‘Oh, don’t worry, she’ll come around. You’re just the first of her chicks to get engaged. She’s bound to be a bit broody over you.’ He paused, looking reflective for a moment. ‘Although she might be a little nervous about the prospect of your new in-laws, Elizabeth. You know my feelings on that matter, but I think your mother might still harbour misdirected awe at meeting members of the aristocracy. Don’t worry, though, I’ll put her right.’ He winked.
Something to consider, thought Lizzie later, as she and John took their leave. Anticipating a fairly boozy afternoon, he’d booked them rooms at the village’s rather nice vintage pub-come-hotel, and parked the Bentley there so they could walk over to her parents’ home. A good thing too, because when a couple of cases of chilled Champagne had arrived at the party, delivered in a refrigerated van from a local high-end supermarket, both she and John had enjoyed several glasses toasting her father and themselves.
As they waved and called out their goodnights along the lane, Lizzie shivered. She wasn’t really cold. It was just a reaction. The excitement. The utter relief of John being accepted so happily by her family. An awareness that the more difficult introductions still lay ahead.
‘You’re cold,’ said John, slipping his jacket off and draping it around her shoulders.
‘Thanks, love.’ As his hand enclosed hers, some of the wibbles dissipated. Strength seemed to flow from him to her, giving her fortitude. With him at her side, she could handle anything.
Still, it was better to air her thoughts.
‘I think that might have been the easier set of parents, you know. No offence.’
John was quiet for a moment as they strolled along. ‘In some ways, yes, perhaps. But in other ways, I wouldn’t say there’ll be much difference.’ He gave her a reassuring smile. ‘Like I told you, my mother and father will be so thrilled that I’m finally marrying a suitable girl of childbearing age that it wouldn’t matter if you were cross-eyed, had green hair and chewed gum all the time.’
‘Well, seeing as how I don’t have or do any of those, I should be all right, then.’
‘You will be. Don’t worry.’ His voice was assertive, no nonsense, that of John the decision maker, confident in his choices and his chosen path. But was he really so assured of her welcome at Montcalm? ‘I know my family and I know you, and they’re not really so stuck up and entrenched in their class that they wouldn’t love you. Nobody in their right mind wouldn’t love you, Lizzie. You’re perfect! Believe me. That’s definitive. I have spoken.’ He flashed her the wonder-smile.
‘Well, in that case, yes, I am perfect.’ She grinned back at him. ‘This way now …’ She pointed to a narrow footpath, flanked by bushes, leading off the main lane along which they’d been walking. ‘It’s a bit dark and we’ll have to watch our step. No street lighting here. But it’s a quicker way back to the George.’
She led the way along the path, a route she’d taken so many times in her younger days, but suddenly made magical and mysterious by the presence of the man escorting her. There was damp in the air, the smell of leaves and mulch. Today had been bright and sunny for her father’s party, but yesterday there had been rain and the soggy aura of it still lingered here, making their footing muddy.
Halfway along the path, John drew her to a halt.
‘Mm … muddy paths through woods. Does that bring back memories?’ Pulling her into his arms, he kissed her fiercely, and she responded. It had been agony behaving themselves all day in front of her parents and her family, and their friends.
But oh yes, those memories. A rainy afternoon in the park at the Waverley. Scrabbling through undergrowth, a willow switch, a fallen tree. Happy days. He’d thrashed her bottom, and oh how it had hurt. And yet, barely able to remember the pain, she had a perfect recollection of the delicious pleasure afterwards, and of riding John to orgasm in that soggy grove.
Against her body, as she kissed him back, his cock was iron-hard.
‘Jesus, Lizzie, I want you,’ he growled as they broke apart, gasping. ‘It’s been bloody torture today, wanting you, fighting to control myself. Imagining what’s beneath those pretty pink skirts, and longing to plunge myself into you.’
Lizzie laughed, shimmying against him. It was madness. John was a force of nature when he was roused. ‘My mother would have had a fit if she’d known you were having such randy thoughts. I don’t know where she gets these ideas that I shouldn’t be sleeping with you or anything, but she does have them. It’s ridiculous really, given that I was only just born in wedlock myself. Conveniently premature, you might say.’
