In the Flesh (28 page)

Great, contracting pulsations beat through her. Her body grabbed at him, rippled around him, drew his own pleasure from him while her mind went white and blank, finding peace in the ferment.

As she spent and spent, barely conscious, she was still aware of every tiny physical thing passing between them.

The upwards buck of his hips, the harsh cry of his completion, the scent of his sweat. Her eyes fluttered open, and she saw Ritchie’s eyes were closed. His face was almost serene, even though his teeth were clenched. His blond hair was tousled and his skin gleamed with a film of perspiration and an inner glow as if he were a saint in an icon.

He was the most beautiful sight she’d ever seen…and from the corner of his eye she could swear a single teardrop trickled.

“Oh my dearest Bea,” he gasped again, then his head pitched forward and he collapsed against her, hugging her almost awkwardly against him, just as she slumped nerveless against his shoulder.

* * *

LATER,
they fucked again, refreshed by a little more supper and champagne. This time, Beatrice flung herself on her back and Ritchie raised his sandy brows at her, clearly more than happy to indulge her choice of position. With a laugh, he plunged forward, between her legs.

Beatrice laughed back at him and clung to him furiously, pounding her hips at his with every bit as much vigor as he thrust into her, newly energized by deep erotic hunger.

We’re a match.

The thought came again as they bounced and rocked against each other, pleasure gathering around their joined vitals.

We’re a balanced pair. One completing the other. Better together than as separate individuals.

If only they could stay that way. Regret wound its way through the bright raiment of their pleasure, but Beatrice kept it safely to herself.

It surfaced again though, keen and quiet, when she and Ritchie were lying together, naked, warm and finally sated. Would he sleep here with her? He’d said he never did that, not with any woman. But he seemed so relaxed… Perhaps he’d make an exception?

No sooner had the fancy materialized than it was shattered. In a quick, light movement, Ritchie sat up, lifted the sheet and slid from the bed to cast about the room, finding and donning his clothing.

“Can’t we stay and sleep awhile?”

She hadn’t meant to ask. To seem like a clinging nuisance was the last thing she wanted. What
he
wanted was a convenient mistress for a month, good value for his outlay, not some miss with designs on snaring more of him.

Ritchie gave her a strange look. Perplexed, a little sad, as if he regretted his own strictures yet wasn’t prepared to bend them.

“No, Beatrice, we can’t,” he said in a flattish voice. “Well, at least I can’t.” Already putting studs in his shirt, he came and sat beside her on the bed. Was it worth flinging her naked form against him and drawing him back to her? Surely he’d not be able to resist? But the fact that he
might
was an unpleasant prospect.

“Why don’t you stay, Bea,” he said more gently. “I’ll send a note around for Polly to come and assist you in the morning. I’m sure you’ll sleep well. The bed is comfortable.”

There was a smile on his lips, but his eyes were wistful, almost melancholy.

What is it, Ritchie? What’s hurt you so much that you just can’t allow yourself more? That you can’t…can’t trust me?

But she didn’t voice the question.

“No, it’s all right. I’m used to Cook’s breakfasts, average as they are, and I’ll probably sleep better in my own bed.” Sliding from beneath the sheets, she followed Ritchie out of their shell of intimacy and began gathering her own scattered clothing.

But all the time, her heart mourned for what was lost. As usual, she’d hoped for far too much.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Home Truths

BUT IN THE DAYS
that followed, it was difficult not to want too much. Especially as Beatrice didn’t see Ritchie as frequently as she would have liked, which made their shared trysts ever more precious.

Ritchie was addictive to her. Like opium, or some other exotic drug. The more he touched her, the more she wanted to be touched. The more they came to know each other’s bodies, the more Beatrice craved to know his mind. When they weren’t in bed, she pounced on any stray morsel of his background she could discover.

Over dinners and lunches at Belanger’s and other discreet establishments, they discussed politics, economics and books, sometimes agreeing and sometimes quite at odds. At private art exhibits, they found a shared love of the paintings of Lord Leighton and Mr. Alma-Tadema. Lying in bed, between sweaty acts of lovemaking, they discussed the country, riding and horses, and walking. Ritchie promised her a bicycle when she expressed an interest in mastering the art of cycling.

Nevertheless, in many aspects, he still eluded her. She could sense that behind his confident, urbane, unashamedly pleasure loving mask, there lurked some plangent, almost agonizing sorrow. He let slip hints of it when she revealed some of the sadder aspects of her own past: the death of her parents, and the loss of Westerlynne where they’d been so happy as a family.

Toward the end of an afternoon of delicious perversity, wherein games with silk scarves were played, a few playful spanks were levied across her buttocks and a good deal of rocking and writhing and gasping against each other was enjoyed, Beatrice found herself dozing, while Ritchie “kept watch,” as she liked to call it. He simply would not allow himself to sleep after their pleasure, but seemed to find contentment in watching her nod off and snooze.

Drifting at the edge of consciousness, she heard Ritchie’s words as if they came from across a great chasm, even though he was within touching distance, his back propped up against the pillows.

