She raised their hands and placed his hand against her chest, over her heart. Her skin was warm as a stone left sitting in the summer sun but as yielding as a ripe peach. Henry froze, struggling to maintain restraint as his mind was suddenly flooded with images of Arabella underneath him, astride him, beside him.
She stretched out her hand, mirroring the placement of his, and pushed gently until he backed into the large bed.
“Do not be afraid.” Her voice was both playful and soothing. She did not take her eyes from his.
Without a word, her hands moved over his chest and shoulders, his coat falling away effortlessly. Not knowing what to do with his own hands while hers slid his shirt out of his breeches and off his body, he tried to ignore the demands of his body and quickly inventoried the room. Oil paintings of the countryside. Rich tapestries on the walls. Thick curtains covering the windows. A short row of plush chairs lined a wall opposite the bed, all facing towards the behemoth. Henry wondered what had occurred on the bed that would require—or allow—an audience. His breathing quickened at the thought and the sudden rush of air, below his waist, as Arabella unfastened and lowered his breeches.
Gently, she pushed him down into the bedding, his lower legs dangling over the edge so she could remove his boots and relieve him of his breeches. He closed his eyes tightly, trying not to think how he had never felt so exposed, and aroused, and terrified in his whole life.
A light pressure on the bed near his knees drew his eyes open. Arabella, her gown gone, kneeled on the edge of the bed, one arm wrapped around the thick post. Her skin glowed golden in the firelight, her hair a cascade of molten bronze.
“May I join you?”
His mouth was dry, his tongue thick. Miraculously, he was able to reply with an unwavering voice. “I think I’d like that.”
Arabella crawled slowly towards him, smiling like a cat tracking her unsuspecting prey.
He reached for her as she settled herself between his legs. Still smiling from above, she pushed him back with one hand. “No. You stay there. And keep your hands to yourself.”
His eyes remained spellbound as she took him in hand. He pressed his head back into the bed, balling his fists into the sheets. It was an exquisite torture to have her touching him—he wanted to feel the rest of her against him, from her small breasts to her shapely calves, but the pleasure kept him compliant.
Henry panicked as he felt familiar sensations coiling, eager for release and reluctant for the evening to be over so soon.
“Sssshh,” she whispered in his ear, stroking his hair. “Sssshh now, and let the urge pass.”
He squeezed his eyes shut again and willed the tension in his loins to ease, begging the pressure that had nearly erupted to quiet. After a few moments, he was able to breathe evenly again.
“There you are, sweet,” she crooned softly, smiling against his neck. Her kisses trailed down his chest and he beheld her bronze curls sweep across his thighs; the erotic vision increasing his pleasure beyond anything he had imagined.
“Arabella, please,” he gasped. He was unsure if he was asking her to stop or continue.
“You can do this all night, my Henry. This building and pausing.”
“No, I don’t think—”
“To be a generous lover, you must learn how to please your lady before you find your own pleasure.”
He forced his breathing to slow. “I cannot bear much more.” Get a hold of yourself, man.
“I think you are capable of far more than you know, love.”
Master of himself again, he said, “Then show me.”
“What shall I show you?”
“I already know what pleases me. Show me how to please you.”
“As you wish”—and she took his face in her hands and kissed him deeply, breathing him in.
Henry allowed Arabella to place his hand upon her, to show him where and how to touch her. As rapture overtook her, she stilled above him and Henry drank in the satisfying sight of her ecstasy.
This is it. What it feels like to be a man. To have a woman come undone at your hands. Who could ever want for more?
No sooner than he completed his thought, Arabella began to move on top of him again and all notions were erased. She did not slow her pace as he pushed urgently into her. Suddenly, her body stiffened, her back arching as she cried out.
And then, “Arabella, I’m going to—”
“Yes, Henry, yes, now!” As if on command— At last! He pulled her down to his chest, laughing with the blissful rush. He rolled over on top of her and kissed her face over and over until she was laughing too.
“Show me more,” he said.
