In the Flesh (5 page)

Still stroking her breast, he laughed. It was a strangely young, happy sound and as he threw back his head, his white teeth glinted in the lamplight.

“You’re very wise to set conditions, Beatrice. If I was selling my body for money, I’d do exactly the same.” Then he lunged closer, his breath on her neck as he whispered in her ear, the scent of his shaving lotion coiling in her brain. “But I’m not sure you’ll be able to forget my fingers quite so easily. Would you like a little demonstration?” It didn’t seem that he needed an answer. Reaching for the fullness of her skirts, he began hauling the heavy mass of them upward again. “A little sample of what we might expect…for you
and
for me.”

He planted a hard, hungry kiss on the side of her neck, and then went at her skirts with his whole attention, lifting all the layers of petticoats so he could get both hands under them. French faille and lace, cotton and linen, all rumpled like an ocean of haberdashery, but Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was clearly a master mariner in those waters.

I should stop him. It’s too soon. Too great a liberty.

He intended yet more than he’d already achieved, she knew that, but within moments, she was holding up her skirts to help him while he slid his fingers into the vent of her drawers.

Thanking providence she’d chosen an open undergarment this evening, for ease when wearing a multiplicity of petticoats, Beatrice bumped backward against the door. It was hard and uncomfortable against her upper spine, but she barely felt it.

All she could think about, all she could feel, every last thought and notion in her head—all were subsumed to the demands of her aching sex. She moaned out loud when Ritchie found her with his fingertips, effortlessly parting the silky curls and reaching the heart of the matter. Her hips churned when he settled on the little button of flesh there and began to manipulate it in a slow, lazy rhythm.

Her petticoats fell over his arm as he touched her. Beatrice could no longer hold on to them, only on to him. She flung her arms around his neck, gripping hard, as if he were her rock in a wild sea and she would drown if she didn’t maintain her purchase. Her legs worked and kicked, her hips rocked and jerked and circled. But still Ritchie fondled her, not missing a single beat.

One long groan issued from her throat, the sound so bizarre and unusual to her own ears that it could have been the cry of a ghoul or some other phantom.

“Do you touch yourself often, Beatrice?”

No! No gently bred woman should admit to that!

But she did do it—yes, she did—in her quiet, lonely bed.

“Answer me! If you admit to stroking your own clitoris, I’ll double that annuity.”

Beatrice bit her lips, trying to stifle the uncouth sounds she couldn’t stop making. He might command her flesh, but he couldn’t make her utter such personal revelations. Not even for ten times the allowance!

“Don’t fight me, my sweet girl. Don’t fight me. I only want to pleasure you and to hear you describe your private games.” He kissed her neck again, his hot tongue gliding over her skin as his finger slid around and around below.

Beatrice started to whimper again, tossing her head. She might cry and shriek and wail like an animal, but she would not speak the revealing words he wanted.

“So that’s how it is, eh?” He laughed, his husky voice seeming to dance where his fingers flicked and played. “Perhaps another time then? For the moment, I’ll simply make you spend.”

He circled faster. And as she latched on harder to him, with both arms clasped around his neck, he burrowed beneath her skirts with his other hand, sneaking it into her drawers at the back.

Oh no! Oh no! Please, no!

The thoughts were nonsense. Her whole mind was nonsense. But her body knew what it wanted, what it enjoyed.

When he stroked the rounds of her bottom, and the tender groove between them, she arched like a steel bow and reached her pinnacle. Waves of pleasure pulsed through her belly, and her clitoris beat like a little heart, jumping and throbbing beneath Ritchie’s clever fingertip.

Half out of her senses, Beatrice thrashed and jerked about, holding on hard, and when the pleasure crested again, she buried her face in Ritchie’s neck, her mouth against his collar, her teeth closing and nipping at his skin. He let out a curse, but he laughed, still working on her.

“Enough, oh, I beg you…please, enough,” gasped Beatrice. Perspiration was soaking her chemise, her skin felt like fire, and she was sure that any moment she was going to faint clean away. Her own cautious experimental touches had yielded some delicious little flurries of fulfillment, but nothing like this, oh no, nothing like this. And exquisite as it was, she wasn’t sure if she could survive much more right now.

“Are you sure? Are you really sure?” Ritchie was gasping too, his voice broken as if he’d run a dozen miles without breaking his stride, “A woman like you must be capable of infinite sensuality.”

A woman like you?

As his hands withdrew with a last affectionate pat or two, Beatrice was deposited rudely back into the world of actions and their consequences with a ringing thud. She was angry with Ritchie, but angrier by far with both Eustace and herself.