“Why have you never married, Beatrice? Have you never loved?” Her eyes snapped open, sleep fast fleeing. “Surely a woman as exquisite as you must have had offers?” She turned to him, looking up. His expression was more guarded than she’d ever seen it.

Why did he ask these questions? He surely knew almost as much as it were possible to know about her. In the days and weeks of their liaison, she’d become increasingly suspicious that much of her life was an open book to him, due to talk that passed between Polly and Jamie Brownlow, and perhaps even through the conduit of Charlie, too. Those three were most definitely up to something. Something she could scarcely not condone, given her own sybaritic behavior with Ritchie.

“I was engaged once, but the young man died in a sailing accident,” she admitted, almost sure that he already knew all about Tommy. “I was very fond of him.”

But if he knew about Tommy, how much was he aware of her dealings with Eustace?

Had Polly or Charlie said anything? She’d never even told those two, her closest, the entire story and she’d requested they never speak of him to others. It was preferable that people believed she’d made headstrong choices rather than admit to them she’d been duped like a fool.

But, facing facts, Charlie was notoriously indiscreet, and couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. Polly was fiercely loyal, but she hated Eustace with a passion. She might disclose his identity in the name of retribution.

There was always Sofia, too. Beatrice had never told her daring friend who the photographer was, but it was common knowledge Eustace had briefly courted her, so the pieces could easily be put together.

Yes, it was more than likely that Ritchie suspected Eustace as the man who’d ruined her reputation, but, unlikely as it seemed, he’d never pressed her on the origins of the cabinet cards. Was he simply biding his time? Coolly planning some kind of retribution? She feared as much. Her sincerest wish was that he’d never pursue the matter, but he was strong willed and she feared some drastic response. Eustace had drugged and tricked her, then ended their relationship almost immediately. He was a low cad, but she still couldn’t bring herself to wish real harm to him. Especially as Eustace’s selfish ways had indirectly brought Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie into her life.

But she doubted that her lover would see it that way.

“I’m sorry, do you prefer not to speak of him? Perhaps it’s better not to stir up unhappy memories.”

Confused, Beatrice frowned, then suddenly realized she must have been silent for several moments, brooding on Eustace and what Ritchie may or may not know of him.

“No, please, there’s no need to worry. It doesn’t hurt to think of Tommy now. I loved him, and I missed him for a long time after his death, but he would have been the last person to want me to live my life in melancholy, pining for him. He was good and kind that way, a sweet and generous man.”

“He sounds worthy of you.” The words were oddly neutral, almost studiously so, and his handsome face was unreadable.

“I’m not quite sure how worthy I was of him though.” A pang of guilt shot through her. If she’d agreed to marriage sooner, instead of preferring to wait, she and Tommy might have wed, and he might not have gone out on the boat that day. “I was a bit flighty. I behaved like a silly girl and asked if we could wait a while before marrying. Life might have been quite different if we’d gone to the altar sooner.”

Beatrice shuddered. Deep solemnity had settled over them, and yet it seemed crass to try and break the mood with an amusing remark. Her guilt deepened.

If Tommy was alive, I would never have met you, Ritchie. Well, not in the way we are now.

Those dark blue eyes sharpened, as if he’d read the thought, but he said nothing.

“And what about you?” she said on an impulse, setting her hand on his arm and letting out the query she’d been battling to suppress. “I know you’ve been married, even though you never speak of it. You must have loved, and loved deeply…more than once.”

Shutters came down again. Ritchie’s mobile, beautiful face became a mask, his eyes almost blank. Beatrice cringed at the mistake she’d made, even though it was a question she had as much right to ask as he did. Or maybe the money, which she quite forgot these days, denied her those particular rights over him?

The muscles in his arm were rigid, hard as cured wood, but Beatrice didn’t retreat from him. If only he’d let her ease his pain.

Then, after an aching silence, he seemed to relax, and in a soft voice said, “Yes, Bea, I loved.” He dragged in a breath. “I loved someone good and kind too…and I’m damn sure I certainly wasn’t worthy.”

“But—” she began, yearning to tell him he was good and kind himself and more than worthy of the love of any woman. Most of all her.

“No…remember what your Tommy would say. No dwelling on the past. We should enjoy the present.” He rolled toward her, his mouth seeking hers, and his hand roving with purpose down her body. “I find that I want you again, Beatrice my angel, and it’s really rather urgent. Do you think you could find it in yourself to want me too?”

In their quiet moments of reflection, her body had calmed and cooled, but as he began to stroke her between her legs, she did indeed find that she wanted him. Wanted him urgently in the very place he was touching.

* * *

“
A GENTLEMAN TO SEE YOU
,” said Simon the new footman a few days later.

Beatrice’s heart leaped. Was it Ritchie? It must be Ritchie, back somewhat early from another of his trips to the North, to inspect a mine this time. What other gentleman would be visiting her, the infamous Siren of South Mulberry Street, a woman of dubious reputation to begin with, but now the avowed mistress of a rich and notorious man.

