Part V: Lovemaking of the Most Shocking Kind…
Chapter Six
Bedecked in a silly silk nightgown, which she had never worn and which, of course, had been a scandalous present from Georgie, Anne was pacing her chamber, beginning to feel rather foolish.
Would he come at all? How bold she had been to him this morning! How rash and how forward! What must he think of her?
There was still time to undo the whole thing, she reasoned and, yet, she quickly dismissed this. She needed this sinful Christmastide. She had so long quenched it inside herself – this overwhelming ache for him. And now finally it had caught up with her. She now felt it like a wound deep inside her womb. An animal craving, she thought, disgusted with herself and yet unable to shake it off. She supposed she was not a sensible, moral woman. She almost laughed. Of course she was not a sensible, moral woman. She’d been eighteen when she’d surrendered her virtue. No one had fortunately known of it. No one but her brother, who had not yet become a clergyman, and who’d kept this shameful behaviour hidden, fearful that talk of his sister’s indiscretion would cost him the parish and the living that were to be his. She’d been miraculously saved due to her brother’s cowardice. She supposed she had to be thankful for it, as she would have never been able to become a governess, if her disgraceful behaviour had become common knowledge.
And now he knew. Her employer, the duke, knew. He knew that she was really not a moral, virtuous female. He obviously already thought her an unfit governess. Would she have to say good-bye to her charges when all this was finished? She had not really thought how her bold behaviour would affect her relationship with Georgie and Jane. She had been selfish enough to think only of her urges which had blinded her to all else.
And as she heard the door open, she was once again oblivious to all else. There was only him – for the first time in her room – wearing a rather uncertain expression on his face which made him look younger than his thirty-five years. He was wearing a black robe. She gulped. In all this years, she had never seen him as much as without his coat on.
He seemed as bewildered by her appearance as she was by his. His eyes drew towards her silk nightgown questioningly.
“A present. From Georgie,” she said nervously.
It was a mistake to speak his daughter’s name, she instantly saw. The name stood between them, reminding them that there were others that they might hurt in their selfishness. Others that they both loved.
He raked a hand through his hair. She saw now that it was slightly tousled. It gleamed dark gold in the candle light.
“Remind me to scold Georgie for knowing where to purchase such presents,” he told her drily.
She could not resist.
“Is it that scandalous?” she asked him softly.
He made a show of inspecting the garment. His eyes rested upon it for a while, as if they were appraising its scanadlousness.
She’d never thought flinty grey eyes could grow so warm. It seemed as if he were tracing the curves of her body with smouldering ashes.
“I’d say it makes a good job of revealing a body that you usually take such great pains to hide.”
He drew closer to her, so that his right hand was caressing the silky neckline of the garment. She was seized by a frisson of anticipation.
“I was already thinking”, he said with a slow smile, “that tonight I will get to see more of Miss Archer. But then I realized that Miss Archer is not your real name.”
“It’s not?” she asked in surprise.
“Well, it is the name that most people in society call you by, of course. But not your real name. Not the name of your true self.”
He spoke softly and she realized that his lips were already brushing her own, and that his words came out in half a tingling whisper and half a kiss.
“My Christian name is Anne,” she whispered against his own lips.
He did not fully kiss her though.
“Is Anne your true self?” he asked lazily and then, without waiting for an answer, captured her lips in a slow teasing kiss which ever so slowly deepened.
When he decided to end the kiss, Anne realised it was a miracle that she did remember her own name. She could get lost in those kisses, as completely lost as Odysseus’ companions in the land of the lotus eaters.
She felt rather vexed not only with herself for such descent into oblivion, but also with him. He did deserve to be punished for it.
“And is Your Grace your true self?” she asked flippantly, knowing that she was treading on dangerous ground.
He gave a short laugh, then with deliberate slowness extricated both silver combs from the thick mass of her hair. She had wanted to wear his gift to her. The gift that had started everything.
“Would you like to call me Your Grace?” he told her with a smile in his voice, spreading the thick tresses of her hair upon her shoulders.
“That’s what I’ve always called you”, she told him, feeling suddenly vulnerable and knowing full well that soon he would claim her and would become her lover.
“My peers call me Langsford, which is my family’s surname. But I was christened Marcus. And William. And Henry.”
She looked at him questioningly, not yet daring to ask what she should call him now, that he was to become her lover.
He came to her rescue.
“Those who are close to me call me Henry,” he told her.
Would they be close? she thought in a daze, as he reclaimed her lips and covered them with his moist warmth.
