‘Ohhh.’ Anne’s cry was as delicious as the rest of her. Her hands tangled in John’s hair; John shivered with delight at the feel of her fingers against his scalp. ‘Oh, I—’
‘More of this?’
‘Yes.’ Anne nodded, dislodging the blankets in her eagerness. ‘Yes.’
He would give her more. He would keep her here under his tongue until nothing else had any meaning. John bent his head back to her mouth, tasting her with renewed vigour, every shuddering flex and grip of her fingers in his hair sending a burst of pure pleasure through his cock. Nothing but this, but her—nothing but giving her more and more ecstasy with every deep lick, every gentle, skilled stroke of her bud with his tongue, as her low moans ripened into cries.
After a long, immeasurable stretch of perfection, he felt her tense. Her fingers clutched at his hair in near desperation as she panted out her words. ‘I—oh, something’s happening.’
‘Let it come. I’m here.’
‘Don’t stop. Don’t—don’t go.’
‘Never. I’m here. Always.’
Words that couldn’t be true, outside of this cottage. Words that would never survive in the real world. John tried to push away his thoughts as he took possession of her, licking her, loving her as Anne reached her peak.
‘John.’ His Christian name in her voice was the most divine sound he had ever heard. Her hands left his hair; John restrained a cry of his own as Anne’s hands found his, holding them tightly. ‘I—’
‘I know. I’m here.’ He kissed her bud, pleasure filling him as he felt her come. If everything else was taken from him, he would always have this. ‘I’m here.’
Anne had read many fairy tales where houses were lost to weather. They were swallowed up by rain, sand or storm, never to be seen again—or appeared unchanged after a thousand years of absence. Lying on the floor of the cottage, swathed in blankets and pressed tightly to John’s body, she fervently wished that the house could be obscured by snow forever.
Had she ever known such pleasure existed? No. And to think she’d been moving through the world without knowing about it.
His face was finally hers to touch. She softly stroked the tip of her finger over the broad plane of his forehead, sliding down to the cheekbone and lingering there. With a brief detour to the bridge of his nose, John’s slight flinch and burst of quiet laughter letting her know she’d tickled him, she finally let the pads of her fingers pause at the curve of his mouth.
‘I like this corner.’ She stroked his skin, enjoying the slight hitch of his breath. ‘You should paint yourself from this angle.’
‘I’d be banned from every respectable salon. Not that I’m entirely welcome in them now, come to think of it. And if I painted you like this, I think I’d be hounded out of London.’
‘There are other places to live.’ As Anne said the words she saw their meaning, a brief, bright glimpse of another future. She and John in Scotland, in Spain, in the outer wilds of wherever a ship would take them, in a cottage much like this one.
No. That was not to be. She held John closer, pressing her cheek to his chest, finding comfort in his heartbeat as he kissed the top of her head. They lay entwined, silent for a long, languid while as the fire burned low.
When she finally spoke again, it was with a tone of soft, marvelling wonder. ‘What do we even know about one another?’
‘I know everything about you.’
‘No, you don’t. You don’t know what cake I like, or–what I think about Christmas, or my politics.’ Anne shook her head, trying not to smile. ‘Not that I have any great opinions about any of those. But… but we are strangers.’
‘No, we’re not.’ John pulled her closer. The heat of his body, the sheer delicious solidity of him, sent a spear of warmth through her core that no amount of snow outside could dissipate. ‘I don’t do this with strangers. I don’t do this with anyone.’
‘No. Neither do I.’ Anne finally let the smile come. How strange it was to smile when it was a conversation of such import they were having. ‘But we are hardly the best of friends.’
‘I don’t need to know your politics, or your views on Christmas, or your favourite cake.’ John paused. ‘Unless your politics are–’
‘They’re not.’
‘Good.’ John laughed. ‘Well then. But if you want a potted history of my life, I can certainly give you one.’
‘I’d like that. I’d like that very much.’
