He had, indeed. All of that short time he'd been watching her out of the corner of his eye, his senses registering the subtle aroma of her presence. It was as if a whole new sense had sprung into life within him, with her arrival. It was this new sense which suffered now, when the object which had brought it into life was gone, for good.
'For God's sake man get hold of yourself! She is not returning here. And recall, she is a servant, despite her less than lowly origins. Any relationship with her would be an impossibility. A mistress? Fie man! Would you demean that proud beauty with such an arrangement?'
Peregrine went on with his letter to his mother, about Clara's Season, seeing in each curl of the ink he so carefully placed on the vellum the shapely figure of Constance, the fine curve of her lips, the pleasant roundness of her bosom, the flare of her hips, the delightful turn of her ankles...
The letter took a very long time to write.
Chapter Eleven
Constance had developed the habit of taking an afternoon stroll along the Blackwood brook, a clear and delightfully winding stream which ran past Woodsbridge Village and bordered the southern edge of the Blackwood estate. She told her mother-in-law – and herself - that it was an excellent way of clearing her mind and trying to think constructively about their future. Though this was true, what she didn't go on to say to Margaret was that it also provided the possibility of her catching a glimpse of the Earl as he rode about his estate.
The merest glimpse would do, she admitted to herself as she sat in her favourite clearing, a few feet from where the Blackwood brook wound its sparkling way. It was lowering to realise just how much she hoped to see him, even when she knew that it was pointless to hope for such a thing.
'Oh, why can't I just forget that I ever laid eyes on him! Or kissed him, or... felt his strong arms holding me so tight!... How useless the stoics are, how useless all philosophy is, when it comes to taming our desires! For even if I do catch a glimpse of him today – and I haven't, not once, since I started walking here – what good will it do me?
If I see him, it'll only make it harder to forget him. And I have to forget, I have to! I have to concentrate on the practicalities of life and stop dreaming these fairy tale dreams. No one is going to sweep me away on a white charger to live happily ever after, no one... I'm a housemaid, for goodness’ sake! I may have been born into a good solid middle-class family, but that doesn't make me marriage material for a Lord. Imagine him introducing me to his friends and family! Why, if we were married, I'd doubtless have to be introduced at Court!'
The patent absurdity of this scenario brought tears of laughter to her eyes, and then the laughter became choking sobs. She was crying, she realised, for everything that might be, in a perfect world - everything that she was never likely to have. The sobs went on for some time, and she granted herself that release, letting them flow freely until they naturally eased to a stop. When they did, she rose, and drew out her handkerchief to wipe away the tears.
She was standing, still wiping her face after this necessary self-indulgence, when she heard a disturbance in the trees behind her. The image of the older village children, who often played along the brook, flitted through her mind. She turned, her face rearranged into a welcoming smile, which froze before it had fully formed. For it was the Earl of Blackwood, on his favourite mare, who was just emerging from the trees.
Horse and rider froze too, as one body, the horse swinging its head restlessly, obviously eager to drink from the brook after a long ride, yet responsive to its rider’s sudden stillness. Constance stood, breathless with the shock, her heart now pounding fiercely, and struggled to form a coherent word. Nothing came.
She gave up, and simply stared dazedly as his Lordship swung down from the mare's back and, somewhat awkwardly and unnecessarily dusting himself down, cleared his throat as he strode towards her.
“I... I had no idea... I had no idea you were here Mrs Leslie. I was just leading Zenobia here for a drink, it's such a warm day.”
It was indeed a warm day, and overheated from the ride in the warm late spring sun, he had previously removed his coat and cravat, and loosened his waistcoat and shirt. The coat lay across the pommel of the saddle still, and the exposed skin of his neck and upper-chest, where the loosened shirt revealed it, was dewed with sweat, Constance noted. Still unable to speak, she watched as he withdrew his crumpled cravat from his pocket and wiped his face and neck. Her mouth felt dry, and her body flushed with warmth at the sight. But she dragged her eyes from that tantalising skin, and forced herself to meet his gaze.
