by Kay Hooper
The gown was one she had not worn since their departure from England. It was pale blue, off the shoulders, and quite revealing. Her bosom was bared almost to the nipples, and the tight bodice and full skirt gave a greater emphasis to her figure than her usual dresses. Catherine looked in the mirror, bit her bottom lip, and got a lace shawl from a drawer. Cast around her shoulders and pinned in place with a cameo brooch, it hid both creamy flesh and the thrust of her breasts.
It would have to do. She checked her hair but didn’t bother to change the braided coronet. She picked up a small evening purse and looped it over her wrist. Then, composing her face into a mask of cool tranquility, she went downstairs to wait while her father hitched up the horse and brought the buggy around.
They didn’t say much on the journey. Lettia’s opulent home was on the northeast portion of the island and just outside town. It was, as usual during Lettia’s parties, ringed with buggies and carriages; there were about a dozen “upper-class” families on the island, and it looked as though all were attending.
Including Captain Tyrone.
Catherine felt her throat close up when she saw the familiar chestnut gelding. Panic stirred within her. Ever since a party some months before, when, by merely looking at her, he had aroused her to a degree that had shocked her, Catherine had been wary of meeting him during social gatherings. Yet she knew there was no avoiding it, that with such a small community social meetings were inevitable.
She accepted her father’s brusque help in getting out of the carriage and walked beside him with outward composure to the house. With the same composure she endured Lettia Symington’s exaggerated surprise at seeing her, endured the simpering smile at her father. She greeted George Symington calmly, and said hello to their nervous, high-strung seventeen-year-old daughter, Lucy, in the same tone.
None of them could ignore her during this type of social gathering, and Catherine wasn’t sure which she preferred: polite scorn or being looked at as though they wished she would become invisible. Neither, really. She never got used to it.
More than a score of people filled the Symingtons’ large drawing room, laughing and talking and drinking. Catherine moved among them, keeping an unobtrusive eye on her father. He was being good, she saw, holding a glass but drinking from it only occasionally; he knew she was watching.
Someone else was watching her. She could feel his gaze but refused to look his way. Still, tension grew inside her like a coil tightening. Don’t look at me, she thought desperately. Don’t let them see what we are! Please don’t let them see….
After an eternity, dinner was announced. In no particular order the guests went into the dining room to sit around its very long and highly polished oak table. Catherine found herself seated with Dr. Scott on her left and Gerald Odell on her right. She recognized and accepted the spite of her hostess, knowing she had been deliberately seated between two bachelors who were each old enough to be her grandfather. It wasn’t unexpected.
“You’re looking well tonight, Miss Catherine,” Gerald Odell said in a slightly wheezy and avuncular voice. He owned the two dressmakers’ shops in town and valued her patronage; whatever he thought of her personally he kept to himself. A shrewd businessman.
“Thank you, Mr. Odell,” she muttered.
“I’ve a new selection of fabric and French lace,” he said cannily. “Captain Tyrone’s ship brought it in. Perhaps you’d care to come and look it over.”
“Yes, of course,” she responded, hardly paying attention. She had just realized that Tyrone, seated across near the head of the table beside Miss Lucy, was directly in her line of sight. Her father was on her side, also near the head of the table. Vaguely, Catherine recognized yet another intended slight; she had been placed between a doctor and a merchant, both, in Lettia’s eyes, at the bottom of the social scale of acceptance. It didn’t disturb her, being also expected.
Tyrone was looking at her. Catherine met his gaze only glancingly, and even then felt her breath catch. Damn him! She looked fixedly at her plate, aware of composure scattering like leaves in the wind. She felt her nipples prickle instantly, felt the heavy consciousness of a slow pulse inside her. And it came to her then that this was more than passion, that Tyrone had somehow touched something deeper inside her, something infinite.
It was terrifying.
“Miss Catherine?” It was Dr. Scott’s voice, low and concerned. “You’ve gone pale. Are you all right?”