‘Well then. I’m John Duke. I was raised in an orphanage alongside four of my brothers–more precisely, smack in the middle of them. The child that was expected to be solid, sensible and silent. I managed the silent part, but not the rest… I was incurably given over to dreaming, even as a child, and persisted when I grew. I sketched birds on my schoolbooks, made sculptures from sticks after seeing far prettier ones in marble, and finally managed to procure a painting studio when my eldest brother Thomas pushed his way into wealth with his agricultural innovations.’ He paused, smiling down at her. ‘But you know all of this, I think. You’ve always known most things about me.’
‘I know. But it’s good to hear it in your voice.’ Anne closed her eyes, smiling as she rested her head on the pile of blankets. The snow was falling so softly outside that it was an effort to hear it. ‘It’s good to know you like this.’
‘And you are Anne Fletcher, the best modiste in London. The woman without whom no lady can truly be considered well-dressed.’ John paused, leaning down to kiss her forehead. ‘You are a genius with cloth, quick-minded, quick-witted, tolerant to those who shouldn’t be tolerated, a master of disguise, and… and…’
‘And going to be married.’
She’d said the words that were hovering in the air like a spectre, tingeing everything with melancholy. Anne looked at the glowing embers of the fire, suddenly aware of the misery that tempered her pleasure.
‘I keep thinking of ways to try and make your marriage impossible. I admit it freely.’ John slowly kissed her shoulder. ‘But none of them work.’
‘I know.’
‘I don’t have the funds of my own to give your workshop the money it deserves. Thomas won’t give me the money to fund your workshop if you were going to marry Weldon—and he wouldn’t be wrong to refuse. I’ve even considered going to Weldon himself.’
‘And presumably decided not to. It wouldn’t turn out well.’
‘Yes. I know it’s a fool’s errand. But I’m a fool for you.’
‘As am I.’
John’s kiss to the base of her neck sent a tingling afterglow of desire through her, the sadness of their words growing sharper in comparison. ‘Thank you for coming here. For meeting me. Even though you knew how it would end.’
‘I… I think a part of me decided to meet you because of the possibility of it feeling wrong, somehow. Not the idea–the execution. A part of me thought that if we stood in front of one another with no limits, no fear of being interrupted, that our feelings would prove to be exaggerated. That it was more about longing than reality.’
‘Ah.’ John quietly nodded. ‘I see.’
‘Did you not think of it?’
‘I feared it.’
‘I feared it too, but–but another part of me hoped for it. Hoped that we would look into one another’s eyes, with no constraints on our behaviour, and everything that had been building between us would seem intolerably silly and not worth pursuing.’
John’s arms stiffened around her waist. ‘And did it?’
‘... No.’ Anne closed her eyes. She could feel a single tear coming, but to let it fall would be the worst sort of self-indulgence. ‘The opposite.’
The silence that followed felt like a scream. She had never been hurt by silence before—her peace had been irrevocably broken. She knew, as soon as she left John’s arms, that it would only get worse.
She had made her bed. Now she had to lie in it, even if it were made of broken glass.
‘We weren’t wrong to try.’ Her own voice so
unded strange to her ears. ‘No-one could ever induce me to think such a thing, let alone say it. But we would be the worst people in the world, the very worst, if we were to allow ourselves such extravagance again.’
‘But it doesn’t feel like an extravagance. It feels like–like breathing.’
‘Then we shall have to live without breathing.’ Keeping a calm tone was the most difficult thing she had ever had to do. ‘It’s the only way.’
John slowly rose. He sat by the fire, the flames casting a warm glow over his naked body as Anne sat up too. He held out a hand, cupping her face; the feel of his skin, the look in his eyes, was almost more than she could bear.
‘I wish that I could convince myself that you’re not being noble in the slightest. That you’re choosing security and financial ascendancy over happiness.’ John shook his head, swallowing. ‘But I know you’re not. If anything, knowing that you’re being noble makes it hurt all the more.’
‘Mr. Weldon would never be able to bear my betrayal. I may not love him, but we have been friends for as long as I’ve–as I’ve been alive.’
‘I know. And I would never ask you to betray him. I wish I could.’
