by Forever Wild
“He’s just a friend. I’ve told you that before.” My God. Why was she shaking?
“But he wants you. And you smile at him.” His voice was filled with despair. His eyes swept her costume. “And you dress in your prettiest gowns for him. You wore that lavender bow for him. You haven’t worn it since the first day you came to the furnace. You should always wear it. It matches your beautiful eyes.”
She gulped. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”
He smiled gently, bringing the soft dimple to his cheek. “I notice everything about you. You look especially charming in your new gowns. Your father may be many things, but he has an instinct for what makes a woman look…like a woman.”
Her heart was beginning to thump madly. His words were like caresses, gently touching her very soul. “Nat…” she whispered.
“And when you sit at your desk…so solemn, so serious…you chew at your pen and frown. You’re so adorable, I can’t get any work done, watching you.” He cursed softly, glancing around the parlor. “It’s too dark in here. Come closer. Will you? So I can look at you?”
I must be mad, she thought. Her feet seemed to carry her across the room to stand before him. Leaning against the sill, he was no taller than she. She felt no fear, only a wonderful tingling to be so near him.
“Why do you hold your mouth so primly? When you forget and your lips part, they’re full and ripe, like a summer rose.” He groaned. “Oh, God. I don’t dare to touch you. You’re so beautiful. You can’t be real.”
“Oh, please…” she breathed. It was too sweet, too magical to be endured. She was trembling from his words, from longings she could barely understand.
“I dream of kissing you,” he murmured. “Like the enchanted princess in a fairy tale. But I’m not a very worthy prince. I’m afraid you’d vanish. The kiss of a mere mortal who worships you… Would you vanish, Willough?”
“I…I don’t know…”
“Touch your fingers to your lips, Willough,” he whispered.
She was enchanted. Drawn into his spell, incapable of anything but obedience to his will. She caught the intoxicating scent of honeysuckle through the open window. She felt drugged—by its perfume, by his words, by his soft eyes that glowed with ardor. She put her hand to her mouth.
“Now touch my lips,” he said. “Let me taste the sweetness of your mouth on your fingertips.”
She reached out with her quivering hand and placed it on his lips. At her touch, he drew in a tortured breath and closed his eyes. He kissed the ends of her fingers; his hot breath burned her flesh, sending jolting tremors through her body.
He opened his eyes, those amber eyes that seemed to plumb her very depths. “My beautiful princess.”
She smiled shyly. “The prince is satisfied with very little.”
“What else can I hope for?”
“This.” Moving closer, she kissed him full on the mouth. She rocked unsteadily on her feet. She hadn’t thought a man’s mouth could be so sweet. It couldn’t be wicked! No matter what Isobel said. It couldn’t be wicked to kiss a man and feel this way. His lips were soft, yet firm, and when he moved his head slightly, they stroked her mouth in a gentle caress. At last she drew away, breathing hard. His hands were tightly held fists on the windowsill. She smiled. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll run away?” Merciful heaven, how she ached for his touch! “I won’t vanish if you hold me. I promise you.”
He hesitated, then spread his legs where he sat and drew her in close to him. She put her arms around his neck; it seemed the most natural thing in the world. “Willough,” he said and kissed her hard, his arms pulling her tightly against his hard chest.
She clung to him, feeling as though she would swoon.
“Wait.” He lifted his mouth from hers and reached up to her hair. “I’ve been longing to do this all summer.” He pulled the pins from her hair, uncoiling the thick black chignon, and stretched out the long tresses till they rippled down her back and shoulders and breasts. He held a lock to his face, inhaling its fragrance, rubbing its satiny smoothness against his cheek. “Oh God, Willough,” he choked, and swept her back into his arms.
Her knees were turning to rubber, incapable of holding her up for another minute. Already positioned between his opened legs, she leaned against his inner thigh, seeking support.
He started violently and stood up with such haste that she nearly toppled backward and had to cling to his forearms to keep from falling. “Christ!” His voice sounded strangled. He shook his arms free of her grasp. “Go to bed, Willough. For God’s sake, go to bed!”
