Love and Scandal, page 15
“Then, my sweet, I will do my best to keep anything…to prevent a child. But if that happens… Collette,” he said, gently, “I may be a scoundrel, but I am not a cad. I would marry you and let you go home to your village a married woman. And when the child came, if you did not wish to keep it, I would…I would raise it as my heir, you know.”
She hesitated only a moment more, then a sweet smile curved her lips. “Then let us make love,” she whispered, wrapping her fingers around him, delicately stroking in some instinctive knowledge of men.
He pulled her hand away and pushed her down onto the bed, kissing her deeply, thrusting his tongue into her mouth and caressing her sweet breasts. He moved down and kissed the pale perfection of them, wetting each soft mound with his tongue, suckling them in turn until they were rosy and peaked and she was writhing and moaning, her eyes closed and her head thrown back.
As he kissed her breasts, Collette felt his hand reach up under her chemise to touch her bottom. He cupped her and pulled her close, but then his fingers stroked her thighs, touching the tender flesh between them, sending shudders through her body. She pulled at his shirt, pushing it off his shoulders, capping them with her hands and flexing, feeling his muscles bunch under them. He was pushing convulsively against her thigh, and as she looked down in the brilliant sunshine, she could see his male member, engorged and red, pearly droplets oozing from him.
Fascinated, frightened, exhilarated, wildly excited, she reached down, but when she touched the tip, rolling the moisture around, feeling its silky texture, he groaned and buckled.
“No, my sweet delight, I will finish if you do that. I can’t bear it!”
Startled, she pulled back, but in the next instant she gasped, feeling his thick finger push between the delicate folds of dewy skin between her legs. Instinctively she spread her legs, and he moved to lie between them, moving up to kiss her lips. He guided himself to her, and she felt his erection nudge her, opening her. A flood of anxious pleasure bolted through her and she knew she was getting wet, whether it was from him or her, she could not tell.
With a groan he pushed in and she cried out at the discomfort. He stilled, panting, and gazed down at her. “My sweet pet, I will stop now if I must, but not after another few seconds. Tell me now, or I will breach you in another minute.”
Eyes wide, staring at him, she cried, mingled anxiety and want in her tone, “Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop.”
He bent to his task and pushed hard. It hurt, and she cried out, but he didn’t stop this time, pushing fully in until she felt full to bursting with him, possessed, his body pulsing inside of hers. Frightened by the throbbing sensation, she quivered and gasped, but then tried to calm. When he withdrew, she thought, that’s it, it is over, done with. But in another second he pushed in again, filling her more deeply. Some of the pain subsided, but before she had time to adjust fully, before she could get back any tickle of delight, he began to thrust in and pull out, pushing hard, finally, and holding her down when she squirmed at the discomfort, and then he spilled into her, a hot gush flooding her as he stroked.
He collapsed in a heap on top of her and for one frightening moment she thought him unconscious, but then he lifted his head and gave her a weak smile, tenderly brushing back the sweat-drenched tendrils of her hair that stuck to her neck and cheek. “Sweet lady, I have never… That is, you are my first…”
“You have never done this before?”
He let out a great shout of laughter and kissed her neck as he withdrew from her body. He rolled off of her, pulling the sheet up to shield their nakedness from the bald light of day. “No, my sweet, I have done that many many times before, but never with…never with one such as you.” He turned on his side and gazed at her steadily, caressing her cheek. “You’re not sorry we did this, are you?”
“N-No, I suppose…” She bit her lip and looked up at the ceiling, afraid tears would come. She was not a weepy female. What was wrong with her? But it had occurred to her that this was irrevocable. She could not decide if she had lost something or gained something. Or was it both? She had lost that innocence that was supposed to be her pearl beyond price, given to her to protect until a husband required it. But she had gained knowledge.
