by Jane Feather
“Stratton Street?” Alex exclaimed as the carriage started moving more quickly. “Where’s that? What is there?”
“My house,” he responded. “We are going somewhere completely private where we may establish some rules for the next stage of our play.”
“But I wish to go home.” She moved swiftly back to the seat opposite.
“And where is home?”
“Berkeley Square,” she said with all the confidence of the truth teller. It had certainly been the truth not so long ago.
“Well, be that as it may, we are going now to my home, where I can guarantee no one will disturb us. When we have had our talk, I will take you home.”
“So, you are abducting me?” she inquired.
“Don’t be absurd.”
“Not everyone would consider it absurd.”
“Anyone who knew you would know it to be so,” he retorted. “No one in their right minds would attempt to force something on you, Mistress Alexandra. And believe me, I am in my right mind.”
Alex couldn’t help herself. She felt her mouth curve and a little bubble of laughter building in her chest. Her earlier fatigue had vanished. What could it possibly matter if Mistress Player went to a single gentleman’s house unchaperoned in the middle of the night? Mistress Player did not exist for anyone from her real world. A frisson of excitement coursed through her, and she felt her heart beat a little quicker.
“Stratton Street, yer ’onor,” the jarvey called down as he drew up on the quiet street.
Perry jumped down and handed a coin up to the driver. He helped Alexandra to the street. She looked around with interest. For the most part, the single-fronted town houses lining the street on either side showed no lights in their front windows, but the starlight was bright enough to take note of their honed steps, well-polished brass railings and knockers, and well-tended window boxes. It was clearly an affluent street, but then, she would not have expected anything else from her companion, who was fitting a key into the lock of one of the anonymous front doors.
“Come in, Mistress Player.” He held the door open, sweeping her inside with an encircling arm.
She stepped into a narrow hall, with a staircase rising from the rear. A single candle burned on a table beside the front door.
Peregrine opened a door to the left of the hall. “Pray, come into my parlor, ma’am.”
She walked past him into a small sitting room, lit only by the glow of a fire burning in the grate. A fresh scuttle of coals stood on the hearth beside it. Peregrine took a taper from a wooden box and lit it at the fire. He lit the two-branched candlestick on the mantel and carried the taper to another on the sideboard. Golden light flared, showing the room to be as comfortable as it felt. The curtains were drawn at the windows, the cushions were plumped, and a covered tray stood on a sideboard beside a punch bowl and glasses.
“What a pleasant room.” She wanted to laugh at how easy it was to make polite conversation in a situation that was the antithesis of polite convention.
“We think so,” Perry said, taking her gloves and cloak. “Sit down, and I’ll make us a brandy punch.” He went to the sideboard and uncovered the tray. “Good, we have oranges and lemons, cinnamon and nutmeg.”
“If I drink punch, I will not be able to move,” Alexandra protested, taking a seat in the corner of a sofa.
Peregrine raised an eyebrow. “We’ll take our chances on that.” He leaned over and poked the fire into a renewed blaze, setting a kettle of water on the trivet, before beginning to mix his ingredients in the silver punch bowl.
Alex watched, feeling the warmth of the fire seep into her bones, almost as powerful as the deep sense of release she felt in this small private haven where she could let the strain of the charade slide from her.
“We? Do you share this house with your brother?”
“Yes, usually. But he and his wife are on the Continent taking an extended honeymoon.” He poured hot water into the punch bowl and stirred with the ladle, tasting before adjusting the spices and adding more brandy. “There, now. See what you think of that.” He ladled the steaming, fragrant liquid into a goblet and brought it over to her. Then he fetched one for himself and sat beside her on the sofa.
“So, Alexandra, let me go through the few actual facts about you that I know are true.”
“Please, don’t,” she said softly.
He turned his head along the back of the sofa, looking at her profile. The relaxation he had seen a moment before was now replaced by a look of distress, a tautness to her jaw, and he realized that, however angry she made him, he was not capable of doing anything that would cause her pain.
