‘It… it belongs to you.’
‘What belongs to me?’
‘My… my…’
‘Mouth it.’
The word cunt appeared briefly in the curl of Rebecca’s scandalised lips. ‘It feels wrong just saying it.’
‘Sometimes wrong things are the best things.’ A sudden pall of doubt came over him. ‘But we can go more slowly, if you wish.’
‘No.’ Rebecca held him, her hands clasped around his neck. ‘I—I worry my courage will fail me, if we go slowly.’
He would have liked to go slowly with her. Take off each and every garment, kissing each inch of skin he found—kissing her from head to toe, with an eternity spent between her legs. Once again, Peterson found his dreams bound and chained by reality.
Still. As realities went, Rebecca in his arms was the best he could hope for. With a deeper, harsher kiss, Peterson gave himself over to the moment.
So much could be accomplished in so little time. A thousand kisses—hot, hasty kisses, made sweeter through desperation, slowly moving from lips to necks to collarbones as garments were pulled downward. The bedcovers grew rumpled as they fell backward together, clothes growing increasingly irrelevant, Rebecca’s body pressed tightly to his as Peterson fumbled with his undergarments.
‘Touch me.’ He sighed with relief as his cock sprang free, rigid and pulsing. Rebecca’s eyes widened; Peterson felt a stab of animal triumph. ‘You’re not the only one who can command.’ He sighed with pleasure as Rebecca’s fingertips stroked along his shaft. ‘Like that.’
‘Can we… I want to—’
‘No. Not—not fully.’ Peterson knew that if he sank himself inside her here, in his bed, he would never be able to let her go. ‘But you can give me pleasure, as I gave you pleasure.’
‘I—I like touching you.’ Rebecca’s voice was hesitant, but grew firmer as her hand stroked along his shaft. ‘Like this.’
‘Good.’ Peterson gritted his teeth, trying to keep from finishing all over her fingers. ‘I’m fond of it myself.’
This was more than pleasure. More than the vicious rush of passion that had left her overcome at the Cappadene Club, aided by the rose-scented drink. This was something deeper, stranger—so intensely good that it bordered on pain.
Rebecca tried to fathom it. Tried to investigate it, as if it were one of the many problems that she had overcome in the course of her work. But whenever she managed to approach the tight knot of sentiment that lay within her, a sudden rush of pleasure would throw her off course.
How could an animal act feel so… holy? Touching John Peterson, kissing him, feeling him sigh and grunt with the pleasure he was giving her… it shouldn’t feel so sacred as well as profane. Looking into his eyes as he trembled, overcome with ecstasy, was unspeakably profound.
The way he held her when she came, whispering endearments as she cried out in bliss, went to her very soul. They way he clutched her hand as he reached his peak, his dark eyes staring into hers throughout, was the truest touch that she had ever known.
It took a long, long time to come back to the bedroom—to leave the strange, shiveringly bright world she had reached. One she had caught a glimpse of on the desk of the Cappadene Club, and spent more time exploring here in soft, clean sheets. Rebecca lay back with a low, astonished sigh, watching Peterson as he did the same.
There were things still left undone. Still left unsaid. Rebecca, even as her body filled with deep, animal satisfaction, knew that there was more she could have done. They had been so close to the act—the act that even she knew about. What was odd, and unacceptable if spoken aloud, was how much she had wanted to do it.
Peterson had been right to refuse. Still—the desire for it, to feel him inside her, lay in her like the guiltiest of secrets.
She wanted to stay in this dark, private world, where she didn’t have to be anything to anyone except herself. Where she was accepted by Peterson with such completeness, such honesty, that it felt like flying.
But the world was cruel, and her reputation would never allow it, and… and…
… and she was frightened, far too frightened, to choose what she truly wanted.
Peterson waited to speak. He waited several long, quiet hours, watching the rain fall on the other side of the window, holding Rebecca in his arms as she dozed against his chest.
He knew it shouldn’t feel so right, so quickly, to have her sleeping next to him in his private rooms, in the bed that no-one else shared. But then, the way they met hadn’t been right—the way they’d met again hadn’t been right either.
