by Mary Balogh
Everything became jumbled after that. If she had been able to think, she might have concluded that what happened over the next several minutes was more like a wrestling bout than an embrace. They fought each other, tasting, licking, biting, sucking, breathing in loud gasps, exploring each other with ungentle, unsubtle hands.
Julia could never afterward remember how they had got down onto the ground, and yet when she began to come partly back to herself, she opened her eyes and saw gray sky straight ahead. She was on her back on the grass by the stream, her jacket wide open, the buttons of her shirt all undone, her breasts aching from where he had been stroking and fondling them beneath her chemise.
His weight was half on her, one arm beneath her head, his mouth and his warm breath at her throat, one of his legs hooked over one of hers, holding it apart from the other.
His free hand was stroking down her inner thigh, on top of her breeches, and up again. And on up until his hand cupped her most private place and his fingers pulsed flat against her.
And the encounter changed tone. They both stopped fighting as if by mutual consent, although not a word had been exchanged. She tilted her hips, allowing his hand freer access. And she closed her eyes again as his head lifted and his mouth covered hers once more, open, wet, warm. Bringing pleasure. Bringing intimacy with his tongue, stroking aches and yearnings through her mouth and into her throat and breasts and on downward to be intensified by his hand.
He lifted his mouth away to kiss her chin and her throat. But they opened their eyes at the same moment and gazed with heavy desire into each other’s eyes. There was a moment, Julia thought afterward, or perhaps the merest fraction of a moment, when all they saw was a mirrored self, a mutuality of need and desire. No more than a moment at the longest. And then he was sitting up beside her, his arms draped loosely over his knees, gazing out over the stream, and she was lying on the ground, doing up buttons with hands that felt as if they had been created with ten thumbs.
“That is the lesson, you see, Julia,” he said quietly after what must have been a full minute of silence. “If you are not dressed like a lady, and if you do not behave like a lady, the chances are that you will not be treated as one. Be thankful that you will escape from here without being ravished.”
The thing was, the very worst thing that had happened all morning, the worst thing she could ever imagine happening—the thing was that she could think of not a single reply to make to his words. They hurt like the stabbing of a dagger and they angered like the slap of a glove across the face. And they invited retaliation for their smug male double standard. But she could not marshal words scornful enough to speak. Her body was still crying out too loudly for him.
She lay where she was until she was sure that all her buttons were done up, and then she got to her feet without a word, walked over to where Flossie was cropping the grass in deep contentment, mounted with shaking legs that almost would not accomplish the feat, and rode off at a trot, in search of the gate leading into the nearest meadow. She did not look back.
Her throat was aching. She had to keep swallowing to get rid of the unfamiliar urge to start bawling. And her breasts were tender and aching against the cotton of her shirt and the coarse cloth of her jacket. There was a throbbing between her legs and along her upper thighs. And of course she was not even going to pretend that she did not understand either what was happening to her body or what had been happening down by the stream. Her body was still yearning for him. She had wanted him. She had wanted everything that a woman can want of a man. Had he stripped off her breeches, she would have allowed him the ultimate intimacy. Not only allowed it—she would have invited it, begged for it.
She had wanted him. Daniel. As she had always wanted him since childhood fantasies of Daniel as hero had been converted into girlhood fantasies of Daniel as lover. As she had wanted him since he came back to Primrose Park a few weeks before. She had always wanted Daniel—his attention, his approval, his admiration, his affection. His love. And because she had never been able to have any of those things, she had hated him and despised him and set out to shock him and outrage him. Just like a child who must win attention by being naughty if being good would not do it.
She hated herself. Hated herself. Craving the attentions of a man who was so prim and proper on the outside, so lustful just below the surface. Craving the attentions of a pompous hypocrite. She eyed the second hedge speculatively for a few moments, but good sense prevailed. In her present mood of agitation, she would doubtless come to grief if she tried to jump it. And that would be unfair to Flossie—as he had said. It was worse that she had endangered Flossie’s life, he had said, than that she had endangered her own.
She hated him.
And she hated herself ten times more than that.
The earl did not turn his head to watch her go. Neither did he make any attempt to follow her until long after she must be back at home already. He sat and stared sightlessly at the stream.
He had just lost a battle he had been fighting for a few weeks, one he had first fought six years before. He had fought himself, his base human nature, and he had lost. He had always known that it was possible to lust after what one disliked and even despised. Had he not occasionally over the years, despite all resolutions to the contrary, made use of the services of whores? And despised his own weakness every time afterward?
But he had never dwelled on the guilt of those encounters. It was after all part of the sexual nature of man to need woman.
This was different. Julia was a lady and an innocent despite her behavior. The first time she had been only fifteen years old to his own twenty-three. A girl he had disliked and found completely lacking in manners and modesty. A girl who was only just budding into womanhood. One he had wanted with fierce heat. He had fought his own dual nature that summer and won. He was not even sure now if she had had anything to do with the fact that he had not returned for six years. He had never consciously thought so, but who knew what went on in the hidden chambers of the unconscious mind?
