by Nan Ryan
And less than half an hour after walking into the dining room, Hank tossed his napkin down on the table. “Let’s get out of here.”
Claire nodded. Hank pushed his chair back, rose to his feet, and came around to help her up.
“Back to the estate?” she asked.
“Let’s detour around to the cottages and spend a nice quiet afternoon there.”
Eighteen
Hank ushered Claire up the steps to the private entrance of his cottage. Neither looked around or paid any attention to who might be watching. They didn’t care who saw them.
Once inside Claire walked through the entrance hall and stepped into the spacious sitting room. Hank shrugged out of his suit coat, tossed it over the back of a chair and took off his tie.
Claire glanced curiously around. She fleetingly admired the handsome carved black-walnut furniture, the heavily flowered carpets, and the Brussels lace curtains over the tall windows.
She immediately crossed to the bedroom.
Dominating the room was a large square bed with a soaring black-walnut headboard. A counterpane of dark navy velvet covered the bed and a half-dozen big, silver-gray silk-covered pillows rested against the tall headboard. Across the room was an imposing black marble fireplace with a couple of easy chairs pulled up close.
Against the back wall were a black-walnut armoire and a tall, many drawered bureau. Directly opposite, at the room’s front, a set of black-walnut doors stood open. But the gauzy transparent curtains had not been drawn. The diaphanous drapes were blowing outward in the breeze.
And, directly across from the bed was a large free-standing mirror.
Claire felt her face flush with heat.
She went back into the sitting room and smiled at Hank when he reached out and plucked the straw hat from her head.
“Excuse me for a minute, Duchess. I’ll go turn the bed down,” he said with a wicked grin and she nodded.
Continuing to explore, Claire took off her new gloves and laid them aside. She frowned when she saw a handsome, leather-bound book resting on a small end table. She picked the book up. Her eyes widened. A first edition of Anthony Hope’s popular The Prisoner of Zenda.
She had, alone in P. Durkee and Sons Stationers and Books on her first day in Saratoga, admired this very book, wishing she could own it. Now Claire carefully opened the beautiful book and found just inside a handwritten message on blue vellum note-paper: “If you’re reading this, you’d better be the duchess, because I bought the book for you. Hank.”
Claire smiled with pleasure. She pressed the open book to her chest and called to him. “How did you know I wanted this particular book?”
From in the other room she heard, “What book?”
“You know very well what book. The Prisoner of Zenda.”
“I’m a mind reader.”
“Were you following me that day?”
No reply.
Claire laughed and, continuing to hold the book close to her heart, crossed to a set of open double doors. She stepped out onto the private veranda and was instantly enchanted. The small terrace overlooked the hotel’s huge, beautifully landscaped park. All manner of exotic blooming flowers and lush manicured greenery perfumed the air and were pleasing to the eye. Big arching elms spread their shading foliage over a white octagon-shaped bandstand that stood in the center of the park.
Soon Hank came up behind Claire and slipped his arms around her waist. She leaned back against him and sighed.
Nodding to the white bandstand, she asked, “Will a band play there today?”
“Five bands play there daily,” Hank told her. “At precisely 11:30 a.m. the second of the five concerts begins.”
“It’s almost eleven-thirty, isn’t it?”
“It is. By the time I get you undressed, the band should be playing.”
Claire smiled and teased, “I thought I might spend the afternoon reading my book.”
Hank took the book from her. “No, you didn’t.”
She turned about and smiled at him. “Shall we leave the sitting room doors open to the veranda so we can hear them serenade us?”
“Sure,” Hank said, adding, “If you want to make love to a rousing John Philip Sousa march.”
Claire laughed gaily. “Who knows? It might be inspiring.”
Hank laid the book down on a small metal table, gently clasped her upper arms and looked into her eyes. “I need no inspiration. I want you more than you could ever know. I can’t get enough of you.”
“I know,” she coolly replied. Then lowered her lashes flirtatiously and added, “You promised to undress me.”