Mostly
with herself. For her own gullibility, and her incautious pursuit of a little affection. If she’d been more prudent, she wouldn’t even have got herself into the start of this trouble.

Finding her feet, she wriggled away, and as her skirts swished down into place again she smoothed them compulsively with her hands. But no amount of smoothing and patting could wipe away what had just happened underneath them.

“You can’t behave as if that didn’t just happen, you know.” He looked at her, long and hard, his eyes dancing. “I have the evidence.” In a slow, lascivious action, he raised his right hand to his lips, and licked the very fingertips that had stroked her so thoroughly. “Mmm…delicious. I could become addicted.”

“You’re disgusting, Mr. Ritchie.” Beatrice strode across to the sideboard, where a silver tray bore decanters and crystal glasses. It was the first time she’d ever helped herself to alcohol in the way men customarily did, but the aromatic bite of a fine brandy might calm her nerves. She stared at Ritchie over the crystal rim of the vessel, and what she noticed made her grin before she took a revivifying sip.

A vivid red bite mark adorned his neck, just above his crisp high collar, and he still sported a prodigious erection.

Serves you right! I hope it’s exceedingly uncomfortable. Because I’m not going to do anything about it.

“You could help with this.” He glanced down, following her look, his long lashes flicking. “I’m sure you know what to do.”

“Of course I do, Mr. Ritchie, but I’m afraid I’m not going to oblige you at the moment.” Clopping down the glass on the tray, Beatrice swept across the room and retrieved her forgotten fan, reticule and dance card. She half anticipated that her antagonist would intercept her with one of his preternatural bursts of speed, but he remained where he was, and when she reached the door, he even stepped aside. “You’ve had your sample, and there’ll be nothing further until I see an…an offer in writing. With no assets and no good reputation, I’ve got to be sure of what I’m getting before I give anything more in return.”

Ritchie shook his head, but the expression on his face was as much about admiration as it was of thwarted lust. “You’re a shrewd businesswoman, Beatrice.” He rubbed his neck where she’d bitten him as if silently adding a few other choice descriptors. “In your place, I’d do exactly the same. You’ll have a letter tomorrow.”

So easy?
Yes, she supposed so. The formal particulars were the least of it. The very least.

“Excellent. Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She turned the key, grabbed the doorknob and swung open the door, her heart thudding. A few moments ago, this wretched man had gasped as if he’d been running, now she felt as if she’d done the fabled run from Marathon too. And probably back again. “I’ll bid you good-night, Mr. Ritchie. I think it’s time I went home. I’m feeling rather fatigued and need to rest.”

Barely pausing to accept his elaborate bow, and not wanting to see his mocking smile, Beatrice rushed out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her with a loud slam. Impolite behavior, she admitted, but after what had happened in that room just now, the natural boundaries of polite, acceptable behavior were redefined forever.

Would he follow? She hesitated just a second or two, but the door remained closed. Much for the best, she supposed, but in that case why did her heart sink inside her with crushing disappointment?

What have I done? Oh dear God in heaven, what have I done?

Between her thighs, right at her core, she felt his touch.

The corridor was silent, but in her head, she heard Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie laughing.

CHAPTER FOUR

In the Pale Moonlight

CHARLIE WEATHERLY BREATHED
deep as he exited onto the moonlit terrace and made his way, somewhat shakily, down the broad steps that led to the garden.

His head was whirling, and his heart beating. This evening was not turning out to be satisfactory at all. Not at all. He’d spent a large part of his time avoiding a couple of fellows from his club to whom he owed a considerable amount of money, and to cap it all, instead of behaving with suitable decorum, and attempting to mend her shattered reputation and conduct herself as a suitable young lady for marriage, Bea had been quite clearly seen in conversation with that wretched ladies’ man, Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.

The man was as disreputable as he was rich and Charlie would have been prepared to overlook the former for the sake of the latter, if Ritchie wasn’t known to be sworn against further marriages. There were mutterings about not one, but two wives lost already. Hints of mysterious circumstances and nefariousness, but all no doubt hushed up due to the blackguard’s obscene wealth.

Charlie frowned, longing for the taste of brandy, even though he was unsteady enough on his feet already. A card game would be a nice distraction too, even if he was likely to lose again.

All that remained was a cigarette. A mild vice, but it calmed his nerves all the same. Pausing to extract his silver case and light a gasper, he turned briefly and realized that, mired in his troubles, he’d walked a considerable way from the terrace and had ended up almost lost amongst a stand of laburnum bushes.

