Wilde, Jennifer (22 page)

Reaching
around in back, I unfastened the dress and slipped the bodice down. He stood a
few feet away, watching, eyes growing darker, one corner of his mouth turning
up. My hands trembled. The topaz silk crackled as I pushed the gown over my
legs and stepped out of it. The curtains had been drawn over the window. The
room was dim, a shadowy blue-gray. I folded the dress carefully and put it away
in the drawer of the dressing table, and then I sat down on the edge of the bed
to remove my shoes and stockings.

Derek
took off his stock and tossed it on the chair, pulled off his jacket and
waistcoat and dropped them on top of the stock. The full sleeves of his white
silk shirt billowed. He watched me slip off my shoes and peel off the
stockings, his eyes half concealed by heavily drooping lids. I let the
stockings flutter to the floor like silken shadows and stood up, my bosom
heaving, breasts straining against the thin cloth that imprisoned them. I could
feel his anger, seething still, not the least diminished by the sheer lust
building steadily. Tears spilled down my cheeks because it shouldn't be this
way, so deliberate, so unfeeling, his anger driving him to do what passion
should have prompted.

"Come
here," he said. His voice was deep, husky.

"Derek—"

"I
said come here!"

I
shook my head, backing away from him until my legs touched the side of the bed.
Hawke moved over to me in three brisk strides and caught hold of my shoulders,
his fingers gripping tightly, hurting me, and when I refused to look up at him
he seized my curls with his left hand and tugged at them, forcing my head to
tilt back, forcing me to look up at that handsome face now stamped strongly
with desire. Then he kissed me, a hard unyielding kiss, as he would kiss a
whore. I was rigid in his arms, unable to respond, and after a while he drew
back, looking into my eyes with fierce intensity.

"You
wanted this," he said, his voice a throaty growl.

"Not—like—this—"

"You
want romance? You want compliments and gallantry? You want me to say I love
you? What kind of fool do you take me for? You're no fine lady. You're a wench
from the prison ship, bought and paid for at a public auction!"

"I'm
a human being! I—I have feelings—"

"You've
wanted me to do this from the first—teasing me, tormenting me, trying to make
me forget my—trying to—" He cut himself short, a savage frown creasing his
brow. "Look at you! Painted up like a whore, smelling like a whore, hoping
you could trap me!"

He
kissed me again, ardently, his lips firm, moist, warm, forcing my own to open
so that his tongue could plunge and probe. One arm curled around my shoulders,
the other wrapped tightly around my waist, he held me against him, his thighs
molded against mine, my breasts crushed against his chest. I trembled all over,
trying not to feel, willing myself to keep those buds of sensation tightly
furled, but it was futile; flesh and blood responded while my mind cried out
that it was wrong, that it must not happen this way, in anger, without
tenderness. He moved his mouth away from mine and buried his lips in the hollow
of my throat.

"No,"
I whispered. "Derek, please, you must—"

"You've
been waiting for this and, by God, so have I!"

He
caught hold of the straps of my petticoat and jerked them down, causing my
breasts to pop out of their silken prison. They were swollen, the nipples
pulsating pink buds that grew larger, tighter, as his hands closed over them,
squeezing so fiercely that I gasped. He shoved me back onto the bed. The
springs creaked violently. Caught up in the frenzy of his lust, he made a deep,
growling noise and then he whipped up the skirts of my petticoat, jerked down
the top of his breeches and fell upon me.

I
was an object, a receptacle for his lust. He hadn't even bothered to undress. I
fought. I tried to throw him off. I fought Derek Hawke, and then I fought
myself, fought the sensations exploding inside me with unbelievable ecstasy. Though
he thrust inside me, brutally, as if inflicting a harsh punishment, I flung my
arms around him and held him even closer and clutched at the white silk
covering his back. Then, there was nothing but need and he cried my name and
kissed me once more, holding me tightly, shuddering, and I knew that the
conquest, however made, was not his but mine.

