Sapphire

by Rosemary Rogers

  “Damn, but you’re a fast learner,” he moaned, his eyes closed.

  She lowered herself, flattening her body over his, trying to remain in control of his mounting pleasure and her own. “Hush,” Sapphire whispered in his ear, teasing it with the tip of her tongue.

  And then she sat up again and began to move over him. She said she didn’t know what to do and she didn’t, at least not in her mind, but her body seemed to know. She moved rhythmically, slower, then faster, then slowly again.

  “Roll over,” Blake ordered gruffly after some time, resting both hands on her hips.

  But she only smiled, slowed her movement and covered his face with light kisses. “How will I learn if I don’t practice?” she teased.

  So once more she brought him to the brink, but this time, she let her own control slip. She moved faster and faster, laying her body out flat over his, molding her soft curves to his hard form. When she cried out and heard him echo her, waves of pleasure crashed over her, leaving her shuddering, panting.

  “Shh,” Blake soothed as he eased her to the floor, rolling onto his side and drawing her against him. He kissed her closed eyelids, her cheek, her chin, the tip of her nose.

  “No one ever told me it would be like this,” she said when she finally found her voice. Her eyes were closed still, and she reveled in the feel of Blake’s arm securely around her, his warm breath on her skin.

  “It isn’t usually,” he murmured, kissing her shoulder.

  She wanted to ask him what he meant, but she didn’t. Maybe because she was afraid.

  The day before they were scheduled to reach Boston Harbor was a rainy one, so Blake and Sapphire spent it alone in their cozy cabin, reading, sometimes aloud to each other, making love and just talking. It was late afternoon and Sapphire lay on the bed in only her shirt, which was so long that it hung past her hips. She rested on her side, reading one of Blake’s books by a James Fennimore Cooper called The Prairie. She was enjoying it a great deal as it gave a fascinating look at America and the adventures it had to offer.

  But Sapphire was bored of reading, bored of being cooped up in the cabin all day, and was a little anxious about arriving in Boston tomorrow. She and Blake had not talked about what would happen when they got there. He’d promised he would send her back to England, so she’d considered staying a few days, perhaps a week or so. He’d talked so much about Boston and New York that Sapphire was curious about both cities and saw no reason why she shouldn’t see them after coming such a long way. But they needed to discuss the fact that she had no intention of being his mistress, no matter how much she enjoyed his company in or out of bed.

  She laid the book down on the bed and looked at Blake. He was reading with one bare foot propped on the desk. A breeze came through the porthole and ruffled the hair around his face, giving him a relaxed, almost carefree appearance.

  Sapphire realized that she hadn’t brought the subject up because she didn’t want to fight with him. At least for a little while. For a short time it had just been the two them and this cabin, this ship, their books, their laughter and their lovemaking. But time could not stand still and nothing that had taken place in this bed could change who she was. Or who she was determined to be.

  “Blake,” she said.

  He continued to read.

  “Blake,” she repeated a little louder.

  “Yes?”

  “Blake, I need to talk to you.”

  He must have noticed the seriousness of her tone because he sighed and slowly closed the book. “Yes?”

  “I want you to come here.” She patted the bed. “Sit with me.”

  “I’d rather stay here,” he said stubbornly.

  Still lying on her side, her head propped up by one hand, she patted the bed again.

  Another sigh ensued as Blake slowly rose and came to sit on the edge of the bed. He looked at the door, not at her.

  “We need to talk about what’s going to happen when we get off the boat tomorrow.”

  “We’re going to my home. I think you’ll like it. It’s built on the shore with an amazing view. I told you many of the rooms are not yet furnished, but I was hoping you might help me with that. I just have the time to consider what a room needs and then—”

  She laid her hand on his forearm, his dark hairs teasing her palm. “Blake, you know I’m not talking about the house. I’m talking about me. You. You know I cannot be your mistress.”

  “Can’t or won’t?”