‘But then you wouldn’t be the man I—’
‘The man you what?’
‘I… best that we don’t say it.’ The tear was going to fall, and there was nothing she could do about it. Nothing whatsoever. ‘We’re already making one another suffer.’
‘If what we just did means suffering, I’ll suffer forever. I’ll suffer gladly.’
‘As will I.’
‘Then—then goodbye, Miss Fletcher.’
‘Goodbye, Mr. Duke.’ Every word burned as it left her throat. She rose to her feet, gathering her clothes with shaking hands. ‘It—it has been an honour.’
She had tried to give him his coat back, but John had refused. The idea of her walking away from the cottage alone was brutal enough–if she was cold as well, she wouldn’t be able to bear it. He insisted on the coat, on buttoning it for her, as if taking care over the smallest aspects of her comfort would somehow keep her with him.
It didn’t. Nothing could. Life was pulling them apart, stitch by stitch, leaving him ragged and torn at the seams.
Only when he couldn’t see her any more did he risk walking out into the cottage, shutting the door firmly behind him. He and Anne had left it cleaner than when they had arrived, sweeping and tidying with the frantic energy of people determined to avoid more difficult conversations; he had no qualms about leaving it. It was hard not to thank it aloud for what it had given him–time alone with the woman he loved.
He loved her. He knew it deep in his bones. He loved her, he couldn’t be with her, and his love would become his cross to bear.
He walked back to the fair as if in a daze, snow settling in his face and hair as he looked at every stall. Something, anything, to avoid thinking about Anne. He looked with pitiless patience at every single roasted chestnut, every child’s toy and mug of cider, before realising with a gasp of near-hysterical laughter that his fingers were turning blue.
He would die if he stayed out in the cold without a coat. John, a man passionately attached to life in every other circumstance, thought for the first time that an eternity of lifeless rest could be preferable to a lifetime of despair.
No. Such thoughts were pure idiocy. He had to be noble, had to press the feelings down so very tightly that they simply couldn’t be felt.
Edward and Henry would be waiting for him somewhere. They’d be eating meat pies, laughing, ready to try and cheer him. With a reflexive shake of his head that only emphasised how stiff his neck was becoming in the cold, John made for the line of carriages.
They’d be able to hire a carriage back. He needed the comfort of the Duke coachman and the Duke horses, the softness of the new upholstery that Thomas had insisted upon. Curling into the cushions, waving away all enquiries from the coachman as to his brothers, John sank into a numb, frozen silence as the wheels began to turn.
The house was thankfully empty apart from the new kitchen-maid, who was still far too nervous to speak directly to him. John used the final reserves of his energy on a kind smile for her, his feet leaden as he made his way to his bedroom.
By the time he collapsed on his bed, he could barely feel his own body. For a moment he wondered if he’d freeze to death, but decided with a quiet sigh that the just-built fire would be enough to warm him.
Noble. That was the key. If he could be noble enough to suppress his sentiments, remorselessly starving them, he would be well enough in time. He had to behave like the knights of old, pining away in perfect silence for the lady that had won their heart.
He blinked. His cheeks were wet with tears.
‘Noble.’ He whispered it as more tears fell. ‘I have to be noble about it.’
Edward Duke wasn’t in the habit of sending letters. Only after several tearful missives from a woman he’d entranced did he deign to reply, and the words he wrote were usually designed to make sure the lady in question never wished to speak to him again. When it came to the letters he’d had to write the day before, the ones sent to Thomas and Robert by the most urgent post, it had been a devil of a job trying to capture the correct tone.
Worried, but not panicking. Masterful, but not ordering. By the time he’d signed his name Edward was fairly sure he’d forgotten the alphabet, let alone how to write a convincing letter. But still, thank God, it appeared to have had the desired effect.
They’d come. Thomas and Robert had torn themselves away from their wives and arrived to save the day. Arrived to get John out of his bloody room, where he’d been for at least a week without eating more than a few bites of the food left outside his door. Edward looked over at Henry, who was eating tea and biscuits as if nothing of any import was occurring, and sighed.
