In the Flesh (21 page)

Beatrice quelled a sputter. Bubbles threatened to go up her nose, but she managed to control herself. She’d seen Arabella Southern perform that particular act on her handsome paramour, Yuri, and Sofia on her darling Ambrose. And she’d read a hair-raisingly naughty set of instructions on how to do it, too, in one of the many explicit books and journals she’d perused at Sofia’s pleasure house.

“Well, I’m certainly looking forward to making the acquaintance of that particular portion of your anatomy, Mr. Ritchie. So far I’ve been denied a formal introduction.”

Ritchie chuckled and reached for her hand. She thought he was going to conduct it to the very organ they were discussing, but instead he ran his thumb slowly and seductively over her knuckles, the action making her own intimate regions tingle in response.

“You’re a very forward young woman, Madame de la Tour. So audacious I ought to pick you up, throw you over my shoulder, then cart you out of here and give you a spanking.”

Beatrice had seen
that
in Sofia’s saucy magazines, too.

Ritchie beamed at her. Reading her mind again?

“Why take me to task? You’re the one who started this with your talk of my hair and your thighs…and…um…sucking.” His fingers explored her hand and somehow the very tip of one managed to sneak beneath the edge of her sleeve and find the very spot where a doctor would read her pulse. Her voice began to shake as it circled and massaged.

“Look here, Ritchie, it’s too late for me to play the delicate, incorruptible miss with you. We both know I’ve revealed my true nature. So why not reveal the full extent of yours?”

Ritchie’s face hardened, his eyes suddenly stricken. But the flash of dark emotion was over again as soon as it had registered, leaving Beatrice wondering if she’d imagined it.

“So what do you want, Bea?”

With her free hand, she reached for her champagne glass and took a fortifying drink of the glorious pale golden liquid.

“Everything,” she said simply, then added in the lowest voice possible, “and especially, I want you to fuck me.”

The forbidden word brought a flush to her cheeks, for all her resolve to be a bold, unprissy miss. Ritchie’s eyes twinkled like stars, expunging all memory of their momentary darkness.

“Well then…would you like to forgo dinner? I have a private room reserved for us upstairs.”

Beatrice’s heart thudded. Messages sped along her nerves, conducting instructions to her thighs and the muscles in her haunches, telling them to slide along the banquette and stand so that Ritchie could lead her away to that private room upstairs. But the butterflies of anticipation needed a little something to fight with first.

“No, thank you, Ritchie, not just yet.” If he was disappointed, he hid it well behind his smiling mask. “I think I’ll eat a bite of dinner first. I’ve a feeling I might need my strength shortly.”

Ritchie shook his head and winked at her, then signaled for the waiter.

But contrary to her claims, when the food came, Beatrice couldn’t do much justice to the meltingly tender
filet de boeuf roti,
the buttered asparagus tips and the
pommes de terre madagasque,
even though they were all glorious. She couldn’t drink much either, after the first glass of champagne. Ritchie nodded, as if approving her abstemiousness, and requested that the waiter bring her
eau Evian
instead.

Sipping the bottled water, Beatrice relished its head-clearing chill. What need was there for alcohol with Ritchie around? He was overproof himself, surging in her veins, every movement and gesture an intoxicant.

His hands fascinated her, fast becoming an obsession. She’d never seen such objects of grace, so long-fingered and strong. He used his cutlery with elegant precision, even though it was obvious he enjoyed his food. A foolish notion came to Beatrice as he laid down his knife and fork to take a drink of the water he too had chosen. Would he consent, when their month was over, to having his hands molded and a plaster model made so she could keep it and treasure it?

Don’t be absurd, Bea! How on earth would a busy man like Ritchie ever have time to stay still long enough for the plaster cast to set?

“What are you thinking about, Bea?”

Luckily she wasn’t holding her own glass or knife, because his voice made her jump on the banquette. “Your hands,” she blurted out, off guard. “I…I like your hands. They’re very elegant and strong. I find them quite beautiful.”

