Hidden Paradise

by Janet Mullany

  He loosened his neckcloth. To hell with formalities. He was going back—or going forward, rather—to the twenty-first century. He unbuttoned his waistcoat. Things would change. He’d play the Austen game as required, but only for the reason he was here.

  The lodge came into view and with it a strange, tinny, discordant sound. Viv’s radio. How easy it was to become accustomed to silence, birdsong and the rustle of wind in leafy branches, the pad of leather-soled shoes on wood floors, the feminine whisper of cotton garments.

  He slid his coat off and banged on the lodge door before pushing it open.

  Viv, a cigarette in one side of her mouth and pins in the other, and wearing a tight-fitting pair of jeans and a navel-baring T-shirt, looked up. “Hello, big boy. Let me finish this.” She gestured to a dressmaker’s form and removed a pin from her mouth to attach a fold of fabric. “Pretty, isn’t it? Put your coat down. Carefully.” Task completed, she turned to him. “And what can I do for you?” She rested her elbows on the worktable, breasts thrust forward, legs apart, a blatant invitation.

  “What I should have done days ago.” He placed an item on the table, a small recorder, and pulled a reporter’s pad and pen from his breeches pocket.

  “Honeymoon’s over?” She reached to turn off the radio. “Thanks for asking. Of course this is a convenient time for me. Cup of tea? Fire away, Clark Kent.”

  He turned on the recorder. “Interview with costume mistress Viv Fairfield— Heck, what’s the date, Viv?”

  “Eighteenth.” She spooned tea into the teapot and grinned at him, then perched on one of the high stools at the table, ankles demurely crossed.

  * * *

  HE LEFT THE LODGE AN HOUR later, enthused by Viv’s love for her profession, impressed by her expertise and faintly annoyed that he’d let the interview slide for so long. After all, he was here to work, just as Viv was. And yet she’d managed to balance sexual gratification with a single-minded dedication to her craft that he couldn’t hope to match.

  He was excited to write this up. But first, he’d visit the bathhouse, once the pride and joy of the owners of the house. How many Georgian landowners had the fortune to possess a hot spring on their property? But instead of commercial development, the owners of Paradise Hall had chosen to dam the spring, creating a bathing pool for their own use. Peter and Chris, after consultation with historians and archaeologists, had built a simple round wooden structure with a vented roof to protect bathers’ privacy and make the hot spring usable for most of the year. The new adjoining building, built of local stone, contained a modern spa because, as they both said, Georgian women didn’t have a lot of fun stuff to do.

  Mac could see their point. Historical accuracy could only take you so far in a commercial venture. This wasn’t a crowd that would go for embroidery and crafts and piano practice. He nodded to a couple of spa employees who sat outside in the sun, their cigarettes incongruous with their mobcaps and gowns, and lifted the latch to the bathhouse door. Inside, it was dim and moist, steam rising from the water. A pile of towels lay on a bench. He sat in one of the wooden cubicles and toed off his boots. The water held a faint scent of musk and sulphur and a square of blue sky showed through the vent in the roof. Two hundred years ago, they would probably have drunk it, as well as bathed in it. Clothes off, towel nearby just in case anyone wandered in, he descended the stone steps into water that was the temperature of a hot bath, soothing and peaceful. In the middle, where it was deepest, you could float, buoyed by the high mineral content, or lounge on the stone steps, cork pillows covered in toweling provided for your comfort. He wedged a pillow behind the back of his neck and stretched out. Nice.

  He smiled at the large sign on the wall that announced, in a florid italic, that ladies and gentlemen who chose to bathe should remain within the bounds of decency—drawers or shifts, depending on gender. What a joke. Those thin cotton garments would be transparent within seconds. He liked the idea of a woman rising from the depths, a wet shift clinging to her breasts, hair like dark seaweed, a seductive mermaid sheathed in folds of transparent linen. He closed his eyes and let himself enjoy the image.

  * * *

  Lou

  TWO HOURS TO DRESS FOR DINNER was a little excessive if you weren’t messing around with cosmetics, merely planning to change a gown. Lou wondered if it had been built into the day as an official sex break. What an odd combination of activities Peter and Chris had put together—high culture with a bedside drawer of condoms. Last night’s piano performance had starred an up-and-coming young European pianist, borrowed from a music festival nearby, and Lou had been sorry to have missed it. Or this, a historically correct bathhouse, based on Thomas Jefferson’s in Virginia, next door to a state-of-the-art spa.

  As she approached, a woman in a print gown and mobcap looked up guiltily as she stubbed out her cigarette in a clay container holding a rosebush. “We’re closing in fifteen minutes, ma’am. Do you have an appointment?”

  “No. Another time, maybe.”

  “Bathhouse is still open if you’re interested. Have a good evening, ma’am.” She darted back inside the modern building.