  This time, it was Sapphire who sighed. She withdrew her hand from him and lay back on the bunk. “Both,” she said, imitating Blake’s method of speaking slowly, taking time to decide exactly what she would say. “I am Lord Wessex’s only child, the daughter of Edward and Sophie Thixton. I can be no man’s whore.”

  He frowned, rising from the bunk, shoving his hands into the pockets of his trousers. “You know, you don’t need to do this. I know you’re a bright woman, Sapphire. Clever. Amusing. A bit of an entrepreneur yourself.” He began to pace between the door and the bunk. “But this claim of yours is not going to work with me. In fact, it angers me. It angers me that no matter what I offer you, you say it’s not enough. You’re greedy.”

  “I am not greedy,” she said, trying to control her emotions. She stared at the low ceiling as she listened to him pace. “I only ask for what is mine. All I ask is that you acknowledge the truth.”

  “And all I ask is that you tell the truth.”

  She fought the urge to snap at him; anger had gotten her nowhere with Blake Thixton. She needed to remain as calm as he was. “When we disembark tomorrow, I’ll need clothing fit for a woman of my station,” she instructed. “Once we arrive at your home, where I will sleep in a room separate from yours, we can discuss this matter further.”

  “Fine,” he said.

  She rolled onto her side to look at him. “Fine?”

  “Fine.” He opened the door. “I’m going topside for some air.”

  She glanced at the porthole left slightly ajar and it was wet. “It’s still raining out.”

  “I’ll be back in a little while.”

  Sapphire wanted to go with him, but instead she just rolled onto her back again and listened to the retreat of his footsteps down the passageway. Listened, and refused to let herself cry.

  19

  By the time Sapphire woke the following morning, Blake was gone, as were the letters she had written to Armand and Aunt Lucia to be posted the moment they hit dry land. They had sailed to the mouth of the harbor in the middle of the night, and after standing on the bow together, watching as the few lights of the city grew closer, they had retired to their cabin. They’d made love, but Blake had remained emotionally distant from her, and that morning she rose and prepared for the day with great trepidation.

  She drank the coffee Blake had left her but only nibbled on the bread, her stomach too nervous for anything more. She could feel the motion of the ship as it was towed to the docks in the harbor, but she did not go topside for fear someone might see her dressed in cabin boy’s clothes. Once she stepped foot off this ship, no one would know her or what had taken place this last fortnight. She intended to resume the life she had before Blake had carried her onto the ship in the middle of the night.

  Retrieving Blake’s silver-handled hairbrush from the chest he had packed the previous day, she sat cross-legged on the bed and brushed her hair, waiting for the clothing Blake had promised he’d send for by dory first thing this morning.

  Time seemed to drag. She could hear the rush of the water against the hull, the frenzied activity on deck and the excited shouts of sailors as the ship docked. She wanted so badly to be topside and see all there was to see in Boston Harbor, but she would not give in to her own inquisitiveness; she had to be dressed properly to go ashore as Lord Wessex’s daughter, rather than some dockside trollop.

  At the sound of Blake’s familiar footsteps in the passageway, Sapphire dropped the brush and quickly drew her hair back in a simple knot.
By the time he came through the door, she was standing in bare feet, hands behind her back, waiting anxiously.

  “We can disembark as soon as you’re dressed,” he said, tossing a bundle on the bed beside her. He had donned a pair of dark trousers and coat and wore a bowler-style hat on his head. With his creamy white shirt and scowl, he looked every bit the entrepreneur and respected businessman that he was, and nothing like the man who had held her in his arms a few nights ago, twisting her hair around his finger, than pulling to watch the curl bounce. “The carriage is already on the dock, as is my assistant.”

  Sapphire turned to stare at the bundle of clothing that could not possibly be a lady’s gown and petticoats; it was too small. “Your assistant?” she asked, stunned by the parcel on the bed.

  “Mr. Givens. He was my father’s assistant. Not a terribly jolly fellow, but a good worker. He’s very loyal.” He said this without any emotion.

