‘But mademoiselle, what silliness is this? Bertie will come. He always does, no?’ He gestured softly to the window, glowing with late-afternoon light. ‘Either the little candle-flame comes along the path, or the thousand candle-flames light up the sky. He visits you always—on foot, or by starlight.’ His smile was full of infinite gentleness. ‘There is no need to be frightened. All you must do is wait for him.’
Lady Benson’s eager, grateful smile washed over Amelia like milk and honey. She watched her mother take Jean’s hand, pressing it between her fingers, suddenly the gracious matriarch she remembered from childhood.
‘Of course. I… I had quite forgotten. I must confess, sir, that your name has escaped me. My mind is in need of a little darning, these days.’
‘Jean LeClerc.’ Jean bowed, kissing Lady Benson’s hand. ‘The man who will marry your daughter. If she will have me.’
‘If she will have you? Lady Maybury spoke as if it were quite decided.’ Lady Benson looked anxiously at her daughter. ‘You mean to tell me that you have caused all this talk, all this gossip, without being sure?’
‘No, mother. No.’ Amelia looked at Jean, hoping her eyes could say all of the words she felt incapable of saying. ‘I am sure. Very sure.’
‘Good. At least my daughter is certain—that’s the mark of a Benson woman. Her certainty.’ Lady Benson released Jean’s hand, taking Amelia’s. ‘Now, my dear—I cannot deny that I take some pleasure in being informed of your intentions before your father, but you know that such an inversion is not quite correct. You must both go to his study immediately, and ask his permission. Not to mention his forgiveness for the delay… but he has always had something of a soft spot for his youngest daughter.’ Lady Benson smiled. ‘Fortunately.’
Amelia, too full of emotion to speak, gently kissed her mother’s forehead. Slowly, Jean following behind her, she left Lady Benson sitting contentedly in her chair; sitting in the world she now lived in, with her husband alive and in his study. With her suitor alive and coming down the path, holding a single candle.
As she turned the corner, Jean stopped. ‘I apologise.’ His eyes were full of wary caution. ‘I have overstepped my mark, and I can only ask—’
He stopped as Amelia held a finger to his lips, silencing him. Slowly wrapping her fingers around his wrist, she began to lead him down the corridor.
She led him past the library, then past the dressing room. Further and further onward, even as she felt him pause behind her; she pulled his wrist, keeping him moving. Moving towards the only place she wanted to take him.
Eliza normally read in Amelia’s bedroom. But Eliza had been given the day off—and Amelia, her hand tight around Jean’s wrist, knew exactly what she needed to do there.
As soon as the bedroom door closed, she was a whirlwind. All Jean could do was hold onto her as she threw herself into his arms, a lightning-strike of cotton and silk and sweet-scented lavender, her skin divinely soft as she eagerly pressed herself against him with a sigh that was half-tearful, and wholly thankful. Her hands roamed over his back, clutching at the linen of his shirt with feverish need, her lips searching for his as she peppered his face with breathless, longing kisses.
For a moment, Jean felt the animal rise in him; the urge to match her desire with his own, and lead it further onward. It would be so easy to push her up against the door, just as he had the afternoon of their first, fateful kiss, and slake his lust on her body until his desire for her was finally, blissfully quenched.
He would make it good for her. More than good. He knew that. But Amelia deserved more than a man thinking primarily of his own desire. Everything that happened here, in this golden moment where all things were of consequence, had to be for Amelia’s pleasure alone. She was racing ahead, running too fast—he needed to ground her. Needed to show her the sensations that would come if she took her time.
He let her stay in his arms for another long moment, unable to resist the lush abundance of her lips and hands travelling over his body, before heeding his better self as he gritted his teeth. With a sigh that was equal parts disappointment and relief, he swept Amelia into his arms.
‘We are going to bed.’ His cock hardened at the thought of it; they would finally be in bed, together. ‘As for ever getting out of bed, I am not sure.’ He took her over the four-poster bed; dark wood, fresh linens, and interlocking wreaths of carved flowers filled him with a peace that only fuelled his lust. ‘I have only thought up to this point.’
Amelia stared up at him, her cheeks pink, eyes sparkling. ‘You seem to have thought quite far ahead while speaking to my mother.’
