by Louisa Trent
“Sir, did you drive yourself here this evening?”
“Yes.”
“Then do take care en route home, sir.”
Here, I modestly dropped my gaze to his midsection. Or perhaps just a tad lower. Animals displayed much the same habit, a hunching of neck and bunching of shoulders, done to minimize what might wrongly be construed as untoward aggression. I knew this to be true for my father, an avid huntsman, had told me so. I was an only child, and Papa had lavished all sorts of doting attention on me, as had Mama. I missed them so…
“Why must I take care?” the charmer asked.
A rather blunt inquiry it was too, one that left me in a quandary as to how to proceed.
A serious conversation outlining the dangers of alcohol consumption would have me announcing I was a card-carrying member of the Temperance Movement. From there it would be a soggy explanation of how I had signed up the day following my parents’ funerals.
The organization, primarily made up of a female membership, was quite militant, what with their boisterous rallies and public shouting matches. I really did not belong there.
Not belonging anywhere was the story of my life.
Every cringingly sweet sentiment said of me was mostly true. Apart from my propensity for blackmail…and fibbing…and dropping bugs in receptive ears, all done for a good cause…I was basically nice. No saint, but decorous. If asked, all to a one would say I was a quality lady of the first water. My background of good works and even better deeds had forever destroyed whatever chances I might once have had of enjoying a disreputable reputation. Even a moderately exciting reputation. Worse still – I was a virgin.
To everything.
There were no naughty self-explorations. Not in the privacy of the WC. Not in my bedchamber. No adventuring between my thighs or any other region of my anatomy. Absolutely, there was no self-pollution.
I simply did not find myself attractive enough to court. And lacking in imagination as I was, fantasizing about some phantom lover doing the courting proved beyond me.
But I could possibly take on the role of plucky heroine here.
With the intention of martyring myself to save a life, I left the safety of the potted plant behind and bravely – at least, I thought myself brave – confronted the stranger. For all that, I did so as if he might bite me, an absurd idea.
More absurd was thinking I might actually enjoy the sting of his teeth.
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Although, I can plainly see how erect you are, alcohol has a way of turning even a hard footing such as yours lamentably limp.”
“Me, limp? Unlikely,” he said in a low, almost confidential growl, as if we were the only two people in the room, not in the midst of thirty or more of Boston’s most influential citizens. “I am rarely given to a limp state when in the company of a pretty lady.”
A delicious shiver raced through me. Still…
Pretty? Who me?
I was too old for pretty. And when I was young, the same applied but for other reasons…bone structure, coloring, a lamentably flat chest…the usual disadvantages that turned a hopeful ingénue into a bitter Old Maid.
In later life, I had envisioned my features falling into “interesting’ territory. “Handsome” perhaps, a kind of saying not exactly repulsive…
“I find you most seductive,” he continued.
Suddenly, my bad opinion of him tipped from disdain into favorable. I would like to say this change took some persuasion. But, no. All the charmer had to do was send a few compliments my way.
And I had all to do not to scream…Oh, do go on, sir. Tell me more outrageous lies.
I made no such outcry. A sudden urge to look over my shoulder, however, befell me.
Perhaps he was talking about someone else, someone who actually was pretty and seductive. Either that or his eye sight was not the best.
In the end, lacking any bantering repartee, I merely said, “Beg pardon? Your meaning escapes me, sir.”
“I meant only this – my thanks for noticing my erect state. Then again, what man would not be erect around you? I have had my sights set on you all evening.”
His voice – low, almost a caressing cadence, despite its gruffness – lent a feeling of unwarranted intimacy to our conversation. Completely, inappropriate of course. Still, I could not bring myself to stammer a complaint.
Guests were circling us, a stately promenade around the circumference of the gilded hall, their ears cocked for any scandalous bon mots they could retell later in the drawing room…if the morsels were sufficiently entertaining.
A waste of their time. I never had anything scintillating to say. Never did anything outrageous, either. But this charming man might.
His gaze narrowed and heated, to the level of scalding. His look could burn a woman, turn her to blazing cinders. Ashes even! And as I was never given to flights of fancy, I knew this must be correct.
For other women. Not for me. Tragically, I was not the sort to bring out the arsonist in anyone.
Who was he?
Well-connected, for a surety. Otherwise, he would not be in attendance at tonight’s gala. I personally saw to it that only the crème de la crème of society received invitations.
Plus there was his diction. Lovely. Eloquent, even with its slightly drunken slur. I could not fault his background. Indeed, we must run in much the same advantaged social circle. He too was of Boston’s elite upper-class.
Thinking such a thing was the height of snobbery. But the knowledge lent me security, the sense of safety that comes with sharing a similar background and like finances with a man one has only just met.
What a relief! He cannot possibly be after my money. Most likely, he has plenty of his own to squander…
But why had we not bumped into one another before? And goodness! Whatever was I to do now that we had?
Flee! Posthaste. Before he discovered what a dreary duck I was.
Ordinarily, I would have done just that, turned on my heel and departed. Here, though, I risked another social humiliation and remained.
