PortraitofPassion (11 page)

“Simon,” she whispered, an answer and a question. She had
only a moment to wonder at his strange words before she felt him pushing
forward, stretching her, filling her.

“Oh,” she moaned in mingled pleasure and pain. She clamped
her hands upon his back and fought the urge to retreat from his penetration.
Instead, she made herself lie still beneath him. She listened to the sound of
his labored breathing as he lowered his head to rest it beside her own.

She felt his cock withdraw and sucked in her breath, not
sure if she felt disappointed or relieved. Before she could decide he pushed
forward again with one strong lunge, seating himself inside her to the hilt.

“Ow!” Beatrice tensed beneath him, her nails raking across
his back. She felt stretched to the point of tearing. Hysterically, she
wondered if a woman could be torn in two by a man. She thought it might be
possible.

Simon lifted his head to stare down at her in obvious shock.
The pain was easing, leaving behind an echo of her earlier pleasure. She closed
her eyes and experimentally raised her hips the tiniest bit and gloried in the
tingling that seemed to spread from her center outward, to run down her legs
and up to her breasts.

“Beatrice?” Simon whispered and her eyes flew open once
more.

She watched as he swallowed and opened his mouth, but no words
came forth. He shook his head as if to clear his vision.

“Simon,” she whispered back, instinctively lifting her legs
to wrap them around his hips.

He threw back his head with a groan and Bea felt him
tremble.
Is this it?
Surely there was more.

“Please,” she whispered.

“Oh Beatrice,” he answered before lowering his head to kiss
her. The kiss was unlike any kiss they had ever shared. His lips were soft, his
tongue gently easing in to caress hers. She thought she might weep from the
sweetness of that kiss.

“Forgive me,” Simon begged against her lips.

“Yes,” she replied before kissing him as he had kissed her.
She would forgive him anything after a kiss such as that.

“Do you want me to stop?” he leaned back just enough so that
she could see the stillness in his eyes.

“Please no,” she cried. When he still did not move, she
grasped his buttocks and drew him down forcefully to her. “Make me yours,
Simon,” she implored.

“Thank God,” he said and began to move.

And it was glorious, more glorious than anything she could
have imagined. Simon slowly rocked his hips forward and back, allowing her time
to become accustomed to the feel of his cock buried within her. All the while
he rained kisses upon her, upon her lips, her cheeks and her neck. He murmured
soft words, “yes
”
and “oh love” and “Beatrice”. He whispered her name as
if he was amazed to find her in his arms.

Beatrice was soon lost in a world of sensation, where
nothing and no one existed save the two of them entwined together on the sofa.

When Beatrice began to move restlessly beneath him, he
levered himself up on his arms and withdrew from her only to thrust back into
her heat again and again. She found his rhythm once more and met him thrust for
thrust, her legs wrapped tightly about him, her hands gripping his back, his
hard buttocks. She raced toward the climax she could feel just beyond her
grasp. As if sensing her need, he once more buried himself deeply within her,
so deep and so hard she could not tell where his hardness gave way and her
softness began. He rocked, steady and slow, his weight pressing his pelvis
heavy upon her clitoris as he filled her, stretched her. She was mindless with
pleasure. Beatrice threw her head back into the cushion, her neck arched as the
first wave crested over her. She heard a husky, triumphant cry as if from a
distance as her climax gripped her hard. Her entire body shook with the force
of the waves washing over her.

Dimly she was aware of Simon lunging back only to plunge
into her again and again, harder, faster. She held on to his sweating, heaving
back as he thrust one last time and held himself still.

“Christ,” he ground out through clenched teeth as his body
shook with the force of his release. He threw his head back and cried out her
name and she felt his seed pouring into her.

He collapsed upon her, his weight pushing her into the sofa,
his arms coming around and beneath her to hold her close to him. She embraced
him fiercely with her arms and her legs. She could feel the beat of his heart
pounding in his chest. She never wanted to let him go.

They stayed that way for long minutes, wrapped in each
other’s arms.

Finally, Simon raised himself onto his elbows to look down
at her.

“Are you all right, Beatrice?” he asked while he studied her
face.

Bea felt her lips lifting into a smile and relaxed her tight
hold on him to lift one hand and lay it against the side of his face, his
beloved, beautiful face. She was amazed by what they had shared.

