her seat and said with tasteless relish, “But tell me this—when you say ‘take’ are you referring to the act of penetration, as in having sexual intercourse with my bottom? I mean, you did mention that form of intercourse earlier, but really, is such a thing even possible?”

  Heat, similar to a sunburn, scalded his skin. “Yes. It is possible. And delightful.”

  “Delightful, you say? Well, be that the case, I shall certainly look forward to thanking you, sir.”

  Christ, she made him sweat. He was as hot as hell from all her bawdy talk.

  “You appear uncomfortable. Something wrong, sir?”

  “Nothing.” He was dying. She was killing him.

  She touched his knee. “But you appear pained, sir. Now, confess. It is only you and I here in the carriage. No need for bashfulness.” Her voice lowered to a hush. “Is it your erect penis?”

  He had grown up hearing worse, but coming from her, the language shocked him to his boots. “What do you, a virgin a few days ago, know about erect penises?”

  “I know yours, sir. And Mrs. Birch confided that when a man’s penis swells, it causes blue balls, which are most painful.”

  “You discussed my bal—testicles, blue or otherwise, with Mrs. Birch?”

  “I would never presume such a thing.”

  He breathed a sigh of relief. Thank Christ. This young woman was dangerous.

  “Not to pretend to undue modesty here, sir, but Mrs. Birch is more an authority on the subject than myself, so mainly I listened while she lectured. Your housekeeper is a gem, and so knowledgeable about coitus. She has quite a large brood, you know, and so has gained much familiarity with the whole process. I found her to be a fount of knowledge, and so willing to share. The Pittsburgh Free Library reading group should only be as generous.”

  He could scarcely believe his flaming ears. “You discussed coitus in a public library?”

  “Tried to, but the ladies were uncooperative. And really, why be so closemouthed about a function in which they must participate, according to Mrs. Birch, a dozen or so times a week?”

  Bless Mrs. Birch. His housekeeper had just earned herself a bonus. And if he had not been so pissed, he would have laughed at his new plaything’s earnest expression. “If not more,” he said evilly.

  “How about we practice here and now? Purely as a means to alleviate the blueness of your balls. I am not wearing any drawers beneath my gown. Remember? You threw mine in the fireplace. And if our first time was any indication, the whole process from start to finish will take but a trice.”

  “That was a rarity,” he strained through his gritted teeth. “Ordinarily, I go much longer.”

  “Do you? Well, you certainly put my mind at ease. I told Mrs. Birch about your extreme brevity, and she informed me that you might suffer from something called… Now let me think… Oh, I have it now—‘going off too soon.’ Is that so, sir? Is going off too soon a malady that plagues you?”

  Never again would he be able to look the housekeeper in the face. “I suffer from no such malady,” he blustered. “Every woman I have ever been with says…” His brag screeched to a halt. He never kissed and told.

  “You were about to say, sir?”

  He frowned at her wide-eyed prompt. “Never goddamn mind what I was about to say. Just know this, that malady is not a problem for me. And talking about personal matters with my staff is unseemly.”

  She bit her trembling lip. A crystal tear shone in her eyes. “I meant no harm, sir. But my dear mother died when I was quite young, and I fear I sadly lack the information I need to make you a proper plaything.”

  “A contradiction in terms. Men’s playthings are not proper by definition. If they were, men would not bother with them.”

  She sniffed. “See there? That is news to me, as is the unseemliness of befriending the staff. We never employed a maid in our household—”

  “Neither did we—” he interrupted.

  “But if we did,” she interjected, “I can assure you my father and I both would inquire after their names. Even animals are given names. Dogs. Cats. Even goldfish have names. Why, I am quite sure even giggling pet mongooses—or is that mongeese…? Well, anyway, even those creatures are given names. Most probably even cavemen named woolly mammoths, those they were particularly fond of anyway.”

  “What about the snake in the Garden of Eden? After biting into the apple, did Adam and Eve make a pet of the serpent by giving it a name?”

  “I beg your pardon, sir. Who in heaven’s name would name a snake? I like snakes; I consider them much maligned creatures, always symbolically castigated, and even I would never name one.”

  “You just had cavemen naming woolly mammoths, why not…?” He tightened his jaw and relented. “Never mind. I understand your point. I have been remiss toward my household staff.”

  “Quite so,” she said primly.

  “For your information, I do know some of their names, though certainly not all. I mean to rectify the situation posthaste.”

  “All their names, not just one or two, including the gardeners.”

  “If that makes you happy, I shall do so,” he growled. “Now stop looking so wretched. We are almost there. This was meant to be a fun outing, and here you are all red-nosed and pink-eyed.”

  “Oh, how depressing. You make me sound like a bunny.”

  As long as she did not reproduce like one. Impregnating anyone but a lawfully wedded wife was the height of irresponsibility.

  She teared up all over again. “Do you think I have overly large, sticky-up ears too?”

  She had beautiful ears, small and delicate. They would look wonderful in diamonds. “Your ears are correctly proportioned.”

  “Such extravagant praise. You are really too, too kind, sir.”