* * *
The next hours passed in a haze of delight that gave lie to his schoolmates’ crude tales. Arabella was skilled and patient, and Henry learned how to both give and receive pleasure graciously.
Near dawn, Henry was awakened by the admiral’s booming voice. “Come now, my boy. Time for home.”
Beside him, Arabella was awake, her hand stroking his hair. He dressed quickly though his uncle seemed in no particular rush. As Henry retrieved his belongings, he looked to the woman still abed. His uncle noticed and laughed affectionately. “She’ll not be going anywhere, Henry,” he said as he ushered his nephew into the hallway.
Over the next weeks, Henry frequently sought Arabella and spent long hours with her in the suite. On his third visit, he gifted her a delicate but intricate sapphire necklace. She wore it for every visit thereafter, and he came to think of that string of polished stones as representing a promise between them. When he was not with her, he was thinking about her. He would wake and kick the covers aside, recollecting the perfect arch of her back when she would stretch after their play. He would take tea and remember the dark fan of her lashes against her cheek as she sipped wine. He would bathe, spending more time than necessary in the warm water, recalling how she had moaned and whispered encouragements under him, her arms around his neck, ankles behind his knees.
Henry was aware his uncle paid close attention to his habits. Whenever Henry would mention Arabella, the admiral would quietly counsel Henry to turn his thoughts back to his studies. But Henry could not envision a future without the alluring beauty by his side—and not just ensconced in a sumptuous suite for the occasional evening.
“You returned home late last night,” the admiral commented over breakfast.
Henry fixed his eyes on the tea he was stirring. “Yes.” He had spent most of the evening with Arabella, leaving the brothel after midnight.
“You’ll be completing your studies soon, Henry. You will have a great estate to run and you’ll need to have a care for your future.”
Henry gathered the courage to assert himself. “Uncle, I am thinking of my future when I—”
The admiral raised a hand to stop Henry from continuing. “I know what this feels like, my boy. And I need you to trust me when I tell you this. It will pass.”
Henry could not conceive of what he felt for Arabella ever wavering, much less passing. His uncle must have perceived Henry’s stubbornness in his eyes.
“Every young man has a first love that makes him think the world exists only so that he may worship his lady. But every sensible man realizes he’s got to think with his head and not just his cock.”
“It’s not that, Uncle. It’s—”
“Isn’t it, lad?” The older man sighed. “It’s always the first one you lie with that ensnares you. What do you know of women, Henry?”
The two men faced off across the breakfast table, the older man weary but firm, the younger defiant but uncertain.
“You remember what I’ve always told you?”
Reluctantly, Henry answered. “Yes.” His uncle raised his eyebrows, prompting Henry to continue. “Never let a woman distract you.”
“Mmhmm. And you, my boy, are distracted.”
Henry poked restlessly at the eggs on his plate, admitting the admiral was right. He knew he had thoughts for little o
ther than the woman. He just could not see a way to move on with his life without her.
Again, the admiral seemed to discern the younger man’s thoughts and sighed heavily. “There will be others, young lad. And they will be just as beautiful, just as accessible. You’re too young to contemplate what you’re contemplating. Leave those thoughts for when you’ve had your fill of life and want only for a competent housekeeper.” The older man laid the newspaper on the breakfast table and left the room, squeezing Henry’s shoulder in a fatherly manner as he passed.
Later that evening, Henry stole from the house, ensuring his uncle had retired from his study before he took a horse from the mews. The night air was cool and foggy, the streets mostly deserted. At the brothel, he went directly upstairs, following the familiar maze of corridors and staircases.
No one stopped him until he reached the corridor to Madame’s study. The petite woman stood in the hallway, arms akimbo, as if waiting for Henry to appear. She did not move as he took a step closer to her.
“Please,” was all he said.
Perhaps she could hear the urgency and desire in his voice, perhaps she could see the love in his eyes. Whatever she sensed, it appeared to sadden her. With a small sigh, her arms dropped to her sides, she stood aside to let him pass.