  Lou lifted the latch to the bathhouse door and slipped inside into a moist, warm atmosphere. As her eyes became accustomed to the light, she realized with a shock that she wasn’t alone. A man lay half in and half out of the water, one knee bent, dark hair tumbling over his forehead, which gleamed with a slight sheen of sweat. Adonis, she thought. Her breath caught at his beauty, the ivory and shadow of his body, that familiar flex of the forearm. But this time, he was caught up in his own pleasure, fist wrapped around his cock. His rib cage lifted as he sucked in a breath, then fell as he released it in a sigh. This was no urgent rush to release but a deliberate, leisurely quest for pleasure, a slow sensual slide of his fingers, thumb flicking up to massage the sensitive area beneath the tip.

  She must have made some sort of sound. He froze, eyes flying open, head turning.

  “Oh, shit,” he said, and dropped his other forearm over his eyes.

  “I’m sorry. I—” She backed away, but couldn’t stop herself staring at him. “You’re so beautiful.” There. It was said.

  “What?” He lowered his forearm and blinked at her. His other hand, meanwhile, continued its slow slide. “Give me a moment, will you?”

  She stood, staring at his hand, the slick of dark hair on his chest, the elegant lines and planes of his body. She’d seen him partially undressed, but naked and pale in the dim light, caught at this most intimate of activities, his nude body had a vulnerability that touched her. “Would you like…” she said as a slow heat rose in her.

  “What I’d like, Lou, is either privacy to finish this off or for you to join me. Could you make a quick decision?”

  “I suppose I owe you from this morning.”

  He frowned. “It’s not a barter system. It’s sex. What would you like?”

  “I’d like to touch you.”

  “Okay.” He stroked himself, but his demeanor had changed. Now the act was provocative, seductive, playing to her. “Better get your dress off. It might get wet. Not just from the water.” He grinned, now playful.

  She unpinned her gown and tossed it onto a bench in one of the cubicles where she sat to unlace her shoes, and rolled her stockings down. Petticoat and stays off, she hesitated.

  “Up to you,” he said. “Depends whether you want to follow the rules.” He nodded toward the sign on the wall.

  She hesitated. It
had been so long since she’d been naked for a man. Her body was okay, she knew, lean and strong, and he’d seen most of it. He might as well see the rest, and didn’t the situation demand a sort of fair play—his nakedness in exchange for hers? She pulled the shift off over her head and saw his eyes darken and his hand tighten around his cock.

  “Oh, yeah,” he said dreamily, a sigh of admiration and pleasure. “Come here.”

  She walked toward him, nipples tightening beneath his gaze, hips automatically adopting a sway, enjoying the heat in his eyes, the catch of his teeth on his lip. She knelt next to him and cupped her breasts. “Tell me what you want.”

  He took his hand from his cock and reached for hers. “Make me come, Lou. Like this. Please.”

  She froze for one moment. This was a stranger, a stranger’s body. Not Julian’s, an unknown man’s.

  “Please,” he said again. He shifted his hand over hers, so that his cock slid in her palm, against her fingers.

  He was familiar yet new, as contradictory and as amazing as the hard ridges and tender outer skin she held. From strength to sweetness, a trust offered, masculine strength and vulnerability.

  She stroked and clasped and heard his groan of appreciation. Their hands slid together. “Touch your nipple,” he said, his voice thick.

  “Is that good?” she whispered, although she knew the answer. She could see it in the clench of his jaw, the tension in his body, the flexed muscles. His back arched, his hand tightened around hers, and he cried out as semen splashed onto his chest and belly. His hand fell away from hers and he groaned again as she gave his softening cock a gentle squeeze. Then he pushed her hand away, opened his eyes and laughed, stretching, more relaxed than she’d seen him yet. He reached for a towel and handed it to her.

  “Wow,” he said. “Wow, that was pretty amazing, Lou.” He pushed up onto one elbow and regarded her nakedness. “You look good naked.”

  “So do you,” she said.

  “Thanks.” He scratched his chest and took the towel from her to wipe himself off. “Want a swim?”

  “Wait.” She got up to bolt the door. “I don’t know why you didn’t think of doing this.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t come in here specifically to jerk off. It just happened. Why did you come here?”

  “I wanted to see it. The boys had sent me photos of the construction. You were a bit of a surprise.” She walked toward him, once again enjoying the heat of his stare, and noticing the stir of his cock.

  “Well.” He settled the pillow beneath his head. “Now we’re officially jerk-off buddies.”

  She laughed. “I guess we are.” She sat beside him on the stone steps and dabbled her feet in the water.

  “How was the dancing?” he asked. “Did I miss much?”

  “Fairly disastrous. I don’t see how we’ll be ready for the grand ball in five days. Becky, the dancing instructor, is bringing in the people she dances with from a reenactment society, so we’ll have some people who know what they’re doing. I danced with Rob.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He cocked an eyebrow at her. “The kid has the hots for you.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He does. And according to Viv, virtually everyone lusts after young Rob, or so she said today.”

  “You saw Viv today?” She shifted away from him.

  “I interviewed her. It’s what I’m here for, you know.”

  “And you were so horny you had to jerk off after?” Irrationally, she felt betrayed, embarrassed.

  “No, I was so horny after this morning I had to jerk off.”

  “Hours later? Sorry, Mac, my experience of guys is that they don’t wait hours.”