“I did and I will.”
“And I need not lift a finger to help?”
“The privilege is all mine,” he said, taking her hand and leading her inside.
When he released her, Claire made a move toward the bedroom. Hank stopped her. “Let’s stay here for a while.”
Claire couldn’t keep from frowning. “We’re to undress in the sitting room with the veranda doors wide open?”
“Why not? The only place we could be seen is from the veranda and it’s private. No one can be on it but the two of us.”
“It seems a bit bizarre for us to…to…” Her words trailed away as she watched Hank shove a high-backed leather wing chair into place facing the open double doors.
Claire blinked in surprise when he sat down in the chair. His summer-blue eyes gleaming, he looked up at her and said, “Come here.” Claire moved closer. “Make yourself at home right here on my knee,” he said and reached for her.
Claire drew a shallow breath and sat down on his left knee.
“You’re certain no one can see us?”
“Positive. Trust me. Relax.” She nodded. “Now, first things first,” Hank said, taking the pins from her hair, upbraiding the twin plaits. When he was finished, when her hair had fallen in shiny golden locks around her face and shoulders, he said, “Before this afternoon is over, I want to feel all this glorious golden hair spilling across my chest.”
He slipped a hand under her hair and wrapped it around the back of her neck. He drew her face down to his and kissed her, his tongue parting her lips and delving between her teeth. Claire sighed as his mouth urgently explored hers, tasting and teasing.
At the same time he was unfastening her dress. When the long, drugging kiss finally ended, Claire was half-surprised to find that her dress was completely undone.
She remained totally docile as Hank deftly urged the dress off her shoulders and down her arms to her waist. He leaned up and brushed a kiss to her right nipple through the covering satin of her lace-trimmed chemise.
At that moment the band outside struck up the rousing Washington Post March. Hank raised his head and laughed. Claire laughed with him. The concert continued throughout Claire’s disrobing. But not all the tunes were marches. Interspersed were some sweetly romantic ballads that were the perfect counterpoint to this thrilling prelude to lovemaking.
Hank continued to leisurely, lovingly undress her, no matter the tempo of the music. His was a slow, sure hand and Claire was soon breathless as he dexterously disrobed her.
When at last she was totally naked, when all her clothes lay in a colorful heap on the carpeted floor, she laid back in his arms and sighed softly. Then she purred and squirmed as Hank began to make sweet, tender love to her.
Her head fell back on his supporting arm and she anxiously arched her back when his mouth slipped over her chin and to the hollow of her throat. His lips followed the descent of the delicate gold chain around her neck. His mouth opened over the medallion where it rested warmly between her bare breasts. Claire trembled in anticipation of his hot lips enclosing an aching nipple.
But to her surprise, he ignored her breasts. His strong arms lifting her up, he kissed a hot, wet path down the center of her chest. When his tongue circled her naval, Claire felt a great infusion of heat surge through her body. And when he brushed a kiss to her silken belly, Claire grabbed a
handful of his hair.
Hank lifted his head and gazed at her through passion-clouded eyes. He said huskily, “You want to make love to me?”
“Yes,” she whispered. “Oh, yes.”
“Then you’ll have to undress me.”
“Gladly.”
“Think you can get my clothes off while I continue to sit here?”
Claire smiled, tightened her grip on his lustrous hair, urged his head back, and kissed him hotly. Her lips against his, she said, “I know I can.”
And then began to prove it.
The duchess scrambled up off Hank’s lap and knelt before him. She took off his fine Italian leather shoes and stockings, then rose to her feet and slid down astride his lap. She began unbuttoning his shirt. Bottom lip caught between her teeth, she tugged and pulled while Hank laughed and teased her.
Enjoying himself, finding it tremendously arousing to have this beautiful naked woman crawling all over him, Hank was almost sorry the game was over when finally she managed to get the last of his clothes off.
