A Woman's Estate (24 page)

“Shall I take you up to your room now, or would you like a
few minutes to come awake, my love? Or a glass of wine or cup of tea? I have
coffee in the house, but you will have to instruct the cook how to make it, so
I cannot offer you any now.”

Abigail blinked. It seemed odd to rush upstairs the moment
they got into the house, but she realized she had given Arthur reason to
believe she was wavering. He might think that once they had been together, she
would feel it was too late to worry anymore. Although she was faintly repelled
by the notion of making love all dusty and tired from traveling, she felt she
owed him ease of mind and agreed to go up at once. And then almost laughed
aloud at her stupidity when she saw the maid waiting in her bedchamber with
water and towels.

“I hope you will find it comfortable,” Arthur said, as he
opened the door for her. “It is not very large, but you do have a dressing
room. My room is just through that door.” He gestured, kissed her brow and
added, “Don’t dress for dinner tonight, Abigail. I know you are tired. I will
go and get clean now and leave you to do the same.”

“Thank you, my love,” she said, “I am rather tired. If you
do not mind, I will make it an early night.” And then turning to the maid,
said, “Just pour the water. Then go and tell Cook we will be ready to eat in
half an hour.”

When Abigail had washed and the maid had recombed her hair,
she discovered she was not at all tired and that she was at ease for the first
time in days. She was not certain whether that was because the house felt like
home, whether Arthur’s unvarying consideration for her had at last convinced
her to trust him, or whether her own final commitment had brought her peace.
The house certainly played a role. It was just about the size of the Williams
Street house in New York, and the furniture, more sturdy than elegant and used
without too much care by many tenants, also had a familiar feel to it. But the
sympathy in Arthur’s smile when she said she was tired and would make an early
night, which might easily have meant she would not invite him to her bed, had
also helped.

On the other hand, his thoughtfulness also posed a problem
because it placed on Abigail the responsibility for making the first move
again. However, she found that passed over with ease also. As she came down the
stairs, Arthur said, “You look very much better now, my dear,” and she only
needed to reply, “I feel much better, not at all tired now.” It was all very
comfortable. They talked during dinner about Abigail’s children. Arthur had
told her a few days earlier that there would be a place for Victor at
Westminster, but they had had no time to discuss the matter. Now Abigail said
that the vicar was sure Victor would have no trouble in keeping up with the
work, and they went on to talk of what the boy would need to take to school.

Arthur did not stay at the table to drink when the meal was
over but brought his second glass of wine with him into the parlor, where he
asked about Daphne. While Abigail answered that Violet had suggested Lady
Eleanor Holles’, which happened to be the school one of Daphne’s new friends
attended and that she had written to secure a place for her daughter, she
thought gratefully that Arthur was not making the mistake of drinking too much.
Far too often Francis had promised much and performed little because he was too
sodden with wine. Drink, Abigail had learned, inflames the mind but
incapacitates the body.

The clock chimed ten. “Shall I ring for the butler?” Abigail
asked. “Do you want some tea?” and then more hesitantly, “Or a glass of
brandy?”

Arthur chuckled, rose from his chair, and extended a hand to
help her from hers. “Do you think my courage needs support?” And then, more
softly, “Does yours?”

Abigail shook her bent head mutely, and Arthur lifted her
face so he could place a quick, light kiss on her lips. “Go up now, my love,”
he said gently. “I will just tell the servants that they may close the house.”

The words were so ordinary, so much what a husband would say
to a wife, that the quiver of nervousness Abigail had felt, although she denied
it, quieted. Nonetheless, she undressed very quickly and sent the maid away,
fearing that Arthur would come in while the girl was in the room. Not that
there was anything wrong with a husband entering his wife’s room while her maid
was there, but Abigail felt awkward about it. As the door closed, she regretted
what she had done. Waiting alone in the dark would be worse, she thought, but
the idea had hardly formed before the door to Arthur’s room opened and he
stepped through.