‘She’d be scandalised if she knew what I was thinking now.’ John’s eyes flashed like blue stars in the gloom. ‘Planning to drag her beautiful daughter into the bushes and shag her senseless, engagement ring or otherwise.’
He kissed her again, tongue going in deep as he tugged at her skirt, then rummaged amongst her petticoats so he could caress her bottom and thighs.
‘So beautiful … So beautiful …’ he murmured, stroking her, his fingertips sliding expertly into her groove from behind, touching her sex.
Lizzie churned herself against him, tantalised and frustrated by the near contact. His fingers were close to her clit, but not quite brushing it. She stood on her tip-toes, trying to tilt her hips so she could get some stroking action.
‘Hold your skirt up … Let me get at you …’
It was madness. They were on a public path that was well used, even in a smallish village like this. People cut through here all the time, on their way between the George and a couple of other pubs and the houses along her parents’ lane and a small residential development in the same direction.
Yet still she did it, and John switched his approach, pushing his hand into her knickers from the front, finding her sweet spot instantly and starting to rub and rub, even as he kissed her again, harder than ever. Lizzie clung to him, moaning and rocking. She wanted to drag him into the bushes, and to throw herself down in the mud and muck so he could mount her.
As pleasure gathered between her thighs, she was almost on the point of doing it, even though what last shreds of sanity she currently possessed were shrieking no, no, you mustn’t. This wasn’t the rainstorm of that day at the Waverley, but everywhere was still damp. Within moments they’d be plastered with mud and twigs and God alone knew what else, and this was a village where her father had a respectable reputation, and the conventional George was not the crazy, risqué Waverley, where naughty behaviour was actively encouraged.
If she and John were to stagger into the pub covered in filth and leaves, looking as if they’d just been bonking in the undergrowth, word would get back to her parents, and that would embarrass them.
Even then, though, she almost groaned the words, almost hauled John by the hand into the bushes so he could finish in the time-honoured fashion, with his beautiful cock thrusting hard inside her.
But a high, clear shout and a whistle coalesced the shreds of her wits with a jolt.
‘Freddie! Freddie! Come here, you bad dog!’
Like lightning, John withdrew his hand and patted her skirts back modestly into place, just as a boisterous black and white spaniel charged towards them from the direction they were heading, paused a moment to pant eagerly at them, and then dashed off down the lane behind them. Only to be followed by a middle-aged woman, short of breath, dashing in his wake.
‘Oh, I’m so sorry!’ she cried, clearly embarrassed. ‘He just won’t behave himself. He didn’t jump up, did he?’
‘No, it’s fine,’ said John, and Lizzie was forced to smile. He was so cool, so composed. ‘Would you like us to help you catch him?’
‘No, I can manage. Thank you. He’ll probably stop at the other end of the lane and wait for me. He’s not a bad dog really … just young, you know?’
‘He’s very cute,’ said Lizzie, in an effort to sound normal and not let the woman think she’d interrupted anything. ‘A lovely dog.’
The woman bustled on.
‘Yes, he’s a sweetie really. I just hope he didn’t startle you both. Have a good evening.’ Then she scurried out of view, calling for Freddie again.
‘Good evening,’ called out John, towards her voice.
When their new friend was out of earshot, Lizzie burst out laughing. John hauled her into his arms, laughing too.
‘That was a close thing,’ he murmured in her ear, then kissed her neck.
‘An unbelievably close thing,’ gasped Lizzie.
It was true. She’d been almost on the point of coming. It had faded now, discombobulated by Freddie and his mistress, but close to John, feeling his strong body pressed to hers and breathing in his intoxicating cologne over the smell of leaves and the damp night, it would only take a moment to get there again.
‘Ah … I thought so. Do you want me to finish you?’ He breathed deeply against her skin, teeth grazing her neck as if he were a blond Dracula. He wouldn’t actually bite or suck, though, because they were having an early lunch with her parents tomorrow, and he wouldn’t make a mark that they’d see.