“No... It's for me to apologise to you my Lord, for my foolish behaviour during our last encounter. What... what I did was unforgivable... Please don't think that such disgraceful ways are normal behaviour for me, they aren't... That behaviour was brought on by... by my agitated state... I...”
He stepped closer to her, looking intently at her face. She tried to step back, but her pounding heart rooted her to the spot and, in a moment, he was towering above her, his hands on her arms.
Trembling like an autumn leaf on the very point of detachment from its branch, she lifted her face to him, her eyes closing as she felt his finger lightly touch and trace the drying track of her tears.
She kept her eyes closed, unable to gain enough breath, her breasts heaving with the effort of keeping her heart from bursting with the fearful joy of this miraculous sudden encounter. Then, intensifying everything, she felt his finger touch her lips, her upraised chin, felt it continuing its gentle downward course to her neck, down to the edge of her rough gown, where it lay across the swell of her breasts.
“I... I don't know how you can forgive me for such terrible behaviour... I...”
He stopped her words with his lips. His hands slipped down her arms to slide around her waist and clasp her at the small of her back, holding her to him, as if he feared that she would pull away. She left her eyes closed, fearful that, if she opened them, she would find that this was all a dream, and allowed herself to melt against him as he pulled her close, his kiss deepening, the intensity of his ardour increasing. She felt heat rush through her, filling her with a desire she had not felt since those few short weeks with George, before he had gone off to war, never to return. That heat pooled between her legs, and she ached, oh, so intensely, for more.
She opened her eyes, suddenly needing to know, to see, to be sure that this was real. It was. He was there, in the flesh, kissing her with a steadily mounting urgency, his hands exploring, slipping over her body, touching a flame in her flesh wherever they roamed. He met her eyes, and seeing her looking at him, seeing the reflection of his own naked passion mirrored in her beautiful green eyes seemed to inflame him, to bring on an abrupt overflow of desire. He made no attempt to resist his impulses, and she made no attempt to resist hers. All thought fled, and there was nothing but the touch of his lips and hands.
He was kissing her neck, nipping at the edge of her gown, then his hands, so hot, were sliding upon the bare flesh of her thighs as he drew up the long skirts of her gown. He drew her down, kissing her without pause, to the grass. She went more than willingly, the need in her at fever pitch.
He pushed the skirts up, until they tangled at her waist, and knelt astride her for a moment, taking in the vision of her lying back, her breasts heaving, her lips half-open in trembling anticipation, and her most intimate place completely exposed to him. She licked her lips and watched the light of desire in his eyes, watched him taking it all in. No man had ever looked at her with such passionate desire before, and the sight drove her own desire to greater heights. Then he fell upon her, almost with desperation, like a man starved, covering her in kisses with an almost unhinged feverishness. Her eyes drifted shut again – there was nothing but sensation.
Somehow, his fingers found the laces of her gown, even whilst he kissed her, on every exposed piece of flesh he could reach, loosening it, so that the chemise she wore underneath could be pulled aside. Then his lips touched the ta
ut tips of her naked breasts, and she arched herself up to him, a moan of delight escaping her. She needed, in that moment, to touch his skin, and her fingers went to the last buttons of his waistcoat, even as she cried out from the pleasure that he was giving her. She pulled it aside, pulled his shirt as open as it might go, and slipped her fingers inside it, to glide over the hardness of his muscles. As her fingers explored him, he moaned against her breast, the vibration intensifying her pleasure. Her arousal had reached a point where she could think of nothing beyond reaching completion, and the strain of his muscles as he twisted, desperately working to undo his falls made her gasp.
His strength was obvious, as he supported himself on one arm, the other hand undoing his buttons, even whilst his attention to her nipples never stopped. She reached to help him, desperate to free his manhood, to close her fingers around it, to feel its heated hardness.
