After the Kiss (2 page)

Wiltshire Downs, England
Early spring, 1822

N
aked, he sat cross legged upon a brilliantly hued carpet, a voluptuous woman on his lap. Her bare legs were on either side of his hips, her feet crossed at his back. One masculine hand rested on her thigh, fingers splayed, while the other curved around her waist. Her head was arched back, throat exposed, eyes closed, the look on her face one of sublime pleasure. His head bent, the edge of his smile carnal and anticipatory, captured forever in the act of his tongue gently touching an elongated nipple.

The artist had drawn the man in a state of arousal, a condition surely accentuated out of all proportion.
No man, Margaret Esterly thought, could be quite
that
large.

Her gaze returned to the painting time and again, even as a flush crept up her neck. A scene of sensuality and abandon. Almost shocking. But beautiful in a strange and unsettling way. That was the only reason, Margaret told herself, that she studied it with such avid curiosity.

The caption that accompanied the drawing was both confusing and evocative:
The face, the ears, the breasts are rich with sensation. But close attention must be made to speak softly, murmuring words of tenderness in anticipation of the pleasure to come.

“You’re too fascinated with those books, Miss Margaret.”

She blinked, glanced up, her face warming.

On the other side of the table, Penelope sat chopping onions and frowning at her. The two years since they’d left London had brought a few changes to their lives, chief among them the friendship they shared. A not surprising development, considering that they were both London born and raised.

Margaret wanted almost desperately to be quit of London and its memories. To her surprise, Penelope was more than willing to join her in the country.

With Jerome’s death, she had no family. Her parents had died of influenza when she was only a child. Her grandmother, a former governess, had raised her, but she had passed on a year after her marriage to Jerome.

The small cottage Margaret had rented from Squire Tippett two years ago wasn’t a prepossessing place. The only furniture was a bureau, two small cots, two chairs and a small wooden table she despaired of ever making stand straight. Finally, she had shimmied a
piece of wood beneath one leg, but it still wobbled from side to side. A fireplace took up one whole wall, a welcome warmth during the winters on the Downs.

“It’s a good thing you hide them above the rafters when the girls come. I can just imagine what their mothers in the village would say if they knew you read such things,” Penelope scolded.

Silbury Village, their new home, was situated in a river valley with a commanding view of the chalk uplands and the stark white form cut into the hillside. Majestically sized, not unlike the White Horse at Westbury, it was difficult to discern the shape of the carving except in spring when the villagers trimmed and re-cut the turf. Then, it was all too evident that the angles and curves formed the image of a crown. As if some ancient royal presence had marked this place forever his.

Almost completely encircling the village was the Bristol River, its waters churning through two grist mills. Perched above Silbury on a nearby hill were the skeletal remains of a priory. The town itself was full of twisting paths and unexpected steps, and houses constructed from the stones of the ruins, giving the buildings an aged, almost pallid appearance.

It was, as Samuel had told her, an inward looking place. The villagers were content enough to build the clocks for which they were famed and ignore the world. It was because of her friend that she was here at all. Samuel had been born in the village and knew the squire from which she rented her small cottage.

Penelope stood, emptied the contents of the bowl into the stew over the fire. Their main meal of the day had not contained meat for weeks, but they were never short of onions. Margaret was beginning to detest the smell and taste of them.

“I have never read the third volume,” Margaret said in her own defense. “He writes most compellingly about the Orient, Penelope.”

Penelope turned and looked at her, one eyebrow rising. A perfect chastisement, Margaret thought. She could not have done better with her students.

Another change in her life. She had begun teaching a few girls from the village over the last year. Doing so had given her an opportunity to use those lessons her Gran had taught her.

She would never have children of her own; that fact had been proven during her five-year marriage to Jerome. But three mornings a week, seven little girls ranging from five to ten years of age came to her cottage. For those hours, she thought not about her precarious financial situation, nor of her loneliness, but of each girl’s talents and needs. Annie’s enthusiasm for learning was delightful, as was the way Dorothy was advancing in her reading. She answered their questions and smiled at their laughter.

In turn, she learned from her students. On their walks she’d been shown how to listen for the grouse, or watch a new moon in order to predict the growing season. Margaret had stood in a meadow as she’d been instructed by seven excited voices, concentrating upon the clouds and feeling small and insignificant beneath the bowl of sky. Had she’d ever truly seen the sky in London?

It was, after all, a satisfactory life. One that would be remarkably content but for two things—her loneliness and the fact that she was nearly desperate for money.

She glanced down at the book on the table again. The painter had been an artist of some talent. Her fingers trailed across the illustration of muscled shoul
ders, down a tapering back and over the length and breadth of one thigh. This man appeared in numerous small illustrations sprinkled throughout the
Journals of Augustin X
. In each of them he had been proudly naked, involved in some sensual and surely forbidden act. His shoulders were broad, his back tapering to his waist. His buttocks were perfectly formed as if to coax a palm to curve around both of them. A stranger, possibly a figment of the artist’s imagination. Yet she knew him more intimately than she had known her husband.

But even more shocking than the paintings was her own unfettered imagination. Too many times she’d envisioned herself as the woman in his arms. Surfeited with pleasure, languid with the memory of it. Her eyes holding secrets and promising lessons, her smile curved in pure, unalloyed joy.

A few days after the fire she’d found the three books tucked into the bottom of the strongbox. For months, the
Journals of Augustin X
had remained in the small chest, untouched. But during their first winter here, bored and lonely, Margaret had extracted the first volume and begun to read it.

Augustin had evidently been a well traveled man of leisure and some wealth. He had written, in exquisite detail, about the scenery of the lands he’d visited. Her fingers trailed over a passage.