  Sapphire tugged at the string tied around the parcel and the paper fell away to reveal a woman’s plain gray woolen skirt, a long-sleeved cotton blouse that had seen better days and an apron. There were black stockings, a pair of worn black shoes and a mobcap, as well. Maids’ clothes—and not even clothing fit for a lady’s maid. This was the uniform of the lowliest household servant—the scullery girl. She stared at the clothes for a moment, then turned to Blake, her eyes blazing. “What is this?” she demanded.

  “Clothes,” he answered plainly.

  She gritted her teeth. “I can see that.”

  “You ask for clothing befitting of your station, Sapphire.” He raised a hand. “And I have provided them, as promised.”

  “You son of a—” She caught herself before the words slipped out and she could not take them back. Ladies did not curse, no matter how angry they might become. “I’m not wearing these,” she said stubbornly. “I am Lord Wessex’s daughter, I am not a maid, and I will not wear those clothes!”

  “So wear what you have on.” He laid his hand on the doorknob.

  “I can’t wear this!” She stepped back, spreading her arms. “I can’t be seen on the street in men’s clothing. I…I’d be arrested for indecency.” She indicated the transparency of the shirt by tugging on it. “I can’t enter your house, be seen by your assistant, your household staff in this. What will they think of me?”

  “Sapphire, the carriage is leaving for Beacon Hill in five minutes, with or without you.” He opened the door and stopped, turning back. “Unless, of course, you’re just Sapphire Fabergine, a clever girl who has caught my eye.” He raised his brows. “My mistress.”

  Five minutes later, Sapphire walked over the gangplank behind Blake and onto the dock dressed in the maid’s clothing, so angry that she thought the fire in her eyes might set the back of his fancy coat aflame.

  “Good to have you back, sir,” greeted a man some years older than Blake who stood next to the large and obviously quite expensive carriage. He would have been pleasant enough looking had he not been scowling worse than Blake. He did not speak to her, nor did Blake make introductions.

  Inside the roomy carriage, Sapphire sat as far from Blake on the leather bench seat as she could get. As they rode down the bustling city street, she looked out the window. Like London, the avenues were teeming with vehicles and pedestrians. There were fancy carriages like the one they rode in, but also simple wagons pulled by sway-backed nags and handcarts being steered by boys. There were common men and women dressed in simple clothes, carrying sacks, bags, sides of beef and buckets of coal. But walking beside them were men dressed like Blake in tailored black suits and women in elegant morning gowns, wearing bonnets and carrying parasols to protect their skin from the summer sun. Despite the fact that they were at the harbor—usually the poorest, most run-down district in a city—these Americans had a different air about them. The venders selling meat pies, the slave boy carrying a parcel of letters, even the dockworkers seemed less dirty, less desperate. There was none of the filth and stench of London. Pigs ran loose in the streets, as did chickens, and she even saw a nanny goat standing atop a pile of barrels, but the streets were relatively clean, and most of the boys chasing one another among the bales and boxes wore shoes. She hadn’t known what to expect in Boston, but the seemingly good conditions of the common people was a welcome surprise. She’d found London exhilarating but a little sad, and her first glimpse of Blake’s city revealed promise.

  The skyline rapidly changed once they were away from the docks, and Sapphire found herself craning her neck, so fascinated that she pushed aside the brocade curtains to get a better view. The buildings were tall, beautiful and so clean compared to the soot-sullied structures of London. And the architecture was remarkable. Sapphire had never seen herself as a student of architecture, though Armand had insisted she be knowledgeable about a host of subjects women did not normally familiarize themselves with, and architecture had been one of them. “My goodness,” she heard herself say. “The buildings are so beautiful. That’s Greek Revival, isn’t it?” She pointed as they passed an institute of banking.

  Blake and Mr. Givens had been talking about various matters of business. Now Blake turned to her. “Yes, it is,” he said, seeming surprised by her knowledge.

  “And look at that.” Without thinking, she rose on her knees on the bench. “What is that? The gold dome is so exquisitely beautiful.”

  “Our state house.” Blake pinched the pleat of his trouser pant leg and crossed his legs.

  “Neoclassical?” she asked, turning her head as they sailed by the newly constructed building.

