All or Nothing, page 8
Simon tried to decide if the sun had actually gone behind a cloud, or if it was his imagination.
I’m sure he was telling himself you really wanted an excuse to enjoy yourself, she had said of Clement. It turned out that Clement was right. Simon had been working for three years now, but not...not steadily. He waited too long between commissions, he neglected his studies.
His father had warned him, gently, when Simon told him he meant to design follies. Of course some of your school friends will be idle all their lives, but honorable labor does not demean a gentleman. I know it’s difficult. I envied your uncle James when we were children, because he would inherit everything. But I think I got the best of it in the end.
The implication that this wasn’t real, honorable labor had made him furious at the time, but maybe he had chosen this profession because he had thought it would be easy, something he could do in his spare time. What if he didn’t have the staying power to make a real success of it? He did resent that Clement would never have to work, and he did. He had nothing in the bank and he could not ask his father or Clement for a loan.
What does your mother think of your profession? he longed to ask Maggie, but she had made it clear that conversation was unwelcome.
Every ruin he put his pencil to was dull and lifeless. He spread old sketches out on the table, searching for inspiration, but there was a buzzing in his head and all he could think was, Have I had my last good idea?
At length Maggie approached him, perching on the edge of the writing table. Her skirts tucked themselves under her arse and then cascaded downward like a waterfall or maybe a sonnet. The desire to hook his arm round her waist and drag her in overwhelmed him. He could bury his face in her bosom and block out everything else.
She reached out and pulled his sketch toward her. “Oh, what a lovely drawing of the library. Look, you’ve put me in it! May I send it to my mother?”
He agreed, though he’d wanted to keep it.
She smiled and tucked it into her letter before preparing to seal it. “I’ll ask Lord Throckmorton to frank them after dinner. I’m sorry I was rude earlier. Which of these designs are you considering?”
None of them. He barely kept from stuffing them all under a book to hide them from her view.
He didn’t like how much he wanted to abandon his pencil and sit on the sofa and show off his books to her. He didn’t like, either, that he had been waiting anxiously for her to deign to speak to him. “I haven’t accomplished as much as I was hoping to this morning. You needn’t wait about for me all day, if you’d rather join the others and enjoy yourself.” She hadn’t said a word about her frustrated desire, but he remembered she’d asked permission to disport herself with the other guests.
Once again, everyone would be having fun but him.
She drew back a little, looking disappointed. “Are you sure? You said you wanted me to keep you from being hounded from your work.”
He smiled, determined for her not to see even a shadow of his resentment. “I’m sure. Maybe you can even find Clement in time for your letters to make today’s post.”
“All right. I like this one, by the way.” She pushed one of his sketches toward him, and hopped off the table.
The drawing was an elevation of the ruined transept of Roche Abbey, near Maltby in Yorkshire. Now that the door had shut behind her, his brain sharpened. He disliked the proportions of it: a soaring ground floor where the chapel must have been, a squat center story crammed with blind arched windows (Clement had said that must be where Robin Hood and Little John hid when they came to hear Mass), and the whole topped with mid-sized round arches, out of place above their pointed brethren.
But there was something about how the wall zigged and zagged brokenly along, flat from the front but attracting the eye with its protrusions from the side. What if he evened out the stories and made all the windows of a size? Sky through an empty arched window was always arresting. A plain double lancet arch topped with a quatrefoil, perhaps...He flipped through Carter’s Ancient Architecture to a plate on windows and, taking a new sheet of paper, began hastily to sketch.
Maggie shut the library door quietly behind her, trying not to feel disappointed. After all, she’d told him to hush when she wanted to concentrate; it was his prerogative to do the same. She ought to take this opportunity to slake her lust, which was growing tiresomely, with one of the other guests. They were probably outdoors, enjoying the sun. She headed upstairs to put on her boots.
