She had rebuked him for not writing. For not returning to Derleth in a year. For not inquiring after his new brother. Could it really be possible that Father missed him? Wanted him back? He finished his punch, took another glass, felt the room gently swaying beneath his feet; he had never been drunk before. But if Father wanted him back he had only to send for him. There could be no question as to which of them was in the right. Even Father must recognise that now. It had been drummed into him since birth, be a Haggard, do what you think is right, turn your back on no man. Except your own father. But how could he do otherwise than turn his back on Father?
The point was that he still loved and admired the old tyrant. He
admired everything the name Haggard stood for, everything Father represented. He knew little enough about the rights and wrong of slavery. His memory of Barbados was a happy one, of smiling faces and eternal sunshine. Whatever reason Father had had for sending the black people away from Derleth, it had not been their fault. He had sent Emma at the same time. Therefore the cause had been Alison Brand. There could be none other. That had been wrong, and it would continue to be wrong as long as Alison was mistress of Derleth Hall. It would be wrong until he could find Emma again, and in some way make it up to her, all the misery and humiliation she had suffered. But he had no idea how to go about it; she had vanished as completely as if she were dead. Perhaps she was dead. Then would Father never be forgiven. Certainly by Alice and Charlie.
But what of him? How magnificent it would be to be able to return to Derleth, to know the comfort of his own home, to be loved by Father. How magnificent to share the house with so lovely a stepmother.
He started guiltily, raised his head, and stared at her. And then realised that it was not her, but her sister.
'Roger Haggard,' Emily said. 'How absolutely splendid to see you. You'll dance with me?'
'Why, ma'am . . .'
'Emily,' she said firmly. 'You'll be pretending I'm your aunt, next. Dance with me, Roger.' She held his hand.
He put down the cup, held her hand in tum. They fitted into the parade, lost each other and found each other again, turned away from each other and came back at the arch, ducked together and brushed their shoulders against each other, reached the end of the floor laughing with each other. Roger gave a hasty glance at where Alison had been sitting, and discovered that she was gone.
To bed,' Emily said. 'My sister takes her duty as a wife and a mother seriously, and never remains after midnight. But you do not have to hurry off, Roger. Do you?'
‘I
must report to my depot at six tomorrow morning.'
'Well, then, you have yet seven hours. You do not wish to waste any one of them in sleeping. Who knows how long it will be until you are again at Almack's, dancing? Why, there goes the music again.'
Once again she was in his arms, and this time, reinforced as he was by several glasses of punch, he could appreciate her more. She was a remarkably pretty girl. Not as beautiful as her sister, to be sure, but with the same finely-chiselled features, a slightly darker yellow in her hair, somewhat more placid nostrils and eyes. But better than any of those things, she was unmarried, and only a year older than himself.
'You'll call me Emily,' she insisted, as they obtained some more punch.
'You are my aunt.'
'What absurdity. I am your aunt by marriage, which is no aunt at all. How can I be your aunt, when we are almost the same age?'
So she had been considering the matter too. 'You
are
my aunt,' he said owlishly, once again feeling the room tremble. 'But I would have no other. You are a very beautiful aunt.'
'And you are a rogue, Roger Haggard.
I
can tell it. I think you should take me home.'
'Home?' He blinked at her, desperately trying to focus.
'Home,' she said firmly. 'By now, you see, Papa will be hopelessly drunk. I must therefore either wait here until the small hours, or make my own way. I would not like to have to do either. But there is no reason at all why you should not see me home, as we are so closely related.'
He found himself in the open air, and felt vastly better. It really-had been very close in there. But really, he supposed he should play the man, and not permit Emily Brand to do all the organising. She had already secured a carriage, and was waiting for him to hand her up. He sat beside her, took off his shako; he could not remember having regained it from the porters, but he must have done so.
'Miss Brand,' he said.
'Emily.'
'Emily. I fear I am cutting a very poor figure. The fact of the matter is, I am unused to strong drink.'
‘
You have not had any strong drink,' she pointed out. 'Only champagne cup, which is perfectly harmless. And I do not think you are cutting a poor figure at all. I think you are a perfectly splendid figure. I could not wish for a better nephew.'
'You are too kind.'
'And I do wish you would stop being formal. We are friends, are we not?'
'Oh, indeed, we are, ma'am.' 'Emily,' she reminded him. 'Emily.'
'And therefore I wish you to treat me as a friend. Here we are, two friends, alone in a carriage, travelling at midnight through the streets of London, and you sit there prating about cutting a poor figure.'
'I am sorry, Emily.'
'So you should be,' she said severely, and then smiled, allowing her teeth to flash in the gloom. 'Do you know what any other friend would be doing now?'
'I have no idea. Telling you a story.'
'God give me patience,' she muttered. 'He would be kissing me.'
'Kissing you?'
‘I
suppose you have never kissed a girl.' 'Well,' he began.
it's done like this.' She held his arms, kissed him on the mouth. She took him by surprise, for in fact he
had
never kissed a girl before; when, with the other junior officers in the regiment, he had been laid on top of a whore, only a few weeks ago, she had neither offered her mouth nor had he wished to kiss her. But here was a tongue licking across his own, gently sweetened with champagne, as was the breath which rushed against his. He discovered his eyes were shut, and opened them again to stare at her face, so close, to feel her hands sliding across his uniform jacket, to feel his own arms going round her. But what to do with his hands? He touched bare flesh and gave a little gasp until he realised that it must be her shoulder. But how wonderful it felt.
