It was then that he had pulled Miss Taylor back into the shelter of the willow, overcome with his good fortune in his future wife. He meant only to kiss her some more, out of the view of Hartfield, but the afternoon sun was dappling her skin so prettily. His soft, close-mouthed kisses quickly morphed into something more passionate, more desperate. It had been several long years since the death of his wife, and he could suddenly stand to be apart from his betrothed no longer.
He began small enough, with a simple pass of his tongue along her bottom lip, but when she gasped in surprise, he could not stop himself from sweeping his tongue into her mouth. And when she moaned against him as he teased her with soft sweeps of his tongue, he could not stop himself from trailing his fingers down from where they nestled in her hair. They fluttered over her throat, her collarbone. Her body seemed to anticipate where they were headed, for she arched her back. He quickly closed the final inches and spread his palm over her warm, firm breast.
She pulled from the kiss with a shocked gasp. “Mr. Weston!” she exclaimed breathlessly.
Chagrined, Mr. Weston looked down at the ground, and readying an apology, began to remove his hand. But her own hand stayed him. It flew to cover his and pressed it more firmly into her flesh.
The gasp this time was his. Without his permission, his fingers flexed, squeezing her wonderful flesh. As his eyes were riveted to her bosom, her free hand wound into his hair and pulled him back into a kiss that was much more wild than their previous kisses had been.
She sucked his tongue into her mouth and mimicked the rhythm he had taught her. Mr. Weston was soon carried away. His hands started to wander even more, both of them squeezing her breasts, and then moving around her ribcage, down her back, and to her curved bottom where he grabbed two handfuls and pulled her hips tightly against his.
His arousal pressed fully against her, and rather than the trepidation he had expected, Miss Taylor moaned around his tongue and writhed against him, causing all further thought to flee. Like a man possessed, he began to pull her skirt up by big handfuls, never breaking their kiss. She sensed his direction and began to help him, holding the skirt for him once it reached the top of her thighs.
Then, his fingers found her drawers, wove inside, and caressed the curls masking her core. Her body jerked. Her hips canted forward. She deepened the kiss.
Mr. Weston felt himself the most blessed of men. She was so responsive; not the least shy. And as his fingers parted her flesh and stroked her intimately, he discovered just how responsive she was. She was soaking for him.
Mr. Weston groaned as a fine tremor set into his limbs, and he begged for control. He stroked her bundle of nerves back and forth, and she began to move her hips in time with him. And then suddenly, her hands left his hair and arrived at the fall of his breeches.
With a shuddering breath, Mr. Weston pulled from the kiss. “My darling, you mustn’t. I do not know how much more I can take and remain a gentleman.” Truly, he could probably not be called a gentleman now, what with his fingers stroking inside his future wife’s drawers.
Her hands did not desist. “I have been dreaming of touching you for years,” she whispered breathlessly. “I am to be your wife.”
Her fingers stroked his rigid shaft lightly, wrenching a groan from his chest. “Yes, you are.”
“Then love me now. Do not make me wait any more.”
He had barely needed convincing before, ready to give in with the light stroke of her fingers, but hearing her breathless plea —
Mr. Weston broke. His lips crashed back to hers. His arms surrounded her in a rough embrace. He lowered her to the ground and settled on top of her, allowing his hips to sink between her thighs.
If he thought she was beautiful before, nothing compared to the sight that met him when he pulled from their kiss. Her beautiful chestnut hair spread around her in a halo, the sun shining through the locks and setting them afire. Her brown eyes sparkled beneath her nearly closed lids. Her lips were wet and plumped from his kisses. She licked them as her hands returned to the front of his breeches. Her first sign of nervousness manifested itself with fingers that could not work the buttons.
Mr. Weston laid a hand over hers to discover that they were shaking badly. “Oh, my love, we can stop now,” he said with a gentle smile.
“No!” she said loudly with a blush. “No,” she said again softer with an embarrassed smile. “Only help me with the buttons?”
