“No?”
“No. It’s because …”
“… your da paid me to.”
Fiona started to giggle. “It’s because you love me, so say it.”
Joe snorted. “Who told you that?”
“You did, remember? By the river? You said it, I ’eard you – you love me.”
“I never said that.”
“You did. You love me, I know it. So tell me one more time and I might say yes …”
Joe, who’d been sitting, got up on his knees, pulled her close, and kissed her.
Fiona broke away. “Say it, Joe,” she insisted.
He kissed her again.
“Say it…”
He silenced her with another kiss, and another, until she gave up altogether and surrendered to his kisses. It felt wonderful to be with him like this, in a warm room all by themselves. She’d wanted to touch him, to hold him, all day. And now there was no one to see them – no parents, no one to interfere. Free of any constraints, she kissed him passionately, with her lips, her tongue. She ran her hands over him – his shoulders, his chest, claiming him again. She felt his hands on her breasts. They moved to her neck, where he undid the buttons of her jacket, one by one. As he pulled the jacket off her arms, she gave him a long look, then said, “If I take me camisole off, are you going to ’and it back to me? Like you did at the river?”
“Not a chance.”
She untied the strings that kept the garment together and slipped it off, letting it hang about her waist. “Now you,” she said, crossing her arms over her breasts.
In a flash, Joe had his vest and shirt off. Looking at him, Fiona felt a familiar desire stir deep inside. Could you call a man beautiful? she wondered. Because that’s what he was – more than handsome – beautiful. From the line of his jaw to the curve of his strong shoulders, to the rippling muscles of his belly.
“What are you looking at?” he asked self-consciously.
“You.” She pressed her palm to his chest, fascinated to find that the bit of hair he had there was darker than that on his head. And under his arms, too. And lower, under his belly button. The sight of his naked skin thrilled her and she could feel the heat in the pit of her belly grow. She kissed the hollow beneath his throat, and then the shallow indentation in the middle of his chest. Then she pressed her ear against him and listened for the sound of his heart. When she kissed him there, she heard him groan softly, felt his fingers tighten on her waist.
And then his lips were on hers again, hard and insistent. He kissed her mouth, her throat. He brushed tendrils of her long black hair aside and nuzzled her breasts. Eyes half-closed, she said a quick prayer that this time he wouldn’t stop. Then she stifled a giggle. God was hardly the person to ask for assistance at a time like this. She knew what she wanted – Joe’s touch, his kisses. She wanted him to make love to her. He raised his head, and she sighed at the loss of his lips.
“Fee, I want you … I want to make love to you …”
She nodded, drunk with pleasure, eager for his kisses again.
“I know a way … nothing will ’appen …”
He scooped her out of the chair and carried her to his bed. She watched as he unbuckled his belt, his back to her, dropped his pants and then his drawers. And then he turned around and she felt a sudden knot of fear in her stomach. Good God, she thought. Look at the size of it!
He began to undress her. He was quick and intent on his purpose and had her skirt, boots, and stockings off in no time. And all the while, she couldn’t take her eyes off the object of her uneasy interest. She’d never seen one, never imagined it would be so large and … well, protruding. As he tugged at her knickers, she started to feel very much like a drunk when the gin wears off. The burning desire she’d felt just minutes ago had disappeared. Now she only felt nervous. They were going to make love, not just touch and kiss, and she had only the vaguest idea of what was done and not the first clue how to do it.
When she was naked, Joe nudged her over on the bed, laid down beside her, and pulled her to him. She could feel it against her thigh. He was so quiet; there was an urgency about him and she wished he’d say something. Was he nervous at all? He didn’t seem it. It had all felt so good a minute ago, maybe it would again if she could just relax.
She felt his kisses on her neck, felt him stroke her back, her bottom, and then her thighs. His hand was between her legs, his fingers gently opening her … and then something else was there, pushing itself against her and her whole body tensed.
“Fee, what’s wrong?”
She looked away, not answering.
“What’s the matter? Do you not want to? It’s all right, we don’t ’ave to …”
“No, I… I want to think … it’s just…”
“What, luv?”