They hadn’t spent hours in drawing rooms, in gardens and tearooms and one another’s houses, too far apart from one another to touch. They hadn’t spoken of churches and childhood games, or dreams, or—or favourite colours…
… but Peterson was still sure, with a faith and fervency that terrified him, that Rebecca Westbrook was the most precious woman he had ever known. The most singular, the most beautiful—and the one that was, without a doubt, going to break his heart.
She would never be able to accept their manner of meeting. The guilt she carried was too great. He had seen it in her as they held one another afterwards, in the breathless, vulnerable moments that lay between completion and awakening.
She was ashamed of him. Of what they had done together. She would never be able to accept him as he was, and herself as she was. The best thing to do—the only thing to do—was to end it.
The easiest way to do it would be cruel. With any other woman, he could be callous. Peterson, biting his lip, gently moved away from her as he prepared to tell her the truth.
‘I want something more with you.’ The patter of rain on the roof only accentuated the sound of his voice. ‘Something real.’
Rebecca’s voice so close to his was so soft, so quiet, it was almost painful. ‘I know.’
‘Something that can be seen in sunlight. Something that I can tell my friends about, and—and my family. What’s left of it, at any rate.’
‘Your sister.’
Of course she would remember the speech he had given that day. The most personal thing he had ever said in front of other living souls. ‘Yes. I—I want to see her happy. Failing that, I want her to see me happy.’
‘John, I—’
‘No Christian names, please. I know you’re ashamed of what we did.’ He had to harden his heart, he knew it—so why, why, had it never felt so tender in his chest as it did now? ‘Don’t make it harder on yourself.’
‘It is already impossible.’
‘If it helps, this is the hardest thing I have had to do in—in quite some time.’
‘I know.’ Rebecca’s kiss was soft against his cheek, light as a ghost. ‘And if things were different—’
‘Don’t tell me what we would do if things were different.’
‘Why?’
‘Because it’ll hurt.’
‘The idea of the opposite hurts more, at this precise moment.’
‘I know.’ Peterson sighed. ‘But in time, it’ll hurt less.’
‘Do you believe that?’
‘... No.’
‘Neither do I.’
A long, deep silence passed. Rebecca’s whisper came again eventually, closer to his ear, full of a guilty want that shivered through his fractured heart.
‘I would walk in the sun with you, if I was less frightened. I would—I would do everything with you, if I was less frightened. I would—well, I would even say that I—’
‘Don’t.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I would say it back, and it’s been too short a time.’
‘I know. It’s ridiculous.’
‘Yes. All the more ridiculous for… for seeming right.’
There was nothing else to say. Nothing sensible, nothing real. The words Peterson wanted to say—strange, ridiculous words, words of passion, belonging, love—were knotted tightly in his chest, to remain there for as long as he could possibly stand.
The soft rustle of the bedclothes, and the sudden absence of Rebecca’s body next to his, hurt far more than they had a right to.
‘I will go.’ Rebecca’s shadow fell against the wall, her back straight. ‘I will go and—and mourn this. Or forget this. Or—or attempt to save this. I do not know which. My mind is the most abominable whirl.’
So practical, even in the midst of such sentiment. Peterson, blinded by painful admiration, struggled to keep his tone even. ‘I would begin forgetting. Hope… hope will hurt.’
‘I know.’ The pain in Rebecca’s voice was agonising. ‘But it is necessary.’
Necessary. This parting was necessary, even if hope was debatable in its efficacy. Peterson forced himself to remember it as he sat up in bed, watching Rebecca restore herself to order, covetously staring at her face and form despite his sadness.
She was so beautiful. Beautiful when prim and proper, beautiful when half-undone… the most beautiful women he had ever known.
Beautiful, and walking out of his life. Walking away, on his orders.
‘Goodbye.’ Rebecca paused on the threshold of the bedroom door. The sight of her standing there made the fragments of Peterson’s heart shiver in his chest. ‘I… there is so much more that I wish to say.’
