by Jane Feather
Harry leaned forward to grab the branch of an apple tree that scraped the top of the wall. He launched himself off the wall, dropping soundlessly to the soft ground beneath. He paused, listening. Not a sound, not even the rustle of a vole in the underbrush. He darted at a crouch across the small expanse of open ground until he stood in the shadow of the house, his dark-clad figure blending seamlessly into the background.
He reached for the drainpipe and shook it. As Lester had promised, it was firmly affixed to the wall. Lester, in his capacity as handyman and general jack of all trades, had effected some repairs on his visit that afternoon.
Harry peered up at the window some fifteen feet above. He couldn’t see that the sash was lifted a fraction of an inch above the sill, but Lester had assured him that it was open enough for him to slip his fingers beneath it, and raise it high enough to admit him. A generous dose of oil on the runnels ensured that it would lift without a sound.
He raised his hand above his head and felt the wall alongside the drainpipe. There were enough nicks in the brickwork to give him some toeholds if he needed them. He waited again, straining his ears into the darkness, listening for anything untoward. There was nothing except the iron wheels of a carriage on the street in front, taking home some late-night reveler. The inhabitants of this part of London were for the most apart asleep at three o’clock on a winter morning. In a couple of hours the servants would awake, but for now all was quiet.
He reached for the drainpipe and leaped up, his soft leather shoes getting purchase on the wall, his toes curling into well-placed crannies. He climbed upwards, hand over hand, his feet on either side of the drainpipe to take some of the weight off the narrow copper tube.
He reached the window and leaned sideways carefully, clinging to the drainpipe with one hand, feeling with his other for the gap between window and sill. It was there. Not that he’d doubted Lester for one minute; nevertheless, he was relieved. He leaned farther, turning his hand around so that he could get a grip on the window, and pushed it up inch by inch. It made not a sound as it crept upwards. He prayed silently that the sleeping woman wouldn’t become aware of the sudden draft as the cold night air entered her chamber.
When he judged it open sufficiently to allow him to wriggle through, Harry climbed a little higher on the drainpipe until he could stretch one leg sideways to the window ledge. There was a moment when he seemed to hang in space, then with an agile twist he got himself astride the window ledge, his body hunched over in the narrow aperture. In an instant he had dropped to the floor and remained unmoving on his haunches barely breathing. At first he could hear no sound, then he heard the deep rhythmic breathing of a sound sleeper.
The embers of the fire still glowed in the grate, offering a little light, sufficient to make out the hulking shapes of the furniture. He straightened carefully, listening for any change in the sound coming from the big canopied bed. The curtains were drawn back, revealing the glimmer of white sheeting, the slight mound beneath the coverlet.
A smile touched his lips, and his fingers closed over the little silver object in his pocket. First the thimble exhange, but then…
He looked around for the workbox, peering into the shadowy dimness. It would be on a surface somewhere. Unless, as luck would have it, Nell had not brought it upstairs with her. If he didn’t find it here, he’d have to venture downstairs. Not a happy prospect when he recollected those yapping terriers.
And then he saw it. The box was on a table with a lamp beside an armchair on the far side of the fireplace. A length of material was draped over a stool beside it. Presumably the lady had been sewing before she went to bed. He stepped soundlessly towards his holy grail and his foot caught something soft.
Something flew up at him out of the shadows with an unearthly squall. Eyes glaring, fur on end, tail bushed wildly, the cat at bay hissed and spat.
Cornelia sat up in bed. “What the devil…” She stared at him incredulously as the cat continued its uproar. “Harry?” Her mouth opened slightly, and her eyes, blue even in the shadows, widened like saucers. “You? What in the name of all that’s good are you doing in here?”
She pushed aside the coverlet and got up in one smooth movement. The white folds of her nightgown settled around her as she continued to stare at him.
“Get this cat away from me,” he said. He had only one card left, and he had to play it to win. “Before it wakes the entire house.”
