by Nina Mason
“I should leave you,” he strained to say. “I do not want to, but it would be the right thing to do.”
Despite the dimness of the candlelight, he could see a faint smile cross her lips. “Would that not be rather like locking the barn door after the horse has been stolen?”
“Yes,” he said, bemused. “I suppose it would at that.”
His resolve, which was fragile at best, shattered like a toppled vase. Lying beside her, he took her in his arms and kissed her deeply before moving his mouth to her rose-scented neck. “Christian,” she sighed as he made love to the folds of her ear with his lips and tongue. Her hand found his cockstand through his nightshirt and closed around it, arousing in him passions so violent it was all he could do not to rip her nightgown from her body.
Hungry for the taste and feel of her flesh, he used his teeth to expose her nearest breast and greedily set upon the nipple. The soft moan she released in response sent thrilling shivers through him. He felt the sudden urge to recite a love poem. Something by Byron seemed apropos. Or Moore, perhaps. Did she care for Moore? He would ask were his mouth not more agreeably engaged at present.
Believe me, if all those endearing young charms,
Which I gaze on so fondly to-day,
Were to change by to-morrow, and fleet in my arms,
Live fairy-gifts fading away,
Thou wouldst still be adored, as this moment thou art,
Let thy loveliness fade as it will,
And around the dear ruin each wish of my heart
Would entwine itself verdantly still …
Yes, that one would serve his purposes quite well, if he could summon the remainder. But, alas, there was insufficient blood in his brain to bring forth that or any other sonnet in its entirety. Forgetting the poets, he glided his fingertips up her thigh as he registered, in succession, the velvety feel of her hairless skin, the coarseness of her pubic curls, and the sweet stickiness of her feminine folds.
He teased her until she begged him to put her out of her misery. “Would that I could put us both out of our misery,” he said as he positioned himself atop her. “Not just sexually, I mean, but to make the unknown known and … joyful.”
“I’d like that, too,” she said, throwing back her head in a gesture of surrender. “But I will settle for amorous fulfillment in the interim.”
“As will I, my love,” he said, entering her in one long, gratifying stroke. She wrapped her legs around him, taking him deeper as her inner muscles contracted in response to the besought invasion. Driven by an invisible whip, he chased the pleasure they’d both agreed to settle for provisionally. When he was close to climaxing, he held on, waiting for her, so they could fly to heaven together.
But not too close to the sun, he prayed, for their wings were fashioned of wax at present and could so easily melt away.
Nineteen
The next few days and nights might have been insufferable for Georgie, had she not been so preoccupied with helping Louisa and Miss Raynalds prepare for the Christmas Eve party. There were evergreen boughs and holly sprigs to be gathered and hung or arranged, syllabubs and rum punches to be made and chilled, and sweetmeats and other seasonal treats to be prepared by the dozens.
Yes, they could have left the better part of the preparations to the servants, but Louisa wouldn’t hear of doing so. Firstly, the maids already had their hands full looking after her many houseguests and, secondly, she wanted everything to be up to her exacting standards.
Normally, Louisa wasn’t overly fastidious. But having finally been released from the social purgatory imposed by their father’s ill-will, she was determined to make the best possible impression with her first party as Mrs. Theobald Raynalds.
For her part, Georgie was more than happy to pitch in. If idle hands were the devil’s workshop, then minds left to wander were the fertile fields in which Lucifer sowed the seeds of doubt and fear. To prevent him from cultivating these evils in her, she kept herself actively employed from the moment she got up in the morning until she laid her exhausted head on the pillow come bedtime. When, on those rare occasions, she did meditate upon the choices she’d made, she simply blocked any contrary thoughts that tried to creep in.
Come hell or high water, she’d decided with conviction, she would stand by Christian—unless, heaven forbid, his father insisted he honor his promise to Miss Stubbs. Would he? She sincerely hoped not; although, even if he should, Georgie had not ruled out the prospect of becoming his Cytherian, as mistresses were known in polite society. For she would much rather enjoy the fruits of their attachment outside the bonds of matrimony than spend the rest of her life in either celibate spinsterhood or a passionless marriage.