‘Don’t say it.’ Peterson turned his face to the wall. If he wasn’t cruel now, he would crawl to her on bended knee. ‘Goodbye.’
He had felt strong, for the first few days. Masterful, and wise, and in control of his own destiny. Telling her firmly exactly what was required was certainly the correct thing to do—he wouldn’t regret it.
He could ignore the nightmares. He could ignore the creeping absence of cheer that spread over him like clouds covering a formerly clear sky. He could push away the sudden bursts of rage, the moments of terror that would brush against the back of his neck, like someone walking over his grave.
After three days, with no word from her, Peterson found himself in St. Peter’s church with a bottle of whisky and a broken heart.
Losing himself in drink had never held any attraction. Not after living with Helen’s rages, her desperate search to forget the myriad hardships of her life. Losing himself in anything, drink or opium or otherwise, had never felt preferable to reality.
That was before Rebecca Westbrook. Peterson looked at the whisky bottle with narrowed eyes, wondering when he would break. Wondering when the absurdity of his feelings—their strength, their swiftness—would drive him to drinking as much of the bloody stuff as possible.
A shadow fell over him. Looking up, a reflexive glare already on his face, Peterson fought a stab of embarrassment as he looked into the steady, sympathetic gaze of Reverend Calcourt.
‘You’re a little early for the service.’
‘No need to coddle me.’ Peterson shrugged. ‘You already know I’m not here for that.’
‘I had guessed. Unless you were thinking of bringing me an unexpected gift.’ Reverend Calcourt looked pointedly at the bottle. ‘Not my preferred vintage.’
‘Very funny.’
‘You don’t need to speak to me.’
‘I’m well aware of that.’
To Peterson’s annoyance, the vicar merely smiled. Just his bloody luck—a priest that had the air of a man of the world. It made it almost impossible to dislike him. ‘Try not to fall unconscious on the floor of the church. Poor Mrs. Weston would be insensible.’
‘Leave me alone.’
‘No. You’re sitting here with your head in your hands and an unopened bottle of whisky next to you. If I leave you alone now, it’s like a doctor leaving a wounded man in the middle of the street.’ Reverend Calcourt sighed. ‘Does this have something to do with the afternoon at Vauxhall Gardens?’
‘Fuck off.’
‘I thought I saw you throwing away flowers.’
‘It has nothing to do with you.’
‘Sorrow is everyone’s business, Mr. Peterson. Shared sorrow is everyone’s comfort.’
‘It doesn’t feel comforting.’
The vicar’s small smile should have been maddening, but wasn’t. ‘Give it time.’
In the silence that followed, Peterson tried to feel more irritated. To his surprise, both the presence and listening ear of Reverend Calcourt was indeed more comforting than sitting alone in the church.
‘I know you must feel terrible.’ The vicar’s voice was gentle. ‘But I know that you don’t want to lose yourself in drink.’
‘You have no idea what I want.’
‘Forgive me, Mr. Peterson, but—but we men of the cloth are not machines. Many of us have loved, and lost.’ Reverend Calcourt settled into the pew beside him, sighing. ‘How would you know if I were fighting the loss of a great love? It’s hardly discussed at the services.’
‘Great love.’ Peterson tried to snort, but couldn’t.
‘All right. A smaller love.’ Reverend Calcourt gently moved the bottle of whisky away from Peterson. ‘The beginning of a great love, nipped cruelly in the bud.’
Peterson looked away from the vicar, scowling. That was exactly how he would describe what had happened with Rebecca Westbrook, if he were a man given to poetry.
Alas, he wasn’t given to poetry. The only way he could encompass the raw, dark sensation spreading through him was with a harsh sigh, and the clenching of his fists.
‘You don’t have to tell me I’m right.’ Reverend Calcourt paused. ‘You could nod.’
Peterson nodded. ‘That enough for you?’
‘Yes.’
‘I’ve been very stupid.’
‘I doubt it. You’ve always been a man of sound sense.’ Reverend Calcourt smiled. ‘And you were wise enough to come here, looking for help, instead of drinking yourself into a stupor at home.’