“What…what is it? What have I done?” She was still trembling from his kiss.
“It’s not you. It’s me! Look at yourself. Your hair all over the place… Christ! I could have had you out of your gown in another minute!”
“I don’t understand…”
“Must I spell it out? You’ve allowed me to seduce you! And I’m not nearly as slick as Arthur!”
She gasped, her hands going to her burning cheeks. “Oh my God! Is that why…? The only reason you…”
“Willough, I…”
“You planned it!” she cried. “You kept warning me about men who flatter women. You planned it, didn’t you? Didn’t you?”
“I don’t know. Yes! You were such a little fool…” He ran his hands through his hair. “No. No, I didn’t. God, I don’t know. I thought about it. But I swear to you I didn’t mean for this happen…”
Her voice was a shriek of grief and frustration and humiliation. “Damn you! You planned it! You bastard!” She went at him with her fists, pounding at his face, his shoulders, his chest. He took her blows without moving, his eyes cast down in shame. “I’ll ruin you! You bastard. I’ll see you never work again!” She had begun to weep, her words coming out in little choking gasps. Finally, overcome, she turned away from him and buried her face in her hands, sobbing bitterly. How could he? Oh, God. How could he? At last, with a deep shuddering sigh, she calmed. She wiped the tears from her face and, filled with hatred, turned to look at him. He was still standing by the window, staring shamefacedly at the floor. His cheeks were red from her blows.
All those soft words, she thought bitterly. Meant to lure her, to make a fool of her. But his kisses…she had never felt that way before. He couldn’t have pretended. His kisses had to be genuine. Hadn’t he trembled, his voice shaking as he pulled her into his arms? Yes. He’d started out just to humiliate her, to show her how easy it would be to seduce her. But somewhere along the way, his baser nature had emerged. His lust had translated itself into kisses he himself couldn’t control. She shuddered. It was true, what Isobel had often said. All men were savages, lustful animals governed by their passions, selfishly thinking of their own pleasures.
And she had been more than willing. Oh, yes! She might have let him ravage her, whatever that entailed. She would certainly have allowed him to go on kissing her. She felt a pang of guilt, remembering: she had longed to feel his hands on her body. She’d been clay in his hands, a helpless female at his mercy.
She frowned. An instinct she didn’t know she had—perhaps a woman’s intuition—had sparked a sudden thought. At his mercy. But then…
“Why did you stop?” she said softly.
He looked uncomfortable. “What?”
“If you were so sure you could have taken what you wanted, why did you stop?”
He scowled. “I’m not a cad!”
She pursed her lips in annoyance. “Yes, you are! That was a caddish thing to do…to shame me…to make me a fool in my own eyes. You had no scruples about that. So why did you stop?”
He lowered his eyes, unwilling to look at her. “I couldn’t take advantage of you,” he mumbled.
“Why not? You’re not a gentleman. You’ve said so yourself.”
“But you’re a lady,” he growled.
“But helpless and willing at that moment. You knew that. I wouldn’t have stopped you. So why did you stop?” She had the oddest feeling. Th
e more uncomfortable he seemed, the more a strange joy seemed to flower in her heart. There could be only one reason. A man who cared for a woman would protect her innocence. Did he care for her? “Why?” she insisted. She was on the attack now.
“Dammit, I’m not a complete villain!”
“But you’re a man,” she said softly, and felt a thrill when he blushed. She put her hand on his arm. He flinched at her touch. She smiled seductively. “Perhaps you didn’t enjoy kissing me.” She wet her lips, running her tongue across the fullness of her lower lip. “Didn’t you like to kiss me?” she whispered.
He groaned. “You jezebel! You have the sweetest mouth in the whole world.” He was beginning to tremble.
Did she dare hope? “Maybe you didn’t like my figure. Though I felt very comfortable in your arms.” She dropped her head and looked up at him through the veil of her lashes.
His hands shot out and clutched her by the shoulders. “Damn you! Do you want me to rape you?”