Not that those were her only options, of course. Being only nineteen, she still might meet someone else she could love … or at least like enough to tolerate as her husband and bedmate. While the idea sent a chill up her spine at present, she might warm to the notion in time.
For had not Marianne Dashwood, devastated as she was by Mr. Willoughby’s desertion, found a place in her heart for Colonel Brandon at the end of the novel? Yes, she had. The Colonel was not perhaps as dashing as Willoughby, but he was indisputably the more romantic at heart, having stood by his true love through marriage, poverty, ruination, and death. Willoughby, conversely, gave up Marianne, to whom he was sincerely attached, to marry a wealthy woman he held in contempt.
And yet, as despicable as his choice appeared to be on the surface, Willoughby made the sensible decision. For how could he foresee that his aunt would restore his inheritance after a time? He could not, poor man. But imagine how it must have plagued his heart out to know he could have had Marianne and his legacy, if only he’d not acted in haste.
And imagine how it would plague out her own heart to give up Christian to that Jezebel! The mere thought of it wreaked havoc upon her peace of mind. Thus, come what may, she would not surrender her claim, however uncompassionately his father chose to act.
Heaving a sigh, Georgie returned her attention to the task at hand: chopping the beef suet for the mincemeat pies. She was in the kitchen with Louisa beside her, doing likewise with the rump steak. Ideally, they should have prepared the filling a fortnight ago, to ensure the flavors of the meat, candied citrus rinds, brandy, tart apples, and brown sugar melded together beautifully.
“Do you think the pies will suffer for us having waited so long to prepare the filling?” The concern in Louisa’s voice was audible.
“Perhaps a little,” Georgie replied in all honesty. “Fortunately, though, Christmas Eve is still a few days off, so the ingredients will at least have some time to congeal before the pies are assembled.”
“Yes, that is true, but do you think a few days will be enough?”
“It will have to be, I daresay,” Georgie told her sister. “For we cannot turn back the clock, now can we?”
Louisa did not look the least bit relieved by these assurances. “No indeed. Nor do I desire to do so, apart from the positive effect more time would have upon the pies.”
They chopped in silence for several moments before Georgie asked, “Are you nervous about the party?”
“Yes, and do not scruple to confess I grow ever more anxious by the hour.”
There was another pause before Georgie inquired, “Have you had many responses?”
“Quite a few, I’m pleased to say.”
Georgie waited for Louisa to elaborate, but she did not. By way of prompt, she asked, “May I know who is coming?”
“Mr. Goddard, the new curate has replied in the affirmative. As have Lord and Lady Baldwyn, as expected. And Mama and our sisters will be coming, too, of course—a few hours early, thankfully, to help with the preparations.”
Turning to her sister, Georgie asked, “What about the Cuthbertsons? Or did you not invite them?”
Louisa brushed back a strand of hair that had come lose from her chignon. “I did not wish to, as I’m sure you can understand, but set my feelings
aside to avoid a feud.”
Georgie did indeed understand Louisa’s reluctance to invite the widow and her daughter. For it was they who had revealed to Papa Louisa’s secret courtship with Capt. Raynalds. Consequently, their father beat his two eldest daughters before packing them off in the dead of night to their Aunt Hildegarde’s in Bath. There, Louisa was treated no better than a prisoner whilst preparations were made for her previously arranged marriage to their odious cousin. It was to escape that loathsome fate that she’d encouraged the Captain’s suit in the first place.
“I suppose Miss Cuthbertson will make a play for Christian, once she learns he’s to inherit an earldom. Or Benedict, if she discovers the legacy may fall to him.”
“Do you really believe their father would be so cruel as to disown the poor Lieutenant owing to his engagement to Miss Stubbs?”