The night candle he carried lit his face and showed that his
hair was tumbled out of its usual smoothly combed style. Plainly he had
undressed as quickly as she. Abigail smiled and drew breath to speak, but never
got a word out. She had not realized Arthur could move so fast. Nonetheless, he
had set down the candle, closed her mouth with his own, and pulled off the
light coverlet to expose her before she could say anything. As his body came
down against hers, the dressing gown he was wearing fell open, fell away, and
she realized that he was naked under it.

Startled by what almost seemed like an attack, Abigail
stiffened, afraid he would mount her and take her before she was ready.
However, for a moment nothing more happened, Arthur simply held the whole
length of her body against his while he kissed her hungrily. As her surprise
dissipated, excitement followed in its wake. The lack of large movements in
their bodies seemed to generate an abnormal sensitivity in her. She could feel
the rise and fall of Arthur’s chest when he breathed, the tiny trembling of the
muscles of his abdomen and thighs, the heat and pressure of his hard staff
between them.

She was flooded by a desire more urgent and more violent
than she had ever felt with Francis. Her arms went around him, one hand tracing
the barely perceptible ridges of his spine, the other scratching gently at the
backs of his legs and probing between them. A deep, muffled sound rose from his
throat and he bucked against her, his arms tightening their grip until Abigail
could scarcely breathe. In the next instant, he had let her go, pulled back,
seized her nightdress and brutally ripped it away from her body.

Abigail gasped with surprise and gasped again as he lowered
his face to her breasts. His violence had made her expect him to bite her, but
instead his tongue licked out, passing over one nipple and then over the other,
the movement of his head from side to side so swift that the sensation seemed
continuous. Abigail began to shake with need. She pulled at him, too lost in
desire to find words for what she wanted, but words were not necessary. Arthur
came astride her, arching his body so that his mouth did not leave her breasts.
She felt for him, positioned him, embracing him with her legs and tightening
them about him fiercely as he thrust to drive himself deep, deep.

She heard him saying something, groaning, but she could not
listen, could not wait. She heaved against him, flexing and relaxing her legs,
feeling him begin to move in rhythm, his body shuddering as he fought to hold
back a climax that could not be controlled because she drove him faster and
harder and would not let him be still. But it did not matter, for in the same
moment that he cried out despairingly, her own voice rose, choked and savage,
as ecstasy tore her apart.

For a moment after she felt nothing beyond the slow waves of
receding pleasure, then a sense of surprise stole over her at her actions.
Francis had loved her and had tried to please her. Before she had learned
despair, she had learned to enjoy his lovemaking, she had welcomed it, but
never in the way she had urged Arthur. Fortunately, before shame could follow
surprise, he spoke.

“Dream woman,” he sighed, “dream woman. Are you real? If I
let you go, will you disappear?”

Relief from the fear she had shocked or disgusted him made
Abigail mischievous. She grasped his head and held it where it was, buried in
her neck. “Who is your dream woman?” she whispered so that the sound of her
voice could not betray her. “Say my name, O clever man who can utter praise that
any woman might accept as her own.”

“
Honi soit qui mal y pense
,” Arthur said, laughter
and indignation mingling in his voice. “I am innocent. Your name is Abigail,
and you have a dreadful, suspicious character.”

“Perhaps so,” she agreed, letting go of his head and
chuckling, “but I doubt that you have been innocent for a
very
long
time, and by all accounts, my suspicions are justifiable.”

He slid off her but continued to hold her so that their
bodies touched. “I do not know who has been telling you tales,” he com­plained,
“but if anyone claims I like women in droves, it is a lie. I have many faults,
but being that kind of fool is not one of them.”

Abigail snuggled contentedly against him. “Well,” she
admitted, smiling, “Hilda told me you were a rake and a lecher, but to do what
she claimed, you would have had to start at about three years of age—and even
at that, I doubt you would have had time to eat or sleep.”

He chuckled and hugged her, rubbing his cheek affectionately
against the top of her head.