“Well… that, Joe!” she blurted out, pointing between his legs. “It’s huge! Where the ’ell’s it going to go?”
Joe looked down at himself, then burst out laughing. He rolled over onto his back and laughed harder, until there were tears in his eyes.
“What’s so bloody funny?” she asked, sitting up.
When he could catch his breath, he answered her. “I don’t know where it’s going, Fee. I was ’oping you did.”
“ ’Aven’t a clue,” she said, giggling herself now, relieved. When their laughter subsided, he took her in his arms and said again that she didn’t have to do anything she didn’t want to; they could stop right now and get dressed and it would be fine, but she said she did want to, and then he kissed her mouth and said, “Thank God,” because he wanted her so badly, he didn’t think it would ever go down on its own.
After a few false starts, they got it right. Fiona felt a sharp pain, just for a second, but he kissed her, and told her it was all right and she relaxed, and then there was no more pain, and he was inside of her. It felt nice, having him so close, possessing him. She felt him move inside of her, heard him whisper her name, and was warmed again by her desire for him. But then, after what seemed to her like only seconds, it all ended. He groaned and pulled out of her. Then he rolled onto his back; his eyes were closed, his chest heaving. Something had happened for him – she felt it on her belly, all warm and wet. Was something supposed to happen for her? Was that it?
“Was it all right?” she asked in a whisper.
Joe opened his eyes and turned his head toward her. He was smiling. “More than all right. I almost didn’t make it out in time. I can ’ardly see straight.”
Fiona smiled, pleased that he was pleased. She hoped that when he caught his breath, he might kiss her again. She felt so warm and restless, so uncomfortable. After a minute or so, he got out of bed, fumbled in his pants, and produced a handkerchief. He mopped up the puddle on her belly, folded the cloth over, then pressed it between her legs.
“Only a bit,” he said, examining the cloth.
“Bit of what?”
“Blood.”
“Blood? Jesus, Joe!”
“It’s nothing, Fee. It ’appens to lasses the first time,” he said knowledgeably.
“Oh, really? Since when are you such an expert?”
“Lads’ talk. The blokes ’ere are a bawdy lot.” He winked at her and got back into bed. “I’ve learned a few things since I started working ’ere and not just about cabbages.”
He took her in his arms again, kissed her mouth, her ears, her neck, her rosebud nipples, and when he felt her breath coming hot and hard, he moved down lower.
She sat up; her hands flew down to cover herself. “Joe! Don’t,” she whispered.
Gently, he moved her hands away, kissing her palms. “Let me, Fee. It’ll be nice.”
She protested, and tried to pull her hands free of his grip, but he held them firmly. He kissed her where she did not want him to, and then tasted her there. And slowly, her protests turned into soft moans as his tongue explored her, teased her, taught her what this part of herself was for. She sank back on the bed, helpless against the hot, liquid se
nsations rippling through her, the sweet shuddering tremors that seemed to come from her very core. And then it was she who was gripping his hands tightly, and calling his name, and twisting and thrusting herself against him, until the fire inside of her crested and broke, engulfing her in wave after molten wave of the sweetest pleasure she had ever known.
Panting, her eyes still closed, Fiona felt Joe’s mouth on her belly, her chest, her throat, as he made his way to her mouth. He propped himself up on one elbow, kissed her, and kissed her again, until she opened her eyes and smiled at him.
“I love you, Fee,” he said, his eyes filled with tenderness. “I always ’ave and I always will.”
“I love you, too, Joe,” Fiona murmured. “Always …”
She closed her eyes. So that’s what it was all about; now she knew. No wonder everyone made such a fuss. She felt so good, so warm and sleepy and happy.
She felt Joe smoothing back wisps of hair from her face. “Sleep for five minutes, luv. And then we ’ave to go. Told your father I’d ’ave you back by eight and it’s getting on.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she mumbled, nestling into his pillow. She heard him rummaging around, sorting out his clothes from hers, and felt him sit down on the bed to put his socks on. She heard him padding back and forth, clearing up. And then she heard him stop abruptly. He was still for a few seconds, then he bolted over to one of the street-side windows.
“Christ!” he yelled, peering out the window down the street. “Fee, get up! Quick! It’s ’Arry, me mate!”