She looked at him blindly, focused on him with an effort. Sharp eyes behind rimless glasses, kind features. She wondered if he knew what she was afraid of. She had, nearly two years ago, gone to him with certain questions; he had gotten what she required without question or comment, had never once said that an unmarried woman shouldn’t need what she had needed. She would always be grateful to him for that. “I’m fine, Doctor.” Her voice was low, calm.
“Are you sure?”
Catherine wanted to laugh suddenly but not with humor. “I’m quite all right. Thank you.”
He seemed unconvinced but accepted her assurances and returned to the meal. Catherine followed suit. She heard, as if from a great distance, sounds of conversation, heard the high, nervous sound of Lucy’s voice rising above the rest as she flirted coyly with Tyrone.
She wished the evening were over.
But it wasn’t, of course. Lettia wanted her guests to relax after dinner. Drinks were produced again. The French doors opening onto the veranda were flung wide, and an invitation entered from the warm night. Catherine wanted to keep an eye on her father but found she was even more concerned with avoiding Tyrone.
She managed it for more than an hour. She was conscious from time to time of his gaze but refused to meet it. She had taken pains to make certain there was never a chance to speak to him, though she spoke to everyone else at least briefly.
Much later she would realize that she should have spoken to him casually. It might have changed so much if she had.
The laughter grew louder and more easy as drinks were consumed, though Catherine was relieved to see that her father was still being good, still drinking only moderately. She herself drank hardly at all and even, finally, set her almost untouched glass aside on a convenient table. She felt a little dizzy with tension and worry, with the faint throbbing yearning of her body. It was made worse by the noise of the crowd, the almost sickeningly sweet scent of perfume.
She glanced around swiftly and warily, then retreated smoothly from the room. There was a short hallway with several doors opening off it; she chose a room at random and found herself inside George Symington’s study. It was deserted; she closed the door softly behind her and went to stand by the darkened window.
She didn’t know how long she stood there gazing blindly out at the night. The sounds of the crowd were distant now, and she hardly heard them. She didn’t hear the sound of the door opening and softly closing, or footsteps behind her. But there was, somehow, no surprise at arms slipping around her from behind, pulling her back against a hard male body.
“Damn you,” Tyrone said thickly. “Not a glance. Not even one of your cold, haughty stares. What are you trying to do to me, Catherine?”
With his touch her body came alive. She felt her breasts swell in the hands that slid up to hold them, felt her legs go weak, her heart thud rapidly. Between her thighs was a sudden heavy fullness, a pulsing ache. And she felt the swelling response of his body as he pressed himself against her. Her head fell helplessly back onto his shoulder, and she bit her lip to hold back a moan that half escaped before she could stop it.
“Don’t,” she whispered. “Not here. Not now.”
“Here,” he said. “Now. It’s your fault for ignoring me all evening.” He was exploring the soft flesh of her neck, his lips hot and hard. His hands impatiently brushed aside the lacy shawl, then expertly unfastened the brooch and pulled the shawl free of her, dropping both to the floor.
“Stop—”
“I made you angry today, didn’
t I? Because I pressed you, because I questioned. But you made me angry as well, Catherine. So I came to this damned party, just to see you again. And then you wouldn’t even look at me. I won’t allow you to be cold with me. With them…but not with me.”
“No.” Catherine was trying to think, to remain calm. “Someone could come in. Tyrone—”
“I locked the door.” His hands closed over her breasts, squeezing gently. “I want you, Catherine. Now. With half the town in the next room smiling their empty smiles and looking at one another with treacherous eyes.” His voice was unusually rough, urgent, almost violent. “I want you.”
“No.” But he knew too well how to arouse her, how to make her forget everything but him and need. The fever rose in her body, hot and dizzying. She could hardly stand, hardly breathe. One of his hands slipped down over her stomach, lower, pressing hard through the layers of clothing, and she gasped as the stark caress triggered a rush of flaming need.
“Now,” he said roughly.
Catherine half sobbed. “Yes. Damn you, yes!”