I
had drawn back the curtains and opened the windows earlier, and the room was
deliciously cool with night air and filled with moonlight that streamed in in
wavering rays, intensifying the blue-black shadows that coated the walls. I
could see the murky-silver blue of the mirror, and Derek's white silk shirt
rested on top of the chair like a weary ghost, his tall black boots standing on
the floor and drooping limply. He was naked beside me, fast asleep, his chest
rising and falling. I had removed my petticoat, another ghost spilling out of
the half-opened drawer.

The
moonlight seemed thinner, silver gradually fading to a pale milky white, and it
seemed the shadows stirred, black velvet melting into a softer, lighter shade,
more blue now than black. Had we been in the country, the first cock would
begin to crow shortly, and in the east faint golden stains would begin to touch
the ashy gray horizon as the moon retired and stars twinkled off one by one. I
had awakened a few minutes earlier, filled with a marvelous languor that glowed
inside and warmed my whole body. Naked, I welcomed the cool breeze that chilled
my skin. All the bedcovers had been kicked to the foot of the bed. Afraid I
might wake him up, I made no effort to pull them back up over us. It would be
time to get up soon enough.

Derek
moaned in his sleep, an irritated frown creasing his brow. He turned on his
side, facing me, throwing his left leg over both mine and wrapping his arm
around my waist. His skin was satin smooth, warm, and he smelled of sweat. I
stroked his arm, moving my palm up his hard muscles, sliding it over the curve
of his shoulder. He moaned again and pulled me closer, shifting position,
resting his head heavily on my shoulder and breast, his half-open mouth moist
against my skin. I lifted my right hand and stroked his hair, thick, soft, like
coarse silk. He stirred again, neither asleep nor awake, and I could feel him
growing taut, pulsating with warmth.

Sleepily,
he opened his eyes. I touched his mouth with my fingertips. He caught hold of
my shoulders and pulled me over to him. Still half-asleep, he kissed me, a
long, lingering kiss wonderfully tender, so unlike that ardent plunder a few
hours ago. I smoothed my palms over the curve of his shoulders and down his
back, resting them on his flat buttocks as they lifted and he reached down to
catch hold of mine.

He
had had me before. Brutally, with no thought for my comfort or pleasure, he had
taken me and given nothing. He made love to me now. He might never say the
words, might, with morning, be as cool and remote as ever he had been, but
words were not necessary. His body, his being expressed everything with
painstaking tenderness. He gave of himself and sensations swirled and skin
seemed to shred slowly like silken webs tearing and his mouth covered mine as
the cry rose up in my throat, trapping the cry inside me as love rushed up to
meet the outpouring of our passion. I shuddered, as did he, and he fell limp on
top of me, asleep soon, eventually rolling over to sprawl beside me in heavy,
blissful slumber.

I
had washed and dressed in my old clothes by the time the first yellow rays of
morning sunlight floated through the window. Derek was still sprawled out on
the bed, fast asleep. I left the room quietly and went downstairs to find the
lobby deserted. After a brief search, I finally found the kitchen in back of
the inn. The cook had just gotten out of bed and shuffled about sleepily,
mumbling to herself as she lighted the stove and put a pot of coffee on to
brew. Fat and grumpy, her black skin glistening, she grumbled irritably when I
told her I needed breakfast for two, looked incredulous and overcome when I
said I would help her prepare it.

"Land
sakes, chile, ain't you an angel. Jest let me have my coffee an' we'll whip up
th' best breakfast you ever seen."

She
was as good as her word. The breakfast that I carried up on an enormous wooden
tray twenty minutes later looked and smelled incredibly delicious. I smiled to
myself, filled with a shimmering happiness that seemed to sing inside me.
Balancing the tray carefully, I opened the door to find the room ablaze with
sunlight. The bed was empty. Derek was gone, as were his clothes he had
discarded during the night. I set the tray down on the dressing table just as
the connecting door opened. He had already washed and shaved and was dressed in
his old clothes.

"Efficient
as ever, I see," he remarked.

"I
thought we'd want to get an early start back."