He sipped his punch and set down his goblet. “Let us see if we can reach another kind of truth, then.” He took her goblet from her suddenly slackened grip and placed it down beside his own. He caught her chin and turned her face towards his. “Let us see what this will tell me.” It was such a soft murmur that she barely heard his words, but when his mouth came down on hers, she knew she had been expecting it from the moment he had told the jarvey to drive to Stratton Street. And she knew, too, that she had been wanting it from long before that moment.
Her mouth opened beneath the insistent pressure of his lips and the delicious sensation of his tongue, sweet with brandy and spice, moving around her mouth, dancing with her own tongue, transporting her to a different place, so that she seemed to inhabit only the warm, glowing place behind her closed eyes. His fingers plucked at the fichu at her neck, and she felt his hand slide inside her bodice, the fingers delicately moving over the upper swell of her breasts as his tongue, hot and muscular, continued its exploration of her mouth. She felt as if she were losing herself, losing the last ties to the hard lines of the real world, and it was the most wonderful feeling.
The crowns of her breasts hardened against the fine silk of her chemise as his fingers moved lower, finding the nipples, circling them with delicate fingertips. There was a strange, quivering weakness in her lower belly, even as her thighs tightened involuntarily under a wave of pure sensual urgency.
His hand lifted from her breast, leaving her feeling momentarily bereft, but then it was sliding beneath her skirt, his flattened palm moving up over her calf, stroking her silk-clad knee, moving upwards across her thighs.
Her belly tightened with a mixture of alarm and desire. She wanted those fingers to continue their magic, moving ever upwards, closer to her center, and yet she was terrified of what would happen if they did. She felt she was losing control, and yet the feeling was wonderful. Her body shifted against the cushions as he moved above her and over her. Somehow, she was now lying full length on the sofa, her head propped against the arm, and his body was long against hers. She could feel the hard line of his thighs against her own and the urgent jut of his penis pressing into her belly.
A little moan escaped her, a mere breath against his mouth, which was still on hers, and she tried feebly to slide out from under him, but there was no conviction in her efforts. Perry raised his head, leaving his hand where it was. “Must I stop?” His voice was soft, but his eyes burned.
Alex shook her head, murmured, “Yes . . . no . . . I don’t know.” She shifted beneath him, her hips lifting without volition. She reached a hand up to his face and lifted her own head to meet his lips again. She didn’t want him to stop. On the periphery of her rational mind, which seemed to be taking a holiday, she knew exactly what was going to happen, and she knew that she wanted it. It seemed inevitable, something she could not prevent even if she wished to. Her hands went to his backside, pressing into the hard-muscled contours with a surge of wicked delight. She pushed her hand up under his shirt, reveling in the feel of his skin, hot to her touch.
He pressed his lips to the fast-beating pulse in the hollow of her throat, inhaling her scent, before moving his lips down to the cleft of her breasts. His tongue moistened the heated valley before he lifted his face and with impatient fingers unlaced her bodice, revealing the creamy softness of h
er breasts. His tongue stroked the hard, erect nipples, lifting them for his kiss.
Alex slid her hand around his body to his belly beneath his shirt and felt with a little shock the moist tip of his penis pressing upwards. He pushed his hips up so that she could slide her hand down farther, enclosing the pulsing shaft in her palm against the constraint of his breeches.
Peregrine took his mouth from her breast and pushed back onto his heels, shrugging out of his coat. “This won’t do. ’Tis most inelegant.” Swiftly, he unlaced his breeches and as swiftly lifted Alex against him, pushing her gown off her shoulders, then easing it over her hips, tossing it to the floor. Her petticoat followed and then her chemise, and when finally she lay white and soft, naked in the candlelight except for her silk stockings and garters, he stroked down the length of her body with both hands, her breasts, the indentation of her waist, the dip of her navel, the creamy length of her thighs.