Cornelia bent down and clicked her fingers at the animal, who had fallen silent but was still at bay. “It’s probably too late for that.” She wasn’t sure what dream world she was inhabiting. Harry was standing calmly as you please in the middle of her bedchamber in the middle of the night, and he sounded as if it was the most obvious place for him to be.
The sound of heavy feet came from the corridor outside. “Too late,” she confirmed, recognizing Morecombe’s stolid step.
Harry glanced around, then darted to the far side of the bed, concealing himself somewhat inadequately behind a fold of the bed curtains.
“My lady…my lady…” Morecombe banged on the door. “Is everything all right in there?”
“Oh, God,” said Cornelia. “He’ll have the blunderbuss out in a minute.” She ran to the door, opening it carefully. “Yes, everything’s fine, Morecombe. It was just the cat, she—”
The rest of the sentence was drowned as Tristan and Isolde, yapping excitedly, raced between Morecombe’s legs and into the room. They rushed at the cat, who, already agitated, reared up and hurled herself at them, hissing, spitting, and clawing. The dogs squealed in terror and turned tail, the cat on their heels.
The threesome disappeared into the darkness of the corridor, squalling and yapping, claws skittering on the polished wooden floor.
Morecombe flourished his blunderbuss and peered around Cornelia. “You sure there’s nothing wrong, m’lady?”
“Yes, quite sure, thank you.” Cornelia was afraid she was about to burst into hysterical laughter. Thank God the dogs hadn’t had time to flush out Harry. He was barely concealed by the curtain as it was.
“Your window’s open,” the butler stated suspiciously. “’Tis the middle of winter.”
“Oh, yes…so it is. I like fresh air, Morecombe. I find it helps me sleep.”
“Newfangled nonsense,” he said. “Catch your death, you will.” He took one more look around, sniffed disapprovingly, and retreated. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”
The door closed behind him, and Cornelia waited for what she was knew was coming next. “Nell…Nell…what’s going on?”
Cornelia opened the door and stood in the doorway holding the door half-closed at her back. She spoke in a rushed whisper, trying to sound sleepy and bemused, but also careless as if her entire body wasn’t prickling with awareness of the man in the room behind her. She could almost hear his breathing and wondered how Ellie couldn’t hear it too.
“It’s nothing, Ellie. I’m sorry to have woken you. I got up in the night and trod on the cat, and she went berserk, and that brought up Morecombe and the pink things and they attacked Puss, or she attacked them, I’m not sure which, and all hell broke loose. It hasn’t woken the children has it?”
Aurelia blinked sleepily. “No, I don’t hear anything,” she said. “But it scared the life out of me. Such a racket.”
“I’m sorry,” Cornelia said with a self-deprecating shrug.
Aurelia shivered. “There’s a howling gale, Nell. Is the window open or something?”
What madwoman opened her bedroom window wide in the middle of winter? “I had a headache when I went to bed,” Cornelia improvised. “I thought a little air might help.”
“Well, for heaven’s sake shut it now,” Aurelia said, yawning and shivering at the same time. “I’m going back to bed. I’m astonished that racket didn’t wake Liv.”
“She sleeps through almost anything,” Cornelia said, stepping back into her room. “Good night, Ellie. Sorry to have woken you.” She closed t
he door and very quietly turned the key.
Cornelia stood with her back to the closed door, saying nothing. She was at a loss for words after the last quarter of an hour of intense improvisation.
Harry moved out from behind the curtains and went to close the window. If he hadn’t been so intent on the workbox he would have thought to close it immediately after he’d entered the chamber. But then he’d been distracted too by the shape in the bed, and the luscious prospect of awakening the sleeper once the thimbles were safely exchanged.
Neither prospect was a reality now. One thimble remained in the workbox, the other in his pocket, and Nell was very wide-awake. Those penetrating blue eyes were regarding him with mingled unease and anger, but there was also a glimmer of anticipation. Her hair tumbled in a thick luxuriant mass around her shoulders, framing her face where color bloomed on her high cheekbones.