Yes, she ached for him, ached for this, had for weeks, she had since that first kiss in the library, she knew it now, there was no hiding from the knowledge. Her need was exposed, as she arched herself beneath him, begging for satisfaction, for fulfilment. His fingers found the spot where that ache was concentrated, where her body's agonising need for him pulsed; found it and touched it, rubbing gently over her hardened nub, even as the thick, hard, tip of his cock brushed her entrance.
She rose to a pinnacle of pleasure almost instantly, her body arching against him, so great was her need, and he swallowed her cry of release in his kiss. Then, as the aftershocks of that pleasure ran through her, he eased the burning length of his own agonising need into her – slowly at first, as a groan of pleasure slipped from his lips, then, at her avid response, he settled into a rhythm of hard thrusts, which she met in kind. She had gasped with the delicious intensity of it, then lost herself in the joy of the sensation, of the natural, instinctive satisfaction of desire, she feeding, satiating herself on him and he feeding furiously upon her.
Constance had no idea how long they coupled in the grass, lost in their animal nature, beyond thought of anything else – for she had simply given herself to the moment. Soon, as they moved, she felt a pressure building within her again, and then the blinding starburst of pleasure took her again, took her to the edge of consciousness, and beyond.
When she came back to herself and opened her eyes, she still lay on her back, his weight upon her – a pleasant warmth and heaviness. The sky was still a deep blue, though tinged with cobalt now, between the branches of the chestnut trees, so much of the afternoon had passed, it seemed.
He, the Earl – oh, how formal that sounded, after what they had done! What should she call him now, she wondered – what might she be permitted to call him? - lay on top of her, his breathing slow and even. Did he sleep? She felt no need, yet, to disturb him. But… where was Zenobia? They had both completely forgotten the horse, when their desires had overcome them.
Constance craned her neck and saw the mare, drinking from the brook, his jacket still safely over her saddle, and the reins loose on her neck. Zenobia, his Lordship's favourite horse, one of... how many? The stables were vast. It was a vast house, Blackwood Chase, perhaps one of the largest country houses in England. And here she was, lying, half-naked beneath its owner! What had she done now! What madness had taken her?
Though she wanted to caress his back as he lay there, so trustingly, upon her, to extend this moment of pleasure, apart from the realities of the world, she did not. It was time to go back to practicalities. She slid carefully out from beneath him, rose, and began readjusting her chemise and tightening the laces of her gown. He raised his head, his lightly tanned face radiant with a smile. Relaxed, his clothes all still in utter disarray, he sat up, simply watching her, his eyes appreciative.
“I have to go home - I have to cook dinner.”
“Must you go now Constance?”
“I must – oh Lord, what have I done!”
“I rather thought that we had done something, and something that we had to do.” Seeing her discomfort, he got to his feet, and put his clothes in order, restoring himself to the very picture of a Lord of the realm, if a little rumpled. “Perhaps I should apologise for my behaviour – we seem to be eternally apologising, don't we? But I'm afraid it's the effect you have upon me. Constance -” He took her arm as, having tucked and laced everything back into place, she was about to leave. “Constance! I am heartily sorry for… for letting myself go in this manner, but I can't explain… you fill me with such a hunger for you! Even now I... I want to... kiss you.”
“No, please, I must go. I too... am unable to control myself in your presence.”
“Will you stay here a moment longer while I tell you what has happened at Blackwood Chase, how transformed the situation is?”
Her interest piqued by this, she nodded, then stood and listened as Peregrine detailed the change in his daughters' behaviour. She was delighted to hear it, but with the delight there was an accompanying cynicism as to the longevity of this welcome change. His hand never left her arm as he spoke, and she was acutely conscious of the warmth upon her skin.
“With everything I've told you in mind, would you... would you consider returning to your position at the house?”