Fiona sat up groggily and blinked her eyes. She heard laughter from the street, a male voice and a female one. “I thought ’e was out for the day,” she said.
“Well, now ’e’s in,” Joe said, hustling her out of the bed. “ ’Ere, take your things and go in the loo,” he ordered, piling her clothes into her arms. “You can dress in there. ’E’ll never know. It’ll look like you’re ’aving a piss.”
Fiona, stark-naked, stumbled off toward the bathroom. Just as she got to the door, she stopped. “Joe! Me camisole … it’s not ’ere …”
Joe tore up the bed he was frantically making, but there was no camisole. He flipped up the mattress; still no camisole. Then he ran over to the chair; it was on the floor. He balled it up and tossed it to Fiona just as they heard the downstairs door open. She caught it and he dashed across the room once more to straighten out the bed. When Harry and Millie came in, the door to the loo was closed and Joe was seated in front of the fire reading the paper.
“Old chap!” Harry exclaimed.
“Hello, Joe,” Millie trilled, smiling warmly.
“Didn’t expect to find you here,” Harry continued. “Thought you were gadding about town with a lady friend …”
“A what?” Millie cut in brusquely.
“A lady friend,” Harry said. Millie, staring at her cousin, said nothing. Harry, obviously thinking she hadn’t heard, or didn’t understand, added: “A señorita. A demoiselle. A girl.”
“I heard you,” Millie said, looking daggers at her cousin. Her sweet smile and merry chatter were gone. “You told me a friend, Harry. You said Joe was out with a friend.”
There was an embarrassing silence. Harry shifted from foot to foot. Joe pretended to be absorbed in his newspaper.
“Well.” Harry shrugged. “He was.”
“But you told me –”
“What does it matter, Mills?” Harry was smiling, but his tone and expression told her she was being difficult.
At that, Millie collected herself. As quickly as they’d come, the angry tone and black looks were gone and the smile was back. “Well,” she said brightly, rubbing her hands together. “The night’s turned chilly. And I, for one, need a cup of tea. Anyone else?”
“I will,” Harry said. Joe declined, saying he’d drunk enough to sink a ship.
“Have you?” Millie asked, bustling about proprietarily with the teapot. “Why? What were you doing that required so much tea-drinking?”
Joe told Millie and Harry about his day, what he’d seen, where he’d been. Neither Millie, Joe, nor Harry heard the bathroom door open; none of them was aware of Fiona standing in the doorway. She’d finished dressing and was watching Millie flutter about Joe. As she did, her jaw tightened. Millie Peterson, she decided, was a poaching bitch who never knew when to quit. Well, she’d learn. No scenes, no brawls, nothing that would reflect badly on Joe. There were other ways. She undid the brooch from her lapel and dropped it into her skirt pocket.
As Joe finished telling them about his adventures, Millie asked, “And what lucky girl had the honor of accompanying you?”
“I did,” said Fiona.
Harry jumped to his feet. “I say!” he exclaimed. “Forgive my dreadful manners, I didn’t know you were here. Joe didn’t tell us, but then, we never gave him the chance, did we? Harry Eaton, pleased to meet you. Please take my chair. This is my cousin, Millie Peterson.”
“Pleased to meet you, ’Arry Eaton. I’m Fiona Finnegan and I already know Millie.”
“Do you? Isn’t that wonderful?” Harry exclaimed. He turned to Millie and blanched. Her mouth was smiling, but her eyes … the fury in them was sharp enough to impale somebody.
“Delightful,” Millie said.
“Do sit down. You must have a cup of tea with us.”
“Thank you, but I can’t,” Fiona demurred. “It’s getting on and we – Joe and I – ’ave to get back to Whitechapel. We’re expected shortly.”
Fiona and Harry continued to make small talk as Joe gathered his jacket and cap. Millie stared at Fiona, saying nothing. When Joe was ready, they said their good-byes and headed for the door. As Joe opened it, Fiona turned and cried, “Oh, no! Me brooch! It’s gone, I’ve lost it!”
“Did you ’ave it on when we got ’ere?” he asked her.