  “Yes, I suppose it is.” Again, he sounded surprised. “The architect was Charles Bullfinch. He designed many buildings here in Boston. Fascinating man. You would like him. I could introduce you—he’s quite a conversationalist.”

  Sapphire saw Mr. Givens give Blake a look, as if questioning why he would speak to a serving girl this way. She had half a mind to defend herself but decided she wouldn’t give Blake the pleasure of hearing her try to explain why she was wearing these ridiculous clothes. She’d let Blake win this game, but once they arrived at the house and he found her some decent clothing, Mr. Givens would learn the truth of who she was.

  “I’d like to see some of those buildings,” she told Blake. “Armand had some sketchbooks on Greek Revival architecture, and I must admit I’m partial to that style.” She half smiled. “Perhaps because of my penchant to Greek tragedies.”

  Again, Givens’s thin brows arched.

  “If you like Greek Revival, you will truly admire the house.” He lifted a finger to point ahead. “We’re approaching it now. This place is called Beacon Hill and it is bordered by the Charles River. In the 1780s they actually burned fires up here to warn ships of how close the shore was. Bullfinch and a partner cut about sixty feet off the top of the steep hill where you see the houses there. Town houses were just finished a few years ago there at the top at Louisburg Square.”

  “And your house is there?” she asked, a little amazed a single man would choose such an exclusive area of a city to build a house in.

  He nodded, glancing away from the window. “The architect’s name is Alexander Parris. He’s probably considered the best in America today. He stopped building houses a few years ago as he’s engaged with federal work, but he did this as a favor. He and my father were friends.”

  The carriage was slowly climbing the hill and Sapphire struggled to try to see to the top. “Which house is yours?”

  “The one with the gray stone and the double bays rising above the roofline.” He nodded in the direction of a magnificent house built of granite with its rusticated front wall that gave it a monumental tone. There were cartouches on the bowed front, which Sapphire thought to be French in design, but somehow the house still seemed to fit among the neighboring federalist-style homes.

  “It’s just called the Thixton House. We Americans are not like the English, naming houses with creativity.” The carriage pulled up to the front door of the massive three-s
tory house overlooking the bay, and several servants ran to catch the horses’ harnesses. “And here we are.”

  The moment the carriage rolled to a stop, the door swung open. “Welcome home, Mr. Thixton,” said a young man dressed in a smart green livery.

  “Thank you, Billy.” Blake stepped out of the carriage and Mr. Givens followed, leaving Sapphire to exit on her own.

  They entered the house through massive double cedar doors which were opened by another male servant, also in dark green. “Welcome home, Mr. Thixton.”

  The same greeting was uttered with equal respect half a dozen more times before Mr. Givens left them in the enormous front hall. The moment they were alone, she pulled herself from the fascinating seascape oil paintings that hung on the walls in the entry room to confront Blake.

  “All right,” she said quietly. “You’ve had your fun. You’ve humiliated me in front of your assistant and your servants. I’d like proper clothing and I would like it now, please.”

  “You asked for clothing to fit your station, and I provided that. You are a simple girl, attempting to better yourself in the world, to rise above your birth…or are you my mistress?” He lifted an eyebrow.

  It took a moment for Sapphire to realize what he was saying. She could hear footsteps on the slate floor and the jangle of keys as someone approached from the long corridor. She lifted her chin to meet Blake’s eyes, and the determined look on his face angered her.

  “Say it,” he whispered. “That’s my housekeeper coming. Her name is Mrs. Dedrick and she’s a stickler for propriety. Maids don’t stand in the front hall talking with the master of the house.” He paused. “Not even maids I’ve brought with me from my new home in London.”

  She was so livid that she could barely speak. How dare he do this to her after what they had shared. How dare he! “I am not your mistress.”

  “My mistress would sleep in an elegant bedchamber on the third floor.” He indicated the wide, spiraling marble staircase in front of them. “She would wear gowns of the latest fashion and accompany me to the dinners, receptions and balls I am required regularly to attend as well as play hostess to the affairs I hold here in my home.”