So tempting. So very tempting. Her pussy quickened. The forbidden and the riskiness were an aphrodisiac. But this was her parents’ village, and word would get around.
‘Yes, but back at the George, hot-stuff. We’re a respectable engaged couple now, and we have to behave with a bit of decorum.’ She nuzzled his neck, and did a bit of biting of her own, nipping his earlobe.
‘Decorum, my arse,’ said John, grinning in the darkness. ‘You make me feel like a mad young lad who can’t keep his hands off his girlfriend.’ He paused, running his hands up and down her body, through her clothes. ‘But the beds in the George are a lot more comfortable, and far less muddy than rolling in the undergrowth. So, come on, let’s go!’
Heedless of the shadows and the unknown footing of the path, they set off at a run, hand in hand, eager to touch each other.
19
That Lingering Worm
Coffee and a croissant in the beer garden of The George Arms was a very pleasant thing of a Sunday morning. Nibbling a bit of the flaky confection, Lizzie glanced up at the window of her room, glinting in the gentle sunshine.
Last night, they’d plunged into that room and thrown themselves at each other. For all John’s talk about comfort, it’d been speed that’d been of the essence after a long day of abstinence. Within seconds, she’d been on her back on the bed, still in her dress, knickers flung across the room, while John powered between her legs, thrusting and shoving with very little of his usual erotic finesse.
It’d been a wild fast ride that had ended in a wild fast orgasm, with both of them biting their lips to keep in their shouts. For such a venerable old pub, that looked so solidly built, the George had extraordinarily thin walls; and no special soundproofing such as the wicked Waverley boasted.
This morning they’d stifled their cries of pleasure with kisses, the love slower and more leisurely; more exploratory and more repeated, yet with the excitement geed up by a few lazy slaps to Lizzie’s bottom. Though the bench beneath her now wasn’t exactly soft, she could barely detect the aftershock. It’d been play, lightly applied, that she’d invited to increase her enjoyment rather than as any form of punishment.
John was relaxed now, sipping his coffee, reading a newspaper. Every now and again, he’d wink at her over the top of it, and grin.
They’d both slept well. And spent almost all the night together, even though they each had a room. Tired out by the excitement of the day, and the now-resolved anxiousness of introducing her fiancé to her parents, Lizzie had found it easy to nod off. With John beside her, at least for a little while.
And he’d been there when she woke up.
‘Wow, were you able to sleep all night?’ She’d reached to stroke his handsome face as he blinked his way awake.
‘Sort of …’ He sat up, golden hair all a-tousle. ‘I lay awake for a while, thinking about the day, and how well it went.’ He looked at her intently, even though his eyes were still a bit sleepy. ‘I was so nervous, love. So very nervous.’
How could that have been? He’d looked so assured, so cosmopolitan, the king of all he surveyed in his beautiful blue-grey summer suit, effortlessly charming her family and making them love him on sight, almost to a man or woman. ‘Nobody would have known,’ she said, kissing his cheek. ‘You looked as cool as a cucumber … although, also, incredibly hot.’
‘Years of practice. Years of practice.’ He sat up. ‘But I did spend some time reflecting on the day last night, and I thought I’d better slip away to my room and see if I could get some sleep. For the drive home, you know?’
Lizzie smiled at him. Sometime in the night … he’d come back. ‘So what happened?’
John ran his hand through his already untidy curls. ‘I couldn’t sleep there, either. So I came back, and about ten minutes later, I must have nodded off.’
‘That’s wonderful!’
‘We’re getting there,’ he said softly, reaching for her. And now, here at their al fresco breakfast table, he looked relaxed. Well rested. Being able to sleep together in a strange bed was good progress. Pretty soon, with luck and a bit of patience, his nocturnal phobias might become a thing of the past, and they’d sleep together the whole night through as a matter of course. The shade of prison after dark, and all the entrenched irrationalities and fear would be banished, or at least their hold on him would be minimal.