Jean leaned down, quieting her with a long, deep kiss. There seemed to be no way of verbally expressing the sentiment that had spurred his words onward in front of Lady Benson; not now, not with so many things still uncertain and undone. However inadequate his words felt, however tongue-tied he could be, he knew that his body could show Amelia how he felt in ways his tongue could not.
Well. His tongue would be useful, even if he wouldn’t be speaking. Jean tenderly laid Amelia down, biting his lip as her golden hair spilled over the pillow, wondering how anyone could dispassionately touch a woman so beautiful.
‘Let me give this to you.’ He barely knew what he was saying; he could hardly form the words. ‘This is all for you. All, and only.’
Amelia nodded. Her eyes were wide; Jean could see the fear in them, just as he was sure she could see the tension in his own face. But the half-smile she gave, the eagerness of her hands in his as she pulled him closer, let him know that she was longing for this as much as he was.
The softness of the blankets caressed his palms as he eased himself onto the bed, covering Amelia with his body. He couldn’t help but sigh with pleasure as her yielding curves pressed tightly against his, his hard cock snugly placed at the meeting of her thighs.
‘Madame.’ Jean gently stroked a strand of hair away from Amelia’s face, wrapping it around his finger. ‘Amelia.’
He gasped as Amelia reached upward, wrapping her arms around him. ‘Jean.’
Kisses came; deeper kisses, slower ones, full of the teasing, languid tension that came with knowing where the kisses would lead. Jean knew better than to confine himself to Amelia’s lips, full and sweet as they were; he lavished every inch of her face and neck with kisses, losing himself in her, highly aware of even the smallest shiver and sigh that came from Amelia’s throat depending on where he touched her. Propped up on his elbows, his arms making a frame of Amelia’s face, Jean took mischievous delight in kissing the corner of her mouth as he felt the pleasure ripple through her again and again. His hips began to move of their own accord, pressing with slightly more force against the cool, silken mass of Amelia’s petticoats as his body sought out a more intimate connection.
‘Mmm.’ Amelia’s sigh thrilled through him. How responsive she became when she was relaxed; how warm and supple her hands were as they moved from his shoulders to his chest, running her hands over his skin with proprietary awareness. With every soft, light kiss to the crook of her mouth Jean felt her palms tense, her fingers tightening on his flesh as her hips shifted, beginning to gently grind against his.
Yes. He could move ahead; she was ready. Jean gently moved Amelia’s hands away from his chest, his fingers encircling her wrists as he slowly, decisively put her hands above her head. He didn’t want to restrain her—well, not if she didn’t want to be restrained. But a deep, primal thrill ran through him all the same as Amelia looked up at him, her skin flushed with his kisses, her chest suddenly vulnerable to his mouth in a way it had never been before.
‘I’m glad I made this bodice low.’ Jean leaned downward, running his tongue along her collarbone as Amelia gasped. ‘I should have made it lower.’
‘Any lower, Monsieur LeClerc, and it will scandalise.’ Amelia took a deep breath; Jean watched the rise and fall of her breasts, transfixed. ‘Every gentleman of the ton will stare most terribly.’
‘With
out a doubt.’ Jean took in the line of primly-tied white silk ribbons that kept the bodice closed. ‘And as a master modiste… I should probably give them something to look at.’
Reaching further downward, teeth bared in a half-feral grin, he took the end of a ribbon in his teeth. Ignoring Amelia’s gasp of surprise, he pulled the ribbon loose—revealing her inch by inch, like unwrapping the most precious of gifts.
Her breasts were perfect; they were hers, of course they were perfect. Jean slowly took in the sight of them, the sight of the pink flush at the base of Amelia’s neck, before giving in to the urgent demands of his body.
Bending his head, he began to kiss her way over her breasts as Amelia gasped. He ran his tongue lovingly over one nipple, then the other, delighting in the taste of her as Amelia writhed beneath him. She was so open, so responsive… so Amelia, every inch of her, and all he wanted was more.
