Justine Elyot (14 page)

A head of messy light-brown hair became visible above the old stone wall, as its owner mounted the steps. The face that came next into view was familiar – Giles, the footman. He had his arm around somebody, helping them up, it seemed.

Oh!

Edie had to press her fingers into her chin, covering her mouth.

It was Sir Thomas. Every bit as dishevelled as Giles, limping across the grass in his arms.

They were lovers. She knew, of course, that such love existed, but she had thought it something that happened only in London, in a certain type of sophisticated milieu, amongst men who had formed crushes on each other at Oxbridge.

The thought of a strapping, down-to-earth young working man like Giles being homosexual was almost impossibly exotic to Edie’s mind. Surely it never happened that way?

Was
that what it was? Almost despite itself, Edie’s mind tried to find alternative explanations for what she had heard and seen. Perhaps Giles was trying to help Sir Thomas heal his wounded leg by engaging him in some form of physical training and she had heard the exertions produced thereof.

Or … or …

They were kissing. Kissing right there on the shore of the lake, and then Sir Thomas laid his head on Giles’s shoulder and they talked, their voices drifting up to Edie even if the words were indistinct.

She took advantage of their distraction and stole away, all the time thinking over their situation. Surely they would never be able to tell anyone of their love. How sad and wasteful it seemed, that their lives would be lived out in secret.

But then, that seemed to be the Deverell way. Secrets, so many of them, in every corner. And tonight, Sir Charles would add to his sum.

A flash lit up Edie’s little room, drawing her to the window. The rain was already pouring down in sheets from misshapen purplish clouds. The air crackled, but the humidity did not seem to have broken yet. If only it would.

Lady Deverell had told her, during her undressing, that Charles had gone to meet friends in town and would not be back until morning. If it was true – and he certainly hadn’t been at dinner – then what was he thinking of? Had he forgotten her?

He must have thought better of it, she decided, but she felt something a little more than relief. Something, in fact, rather like disappointment.

All the same, she had gone about her preparations for bed as if she expected a lover. She had put on scent and, unusually practical, had laid a dark-coloured towel on the undersheet, having heard that there may be some loss of blood on such occasions.

Such occasions.

As if the breaching of her hymen were a form of coming-out dance.

But perhaps it would not happen and she would save herself for some misty future man who would love her and want to marry her and all that. But then she would have to bear children, and she wasn’t at all sure that was part of the Edie Crossland life plan.

Had Charles got the things? The French things? She couldn’t remember exactly what they were called.

She watched the rain course down the glass and thought of the pensive look on Lady Deverell’s face when she had bade her goodnight.

‘Run along to your little bed, little maid,’ she’d said. ‘His Lordship will be here soon enough. He had that look on his face at dinner. The look I dread.’

‘Your Ladyship?’ Edie had enquired mildly.

‘The bedroom look,’ she said with a sigh. ‘Goodnight now.’

The bedroom look. It was the look Charles Deverell wore almost permanently; at least, every time he looked at her. The thought of it made her stomach flutter.

Thunder rumbled and she caught sight of a dark figure, running across the lawns towards the house. Somebody caught in the rain, a servant returning late from an afternoon off, perhaps.

Or … no! Was it, though?

She squinted but she couldn’t make out any characteristics through the streaming windowpane. She leapt back from the window, just in case, and flung herself into bed. It was too hot to pull the covers over so she lay on the towel, wondering if she ought to put it back in the airing cupboard after all.

How was she meant to sleep in this heat, with this uncertainty, with the presence of Charles so predominant in her mind? She couldn’t sleep if he came and she couldn’t sleep if he did not. It was unfair of him to have this effect on her. It was hateful of him. He was hateful.

Her doorknob turned and she sat bolt upright, panic setting in. She took hold of the candlestick at her bedside and ran behind the slowly opening door, weapon in hand, heart competing with the thunder outside.

The intruder crossed swiftly to the bed and put a hand on the mattress to establish that she was not there.

A man. Charles.

She exhaled, and the sound of her breath caused him to turn around and see her.

‘What on earth are you doing with that candlestick, you little fool?’

‘I wasn’t sure it was you.’