Still silent, she moved to the fireplace. She took a long taper from a jar on the mantel and bent to light it in the embers. When it glowed, she lit the lamp on the side table.
Harry could see the outline of her body beneath the thin shift as the light flared. She straightened and turned to face him. And he could see the dark points of her nipples.
“What are you doing here?” Her voice was quiet.
He smiled slowly. “I came to make good on a promise, Nell.”
“You made me no promises,” she said, resting her hands behind her on the table, her eyes not moving from his face.
“Didn’t I?” he said. “How remiss of me. I certainly made one to myself.” He took a step forward, and she stiffened. He changed direction and turned instead to the fire. Kneeling, he piled kindling on top of the embers and waited for them to catch before adding coals from the copper scuttle.
“That’s better.” He stood up again, brushing off his hands. “I’m sorry about the window. I should have closed it immediately. But I was distracted.”
“By what?” The tip of her tongue touched her lips in an involuntary movement.
“Can’t you guess?” He had caught the movement, sensed the stiffness leave her, saw the anticipation in her gaze take precedence over the anger and unease. “I can’t stop thinking about you, Nell. You’ve inhabited my mind every minute of every day and every night since I first laid eyes on you.”
Cornelia’s eyes narrowed. “Now that is pushing belief,” she said. “You thought me an ill-mannered servant.”
“Oh, I don’t deny it,” he said. “Any more than I’ll deny that I disliked you intensely on our second meeting, and could have wrung your neck at the first opportunity.” He took a step towards her. “But that didn’t alter anything, Nell. I have wanted you with a passion whether you were driving me to fury or to desire.” He reached for her hands, drawing her closer.
She made no attempt to pull away, but neither did she lean into him. She simply stood very still, as if holding herself in readiness for something.
He ran his hands up and under the cascade of her hair, trawling his fingers through the buttery mass as he’d longed to do. He took a thick swatch of her hair in one hand and held it aside as he pressed his lips into the hollow of her shoulder. And then he felt the shudder run through her and knew he’d been right. She had a passion to match his own.
He took her chin between thumb and forefinger and lifted her face so that her gaze met his, and she could see the brilliant sensual sheen in his green eyes, could sense his vibrant longing.
And she was lost in that gaze, her body losing its shape and identity in some way as she felt herself slipping into a half world, where the physical objects around her seemed to lose their solidity. She was aware now only of herself and of this man whose heat she could feel, whose scent filled her nostrils with a musky male odor of arousal.
Greedily she took his mouth with her own, tasting wine and cloves as her tongue danced against his. His arms were around her, holding her tightly against him, as if he would imprint her upon his body. He felt her nipples press hard against his shirt, the sharp bones of her hips pushing against him, and his penis rose strongly against her belly. She gasped a little and slid her hand down between them to rub the jutting flesh. And he groaned, sucking on her lower lip, sliding his own hands around her body to grasp her bottom, his fingers squeezing and kneading the firm round curves that clenched tightly against his hands.
He drew his head back, looked at her, at her swollen, kiss-reddened lips, her flushed cheeks, and the passion-filled eyes. “Take this off,” he said, and although his voice was barely above a whisper, the demand was harshly urgent. He fumbled with the buttons of her nightgown, and she drew away, pulling the garment over her head and tossing it to the floor.
Naked she stood in front of him, her eyes hooded, her breasts moving swiftly with her rapid breath. And her smile held the familiar challenge mixed now with a deep lustful self-awareness. She passed her hands over her own body, as if offering herself to him.
He reached for her, cupping her breasts in his palms. He bent his head to kiss the full curves, running his tongue over the sweet flesh. He hadn’t expected such fullness. Her height had masked the rich swell. His tongue detected tiny ridges in the smooth skin, the little silver marks left by the children she had carried. An unexpected tenderness flowed through him, for a moment dampening the urgency of ardor. He ran his tongue into the deep cleft, lightly touched the nipples in a moist caress, moved his tongue up to the hollow of her throat even as he cupped her breasts in his hands.