Why?
Forget plucky. It was a resurgence of my ingénue’s hopefulness.
Perhaps, this time would prove different. Perhaps, this time I would not come off as an idiot. Our time on this planet was all too brief. Why not take a chance, I mused, grab hold of life with both hands…before committing to spinsterhood forever?
Unless– was it already too late for me?
If not too late, how to explain my avoidance of the reporter? Why not speak to Mr. Nathaniel Osborn? See if I could salvage, even solidify, our budding friendship? Why hide behind a damn potted plant bound to make me sneeze?
The reporter respected my work on behalf of orphans, admired my advocacy of prostitutes. I could be honest with him, explain my social shyness, tell him how awkward I found the most simple of conversations, particularly with a man who looked upon me as a saint.
I was no saint. Never wished to be treated as one. Too much to live up to, too many ways to disappoint. I wanted to be treated like a normal woman, benevolent at times, malevolent at other times. Round-the-clock virtue was exhausting. Perhaps if I did all that, Mr. Osborn would see beneath my pale, washed-out exterior and boringly conventional ladylike manner to the libertine I was beneath my straight-laced exterior…
The stranger interrupted my musings:
“Ah, playing coy with me, are you, little peeper? Just so you know, I am game.”
Game for what?
And what was a peeper, and why did this stranger think I was one? Did my hiding behind a potted plant have something to do with his misperception?
“Voyeurism is not my specialty, little peeper, but I can improvise.”
Goody for him. All of this was Greek to me.
My expression must have reflected my puzzlement for the stranger immediately followed that up with, “I can play along with whatever your carnal leanings.”
What leanings? I had
no carnal leanings. But play and game sounded wondrous. I had not done nearly enough of either as a child.
“Sashaying behind the plant to spy on me was spunky of you. The prim and proper manner, in the face of my finding you out, just went to show how spunky you are. Your contradictions intrigue me.”
Contradictions!
My, but he made inconsistency, a less than exemplary trait of mine, sound mysterious, not wishy-washy.
“Nice push-pull,” he went on. “Nice come hither and stay away technique. Nice routine, all around.”
There it was again – that hateful word:
Nice.
It followed me wherever I went.
“Little peeper – have no fear. I am in no danger of going limp with you around. I wager you could keep me up all night.”
His eyes crinkling at the corners, the stranger looked me up and down, as if assessing me. “Voyeurism, exhibitionism, or just your basic dominance and submission, all those are fine with me…so long as we use discretion. With that in mind, shall we move from this heavily trafficked area? A punchbowl tends to draw unsavory characters.” He grinned. “Like myself.”
“You – unsavory?” I babbled because…on second consideration…he positively did appear to be flirting with me! “Not at all!”
A twinkle danced in his eye. “May I suggest retiring to the window in the anteroom for some…stargazing?”
His was no suggestion. Either I went with him or this ended here.
Whatever this was, I did not wish it to end.
I nodded my agreement.
Ordinarily, a gentleman would escort a lady to their shared destination – offer a crooked elbow or some other courteous assistance. Not here. We walked separately into the anteroom and to the window. Nothing he did indicated we were together. We merely drifted to the same starlit glass panes, as if by happenstance.
Hmm. No touching, not of any sort, not even a cavalier’s courtly guidance? A gossip-defying lead of one or two paces?
Both hinted of a previous acquaintance with clandestine activities. As Shakespeare once wrote, his was a primrose path of dalliance.
This man knew precisely what he was doing. On the other extreme, I was a babe in the wood.
At the window, he glanced over at me. Hotly. I was not soot yet, but getting there, melting a bit around the edges first. My poor addled wits were at sixes-and-sevens. How should I behave?
Usually I was more of a silly twit in the company of an attractive man. Though other women would absolutely say this man was desperately handsome – suave, I supposed, too – his fair-haired good looks did nothing to heighten my social tension and self-consciousness. Indeed, his tawny blond looks put me almost at my ease. Quite a rare talent, that. And he had done it with only a wink and a smile and that naughty hot gaze.
I could no more have looked away than I could have returned to the safety of the other room, the room beyond the door he had just reached over, quietly closed, and then locked with the resounding clink of a key.
What should I do now?
Lately, I had been unable to make up my mind about anything, about doing anything. Save, for my charities, that is. I clung to my charities as I would a lifesaver. They offered me a purpose, a reason to get up out of bed in the morning. Whatever energy I still possessed went into the causes I championed…
As I never had been able to champion myself. Tongue-tied and bashful…that was me. I went mute with shyness, stuttering and stammering anytime I had to speak socially, especially to a man. For some reason, I was able to put all those failures aside and speak up for the children whose plight I represented. I lent orphans my voice, strong, even strident, during those occasions.
Here, with him, felt much the same. I betrayed none of my usual trepidations with him. None of my recent listlessness, either. With him, I projected the same outward confidence and surety as I did with parentless children.
“You closed and locked the door, sir. Why?”
“Because you interest me.”
“Quite a typical reaction, sir. Men are often thus in my presence.”