He looked at her closely for several seconds, and when her eyes flashed and she bit into her bottom lip while moving her hips against his impatiently, he determined she was in earnest. His smile grew slightly as he began to unbutton himself. Her fingers eagerly sought the skin he was revealing, and when her fingertips brushed against him skin-to-skin for the first time, Mr. Weston discovered himself questioning his mortality. She tugged his shaft free, and he quickly wrapped his fingers around hers and shewed her how to touch him. She quickly picked up on the rhythm that had his eyes rolling back in his head, and he caught himself with braced arms as he fell forward to kiss her once again.
Before he knew it, she was placing the head of his shaft at her entrance and tilting her hips wantonly. With a groan, he followed her urging and entered her slowly until he was stopped by her maidenhead.
He sucked in a breath, pulling back to look into her eyes. She was virgin. Oh, he had hoped, but had not expected. “Oh, my darling,” he breathed before surging forward and claiming her as his for all eternity.
She did not cry out as he feared she would do, but she did stiffen and bury her face in his throat. He shushed her gently and kissed her hair. “I love you so,” he whispered. And then he began to move. Slowly at first, but once she had gotten over the pain, she began to meet his thrusts vigorously. And her soft moans were driving him to heights of passion he had never before experienced. His thrusts grew more desperate, and it was by pure luck that she reached her peak before he did. She grabbed two fistfuls of his jacket, threw her head back, and cried out his name. His given name.
It sent him over the precipice. He ground against her as he poured himself into her, pressing an open-mouthed kiss to the hallow of her throat.
He held her afterwards for as long as he could. It was Emma’s voice calling for her friend from the garden that got them to move. They rushed to their feet in a hurry, and Mr. Weston helped her straighten her dress. Then, with a passionate kiss, he allowed her to leave the shelter of the willow tree and seek out Emma’s call.
He had to remain propped against the tree’s trunk for some time to come before he could tear himself away from the home of his beloved.
It was with trembling legs that Miss Taylor returned to the house some hour after leaving it to tell the Woodhouses her happy news of impending matrimony.
Emma had greeted her with a warm embrace and a teasing smile as she pulled a leaf from Miss Taylor’s hair. Emma’s heart was filled with happiness and self-adulation over a match well-made, and she could never imagine being happier than she was in that moment, celebrating her good fortune and the good fortune of her dear friend.
It was Miss Taylor’s loss which first brought grief. It was on the wedding-day of this beloved friend that Emma first sat in mournful thought of any continuance. The wedding over, and the bride-people gone, her father and herself were left to dine together, with no prospect of a third to cheer a long evening. Her father composed himself to sleep after dinner, as usual, and she had then only to sit and think of what she had lost.
The event had every promise of happiness for her friend. Mr. Weston was a man of unexceptionable character, easy fortune, suitable age, and pleasant manners; and there was some satisfaction in considering with what self-denying, generous friendship she had always wished and promoted the match; but it was a black morning’s work for her. The want of Miss Taylor would be felt every hour of every day. She recalled her past kindness — the kindness, the affection of sixteen years — how she had taught and how she had played with her from fiv
e years old — how she had devoted all her powers to attach and amuse her in health — and how nursed her through the various illnesses of childhood. A large debt of gratitude was owing here; but the intercourse of the last seven years, the equal footing and perfect unreserve which had soon followed Isabella’s marriage, on their being left to each other, was yet a dearer, tenderer recollection. She had been a friend and companion such as few possessed: intelligent, well-informed, useful, gentle, knowing all the ways of the family, interested in all its concerns, and peculiarly interested in herself, in every pleasure, every scheme of hers — one to whom she could speak every thought as it arose, and who had such an affection for her as could never find fault.
How was she to bear the change? It was true that her friend was going only half a mile from them; but Emma was aware that great must be the difference between a Mrs. Weston, only half a mile from them, and a Miss Taylor in the house; and with all her advantages, natural and domestic, she was now in great danger of suffering from intellectual solitude. She dearly loved her father, but he was no companion for her. He could not meet her in conversation, rational or playful.