If whatever John was going through was love, he didn’t want any part of it. Far better to eat biscuits and be merry than lie in one’s bed with a heart broken over some flighty female of the species. Not that Anne Fletcher had ever seemed that flighty of a female–but then, she’d been on the river bank at the frost fair wearing men’s clothes. That presumably meant a hidden lust for adventure–and perhaps a cavalier attitude to people’s hearts.
Edward rolled his eyes. He couldn’t find it in his heart to be angry with anyone, let alone divine hidden secrets of their personalities. Much like a child that had tired of a household task, he waited patiently for some adults to arrive and give him something else to do.
He sighed with relief as Thomas entered the morning room, trailed by two or three members of staff with a highly-attuned instinct for gossip. ‘Oh, thank goodness. You’re here. Is—’
‘Yes. I’m here.’ Robert swiftly walked over the threshold of the morning room, staring hard at the curious servants until all of them suddenly remembered other tasks that needed performing. When the brothers were finally alone, he folded his arms. ‘What on earth was that bloody letter about?’
‘We need to discuss John.’ Edward shrugged. He wasn’t used to playing the authoritative figure; it didn’t match his thoroughly indolent personality. ‘Urgently.’
‘Why?’ Thomas looked confusedly at the stairs as if expecting to see John’s figure. ‘Where is he?’
‘In his room.’ Edward rolled his eyes. ‘I think his exact description was suffering nobly, but there’s nothing all that noble about withering away in your room for a week.’
‘John spends most of his time indoors, doesn’t he?’ Robert smiled. ‘He’s never been a sociable animal.’
‘He’s also refusing food.’
‘Why? Is he sick?’
‘A sort of sick. Lovesick.’ Edward looked impressively at his brothers, expecting gasps and immediate demands for explanations. Alas, Thomas and Robert didn’t seem to have understood. ‘He’s in love. More specifically, in love with someone who’s going to be married soon enough.’
This time the effect was immediate. Thomas and
Robert looked at one another, aghast, before staring at Edward and Henry as if they were strangers.
‘What?’ Thomas looked wildly from one brother to the other. ‘What are you talking about?’
‘The gown lady.’ Henry ate a small biscuit with some relish as Thomas and Robert turned to him. He took a long time chewing, evidently enjoying the morsel, not noticing or caring that he was being stared at. ‘The lady who makes the interesting gowns. She’s got hair that isn’t blonde, but isn’t red either. Quite soft-spoken.’
‘Who in the world do you—do you mean Anne Fletcher?’
‘Yes! That’s the name.’ Henry gestured to the plate. ‘Do you think Daisy made any more of those biscuits? She really is an excellent cook.’
‘Edward.’ Thomas turned to Edward, evidently giving Henry up for lost. ‘Are you honestly telling us that John and Anne Fletcher have been—have been having some sort of illicit courtship?’
‘Yes. Evidently.’
‘But that’s madness!’
‘No it isn’t.’
‘But—’ Robert looked down, recognition altering his face. ‘I remember him being struck when he met her for the first time. But that’s not the same thing as being lovesick!’
‘I’m well-aware of that. He wouldn’t be wasting away in his bedroom if it was just a flirtation.’
‘But it’s impossible.’ Thomas shook his head. ‘He hasn’t told us anything.’
‘He told Henry and I.’
‘But—but why? Why wouldn’t he want to tell us?’
‘Of course he didn’t want to tell you.’ Edward lounged in an armchair, examining his nails. ‘I can’t believe you’re surprised.’
‘We’re brothers! We tell each other everything!’
‘Not to be too blunt about it, Thomas, but we don’t. We used to tell each other everything.’ Edward paused. Tact wasn’t his strong suit, but this was going to hurt however he phrased it. ‘Now it goes a little more like this. You and Robert tell us at excruciating length about how happy and settled you both are, and we three keep quiet about everything else.’
Lovestruck in Lilac: The Brothers Duke: Book Three Page 5