Her head fell back, offering him the white column, and he licked upwards under her chin and was rewarded with a tiny laugh of protest at the tickling sensation. He lifted his head and smiled into her face. “You are exquisite,” he said.
The simple declaration gave her immense pleasure. “Take off your clothes,” she said. “I would see you too.”
He nodded, kicking off his shoes. He shrugged out of his black coat before beginning to unbutton his dark shirt.
Cornelia watched, gazing avidly as his body was revealed. It was an athlete’s body, but that she had expected. Slim and wiry, the muscles in arms and shoulders defined but not obvious. Her fingers itched to help him with the buttons of his britches, but she held herself still, her hands lightly clenched against her bare thighs, as he pushed the garment off his hips.
A concave belly, slim hips, long lean thighs. Once again her tongue touched her lips as she took in the upstanding promise of his penis. She reached for it, enclosing the shaft in her hand, feeling the blood pulsing in the ridged veins. Her eyes lifted to his with a distinct hint of lascivious mischief in them.
“Does it please you, madam?” he asked lightly, responding to this change.
“I believe it does, sir, but I’d like to be sure,” she returned with a demure smile. “Perhaps it’s time for a demonstration.”
He laughed softly. “Oh, have a care what you wish for, my lady.” With a swift dip, he swept her up into his arms and carried her to the bed, dumping her unceremoniously in the middle. He stood over her, still laughing, and she reached up for him.
“Let me take my stockings off,” he protested, stepping back. “There’s something distinctly unromantic about making love in one’s stockings.”
He turned his back, bending to pull off his stockings, and Cornelia gazed at the curve of his spine, the column of dark hair running down between his taut buttocks, at the heavy hang of his balls.
She rolled onto her side and stretched out a hand to touch his backside. He straightened up a little but otherwise didn’t move, letting her explore at will. She slipped her hand between his thighs to cup his balls, pressing her finger against the shaft of his penis where it sprang from his body.
He inhaled sharply. “Enough now.” He turned around and came down on the bed beside her. He stroked a lock of hair from her forehead, murmuring, “I want this to last, Nell.”
She smiled, a slow, languorous smile, and reached for him again. “We have all night. I want you now.” Even as she spoke them, the words asto
nished her. Before this night she could never have imagined herself making such a direct and uninhibited statement of desire.
Harry swung himself over her. He was at the very edge of his own control now; her scent enveloped him in a heady mix of lust and cleanliness, arousal, rosewater, and soap. He slid his hands beneath her bottom, lifting her to meet him as she raised her hips and pressed forward with her own urgency. He thrust deep within her, felt her close around him, her body tight, warm, and welcoming.
Cornelia closed her eyes, realizing how much she had missed this simple sensation of holding her man inside her, then her eyes shot open as the sensation changed, became something she had not missed because she had not experienced it before. She felt his penis pressing hard against her womb, her inner muscles contracted, her body was slippery and her belly was tight, a spiral of tension that locked her thighs and buttocks, sent waves of sensation through her. She stared up at him as the tension built, the spiral tightened, then it burst, and she opened her mouth.
Harry silenced her cry with his mouth, holding himself still as her climax wracked her, and then while the convulsive movements of her inner muscles continued, he moved within her, increasing his rhythm until he felt her rocked again with sensation. He kept his mouth on hers and let himself go. The wave rocked him as it crashed over Cornelia, and at last he fell forward, beached upon her, as the wave receded.
It seemed many minutes before she moved. Her hand stroked down his back, and she shifted her body in gentle protest at the weight of him. He groaned softly and rolled sideways to lie beside her. He touched the curve of her cheek.
“You have unmanned me, sweetheart,” he murmured, kissing her ear. “I had expected to enjoy myself, but not to be so transported.”
Cornelia smiled and turned her head on the pillow to look at him. She didn’t say that she had never experienced anything quite so wonderful as the last few minutes, but her smile told him all he needed to know. Her eyes glowed with fulfillment and the residue of passion, her body gleamed with a faint sheen of sweat, her complexion was translucently radiant.