Scarlet Devices

by Delphine Dryden

  Matthew had the daguerrotype of Phineas in his naval uniform in a protective glassine envelope, and he’d been dutifully showing it to all and sundry whenever he stopped. Nobody had seen the young man, of course. He wondered if Phineas was even recognizable as the man in the picture any more. The last time Matthew had seen him, he’d dropped an alarming amount of weight, his hair was unkempt and his face unshaven. But it was the blank, uncaring stare that changed his aspect so much from the bright, enthusiastic young man he’d once been. Before the opium. The drug had stolen his soul, Matthew thought. Barnabas was convinced otherwise.

  “It’s only been a year since he lost touch. The last he heard, Phineas was headed for the Dominions. I think Barnabas didn’t realize how big it is here, until he arrived. Back in London it didn’t seem so hopeless. But if it were one of your brothers, would you give up looking?”

  “Depends which brother we’re talking about. I have several I wouldn’t spare a piss for if they were on fire,” Whitcombe quipped. “I take your point, however. If you have another copy of that thing I’ll spend some time flashing it about, wherever I wind up when I’m through with the rally.”

  “San Francisco?”

  “We all know I won’t make it that far. It’s not like I could pack a cargo dirigible, and that’s what it would take to lug my arse over the mountains in any reasonable amount of time. I’ll be lucky to make it to Salt Lake by the time the rest of you are boarding the cruise vessel for the ride home.”

  The season and circumstances making salad impracticable, Moreau had opted for lightly sautéed haricots verts with a hint of garlic, followed by more cheese. And more wine, so much wine. Matthew watched Eliza across the fire, the heat making an indistinct ripple of her face. She looked like something from a dream, hazy and unreachable. He passed the bottle along the next time one made its way around the company, sensing that he was already nearing the point of inevitable regret where alcohol was concerned. Eliza had been wiser, taking only a small splash of each offering, but she still looked affected.

  She had earned a little forgetfulness. They all had, that day. But Matthew didn’t think Moreau had earned the right to leer at Eliza’s mouth as she forked in a dainty mouthful of vegetables with obvious enjoyment. He narrowed his eyes at the scene, catching Eliza’s glare in return. She stabbed a single green bean with her utensil and, holding his attention, bared her pearly teeth. Then she bit the bean in two with a single neat snap.

  TEN

  ELIZA COULDN’T HELP but snicker at Matthew’s expression when she emasculated her bean at him. She’d been sorely tempted to stick out her tongue. Unkind perhaps, but she was tired of seeing him frown at her when she hadn’t done anything to deserve censure. She’d had more than enough of that lately. Besides, the dinner was worth enjoying, and little else that day had been cause for happiness. Moreau had earned a smile or two at the very least.

  It might have been the wine, but Eliza had a sense of well-being and belonging in the racers’ camp that night and didn’t want it spoiled. Mostly, she wanted to do something, anything, to put the day’s events out of mind. Eating delicious food, drinking excellent wine, these things helped.

  Dessert seemed likely to help as well.

  “Clafoutis?” asked Madame Barsteau, eyeing the pans Moreau produced next. “Comment confortable.”

  “I thought it appropriate,” he replied.

  Over the cherry-filled cake, Moreau served a heavy hazelnut cream. Eliza thought of her corset, her costume choices for the morrow, and ate a large helping anyway. Matthew glared at her again when she separated a piece of fruit from its pastry mortar and ate it by itself, dredging it first in cream. Tipsy, irritated, she repeated the act and watched, fascinated, as his eyes glazed over.

  That was not entirely a look of disapproval.

  Interesting as it was to toy with her food and Matthew at the same time, Eliza knew she should retire soon. She’d overindulged in both despair and alcohol, and her only hope of not being miserable tomorrow was to sleep off the wine and tears.

  She wasn’t surprised, however, when sleep evaded her. Even removing her constricting stays and donning a night rail gave her none of the usual pleasure and ease. Muscles tight, heart heavy, she lay on her cot and tried to clear her mind, but nothing would erase the picture of smoldering rubble, the smell, the glimpse into the hellish pit where two of her colleagues had died.