‘Of course it was me – who else would it be? Oh, Kempe, I suppose. You’d better not have given him anything you shouldn’t.’

‘You’re soaking wet.’

‘I’ve swum oceans to be in your arms.’

‘Oh, shut up! Don’t tease.’

‘Just …’ He came closer and took the candlestick from her. ‘Come here.’

His hair was plastered to his scalp and his face shone with damp. His clothes looked soaked through, the jacket heavy and waterlogged, the shirt transparent.

He threw the candlestick on the bed, shrugged off the saturated jacket and hung it on a bedpost.

‘I’ve got a towel,’ she whispered, snatching it up and offering it to him.

‘First things first,’ he said, taking it off her and dropping it to the floor.

He hooked an arm with inescapable swiftness around her waist and pulled her into him. Immediately her nightdress was wet through, but it was a warm wetness and it seeped into her bloodstream somehow, speeded by the press of his lips against hers.

She did not mind the raindrops now. They added another layer of sensuality to the kiss, an intangible veil, melting into steam. She wound her fingers in his dripping hair and knew beyond doubt that she would give herself to him tonight.

Once she was thoroughly wet through and weak with the blissfulness of him against her, he sat her down on the bed, picked up the towel and dried his hair vigorously.

‘Took the motor into Maidenhead,’ he explained. ‘Had to put the wicked stepmother off the scent. How was she? Doesn’t suspect, does she?’

‘Of course she does. That’s why I’ve got this job.’

‘Well, yes, I know that. You’ll need to practise your poker face, my dear, when you’re around her. Damn it, I can’t get dry. Left the car halfway up the drive, didn’t want to wake anyone.’

‘It’s an awful lot of trouble to go to.’ Edie was both flattered and afraid.

He put the towel down and sat beside her, taking her hand. His shirt was still drenched and clinging to him.

‘You’re worth it,’ he said, impressive in his solemnity.

‘You don’t know that,’ she said with a nervous little laugh.

‘I will know it, before you’re much older. And I think I’ll prove myself right.’

He cupped her face and kissed her again, slowly and tenderly. This was already an addiction, Edie realised. She had not meant to enjoy it this much. If she was not careful she would find herself in deep trouble.

‘You know what I’m going to do to you?’ he said softly, smoothing down her loosened hair.

‘I don’t, precisely. I mean, I know the mechanics …’

He hushed her. ‘No, my love, that’s not what I mean. You know what I’m going to make you?’

‘Make me?’ she stammered, dismayed beyond measure at how insistently her body was crying out for his touch.

‘Mine,’ he said. ‘I’ll make you mine.’

She shook her head, trying to inch away from him, but he was not having it and kept a tight hold of her.

‘No, I won’t be yours. I’ll still be myself, Edie … Prior. I won’t belong to you, or anybody.’

He leant his forehead against hers, their noses touching.

‘You’re a stubborn little witch, but I’ll make you love me.’

‘You won’t.’

‘Oh, you don’t know it yet, you poor little innocent, but what we’re about to do changes you. A woman can’t give herself to a man without falling in love with him. It’s inevitable.’

‘I don’t believe it.’

‘You’ll see. They all do. You will.’

‘I won’t. I’m not some silly goose of a girl. You can’t think that … doing this thing … to me will change me. I am determined that it shall not.’

‘You won’t be told,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘But I won’t rest until I have your heart … right … here.’

He held out a hand and curled the fingers into a fist.

‘No rest for the wicked, then,’ said Edie, finding that she relished this sparring.

‘That’s me, is it? The wicked?’

‘I’m afraid so.’

‘Hm, well, you may have a point. Heavens, I must get these wet things off before I succumb to pneumonia. It’s not a sick bed I want to be lying in tonight.’

He stood and began removing his waistcoat, then his wet shirt.

Edie, fascinated by her first sighting of an unclothed male torso, watched from the bed. He was lean and spare inside his clothes, but with some muscular strength. There was a little dark hair on his chest, which the rain had reached, flattening it to sleekness.

He took off his shoes and his drenched socks and finally his trousers until, in only his underwear, he lay down on the bed and drew the covers up to his waist.