Louisa’s question took Georgie aback. Certainly, she of all people should know how heartless fathers could be. Having no wish to pursue the subject, Georgie simply said, “There is no knowing until he comes, of course … but by the tone of his letter I can safely presume he does not look upon his eldest son’s behavior with a friendly eye at present—nor has he for some time hitherto.”
For a long moment, Louisa studied her sister as if at a loss for words. At length, she asked, “Will you still have him if he’s poor?”
Georgie arched an eyebrow at her sister. “Do not the marriage vows say for richer or for poorer?”
Louisa frowned down at her rump steak, most of which was now minced. “Not in Scotland, as you will recall.”
Georgie did recall. Her sister’s marriage to the Captain was presided over by a former pirate turned “anvil priest.” The vows consisted of him asking, in an almost indiscernible brogue, if they were both free to marry.
“You sound as though you regret your marriage,” Georgie conjectured with a sideways glance.
“Not my marriage, and make no mistake. For I could not be happier in my choice of husbands. But my wedding, I stand ready to confess, was a bit of a let-down.”
With a sly grin, Georgie reposted, “Then let us hope the wedding night more than made up for your dissatisfaction.”
“It did indeed,” Louisa said as her face crimsoned. “Without a doubt.”
Often, purely out of scientific curiosity, Georgie wondered how a one-legged man made love to a woman. Did he remove his prosthesis or leave it on? Did he take her from on top or underneath? She could never ask, of course, but considered it to her sister’s credit that she did not seem to mind her husband’s disability. And Theo, bless his heart, had become much more agreeable as a result of his wife’s unstinting devotion.
In Georgie’s estimation, they were both extremely blessed to have found each other. She just hoped fortune would be as kind to her and Christian as it had been to Louisa and her Captain. Unlike her dear sister, however, Georgie would be thrilled to marry her beau in Gretna Green … or wherever else the winds of fate might blow them.
“Speaking of love and marriage,” Georgie said between chops, “I do not believe I have yet thanked you for suggesting I read Sense & Sensibility. It was, as you predicted, exceedingly illuminating.”
“It gladdens me to hear you found it so, especially since you are so averse to novels in general. And, if you will give me leave to recommend another … I believe you will find The Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure equally instructive, albeit in different ways altogether.”
Georgie looked sharply at her sister, unsure she’d heard her correctly. “Are you actually suggesting I would gain insights by reading the autobiography of a prostitute?”
Louisa gave her a simpering smile. “Insight and titillation, I daresay.”
Her sister’s boldness activated a shiver of excitement in Georgie. “And, may I ask, where you came by such a book? Not in the Captain’s library, I hope.”
“Certainly not,” Louisa said defensively. Then, adopting a secretive tone, she added, “It was from our father’s secret collection of erotic novels that I acquired the tome, along with many other even more scandalous titles.”
“Dear me,” Georgie fretted. “Did mother know of his perverse tastes?”
“Of his tastes, yes. Of his affinity for erotic literature, no. Not, that is to say, until she began packing up his library.”
Georgie felt the blood rise to her face. “How shocking a discovery that must have been for Mama.”
“Indeed it was, though not half as shocking as some of the other items she found hidden amongst his things, including reams of ribbon-bound letters from several notorious London actresses and prostitutes.”
Georgie’s thoughts leapt back to the night her father took her to Covent Gardens. For a moment, she considered telling Louisa what she’d witnessed, but decided against it. Her sister obviously knew about their father’s deviance and had also elected to keep it to herself. Might she, too, have persuaded herself that keeping the secret somehow made it less real? Or did she hope to protect her younger sibling’s innocence? Georgie suspected it was the latter, and that, it now being lost, Louisa could make free to speak to her about the books and letters.
“Do you fault me for giving myself to Christian?” Georgie asked without forethought.