Or had she? Did she understand any more now about what made women succumb? She had made a conscious decision, not an emotional one. She had been attracted to Jamie from the first moment on the train, but was that enough? She liked him, but she did not love him. She was attracted to him but found much in his character of which to be censorious, not the least of which was his appalling lack of intent to do anything about his casual assumption of her pen name.
And now it was over. She had given him her virginity, and what had she gained in return? She closed her eyes and one tear slipped down her cheek.
“Collette! Oh, lord, Collette, do not say I hurt you so badly.”
She opened her eyes to see him staring down at her, hovering above her anxiously, propped up on one elbow. Reaching up, she pushed back his dark locks, tousled from his ardent exercise. He was a good person beneath his layers of London roguedom. “No, Jamie, it did hurt, but not unbearably. It’s just…” She stopped but could not contain herself. She had to know. “Is that all there is to it?”
Jameson felt impaled by her ingenuous question. Never, after the successful conclusion of one of his seductions, had a lady ever asked him if that was all there was to the event. “Well, no, of course not,” he said. “I mean, of course there is no more this moment, but a second time would be better. The first time is never truly enjoyable for a lady,” he said, scrambling for an explanation, not sure he was telling the truth.
“Perhaps,” she said, searching his eyes, “perhaps if we loved each other?”
He threw himself onto his back. “I have never been in love, I assure you Collette, but I have enjoyed lovemaking every time I have indulged.”
“But you’re a man. Did any of your ladies enjoy it?”
He pushed himself from the bed, unwilling to answer, afraid to search his own heart. He turned away from her. “I will arrange for the necessities for bathing if you will excuse me.” He pulled a dressing gown from the garderobe and strode from the room, pulling it over his shoulders.
An hour later, after a meal taken stiffly in the breakfast room, they were back on the road toward London. Collette felt she had hurt him in some unfathomable way, but he had to understand that she knew nothing and looked toward him for enlightenment. She had merely asked questions. Now, with his obstinate silence, she was beginning to get angry at him, the throbbing irritation within her exacerbating her ire.
It was unconscionable for him to be so resentful, and of what? She had given him her precious innocence, and he behaved thus? Just because she asked a question?
“Jamie,” she said, abruptly, glancing over at his unyielding profile. “You still have not told me what you intend to do about the situation with my novel.”
“That is because I have not yet decided,” he said, his tone stiff.
“I think you ought to decide, and quickly,” she said.
“Has anyone ever told you that you are a most exasperating, independent, shrewish and harrying young lady?”
“And you have become pompous of a sudden. Do you always become so after a sexual encounter? Are you experiencing regret?”
He slewed a glance her way and narrowed his eyes. “A rake never regrets a conquest, did you not know that?”
She gasped. “That was rude.”
“I’m sorry, Collette. I am a little overset. Please, let’s not speak. I have much to think about.”
They were silent all the way to London, and he merely said, as he bowed over her hand at the Chapter Coffeehouse, “I will see you on the morrow. We’ll discuss things then.”
“Yes we will,” she said, her tone gritty. “But that is the final time, Jamie. You must make a decision, or I will make one for you.”
Thirteen
After a meager supper left mostly on the plate, Collette retired to her room. The darkness brought a confused sense of something like regret. Collette buried her face in the musty linen pillowcase and bit her lip. It didn’t help that she was very aware that she had lost her innocence. She could still feel him inside of her and shame warred with a strange trickle of anxiety. She would go home a different person. Would it be writ on her face as she stepped down from the train? Would Aunt Nettie know immediately, and would she cry?
Did she regret it? It had been a hasty decision, and Collette was never hasty, but still… She lay on her back and glared at the ceiling.
No, she regretted how it had ended, but she didn’t regret taking that step. She wasn’t sure how things would turn out now, and she knew she had been changed forever, but she didn’t think she would go backward in time if she could and take a different path. She supposed she had hurt him in some way, but she didn’t think his feelings so delicate as to be injured by a mere question. So maybe it was only his pride and not his feelings.