But then, why didn’t Simon
say
it was Mr. Ritchie? And why was he holding out a card on his little silver tray?

A shudder of disquiet rippled through her, and she tossed aside the latest novel she’d been attempting to read, with scant consideration for its binding. As it hit the upholstered chaise, she had a sudden, horrible premonition who the waiting gentleman might be—another certain someone who didn’t care to take no for an answer. Her worst fears were confirmed by the small rectangle of white card.

Eustace Lloyd Esq.

Her first overpowering instinct was to instruct Simon that she was not at home to Mr. Lloyd, and that she would never be at home to Mr. Lloyd. But that was the coward’s way out, and Eustace being Eustace, he might well keep on turning up at her door until she relented. Better to get this awkward and inevitable interview over now, and put the whole sorry business of her former, if unofficial, fiancé behind her.

Even if she and Ritchie went entirely separate ways once their month was over, she would never, ever in a thousand years take up with Eustace Lloyd again.

“Show him up, please, Simon,” she said, already mangling the
carte de visite
between her fingers.

Beatrice sprang to her feet, not quite sure how to receive her visitor. Her nerves were jangling, and not is the pleasant, delicious way they did in anticipation of seeing Ritchie. Instead, it was like the sensation of dragging fingernails along the baize of a billiard table, or the sort of small chalkboard a child might use for its letters. The little hairs at the back of her neck stood to attention, and she took up station by the window, hand on the sideboard that stood beside it, to steady herself. For once, she was glad of her corset to keep her back straight and true.

The door swung open, and Simon ushered in Eustace.

“Mr. Lloyd, miss.”

I know…unfortunately, I know.

“Thank you, Simon, that will be all.”

“No, you…bring some brandy, will you? And look sharp.”

Simon’s eyebrows shot up at Eustace’s order, but Beatrice nodded.

“What can I do for you, Eustace? Other than supply you with strong spirits at eleven o’clock in the morning?” she enquired far more tartly than she’d intended. She could have slapped herself for letting him irk her so soon.

Eustace gave her a slow, smug look that made the back of her neck prickle. He seemed to know something that she didn’t and he was a man who enjoyed having the upper hand. His slippery but vaguely menacing expression spoiled what otherwise were his considerable good looks.

While he kept her waiting—for no more than a few seconds but feeling like an age—she studied him, her own eyes narrow.

In the strictest of terms, brown-haired Eustace was handsomer than Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, and he was also somewhat younger. But his pretty looks were soft somehow, less burnished, lacking the character and gravitas that a few lines and laughter wrinkles imbued. He was also putting weight on, she saw, and his fashionable suit was snug in a way that wasn’t quite as becoming to him as he obviously thought it was.

Which was fact that gave Beatrice some satisfaction, and allowed her to smile at him pleasantly.

“Eustace?” she prompted, as he continued to stare at her.

“Well, my dear Bea, I’ve come to suggest that you reconsider your reply to my recent offer.” Flinging himself down in an armchair, he stuck out his legs and crossed them at the ankle. “I think you and I could do pretty well together, despite the obvious disadvantages. If you were to live quietly and not be seen out too much in society, I don’t see that your tarnished reputation should be a difficulty.”

Beatrice’s jaw dropped. She didn’t know where to begin, or how to count the ways she was insulted and annoyed by him. Breathing steadily to remain calm, she sat down in a chair facing Eustace’s smilingly confident form. Marshalling her thoughts, she opened her mouth to answer him, but just then there was a knock and Simon entered with the brandy.

“Will there be anything further, miss?” he asked politely, on having set the decanter and glass at Eustace’s elbow. His eyes narrowed a little in her guest’s direction, as if indicating he was ready to eject him.

“No, that will be all, thank you, Simon.” When the thoughtful young man was gone, she turned to her erstwhile sweetheart, still unsure what she was about to say.

“Well, what do you think, Bea. You’ll not get another proposal now, will you?”

Beatrice leaped up and paced.

“Eustace,” she said at last, rounding on him, “I’m sure, or at least I hope, that you really don’t realize quite how you’ve insulted me with your offer. Always supposing I actually wanted to get married, I’m afraid that you’re probably the last man on earth that I would choose.” She paused, quelling her intense desire to growl, and ignoring the angry thud of her heart. “I’d hoped that we could be amicably parted, and agree not to refer to what is past, but your sheer effrontery forces me to impart a few home truths.”

She spun on her heel, snatched up a glass from the tray, and splashed a little brandy in it. She was already a fallen woman in his eyes, so what difference did it make being a toper too.

“If you recall,” she went on, brandy hot on her tongue, “you were the one who damaged my reputation in the first place. Admittedly I was foolish to pose for those photographs, but I thought we were sweethearts, and that I could trust you, and that I was helping you study classical composition. Little did I realize that before long my image would be for sale all up and down Holywell Street…and that you’d have thrown me over as your sweetheart for the very scandal
you’d
inflicted on me.”