Innocence and Impropriety

by Diane Gaston

  He stared blankly. He’d assumed she was a seductress from the moment he’d first seen her upon the balcony at Vauxhall.

  God help him. He had almost delivered a virgin to his employer. Worse, he’d deflowered her himself.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I went to the courtesan school because I had nowhere else to go. Letty had a terrible row with my father about me and I needed to be somewhere. And, besides, I was thinking I needed the polish Katy and Mary were talking of when I overheard them. I was thinking it would help me on the stage, and so it did, because Mr Hook thought I was worth hiring.’

  He refused to bear the total responsibility for what happened between them. He gave her a level stare. ‘You pushed yourself on me, Rose. Almost from the beginning. Were you trying to practise with me, so you would be ready for a marquess? Or did they not teach you in your courtesan school that virgins command a higher price?’

  She rose to her knees, eyes flashing. ‘I was not so foolish, Flynn, to be thinking I could sing on stage and not lose my virtue some time. Lord knows, at school—at Killyleagh—they drummed into us what girls like that were. Trouble was, I wanted to be one of those girls. My mother was one of those girls. All I was hoping was the man I bedded would be—would be someone I could have regard for. Like in the story-books, you know. Romantic. Do you see?’

  ‘So I was to be your hero in some blasted Minerva Press novel?’ He gave a dry laugh.

  She lifted her chin. ‘I thought you a man I could have regard for.’

  He bowed his head. Not only had he taken her virtue, he’d stolen her affection as well.

  With great dignity, she climbed off the bed and reached for her shift. Turning away from him, she let the bed linens slip from her body, revealing her creamy skin and a figure that was sheer perfection. The image of her dancing playfully for him just a few moments before returned. He’d felt joyous at seeing her. Had rejoiced at holding her in his arms, at making love to her. He’d held at bay the shattering knowledge that it would be Tanner making love to her in two days’ time. How could he pass her off to Tanner now?

  He whirled on her. ‘If you have such regard for me, how can you go from my bed into Tanner’s in the space of a few days?’

  She looked as if she were glass about to shatter. ‘What choice do I have?’

  He was forced to avert his eyes.

  Her voice was quiet. ‘What they did not teach me in courtesan school was that your feelings for a man was what made you want to have intimacies with him.’ She gave a choking sound. ‘I want this with you, Flynn. Maybe I will never truly want it with another man, but I want it with you.’ She swallowed. ‘I only had this one chance.’

  He felt as if he’d been pushed into a dark pit and was still falling, deeper and deeper into blackness. Everything she said made painful sense. It was he who had transgressed, the smart, ever-efficient Flynn who never missed an opportunity to be with her. He even used her dreams as a reason to tie her closer to him. Had he wished, he could have done his employer’s bidding without making himself so indispensable.

  ‘I am sorry, Rose,’ he said in a soft voice. ‘I’ve wronged you and I am sorry. I did not mean the words I’ve said to you. I am merely angry at myself for not knowing…’

  The air seemed to go out of her, and he wanted to wrap his arms around her and never release her. Like a shaft of light, it came to him what he must do. What he most desired to do.

  It took all his effort to keep from shouting it out loud to her. He must not be heedless. He must not tell her now. He must show her first.

  ‘Rose?’

  As her shift slipped down over her body, she turned her head.

  ‘Are you still wanting me, Rose O’Keefe?’ he asked, using the brogue he’d so carefully erased from his speech.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. She answered him in a serious voice. ‘I’m still wanting you, Jameson Flynn.’

  Chapter Eighteen

  Flynn crossed the room to her, lifting her chin with his fingers. He leaned down and kissed her, hoping she could feel his apology, his promise.

  Their gaiety had fled, but had turned into something far more precious to him. He was no hero in a Minerva Press novel, but his heart had finally been opened. He’d been telling himself it was mere base desire, borne of hearing her sing a song.