What use would regret be anyway? She had hurt no one with her decision, and she had only offered what was hers to give. And now she knew more, had learned so much.
He had been gentle and caring and tender until the last moments, until he had writhed and convulsed in the grip of a primitive ritual as old as time. It had felt… She frowned into the darkness. It had felt as though he was claiming her, and even as she had wriggled, his strength and desire had thrilled her deeply. Even if she had not experienced the kind of pleasure he had, she had liked the brief sense of being his and of giving him such pleasure.
But what was she left with? One tear formed, and then another, and soon they were welling and falling from her eyes as desolation swept through her. There was a price to be paid for knowledge, she discovered, and that price was that now she felt lonelier than ever before.
She turned onto her stomach and wept, trembling with the knowledge that from being a detached, independent woman, she had become not soiled, but claimed. Whether he wanted her or not, she was in some way Jamie’s—they had, after all, briefly been as one—even if they never saw each other again. This, then, was what had haunted her hero Lankin’s innocent lover, Susan. No matter where she went in life after he deserted her, there would always be a part of her left with him. She had lost something in the process, something beyond innocence.
Perhaps this feeling would pass with time, and in fact she would do all she could to defeat it, but this moment it was as sharp as a needle.
Philoxia Bertrand, relaxing in the pleasant morning room of her Mayfair home, opened her copy of Wilson’s Gazette, a paper that never failed to amuse her, and turned to the gossip column immediately. Above all she enjoyed trying to figure out what the veiled meanings and single letter names meant, and if they applied to anyone she knew.
Oh, bother. The first item was just one of those “A Day at a Country House” maunderings. Too boring! Anyone who was anyone knew exactly what a day at a country house was like! But the second piece… More about the Charles Jameson mystery. Was he the writer of that scandalous but wonderful The Last Days of a Rake, or was he not? She longed to know, but the original piece was worded in just such a way as to leave some doubt. The reporter clearly believed Jameson was Jenkins, but Jameson was not affirming it.
And so now what?
We have learned that C.J., who was recently named (by us) the author of a certain very well-received novel about a gentleman’s adventures, has taken a new little “bird of paradise” under his wing. This bird (or should we say “soiled dove”?) was seen giving him a peck in the park, and the very next day C.J. was buying her a new wardrobe of fine feathers!
A close intimate friend of C.J.’s, a Mr. S.E., has informed us that when he came upon them in the shade of a gracious old tree in Hyde Park, Mr. C.J. threatened him if he should tell what he had seen. The little strumpet, too, ripped into Mr. S.E.! Is there some secret here? Are they hiding from someone? When this writer dared to follow them, they flew the coop to a sweet little nest in the country and disappeared inside, to bill and coo, one must suppose, and nothing more.
More in the next issue!
Well, no trouble figuring out who the writer meant, despite the letters instead of names and coy talk of feathers and nests. So, Jameson had a new mistress, hmm? That was a good thing. Maybe then he would stop bothering Collette, who had no idea what to do with a rake. His behavior toward her was peculiar to say the least. He watched her with an odd look in his eyes, at once possessive and fearful. If he had a new mistress he could work off some of his manly energy in an acceptable manner and leave Collette alone.
Philoxia folded the paper and stirred her tea.
Unless—
No. No sane person could think for a moment. She took a sip of her tea, then set the cup down with a clatter. And yet, it had been many years since she had last seen Collette, maybe—
No! Absolutely not! Collette seemed just the same as she was in school, a little shy, reserved, an observer, not one to become involved, and certainly not with a rake! But still—the idea plagued her. Philoxia picked up the Gazette again and looked at the article. What was it about the piece that made her uneasy? There was nothing to indicate what she was worried about. It wouldn’t hurt to ask Collette about it if she could find a tactful way. She would no doubt find it was all nonsense.