I should be looking out for Bea. I should be protecting her and sheltering her and steering her away from the likes of Ritchie, and that viper Eustace Lloyd before him. She needs a good man with a bit of money, and a proper home and children. It’s no good we two rattling around at South Mulberry Street together. The house is far too costly to maintain, and we’re getting on each other’s nerves.

Poor Bea. He loved her dearly, and his own guilt made him impatient with her. His sister’s nature was warm and wild, and he loved her for that. But it didn’t make her marriageable. Even her undeniable beauty couldn’t offset the trouble she’d got herself into, posing for those photographs. If only she’d named Lloyd in public as the photographer, they might have had some redress. But she wouldn’t do that, claiming that what was done was done. And because the pair had never been officially engaged, there was no question of breach of promise either.

And now a new set of rumors about her and Ritchie would be circulating. Charlie had seen the eyes of the gossips following the two of them, and the whispered exchanges. Women would be fluttering furiously over the china tea and shortbread during their at-homes in the next few days, and men in clubs all over London would pick over the story while they shuffled cards and consumed brandy and roast beef, weaving salacious fantasies of his sister being debauched by that whoreson Ritchie. He’d already heard murmured asides this very evening about her “moving on to pose in another bed.”

If I’d any guts I’d have shot Eustace Lloyd! One minute he’s as good as proposed to Bea, the next minute she’s not good enough because she posed naked for his camera. Goddammit, he’s the one who
sold
the photographs anonymously, even if he claims otherwise, and now poor old Bea’s the one who’s ended up alone and ruined.

Charlie’s cigarette tip glowed red as he stood in the shadows, dragging on the thing as if he could suck in good fortune with each breath, and then exhale his self-loathing for not defending his sister better.

After a few moments, the nicotine and the moonlight settled him, and as vague plans and resolutions circled in his head, his senses reached out into the garden.

There was someone else here, just feet away.

“Got a light, friend?” The soft, rough voice reminded Charlie of Westerlynne, and a handsome gamekeeper’s lad he’d known as a curious youth. A man stepped out of the deeper shadows, the white tube of a cigarette poised in his fingers. Powerful fingers, steady yet relaxed.

“Yes, of course.” Charlie drew out his matches again, astonished to be shaking. The sturdy, powerful man seemed much closer than before, even though he hadn’t taken another step yet.

The light from the match showed a strong face too, not coarse, but a little rough-hewn, not a gentleman. What was the man doing out here? Was he a servant? A groom? He wasn’t dressed for the ball, but looked well in a plain dark walking suit, and a striped shirt sans collar. His thick brown hair was as straight as wheat, and might have benefited from the comb.

Charlie shuddered, his blood turned to fire. Dark urges welled in his gut. Another reason to be nervous, and yet excited.

They smoked in silence for a spell, the garden air tranquil apart from Charlie’s heart, thumping in the night.

I shouldn’t do this.

And yet senses he barely understood told him the man smoking in the shadows was of the same persuasion as he. Well, if Charlie could be sure what his own persuasion was half the time.

Charles Weatherly was attracted to his own sex. He was an unnatural, an invert. But the fact that he also eagerly desired women too only added to his confusion.

“So, friend,” said the stranger after a long quiet while, “what brings you out here when the rest of the nobs are in there enjoying themselves? You look like a man weighed down by troubles.”

The Charles Weatherly of polite society bristled. He should rebuke this overly familiar fellow for asking personal questions of his betters. But
Charlie,
perplexed and out of his depth, wanted to spill all…both metaphorically and physically. Orgasm was a path to oblivious forgetfulness of problems, just as drink and the thrill of the card table were.

“You could say that,
friend,
” he compromised, taking a drag on his cigarette. “I have my fair share of concerns. But what business are they of yours?”

“Just a sympathetic individual,
sir.
” It wasn’t uttered with deference. “It seems like you’re looking for diversion on a fine night like this…the pleasures of the moment and to the devil with tomorrow.”

Oh, you’re sharp!

Charlie puffed furiously. He couldn’t speak, silenced by the forbidden, dark excitement, and a new emotion, almost unmanning him. Woes of his own making bore down on him like a heavy yoke, and the sudden sympathy of this stranger strummed his nerves.

His new friend laughed softly, the sound drifting low as he reached out, took Charlie’s cigarette right from his lips, and tossed it with his own, end over end, onto the gravel. “You don’t need that, friend,” he murmured, drawing Charlie by the arm, deeper into the shadows and the moist vegetable secrecy of the bushes.

“What are you doing?” It should have come out as righteous outrage, male and stentorian. But instead, his voice seemed light and insubstantial as the moonlight. He opened his mouth again, but the shaggy-haired stranger covered it with his own, suddenly kissing him with firm warm lips and backing him up against what appeared to be the kitchen garden wall.