  The only respite was no relief at all—those moments when her mind instead recalled the slap of the placard against her window, the cruel shunning by the ladies of the Temperance Society, even the way Barnabas Smith-Grenville had slumped to the ground.

  The night was cooling, but the air in the tent was stagnant and stifling. Giving up on her attempt to sleep, Eliza decided on a walk instead. Perhaps the clear air would clear her mind as well. Donning her slippers and poking her head out of the tent flap, she scanned the campsite. The fire was nearly gone, down to embers that did nothing to illuminate the clearing. Across the encampment, Miss Davis sat in front of her tent, smoking a cigarette, staring into the night. None of the others appeared to be out and about.

  Taking a chance, Eliza stepped out and slipped into the woods, treading carefully until she was certain she was far enough from the camp not to draw attention.

  She knew the oaks and hickories, but couldn’t begin to name all the other trees she passed in the moonlight. Nor did she recognize the creatures making up that evening’s symphony, only that the noises were similar to those she was used to at home but different enough to sound new at the same time. The drive, the meal, the tent, the rituals of bedtime, those were all experiences she’d had, to one extent or another. But this—the night air against her barely covered skin, the freedom of walking outside without the constrictions of her usual garments, the forest full of things neither she nor anyone in her family had seen or heard before—this was new, truly new to her. And it made her feel new, full of potential.

  A world of possibility rose in her mind, taking the place of the day’s horrors. Twigs and other forest debris crackled under the glove-soft kid of her slippers, and the smell of old wood, rich loam and spring leaves rose around her. Old, but also new. And this was only one forest, in one Dominion not so very far from home. What else might she find if she continued looking? Other forests, other landscapes, other people. Other worlds. How could she have planned to stay in New York when there was all this and more waiting for her to discover it?

  Another sound registered, setting Eliza on alert. A heavy tread on the forest floor, somewhere close by.

  “Who’s there?” she whispered, cursing herself for her foolishness. It could be anything. A reporter hoping to find some sort of scoop on the racers. A local farmboy bent on mischief or worse. A wolf, a bear. And she had pranced forth into this wilderness to enjoy the night without so much as a good solid stick to swing in her own defense.

  Easy enough to remedy. The woods were full of sticks. She grabbed the nearest fallen branch of appropriate size, hoping there were no spiders or other nasty crawlies on it.

  “Who goes there?” she called, more confident now that she had her stick.

  “It’s only me.”

  “Oh, for—” Flinging the branch down, she brushed her hands clean then braced them on her hips. “Honestly, this is ridiculous. You stare daggers at me all night for enjoying my food, then follow me out here? Why, to scold me or to rescue me? I don’t want rescuing, Matthew. A girl simply needs a few moments of privacy on occasion.”

  “Who says I followed you out here to rescue you?” Matthew stepped closer, his eyes unreadable in the twilight gloom. Eliza could see his mouth curving up, a secret smile that made her want to touch his lips. Pushing the thought firmly aside, she folded her arms and stared him down.

  “What then? Raccoon hunting? Planning a midnight swim? There are large predators in these woods, you know, you really ought to be more care
ful.”

  He took another step, bringing him within inches of her, and Eliza’s plan to stand her ground fell apart. She backed up two steps, then a large tree stopped her retreat. Her heart raced as Matthew pressed the advantage, closing the distance and bracing his hands on either side of her shoulders.

  “I’m the large predator.”

  A hot thrill swirled through her body, tingling its way through every forbidden zone.

  “You’ve had too much wine.”

  “So have you. But it was good wine.”

  “I’m your prey, then, am I? Are you planning to de-vour me?”

  He was close enough now for her to see the gleam of dark humor and heightened desire that altered his expression, to grasp that she’d said something inappropriate. Eliza felt a flush that had nothing to do with shame. She wondered what she’d said, to make him react that way.