"Right.
I'm starved. I imagine you are, too. We never got around to having dinner last
night."

That
was the only reference he made to what had happened. It was something both of
us accepted, and we were not going to discuss it. His manner was rather brusque
and matter-of-fact. The coldness was gone, but there would be no warmth, no
intimacy. Things would be as before. He was not going to allow any sort of
familiarity, was not going to admit to himself that our relationship had
altered in any significant way. I knew that I would have to settle for that
until he was ready to face the truth about his feeling for me.

After
breakfast, after both of us had packed, I returned
to the kitchen
and arranged to have a lunch made up for us. An hour later we were traveling
back to Shadow Oaks, Charles Town well behind us. Derek was immersed in
thought, but the silence between us was a comfortable one. I felt I could have
spoken to him without the least hesitation. I was content to sit close beside
him, lost in a daydream. The horses clopped along at a steady, unhurried pace,
the wagon creaking and joggling.

"Was
your business successful?" I inquired, much later.

"Satisfactory,"
he replied.

"It
had nothing to do with Shadow Oaks, did it?"

"No,
Marietta, it didn't. I went to see a lawyer."

"I
didn't mean to pry. It's just that I know so little about you."

"The
lawyer in Charles Town corresponds with another lawyer, in London. The man in
Charles Town keeps me informed on the progress the man in London is making."

"A
London lawyer? You're involved in a court battle?"

"Very
much so. By rights I should be Lord Derek Hawke. I should possess an
Elizabethan manor house, several thousand acres in Nottinghamshire and three
dozen tenant farms. I was cheated out of it by an uncle who, with his sons, is
currently living in the house, drawing all the revenues."

"I
see."

"Hawkehouse
belonged to my father, my grandfather, my great-grandfather, and so on back to
the days of Good Queen Bess. Lord Robert Hawke was one of her favorite
courtiers. She gave him the house and lands as a token of her esteem. By the
law of primogeniture, it should belong to me, the only son of Lord Stephen
Hawke."

"I
know all about the law of primogeniture," I said, remembering my cousin,
remembering the way he had turned me out of Stanton Hall. "Do you want to
tell me your story, Derek?"

"I
see no reason why you shouldn't know. My father was an avid traveler in his
youth and early middle age. He was something of a rakehell, a devil with the
ladies. There were a great many ladies and quite a number of illegitimate
children but, until he met my mother, no wife. He met her in a small town in
Germany. It was famous for its mineral wells. He was into his forties then and
already suffering from gout. She was there with a Prussian officer. She was
English, blond, bewitching and quite notorious in certain circles. My father
was enchanted with her and, shrewdly, she refused to sleep with him unless he
married her. He wasn't at all taken with the idea, but he finally gave
in—"

Derek
paused, tightening his hold on the reins. When he continued, I detected a
certain harsh undercurrent in his voice.

"They
were married there in Germany, with only an eccentric and rheumatic old English
duchess as witness. My mother returned to Hawkehouse with him, his legal wife,
but relatives, neighbors, and friends of my father weren't prepared to accept
her as such. They treated her as if she were a flashy mistress he had
installed. She was not accepted. She couldn't have cared less. She had all the
luxuries she had always dreamed of, a husband who doted on her. That was
enough, at least for a while. I was born a year or so later. For some
inexplicable reason, I was never christened, although my birth was duly
recorded in the registry office."

"You
grew up in Hawkehouse?" I inquired.

"I
lived there until I was seven years old. Then one night my mother came into my
room and told me to dress while she packed a few things for me. We stole out of
the house in the middle of the night. A carriage was waiting for us at the end
of the lane. A very handsome young man was inside. He and my mother laughed as
the carriage drove away. We went to France and then to Italy, and the young man
deserted her and she found another man in Rome, a bit older, a bit more
dissolute. Two years passed, and I had several more 'stepfathers' before we
finally returned to England. My mother took me to a bleak brown school and left
me there. I never saw her again. She drowned in a yacht that overturned during
a storm in the Mediterranean a few months later."