The duchess exhaled heavily as she tossed his trousers aside. She was on her knees between his legs. She gave him a triumphant look, leaned up to him and put her arms around his waist.
“I told you I could do it,” she whispered and pressed her cheek against the firm muscles of his chest.
Hank cupped the back of her head and said, “I never doubted you for a minute, Duchess.”
For a long, enjoyable moment they stayed as they were, Hank seated in the chair, Claire kneeling between his legs, head on his chest, the crisp black chest hair pleasantly tickling her nose and mouth.
The band began to play “A Bicycle Built for Two.” Hank eased Claire’s head up, kissed her and urged her to her feet. He rose, lifted her up into his arms and carried her into the bedroom. Claire instantly noticed that the heavy velvet counterpane had been stripped from the bed as had the top sheet and all the silk-covered pillows. The discarded bedding was stacked on the chairs before the fireplace.
Hank lowered her down onto the bed and stretched out beside her. His weight supported on an elbow, he leaned over her and kissed the corner of her mouth. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “So beautiful I want to watch you make love to me.” As he spoke, his hand moved down her body, touching, caressing, exciting. His fingertips circling her naval, he said, “I want to see you—every naked inch of you—when I enter you. I want to watch us make love until we both climax and are totally sated. But only if you want that, too.”
Dazed, on fire, eager to do anything and everything with this man who evoked such wild passion in her, Claire murmured, “The mirror?”
“Yes, sweetheart, the mirror.”
“All right.” She boldly gave her permission.
And then with that swift fluid grace that was so much a part of him, Hank had Claire up facing the mirror, kneeling in the center of the bed while he knelt behind her. At his coaxing Claire raised her arms and clasped her wrists behind his head. He nudged her knees apart and moved his between. His jaw resting against her temple, he put his hands on her hips and drew her back against him. Claire felt his heavy erection throbbing against the crevice of her bare bottom.
Their eyes met in the mirror and held.
Hank began to slowly, seductively arouse the duchess to a fever pitch while they watched themselves in the mirror. For Hank it was incredibly erotic to see their reflections. Hers was an exquisite body, the breasts firm and high, the satin nipples now peaked into luscious points of temptation. Her waist was small and her hips flared with just the right curvature. Her belly was girlishly flat and between her pale thighs, the triangle of crisp curls shone like spun gold, concealing the treasure he sought.
Hank’s hand gently raked through those coils to touch and tease that tiny button of slick female flesh which was the key to all her wild desire. Both watched as his hand slipped farther between her legs and he dipped his fingers into the silky moisture flowing freely from her.
When his fingers were shiny wet, he spread that moisture upward and rubbed it all over and around that swollen button of pure sensation.
When he had her so hot she was on the verge of climax, Hank took his hand from her and gently urged her over onto all fours. At her stage of high arousal, it seemed perfectly natural to Claire.
Claire wasn’t sure when it happened exactly, but the next thing she knew, Hank had taken hold of her shoulders and drawn her back up into a kneeling position. He sat her back on his spread thighs and she felt his hard hot flesh buried deep inside her. Hank made urgent love to her while they watched in the mirror.
Her inhibitions had melted away in the blazing sexual heat. Claire found it tremendously thrilling to engage in this wild, abandoned lovemaking while they watched themselves. And mating in the middle of the day while a band played outside and laughing people promenaded in the gardens directly below and only the sheerest of curtains covering the open doors to the veranda made the shameless lovemaking all the more exciting.
Her hips gyrating against his thrusting pelvis, Claire murmured breathlessly, “I don’t want this to ever end, Hank. I want us to stay like this for a long time.”
As Hank surged more deeply into her, he whispered, “Yes, baby. We’ll stay just as we are all afternoon.”
“That’s what I want, and…I…oh…Hank, Hank…”
“I know, darlin’,” he soothed, “It all right, I’ve got you, I’ll take care of you.” He swiftly changed the rhythm, thrusting faster, driving more deeply until she began to lose control.