The evil of the actual disparity in their ages (and Mr. Woodhouse had not married early) was much increased by his constitution and habits; for having been a valetudinarian all his life, without activity of mind or body, he was a much older man in ways than in years; and though everywhere beloved for the friendliness of his heart and his amiable temper, his talents could not have recommended him at any time.
Her sister, though comparatively but little removed by matrimony, being settled in London, only sixteen miles off, was much beyond her daily reach; and many a long October and November evening must be struggled through at Hartfield, before Christmas brought the next visit from Isabella and her husband, and their little children, to fill the house, and give her pleasant society again.
Highbury, the large and populous village, almost amounting to a town, to which Hartfield, in spite of its separate lawn, and shrubberies, and name, did really belong, afforded her no equals. The Woodhouses were first in consequence there. All looked up to them. She had many acquaintance in the place, for her father was universally civil, but not one among them who could be accepted in lieu of Miss Taylor for even half a day. It was a melancholy change; and Emma could not but sigh over it, and wish for impossible things, till her father awoke, and made it necessary to be cheerful. His spirits required support. He was a nervous man, easily depressed; fond of every body that he was used to, and hating to part with them; hating change of every kind. Matrimony, as the origin of change, was always disagreeable; and he was by no means yet reconciled to his own daughter’s marrying, nor could ever speak of her but with compassion, though it had been entirely a match of affection, when he was now obliged to part with Miss Taylor too; and from his habits of gentle selfishness, and of being never able to suppose that other people could feel differently from himself, he was very much disposed to think Miss Taylor had done as sad a thing for herself as for them, and would have been a great deal happier if she had spent all the rest of her life at Hartfield. Emma smiled and chatted as cheerfully as she could, to keep him from such thoughts; but when tea came, it was impossible for him not to say exactly as he had said at dinner,
“Poor Miss Taylor! I wish she were here again. What a pity it is that Mr. Weston ever thought of her!”
“I cannot agree with you, papa; you know I cannot. Mr. Weston is such a good-humoured, pleasant, excellent man, that he thoroughly deserves a good wife; and you would not have had Miss Taylor live with us forever, and bear all my odd humours, when she might have a house of her own?”
“A house of her own! But where is the advantage of a house of her own? This is three times as large. And you have never any odd humours, my dear.”
“How often we shall be going to see them, and they coming to see us! We shall be always meeting! We must begin; we must go and pay our wedding visit very soon.”
“My dear, how am I to get so far? Randalls is such a distance. I could not walk half so far.”
“No, papa, nobody thought of your walking. We must go in the carriage, to be sure.”
“The carriage! But James will not like to put the horses to for such a little way; and where are the poor horses to be while we are paying our visit?”
“They are to be put into Mr. Weston’s stable, papa. You know we have settled all that already. We talked it all over with Mr. Weston last night. And as for James, you may be very sure he will always like going to Randalls, because of his daughter’s being housemaid there. I only doubt whether he will ever take us anywhere else. That was your doing, papa. You got Hannah that good place. Nobody thought of Hannah till you mentioned her — James is so obliged to you!”
“I am very glad I did think of her. It was very lucky, for I would not have had poor James think himself slighted upon any account; and I am sure she will make a very good servant: she is a civil, pretty-spoken girl; I have a great opinion of her. Whenever I see her, she always curtseys and asks me how I do, in a very pretty manner; and when you have had her here to do needlework, I observe she always turns the lock of the door the right way and never bangs it. I am sure she will be an excellent servant; and it will be a great comfort to poor Miss Taylor to have somebody about her that she is used to see. Whenever James goes over to see his daughter, you know, she will be hearing of us. He will be able to tell her how we all are.”
Emma spared no exertions to maintain this happier flow of ideas, and hoped, by the help of backgammon, to get her father tolerably through the evening, and be attacked by no regrets but her own. The backgammon-table was placed; but a visitor immediately afterwards walked in and made it unnecessary.