It was much later that she discovered that he had somehow already managed to get her out of her scandalous garment.
She felt somewhat shy, as no man had seen her naked before, not even the man she’d made love to.
“So this is what Anne really looks like,” she heard him murmur appreciatively.
She found herself taken into his lap and did not have time to protest the indignity of this position. She harboured no illusions. He would of course claim her soon in a brief and wild and not entirely pleasant rush of passion. She still hoped that she could get him to kiss her more though. She had not wanted to become his mistress for the act of passion in which he entered her. She had simply wanted to be kissed and caressed and held by him. It was his kisses that she really craved. Perhaps she would entice him to kiss her again after he had fulfilled his urges.
With pleasure she discovered that he was still kissing her. But not her lips. He was brushing feathery kisses on her left breast, which sent tingles and shivers through her entire body. She was even further shocked when he nibbled and licked her nipple.
He must have sensed her bewilderment because he stopped, lifted his head and gazed at her through eyes smoky with passion.
“Am I going too fast?” he asked her.
“No. Yes…”
She stared at him, uncertain and not fully comprehending what it was that he wanted of her. What he was doing was wonderful. Yet, she felt that he was leading her on unfamiliar ground.
“Shall I talk you through it?” he said.
“Talk?!”
“I could tell you what I wanted to do and you could stop me, if you did not think it would be agreeable. You can simply say no, if it is too much.”
He said this with the same lazy smile he’d bestowed upon her earlier. Lazy and mischievous. She’d never known His Grace to be a mischievous person. Henry. She corrected herself. His Grace might not be a normally mischievous person, but Henry, well, Henry just might…
It was a kind of mischief that she could not resist to. She nodded her acquiescence.
“Fine”, he said, using the same voice she had heard him use with skittish horses, “what I will do now is suckle your breast. I must say, it is so full and high that I have to have a good taste of it…”
She felt herself blushing when she heard such brazen words, but soon forgot too blush as his actions sent darts of pleasure first through her breast and then to that place between her legs which led to her womb.
“I shall lay you down and trail hot kisses upon your body. Your belly. Your thighs. Your knees. Your instep,” he whispered, and as he took his time to do all these things to her, she felt the ache within her grow.
She felt the place between her legs moisten with desire, and felt her cheeks flame when he brought a finger to that opening.
“I’ll stick this finger inside you…” he told her.
And she almost told him no, too ashamed that he would touch her in so intimate a place. But she simply could not bring herself to speak, so she let him do this, and almost swooned when she felt the finger probe her folds and finally find that core of her pleasure that she’d thought no one would never know about. His touch sent rapture mingled with pain through her whole body, making her feel gloriously empty, so empty that she ached to be filled.
She surprised herself by grabbing two of his fingers and making them go deeper inside her. His fingers were gentle still and did not boldly tear through. They softly stroked and teased her until she could stand it no more.
“I want…” she started telling him, then stopped, suddenly flustered and at loss for words.
Yet again, he rescued her.
“Do you want me inside you?” he asked her.
Mutely, she nodded, although she felt she did not truly know what she wanted. She assumed that, once he would be inside of her, this wonderful thing would be over soon. And yet, she could not help wanting him to fill the emptiness that had grown inside her.
She watched him with anticipation mingled with regret as he took hold of her thighs and positioned himself to enter her. She’d kept her eyes averted from his nakedness when he’d undressed, but she now felt the tip of his manhood stroking and probing her female flesh. He was teasing her – she realised, now rather wild to be filled by him.
“I’ll enter you now,” she heard him say raggedly and prepared for the blindingly painful thrust she’d experienced that time ten years ago when she had made love.
And there was some pain. But she found that she could bear it, as he did not tear through, but gradually embedded himself inside her.
“You’re so very tight,” he told her in the same ragged voice.
She expected the pain to last some minutes, and expected a series of violent thrusts which would exacerbate the pain. Blissfully – this would be short and then she could be held and kissed by him again.
He did start to move within her, but at first he did that gently. She felt his hardness move with excruciating slowness within her, then, to her surprise, go deeper and rekindle the ache she had felt for him earlier. The ache was there now, but the pain had surprisingly gone. She felt him move in circles. Excruciatingly slow. So slow that it made her mouth go dry and her whole body tingle with want of something more.
As if he had read her thoughts, he asked her, unashamedly gazing into her eyes with his own liquidly darkened gaze.
“More? Faster?” he said, yet again allowing his breath to brush over her lips like half a kiss.