Lying propped on his side, he said, ‘Well, come on, then. Get that nightie off and come here. No, stand up and face me. I want to see you.’

Edie felt suddenly as if she were on one side of an insurmountable peak. He really expected her to undress while he watched her?

‘I’d prefer to just get into the bed,’ she said.

‘Oh, would you? Little Miss Coy, are you? It’s a bit late for that, my love. Don’t be prim and proper. Show yourself to me. I promise I won’t laugh.’

She screwed her eyes tight shut and then he
did
laugh.

‘You said you wouldn’t!’

‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry, it’s your face! Come on. Open your eyes.’

Keeping her gaze fixed on the floor, she pulled the lawn cotton nightdress over her head and dropped it on the chair nearby.

She was naked, all of her on display to him. She tried to cross her arms in a position that would hide the worst of it.

‘No,’ he said reprovingly. ‘Don’t cover up. Move your arms and look at me.’

She had to force herself, her hands moving slowly to her sides, but she managed it somehow. When she raised her eyes to his, she was struck forcibly with a bolt of terrifying excitement. God, the way he looked at her, as if he would eat her …

He crooked a finger.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he said. ‘Now come to bed.’

She was grateful for the opportunity to hide herself under the covers, but he stopped her, hanging on to them and refusing to let her have any.

‘No,’ he said. ‘I want to look at you. Lie still and let me …’

Leaning over her, he placed one hand at her collarbone and began to trace its line, from one side of her neck to the other. His feathery touch brought her out in goose pimples and made her scalp tingle.

‘Don’t be ashamed of your body,’ he said. ‘Don’t be afraid of it. You girls are always so afraid of your bodies … as if they’re your enemies …’

‘They are,’ whispered Edie. Hers was a renegade, a rebel that had broken away from all good sense and discretion and seemed hell-bent on joining forces with Charles.

His fingers skated and swirled around her shoulders and upper arms and then, without warning, they were at her breasts, circling the perimeter of one until a bold thumb pressed on her nipple, making her gasp.

‘Mm,’ he said. ‘Is that nice? Do you like the way I touch you?’

She did not want to reply. Surely it was obvious – why make her say it?

He stopped, his fingers hovering less than an inch above her.

Oh, don’t stop, please …

‘Yes,’ she admitted, snapping it out.

‘Just as well,’ he said, resuming his ministrations. ‘Because my fingers are magnetically drawn to you and I doubt I’ll be able to prise them off.’

‘We must be opposite poles,’ whispered Edie, feeling herself falling into the unknown, head over heels.

‘Perhaps,’ he agreed, both hands now at work on her, stroking and squeezing, while his head dipped low, fanning hot breath on her nipples. ‘Which of us is south and which north? Oh, I think I know. You are cold and heartless north. I am passionate south.’

The tip of his tongue flicked at her right nipple and she squirmed violently.

‘Oh,’ she exclaimed, trying to think and finding it dreadfully hard under these circumstances. ‘The south pole is not warm. It is bitter.’

‘Must we discuss world climate now?’

His mouth closed fully over her nipple and he sucked at it. A silken thread of pure pleasure wound down to the spot between her legs that seemed to be so warm now. Almost too warm, and she was aware of that furtive trickle that sometimes accompanied her most secret thoughts.

His head below her chin, attached to her breast, was a curious sight. She watched him, trying to keep track of where his hands were roaming. One played with her other breast while the other moved lower, over her stomach. His knuckles grazed the curve and swell of her waist and hips, tracing her outline.

She wondered what she should do, if anything. Was it acceptable simply to lie here and bask in the glory of these new stimulants – or should she reciprocate in some way? What was the done thing?

‘Should I … would you like … shall I touch you?’

He raised his head and she was confronted with the rude sight of her nipple, raised and red and shining. She swiftly averted her eyes and looked at Charles, who wore an expression of comic pensiveness.

‘Dear Edie, you bear no responsibility for tonight’s pleasures. I know what I am about, and so all you need do is place your trust in me. Follow my lead and don’t worry about anything but enjoying yourself. Will you do that for me?’

‘I’ll try.’