“I’m sure I did. It must’ve come off somewhere inside.”
“Where were you sitting?” Harry asked. “Maybe it’s there.”
Millie didn’t budge. “What kind was it?” she asked archly. “Ruby? Emerald?”
“Brass,” Fiona answered.
“How appropriate.”
With Harry down on his hands and knees and Joe searching the loo, Fiona, aware that Millie was watching her, walked over to Joe’s bed, flipped back the pillow and said, “Found it!”
Walking back across the room, she pinned the brooch to her lapel, smiling. As she passed the stove, Millie, acid-eyed, said, “I wonder how it got there?”
Fiona winked at her. “I don’t,” she said.
Harry, dusting himself off, and Joe, emerging from the loo, both missed the exchange.
“Where was it?” Joe asked.
“Oh, just over by … blimey! Is that the time?” she exclaimed, looking at the carriage clock. “We’d better ’urry, Joe. My da will kill us.”
When they were outside, Joe clapped Fiona on the back and said, “I’m real proud of you, Fee. You were polite to Millie and didn’t row with ’er. Be’aved just like a lady.”
More like a dockside tart, Fiona thought. She smiled sweetly.
“I hope you see how daft you’ve been. Millie knows what’s what.”
She does now, Fiona thought.
As they approached the main thoroughfare, they heard the noisy clopping of horses. Joe grabbed her hand. “C’mon, there’s the bus. We can still make Whitechapel by eight if we catch it and your father won’t skin me alive.”
“No, but ’e’ll skin me when ’e finds out I’m courting with a no-account coster.”
“No, ’e won’t, ’e’ll be proud of you, Fee. You made a good deal,” he said, running faster, for the bus was slowing just yards from the stop.
“I what?” she asked breathlessly.
He grinned at her. “You made a good deal… traded one cherry for a lifetime of apples and oranges.”
Fiona turned bright red. They reached the back of the bus just as the driver snapped the reins. Joe hoisted her on, then jumped on himself. Laughing and panti
ng, they tramped down the aisle, garnering a disapproving stare from a prim matron, then settled themselves into a seat as the horses nosed their way east, toward the river and Whitechapel.
Millie Peterson ran up the curving staircase from her front hall, trailed by her maid, Olive. She burst through the door of her bedroom, grabbed a crystal scent bottle from her dresser and hurled it against the wall. It shattered loudly, spraying lilac water everywhere.
“Oh, miss,” Olive cried, her plain face a picture of dismay.
“Never mind that!” Millie snapped. “Help me get my boots off.” She sat down on her bed. Olive knelt beside her with a buttonhook. “I knew it, Olive. The second I got to the flat, and saw how clean it was, I knew she was coming to see him. And I was right! Harry invited me to lunch – all the way in Richmond. ‘We’ll take a train,’ he said. ‘I fancy a jaunt to the country.’ The dirty little collaborator.”
“But that sounds like a nice invitation, miss,” Olive said, pulling a boot off.
“Well, it wasn’t. He only wanted to get me out of the flat for the day so that Joe could be alone with his little trollop.”
“But if you were in Richmond, miss, ’ow do you know she was at the flat?”
“Before we left, when Harry’s back was turned, I put my purse on the mantel. After lunch I told him I’d lost it and acted upset. We went back to the restaurant and when it wasn’t there, he said I must’ve left it on the train or in the flat. We checked at the station, and no one had turned it in, of course, so he had to bring me back to the flat. And when we got there …” – Millie’s eyes narrowed – “… she was there. They’d made love, Olive.”
“They didn’t!” Olive whispered, her eyes widening.
“They did. I’m certain of it,” Millie said. She sniffed, then made a face. “God, that smells strong. Clean it up, will you? And open the window. I’m going to choke soon.”
Olive gave her a look that said soon couldn’t possibly be soon enough.
Millie collapsed on her bed and groaned in frustration. After Joe and Fiona left, she’d sat in silence, staring at Joe’s bed, imagining them in each other’s arms. Now, in her own room, fury boiled up inside her. “I don’t know why he prefers her, Olive,” she said. “Honestly, I don’t.”
The Tea Rose Page 12