Charlie’s head reeled, even as the last vestiges of fight made him press against the stranger’s lapels with his fists. But it was an empty gesture. Just as quickly, his hands relaxed against the muscular, well-shaped chest beneath the layers of wool and flannel of his companion’s clothing. In the blink of an eye, he was clutching the very same lapels, his mouth yielding as he silently begged the man not to withdraw.

Or stop kissing him.

A potpourri of tobacco and whiskey on his companion’s lips was intoxicating, and Charlie wondered momentarily where he’d drunk the latter. Was it purloined from his master’s supply? Stolen like these moments of forbidden pleasure?

But when a warm, wet tongue plunged deep into his mouth, Charlie wanted to weep like a girl, deliciously subdued. The man’s large, confident hand closed round his genitals, at the same time, cupping and squeezing with just enough force.

Squeeze. Release. Squeeze. Release. Hardened to iron, his cock leaped with each tightening.

“Oh good Lord…good Lord,” he gasped when his mouth was suddenly free, then he moaned when deft fingertips found his glans through his linen and squeezed that sensitive tip with particular skill.

“No, friend, not our Lord, just ‘Jamie.’” His new friend laughed, still continuing his divine ministrations.

Charlie was overcome. Still grasping Jamie’s lapels, he threw back his head, bumping it on the rough masonry of the wall yet barely registering the momentary pain. His knees buckled, and he slumped, his back pressed to the damp brickwork. Biting his lips, he fought to suppress his cries, his hips flaunting forward following Jamie’s teasing, tugging fingers.

“Do you like that, sir?” A redundant question, the impudent honorific, and Jamie’s low laughter only added to the sweet sensations.

“Yes, oh God, yes I do!” Charlie tossed his head against the bricks, aware of the ever-present sooty grime of the city soiling his hair. “My name is Charles…Charlie…oh hell and damnation man, that’s wonderful…oh God!”

“But we’ve only just begun, Charlie,” breathed Jamie, then he stabbed in with another deep kiss, before nibbling on Charlie’s lower lip. “Shall we let the rampant beast see the air now?”

Reality suddenly pierced the hot, sensual haze. Charlie struggled for sanity, for sobriety, and tried to pull away, even though the denying words still eluded him.

But Jamie would not be gainsaid. He squeezed yet harder on the tip of Charlie’s organ, the fleeting moment of cruelty like heaven to a man of Charlie’s sensibilities.

“Oh no, you don’t, sir.” The husky voice was playful yet menacing, “I want a good look at this nice little toy.”

“Not so little, I’ll thank you,” growled Charlie, finding his backbone from somewhere.

“Indeed,” said Jamie, his deft fingers working on the buttons of Charlie’s trousers…and then his linens.

Charlie gasped as the cooler air of the garden night hit his cock. Jamie eased him out of the aperture in his clothing, and he could almost imagine his flesh steaming, hot and hard as an iron bar.

“Fine…very fine indeed,” murmured Jamie, his hand settling upon it.

At first he just held Charlie, his large yet nimble fingers lightly curled as he kissed Charlie’s face in little nips and dabs and busses. It was a delicate exploration, all the more stirring for the intimate hold down below. Charlie wanted to scream at Jamie to pump him.

“Steady, Charlie my boy, steady on.” Jamie’s smile was saturnine as he pulled back a little, staring into Charlie’s eyes, his own hooded and sultry as a finger drummed hither and thither, light and taunting. “I’m not ready for you to spend all over me…at least not yet. You have to earn your satisfaction, my fine lad.”

Luscious fear coiled in Charlie’s gut. He thought of practices performed in certain discreet houses and his organ stiffened harder at the thought, jumping in his lover’s hand.

“You’re a naughty fellow, aren’t you?” purred Jamie, his raw tone revealing his country origins. Despite his desperate state, Charlie felt a rush of warmth, remembering happy times at Westerlynne. “But I’m not doing it all for you, Charlie my lad. Not tonight…” He reached for Charlie’s hand and folded it around his very own flesh.

Blood burned in Charlie’s face and in the hard rod between his fingers. Dark pleasure surged at the thought of exhibiting his private technique. His fingers shook as they fumbled and slid, and his head felt as light as if he’d supped a quart of brandy on top of the several snifters he’d already consumed in addition to champagne.

But the thought of his debts and troubles was all but forgotten, and when Jamie’s hands finally strayed to his own trouser buttons, Charlie didn’t have a remaining care in the whole wide world.