And if that issue could be conquered, so could her own uncertainties. Her concerns about ‘fitting in’ when John was reunited with his family, and the sense of awe she felt, contemplating a future she’d never in a million years have anticipated for herself.
And … that other pervasive, lingering worm of doubt that still gnawed at her. The woman-worm who bore the innocuous name of ‘Clara’.
I might have to meet her soon. She’s in England, and her mother says she’s set her cap at John again.
‘What’s wrong, love? You’re frowning?’
Lizzie looked up from her half-eaten croissant and discovered John watching her. Apparently his paper was not as absorbing as she’d thought. Should she dissemble? Say it was nothing?
‘I was just thinking about what Caroline said. About Clara being in the UK.’ She picked up a flake of croissant, eating it without tasting it. ‘I … I guess she’ll be contacting you before long. Wanting to meet you.’
A shaft of pain, and what looked like guilt, darted across John’s face, as shadow across the sun. ‘She has phoned a couple of times. I should have told you. I meant to tell you.’ He threw aside his paper and the pages slithered and slid, falling on the floor. He made no move to pick them up. ‘But each time … you always seemed so happy, so relaxed. I didn’t want to spoil things.’ Rising gracefully, he came around from his side of the rustic table and sat down beside her on her bench. ‘She’s my past, Lizzie. Not a part of my life now, or ever again. I know that. You need to know that. Even if it might take her a while to accept it.’
Lizzie frowned at the idea of Clara’s phone calls. Would she have preferred to know about them? She had no idea. Was she upset with John for concealing them? Again, she didn’t know. Everything about him that she was sure of told her that any concealment on his part was to ensure her own happiness, an attempt to deal with an issue before it became an issue.
But did Clara see it that way? Gut feeling told her this woman she didn’t know had an agenda. A single-minded goal in life. She could understand that.
Knowing John, and loving him, she couldn’t give him up herself. And it stood to reason that Clara might feel the same way, even if her motivations were twisted, and perhaps more self-serving or self-deceiving.
We’re two women who want the same beautiful man. I should feel sympathy for her, not hatred.
‘You’re right to be angry with me for not being totally straight with you.’ John took her hand, folding it into both of his. ‘I’ll not conceal anything again.’
‘I’m not angry, love. I’m
not even angry with her,’ said Lizzie, recognising a truth, ‘and if the roles were reversed, I might have kept quiet too, if I thought I could make a situation go away without spoiling things in the process.’ She gave him a fierce look, a look to show him her love. ‘Neither one of us is perfect, John. And it’d be unrealistic to expect that neither of us will screw up ever again. I mean … that’s life, isn’t it?’
Love side-swiped him. As it did, again and again and again. This woman he adored was amazing, and would never cease to be amazing, as drenched as she was in a wisdom and compassion far beyond her years, as lovely on the inside as she was on the outside.
‘I love you,’ he said, throwing his arms around her and hugging her to him, not caring that the action attracted the interest of other breakfasting residents at tables nearby. Nothing mattered but holding Lizzie, and loving her.
As they drew apart, she didn’t speak, but she didn’t need to. It was all there in her eyes, and the sweetness of it almost made his own eyes prickle.
‘At the risk of this getting boring, you’re the wisest woman I ever met, Lizzie. And I thought Caroline was smart.’
‘I take that as a high compliment, love,’ she said with a grin, ‘Caroline is smart. And she’s a lovely lady. I really like her.’
‘But not so much Clara,’ he said, giving her a wry look.
‘True. I don’t know her, but from what I do know of her, I can’t see me warming to her all that much. But I think I understand where she’s coming from, John.’ She shrugged, even the roll of her slim shoulders utterly graceful. He watched her straighten up, squaring herself, wise and ready to move on. She glanced at her watch. ‘Eek, I think maybe we ought to go and smarten ourselves up, ready for this early lunch/brunch type thing of Mother’s, eh?’ Touching his arm, she stood up. ‘We’ll have more time to discuss … um … other stuff, and how we might handle it, when we’re back home.’
The Accidental Bride (Black Lace) Page 24