Without another word he moved back and pulled her several steps to one side, to George Symington’s desk. There was an armless chair behind it, and Tyrone pulled it away from the desk. Quickly he freed himself and sat down, drawing her forward to straddle his legs as he pulled up her rustling skirts.
She caught at his shoulders, biting back a moan when his knowing fingers slid up her trembling thighs and found the wet, hot flesh that was pulsing for him. Except for petticoats and a thin linen shift, she wore nothing beneath the gown, and she could see his gleaming gray eyes flicker in satisfaction.
“You’re ready for me,” he murmured, fingers probing surely.
Catherine shuddered when his hands slipped around to cup her buttocks, when he eased her down slowly. She felt the long, throbbing hardness of his manhood enter her yearning body, filling her, and the pleasure was so intense that her eyes closed, breath coming quickly from between parted lips. And she could hardly breathe at all by the time she settled fully against him, clutching his shoulders and swaying slightly.
“Yes,” he muttered thickly, staring at her face through slitted eyes. “This is my Catherine, the Catherine only I know.” One of his hands lifted to the nape of her neck and he pulled her upper body toward him, kissing her hard, his tongue filling her mouth with sinuous passion. “All woman. Warm and soft with wanting me. Mine.”
On some level of her mind Catherine was conscious of the danger of this, the recklessness, but she didn’t care. The throbbing inside her was a pleasure so potent she would have risked almost anything for it. A moan broke from her throat as he began lifting and lowering her slowly, and she smothered the sound against his shoulder, biting into fine cloth.
She thought she would burst, that her straining body couldn’t possibly hold the feelings inside. The heat was liquid, flowing, rushing. Her body pulsed in a faster and faster rhythm, tension gathering in a bittersweet agony. She heard his harsh breaths, felt his chest laboring, felt the bunching muscles of his shoulders and arms as he controlled her movements.
Catherine had never felt so intensely, and she was only dimly aware of the sounds tangling behind her clenched teeth. The heat was swallowing her, consuming her. And then she felt the tension snap with violence, tossing her wildly to a crest of pleasure she had never known before. She collapsed against him with a whimper, her forehead resting heavily on his shoulder, dimly aware of his shudder and rasping groan.
Limp, boneless, she couldn’t move and didn’t want to, despite a niggling urgency. No matter what happened, she realized, she would always be grateful that she had known this, felt this. It was the single reason the entire situation was bearable.
She floated for a few precious moments, content, sated. Her breathing gradually returned to normal, and she felt his slow as well. If only I don’t lose this, she thought. Lose him…She forced the thoughts away and slowly raised her head.
Tyrone kissed her, his mouth not hard now but warm and gentle. Then he looked at her with eyes that were still intense. “Catherine, are you pregnant?”
The unexpected question jolted her, and her head snapped back almost as if he had slapped her. But after an instant she was able to reply in the same blunt tone. “No. I’m not.”
His eyes searched hers, and then he half nodded. “I wondered. When I saw you at Scott’s this morning. That’s why I stopped you in town.”
“No, I was there for the reason I gave you. Because of Father.” Contentment was draining away, and she grieved its passing. With an effort she made her voice dry. “You don’t have to worry, Tyrone. There are ways to—to prevent it happening. There won’t be a child.”
He was silent for a moment, then touched her cheek with gentle fingers and said huskily, “I wouldn’t mind.”
Another shock. When her voice emerged this time, it was too sharp, too revealing. “I would. There won’t be a child.”
Tyrone’s brows drew together in a swift frown. “Catherine—”
She shook her head to stop the question and then withdrew from him, forcing her weak legs to support her. The trickle of wetness down her thighs was unnervingly sensual, and she gritted her teeth as she moved away from him. She didn’t look at him as she bent to gather the shawl and brooch from the floor, replacing them to demurely cover her flushed bosom again.
When she turned around, Tyrone was there before her, his own clothing adjusted and fit for public viewing. He was still frowning. Before she could move, he captured her face in one hand gently, and forced her to stand still.