“You ask me to consider the impossible! My Lord, we have just... lain here and indulged our passions like animals. And you now expect me to return and work for you as if nothing has happened?”
“I did not say that I expected you to work for me as if nothing has happened, it clearly has – and I have no wish to deny it. It's difficult for me to explain exactly but... Blackwood Chase needs you... I... need you.”
To hear this from this magnificent man, whatever amount of truth it contained, was not an easy thing to ignore. Constance considered – she wanted to go back, simply because she wanted to be near him. No matter that she knew it to be perhaps the most unwise course imaginable, she still wanted it. She took a deep breath, and made a decision – a decision which was, perhaps, complete madness.
“I will return and see how things develop – for a week or so, until you and your family remove to London for the Season.”
“Splendid! I can't thank you enough Constance! You won’t regret it, I promise! Everyone will be overjoyed to see you.”
Amid this effusion of gratitude, he moved to kiss her, but Constance could not afford to succumb again, it was too dangerous. And she truly found it rather frightening, how completely she could lose all self-control when with him. No other man had ever had such a thrilling and disturbing effect upon her. If she allowed him to kiss her again, now, she could not be sure that they might not, immediately, repeat their amorous activities – such was the desire he raised in her.
She pushed him away, shaking her head. He stepped back with a sad smile, but gave a little bow, acknowledging, perhaps, the wisdom of her actions. She responded with a curtsey, making everything formal, then turned and left the clearing. As she walked away, every step was hard to take – she wanted to turn, to run back to him, to kiss him.
She did not. But she felt his eyes upon her, until she reached the path, and the trees hid her from his sight.
Chapter Twelve
The following morning, Constance looked up as she approached the house which she had never expected to set foot in again. Blackwood Chase loomed before her, lit by the morning sun, its windows glittering in the light. The closer her slow footsteps brought her, the more nervous she became.
How would she react to him, to Peregrine Stapleton, the Earl of Blackwood? The man she had made passionate love with only yesterday. It had been yesterday; but her flesh still quivered at the memory of the intensity of their lovemaking, and the ache he had satisfied then seemed to throb with fresh life as she drew closer and closer to his domain.
She suspected that the week to come would be the most exquisite of torture, seeing him every day.
And what of the girls, their ladyships, his daughters? How would they react to her return? Would she be treated with even greater contempt for
being the cause of their loss of privileges?
What new scheme might Lady Amelia hatch to entrap her?
In this mixed state of apprehension and desire Constance reached the back of the great house. She had almost reached the outbuilding where Mrs Templeton's office was snugly embedded, when she heard a voice hailing her. It was the Head Housekeeper herself, trundling toward her, and waving jovially.
“Constance, my dear! His Lordship informed me that you were coming! How marvellous to see you again!”
Mrs Templeton, much to Constance's surprise, embraced her and led her into her office.
“You do understand Mrs Temp? I've agreed with his Lordship to take up my duties again, on a temporary basis, for the few days before the family remove to London for the Season. He asked me so earnestly I simply couldn't refuse.”
“He is a hard man to refuse Constance, especially when he wishes to express his gratitude. Here, do have some tea.”
“Gratitude? For what?”
“For whatever advice you gave him as regards his daughters. Whatever it was you said to him has changed everything in his relationship with their ladyships, and their relations with us. We are all of us indebted to you, Constance, for your courage and wisdom. Why, Blackwood Chase is a completely different place now. But I'll let you discover that for yourself, Here, have some more tea.”
Constance accepted the second cup of tea, wondering just how much tea she was capable of drinking in a short time.
“His Lordship mentioned something about an improvement in their behaviour. But is it really so radical? You'll pardon my scepticism.”
“I will pardon it. We've all suffered from the black moods – and blacker tongues, of their ladyships – but now, the clouds have lifted. But I'll say no more and let you find out for yourself. Drink up! And have another slice of lemon cake.”
The Scottish Governess: Regency Romance Page 8