And now this year he disliked her and disapproved of her with many times the force he had felt all through her growing years. She was a woman now. She was supposed to be a lady now. Like Camilla. Like Blanche. His dislike of her was intense. But not as intense, it seemed, as his desire for her.
He had pursued her, she had said, not because she was a child in need of chastisement, but because she was a woman. Oh, God! He lowered his head until his forehead was resting on his knees. Could that be true?
God!
He had possessed many women, and had taken several of them with an energetic lust. He had never—not once—lost all touch with reality, been so absorbed with the woman in his arms that sensation had deprived him of thought and reason. Not once until just now, that was. If they had not by the purest coincidence both opened their eyes at the same moment, then . . . There was no need to complete the thought. She certainly would not have stopped him. And he was not going to throw all the blame on her for that, though he believed he had done so in what he had said to her before she had got up and left. If she had been mindless of her virtue, then he had been equally mindless of his self-respect.
God! Lord God. He was trying to keep his mind away from what he knew must be faced. He closed his eyes very tightly. No.
No. He would think of it later when he had had time to calm down. When he was able to think quite rationally again. Perhaps he would come to the wrong conclusions if he allowed himself to think now.
How could he come to the wrong conclusion? There was only one possible conclusion.
No. God! He scrambled to his feet and went in pursuit of his horse, which had wandered some distance away in search of greener pastures. He would think of something else, he thought as he mounted and settled himself in the saddle. He would think of Vickers Abbey and Willowbunch, his new properties, which must be visited sometime during the summer. He would think of Blanche. No, not of Blanche.
He would think of nothing,
he thought, turning his horse’s head in the direction of the house and looking along the line of the hedge for a gate. But of course it was impossible to think of nothing. He would think of the impossibility of thinking nothing, then.
11
The sun broke through the clouds and finally dispersed them altogether early in the afternoon, bringing with it brightness and warmth. Aunt Sarah decided that they should all stroll down to the lake and have a picnic tea brought out there later. Uncle Henry pointed out, a twinkle in his eye, that they hardly needed to organize an excursion to the lake as if it were a military exercise since it was a mere mile away from the house, but Aunt Sarah bent a quelling looking on him, and he held his peace and meekly fell in with her plans.
And so they all trooped down to the lake, two by two, just like the animals into the Ark, Frederick was heard to remark to Viola—very much sotto voce since Aunt Sarah had the reputation of possessing the sharpest pair of ears in the family.
Julia was dressed in flimsy white muslin with pink sash, slippers, and parasol. She had dressed with great care and tripped down the stairs and into the hall with determined gaiety. Whom should she choose as a walking companion? Gussie? But no, everyone must realize that she was not taking Gussie at all seriously as a suitor. Les? But she had not had time yet to think out her answer to his offer. Freddie was flirting with Viola, quite safely since Uncle Paul and Aunt Sylvia would not accept his suit in a million years. That left Malcolm.
And so all the way to the lake—it seemed more like five miles than one—she delivered a bright monologue on any and every topic that presented itself to her mind, one arm linked through Malcolm’s, the other twirling her parasol above her head. She did not even pause to find out if perhaps he had some interest in making it a conversation. She talked faster and twirled harder and smiled more brightly whenever she fancied that the earl, who was escorting his mother, was glancing her way. But of course he was careful to do no such thing.
Malcolm was a good-looking man, Julia thought, if a trifle too tall and thin. He would surely make a steady and dependable husband. Perhaps he would never talk a great deal, but she always had enough to say for two. Perhaps it would work if she wanted it to. She wondered what it would be like to kiss him. Would he open his mouth? Would he draw her body right against his? Would he tear at buttons and put his hands where they had no business being? No gentleman had ever done any of those things to her except... Or would he set his hands at her waist or on her shoulders and touch closed lips to hers? As every gentleman who had kissed her except one had done.
Perhaps she should lure him off into the trees, she thought, and seduce him. It should not be difficult to do— to lure him among the trees, that was. But try as she would, she could not imagine being kissed by Malcolm.
“Malcolm,” she said suddenly, breaking into her own monologue as they approached the lake, “have you ever been in love?”
He looked down at her and flushed. “I-I,” he began and she was instantly sorry that she had asked him such a direct and such a personal question. Poor Malcolm was so very shy. “It depends on what you mean by the term, Julia.”
“Is there more than one meaning?” She had never thought of it before. What did it mean to be in love? To want a man? She had wanted—oh, yes, quite voraciously— but her feelings could not at all be described as being in love. To feel deep affection for a man? She felt deep affection for Gussie—and for Les. She was not in love with either. To feel wonderfully, blissfully happy? She could feel that way when swimming or when gazing at a sunset. She was not in love with either the lake or the sun. “Oh, dear, I suppose there is. It is really a meaningless phrase, is it not?’
“L-love,” Malcolm said and then paused to swallow— twice. “Love is wanting to be with someone all the time. It is accepting the other person with all good qualities and bad and not wanting to change any of them. It is wanting to give affection and approval and comfort and everything that is oneself, demanding nothing in return. It is—love is very difficult, Julia. It is an ideal, rarely achieved in reality because we are all selfish and imperfect beings. It is a dream, a goal, something to be aimed for.”