On the stairs, she met...she tried to think of their names. The skinny one talked a lot and had a saint in his name, and his father had met his mother in India, and the heavyset one talked very little...Sir Joseph? “Good morning, gentlemen,” she said at last, with a smile. “Have you been enjoying the party?”
They looked at one another and laughed in a way that made Maggie think maybe they had been enjoying each other. The idea was not without appeal—and they were the only members of the party other than Miss O’Leary that hadn’t done anything to annoy her yet. “Throckmorton is an excellent host,” Mr. Saint said. “Where’s Radcliffe-Gould?”
“Oh, he’s working,” she said, not specifying where so as not to give them the idea of going there. “I wasn’t of much use to him at the moment,” she added flirtatiously.
“Beauty must always be useful to an artist,” Mr. Saint said promptly. Sir Whatsit made a noise of agreement and smiled shyly at her.
It was a lovely compliment, and they both had very nice smiles. Why be subtle? “Might I be of use to you gentlemen?”
Mr. Saint’s eyes lit up.
Of course the tip of Simon’s pencil snapped on his second page of windows. Reaching for his penknife, he remembered he had left it in yesterday’s pantaloons. He dug through the library table drawers, but the only knife was hopelessly dull. He’d have to go upstairs and fetch his own.
Moans and small cries became audible as he approached the stairs, growing in volume as he started up them. He hastened his steps, preparing to avert his eyes and feign not to hear any lewd remarks addressed to himself.
The woman made a small, sobbing noise of protest. Was that—Maggie? That hadn’t taken long.
Even though Simon had known this was a possibility when he’d told her to go and enjoy herself with the others, he hadn’t expected to see it. He weighed the added inconvenience and awkwardness of going back down and taking the servants’ stair.
It wasn’t worth it—and he wanted to see. He decided to brush past with a quick nod, but in the event the entire landing was blocked by Maggie and not one but two men.
Sir Geoff was quietly but intently rogering Maggie, on her hands and knees before him. St. Aubyn was trying to get at her breasts, and experiencing difficulties with her bodice. “Pick her up,” he told Sir Geoff, who wrapped one powerful arm around Maggie’s ribcage and hefted her so she knelt upright. She moaned as his other hand disappeared beneath her skirts.
“Oh, good morning, Radcliffe-Gould,” St. Aubyn said, hands pausing on Maggie’s bosom.
She hadn’t realized it was him. Her head whipped toward him, and their eyes met. Simon could not pretend now that the longing he saw in them was for him to save her—or that he wanted to. He was hard as stone.
And he had seen her put on her dress this morning. “There’s a drawstring below the ruffle at her neck.” He came forward, trying to recall the time in his life when this sort of thing had been commonplace to him.
Only it never had been. He had always been acting a part, trying to seem confident and as if the three pairs of eyes on him didn’t feel like a million.
He liked that, though. It was the only circumstance in which he did like being watched: it heightened everything, made it hotter and tinglier and more undeniable. He flipped up Maggie’s ruffle and undid the small tie, as he’d wanted to that morning. She gasped, breasts lifting toward him.
He untied the drawstring at her waist, too. Her bodice gaped open to reveal her stays. He kept his voice steady, hoping they couldn’t tell how his pulse was racing. “And these are tied off at the bottom.” He slipped his fingers beneath her petticoat, pricking himself on a pin when Sir Geoff thrust into her. Maggie’s mouth fell open.
Oh God. He wanted sex so badly. He wanted her so badly.
He could unbutton his breeches and slip himself into her mouth. No one would stop him, least of all her. He found the slip-knot in her stay-laces, and tugged it free. The corset relaxed, and she drew in a deep breath. Simon, in contrast, couldn’t get enough air.
Naked hope was blazoned across Maggie’s face; it hurt. She wanted him to touch her breasts. He could hear Sir Geoff’s groin slapping against hers, splendidly obscene.