Ha! Men were always utterly disinterested in my presence.
This stranger differed from those other men in every aspect. He differed from them as I differed from my usual self. Which was the authentic woman – the tongue-tied, unsure of herself social misfit or the confident woman going toe-to-toe with this stranger?
“Calm and collected in your game playing, eh, little peeper? Impressive.”
In truth, only my wealth had ever impressed anyone.
Still, as if completely onto his male shenanigans, I batted my lashes and smiled up at him, a long overdue stab at coquettishness more appropriate for a sixteen year-old strumpet than a reclusive woman nearly twice that age.
Long before I ever turned sixteen, my parents had tried to cure me of my shyness. They had drilled poise and other affectations of good breeding into me beginning in early childhood. Dance instructors, speech instructors, etiquette instructors, conversational coaches – yes, that last position existed.
I was the apple of their eye, regardless of the worms, and they tried everything to rid me of the infestation. Nothing they attempted had succeeded in making me edible, never mind delicious. They never let on, but I was probably a horrible disappointment to them.
Who ever heard of a bashful heiress? Most of us were spoiled brats.
This charming stranger had touched the naked and raw woman beneath my mile-long list of social insecurities. And even though he had yet to lay a hand on me, that touching was completely improper.
Suddenly, the impropriety was too much. The leap from nice to naughty was too great a divide for me to leap. Anything short of caution in this situation was madness.
“I have changed my mind about stargazing. If you will excuse me, sir? I really must go.”
Chapter Three
The stranger placed himself between me and my escape route – the locked door adjacent to the star-lit bank of windows. His was not a pounce, nor was his stance menacing in any way. Nevertheless, he did manage to halt my progress with:
“Not just yet, little peeper.”
“Oh, really? You presume to tell me what I may and may not do?”
“Only because I believe you might like playing submissive to my dominant.”
Perhaps. I certainly liked who else I was in his company. With him, I was a changed woman and he seemed to be a catalyst for this. For some reason, he stimulated me. If only I understood half of what he was saying…
Nevertheless – “The playful aspect does rope me in, sir.”
He nodded. “I can do ropes.”
In a way I had never done before, not even at my coming out ball as a Newport debutante, I tossed my head and swept up my lackluster skirts, actually flipping the hem so that my petticoats went all frothy, whitecaps on a stormy dark sea. Such fun to be petulant rather than agreeable all the time. Could stamping my foot be far off?
“Refuse me leave to pass and I shall scream for release, sir.”
He clucked his tongue. “Such impatience! Never fear. You will have your release. I shall see to it. And you will scream. In satiation. Though – I can understand your desire to hurry the main event along. I am that good in bed.” He chuckled.
Had he just made a boast of some sort?
I gave mental shrug. His inside joke was lost entirely on me. Naturally. Humor was not my strong suit. Innuendo less so.
I guarded against sending him a blank look. An empty expression would have revealed my utter and complete lack of comprehension. Too old for flighty, too level-headed for capriciousness, and not nearly regal enough for scorn, instead, I shot him a snooty look.
I was good at snooty. Sometimes, snooty was even the genuine article. No act. No impression.
On its heels followed unmitigated fury. Anger was one of the many unnice emotions I always kept bottled up inside. It felt so good to let it out, like a genie uncorking a monster from the proverbial bottle.
>
How dare he block my path?
I never vented. Never showed my true feelings. Not even the horrible and devastating fury I felt after a drunkard at the carriage reins plowed into my parents during their evening stroll and tossed them into an elm tree. Rather than shaking my fist at the heavens, I grieved quietly, as a lady should, while simmering inside. Showing my rage would not have been polite.
Goodness, but I was enjoying my unladylike self here. The person I had become in the charmer’s company was such a welcome break from the tedium of my own circumspect life, where a clock could be set on the regularity of my daily charity schedule. It was as if this headstrong and adventurous female, just a flounce away from stamping her foot, was the true me, while the meek and mild Miss Malone, the eternal do-gooder, constituted a mask I had hidden behind all my life. My social clumsiness kept the woman who was not always kind and humble and nice inside. Little wonder that at my advanced age I had no lines on my face. Puckering one’s forehead destroyed the serene illusion I worked so hard to establish.
I put forth no such illusions here. Frowning to beat the band, I met his disappointment, tat for tit.
Speaking of which, my lamentably small bosom heaved with fury. That had never happened to me before. Despite that he towered over me, I held my ground. Craning my neck, practically spitting up at him like an aggrieved cat, I stared at him openly.
Tall and slender, he possessed a bare-fisted pugilist’s taut and wiry body, more than an undernourished one. At least now he looked sufficiently nourished.
Because of my volunteer work with street children, I was something of an authority on starvation. I knew what the condition looked like up close – hollow of cheek, dead of eye, vacant of expression, the slump of narrow shoulders, the beaten down posture. Staying alive under impossible circumstances sapped children of their energy. Of course, the belly could show bloating too, but those were extreme cases. When scouting the streets, I tried to find castoffs before they reached that critical stage in their hand-to-mouth existence.