Mr. Knightley — a sensible man about seven or eight-and-thirty with thick brown hair that sometimes fell over his forehead, warm brown eyes framed by long lashes, and an active gentleman’s build from his personal inclination to ride his horse everywhere — was not only a very old and intimate friend of the family, but particularly connected with it, as the elder brother of Isabella’s husband. He lived about a mile from Highbury, was a frequent visitor, and always welcome, and at this time more welcome than usual, as coming directly from their mutual connexions in London. He had returned to a late dinner, after some days’ absence, and now walked up to Hartfield to say that all were well in Brunswick Square. It was a happy circumstance, and animated Mr. Woodhouse for some time. Mr. Knightley had a cheerful manner, which always did him good; and his many inquiries after “poor Isabella” and her children were answered most satisfactorily. When this was over, Mr. Woodhouse gratefully observed, “It is very kind of you, Mr. Knightley, to come out at this late hour to call upon us. I am afraid you must have had a shocking walk.”
“Not at all, sir,” he said with a wink in Emma’s direction “It is a beautiful moonlight night; and so mild that I must draw back from your great fire.”
Emma frowned. So mild? She herself was feeling rather heated. A flare of heat had shot up her spine oddly enough at the same moment as that wink of Mr. Knightley’s. She fanned her neck with one hand as her father quickly settled into his favorite topic of weather and all of the consummate ways it could affect one’s health.
“But you must have found it very damp and dirty. I wish you may not catch cold.”
“Dirty, sir! Look at my shoes. Not a speck on them.”
“Well! that is quite surprising, for we have had a vast deal of rain here. It rained dreadfully hard for half an hour while we were at breakfast. I wanted them to put off the wedding.”
“By the bye — I have not wished you joy.” His lips twitched with suppressed humour. “Being pretty well aware of what sort of joy you must both be feeling, I have been in no hurry with my congratulations; but I hope it all went off tolerably well. How did you all behave? Who cried most?”
“Ah! poor Miss Taylor! ‘Tis a sad business.”
“Poor Mr. and Miss Woodhouse, if you please; but I cannot possibly sa
y ‘poor Miss Taylor.’ I have a great regard for you and Emma; but when it comes to the question of dependence or independence! At any rate, it must be better to have only one to please than two.”
“Especially when one of those two is such a fanciful, troublesome creature!” said Emma playfully, leaning forward to tease Mr. Knightley with a coquettish smile. “That is what you have in your head, I know — and what you would certainly say if my father were not by.”
Mr. Knightley’s brows rose at her final words, and Emma could almost swear that his gaze shifted as he looked at her; became more heated somehow. And then that gaze dipped to her lips, leaving Emma quite breathless. Why did she have a feeling that if her father were indeed not near, she would not have gotten away with such close proximity without some sort of consequence? And why did she have the feeling that she would not have minded at all the consequence Mr. Knightley’s sudden sharp gaze seemed to promise? Oh heavens, this close, he smelled far too good to ignore. She leaned in even further, then jumped back in alarm as her father resumed the conversation, jerking her from her foolish reverie.
“I believe it is very true, my dear, indeed,” said Mr. Woodhouse, with a sigh. “I am afraid I am sometimes very fanciful and troublesome.”
“My dearest papa! You do not think I could mean you, or suppose Mr. Knightley to mean you. What a horrible idea! Oh no! I meant only myself. Mr. Knightley loves to find fault with me, you know — in a joke — it is all a joke. We always say what we like to one another.”
Mr. Knightley, in fact, was one of the few people who could see faults in Emma Woodhouse, and the only one who ever told her of them: and though this was not particularly agreeable to Emma herself, she knew it would be so much less so to her father, that she would not have him really suspect such a circumstance as her not being thought perfect by every body. Besides, when one was as perfect as Mr. Knightley, correction was tolerable.
The Count of Monte Cristo (The Wild and Wanton Edition) Page 32