No. Not just more. He wanted forever; he wanted every day, every hour, with her. Just as he had said to her mother; just as he had said to Amelia in a thousand worthless ways, ever since their first meeting. But there would be time for that; he had to hope, against all odds, that there was enough time for everything. Time enough to show her that his words were not empty platitudes; time enough to show her that this passion was inexhaustible, and would last until the end of his life.
‘That…’ Amelia’s light, pleasure-flushed tone washed over him like champagne. ‘That feels wonderful.’
‘Yes.’ Jean bent his back to her breasts. ‘You are.’
Amelia lay in a state close to rapture. Every previously unthinkable thing had become a delicious, natural progression, unfolding over minutes that slipped by as if in the current of a river. It was natural that Jean’s mouth was on her breasts; it was natural that she freed her wrists from his grip, guiding him with her hands on his head, gripping him tightly whenever his tongue did something spectacular. It was natural that her body, accustomed to tension and repression for so very long, was beginning to take the lead when it came to its own pleasure.
‘Mmm.’ She didn’t mean to whimper as Jean gently ground against her, but she couldn’t help it. It felt right in some base, fundamental way; the buckskin of his breeches, the endless white acres of petticoats that had never felt so restrictive…
Summoning up her courage, she began to move one hand downward. She gasped as her palm met Jean’s; they lifted her gown together, the cool air of the room as light as a kiss against her stockings.
‘I will make these for you.’ Jean ran a light, marvelling finger along her leg, pausing at the hem of her stocking. ‘Black silk. Red silk. A rainbow of silk, with butterflies dancing at each hem.’ He moved his finger further upward; Amelia shivered, bending her knee reflexively. ‘A little too much for the citizens of Bath, perhaps… but then, I must show you Paris. Colourful stockings will be more acceptable there.’
‘You would show my ankles to Paris?’ Amelia trembled beneath his gaze; she lay completely exposed to him, her most intimate self revealed to his eyes and hands.
‘Hmm. Thinking about it, absolutely not. Not even the tip of a toe. Another war would start.’ Jean stroked higher; Amelia gasped, biting her lip as his hand gently cupped the patch of downy curls at the meeting of her thighs. ‘And I am a man of peace. Best that I keep you for myself.’
Amelia couldn’t answer. Her entire being was concentrated on Jean’s exploratory fingers as they gently stroked over her sensitive flesh, caressing it, parting her lips to find the throbbing, overwhelming pleasure source that lay within. All she could do was push her body towards his touch, fighting the urge to moan as his fingers circled the tight, flushed bud of sensation that ached for more attention.
It wasn’t right that she was the only one exposed, the only one receiving such pleasure. Jean deserved to feel it too. How on earth she was to go about it was another matter, especially as conscious thought became more and more difficult. Amelia reached for Jean’s breeches, tugging ineffectually at the fabric, stopping as Jean’s low rumble of laughter filled the room.
‘Always in such a hurry.’ He slid his breeches downward; Amelia paused, fascinated, as his hard cock sprang free. ‘You must slow down, Madame. You must—ah, mon dieu.’
‘No, no. Keep going.’ Amelia fought a treacherous urge to giggle as she stroked another finger along Jean’s shaft. ‘I assure you I am listening very attentively.’ She smiled delightedly as she caressed the very tip of him, watching a shudder ripple through his muscles. ‘Although you seem to be somewhat distracted.’
‘And you seem to be trying not to laugh, Madame. Laughing can be a perilous thing, in situations as delicate as this.’ Jean slowly sank back down onto her, his cock resting brazenly against her naked flesh. ‘Am I so very funny?’
‘Yes, and no. And yes.’ Amelia giggled as Jean growled in mock protest. ‘I… I find that I laugh with no-one else. No-one but you.’
It was true; she did want to laugh, when she was with him. The situation they were in had a certain humour to it—an absurdity that made the sweetness even more precious. But as Jean moved his hips, bringing his hardness to her entrance, the thought of laughing flew further and further away.
This was serious. Very serious. But still, amazingly, with joy lying at the very heart of it. Amelia stared into Jean’s eyes, suddenly speechless, not wanting the moment to end.
‘Are you ready, Madame?’ Jean stroked her hair, his lips touching briefly, lightly against hers.