“No,” Abigail went on, serious now, “it was
you
who
told me, Arthur. The tone of your voice, the way you look at a woman—not
obscenely, I have had looks enough like that and they are repellent, not
exciting. I cannot describe it, but you are…practiced…skilled.”

He was silent for a while and then said, “I will not try to
tell you there has never been another woman, but I hope you will believe that I
am not merely going without feeling through a well-worn routine. Abigail, I
have never before thought of staying in the same house with any woman. In fact,
the idea was always revolting to me.” There was another little silence before
he added, rather huskily, “And I have never in my life behaved as I did to you.
I could not wait, and I was sick with fear afterward that I had hurt you or
frightened you, but it was done before I could stop myself.”

For a moment Abigail was puzzled and then realized he was
referring to the way he had torn off her nightgown. “I shall be sure in the
future not to place any impediments in your way,” she said, smiling into his
shoulder, “and I am glad to hear that it is not a
necessary
preliminary,
for obviously it would grow quite expensive.”

He could not help laughing, but he drew her still closer and
murmured, “Dream woman. Any other would have pouted at me even if she were not
really angry. You are perfect. You even felt my need and answered it.”

They lay embraced for a few moments longer, but it was warm
in the room, and Abigail became aware of the damp stickiness of the
perspiration caused by their violent activity. She pulled away a trifle. Arthur
sighed, but did not try to hold her, turning flat on his back. Perversely, the
moment they were separated, Abigail felt chilly. She sat up, intending to reach
for the coverlet Arthur had tossed to the foot of the bed, but the light from
the night candle he had not bothered to blow out sent a gleam across his
sweat-shiny skin that attracted her eyes.

The dim glow highlighted his strong neck and the swelling
muscles of his shoulders and biceps. There was less definition of the
musculature of his broad chest because the light was dim and the curly light
brown hair, growing in a wide V to the navel, obscured the strong curve of the
pectorals. Still, Abigail could make out a deep shadow, emphasized by the
sparser growth of hair. His hips were narrow, his belly flat and also lightly
ridged with muscle.

Abigail blinked sleepily, wondering idly how a man whose
main interests seemed to be politics and women kept his body so hard, then
smiled, remembering that gentlemanly pursuits included much riding, driving and
walking—the first two of which, at least, took strength—and even such
activities as fencing and boxing. A faint movement in the deep shadow between
Arthur’s strong thighs made her half-closed eyes widen, and she turned to find
him, not asleep as she had thought but looking at her. A hand reached out and
pulled her down.

“And do you like what you see?” he whispered into her ear,
pressing her against him so that she could feel his hardening shaft rising
against her.

As he spoke, one of the arms that held her slid down her
body in a silent, sensuous appeal. An automatic protest rose to Abigail’s lips,
but she did not utter it. Much to her surprise, a lazy response stirred in her.
Nonetheless, she knew that if Arthur expected another explosion of passion from
her, he would be disappointed.

She felt his mouth on her hair and raised her face for his
kiss, but before their lips met she whispered, “Do not expect too much of me. I
have never been so—so quick or—or so eager before, and I do not think—”

He did not let her finish and did not answer because his
mouth was busy with more interesting activities than making words, and his
hands played with assured skill over her body, producing an exquisite effect.
Since he had praised rather than been shocked by her earlier uninhibited
response, Abigail felt freer with Arthur than she ever had with Francis. She
explored him with hands and mouth too, touching, scratching, kissing—fascinated
and excited by his soft moans of pleasure, by his pleas to her to continue and
to desist so intermingled that it was clear he wanted both simultane­ously, and
by his spontaneous sensual movements.

It was a very different lovemaking—long and lingering. And
although climax again came almost as soon as Arthur mounted her, it came in
rolling waves of pleasure rather than with tearing violence. Abigail had
completely forgotten her last words before they began their love play, but when
they were at peace Arthur suddenly laughed. She made a sleepy, inquiring sound,
too tired to ask a question in words.