  “Look,” he said, “I’m not competing in some sort of blue-balls contest. I wasn’t going to lurk in the woods with my pecker in my hand like some sort of pervert, and then by the time I got back to the house I was hungry, and after that the maid was making up my room, so… But why the hell does it matter to you, Lou?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. And it was true. “I’m confused by you. I’m confused by my reactions to you.”

  “That makes two of us,” he said.

  “Oh.” She didn’t want to think of the implications of straying further into this strange territory of intimacy. “How was the interview?”

  “Great.” He sat up. “She’s really interesting and brilliant at what she does. She’s done a lot of stage work, building costumes for operas, which she says is pretty much what she’s doing here, making clothes that look good but can be adapted for different body types. And she knows a heck of a lot about historical tailoring and so on. Apparently she had a big fight with Chris and Peter because they wanted a sort of generic look and she wanted historical accuracy. But they eventually compromised.”

  “You sound as though you never talked to her before,” Lou said.

  He gave an embarrassed laugh. “I didn’t. It was always instant lust. But with you—I think I can have both. If you’ll let me. And, yeah, I know I’ve known you all of two days, but think about it, Lou, okay?”

  She slipped into the water and pushed off, floating. “Don’t you think it’s the artificiality of all this? Wearing gloves but also wearing clothes that suggest nudity? I mean, your outfit pretty much screams ‘Look at my crotch.’ And we know it’s not real. Soon enough we’ll go back to normal life.”

  A surge in the water and the brush of his leg against hers indicated that he’d joined her. “Possibly. I won’t push you, Lou. But keep me in mind.” His hand closed on hers and they floated side by side.

  She let her head sink into the water so her ears filled with a gurgling dim roar. “I don’t want a relationship.”

  “Tough. We have one already.” His voice was distant.

  She released his hand and pushed away from him, reaching the center of the pool in a few easy strokes. He was right, she thought, they did have a relationship although she wasn’t quite sure what it was. She reached with her foot for the bottom of the pool and found herself out of her depth, in more ways than one, she reflected.

  Water sloshed as he joined her, his body bumping against hers. She trod water, while he stood, his superior height giving him the advantage of standing. Oh, what the hell. She hooked one leg around his hip and stretched out before him, enjoying the admiration on his face.

  “Is there anything I can do for you? Always happy to oblige. But I don’t have any condoms here,” he said.

  “That’s rather presumptuous of you.”

  “Come on, Lou.” His hand smoothed over her belly, dark against her skin. “Sooner or later, we’ll get around to it. You’ve only to say the word.”

  She raised her other leg around his waist and her hands to his shoulders so they were face-to-face, mouth to mouth. How easy it would be to take that final step, with his erection bumping against her belly and her own silky wetness. “What if I only fuck good kissers?”

  He lowered his mouth to her neck, nuzzling, lips soft, the stubble on his chin grazing her exactly as she wanted it to. When he reached the corner of her mouth, he stopped. “How am I doing?”

  “Okay.”

  “Just okay?”

  “Do it some more and I’ll let you know.”

  His mouth nipped and nibbled, teasing, nudging and retreating, soft and insistent. Was it her lips that moved against his, inspired to respond, or the actions of his clever, carefully attentive mouth?

  “And?” He didn’t move his mouth, but spoke against her li
ps, with a brief flick of his tongue as punctuation.

  She moved her mouth from beneath his. “I’m not sure. I haven’t had long enough.”

  He continued with a sweet deftness, exploring the sensitive contours of her lips and their tender inner surfaces, his tongue reaching out to touch hers. And then he withdrew, with a kiss to the side of her mouth, a brush of his wet hand against her nipples.

  “Sure there’s nothing else I can do for you?”

  She untangled herself from him and swam away. “Later. We’d better get ready for dinner.”

  “I’d never have thought you were such a tease.” He launched himself to the side of the pool. “Hey, how about getting to know each other?”

  “We don’t know each other?” she said, just to be aggravating. She grabbed a towel as soon as she reached the side and turned her back to him.

  “No. We don’t.”

  She snuck a quick glance at him to see him toweling his hair, his penis semi-erect. Mmm, nice. But neither it nor its owner was something she felt inclined to get to know more at the moment.

  “I’ll see you at dinner.” Amazingly, she was dressed sooner than he was, stays hurriedly laced, stockings and garters in her pocket.

  He looked up from pulling on his boots. “Go easy on the alcohol, Lou. I might break my rule about not fucking drunk women.”

  * * *

  Peter

  IT WAS THE STUFF OF FANTASY. He’d tried not to feel guilty about enjoying interviewing and hiring footmen so much and continued to try—again, unsuccessfully—to not feel bad about how sexy he found them in uniform. Or, as they were now, half in and half out of uniform, sprawled around the Servants’ Hall. He felt a wave of tenderness at their youth, their unconscious beauty as they sat in their shirtsleeves around the table, polishing off the remains of dinner. Unbuttoned shirts revealed a sliver of chest, strong necks; rolled-up sleeves displayed handsome young well-muscled arms.