  “I might, at that. I’ll bet you’re delicious. My God, and you’re all but naked. Eliza, tell me to go away.”

  Oh, inches now. She could feel his breath, warmer than the cooling night breeze against her face. Sweetened by wine and pastry, tempting beyond hope of reason. She didn’t wish him away any more than he wanted to go.

  He whispered it again. “Tell me to go away.”

  But his lips were already brushing hers, stealing away the last of her sense and replacing it with sensation. Soft breath, soft lips and the harsh counterpoint of his day’s growth of stubble. Eliza shivered, and the heat inside her flared, unexpected and unsettling.

  When Matthew’s tongue swept between her lips, she gasped at the novel feeling, the sweetness of the invasion. It was gentle only for a moment, until she ventured to return the gesture. Something seemed to break inside him then and his kiss turned into an explicit assault, while he pinned her to the rough bark of the tree with his lean body.

  Eliza knew how the sexual act was performed, the various parts that came into play, even the definitive feat of male hydraulics at the end. She’d seen a mare covered by a stallion, several incidents of cattle mating, and once—to her mother’s eternal horror—an extended session between one of her father’s foxhounds and a delicate spaniel bitch, on the lawn during a formal garden party. Neither those illuminating observations, nor her two previous kisses with bold young men at parties, nor her one experimental Sapphic interlude while away at University, had prepared Eliza for the swell of emotional and physical response to Matthew’s attentions. She simply hadn’t realized his tongue sweeping over hers would cause her heart to palpitate that way, or that his hands . . .

  Oh. Oh. He pulled her closer with one hand at the small of her back, but with the other he drew a teasing line from her waist upward, coming to rest with his thumb and index finger bracketing one of her breasts. Her nipple swelled, knotting itself into a keen point of anticipation beneath the barely adequate covering of her night rail. Thin, impractical cotton lawn that might as well be transparent for all the good it did to conceal her response to him.

  She didn’t want to conceal it. This was a night for her to embrace new things, and this was the most wonderful new thing yet. She wanted Matthew to do more, more things she could react to, more magical conjuring of these fantastic urges from her body that had previously been so predictable to her. His touch seemed to turn her into a different creature, a wild and impetuous beast, and she wanted to rampage into the night and do every shameless thing she could with him.

  He tasted of wine again tonight, still sweet but with a souring bite, and of hazelnut cream and of something that made her suspect she wouldn’t care if he’d just eaten a handful of scallions—she’d still want to keep kissing him. Neither of the other boys nor the girl had tasted so good, felt so good, and now Matthew’s hand was slipping up again, crumpling delicate fabric against skin.

  Eliza arched into his touch, a moan escaping her lips for the first time since they’d started. Two fingers on her nipple, an exploratory tug, were apparently enough to turn Eliza into a wanton. She let her head fall back, thunk, against the tree, not caring about the flash of pain on her skull when it was followed so closely by a jolt of pleasure everywhere else.

  “God, more,” she whispered, and cried out again as Matthew lowered his head and pressed his lips to the tender crest of skin above the neckline of the gown. A neckline that was sliding lower, she realized with a start. He’d undone a few buttons and pulled the fabric down and away on one side, freeing one of her breasts. Before she could protest—not that she planned to—his lips captured her nipple. Kissing and, for the love of God, sucking the peak, which Eliza would swear was directly attached to that sweetly aching spot between her legs.

  Seeking pressure, relief, Eliza hooked one leg around Matthew’s, tucking her foot behind his knee and then his hip to bring them even closer. She recognized the hard ridge against her lower belly and instinctively angled herself to rub up against it, a firm touch against that needy, swollen place that seemed to demand all her attention. He helped, hitching her higher with strong hands that lingered afterward. His fingers curved, roamed, following the contours of her buttocks in a sensual sweep.

  “I was only planning to talk to you,” he murmured the next time his mouth pulled free, as though it made any difference now what he’d planned. The night air cooled the dampness on her skin, then his breath heated it again, keeping her focused on the warring sensations. When he spoke, his evening stubble rasped against her bosom. “I wanted to tell you I’ve grown very . . . fond of you.”

