Starling

by Virginia Taylor

  In the middle of a particularly hearty splash of water onto her shoulders, she heard the door click. “Ellen?”

  “No. It’s me.” Paper rustled, a floorboard creaked, and Alasdair walked past the screen. “It’s still hot outside,” he said, pulling out his tallboy drawer.

  Starling draped the wet flannel over her breasts and bent her knees to hide under the water.

  Alasdair lifted one eyebrow. “The only thing this modesty does is make me more curious. Do you have some deformity you don’t want me to see?”

  “I think I’m normal.”

  “Let me judge.” Even from six feet away, she could see the gleam in his unusual eyes. Amused or interested, she couldn’t tell. After swallowing a strange constriction in her throat, she floated the washcloth to the edge of the bath and watched the drips trail over the edge. “Your body is beautiful, Starling,” he said huskily. “I have thought of little else all day. I didn’t get a lot of work done in the office. That’s why I came back early.”

  “I don’t suppose that pleased Lavender.”

  “I compensated her.” He smiled. With his gaze drifting from Starling’s breasts to her face, he walked over to the screen, where he took off his jacket. He removed his fob and disappeared from view. When he came back, he wore nothing but his trousers. With that same unreadable expression on his face, he picked up a towel and held out the length. “My turn in the bath.”

  Eyes averted, Starling stood. As she stepped over the edge of the bath, he wrapped her in the towel—arms, too. With very little skill, he began to dry her, and she imagined she would be red-streaked wherever he rubbed.

  “You’re not very good at this,” she said in a voice vibrating with his energetic movements.

  “But I’m good at this.” He tightened the towel and his arms around her. His mouth dropped to hers.

  Imprisoned, she could do no more than accept, but she neither wanted, nor needed, an excuse. She couldn’t imagine anything more wonderful than a kiss from Alasdair. He ended that kiss with small, gentle ones.

  “I would stop,” he said ruefully. “But I’ve been under a lot of pressure.” His arousal pressed near the juncture of her thighs.

  Her heart pounded. “My legs are getting cold.”

  “And so is the bath water.”

  One quick kiss, and he ended his grip on her and the towel, which slipped. She grabbed the covering, foolishly embarrassed. He slipped off his clothing and lowered himself into the bath, but she didn’t look. Grasping the towel, she moved out from the screen.

  “The parcels on the bed are for you,” he said.

  She glanced at the brown-paper-wrapped pile. “No, keep them. I can’t afford anything else.”

  “They’re gifts, Starling. You are staying the allotted time.”

  “Gifts?” Her throat closed over. Holding the towel, she prodded one parcel. “Can I open them now?”

  “Of course.”

  She opened the topmost, the biggest, and tucking her towel tightly, she held up a morning gown of pale green, the short sleeves cuffed with white lace. Beneath lay a beautifully cut brown jacket, piped in emerald and lined with the same color in silk. “Brown,” she said, probably too loudly, because Alasdair answered.

  “I could only choose between black and brown. I thought brown suited you best.”

  “It seems to be a consensus. They’re lovely, Alasdair, but perhaps too smart for me.”

  When he didn’t speak, her chest sank. She’d questioned his gift. Wincing over her ingratitude, she opened a smaller parcel. An ornately carved tortoiseshell comb studded with beaded designs sat on the paper. “The comb is lovely,” she called, her fingers stroking the smooth finish.

  His only answer was a splash. She opened the next, a red glass bottle with a spraying device at the top connected by a tube. Saying nothing, she clasped the perfume to her and smiled. The last parcel awaited. As she unfolded the paper, the material spilled out, tangling with her fingers. “Burgundy,” she said, delighted. “It’s very stylish.”

  “Do you like it?”

  “I love the color. My, it’s a dressing robe. And slippers just like yours. They’re beautiful, beautiful.”

  “Try them on and let me see.”

  Although his voice sounded casual, she could hear the underlying forced casualness. He wanted to see the fragile fabric wantonly clinging to her skin. Her heart thudded and her flesh tingled.