  He handed her his handkerchief. “Here. Blow.”

  She did, with gusto. “My thanks, sir,” she blubbered. “I shall launder this and return it to you posthaste. And though I botched things rather badly, I am so happy to hear you can, in the words of Mrs. Birch, ‘get it up and keep it up for hours at a time.’ Next time, you will need to show off your stamina.”

  His shirt collar choking him, he could hardly swallow. Damn Mrs. Birch, anyway. Hours? Nothing like setting him up to fail. He grunted his reply.

  “Oh, good. A yes. Just what I longed to hear.” She stood, backed up to his folded knees. “Shall I bend over, sir? It was my ass you wanted to derive your thanks from, was it not?”

  Squirming in his seat, he nearly came, nearly spurted. “Sit down immediately!”

  “As you say, sir.” She plopped herself onto his lap.

  His hands clenched. Either to prevent himself from throttling her or pulling her closer so he could kiss that sugary sweetness from her lips. And
to what purpose? To leave the taste of his own bitterness behind? Was that to be his retaliation, his revenge? Was smothering her liveliness his means of getting even?

  Yes. Yes. And, hell, yes.

  He was bitter. And he had a right to his bitterness. This was twice now a woman had wronged him, used him. This bargain she had struck with him was his only recourse to vent his spleen.

  A fine job he was doing of that thus far. The crafty little miss was leading him on a merry chase, and he knew it. Her country bumpkin background aside, no one could be as annoyingly bubbly as she. He must never lose sight of the fact that she was the one who had crafted this arrangement, who had thought it all through. At this point, it would not have surprised him if she had arranged for the tree branch to fall on her as a way to elicit his sympathy.

  Oh, she was that crafty all right. Cunning too. He considered himself insusceptible to female wiles, and yet she had routed him. She had sacked him at his own game.

  “Retake your seat this instant,” he grumbled. He needed her far, far away from him. In the close confines of the carriage, the opposite bench would have to do.

  “But there is so much to learn, sir. We have not a moment to spare. For example, where is my ‘pleasure nubbin’ located? And is that its real name—pleasure nubbin? Seems rather an absurd appellation. Penis is unquestionably more dignified.”

  Her ass was so soft and round, so squirmingly naughty there balanced on his knees. “No one but a physician uses the word ‘penis’ . The word is cock.” Christ, she was setting his loins afire. “Cock! Do you hear me? The fucking word is cock!”

  “Surely not? Cock as in rooster? That is the fucking word?”

  “Yes,” he ground out as she ground her buttocks atop his agonized flesh. “And the other word, the correct name for pleasure nubbin, is clitoris. Clit is the pet name for it. The scrap of flesh is located at the top of your pussy.”

  “Pussy as in cat? My, this sounds like a lesson in zoology, not physiology. Who knew genitalia could be so animalistic”—she slanted her jaw—“or humorous? But, I suppose, what you did that first time to my…er…clit…did tickle ever so briefly. Perhaps if you had continued, the laughable sensation might have grown and strengthened to serious pleasure.”

  He narrowed his eyes to hot slits. “Complaints so soon in our arrangement?”

  “Certainly not. I only wish to know the correct terminology for my own body. Unfair, your knowing my anatomy better than I.”

  “I shall make you a gift of an illustrated book of erotica. How is that?”

  “A book! And not only a book, a book with pictures, similar to a farmer’s manual. I believe I am in heaven, sir. I do hope the pictures include a scrotum. I have yet to find the anatomical definition anywhere.”

  “Scrotum is the sac that encloses the testes.”

  “Oh, my goodness!” She gasped. “No wonder Mrs. Birch laughed when I poked the bronzed statue in the vestibule.” She giggled. “That did not come out right at all. I meant to say, I poked the vestibule statue in the scrotum.”

  He could no longer speak. In fact, in his irritation, he was incapable of making a single sound other than a deep groan. Nor could he walk, not with his hard-on spiking. At least they had yet to arrive at their destination, so he would not need to leave his seat. He had never been so aroused, and by only a conversation. And an annoying conversation at that.

  The rest of the ride passed in silence. When they pulled up to the curb, pained and humiliatingly erect, he raced to help his new plaything out before Tim the driver had a chance.

  Chapter Twelve

  Tegan sighed with pleasure as they entered the hallowed halls of New York culture. Showing himself to be a man of his word, Mr. Griffith had taken her to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. Of all the wonderful places on earth that she longed to see, the Met was near the top. Unfortunately, her escort had fallen into rather a pique.

  Must have been all her sweetness.

  And conversation about penises.

  Tegan chuckled to herself. She had laid that on a bit thick. Except the part about Mrs. Birch. The motherly woman was a godsend. Open and honest and earthy. If not for those qualities, Tegan might have put off the information the housekeeper had dispensed as far-fetched. But as it stood, she took everything the housekeeper said as gospel, including that Mr. Griffin was “not a bad sort, only brokenhearted from a woman who had done him dirt.” When Tegan heard that a previous liaison was to blame, she let much of his brusqueness go.