“Yes,” she said, giving him the only answer that she could think of.
His thrusts grew bold and powerful, his hardness going in and out of her in a dazzling rhythm, which plunged her into oblivion of everything else – everything, but her own womb and his hardness penetrating deep inside of her. The feeling was so powerful that it brought tears to her eyes and she heard her own unsuppressed moans along with the slapping noise that his flesh made against her own.
His question came to her mind in a flash, at the very exact moment her whole world collapsed into a whirl of wet frenzy and oblivion. Is Anne your true self? She no longer felt real. She felt insubstantial. From a distance, she felt his hardness withdraw from her and then she felt what she knew was his sticky seed spill on her belly.
“So close,” she heard him murmur, as he brought the sheet to wipe his seed with.
He further surprised her when some minutes later he used her washbasin to dampen the sponge that lay there. He came back and cleaned her between her legs with it. She felt embarrassed, but reasoned that, in view of the intimacies that they had shared, she should not feel prudish now.
It was some good moments later that she allowed herself to speak. He was lying next to her, spent, his fair hair even more tousled than before.
“You did not…” she ventured shyly, not knowing what to tell him.
“Thank God I did not,” he told her. “I came very close though. I am sorry I gave you a scare – but I was so wild for you…”
She did not understand. She had meant to ask him why he had not spilled his seed inside of her. She knew that this was what men did. She plucked up courage to ask him, although she knew it was more than indelicate.
“Why didn’t you want to leave your seed inside of me? Is it because I was too tight for you? You said so.”
She blushed, knowing she sounded foolish and then she heard him sigh.
“I am a cad,” he said.
“Why do you say so?”
“Because I have taken advantage of your innocence. Did you even have a lover?”
“Of course,” she hurried to assure him.
“You were so tight I was not even able to tell. Did I hurt you?”
She decided to be truthful.
“There was some pain at first, but then no more. Only pleasure.”
He sighed again.
“I’m sorry. I should have been more careful.”
“But you were. Truly. You did not simply tear through…And the pain subsided. Not like my first time.”
He propped himself on one elbow and looked at her with searching grey eyes.
“How many times have you made love?”
She lowered her eyes. She could lie to him, but they had been so intimate that there was no point in lying.
“Once. Only once before this. Ten years ago.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“You should have told me. I would have been more careful. You are tight and still unused to a man inside you.”
She felt she had let him down in some way. She felt disappointed in herself. He had after all given her more pleasure than she had thought was possible.
“I did not please you,” she whispered.
He shocked her by suddenly cupping her face into his hands.
“God. No. I was wild for you. So wild I almost withdrew too late. And, had I given you my seed, the chances of conceiving a child would have been much greater.”
She looked at him uncomprehending.
“But what about that brew that gentlemen take in order to prevent propagation?”
Surely he was an experienced man. He must know of such things. She was no green girl and she knew that at one time he had kept a mistress. She assumed that it was still the case now, but that was, of course, none of her business.
The look he cast her was unnerving. It seemed to be a look of intense pity.
He shook his head.
“Other ways exist, such as a linen sheath or a sheep’s gut that are provided in certain establishments. They are not entirely certain though. I’ve never heard of a brew for men that would prevent procreation. I assume there may exist certain plants that could affect a man’s ability to procreate, but I very much doubt that a brew that might work on gentlemen has been invented yet. Believe me, I would have heard if such a thing had been successful.”
“But…”
It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him that Hugo had assured her that such a thing existed and that, because of it, she had not conceived a child that first and only time they had made love. Of course, she would not speak of her former lover to her current one, but now, as she thought of Hugo and of his behaviour, she realized why she had seen pity in Henry’s eyes.
“Oh,” she said. “I understand now that I’ve been played for a fool.”
It was pointless now to be angry about it. Hugo was gone. Just a distant memory in her past. It was however her current lover who would not let go of it.
“Who was this horrid man?” he asked her, and it seemed to her that there was some sort of hostility in his voice.
She sighed. She must be imagining things. Still – she was a truthful person and she would tell him the truth if this was what he wanted of her. It no longer mattered anyway.
“His name was Hugo. He was an officer in the regiment stationed in the town I lived. He was quite dashing in his red uniform. And I was eighteen.”
But somehow, when she uttered those words, she saw that he might draw the conclusion that she had been vapid and careless. And careless she might have been, but not vapid. It was suddenly important that he should know the truth. The truth as it had seemed to her then.