She stared at him, steady-eyed. “No. I just want an answer. Why did you stop?”
He let her go and turned to the window, staring out at the night. “Because I happen to be in love with you.”
She caught her breath, feeling waves of joy and wonderment break over her. Love! “Are you?” she asked softly.
“Yes.”
She wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time. “Then you meant what you said…all those sweet words?”
He turned back to her, his face twisted with remorse and misery. “All those. Yes. And words my heart couldn’t even begin to express. Oh, Willough. I’m so sorry. I had this crazy notion— Arthur is very wrong for you. I thought if I could make you see that— But the minute I began to talk, the minute I had you in my arms, I knew I must have been in love with you all along. I didn’t give a fig about Arthur or anything else. I just wanted to hold you, to love you forever.” He looked down at his waistcoat, unhappily buttoning and unbuttoning one small brass disc.
He loved her. The wonder of it bubbled up in her breast. He loved her! No man had ever said the words to her before. And with a ring of sincerity that made her tremble with joy. She smiled tenderly at his bent head. “Does that mean you wanted to kiss me?”
“Kiss you? God knows I ached to take you right that minute! But half an hour later you would have hated me. And I would have hated myself.”
“Oh, Nat!” She threw her arms around him, welcoming his impassioned kiss and straining against him with all the passion in her own being. Denied passion, repressed for so long in her heart. Even after their lips parted, she remained locked in his embrace, her face tucked into his collar, feeling the scratch of his chin against her cheek. “Would I hate it?” she asked hesitantly.
“To be made love to? God, I hope not. But not now. Not like this. There’s a right time. And for you, I think that time will be on your wedding night. With your husband.”
She drew back and looked at him. “Arthur?”
His voice trembled in his chest. “Do you want it to be Arthur?”
She smiled and ran a gentle finger along the edge of his chin. “No,” she whispered.
His eyes searched her face. “Willough? By all that’s holy…Willough? Can it be so?” She nodded. “And would you marry me if ask you?” She nodded again. He laughed softly, relief and astonishment washing over his countenance. “I can’t believe it. Willough…beautiful Willough…that I love so…”
“Merciful heaven, Nat! Will you please kiss me again? I’ll be an old maid before you kiss me, let alone by the time we’re married!”
He kissed her softly, then released her and led her to the sofa, sitting down and pulling her onto his lap. She felt very small nestled against his brawny chest, enveloped by his arms. “I used to watch you too,” she said shyly. “You’re such a good person. It showed in everything you did. The way you cared about the Wilderness, your concern for the men. They think so much of you.”
“But I frightened you.”
“I don’t know why. I thought about you so much. I missed you terribly on the weekends, when Daddy and I would come to Saratoga.” She sighed. “Perhaps I was afraid of my own heart.”
“Are you afraid of me now?”
“No. It’s only…I don’t know how to put this. I’m not sure I understand myself. I’m not afraid of you—as Nat. But you…the man…I’m always aware of how small I feel beside you. So…so helpless. It’s frightening.”
“And does this frighten you?” He tipped up her chin and kissed her softly, then deepened his kiss when she responded willingly to him. She threw her arms around his neck and tangled her fingers in his soft curls. Could this be happening to her? To be sitting on a man’s lap, kissing him like a hoyden, like a wild, abandoned creature?
He stirred suddenly and grunted, drawing back from her kiss. His eyes were dark and smoldering. “Now you’d better go to bed,” he said. His voice was a deep rasp in his throat, and his chest was heaving as though he had been running.
“What is it?” she began, then sighed in dismay. Without really knowing, she understood. And it was all her fault. She rose from his lap and struggled with her loose tresses. “I’m sorry. I seem to bring out your base nature.”
He stood up and took her hands in his. “My God, Willough, you make me feel like a man. There’s nothing base about that. It’s healthy and natural.” His eyes swept her lush curves. “You have the most beautiful body…”
“Nat, please.” She tried to pull away.
“I won’t touch you. I promise you. But why should you be ashamed?”
“Because it’s shameful.”