His odd, sideways look put her in mind of a bashful boy receiving his first compliment from a girl for whom he harbored a tendre.

“Thank you, Bea.” Ignoring his meal now, he lifted his hands as if examining a pair of rare artifacts as yet undiscovered. “No one’s ever praised them before…except sometimes to applaud what they can do.”

His blue eyes were intense as he looked at her, not wavering one iota.

His women, they were the ones who’d praised his manual dexterity. Beatrice was no poetess, but even she could have composed a sonnet to those magical eight fingers and two thumbs.

A slow but now familiar smile spread across his handsome features, and he turned sideways on the banquette, to face her.

Reaching out, he took her hand, her right one, closest to him.

“I like your hands, too, Bea. They’re delicate and slim—” his fingers slipped to and fro over her knuckles again “—yet clever and deft, capable of the finest work.” He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed it quite hard. Beatrice groaned inside, wishing all their surroundings would suddenly dissolve and they’d find themselves alone. “I’ll wager you’re a wonderful seamstress.”

Beatrice laughed out loud. “Oh no! You’re completely wrong there. I’m the world’s worst at needlework. I’m the dunce of the Ladies’ Sewing Circle.”

Slowly, but with purpose, Ritchie turned her hand over, examining the tips of her fingers as if looking for wounds wrought by her wayward embroidery needle. “Ah well, maybe you have other skills to compensate?”

“I’m not sure…” Her voice shook a little, but she covered it with a smile, her heart bounding. “But I’m always eager to master new accomplishments.”

“Good girl…good girl…” Ritchie’s voice seemed to vibrate with laughter, and his breath was like a warm wind from the Indies as he kissed her hand again, the palm this time, his lips barely touching her skin. The light contact stirred every inch of her body, bringing a blush to her face and a glow of pleasure to every hidden zone.

“Would you care for dessert?” he enquired as he put her hand from his lips and settled it on her thigh, barely inches from his own. “The ice cream at Belanger’s is amongst the finest in London. It’s brought in from an establishment in Little Italy, completely unadulterated, a masterpiece of cream and vanilla.” He seemed much closer on the banquette now, and heat of his body permeated though his clothing and hers, all the layers of silk and barathea and fine worsted wool rendered insubstantial.

The luxurious dessert sounded wonderful. Another time she might have succumbed to it with childlike pleasure, but right now she wasn’t sure she could handle a spoon.

“Thank you, but I’ve had sufficient to eat. It was all delicious.” She slid out her little finger and touched his thigh with the tip of it. “But you have some. Don’t let me stop you.”

“I’m not hungry anymore either. At least not for ice cream.” His eyes flicked down, in the direction of the tiny contact, then with a conspiratorial wink, he flicked the tablecloth over their thighs, and her hand. “But I have a fancy for a brandy. How about you, Bea? Will you take a brandy with me?”

She’d poured herself brandy the first time they’d met, the first time he’d touched her. The fiery spirit was their personal sacrament, and she yearned for what it symbolized.

Sensuality. Contact. The pleasure of touch both received and given.

But this time, Beatrice wanted to be the one touching, and the prospect of it made her blood surge and an intoxicant far more powerful than fine cognac rush through her veins. She spread out all her fingers across the surface of his trousers, then squeezed the iron-hard muscle beneath.

Ritchie’s sinfully long eyelashes flickered for a moment, so shockingly dark in contrast to his fair hair. But he remained as calm as a saint when the waiter arrived with barely a summons, and brandy was ordered and plates taken away.

“Pour me a little more water while we wait, if you would?” Her voice was steady, and so were her eyes, on him.

“Of course,” he said, and when he reached for the carafe, she slid her hand sideways and covered his groin.

He still didn’t turn a hair, but Beatrice swore she heard the faintest of sighs. His actions were perfectly steady though as he refilled her glass and reached to set it by her left hand.

“So, Madame de la Tour, are you fond of exploration?”