  Until she learned the heartbreak Mrs. Birch referred to had occurred fifteen years prior. Fifteen years!

  Then she lost all sympathy and patience for Sean Griffith. Fifteen years was hardly the day before yesterday. Fifteen years was carrying the romance of heartbreak a tad too far. Mining families in Pittsburgh knew what real heartbreak was all about, the nightly heartbreak of putting their children to bed hungry. He should try that kind of heartbreak on for size and see how he liked it.

  No. That was wrong of her. And mean-spirited. Vindictive too. No one should try that heartbreak on for size.

  She let her banner waving go. For now. She let his bad mood go too. Because, really, why spoil a perfectly fine day by letting a spoiled man’s sulk get to her?

  Instead, she would do what she could to jolly him out of his somberness. And if that failed, she would have a good time all on her own.

  “Where would you like to go first?” He leaned down to her to ask, which reminded her of another time when he came close and whispered in her ear.

  “The Egyptian Gallery,” she promptly replied. “I understand the Mastaba Tomb of Perneb is currently on loan to the museum. I should love to see the display before it returns to Egypt.”

  He bowed. “As you wish. Though I understand someone might purchase the tomb from the Egyptian government. In which case, the Met would add the display to its growing permanent collection.”

  “You have heard of the Mastaba Tomb, then?”

  “From the newspapers. I have yet to see the site.”

  “But you live so close by! What a shame not to take advantage of its proximity.” She shook her head. “Now me, I would be here on weekly pilgrimages, soaking everything in. I am vastly interested in archaeology. Someday, I should love to go on a dig.”

  “No doubt. It seems to me that you are vastly interested in many subjects.”

  “Oh, I do realize I can be a pompous bluestocking at times.”

  “Insightful too.”

  Ignoring his sarcasm, she continued merrily along. “Although, I utterly adore Egyptian edifices and artifacts, the Fifth Dynasty holds my greatest enthusiasm.”

  “Proving you are, indeed, a bluestocking.”

  She laughed with real mirth, not the pretend kind. “I suppose so.”

  They arrived before the tomb, where he tarried too long for her tastes. Looking at this, examining that, in the minutest of detail. Not for her, his unrushed observation. She just had to see everything, and all at once!

  “The burial chamber, please?” she said and gave him a nudge.

  Just that one touch on his arm did strange and wondrous and quivery things to her insides. Her belly did amazing flip-flops. Not like butterflies. Something darker. Something wicked. And down below, oh my. Down below, her privates to be bluntly exact, there was just a beehive of activity going on.

  No. That was wrong. Perhaps, like butterflies, beehive was not, strictly speaking, the right phraseology. What she felt was not so innocent as butterflies and beehives. What she felt was damp and fertile. Anticipatory. Wet readiness.

  That was it. Wet! She was wet there, down below. Did a lady ever admit to such a thing, even to herself?

  Oh, bosh! Who cared what ladies did or did not admit to? All her life, she’d had to deal with realities. And the reality here was, she was soaking. Dripping. Creamy.

  For him.

  Just from touching his arm. Just as she had been that first night they met, when she’d allowed him to have his way
with her. Without the involvement of her mind, without any actual planning on her part, her body had prepared itself for…for…intercourse.

  Bad timing on her part, she supposed. They were, after all, out in public.

  They had arrived at the museum late in the day, only an hour before closing, and as it just so happened, they were completely alone in the mastaba, the limestone building that dated back to 2381 to 2323 BC. From the slab floor to the ceiling, the structure was only fifteen feet or so in height. In comparison to the wide-open spaciousness of the rest of the exhibition halls, the relative closeness inside here lent a feeling of intimacy to their surroundings.

  “Just look at that!” She indicated the painted relief. “There is Perneb, himself, at the banquet table. And see there—the false door to his tomb, through which his spirit supposedly gathered food offerings left by his followers.” She hurried to the entrance. “Shall we?”

  “Go in, by all means. Unless… Are you afraid of ghosts?”

  “Not at all. How could I be? I know more dead people than living ones,” she said sadly.

  “I am sorry for your losses.”

  She sighed. “There is always grief in loss, but if a life serves a higher purpose here on earth, there is also reason to celebrate.”

  “I will honor our agreement, Tegan. Your father’s life was not in vain.”

  “Thank you for understanding. And I know you will. I never doubted your word. And I will honor mine to you, sir.”

  “Then off we go to begin our grand adventure.”

  Funny, that was exactly how she viewed the start of their arrangement…as a grand adventure. She put the shared thought off to coincidence. Sean Griffith and she could not possibly have anything in common, not even a moment where they thought alike. For example, he could have no idea, absolutely none, how touching his arm had inspired her. He could have no knowledge of how his mere closeness had triggered outrageous somatic reactions. How touching him on the arm—so innocuous, really, that innocent touch—had filled her with keenly wet and throbbing unladylike excitement.

  Inside the tomb was a tad spooky. But absorbed in the ancient relics, she refused to let nameless fears interfere with her enjoyment.