She lifted her own hands to the buttons of his shirt, her fingers fumbling a little in their haste, but it was done at last, and she passed her hands over his chest, through the dusting of silky fair hair, touching the dark nipples. A line of darker hair ran from his navel down into the luxuriant mass at the apex of his thighs, from which rose the hooded shaft of his sex.
She raised her eyes to his and saw the naked lust in their bright depths and knew it was mirrored in her own. Finally, she gave up the fight and yielded to the turbulent muddle of sensations, of wanting, of fearing, of needing, which had plagued her since his first kiss. “Now?” she asked. “Should it be now?”
He smiled and touched her red and swollen lips with his fingertips. “I would wish it to be now.”
She let her head fall back on the arm of the sofa again in tacit invitation. Peregrine lightly slid a hand between her thighs and touched the hot, damp center of her body. She moaned softly, and her hips lifted instinctively. He rubbed the erect little nub of flesh, slipping a finger of his free hand within her. She made a soft, almost protesting sound as he moved deeper, but her body moistened around his exploring finger, and when he felt that she was ready, her body poised on the brink, he moved his hand, slid both hands under her bottom, and lifted her as he entered her in one deep thrust, tearing the thin membrane of her virginity so swiftly that she felt only an instant of pain, and her already prepared body opened to encase him.
He moved rhythmically within her, watching her face. Her eyes were closed, her lips slightly parted. When he could hold back his own need no longer, he increased his speed, and her eyes flew open. She looked, unflinching, up at him as his climax engulfed him. He disengaged from her the instant before he was lost and gathered her against him, holding her tightly until the paroxysms of fulfillment finally ceased.
He let her fall back onto the sofa and slid sideways down beside her, brushing a damp strand of chestnut hair from her cheek. Alexandra let her hand rest on his turned hip for a moment and then said, “I feel I missed something. But I don’t know what.”
Perry laughed weakly. “My sweet, you came very close, amazingly close for a first time. Next time, I promise, I will take you with me all the way.”
She wriggled up against the seat arm until she was half sitting and his head was resting on her bosom, and said conversationally, “I would certainly like to do that again, and do it even better next time.”
Perry laughed again and sat up beside her. “You are the most extraordinary creature, Alexandra.” He turned her face again to look into her eyes, and his expression now was deeply serious. “But tell me the truth, do you have any regrets? Any at all?”
“No, not a single one.” The answer was immediate. She didn’t have a single iota of regret. If someone had told her that morning that she would happily end the day a deflowered virgin, she would never have believed them, but in some strange way, all the turmoil of her life was for the moment straightened out. It was as if some deity had passed a hand over a tumultuous whirlpool and smoothed the violent waters into a placid pool.
Perry nodded. “Well, that is one truth I do not doubt. Shall we go to bed?”
“Where?”
“I have a very comfortable bed upstairs. I’ll take you back to Berkeley Square after breakfast.”
And there was no one to know or to care what she did at present. She was her own mistress, sailing her own ship. And it was the most wonderful feeling in the world.
“I have no nightgown,” she demurred.
“You’ll have no need of one,” he responded, pulling her to her feet. “You’ll have me to keep you warm in a good feather bed.”
And much later, in the depths of that good feather bed, Alexandra understood what it was that she had missed earlier.
Chapter Thirteen
Alexandra awoke from a deep sleep that had been filled with strange but delightful dreams. As she lay in the warm hollow of the deep feather bed, her befuddled mind assumed that she was still on the road from Combe Abbey to London. She blinked up at the unfamiliar tester, wondering which hostelry she was in.
And then the mists of sleep cleared. Those had been no dreams. Her body told her so. She passed her hands over her nakedness, smiling to herself with what she was sure must be a fatuous smile of satisfaction. Indolently, she turned her head on the pillow, but the one beside her was empty. She stretched a leg across the bed, and the other side was cold.
Where is Peregrine? Had he abandoned her, awoken, got up, and left her to go about his daily business as if she were no more than a whore he’d hired for the night? Perhaps he’d left money on the dresser?