To an outside observer, it would have been the most casual of enquiries, meaningless social chitchat, but Ritchie’s suave tongue-in-cheek tone made Beatrice smirk. She rewarded him with a very gentle squeeze.

“Indeed I am, Mr. Ritchie, indeed I am.” For a moment, she pursed her lips to stop herself laughing at the way his eyes popped wide. “I love to voyage in the darkest, murkiest undergrowths, discovering new wonders with which to entertain myself.” Massaging him lightly once or twice, she turned her attention then to his fly buttons. Quite a task when she was working blind and at a somewhat awkward angle.

Ritchie pursed his lips as her knuckles knocked against his erection. “That’s admirable, madame. There’s nothing I respect more than an adventurous woman, and I go out of my way to assist in such endeavors.”

“Really? How very philanthropic of you.”

Beneath the cloth, Ritchie’s hands joined hers, first one, then the other, nudging her aside as he negotiated the fastenings of his trousers and his linen.

Good Lord, I can’t believe we’re doing this!

Ritchie’s hand took hers, drew it near him again, setting her on the most daring path of exploration she could have ever imagined. It took barely more than a heartbeat to part cloth and draw out the princely prize she sought.

Oh, he was so hot. And hard. And sturdy. Her fingers curved around him just as if they’d known his contours for a lifetime, and loved them as long. It felt perfectly appropriate to be holding him.

“Oh, Bea,” murmured Ritchie, slumping against the plush upholstery of the banquette, his eyelids fluttering closed in an expression of sublime wonder. She could almost imagine it was the first time he’d been touched by a woman thus, even though that was arrant nonsense. Dozens of lucky females must have handled his trusty treasure. Women far more experienced than she.

It really was a voyage of discovery.

Fingers still lightly wrapped around him, Beatrice gnawed her lip. Did men like gentle treatment, or firm? His shape and the lovely silky feel of his skin down there invited an eager examination, but she was aware that too vigorous a handling could be disastrous. At worst, she could hurt him, and at best, precipitate a crisis far sooner than either of them wanted.

“Something wrong, Bea?” Ritchie’s eyes flicked open and his expression was both smoky and sensual, and at the same time razor sharp. “Your discovery not to your liking?”

Was he mocking her? Teasing her inexperience? Back at Sofia’s house, he’d seemed to delight in it. Meeting his eyes, she gave his penis a light but determined squeeze, and got the satisfaction of a gasp of indrawn breath.

“On the contrary, I find it most pleasing and not at all a disappointment.”

Ritchie laughed, then gasped again as her fingers delicately tightened.

“A disappointment?”

“Well, I’ve been led to believe that gentlemen tend to overestimate the qualities of certain…appendages. They lead ladies to expect Corinthian monuments when in reality the item is far less mighty.”

Ritchie seemed to absorb this, then his hips bucked ever so lightly, and the monument slid to and fro between Beatrice’s fingers.

“And were you hoping for such a monument, Madame de la Tour?”

Remembering the
godemiche,
Beatrice slid her fingertip into the same groove that she now discovered in living flesh. “Hoping, yes,” she murmured as Ritchie gasped again. “Expecting, too, in view of certain preliminary explorations.” Her grip was awkward, and hampered by the tablecloth, but she settled her thumb in opposition to her fingertips and rolled his flesh lightly between them. It seemed instinctively the desired approach. “And as I say, I’m not in the slightest disappointed.” A little more pressure, but not too much. “In fact, I’d go as far as to say, I’m considerably impressed.”

“So am I, Beatrice…so am I.” Ritchie laughed, cocking his head back again, his plush lower lip snagged in his teeth.

So this is what makes the grand demimondaines so all-conquering. This power over men, the ability to bestow or deny pleasure and sensation.

It seemed such a primitive accomplishment, yet it was significant. It could drive the world. Here she was with a man who’d bought her, who’d handed over money for her body, her acquiescence. He could make or ruin her and her brother, just for the whims of desire. And yet right now, she had him in the palm of her hand, in the most literal of senses.