  Dropping the towel, she slipped into the robe; tightened the long, soft sash; and lifted the lace edging the neck. The silk masterpiece flowed in layers. She loved this robe, her own, which he had given to her as a gift. He’d remembered how much she liked his, and he’d remembered she had said she would look nice in cool colors. She’d made each of those statements to irritate him, yet he’d made this effort for her.

  She scooped her hair into a loose knot at the back, which she fastened with the exotic Spanish comb. Her fingers trembled on the perfume bottle as she misted over her throat.

  Moving to the cheval mirror, she examined her reflection and could not see Starling Smith, brown and ordinary. She saw Starling Seymour, desired wife of wealthy Alasdair, with soft curls hanging in front of her ears and her face made delicate by the width of the comb. She saw Starling Seymour, a woman with ivory skin and brown eyes set aglow by the color of her dressing robe.

  Perhaps she saw selectively, but she could see more than she’d seen before, a seductive, throbbing, and willing woman, one who had somehow managed to attract a stunningly handsome and very generous man. After a last adjustment to the robe, she stepped behind the screen and waited for his comment.

  Alasdair stared. “I was wrong,” he said in a soft voice. “You don’t look like a whore in gaudy colors. You look like a very sophisticated and very lovely lady.”

  “I’ll never be a lady.” Her voice came out husky. “And I’ve never worn a color like this. I feel different, not so ordinary anymore.”

  His mouth curved. “The name Starling suits you. You remind me of a Starling, all the beauty hidden until the light catches the shimmer on the wings.”

  “You’ve found something beautiful about a Starling?” Her eyes misted.

  He shrugged. “It’s an elegant bird, discreet. Haven’t you heard of a murmuration of starlings?” His hand reached out to her. He didn’t need to speak. His eyes said, “come to me,” and she did.

  She walked to the bath and kneeled down. His hand curled around the back of her neck and his lips found hers. The kiss pressed long, deep, soft. Her fingers touched his wet shoulder, slid and drew patterns that didn’t cool with the water. Her mouth opened and played with his, brushing gently. His hand urged and his head moved, circling so that he could take more than her lips. He took the edges, the surrounds, her chin, and her cheeks. She loved him and she loved what he was doing.

  Her hand moved to his chest, male and hard. His breath whispered, sped, and his heart pounded under her palm. His mouth lifted from hers. “If I don’t do something about my aching cock soon, I won’t be much good for anything.”

  She drew back.

  He stood, reached for the towel, and quickly dried himself.

  She swallowed past the heavy lump in her throat. He hadn’t asked her to relieve him. Meg knew nothing about men, nothing, and Starling wished that she’d never listened to a whore. Not all men were urgent, not all men were rough, and some—this one—seemed so tender that he made desire into far more than a physical experience. She trembled with an emotional need she thought she would never know.

  She offered him her lips again.

  This kiss was demanding, passionate, hard. His insistent tongue made her breathing speed out of control. Somehow, as he kissed her, he murmured words that excited her, descriptions of his size and his arousal. She wanted desperately to touch him. His fulfillment should be hers.

  Her fingers entwined with his. He groaned deep into her mouth and used her hand with his, pressing her palm d
own hard, sliding the skin of his oiled perfection over the thickness beneath. Logically, she shouldn’t enjoy this decadence, but logic had little to do with lust.

  His words became urgent, his kisses frantic. He would be like this making babies. With him, she would always feel desired and special. Then, he quickly removed her hold. For some seconds his breath came in panting gasps. Although he said nothing, she knew he’d completed his needs.

  Her head dropped to his shoulder and his face rubbed over her hair. His lips pressed against her forehead. “Thank you.”

  “No,” she answered, lifting her head. “Thank you. Thank you for the gifts. Thank you for everything.”

  He straightened. His forehead creased. His hand slid from her neck and his chin lifted from her hair. “You’re honest,” he said with a cynical edge to his mouth. “You pay your debts. Whereas I...” He made a resigned face and shook his head. “I’m damned, I suppose. I could say I don’t know what I’m thinking, but I do know. I’m thinking about fucking and I can’t stop. That’s what comes of having a woman in my bed, be she mine or not.”