“No it’s not,” he growled.
“Let me go,” she whispered.
“No. I told you I won’t touch you. But I want you, Willough—as a man wants a woman. Don’t forget that. And don’t be ashamed of it either.” He released her hands and cradled her face in his palms. He kissed her softly. “Now go to bed. I’ll see you in the morning. If it’s all right with you, I want to speak to your father.”
“Of course.” She moved toward the stairs, wondering how she could be parted from him even until the morning.
“Willough?”
She turned, waiting.
He was smiling gently. “You haven’t said it yet.”
She felt herself blush, her normal reticence returning. “I’ve let you kiss me in more ways than I could have imagined! You know how I feel.”
“I want to hear you say it.”
“It’s very difficult for me, Nat.” Her eyes were begging him.
“I know. There’s a high wall around you—built of ignorance and inhibitions. And snobbery too. I’ve got to break it down, brick by brick, or you will hate me on our wedding night. That’s why I want you to say the words, no matter how embarrassing it seems.”
“Nat…please…I…”
“Say it, Willough.”
“I love you,” she whispered, her face burning. She smiled in relief. That wasn’t so difficult, after all! Nat was right. All the conventions, all the genteel propriety—a confining wall to be breached, with the help of a tender tutor. She grinned. “I love you, Nat Stanton!” she exulted. She sailed up the stairs to her room, feeling giddy with happiness. The moonlight streamed through her windows; Martha had neglected to pull the shades. She undressed without lighting her lamp, then stopped, her clothing around her ankles, her hand poised on her nightgown. She stepped out of the circle of garments on the floor and stood in front of her cheval glass, staring at her nakedness. She’d never in her whole life had the courage to look at her own body this way. Her breasts were firm, her hips rounded and sensuous. And the moonlight turned her naked flesh to silvery velvet.
She laughed softly. A beautiful body. That’s what he’d said. Reluctantly, she turned away from the mirror, slipped into her nightdress, and crawled into bed. She thought of the paintings in the museums. For the first time, she found herself wondering what a real man’s body looked like. Nat’s body. She laughed again.
Mother would be scandalized. She hadn’t even felt a pang of shame at such thoughts.
Nor had she a thought for Arthur Gray, who cursed softly and cracked his whip over the head of the chestnut mare as he drove a rented carriage the next morning. He was in a foul mood. The carriage was old and shabby—the best the hotel could supply—and he hated driving himself. The sooner he got home to his own elegant coach and driver, the happier he’d be. But he needed to get those papers from Brian before his train left today. And the name of that alderman who was interested in buying some land up in the Clinton area. Brian had met the man in Saratoga last week. Arthur smiled grimly to himself. He could work out some arrangement with the man. Brian didn’t have to know all the details. No point in cutting him in for more money than he had to.
Arthur cursed again. Damn last night! It had been perfect—the honeysuckle, the moonlight, Willough trembling beside him, virginal and innocent. And no privacy! With Brian sleeping in the boathouse and that oaf watching the parlor, what the hell was he supposed to do? It was years since he’d tried to take a woman out of doors, or in the backseat of a carriage. And then they were usually the experienced whores from Mulligan’s Hall on Broome Street. They didn’t make a fuss at the discomfort, and they didn’t have nearly as many skirts to contend with!
But he wanted Willough. God, how he wanted her! All the years, all the frustrated passion with Isobel had suddenly focused on her daughter, till he was obsessed with her, mad to find satisfaction in her warm and young body. Yes. Supper at Delmonico’s. Upstairs. It was very private, with a comfortable settee in the corner, and soft lights and champagne. And a door that locked.
He drew up to Brian’s house and was ushered onto the veranda, where breakfast had been set out. Only Stanton was there, drinking coffee. Arthur nodded coldly and was surprised at the cordial greeting he received in return. He helped himself to eggs and bacon, wondering what could have put Stanton in such a good mood. Somehow it only added to his own black humor. When Brian appeared, he concluded their business quickly, eager to be on his way home. He’d just wait to see Willough, and then he’d leave.