Hank watched her beautiful face flush with intense heat as orgasm overwhelmed her. She was wild, frenzied, her body gripping his, her hair whipping around her face. She cried out in ecstasy and called his name again and again. Hank did his best to continue watching even as his own climax began. But the ecstasy was too great, the incredible orgasm too draining.
His eyes closed and his hands covered her full warm breasts as he frantically bucked up against her, driving forcefully up into her, spilling himself high inside her.
When the tempest had passed and the spent lovers were too weak to move, too breathless to speak, they again gazed into the mirror at the perspiring naked pair that was them.
Her pale hands resting on the bronzed arms wrapped around her waist, Claire sighed, smiled and told him frankly, “I can’t remember when I’ve enjoyed a summer noontime more.”
Hank said, “And the fun’s only just begun. There’s still that book to be read.”
Claire laughed and so did he.
Nineteen
“They went into his cottage before noon,” confided a smiling Lillian Titus, her eyes twinkling.
“And they haven’t come out?” asked a clearly jealous Caroline Whit. “They’ve been inside all afternoon?”
“Indeed!” Lillian gleefully confirmed. “My dear husband Horace told me not an hour ago that he’d heard that three waiters delivered a full gourmet meal to the cottage around four this afternoon but swore they saw only Hank, not a glimpse of the duchess.”
“Oh, dear me,” said Maxine Delaney, a bejeweled matron with snow-white hair and impressive social standing. “I do hope they surface long enough to come to my dinner party this evening.”
The ladies were gathered on the veranda of the Grand Union, enjoying a late afternoon interlude of refreshing iced drinks and spirited conversation.
“They can’t stay in Hank’s cottage forever,” snipped Caroline Whit. “The races start tomorrow and Hank Cassidy has a half-dozen Thoroughbreds running.”
“Think she’ll be with him at the track?” asked Lillian Titus, eyebrows lifted.
“No, she will not,” Caroline stated with great authority. “Surely you remember that the duchess never went to the track. Not even when the duke had horses running.”
“Why, that’s right,” agreed Lillian. “I had forgotten. And the duchess made no secret of the fact she does not like horses or racing.”
“Ah, but then she never liked the duke
, either,” offered Maxine with a girlish laugh, adding, “My eyesight is failing, of course, but doesn’t it seem that the duchess is more beautiful than when last she was here?”
“Oh, now, Maxine, it’s been seven or eight years since the duchess was at the Springs. You’ve just forgotten—”
Interrupting, Maxine leaned up and said, “My memory is just fine, thank you very much, Lillian. And I say that the duchess is prettier and happier.”
“Yes, well you’d be prettier and happier, too, if you were forty years younger and that handsome devil, Hank Cassidy, was after you,” Lillian said with a smile.
Maxine chuckled and nodded her agreement.
Caroline Whit didn’t laugh. With a wave of her hand, she said, “She’s just a novelty. Hank will tire of her soon enough.”
In a darkly paneled billiard parlor just off Broadway, the talk among the gentleman was much the same as it was with the ladies.
“They went into his cottage before noon,” said Horace Titus, chalking his pool cue, watching his opponent prepare to take a difficult shot.
“And they haven’t come out yet? Good God, it’s after six,” said Reed Wheatly, an affable, middle-aged millionaire from New York City. He took his shot, sending the round white ball skittering across the green felt table and into a side pocket. He straightened, then shook his graying head. “That lucky rascal, the Silver King.”
Horace Titus nodded his agreement. “I’m told three waiters delivered a full gourmet meal to Cassidy’s cottage around four this afternoon, but swore they saw only Hank, not a glimpse of the duchess.”
“Well, they can’t stay in there forever. The races start tomorrow and Hank has a half-dozen ponies running, doesn’t he?”
“Yes, he does,” Horace confirmed. “Think the duchess will be with him at the track? She never went with the duke.”
“Hank’s not the duke. Eight to five says she will be with Hank for the races.”
“I’ll take that wager.”