He should go and fetch his penknife. Instead he worked her stays loose until he could push her shift down, baring her bosom. Brown nipples, soft skin, crescent shadows beneath. He wanted to paint them for posterity. He wanted to build them a monument. Instead he cupped them with spread hands, their weight resting seductively on his fingertips. Her nipples pebbled, catching in the join of his index and middle fingers. He squeezed lightly. She strained toward him, face alight, but Sir Geoff’s grip pinioned her arms. She was helpless to demand anything from Simon but what he chose to give her. Power flooded him, terribly welcome after his anxious morning.
St. Aubyn pressed against Simon’s back, cupping his cock. Oh. Oh, he wanted that too. St. Aubyn’s mouth was warm on his neck, and he wanted to sink into this moment until there was nothing but pleasure, until the whole world was yes. He wanted Sir Geoff to fuck him with his cock still wet from Maggie’s cunt.
“I shouldn’t stay.” He dropped her breasts, relishing the cavalier cruelty of it as much as the way the globes jiggled before finding equilibrium. She liked it too; her expression bespoke nearly ecstatic frustration. “All yours, St. Aubyn.” He stepped courteously past and went up the stairs without looking back.
Once in his room, he frigged himself quickly and efficiently before taking his penknife and returning down the servants’ stair.
But back in the library, he couldn’t recapture his concentration on his windows. Of course he couldn’t.
Why did he like being cruel to her? He remembered—vividly—how he had thought of forcing himself on her in the lake yesterday. How much he had wanted to own her for a fortnight.
He’d had these thoughts before. He’d tried not to think them, and tried to forget them. Yet he could recall a few weeks at Oxford when every time he frigged himself he imagined fucking Clement while Clement struggled to get away.
It was something wrong in him, something crooked and spiteful. When he liked someone, he resented them too, for their dominion over him. He had been angry with Maggie this morning, just because he wanted to talk to her. And yet he craved that very subjection, except when he wanted to inflict it on others.
He’d hated how helpless Clement could make him feel—except in bed, where he’d loved it. Where a teasing edge in Clement’s voice made him wild for more. Where he’d done whatever Clement asked.
Where he had been determined to win at last, and possess Clement for good and all. He put his face in his hands. He was a cringing, vengeful worm.
He’d told Maggie he wasn’t looking for fun because he wanted to settle down. How was he supposed to settle down? Who would want to settle down with him? He was a messy child trying to pass himself off as a grown man. His parents had been parents already at his age. How would he manage with a child? When would he be able to afford one? He couldn’t even afford a wife.
Meanwhile Maggie was managing a successful business and enjoying herself and being a reliable correspondent! He couldn’t even remember when he’d last written to his mother. Two weeks? Three? Did she even know he was at Throckmorton?
He drew a blank piece of paper toward him. My dearest mother...
The letter was quite ordinary for half a page, and then he wrote, I’ve met a woman. I don’t
He looked at the paper, not sure how to finish that sentence.
I don’t know if I ought to tell you about her; she isn’t respectable. But I respect her nevertheless, and I like her, and she’s beautiful. She’s Jewish and runs a faro bank. Would you still receive me if I married her?
Married her. It looked insane, in black and white.
He had never thought it was a question he would have to ask his mother. He’d assumed he would either marry a young English gentlewoman, or he’d be a confirmed bachelor with an inseparable friend (also English and of his own class) and never have to discuss the matter with his mother at all. Even if Mrs. Radcliffe-Gould heard rumors, she would never breathe a word of it to him, any more than Lady Throckmorton said a word about Clement’s house parties. Simon had no idea if she knew what went on, and preferred it that way.
This couldn’t be hushed up or discreetly ignored. Maggie was too well-known, too memorable. And besides, what would he do? Ask Maggie to eat pork and say she used to be a governess when they went to Yorkshire? She would tell him to go to hell.
If he did marry Maggie, would his children be strangers to their cousins? How would he explain it to them? Would it be disloyal to Maggie to go home by himself, and see his family? If he did, would it be home as it had always been, full of love and cheer, or would he be too angry to enjoy it?