“You see, my father was a clergyman. Not a prosperous one. Our parish was not rich. And we did not have rich relatives and influential friends. I knew there was no money, but I was foolish enough – I thought a quick mind and pleasing looks would be enough. I was young and foolish and I wanted a home and a family of my own. I thought myself in love.”
She paused, then resumed her story.
“There was a boy I’d known since childhood. That I thought was my friend. And that I thought loved me. We had an attachment and we thought to marry. He was three years older than I and still dependent on his father. They were not rich, but prosperous enough. One night…”
She trailed off, surprised that it still hurt her to talk about it. She had thought this was far behind her, but obviously some things clung to one, no matter how remote they felt.
“One night he told me that he had talked to his father. His father did not want him to marry a penniless clergyman’s daughter, you see. So he told me that there was nothing could be done. That he would not go against his father’s word. And that was that.”
She gave a short laugh.
“I was upset of course. And that was foolish. He had no money of his own. We would have starved, if he had gone against his parents’ wishes. But still, it hurt. Because I’d thought myself in love with him. Or was in love with him. I do not know now what the truth was. Nor does it matter now. But then – well, I was upset then and I confided in my father. I told him of my attachment and of how it had ended. And my father told me the truth – he made me see the truth, that is. He told me that there was no money at all. And he told me that my pleasing looks might have helped me marry someone beneath me in birth maybe – a farmer perhaps. The trouble was, my father added, that farmers did not want wives as well educated as I was. And that gentlemen themselves now talked behind my back that I was a bluestocking. His own fault really – he told me that he blamed himself for taking delight in my quick mind, but that he had not been astute enough to see that educating my mind would diminish my chances. He still had hopes though that at one point I might at last find some measure of happiness with a mature clergyman or an older man in trade, who might appreciate my virtues. But, he added, would I be satisfied to make such a marriage of sheer convenience?”
She saw Henry shake his head.
“Your father should not have told you this. It was cruel and unnecessary to tell you such things.”
“Do you love your daughters so much that you are so blind to their true nature?” she countered.
It was Henry’s turn to shrug his shoulders.
“I know they are unconventional…”
She smiled, but not bitterly.
“And they can afford to be so. Because their father is a duke. But my father wasn’t one. He was poor. And he felt it was his duty to tell me that I was unconventional. And that it would be hard for me to find someone of my station who might accept me as I was. Marriage is after all a transaction. And I had made the mistake of believing that it should be a love match.”
Henry wanted to say something more, but thought better on it. She was right. His own marriage had not been a love match, but a transaction that both he and his wife had accepted. He had married young at his father’s behest, who had impressed upon him that he should do his ducal duty and produce an heir. Instead he had produced two daughters. Georgie and Jane – whom he adored. So he considered that his transaction had been successful. Anne however had not had such luck.
“What about Hugo, the officer?” he asked.
She smiled, but again, he did not perceive bitterness in her voice, but only resignation.
“My father’s words had made me understand that marriage might not be for me, as I was. His words made me concentrate on becoming accomplished enough to earn my living as a governess. My father died shortly after. And I could not depend on my brother’s charity, you see – we were never close and, besides, no one would like the fate of a poor relation. Then came the summer when the regiment was stationed in our town and when Lieutenant Hugo Peversham started to pay passionate court to me. He was dashing and vain, quite certain of his effect upon women. And he was bold enough to proposition me in a direct manner.”
Henry felt a deep coldness invade him, that he could not really understand. He made himself ask her, although he could guess the answer.
“Why did you say yes?”
“I was curious. And disillusioned with love. And I knew that I would probably never marry. I was only afraid that I would get with child, but he set my mind at ease…”
He could not understand why he suddenly felt angry with her.
“So you bedded him, although he meant nothing to you,” he told her in accusing tones.
She looked at first in surprise, and then she told him drily.
“But don’t gentlemen do that all the time? Bed women who mean nothing to them? Why should women be any different?”
He wanted to tell her that it was not so, but he understood too well that she had a point. Anne Archer was a truthful person, who did not lie to herself or to others. She had not thought to lie to herself about this. Her truthfulness was something that he admired about her. Yet, at this point, he felt strangely vexed with her. What sort of woman beds a man who means nothing to her? And the bitter taste did not leave his mouth. She had just bedded him. He almost laughed. What did he expect? She herself had told him that it would be over by Twelfth Night. For her it would probably mean nothing. And it was better this way. Why should he feel in any way offended because of it? He left her rather abruptly to regain his own chambers. He slept, but, in truth, somewhat fretfully.
Part VI, The Aftermath of Christmas is already here…