The true nature of the
Journals of Augustin X
, however, was not a travelogue. Instead, it was a graphic account of Augustin’s erotic journey throughout the world. Each of his
Journals
was tantamount to a book of instructions on how to engage in the sensuality he portrayed in such exquisite detail. He seemed especially entranced with the courtesans he’d met, many of whom educated him on the higher delights of sensuality. He had even fancied himself in love with one, and his tender farewell to her had brought tears to Margaret’s eyes.

That first winter she told herself it was better to destroy the books. But they were the only link to the bookshop and her life with Jerome. Besides, reading them occasionally gave her something to do other than to worry about their perilous financial condition.

Her conscience chuckled in the silence. Very well, perhaps she
was
too fascinated with these books. The
Journals
revealed a world she’d never before known, one of amorous encounters and erotic acts she’d never thought to witness.

“They’re evil things, Miss Margaret,” Penelope said, glancing over her shoulder at the book on the table. “Cursed.”

“They aren’t cursed. They are simply books,” Margaret said patiently. “Only a collection of words.”

“And pictures,” Penelope said. “Any man who ever touched me that way would get the back of my hand, Miss Margaret,”

Penelope’s cheeks, round and rosy on most days, were now fiery with color. Her pointed chin jutted out at Margaret. Even her straight brown hair seemed to curl with indignation. Her dark eyes met Margaret’s
gaze and in them was the righteousness of the never tempted.

Margaret admitted that she was not as pure in thought. Some nights she lay in her cot and wished her life had been different. At the same time, she recognized that the past years had taught her well. Turmoil had come to her in the guise of the fire and the death of her husband. It was wiser to wish for consistency than for chaos. Excitement was for other people.

If there were moments, like this afternoon, when she wondered what her life might have been like if she had never married Jerome, then it was to be expected. She simply pushed those errant thoughts away.

Margaret closed the tooled cover of the book, ensuring that the tissue was in place over each of the page sized paintings. One overlay did not fit correctly and she opened the book to straighten it. But it wasn’t one of the protective pages at all. She frowned as she pulled the paper free.

It was a list of ten names, all with notations beside them in Jerome’s cramped scrawl.

Penelope bent over her shoulder. “What is it, Miss Margaret?”

“Some kind of list,” she said. Together they read Jerome’s writing.

Jeremy Pendergrast—detests French literature. Only as a last resort.

Horace Blodgett—haggles too much. Not a candidate for a quick sale.

Ned Smith—Father controls his purse. A possible sale, if he’s not spent the remainder of his quarterly allowance.

John Blaketon—very likely. In competition with Babidge.

Charles Townsende—unlimited funds, very likely quick sale.

Jerome’s notes continued with another five names, all with varying commentaries beside them.

“What do you think it is, Miss Margaret?”

Margaret turned it over, then studied it again. “I think Jerome meant to sell the
Journals
,” she said finally.

“Sell them? Why would he do such a thing?”

Because he’d been as desperate as they were for money
, she thought—a comment she did not voice to Penelope.

“I’ve seen books the like of the
Journals
in the shop before, Penelope. I’ve no doubt that they brought a tidy profit.”

Penelope looked surprised. “It doesn’t sound right that Mr. Esterly would dabble in such cursed things.”

“They are not cursed,” Margaret said patiently. “Or do you blame them for all our misfortunes?”

“No,” Penelope said slowly. “But it does seem as if something has brought us to this pass. If only it hadn’t been so hot,” she sighed.

“Or if the chickens hadn’t died,” Margaret contributed.

“Or the roof had not collapsed.”

“Or the chimney hadn’t become blocked, or the cows hadn’t sickened, or we hadn’t had to sell the pigs too soon,” Margaret said, attempting to smile. A myriad of disasters had befallen them over the past two years.

“Or the garden hadn’t wilted. And do not forget
the west wall,” Penelope added. “It was a right pretty disaster.”

“Yes,” Margaret said, standing, “but we learned well enough to be masons on our own.”

“It’s been a difficult time,” Penelope admitted. The truth hung in the air between them. “Perhaps we should have stayed in London.”

“At the time, any place but London was preferable as I remember,” Margaret said, opening the strongbox and tucking the third
Journal
below the nearly empty money tray. “Besides, there are some compensations for our country life.” She smiled at the younger woman. “Or have you forgotten Tom?”

Penelope’s cheeks blossomed with color. The young groom worked at Squire Tippett’s and had courted Penelope over the last two years. They were so much in love that it was unexpectedly painful to witness them together. Margaret’s marriage to Jerome had been one of gentle affection. An agreeable union, but one that somehow lacked the longing looks and gentle laughter Penelope and Tom shared.

“I wonder what the books would fetch?”

Penelope stared at her in surprise. “You can’t be thinking of selling them, Miss Margaret?”

Margaret picked up the list and studied the names again. “There are at least three viable prospects here, Penelope. Men, I believe, who would purchase the books without hesitation. If we do not do something, we will have to return to the City and find occupations to support us.”

Penelope looked as stricken as Margaret felt. Returning to London would mean that Penelope would have to leave Tom and she would have to leave her girls’ school. They would either have to go into service, or take a job in one of the shops.

Unfortunately, she made no income from teaching the girls. The residents of Silbury Village had been as hard hit as she and Penelope by the drought. She would not have felt proper about asking money from people who could ill afford it.

“Couldn’t you go to the duke, Miss Margaret?”

She glanced at Penelope. “No,” Margaret said quickly. “Not the duke.” Whatever happened, she would never seek assistance from Tarrant.

She remembered only too well their last meeting, the day after Jerome had perished in the fire.

“I have come only to tell you what happened,” she’d said. Her hands were clenched so tightly in her lap that the knuckles shone white and bony.