Jameson stood as Collette joined him at the table in the Chapter Coffeehouse dining room. She wore the new day dress—the one Mrs. Parker already had made in the shop—of moss green merino, with ribands of gold sateen and forest green silk roses. High-necked, with long fitted sleeves, it flattered her vivid coloring of auburn hair and green eyes and fit her figure admirably, cinching in her tiny waist and flowing over her hips. The skirt was fuller than she had been wearing, but it was still not the monstrosities other women donned, dresses that made sitting or getting into a carriage almost impossible. She smiled as he took her hand, but it was a tremulous expression, and then they sat down opposite each other.
He stared at her for a few minutes, wondering if it was just the new dress, or if she was the prettiest woman he had ever seen in his life. On first glance, in the poor light of the train that memorable night of their first meeting, he had thought her plain, but his emotions had undergone a sea change since then, and now, looking at her, he thought she was a lovely young woman. Her eyes were her best feature, even behind spectacles, a sparkling, changeable green, but she had a perfectly molded nose, exquisite skin like thick Devonshire cream, an adorable pointed chin with a dimple squarely in the center and the sweetest rosebud mouth he had ever tasted.
A very kissable mouth, just as all parts of her were delectable. He pushed away thoughts of their last encounter, an afternoon that had left him changed, forever, he feared. He still wasn’t sure what he felt. He had left, outraged at what she had said, but then…how could he be angry with her? It was her very first time and she truly didn’t know what to expect. And he had experienced, toward the end, a ferocious wave of some indefinable exultation that even as she tried to move, he had held her down, intent on claiming her, stamping his mark on her forever. It was disconcerting, for never had he felt such a wave of primitive lust and ownership, and it could not have been pleasurable for her.
He was uneasy at the memory, shy of it, not quite knowing what to make of it. Looking at her now, Jameson recognized that he felt toward her a tenderness and wish to protect her that he could not put into words without sounding foolish. Despite—or perhaps because of—her innocent question, her wish to know if that was all there was to lovemaking, he wanted her. He wanted to show her how much more could be between them. He wanted to make love to her again and again, until he collapsed in weariness. He wanted… Ah, but there was the difficulty. He had no reason to think she wanted any more to do with him.
Perhaps once they got past the problem of Colin Jenkins he could try to figure out his feelings and what he ought to be doing about them. He cleared his throat and looked into her eyes. They were a little bloodshot. Had she not slept, perhaps?
“You wished to speak with me today, Mr. Jameson,” she said, her tone stiff.
He had been Jamie the previous day, but now it was back to formality. But perhaps that was just their surrounding. He glanced around the coffee room, aware some were glancing their way. “Are you quite well today, Collette? Yesterday… I hope…” Damn, how to ask? What to say? This was completely outside of his realm of experience and he felt as gauche as he had after his first time with a woman. He gazed steadily at her, watching the flicker of doubt in her eyes, the nuances of shifting emotion. “I hope,” he said, gently, “that I did not hurt you in any way. I’m afraid that toward the end… That is…I was uh, overcome and may have been a little more forceful than was necessary.”
“Was that not how you usually are?”
He shook his head and looked away, toward the bow front window and the men hustling by on their endless mysterious errands. “No, I have never behaved thus.” He met her steady gaze. “Please tell me if you need anything.”
She drew back. “Need anything? I am quite self-sufficient, I assure you, Mr. Jameson. Let us speak of something other than…other than yesterday afternoon.”
“Yes. Well, we must discuss how we are to go about making the public aware I am not Colin Jenkins.”
Collette frowned. A waiter brought them a pot of chocolate and then disappeared again when she told him she would prefer tea. “It is simple enough, is it not? Send the reporter a note and tell him his story was in error, that what you meant to say was that you are not Colin Jenkins, nor did you write Last Days!”
“It is not that simple, Collette! If it were, I would already have done it.”
“Why is it not that simple?”
“Because it is a case of protesting too much!”
Puzzled, Collette said, “But you haven’t protested at all!” How obtuse could he be? Surely in this city one could say a truth and be believed? It was that simple.