‘I’ve never done it, you know. Drank myself into a stupor.’
‘Because of Helen?’
‘Yes.’
‘You see? You are a man of great sense.’
‘I’m a man with too much sense to steal from his master’s cabinet of spirits.’
‘I’m sure Sir Marcus has a tremendous collection of vintages.’ Calcourt paused. ‘But I wish to speak of you, not your master. A heart cannot be mended, but the fracture lines can be smoothed down.’
‘Such optimism.’
‘I’m a priest. If you want optimism, go to a clown.’ The vicar sighed. ‘Come now. You must know a better way of smoothing down the broken edges of your heart than this.’
‘I don’t.’
‘Think.’
Peterson thought. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, Reverend Calcourt’s expression as patient as a stone, he eventually sighed with reluctant obedience.
‘I think it might be time to go to Truro, and see my sister. I can ask for leave—I have it coming.’ He nodded, surprised at how quickly the idea had come to him fully-formed. ‘Time for me to see the back of London for a bit. Time for me to see the sea.’
‘I think Helen will be very happy to see you.’
‘She is rarely happy to see me. She always thinks I am going to move her somewhere worse than where she currently is.’
‘I thought she liked the hospital.’
‘She does. I hope she’ll stay there.’ Peterson gently shook his head, wondering when the last time he had talked so openly to anyone about his life. About his hopes. It would have been Rebecca, lying next to him as the rain fell onto the roof. ‘I think she’d take to the life of a nurse herself, if she could heal enough.’
‘She is already living a good life, I think.’ Reverend Calcourt looked steadily at Peterson. ‘Is this wish for your sister, or for yourself?’
‘For me.’ He could admit it to Calcourt—he was a priest, but he had been a man at some point. ‘I would worry less.’
‘I do not think you would worry less if she were in a hospital forever. I do not think you would worry less if she were made Head Nurse.’ Reverend Calcourt’s smile was gentle, but his gaze was steady. ‘I think that you will
worry about your sister forever, because worry is the necessary weight of love. And I think that going to see her will make you feel calm, for a little while—but a solution will need to be found for this troubled mind of yours.’
‘I’ve been praying quite enough, thank you.’
‘I am not going to recommend prayer. I am sure you are doing the correct amount.’ Calcourt’s expression gathered a hint of wryness. ‘In truth, I was going to suggest marriage.’
Peterson forced himself to keep a straight face. If he started telling the Reverend about the only woman he’d ever considered marrying—a do-gooder who had assailed him in a pleasure-house, and didn’t want to be seen in public with him—the conversation would rapidly become most unfit for church.
‘Perhaps a discussion for a later time, if your face is anything to go by.’ Calcourt shook his head. ‘Go on, now. Go and ask Sir Marcus for leave.’
Peterson rose, obscurely relieved. For someone he rarely spoke to, the vicar had offered sound advice. Perhaps being a vicar was like being a valet—one could study the rules all one wanted, but there was no book as valuable as years of experience. ‘Don’t think I’m obeying your orders. I only have one master, and even he knows what tone to take.’
‘Your master is a mortal man. Mine is a little more exacting.’ Reverend Calcourt gestured to the altar with a smile. ‘And I would never dream of telling you what to do, Mr. Peterson. I have too much good sense for that.’
If only she was a romantic sort of person—a dramatic woman. The kind that could throw herself into a river, or wear black to mourn a union that had never truly occurred. Rebecca, practical to her core when it came to matters of the heart, thought of such women with wistful melancholy as she sat in Catherine Hildebrande’s townhouse.
Devoting any time to misery felt like an unspeakable indulgence in a city where people died of hunger every day. Finding solutions to problems was what she had always been good at—and even if this particular problem concerned the thorny regions of the human heart, rather than the straightforward issue of food in a hungry stomach, Rebecca knew she would find a way to make everything alright.
A Bluestocking's Vice: Dukes of the Demi-Monde: Book Four Page 6