  “Fond?”

  “Very fond.”

  “I see.”

  “I thought you should know. But this wasn’t how I envisioned the conversation proceeding.” He straightened up, eyes closed, breathing far too rapidly.

  Eliza tried an experimental sway of her hips into him, increasing the pressure between them, and found Matthew’s answering hiss and counter-push quite rewarding. He was no predator, but she thought she might turn him into one if she tried. For the moment, the power was hers. To frustrate or sate. To deny or to grant. Eliza was inclined to grant.

  “The only problem I have with this conversation is that there’s far too much conversing in it.”

  “It’s normal to reach out after a shock, I suppose. After a death. A physical connection reminds us we’re still alive. But I . . . I’m—what are—ohhh.”

  Fair was fair. He’d unbuttoned her, so she unbuttoned him. And sucked on his nipple, again in accordance with the principle of fairness. But in keeping with the evening’s theme of novelty, she’d added a hint of biting, and he seemed to appreciate the innovation.

  “Where did you learn to do that?”

  “You just did it to me.”

  “Well yes, but not exact—aaahhhh God yes but stop, better stop now, that’s quite enough.”

  To Eliza’s great indignation, he stiff-armed her, gently but implacably separating their bodies and keeping them apart by holding her away at the shoulders.

  “Did I hurt you?”

  “No,” he squeaked.

  “I just wanted to feel it. It was right there, I could hardly go on ignoring it.” Even through the fabric of his trousers it had been firm and hot in her hand, a thick muscular length that seemed to pulse with a life of its own. She would have liked to investigate more closely.

  “Mm-hmm.” His eyes were squeezed shut, and so were his lips. He looked like he was trying to keep from exploding.

  “Though one is always expected to,” she allowed. “Ignore it, I mean. We all know, but young ladies are supposed to pretend they don’t. Which is rather stupid, isn’t it? Pretend we don’t notice that, even when it’s all . . . how it gets. And pretend we aren’t in the least curious, when of course we are.” She was prattling because she was flustered, and she knew that but still couldn’t make herself stop. “I’m sure you are too. Not about that, I mean, about . . . although perhaps you’re not still curious, becau
se I’m sure you’ve taken the trouble to find out, as young men seem to have no shortage of opportunities to—”

  “If I kiss you again will you stop talking about it?” He sounded quite desperate. No doubt this conversation too was failing to play out as he’d foreseen.

  “I hope so. God, I hope so.”

  It was a kindness. Yes, a kindness he did her by covering her mouth with his and stealing her breath away with an exquisite, velvety roll of his tongue. That kiss was downright philanthropic. It deserved her honest effort in return, and she gave it, clutching Matthew’s back to pull him close again and echoing everything he did with his mouth. In no time at all, he had her pressed against the tree again.

  Her nightwear seemed to fascinate him. He couldn’t keep his hands off the filmy stuff, couldn’t seem to help sliding it over her skin and reminding her that she was wearing nothing under it. When he finally came up for air, he had most of her skirts bunched in his fists, exposing her legs up to mid-thigh.

  Eliza’s mind held only one thought: Keep going, keep going, keep going.

  With obviously superhuman determination, Matthew stopped. When he let the fine fabric drop, Eliza wanted to pound something in frustration. His chest was closest, so she gave it a firm tap with her closed fist.

  “Ouch, what was that for?”

  “You’re an awful tease, Matthew.”

  “Pardon?”

  “Why did you stop?” It had just been getting interesting. Now Eliza felt all out of sorts, worked up and more tense than when she’d started her walk. The point of which had been to relax. Her gown had fallen back into place, more or less, but was sticking to her in various damp places, increasing her feeling of edginess. Sighing, she tugged the garment to rights and refastened a few buttons.

  Matthew stepped back, grimacing at the evident discomfort of his currently too tight trousers. “If I hadn’t stopped, I would have . . . kept going.”