Could he raise his children as Jews, and see them despised and reviled?
Why on earth would Maggie want to marry him, anyway? And on so short an acquaintance? Yet now he couldn’t stop, even though every fancy brought another obstacle with it. He imagined her brightening his rooms, sharing a mug of chocolate in the morning and buttering their toast as he pulled it off the toasting fork—and then he thought that she wouldn’t want to leave the club, or Meyer, and besides a gentleman with a wife was supposed to rent a house and hire a housekeeper, or at least bigger lodgings and a maid-of-all-work.
You would like her, he wrote anyway, suddenly convinced it was true. Lively, but with her feet on the ground. His mother was also very fond of cards, but he thought it wiser not to mention that. Nothing is definite, and may never be
He should burn the letter. Now, before anyone saw it.
Maggie poked her head in the door. Simon jumped. Hastily putting a period to his sentence, he signed and folded the letter without sanding it.
“How are you?” she asked. “I—I just wanted to make sure that what happened earlier was all right with you. I don’t think we broke any rules, but...”
He felt a rush of gratitude—but it was not gratitude, he admitted to himself. It was infatuated adoration.
Simon laughed, his face lighting up. Maggie’s stomach tightened and swooped as she remembered his hands on her breasts, and the way he had walked away from her. She had pretended afterward that St. Aubyn’s hands and mouth were his, that St. Aubyn’s cock was his when he pushed it into her mouth. But even with her eyes shut she had sensed every difference between them. She could distinguish their breath, even, and the shape of their hands.
Also, St. Aubyn had talked a lot.
“I don’t think anyone’s ever asked me that before at one of these parties,” he said. “I was a bit shaken, honestly. Are you all right?”
She sat directly in front of his library table, propping her head and arms on the back of the sofa, and contemplated her answer. “I don’t know. I enjoyed what happened, in a carnal sense. But...I don’t know what to do. At first I only wanted to bed you, and I supposed I’d enjoy whatever you condescended to give me. But I...it’s inconvenient and a little embarrassing, but I think I’ve developed a bit of a tendre for you.” That was an understatement. How big did an understatement have to be before it was a lie? “I want anything you wish to give me, but perhaps it isn’t prudent to take it. One can’t always be prudent, but if things go much further, I’ll start to really be hurt that you don’t wish to give me more. And that wouldn’t be fair to either of us.”
His laugh sounded like mostly nerves this time. “How can you come right out and talk about things like that?”
Shame rushed her. “How can you rich ingleses never talk about anything?” she snapped.
“Centuries of practice?”
She couldn’t stay angry. She liked him too much. “Other people talk about things more than you’re used to.” It came out rather flat, though she’d tried to be kind. “And I’ve worked at not letting shame rule me. I’m not in my teens anymore, ready to do anything to avoid a moment of mortification. Maybe I talk too much, but I only want to understand what’s really going on. I find it’s less embarrassing in the long run than fumbling about in the dark.”
She felt a hypocrite suddenly, trying to set herself up as wiser than him. Just last week, for the millionth time, she’d thought about asking the shop-girl she always talked to at the Portuguese bakery to have tea with her, and felt too much of a fraud to do it. “And I don’t talk about everything I should, anyway. You know that. There are a lot of things I should tell Meyer that I haven’t.”
He ran a hand through his hair. “You’re right, fumbling around in the dark is the most uncomfortable thing in the world. But...I...How can you simply accept that you want people to be cruel to you? Isn’t that something to be ashamed of? Isn’t it...isn’t it like turning over a rock in your mind and finding a mass of sunless crawling blind things?”
Her cheeks burned and her gorge rose. She didn’t know how to push sick shame like this back except with anger, and she didn’t want to be angry when he was so clearly speaking of himself, not her.
“I’ve wondered that myself,” she said at last, her voice sounding unnatural and thick to her own ears.
He leaned forward. “I’ve imagined violating you,” he confessed in a low voice—earnest, even apologetic.