She wanted to speak, but couldn’t. It wouldn’t sound right; wouldn’t carry the urgency, the enthusiasm, that she hoped to convey. Amelia, cursing her hapless tongue, nodded as hard as she could.
Yes. Please. She nodded as Jean shifted; nodded even as she gasped, tensing. Yes, yes, please, please, yes.
Had she known that ruining oneself would cause such a tremendous sense of peace, she would have pursued it much earlier. As it was, with Jean holding her so tightly she feared she would break, all Amelia could do was give fervent thanks for the pain she was currently experiencing.
Yes, it was painful. There was no doubting that. But the pain was pure, clean, uncomplicated—in her body alone, rather than trapped in the mind, and already flowering into strange, dark pleasure under Jean’s watchful gaze. An animal pain, hovering on the border between brutality and bliss.
‘I’ll stop.’ Jean gently kissed the corner of her mouth; Amelia shivered, instinctively tightening around him. ‘If the hurt is too great, I will stop.’
‘No.’ Amelia clutched him close, feeling him stop breathing as she tightened again. How curious it was, how splendid, to experiment with such sensations. She shifted, biting her lip as the pain rose and fell away again. ‘Don’t stop.’
Jean’s voice was ragged. ‘I did hope you would say that.’
‘You see?’ Amelia risked tightening around him again; this time she whimpered as a spark of pleasure shot through her, making her nerves dance. ‘I can occasionally be agreeable.’
‘Oh, Amelia.’ Jean’s lips covered hers, his voice little more than a growl, and Amelia felt the last of her conscious thoughts slip gloriously away.
For long, raw, sweet minutes he lay still inside her, his hands firm on her back, his mouth ceaselessly planting soft, light kisses on her face and neck as she grew accustomed to the feel of him. Amelia began to feel curious; the pain had dulled entirely, replaced by a thrill of sensation whenever she moved her hips even the smallest amount. Biting her lip, she slowly ground herself against him, tightening and relaxing deliberately—and gasped, newly shocked by the pleasure, as Jean’s hips moved to match hers.
Yes. This was a rhythm they could share; fragile, halting, but deepening by the minute. Amelia rocked against him, flushed and breathless, burying her head into Jean’s shoulder as she fought the urge to cry out. Everything she could see and hear only made the pleasure more intense; Jean’s ferocious, tender gaze, the way he bit his lip to stifle his own moans. Her own thighs, locked brazenly around his naked hip
s; her own breasts, flushed and reddened from his kisses, as her gown crumpled further with each rock of her hips.
She needed more; with every slow, teasing thrust, she needed more. Growing bolder, she rocked her hips more assertively; Jean’s surprised moan of pleasure only spurred her onward. Yes, that was it, the feel of him sliding in and out of her, his hands slowly moving to her shoulders as his own thrusts deepened to match hers.
‘Ah!’ She cried out, unable to hold back a gasp as Jean’s head bent to her breasts. She had never conceived of it; could never have imagined such a thing; his hot tongue circling one of her stiff peaks as he moved inside her, hard and unyielding. Who had to the capacity to imagine such pleasure? She trembled, biting her lip, contentedly helpless against his onslaught as she shamelessly pushed her chest upward, granting him further access.
Yes. This was all; this was everything. Oh, Lord, yes.
Jean’s thoughts would have sounded similar, had he been capable of thought. All language had fallen by the wayside; the only thing that mattered was sensation. The feel of Amelia around him, clenching him, tight and wet and deliciously, deliriously happy.
Time slipped through his fingers like water; like syrup, like gold, drowning them both in bliss. Time didn’t matter, if Amelia was happy—centuries were mere seconds if spent inside her, feeling her respond to him, watching her gasp and smile as his thrusts grew bolder, more urgent. Time was nothing at all with her breasts under his tongue, rosy with his kisses, her nipples stiff and swollen as he gently grazed them with his teeth.
Time was nothing at all as he felt his climax coming, keeping pace with Amelia’s pleasure, her muffled cries growing less inhibited as her thighs gripped his back. How had they begun so very slowly, so cautiously—they had always meant to reach this point, hadn’t they? Giving themselves to one another, all of their passion, their bodies slick and panting as they brought one another to the peak?
Private Passions Page 43