“You know where she is.” Madame Marchand’s voice seemed soft, pitying.
Henry approached the chamber’s door, heart pounding, and he noticed the door was slightly ajar. Faint noises spilled from the opening into the hallway, growing louder as he stepped closer. He wondered if he was in the wrong corridor or maybe Madame was wrong and someone else was using this room. But no—he recognized that high moan. Still disbelieving his ears, Henry pushed open the door.
His gaze was immediately drawn to the sparkle and flash of sapphires upon a slender, pale neck. His heart plummeted as he recognized the curve of Arabella’s arms behind the familiar man’s neck, her ankles wrapped behind his knees as she met his uncle’s thrusts. The moans, the whispered words of encouragement, he had heard them all before. He stood frozen with doubt, disbelieving his own eyes, his heart fracturing and sending shards of ice through his chest. Unluckily, he had entered at the critical moment and was unable to tear his eyes away as his uncle spent himself, soiling Henry’s love.
As the elder Crawford rolled off the young woman, Henry tried to understand which was the greater betrayal—the man he admired and respected sullying Henry’s youth, or the woman he loved, lying and dissembling for a bit of coin?
“Come in, boy. Be a good lad and hand me that towel?”
Henry moved over the carpet as smoothly as a rusty bit of tin, obeying his uncle by habit, his face hot with shame and anger. But the admiral was his family, and nothing could break that bond. Henry trusted his uncle, even now, and searched for his uncle’s lesson.
Arabella shifted on the pillows, long arms stretched above her head as she sighed and lay to the side, exposing the slope of her ribs, the curve of her hip. The jewels at her neck flashed in the firelight and Henry was flooded with disdain for the woman he had worshipped until mere moments ago.
The first taste of betrayal had gone down hard, anger now flaring at the woman wearing his gift. It was a promise, he thought bitterly, looking at her draped over the pillows. She did not bother to cover herself with the sheets, as though she were teaching him another boudoir lesson: there was no shame in sex, no betrayal between such lovers.
He stared at her and she gazed back for the minutes it took the admiral to clean up and dress. Her lack of remorse became mirrored in his own heart as he again took the lead from her, learning the ways of being a man in this realm.
Jealousy is beneath us, her steady gaze seemed to say. One moment to the next, one lover to another. There is no place for seriousness, no cause for steadfastness. The longer he looked into the coolness of her sharp gray eyes, the less appeal they held. And his hot flash of anger and resentment slid away into a vast void of apathy.
He heard his uncle’s words again. A female’s beauty is for noticing, her body for touching. Arabella had proved that true. How could Henry fault his uncle for doing precisely what Henry had come here to do?
“Well, my boy, do you fancy a turn, or shall we depart for Hill Street?”
Henry still had his gaze locked with Arabella’s. “I do fancy a turn, Uncle.” Arabella’s eyes lit brighter, her lips began to curve into a coy smile. “But not with this one.” The effect was subtle but immediate. Pain and disappointment flared in her stormy eyes. A part of Henry roared with pleasure at this power to choose, to refuse rather than be refused.
By the time the admiral clapped him on the shoulder and turned him towards the open door, all yearning for the red-haired beauty had evaporated, leaving only a cold understanding echoed in his uncle’s next words. “They’re all the same, my lad.”
OCTOBER 5, 1809, EVERINGHAM
But they are not all the same. And there is cause for steadfastness. I did not realize this until you, my marvelous Fanny Price. With your simple, artless ways, the purity of your soul, you have shown me the falsity of my younger days. You have shown me the divinity of womanhood. You have opened my heart and taught it how to love—selflessly and wholly.
You have recreated me.
I regret nothing more than my ability to love you—and maybe one day, to love another—should require such a sacrifice.
If ever I managed to make pathways to your heart, my Fanny, if I somehow caused you to experience any of the tender feelings for which I desperately searched your eyes, please let them die now. Foster them no more. Let them wither and scatter, dried on the ground of your soul, in the hopes they will one day nourish the soil to nurture the love of another.
