by Amelia Nolan
“Thank God,” he said as he settled back on the bed.
“You are one to talk,” she said, poking him. “I am sure you have had lovers by the score.”
“No,” he said defensively, though not so believably.
“Confess it – you are like all men, demanding your women be virgins, while you yourselves are whores.”
“That is incredibly unfair and entirely untrue.”
“Mm-hm. And how many women have you had, Mr. Blake?”
“None. You were my first.”
“Liar!” she laughed, and hit him again with the pillow.
He wrestled with her until he pinned her arms to the bed, his face inches from hers.
“Tell the truth – how many women have you loved?” she asked.
“I have bedded some, tis true…”
He stared into her eyes.
“…but I have never loved a woman until you.”
Her eyes moistened the slightest, and they kissed long, slow, and tenderly.
Afterwards, she whispered, “Who was the one you came closest to loving?”
Evan lay back and thought. “I suppose the first.”
Now it was Marian’s turn to sound jealous. “And who was she?”
“A courtesan in Venice.”
She looked taken aback. “How old were you?”
“Seventeen. I had just finished school, and my aunt wished me to travel rather than go to university, which she called a den of vice and iniquity. She offered to pay my expenses if I would travel abroad for two years.”
“So you went to a den of vice and iniquity in Venice, instead,” Marian smirked.
“Something of the sort.”
“What was her name?”
“Donna Francesca Di Sandro.”
“Was she a cortigiana onesta, or a cortigiana di lume?”
Evan was impressed. “You know your Italian.”
“I know scandalous stories,” she smiled.
“A cortigiana di lume. So… a lady of the night, yes, but far more respectable than most you would find in London.”
“And what was so wonderful about her?”
“Other than I was seventeen years old, and she was the first woman I had ever touched?”
“Yes, other than that.”
“She took a particular liking to me, and I came to her every night for two weeks,” Evan said as he kissed Marian’s neck.
“And?” she asked, her own voice betraying her jealousy.
“She initiated me into a great many secrets of manhood,” Evan continued as he kissed down her neck.
“And?”
Evan slowly began to lick, with soft and sensual little flicks of his tongue, from Marian’s breasts, to her belly, and down even further.
“She had several requirements, though.”
Marian seemed to have trouble keeping her mind on the conversation. “…which were?”
Evan went lower. Marian looked down in surprise as he forcibly parted her legs with his hands.
“She demanded that if she were to provide me pleasure, I must give her equal pleasure.”
He used his tongue to trace the insides of Marian’s thighs. She began to breathe harder.
“…and…?”
Evan brushed his lips across the damp curls of Marian’s thatch – just lightly enough to tickle them, but no more.
“I was an inexperienced boy, though. I knew nothing of pleasing a woman.”
“…and…?”
Evan took the tip of his tongue and drew it ever so lightly across the bare skin where her thigh joined her body.
She breathed in with a sigh.
“Donna Francesca taught me the secrets of a woman’s body…”
His tongue lightly, lightly touched on the bare flesh of Marian’s nether lips. She gasped.
“…and a dozen ways to please a woman…”
His tongue pressed slightly harder, slightly wetter, licking up one side of her pink flesh, all the way to the apex.
Marian whimpered.
“…and how to make sure that I give you…”
He licked his fingers, then slowly, slowly inserted them inside Marian’s body.
She writhed on the bed as he continued to run his tongue over her pink lips, especially the swollen little bud at the very tip.
“…as much pleasure as I possibly can.”
Marian groaned and grabbed Evan’s hair as he filled her with his fingers, stroked her innermost secret parts, and caressed her ever more firmly with his tongue.
She was only able to say one more thing before lapsing into unintelligible moans:
“Then thank God… for Donna Francesca…”
17
They continued that way for weeks, meeting each other in the deserted rooms of the east wing at night, enjoying each other’s bodies until sleep or the dawn intruded. The secrecy of their affair made each rendezvous all the more delicious.
Passion gave them extra life and energy, but eventually the late hours – and her heavy workload during the day – took a toll on Marian. Evan began to insist that she get her sleep. She would argue and beg to still meet at night, but often she fell asleep as soon as she lay down on the bed. Evan would watch her slow breathing, marvel at her beauty… and then he would drift off into slumber beside her, holding her in his arms.
When she woke she would be angry that she had wasted even a minute with him on something so mundane as sleep, and they would frantically make love before she had to creep back to her room.
Occasionally he would surprise her during the day. She would be going about her chores, yawning and thinking of their next assignation, when a pair of hands would encircle her waist and hug her tight, or steal to her breasts and fondle them lasciviously.
The first time he did it she screamed in fright, and Evan had to hide behind the armoire when another maid’s voice called from the hall.
“Good heavens, what’s the matter?”
“Nothing!” Marian called as she poked her head out of the door. “I thought I saw a mouse, but it was only a bit of dust!”
The other maid shook her head, clucked, and continued on her way.