“I am perfect,” she replied.

“Yes, you are,” he agreed. She watched as concern gave way
to happiness and his eyes and his lips smiled down at her. The first smile she
had seen on his face all night.

“Oh Simon,” she whispered, “it was wonderful. More wonderful
than I could have dreamed.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” he asked her.

“Would you have made love to me if I had?” she countered.

“Of course not,” he replied, without pausing to think about
it.

“There you have your answer,” she pointed out. She had
suspected that he would have refused her had she told him the truth.

“Beatrice, I took your virginity. I took your virginity on a
sofa in Lady Florence’s library while a ball was going on just down the hall.”

“Well, it’s true, I had hoped for different surroundings,”
she said with a laugh.

Simon did not join her in her merriment. His eyes were serious
once more as he said, “I took you roughly. I took you in anger.”

Beatrice debated asking the cause of his anger. She was not
sure she wanted to know what had brought it about. She thought about him
dropping her hand to wipe his own upon his pant leg.

“Why?” Her natural curiosity would not allow her to avoid
the question, nor the answer.

“Because I am a fool,” he replied after a pause.

Beatrice reluctantly allowed her arms and legs to fall from
him and watched as he stood, pulling his pants up from around his knees.

Beatrice felt suddenly shy, embarrassed, and reached down to
lower her dress over her nakedness. She sat up and wrestled her bodice to hold
it against her breasts.

“Oh Bea, what a picture you make,” Simon said with a
chuckle. “Come here and let me lace you back up and tidy your hair. You cannot
go back out there looking as you do.”

“I cannot go back out there at all!” she cried as she rose
to her feet. Surely he could not expect her to rejoin the ball after what had
just happened between them. Everyone would know. Her dress was a wrinkled mess,
her hair a wild tangle about her face. She lifted one hand to her mouth, which
felt swollen from his kisses.

“You must,” he insisted before reaching down to lift her
corset from the floor. “Turn around.” He silently laced her back into the
corset and set her dress to rights. “Sit down,” he ordered.

“Quit ordering me about!” Bea cried in frustration. Where
was her gentle lover? Where was the violently angry, violently aroused man who
had followed her into this room? She would gladly take him over the cold,
unemotional one glaring down at her.

“Beatrice, don’t be ridiculous. Let me straighten your hair
and put on your slippers. We have been away for too long already. We must go
and rejoin the ball.” He spoke to her slowly, patiently, as a man would speak
to a child who did not understand why she must go off to bed.

“Go then,” she said, batting his hands away from her hair.
“Go rejoin your friends. Go dance with all the ladies. Go drink and play cards
with all the gentlemen. I am staying right here. Send Bertie in and he will
secret me out of this room and out of this house.”

Simon watched silently as she plopped down upon the sofa and
put on her slippers. He watched as she removed the remaining pins from her hair
to allow it to fall around her shoulders and down to her waist. He continued to
watch her as she combed the worst of the tangles out with her fingers and wound
it up into a bun atop her head and pushed the pins back in.

“Where are my gloves?” she demanded. She knew she was
behaving badly, but she was beyond angry. He had moved too quickly from ardent
lover to staid gentleman. She couldn’t keep up with him. She wanted to take a
moment to enjoy the pleasure they had shared. She wanted him to hold her in his
arms a little while longer. She wanted to pretend, oh just a little while
longer, that he cared for her. That she had been more than a willing body. She
was coming to suspect that he had followed her in here to punish her. For what?

“I took you roughly. I took you in anger
.” It was
true. He had been angry, he had been rough. But only at the beginning, she
reminded herself. After he had realized she had been a virgin, he had been
gentle and careful. Careful of her body, careful of her pleasure, careful of
her heart.

She looked up as he held out her gloves to her.

“Thank you.” She pulled on the long black gloves and rose to
her feet.

“Perhaps you are right,” Simon said. “Perhaps I should find
Bertie and send him to you.”

“Oh just forget I said it. I am perfectly capable of going
out there. Who cares what they think? It isn’t anything they haven’t thought of
me before, is it?”

“Beatrice,” he said but before he could say whatever he had
been about to say, Bea interrupted him.