Her sense of well-being fled. She struggled up against the pillows and looked towards the dresser, half expecting to see a handful of coins there. There was none, only the painted jug and ewer she remembered. The fire was burning, so someone had put fresh coals on, and the curtains were drawn back, letting in a pale sun. She swung her legs over the side of the bed and sat groggily looking around. Her clothes were neatly laid across the bench at the end of the bed.
The door opened. “Ah, you’re awake at last. I thought you were going to sleep the morning away.” Peregrine’s cheerful voice preceded his entrance with a laden tray. “I have brought you breakfast. I thought you might prefer the privacy of the bedchamber. Besides, Mistress Croft is putting the parlor to rights, and ’tis all lost under clouds of dust.” He set his tray on a leather ottoman in front of the fire and came over to the bed, smiling. But his smile faded as he looked at her.
“Whatever is the matter, my dear? You look stricken.”
She shook her head, trying to smile. “I thought . . . oh, I woke up, and you weren’t here, and I thought you’d just left me.”
He folded his arms and looked at her with a degree of exasperation. “Now, what on earth have I ever done to make you think I would do that? ’Tis a monstrous insult, Alexandra.”
“Forgive me.” She held out her hands to him. “I was sleeping so deeply, and when I awoke, I thought I had dreamt everything, and then, when I realized I hadn’t and you weren’t here . . . oh, ’tis so hard to explain.”
He took her hands and bent to kiss the corner of her mouth. That little speech had told him more than she had ever told him intentionally. It revealed the loneliness and the fear in a way that he had only sensed before. She was abandoned. Someone had left her to fend for herself and, if his instincts were right, for her sister, too. But who, and why?
“You’re forgiven,” he said easily. “Now, come to the fire and break your fast.” He went to the linen press and took out a nightshirt. “Put this on; it should cover you adequately.” He tossed it into her lap and turned back to the breakfast tray, sensing her need to gather herself together without scrutiny.
Alex dropped the nightshirt over her head and thrust her arms into the sleeves. She stood up, letting the folds fall around her to her ankles. She rolled up the ruffled sleeves as far as her elbows and flicked the collar straight. “I think I’m respectable,” she said rather doubtfully as she came to the fire. The ease with whic
h he’d accepted her garbled explanation had reassured her, and yet she had the feeling that it hadn’t really satisfied him.
“Oh, eminently respectable,” he agreed, pouring coffee. “We have a fricassee of kidneys and mushrooms and fried eggs.” He gestured to the dishes on the tray.
Alexandra sat on the rug in front of the ottoman and sniffed hungrily. “I could eat an ox.” She spooned the fricassee onto her platter and slid an egg on top, then took up her fork.
He smiled and helped himself. “So, what are your plans for today?”
Alex, her mouth full, glanced up at the clock on the dresser. Her eyes widened, and she swallowed her mouthful. “ ’Tis already ten o’clock.”
“Yes, I told you I was afraid you were going to sleep the morning away.”
How was she to explain to the caretakers in Berkeley Square why she had not come home last night? And then she thought, why did she need to? It was no business of theirs what the visitor did.
Perry watched her face with amused understanding. She had lived for so long in fear of being found out, and now she was beginning to see that, for the moment at least, she had no need for such fear. “So?” he prompted. “What are your plans?”
Alex took another forkful of kidneys and mushrooms. “Correspondence,” she said. “I must send out some letters about the collection to some people who might be interested.”
He nodded. “How long will that take you?”
“I’m not sure. Why?”
“Only that I was thinking we might take a ride in the park a little later.”
“I don’t have a horse or a riding habit,” she pointed out.
“Hiring horses is no problem. As for a riding habit, you presumably still have those breeches. Just wear those underneath your regular gown.” He buttered a piece of toasted bread.
“Where would we ride?”
“Well, ’tis customary for Society folk to take the air in Hyde Park in the late afternoon.”