After that, Evan would clear his throat when he entered the room. She would know it was him and not turn around, and when his hands slipped around her and his lips planted kisses on her neck, she would sigh and clutch his arms.
Often that was the extent of it until their nightly meetings – though there were times when he could not wait. After locking the door, he would push her roughly up against the wall. She would tease him and deny him, until he lifted up the sides of her dress and gently caressed her between the legs, at which point she would turn to jelly. He would hoist her into the air and take her against the wall, and she would have to bite his shoulder not to scream as spasms of delight thundered through her body.
In the evenings they would talk – that is, after they had temporarily drunk their fill of love, and if Marian did not drift off to sleep. They would discuss everything from religion to politics to literature.
At one point she was stroking the thin scars on his chest and arms. “What are these from?”
“Dueling.”
She looked up at him in alarm. “Sword fights?!”
“Yes.”
She looked at the scars, counting them. There were at least half a dozen. “Did you fight many duels?”
“Unfortunately, yes.”
“Over women?” she asked, her voice a mixture of romantic enthrallment and envy.
“Over women, over slights, over petty insults… the bored sons of the aristocracy have little to do, so playacting at killing one another is a favorite pastime.”
“…did you ever kill anyone?”
Evan stared up at the ceiling. He hesitated before he answered.
“Nearly. After that, I never fought again.”
“I’ve seen the sword in your room. Sometimes it’s not in the same place.”
He smiled at her. “I never fought ag
ain, not in earnest… but I still practice.”
On another occasion, after he had made love to her for half an hour and brought her to several shattering climaxes, she murmured, “Tu es incroyable,” as she was drifting off to sleep in his arms.
“Merci,” he answered. “Et toi aussi.”
“You know French?” she asked, suddenly awake.
“Unlike you, I can speak it better than I can read it,” he answered in a passable French accent.
She lifted her head and looked at him with renewed interest. “That’s very good!”
“That is what eight months in France will do for a young man.”
“When you went abroad at seventeen?”
“Yes.”
“Did you travel through France?”
“I stayed five months in Paris and another couple months touring the countryside.”
Her eyes lit up. “I have always wanted to go to Paris.”
“Why?”
“It seems to me the most romantic city in the world.”
“It has a certain charm, to be sure.”
“Not perhaps as much as Venice, hm?” she asked saucily.
He smiled, but did not take the bait. “And if you went to Paris, what would you do?”
“See everything there is to see, of course – and mingle with the artists who live there.”
“The artists?”
“The writers, the painters, the musicians, the actors.”
“We have writers and painters and musicians in merry old England. This is the land of Shakespeare, after all.”
She made a face. “Men and women from around the world go to Paris to create their masterpieces. They come to London to eat poorly and suffer the cold and wet.”
He laughed. “Some would say they go to Paris to suffer the rudeness and arrogance.”
“The people who do so are not artists.”
“And are you an artist?”
She shrugged. “I am a writer. I want to entertain, perhaps provoke a little thought. I would not call that an artist, but I think they will save a place at the table for me.”
“And England would not?”
“The only place saved for me here is at a servant’s table.”
It was not the first time her words on the subject stung him. He was well aware of the gulf between them in social standing. Constantly aware, truth be told. He wanted to be with her, to stay with her, to grow old and have children with her…
…but he knew that was impossible.
So, as always, he pushed the thought away.
“Besides, a prophet has no honor in his own country,” she continued.
“Ah, so now you’re a prophet!”
“Not of Christianity. They don’t particularly like women.”
He looked at her in shock. Evan was not religious, exactly, but to hear anyone speak ill of it unnerved him.
“Whatever do you mean?”
“Who are the most famous women in Christianity?”
“Well, Mary, of course.”
“A virgin. So, Christianity would not be so fond of me. In the olden olden days, they would take me out to the city gates and stone me to death.”
“I’m not a virgin, either.”
“You’re a man.”
“So?”
“So the rules are different for men. We’ve had this discussion. Moving on: who else?”
“Well… Mary and Martha…”
“A dutiful housekeeper and an adoring woman at the master’s feet. Do you see me playing either of those parts very well?”
He laughed. “Not particularly, no.”
“What others?”
“Um…”
“Let me rattle off a list for you. There is Eve, who is flogged continually and for all time as the conduit of sin into this world… never mind that Adam did the exact same thing as her. She’s the one who gets all the blame. Then there’s Mary Magdalene, the reformed harlot. A woman’s only good to the church fathers if she’s a virgin, a mother, or renounces her desires completely. Leah and Rachel, who were auctioned off like cattle to Jacob, who in return did not love one of them. Esther – another dutiful wife. Ruth, a dutiful daughter-in-law. Rahab – another prostitute, saved because she betrayed her countrymen. Sarah had the nerve to laugh, and was rebuked for it by God Himself.