The cab was slowing, and turning into the gateway. Roger felt a sense of panic that this heavenly moment was about to end. He clung to her the more tightly, sent his own tongue questing after hers, felt, to his amazement, her hands slipping lower on his body, wondered with desperate anxiety whether he dared do the same. She turned away from him as the cab finally pulled to a halt, and his hands slid across the bodice of her gown. He sat back and gazed at her as the door was opened and the interior filled with light from the link torch held by one of the Brand footmen.
'You'll not leave me now,' she whispered, and stepped down, drawing her cape about her shoulders. Roger found himself at the foot of the front steps, paying the cabbie, the entire night revolving about him. Emily had already gone inside, but the footman was still holding the door for him. He ran up the stairs, into the front hall, found her already half way up the next flight of stairs.
'Your coat and hat, sir,' the footman said.
He tore them off, handed over his sword as well. He could not believe it was really happening. But was it not what he had always wanted to happen? His aunt. But only by marriage. A lovely girl only a year older than himself. Why, he supposed, how wonderful it would be if she would marry me. What a sensation that would cause.
Whatever would Father say? But it was impossible, and Father must never know.
Emily was waiting for him at the foot of the next flight of stairs,
‘I
should not be here,' he mumbled inanely. 'My regiment . . .'
'You said you were free until six of the morning,' she said. That is still more than five hours. But I do not think we should waste a second of them.' She held out her hand, and he took it. She led him up the stairs.
'But . . . that fellow. The servants.'
'Are my servants. I act as housekeeper for my father. They will not say a word. I promise you.' 'Well, then, your father . . .'
'Will be brought home drunk, and will scarce awake before noon. By then you will be on your ship.' 'Alison . . .'
She gave a little tinkle of laughter. 'Alison is asleep. Do not worry about Alison.'
'But . . .' He checked in horror as they reached the next gallery, and were met by a maid.
'Good evening, mum. Shall I attend you?'
'Not tonight, Rose, thank you.' Emily opened the bedroom door. 'You shall attend me.'
He stood in the doorway, shifting from foot to foot as she disappeared into the gloom.
‘I
. . .'
She turned to face him. 'Don't you like me, Roger?' 'I do. I
...
I adore you. But . . .'
'You adore me.' She came closer, put her arms round his neck, kissed him on the mouth. Her body seemed to fasten itself on his, sliding up and down his uniform. 'And I adore you. We shall adore each other.' She stepped away from him. 'And if you say one more word about our being related I shall scratch your eyes out.'
'I really . . .' He sighed,
‘I
suppose I just can't believe it is happening. That you should want to . . . well . . .'
'I do want to. I have wanted to since I saw you at my sister's wedding. Perhaps I also never believed we would meet again like this. But we have. And I don't want to waste a moment of it.' She held his hand, pressed it on her breast, and he realised that while she had been talking she had unfastened her gown and allowed the bodice to fall round her waist. He touched satin-like flesh, had his palm scraped by a hardened nipple, felt he was going to burst with desire . . . but she was away again, half lost in the darkness.
There is a pot,' she said. 'Do you undress, and get into bed, my darling Roger. I will be back in a moment.'
'But . . .' He reached after her in the gloom, but she was too far away, opening an inner door which apparently led to a dressing room.
'Go to bed,' she said over her shoulder.
The door closed, and he was alone. As if he could ever be alone while her scent was whirling about his head, filling every recess of his lungs. He tore at his clothes, sent them flying about the floor, sat down to pull at his boots. His fellow officers had boasted of evenings like this, unbelievable conquests, of girls who actually wanted to surrender . . . but they had usually been married women. No unmarried girl was going to risk her reputation or her virginity by taking a man to her bed. Then was Emily Brand a whore? She could not be. She was Alison's sister.
He parted the curtains, got into the bed. Here her scent was even more pronounced, and the sheets were warm, as if someone had recently been lying on them. More likely the warming pan had only just been removed, by the maid they had met on the stairs. He lay on his back, gazed at the dimly visible white tester above his head. Emily Brand. Emily Brand, Emily Brand, Emily Brand. My God, he thought, I am in love, and was suddenly nervous. His erection was not yet full. He had not considered that before. But suppose he did not come hard. Would she not scoff at him? Emily Brand. An unmarried girl, but if she was so free with him, had she not been equally free with others?
He leaned on his elbow, staring at the drapes, watched them move. He could only just see her in the darkness, but he could smell her. It was not a scent he would ever forget.
'Emily,' he whispered, and reached for that white blur. She came closer, kissed him on the mouth; her hair flopped across his face. His hands slid over her shoulder blades, attempted to hold her breasts and were unable because she was pressed against him, slipped down her back to her buttocks, felt her spreading her legs to allow him between, while she gave a little moan and wriggled, and her fingers sought and found his penis. No doubts about hardness now. He rolled her on to her back, and her legs came back together, trapping one of his between. 'So soon?' she whispered.
'I . .
.'He
slid off her, and her breath rushed against him as she smiled at his ignorance. She held his hand, guided it down to her pubic bush, moved it up and down for him, left him to his own devices while she caught his head and brought it close, to kiss him again. He had never believed such a freedom would be granted by any woman. Certainly not by a lady. But she actually wanted him to touch her as he chose, gave another of those little wriggles and broke out in a fine sweat against his chest.