  He stood until she felt compelled to let him go. She tried to look into his eyes, but he gazed at his clothes on the bed.

  You don’t exist when they’ve finished, Meg had told her, and Starling could now see the truth of that statement.

  He’d eased the ache and he didn’t need her any longer.

  Her lips curved into a wry smile. When he didn’t desire her, she turned back into a brown, ordinary, menial worker—no longer Starling Seymour, but only Starling Smith. When she glanced into the mirror, she could see herself as she really was, nothing much, simply a woman in a burgundy dressing robe.

  During dinner that night, she was a woman in a gray, refurbished gown. No matter how beautifully Ellen had decorated her hair with the new comb, she looked nothing compared to Lavender, who shone like a lilac in moonlight, who had added to her confidence and superiority.

  “I probably shouldn’t accept gifts from married men.” Lavender gazed right into Starling’s eyes as she spoke. Her smile looked triumphant. She took a tiny sip of carrot soup. “But Dare and I have been friends for so long that I can’t see the harm in it.”

  “Gifts?” Starling asked carefully.

  “Only one. A white fur cape. It seemed meant for me somehow. The lining was the most glorious shade of lavender. I had to have it, and Alasdair insisted on buying it for me. I would have been ungracious to refuse, but it was so expensive. I think possibly the most expensive thing in the shop. It’s bad of Dare not to tell his wife. You’re bad, Dare, truly.” She gave him a roguish tap on the arm with her fan. “I’m sure you bought something for Starling as well.”

  “I bought her cooperation,” he answered coolly. “Do you want port, Paul?”

  Cooperation. Lavender’s fur had been a gift. Starling didn’t look at Alasdair again, but because he’d not once glanced at her, she doubted he would notice.

  One week more and she could leave this man before he managed to rip her heart in two with his emphasis of her unimportance in his life.

  Chapter 16

  “I don’t understand my brother anymore,” Mary whispered to Starling as she walked up the stairs to their respective bedrooms. “Have you two had a fight?”

  “I suspect so. I’m just not sure why.”

  “I’ve never known him to be so moody. If Paul ignored me and showed favor to a scented doll with the morals of a horse fly, I’d break his fingers.”

  “Wouldn’t you wonder why he showed the preference?”

  “I’d infer he’d lost interest in me.”

  “Alasdair can’t ignore Lavender forever,” Starling said with a weary rub of her forehead. “She’s his guest and he’s loved her for years.”

  “It’s not love. It’s blindness.”

  “All cats are gray in the dark. It’s the light that spoils the vision. That’s when Alasdair can see what he really wants.”

  “That’s when he’s the blindest. Don’t let him get away with it. You’re smarter than Lavender. Show him.”

  “Compete? That’s not my style.”

  “You’re right.” Mary reached for Starling’s hand. “If he was smart enough to marry you, he’s smart enough to work out why. Good night, Starling. I’ll see you at breakfast.”

  Starling continued on to Alasdair’s room, certain only of the futility of her feelings. After she’d undressed, alone, she climbed into bed, alone. Sometime during the night, she reached out and found him beside her.

  * * * *

  The morning tap at the door woke Alasdair. As Ellen brought in the water, he pulled the sheet to his neck. When she left, he stretched his arms above his head. Starling hadn’t moved, hadn’t flickered an eyelash. He’d known yesterday that his presence no longer threatened her.

  He smiled at the irony. Yesterday he thought she wanted him, felt a desire equal to his, and yesterday he’d made a dunderhead of himself buying gifts to please her. Beneath his head, his hand knotted into a fist.

  He wanted her, but he couldn’t have her. He’d gone farther with her than any reasonable man would, given a solid determination to marry another. Unfortunately, he could taste her desire, but fortunately she was able to repress her passion, leaving him with nothing to do but frustrate her, deny her everything she denied him.