  ‘Cupid oft in ambush lies…’ She’d sung those words that first night, and the cherub had certainly struck Flynn with his arrow, but he’d not known until now that the arrow carried love.

  He would give his love back to her, show her with all the passion exploding inside him. Passion for her and for life. It had been so long since he’d wanted merely to celebrate life.

  He tore his shirt away and lifted her on to the bed. Lying next to her, he slipped his hands under the skirt of her shift, lifting it higher and higher until he pulled it over her head. This time he explored her reverently, gently. She was subdued and wary, and he mentally kicked himself for making her so.

  She accepted his touch, but passively, and he could not blame her. He would not rush her, though, because they would have plenty of time to retrieve the joy he’d chased away.

  Slowly she came alive beneath his touch, her back arching, her lips returning his kisses, but he still waited, allowing her to show him when she was ready.

  She made an urgent sound and grasped at him, and he knew the time was right. He positioned himself over her again, but gazed into her eyes.

  ‘I love you, Rose,’ he murmured, kissing her again.

  When he broke off the kiss, tears had pooled in the corners of her eyes, but she reached for him, and nothing in the world would keep him from giving her a woman’s pleasure.

  He entered her, mindful now that this part of lovemaking she’d never experienced before. She was moist and more than ready for him, but he moved with easy strokes, slowly, until she met his rhythm, the eternal rhythm between man and woman.

  Suddenly his own need took over and his pace quickened. She met him stroke for stroke until he felt her climax quiver against him and he exploded inside her.

  She cried out, as did he, in a blast of pleasure that sent him to heights he’d never imagined. While he crashed back to his senses, she still grasped him to her, still in the throes of her own ecstasy.

  When her body went limp, he collapsed on top of her, feeling triumphantly male for having pleased her so well. He slid off, gazing upon her face, flushed and glistening and beautiful.

  Her eyelids fluttered and she opened them to gaze back at him.

  ‘I’ll not be forgetting that, Rose,’ he murmured.

  ‘Nor I,’ she responded breathlessly.

  She nestled against him, her graceful hand resting on his chest. ‘Did I please you, Flynn?’

  He gave a rumbling laugh. ‘You pleased me very well.’ He kissed the top of her head.

  She gave a satisfied sigh. ‘I was expecting something good, but I’m thinking that this was even better.’

  ‘Are you feeling any pain?’ He was mindful that he’d not gone easy on her at the end.

  ‘No pain,’ she said.

  They lay there and Flynn thought he had never been more comfortable, more satisfied than at that moment. It reminded him of home, a place so familiar it inhabited the very pores of your skin, a place you knew you belonged. He felt as if his bones had left his body, his limbs were so relaxed, and he smiled, because he knew this time would not be the last.

  As if she read his mind, she stirred beside him, moving on top of him, straddling him. She leaned down to kiss him as he had kissed her before. He grew hard again.

  She noticed.

  Regarding him shyly, she said, ‘Harriette Wilson talked about the woman sitting on top.’

  He was half-embarrassed by her frankness, half-tantalized. ‘Did she now?’

  ‘She did.’ Her silken hair tickled his chest.

  He gave her a twisted smile. ‘And I suppose you’d be wanting to practise such a thing?’

  She grinned
at the return of his brogue. ‘I would, if you’d not be minding too much.’

  He kissed her, a hungry, demanding kiss. ‘I’d not be minding.’

  Rose lay in the bed, stretching luxuriously as she thought of what had transpired between her and Flynn. She’d imagined it would feel wonderful making love to him, but she’d never guessed it could be so magnificent, nor how it could change her. She rolled over, thinking of his touch, feeling her body come alive with the mere memory.

  ‘Here we are.’ Flynn appeared in the doorway, carrying a tray with the bread and cheese on it. The wine bottle was tucked under his arm and the stemmed glasses were between his fingers.

  She sat up. ‘I’m hungry.’

  He set the tray on the bed and kissed her. ‘I am hungry, too.’

  She grinned against his lips. ‘Perhaps there will be dessert.’