“Catherine,” he said slowly, “I would never abandon you if you were to become pregnant. You know that, don’t you?”
The question, she realized, was important to him; her answer was important to him. After a moment she said steadily, “Yes. I know that. But there won’t be a child.”
He kissed her lightly, briefly. “Just as long as you know.”
She moved a little away from him and lifted one hand to touch her hot cheek. The dangers of this suddenly recalled, she wondered hopelessly if she could manage to return to the party without giving away what had happened in this locked room.
“Oh, God,” she blurted out.
Tyrone chuckled, realizing what was wrong. “I’m afraid your haughty mask is gone. You look very much a woman who’s just met a lover. Our secret is about to become public knowl—” He broke off because she’d turned on him abruptly, and what he saw in her face wiped the amusement from his own. “Catherine,” he began in an entirely different tone of voice.
But she had herself under control now. “This must never happen again, Tyrone. I mean that.”
He was expressionless. “And if it does?”
She hesitated, knowing the dangers of pushing a man like him. He was a strong man, and strong men disliked ultimatums. But what choice did she have? None. No choice at all. Damn! Damn! Carefully she said, “We agreed, long ago, how it was going to be. Nothing has changed. If you aren’t…satisfied with our agreement, then it’s over. I won’t be held up in public as a whore.”
Some emotion she couldn’t identify seemed to pass fleetingly over his face, but his voice remained steady. “I see. That’s the one line you won’t cross, then.”
She was a little puzzled. “What do you mean?”
“The fine citizens of Port Elizabeth, that’s what I mean. They treat you like dirt, and we both know it. They smile their genteel smiles while they cut at you.”
After a moment she said, “They’re just people, no better or worse than any others. Just people.”
“Why won’t you defend yourself with them?” he asked, suddenly rough.
Catherine felt a prickle of foreboding. He’s different. He looks at me differently. Oh, God! She kept her voice calm. “I’ve done nothing to defend. I can’t help their attitudes.”
“You could change them. We both know that too. You could drop your haughty mask and show them you’re human. Show them you’re a woman with a
heart that beats, lips that can smile. Show them the warmth beneath that icy surface. But you won’t. Why won’t you, Catherine?”
What could she say to him? She could say that pride was all she had left, and that with it she had built a cold wall to contain her fear and worry. She could say that scorn was more bearable than pity, and easier to deflect. She could say that her own hurt was nothing compared to the pain of others.
But she didn’t say any of that. She couldn’t, not to him. So she simply ignored the question.
“I meant what I said. This can’t happen again.”
His eyes narrowed slightly. “You wanted me just as much, Catherine. Even here and now.”
She felt her lips curve in a terrible smile. “Yes.”
He made a rough sound. “God, don’t look like that! You can’t hate it that much, what I make you feel. You can’t hate it that much, Catherine!”
She couldn’t answer, couldn’t tell him he was wrong. Because then the next question would come, and she couldn’t answer it either. Then why did you look like that? “I want your word this won’t happen again,” she said softly.
His eyes were restless, and a muscle leapt in his jaw. “You’ll meet me tomorrow?”
Catherine felt a quiver deep inside her. Meet him. Like a moth to the flame, bent on destruction. “Yes. I’ll meet you. Give me your word this won’t happen again, Tyrone.”
“All right.” He sighed. “You have my word.”
A breath she hadn’t been conscious of holding escaped in a soft rush. “Thank you,” she said. She moved toward the locked door, wondering suddenly how long they had been absent from the party. It felt like hours, but she knew it hadn’t been nearly that long. And before she could say anything, Tyrone spoke flatly.
“I know. We leave the room separately. But, Catherine—don’t ignore me again. Don’t do that to me.”
She half nodded, then quickly unlocked the door and slipped out into the hall. Hoping desperately that Tyrone had been wrong in saying her mask was gone, she composed her features into cool remoteness and moved steadily down the hall and back to the drawing room.