“By no means.” Louisa gave her a sympathetic smile. “But I do strongly advise you to steer clear of him at the Christmas Party, lest the gossips should perceive your partiality. For wagging tongues would do neither of you any favors, I daresay.”
Georgie agreed with a flinch of regret. For she’d so looked forward to dancing with Christian at the party. Still, they might manage to meet in secret a time or two under the mistletoe, if the opportunity presented itself. “And as to the loan of the harlot’s memoir,” she said as an afterthought, “I will happily accept your offer to further my amorous education by proxy.”
* * * *
Later that night, alone in her room, Georgie was astonished to learn the author of Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure was not a prostitute … or even a woman, for that matter. This discovery, however, unexpected as it was, was not the severest of the shocks the novel administered that evening. Far more astounding was the revelation that some men derived sexual pleasure from being whipped by a woman—and paid prostitutes to flog their backsides. For she had obtained nothing remotely close to gratification whatsoever from her father’s frequent birchings.
Nearly as surprising was her conflicted response to what she read. Intellectually, she was scandalized, of course, but physically she felt the aches and tingles of sexual arousal. Was it normal to feel such flutterings in response to explicit text? She shuddered to think that she might have inherited her father’s debauched sexual proclivities. Had she? As much as she hoped she had not, it would certainly explain why she enjoyed her passionate nights with Christian as much as she did.
By the time she set the book aside, she had reached a fever pitch of sexual frustration. Briefly, she considered seeing to her own needs, but dismissed the idea in favor of paying a quick visit to Christian’s bedchamber. Yes, the risk of discovery loomed large, but she wanted him too much for prudence at the present moment.
Taking up the bedside candlestick, she slipped on her dressing gown and poked her head out into the hall. Looking both ways, she was pleased to find no one about. Barefoot and trembling, she hastened to his door and knocked softly. To her distress, there came no answer. Deciding he must be asleep, she elected to retreat rather than try to wake him. More noise, she reasoned, would only increase her risk of getting caught.
Rather than return to her room, she made her way through the shadows to the main staircase. She had a notion to explore the contents of the Captain’s library, in the hopes of finding something to dampen her desire. A book on ornithology or the local flora and fauna, ideally … or even a Gothic novel might do. Some time back, Henrietta had recommended The Romance of the Forest by Anne Radcliffe, so perhaps she might take this opportunity to heed her sister’s advice.
After re
ading Louisa’s suggested novels, Georgie had come to appreciate for the power of fiction to affect a person’s emotions.
The house was quiet and so cold her nipples stood out under her night clothes. Upon reaching the door, she stopped and peered within. In the darkness, she made out the lines of the chimneypiece, cold and barren. Disappointment nipped at her heart for the second time in the space of ten minutes. She’d been hoping there might be a fire to provide heat as well as light.
Thankfully, she had her candlestick and the moonlight flooding through the windows flanking the fireplace. Shielding the flame with her hand, she stepped into the room and looked about her. Dismayingly, she could see little beyond her protecting hand. She retrieved from her memory the hour she’d taken refuge therein to have her cry-out after Christian snubbed her. But, alas, she was able to recall vexingly little with regard to the layout of the room.
What she did remember was that the bookcases reached from floor to ceiling on the three walls not supporting the chimney. Holding out her candle to light the way, she stepped toward them with care. It wouldn’t do to stub her toe or stumble over a piece of furniture obscured by the darkness. If she sprained her ankle, she would miss out on the dancing at the Christmas Eve party. Even if she couldn’t stand up with Christian, she still intended to enjoy herself as much as possible.
She reached the first bank of shelves without incident. Sweeping candlelight across the spines, she scanned the volumes housed therein. Not surprisingly, they were all Steel’s Navy Lists. Dozens upon dozens of them. For a few moments, she wondered what they might reveal about Christian’s record of service, but she by now had her heart set upon locating The Romance of the Forest. Besides, her purpose in coming here was to distract her thoughts from Christian, not to indulge them even more.