  He moved back, smiling ruefully. ‘Too much will leave you sore.’

  Rose was not certain she cared. She wished to feast the day through and worry later about whatever was to come after. She placed her palm on her belly, daring to hope a baby might come from this coupling with him.

  Tannerton would think the child his, she supposed. That thought disturbed her. If she bore Flynn’s baby she would want to shout it from the rooftops, not pretend it to be another man’s.

  She could use the skills Madame Bisou taught to prevent a child from Flynn, but she could not bear the thought of preventing something so wonderful. Prevent another man’s child, yes, but not Flynn’s.

  He poured the wine, and she glanced at him through her lashes. He might not realise it at the moment, but there would be more lovemaking before the day was done. She was hungry for him again, hungry for more memories to treasure in the desolation of future days. She loved what their lovemaking had done to him, making him relaxed and easy with her, even loosening his tongue into its brogue.

  They supped like lovers and talked as if the day would never end. At times Rose glanced at the window, seeing the changing sunlight, the reminder that time was passing, but she quickly turned away.

  She begged him for one more time of lovemaking, but he resisted her, insisting it would make her sore, vowing he would not give her pain. It occurred to her that he might be worried about Tannerton. Perhaps if she were sore, Tannerton would wonder why. Flynn would not want the marquess to guess at the events of this day, would he?

  She chastised herself. Flynn’s concern was for her, not worry over what the marquess would discover.

  They spent the afternoon in each other’s arms, and fell asleep in the warmth of each other’s bodies.

  Rose woke, noticing the light in the window had changed some more. She looked into his face and saw he was watching her with a contented expression.

  ‘How long did I sleep?’ she murmured.

  ‘An hour or more,’ he responded.

  She hated losing that much time with him.

  He toyed with a strand of her hair. ‘We must leave soon.’

  Her insides twisted. ‘Not yet.’

  He ran a finger down her cheek. ‘The hour is late.’

  ‘I do not care.’ She rolled over and began to stroke his chest with her fingers. She kissed his neck and let her fingers trail down his body.

  ‘Rose,’ he warned.

  ‘I do not care,’ she repeated.

  He made no effort to stop her.

  She was now glad of the lessons that had taught her how to please a man, because they had instructed her how to touch him, how to convince him that one more time of lovemaking would not, indeed, hurt.

  She let herself become very bold, touching the most male part of him, glorying in her power to arouse him.

  He gave no further argument, allowing her to explore him as wantonly as she wished, until suddenly he grabbed her and turned her on her back. He kissed her fiercely this time, as if their hunger for each other had not been slaked earlier that day—twice. This hunger came from it being their last time. She felt it, too, ached with the knowledge.

  She did not choose to hurry, but their urgency was borne of despair. She felt the need to grab all of him at once, to hold on to him and never let go.

  His touches were equally as driven, but so filled with passion that her senses were quickly roused to a fever pitch. This was frenzied lovemaking, ungovernable, unstoppable. She heard her own panting mingled with his, felt the dampness of his sweat against her own, smelled the musky scent they created. Even so he tried for restraint as he entered her. Even in this maelstrom, he sought not to hurt her.

  He need not worry. Her body was more than prepared for him, moist and slick with her need of him. Their coupling was as blazing as her feelings for him. It was fast and hard and rough.

  She’d thought he’d already shown her what passion could be, but she’d been wrong. This was different, something wild but freeing.

  He drove her higher and higher, until she called out his name, and her pleasure broke free, sparkling like the illuminations at Vauxhall, lighting the dark spaces of her loneliness, searing the memory on her soul.

  He spilled his seed inside her at the same moment, holding her even tighter as his pleasure rocked him, carrying her along as well.

  But, as it must, the ecstasy ceased, plummeting them back to reality. When they collapsed beside each other, Rose felt bereft. This was goodbye. This was the end. This was final.

  He gazed at her with an aching expression of love, one she tried to etch on her memory for ever.