“Where are all the amazing women? Where are the female equivalents of Moses, and Joshua, and the twelve apostles? Where are the women to rival King David and Solomon? Women only serve as their adulterous consorts, like Bathsheeba, or their nameless wives and concubines. Or their duplicitous downfalls, like Delilah to Samson. The women in the Bible who are as strong as men – not strong in faith or virtue, which is all well and good, but women who can stand toe to toe with men in every way, in all their appetites and abilities and strength of will – are evil temptresses like Jezebel, who met her end with the dogs lapping up her blood. So I fear it is Paris for me, rather than Jerusalem or Canterbury.”
Evan shook his head. “You are completely unlike any other woman I have ever met.”
She looked over at him, a smile in her eyes. “Is that a compliment or a complaint?”
“More compliment than complaint, but a little of both.”
She laughed. “At least you are honest. And at least you are content to let me be myself.”
“What do I get in reward, hm?”
“A kiss.”
He leaned over to collect his reward, but she surprised him by moving down to his thighs, where she placed the smallest of kisses on his softened manhood. Immediately it began to grow in size.
Evan groaned.
“And another,” she said coyly, brushing her lips along the shaft.
Evan grasped the sheets in both hands.
“And another,” she whispered, running her tongue along the full length of him as she stared into his eyes.
He was entranced. Enslaved.
“And another,” she whispered, then took the head into her mouth and began to gently lick and suck.
His member grew thicker and harder by the second, expanding inside her.
She repositioned herself and took as much of him in her mouth as she comfortably could, savoring the velvety softness of his skin against her tongue. She moved up and down, slowly, softly, wetly caressing his massive staff with her lips… teasing him, enveloping him, loving him.
Evan was almost beside himself with pleasure.
Suddenly she stopped and looked back at him. “On the other hand… do you think it would be better for me to go to a nunnery?”
He tackled her to the sheets as she shrieked with laughter, covered her mouth to silence her cries of hilarity, and then made furious love to her, which made her shriek with cries of pleasure instead.
18
The nights and days unfolded in a haze of carnal pleasure and tender love, a paradise on earth…
…and then the letter came.
Evan was returning from practicing marksmanship with his pistols. Ordinarily he would have practiced his swordsmanship with Andrew, too, but they were still not on speaking terms, so Evan stopped after an hour of shooting at targets in the woods.
As he rode Bucephalis back, he saw a rider approaching on the road – a postman with a leather satchel.
Evan intercepted him at the house. “What news, my good man?”
The man tipped his hat. “A letter, sir, for Mr. Evan Blake.”
“I am he.”
The man handed over an envelope affixed with Pemberly’s seal.
“Harcourt, give this man a threepence for his troubles, will you?” Evan said to the servant at the door, then opened the letter to read it.
To the Right Dishonorable Evan Blake,
For God’s sake, old man, why do you toy with me so? Hiding a great talent away in that awful country barn of yours, where she might be lost forever. Luckily for her, the public, and my pocketbook (since Father has indeed clipped my monthly allowance, as feared), your imprisoning her in the backw
aters of England has not stopped Providence from guiding me to her. Destiny, old boy, destiny. Soon her scandalous, delicious, and most delectable novels will paper the streets of London and beyond. If my powers of literary prognostication are correct, her adoring public will pay not only for my fill of champagne and oysters at the dining club, but a charming little residence for herself, as well.
Though oysters and champagne above all.
So, please relay to Miss Marian Willows that her presence is most officiously requested. Yours will be tolerated.
Also, tell her to bring everything she has written to date. I wish to see how deep the vein of gold runs.
Get thee to London at once! There are contracts to be signed and empires to be conquered!
Yours,
A.P.
PS – How goes the collecting of the fee?
Evan grinned with an absurd joy, and ran into the house to find Marian.
19
The only sound in the study was the tick tock tick of the grandfather clock. Marian did not look at the fine furnishings or the hundreds of books on the shelves, though, but kept her back straight and her eyes on the floor. Her aunt – the Housekeeper of Blakewell – paced back and forth in front of her, looking for all the world like a tiger eyeing its prey in the darkest of Indian jungles.
“What have you to say for yourself?” Mrs. Chapman snapped.
“I do not know what you mean, ma’am,” Marian murmured.
“Oh, I believe you do. I have watched you very carefully the last month.”
Marian’s heart jumped slightly, but she made the effort to keep her face composed.
“Your work has suffered dreadfully. You are distracted, you are sloppy, you are continually making mistakes.”
“‘Tis the summer heat, ma’am.”
“Is it the heat that makes you yawn all day long?”
“I do not sleep well at night, Auntie.”
“That is the first true thing you have said so far,” Mrs. Chapman snarled. “Do you think me a fool? Do you think I am blind?”
“No, ma’am.”
Mrs. Chapman stopped pacing and leaned her dour little face close to her niece’s. “I know why you were sent here, Marian. Oh, yes; I know all about your ‘indelicate situation.’”