  She stirred. Her hand flattened over his rib cage. Her elbow bumped his cock. He waited and watched her through narrowed eyes. She rubbed her cheek across his chest in a languorous waking movement. He let his breath out slowly. His heart began to thump. He tensed every muscle in his body. Very slowly her elbow brushed back and forth across the tip of his erection, an action that tightened him between the legs like a pause before a throw.

  “Are you awake?” She glided her palm to his navel.

  “Guess.”

  “Is this a sign?” Four fingers touched his arousal.

  He had to swallow before he could answer. “Not necessarily. If you’d test more often, you’d find out.”

  “Alasdair,” she said with a sigh. “You know what would happen if I tested more often. You’d fail, you know you would.”

  “You would, too. When you touch me, you get aroused. You want me, but somehow you’ve learnt to close off your mind.” He grabbed her hand and lifted her arm above her head. At the same time, he turned into her, pinning her knees with his. She looked alarmed now and wide awake.

  “I’m holding you to our agreement.”

  “I’m letting you set the limits. I always have. You know what you did yesterday. If you’d wanted to go further, you could have, and if I’d wanted to force you, I could have. But I didn’t then, and I won’t now. But I will do to you everything you’ve done to me.”

  “You have.” She tried to throw him off.

  “I haven’t brought you to climax, and I owe you that.”

  “I’d hate to be the one to tell you about the differences between a man and a woman. Women don’t—”

  His lips took hers while still moving. Just because she hadn’t experienced the ultimate pleasure didn’t mean she couldn’t. Perhaps when she did she would crave his touch: want more, beg and scream for him. He parted her legs with his, sliding his arousal against her hot flesh. Her freed hand pushed at his hip. He lifted her wrist to the other above her head, holding them together in one hand, never once easing the pressure of his mouth on hers.

  Imitating with his tongue inside her lips how he would love to plunge between her legs, he lifted his thighs to ease his hand between their bodies. His fingers parted and explored her. Tightening his buttocks, he angled his arousal to rest at her entrance. She made a sound, an unwilling, breathless moan. Despite the urge, he didn’t move. His fingers found moisture but as yet no evidence that he could take her over the edge.

  Knowing her to be a novice in touching, he used his tongue in her mouth with persuasive skill. His fingers used the same rhythm as he stroked upward until he fin
ally felt a response, first just the slightest hardening and then a full pulsating arousal. That response did far too much to him.

  “Let me fuck you.”

  “You promised.”

  “I’ll make it good, Starling. I’ll make it good.”

  “No.” She dropped her knees and tried to push them between his. Her hands fought his grip.

  She dried with her fear and lost her arousal. He could only blame his desperate words. “I understand ‘no.’”

  “You shouldn’t hold my arms, Alasdair. It’s not fair.”

  “Use them, but on me, not against me.”

  When, with absolute reluctance, he stopped gripping her wrists, she lowered her hands but only to his face, which she cupped either side. “I trust you. I don’t know why I panicked.”

  “Trust puts an awful lot of pressure on a man. Hell, Starling. Call me a bastard and let me act like a bastard.”

  Her thumb traced a path across his cheekbone. “You don’t need my permission to act the way you do. You are being bad. I don’t understand men, and I don’t understand how you can contemplate being unfaithful to the woman you love. When you tell Lavender the truth, you’ll hurt her. Or don’t you plan to tell her the truth?”

  “I’ll tell her I hired you and I’ll tell her why. Other than that, there’s nothing to tell. Is there? You feel nothing, don’t you?” He gazed straight into her eyes and circled his thumb around her center of pleasure. Her lips parted and her eyes widened, changing into hazy pools of desire.

  “I feel nothing,” she agreed in a forced voice.

  He smiled at her lie, feeling her swelling response to his caress. “Well, then. There’s no harm in it.”

  When he touched her lips with his, brushing them the way his fingers brushed her womanly places, her knees lifted again around his hips, giving him access, making herself available. She rocked, arched against him, and her hands clutched at his shoulders. His mouth filled with the taste of her desire, and he knew the harm. A primal life force thudded through him, a compulsion to thrust inside her, and instead of giving in to his desire, he breathed hard and expressed his lust with his tongue.