  ‘We ought to get dressed,’ he said.

  She nodded.

  He got off the bed and walked over to the pitcher, wetting a cloth for her. She cleansed herself and stood, surveying the rumpled bed linens, stained with her blood and with other signs of what they had shared together.

  ‘What shall we do about the bed linens?’ she asked.

  He was donning his trousers and shirt. ‘I will take care of it, never fear.’

  She found her shift and slipped it on. He came to assist her with her corset. She blinked away tears as he helped her fasten it. He picked up her dress and held it so she could put it on.

  As he was tying the laces of her dress, she murmured, ‘I do not want this to end.’

  He turned her around and kissed her with exquisite gentleness. ‘It will not end.’

  ‘Oh, do not tease me.’ She stifled a sob, determined to be strong.

  ‘I do not tease you, Rose.’ He wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. ‘I, too, do not wish this to end. You must marry me so that we will have the rest of our lives for this.’

  She went still as a stone statue, unsure of what she heard. ‘Marry you?’

  He smiled. ‘I do not know why I did not think of it before. It is the only way—’

  She pulled away from him. ‘But you cannot mean it!’

  ‘Of course, I mean it,’ he said, reaching for her. ‘I love you, Rose.’

  She took a step back, shaking her head. ‘Is it because I was a virgin, Flynn? That is foolish.’

  ‘Not that.’ He watched her with wary eyes, his voice less certain.

  ‘But what of Tannerton?’ she asked.

  He shrugged. ‘He will fire me, I am certain, but that is of no consequence.’

  She wrinkled her brow and turned away from him, her mind whirling. She did not for once believe her virginity was not the cause. He was just the sort of man who would feel some foolish obligation for that reason. She ought to have realised he would experience some misguided sense of duty, but she’d thought the virtue of a woman on the stage meant little to any man. All she’d wanted was for him to be the first.

  She could not allow him to throw away everything for which he’d toiled. Not for her sake. She could not allow him to give up a prince for her. He did not yet know what he would give up, but she did.

  She girded her resolve. ‘I was not meaning what Tannerton would do to you, Flynn. I was meaning what the consequence would be for me.’

  He grew silent.

&nbs
p; Finally he spoke, his words as Irish as his birth. ‘I’m not understanding.’

  She set the expression on her face before turning to him and speaking in the same hardened tone used by Harriette Wilson. ‘Well, I would lose this house, would I not? And all the money Tannerton’s going to give me? I can live well on that, even when he tires of me, can I not? He would even pay so I can work at King’s Theatre, perhaps even something better.’

  A muscle flexed in his cheek. ‘Is that your worry, then?’

  She made herself laugh. ‘But of course, Flynn. Marriage to you—to any man—would be madness, would it not? We were taught that a courtesan has the best life. Her property is her own and no man can tell her what to do.’

  ‘A courtesan…’ His voice trailed off.

  She walked over to him, taking the risk of touching him, running her hand through his hair. She’d never precisely told him she loved him, as he had done while they made love. She’d held back, thinking it would protect her own heart when she was forced to say goodbye to him. Now she was glad she’d not told him she loved him, because it would make it better for him. She must convince him that it was not love she shared with him, but something more carnal.

  ‘I’m not saying I do not fancy you, Flynn. I do not care that you have no money, if you’ve a mind to visit me now and then. Lord Tannerton need never know.’

  He twisted away. ‘I’ll finish getting dressed and take you back to Madame Bisou’s.’

  Her heart was breaking into a thousand pieces. She pressed on, giving a loud sigh. ‘If you must. Though I would not mind it at all if we undressed again and returned to the bed.’

  She made herself want to cry, but her goal now was to convince him he must not give up his dreams for her.

  He turned to her with anger in his eyes, the anger of a lover scorned. She almost wished he would unleash that rage at her. She deserved to be punished for hurting him. He would never strike back at her. Never. And she loved him for that, even while she hated herself.