One more worthy.
More constant.
I love you, Fanny. And that love led me to believe my constancy would hold fast. I believed I could want for nothing else, filled with love of you. For how could I fail to maintain a perfection of steadiness when consumed with love for a perfectly good and moral woman?
It was only when I saw myself reflected in your eyes that I saw who I am, and that knowledge did not flatter. I was a beast! Idle and meritless, carrying on with an engaged woman simply for entertainment. Through you, I saw my error. Through you, I saw what a man could have in a family. And as we grew closer—we were at least friends at the end, were we not? I felt the joy of being good and firm and right-minded. Esteem and approbation rather than envy and disapproval.
In your judgment, I realized how I had wronged my sister in refusing her the stable home she desired, instead foisting her on our relations. But this you did not know! It is a testament to how loving you has changed me. I am eaten away with guilt in how I mistreated her, but I cannot regret my neglect as it brought me to know you. Even with the difficulties and heartbreak that ensued, I would not wish it different. Now I am able to make amends, with myself, with my sister. But not with you, my darling Fanny. You are forever lost to me.
I admit, Fanny, to pursuing you out of the same light-minded folly that drew me to Maria (and back again). I desired to make you love me and to break your heart just a little—just enough to satisfy my vanity. But fortune is fickle and instead it was I who grew to love. I would have given anything to bring you happiness and see you safe forever from hurt and loss. Instead, I brought all that upon you in my foolishness.
Did you love me, Fanny Price? I think that in Portsmouth you nearly did. I must believe that you loved me at least a little, my dear. I saw the shine of approval in your eyes as we discussed the improvements at Everingham. I did not imagine you were more free with your smiles, not since you saw your brother off to his lieutenancy.
I must be content with having broken your heart at last.
Regrettably,
H.C.
Henry stood from his writing desk, staring down at the pages stacked, freshly inked. Here was his confession, his damnation.
You cannot send her that letter, Mary had said. And, as a
lways, Mary was right.
He gathered the papers and pulled a chair close to the fire. One by one, he fed the pages to the flames, watching as the fire consumed his lustful affair with Maria, his tortured months in Wiltshire, his first blush of misguided infatuation, and his true, honest love for Fanny.
“No one must know.”
BROOKE WEST has always loved the bad boys of literature and thinks the best leading men have the darkest pasts. When she’s not spinning tales of rakish men and daring women, Brooke spends her time in the kitchen baking or at the gym working off all that baking. She lives in South Carolina with her husband and son and their three mischievous cats. Brooke co-authored the novel The Many Lives of Fitzwilliam Darcy and the short story “Holiday Mix Tape,” which appears in the anthology Then Comes Winter. Find Brooke on Twitter @WordyWest. Click to connect with: Brooke West
Novella VI
An Honest Man (moderate) Karen M Cox
FRANK CHURCHILL
When Frank Churchill was a toddler, his mother died. Soon after, his father gave him away to a rich aunt and uncle in hopes of offering him a more promising prospect. As the heir to a fortune, his fine countenance and good-nature added to his manifold of agreeable attributes. Yet all along, he manipulated others to mask his secret engagement to the fetching and talented Jane Fairfax, a woman of no fortune. “My idea of him, is that he can adapt his conversation to the taste of everybody, and has the power as well as the wish of being universally agreeable.” —Emma, Chapter XVIII.
“How many a man has committed himself on a short acquaintance, and rued it all the rest of his life!” —Frank Churchill to Jane Fairfax, Emma, Chapter XLIII.
AN HONEST MAN
Karen M Cox
Family lore declares that my mother named me Frank with a fervent maternal hope that I would grow to be an honest man. I would have wished to honor that sentiment, but sometimes the whimsical tides of life, followed by crushing consequences and practicalities, have a way of altering a man’s path. As Robert Burns wrote, “The best laid schemes o’ mind an’ men gang aft agley.” Even uneducated men know where the road paved with good intentions leads.
Dangerous to Know Page 20