Julia stared up at him. If she could string together all the words Malcolm had ever uttered to her, she did not believe they would be as many as he had delivered in this one speech. And they were words of unexpected wisdom and insight.
“Oh,” she said. There was no man she wanted to be with all the time—except perhaps Gussie. There was certainly no man she could accept with all his faults and not want to change them. She would never be able to accept Freddie's gambling and womanizing or Les’s eternal good nature or Malcolm’s long silences. Or Daniel’s stuffy sense of what was right and proper for that matter. She would never be able to give and demand nothing in return. What if she loved Daniel? It would be all give. All she would get in return was contempt and disapproval and demands that she change and become a lady. If she loved Daniel.
The sunshine was sparkling off the water of the lake. Daniel, Freddie, Uncle Paul, and Uncle Raymond were carrying the two boats from the boathouse.
“So being in love is not just the good feeling one gets when looking at or thinking of someone special?” she said.
“P-perhaps being i-in love is, Julia,” Malcolm said. “But l-loving is something d-different.”
Being loved by Malcolm would be something special, Julia thought in some surprise, looking at him with new and curious eyes as they seated themselves on a blanket with Uncle Henry, Aunt Roberta, and Stella—her in-laws if she were to marry Malcolm. It was a strange, unreal thought. Stella and Aunt Roberta were smiling at her and Uncle Henry was looking speculatively at Malcolm. Julia could feel herself flushing.
“The boats are out at last,” she said brightly. “It is the first time this year.”
“And I can tell that you are itching to be the first out in one of them, Julia,” Uncle Henry said with a chuckle. “You had better go and secure two places, Malcolm.”
Malcolm got to his feet and strode away.
“You are looking as pretty as a picture today, Julia,” Uncle Henry said.
“And very bright and happy,” Aunt Roberta said with a kindly smile. “Almost as if you were in love.”
Julia twirled her parasol and smiled.
“I shall thoroughly approve, Jule,” Stella said, “if it is with the right man. Mama and Papa are taking me to Brighton for a few weeks when we leave here. Is that not wonderful?”
“And you too, Julia, if you decide at the end of the month that you wish to make your home with us,” Uncle Henry said. “It would be an arrangement that would suit all of us.”
“Thank you,” she said, blinking her eyes against the tears that wanted to rush there. “I have not made any decisions yet.”
“Of course not, dear,” Aunt Roberta said. “You still have almost three weeks to decide. There is no hurry at all. You must take your time and enjoy the choices that are yours.”
“Thank you,” Julia said again. But looking at them, knowing very well what they were thinking and hoping, she felt a wave of panic. She could not marry Malcolm. Of course she could not. Not in a million years. She would never be able to love him and, worse, she would never be able to make him happy. Malcolm, she thought, deserved to be happy.
Each of the boats held four passengers with comfort. Malcolm had secured two places in a boat with Frederick and Camilla. The earl was handing his sister into the boat as Malcolm brought Julia up while Frederick held the boat steady against the bank. Daniel obviously did not realize that she was to be the other lady passenger, Julia thought in some dismay as he turned quickly and extended a hand before he looked fully at her.
Meeting his eyes was one of the most painful things that had happened during the day. It was almost like a physical jolt, as if someone had placed strong hands against her shoulders and shoved her backward. She could not possibly set her hand in his, she thought, looking down at it and remembering—of all things�
�that it had fondled her breast and pinched her nipple to tautness just a few hours before. She half expected him to snatch his hand away and save her from her dilemma, but he did not do so.
“I suppose you do not need help,” he said at her hesitation, his eyes narrowing. “Foolish of me to think that you might, Julia.”
She slapped her hand down onto his and waited for sizzles to burn up her arm and into the rest of her body. But it was just a warm and strong hand closing about hers, dwarfing it. A hand that would hurt like the very devil if he ever made good on his threat to take her beneath his arm and wallop her. She looked defiantly into his eyes. He looked steadily back.
She scrambled into the boat with undignified haste, swaying it dangerously so that she shrieked and Daniel had to clasp her upper arm with his free hand to save her from pitching headfirst into the water. The spectacle she would have created in doing so did not bear contemplating. As it was all eyes had turned her way. She glared up at him, mortified by her clumsiness, as she seated herself beside Camilla. And good heavens, the hand that was only now relinquishing hers was also the same one as had touched her in a place where she was almost too embarrassed to touch herself. On top of her clothing, it was true, but still and all. Good heavens.
“Thank you,” she said tartly.
“My pleasure, Julia,” he said, straightening up.
It was a great relief to have something to laugh over during the next few minutes. Frederick and Malcolm sat side by side and took an oar each. But try as they would, and no matter how much Malcolm frowned in concentration and Frederick whooped with mirth, they could not row in rhythm together or get the boat to go where they wanted it to go. Finally Frederick took the oars on the understanding that he would do the work until they reached the other side and Malcolm would row back.