“The only difference is that now it is true.” Then she
turned and marched to the door, unlocking it and sweeping through with
righteous indignation. Let him hide in the library, she thought as she
continued down the hall. Let him worry about any scandal their absence may
cause. She didn’t care. She was a fallen woman. Finally.

Simon knocked upon Moorehead’s door the next day just before
two o’clock. He knew what he must do, what he was honor-bound to do. He had
been unable to sleep last night as he wrestled with his conscience until
finally accepting his fate.

Billings opened the door and bid him to enter.

“Is Miss Morgan at home?” he asked as the butler took his
hat and walking stick. Only in Moorehead’s house would it seem proper for an
unmarried man to call upon an unmarried lady.

“They are expecting you, I believe,” Billings replied before
leading him down the hall. Expecting him?

Billings opened the door to the parlor and motioned him in.

Simon stopped on the threshold in surprise.

Beatrice sat on the sofa, the picture of innocence in a
morning gown of lavender muslin trimmed in cream lace. On her head was perched
a small straw bonnet adorned with purple silk flowers. She looked up at his
entrance with a wide smile upon her lush lips. Her brown eyes looked nearly
gold in the afternoon light streaming through the open windows behind her. Her
hair was pulled back from her face but left hanging loose to curl down her back
to her waist.

Beside her sat Lady Olivia Palmerton, lovely in pale-pink
silk with a bonnet that matched Beatrice’s but for pink silk flowers.

“There you are,” exclaimed Henry as he rose from a seat
before the ladies, teacup held in his hand. “We were beginning to think we
would not see you after all.”

Moorehead rose from his seat beside Henry and came to shake
his hand.

“I wasn’t certain my note reached you before you set about
your day.” Moorehead waved him into the room. “Have a seat. We are just
discussing Beatrice’s adventure at Lady Florence’s ball last evening.”

Simon’s head whipped around to face Beatrice once more. She
looked up at him with an impish smile, laughter in her eyes.

Surely she hadn’t told them! Simon could not believe she
would have done so. No, no, of course she wouldn’t.

“Would you care for a cup of tea, my lord?” she asked, all
innocence.

My lord? Simon looked at her closely. She appeared at ease,
not the slightest bit ruffled to find him sitting down across from her. What
was he missing? What adventure had they been discussing? What note had Moorehead
been referring to? He felt dizzy as the questions swirled in his mind.

“Are you all right?” asked Olivia with a tilt of her head.
No, he was not all right. He had come expecting to find a sullen Beatrice and
an enraged Moorehead, only to find them both smiling at him, along with his
cousins, discussing Beatrice’s adventure.

“I am quite all right,” he replied, reaching to accept the
cup Beatrice held out to him. Cream and no sugar, he realized when he took his
first sip. How did she know?

“Did I get it right?” Beatrice asked. He looked up into her
smiling face and was caught, trapped by her twinkling eyes and winking dimple.
An image of her flashed through his mind, smiling up at him from Lady
Florence’s sofa.

“Specifically what adventure are we discussing?” he asked in
a strangled voice.

“Why, Lady Florence cornering Beatrice, of course,” said
Olivia. “Moorehead was in the card room and missed the entire thing. Where were
you?”

“I don’t know that I would say she cornered me,” Beatrice
replied quickly before Simon could begin to form an answer to Olivia’s
question. He had been drinking brandy in the library, reliving the passion he
had found in Beatrice’s arms.

“Oh she cornered you,” Henry contradicted. “She learned it
from Mother, I’m sure.”

“Oh yes,” agreed Olivia. “Those two are as thick as
thieves.”

“And what did Lady Florence say to you, Bea?” Moorehead
asked and Simon detected anger in Moorehead’s voice.

“Lady Florence was perfectly pleasant to me,” Beatrice
assured him.

Olivia gave an unladylike snort before saying, “You know how
the lady can be, Moorehead. The words themselves may seem pleasant but the tone
and the intention are anything but.”

“Precisely what did she say?” Moorehead asked again.

“Lady Florence approached us after a waltz,” Olivia replied.
“Who were you dancing with, Beatrice? I can’t remember.”

“Lord Sydney,” answered Beatrice.

“What the hell difference does that make?” Moorehead
demanded.

“Right,” Henry agreed. “Who Beatrice was dancing with does
not signify at all. The point is she walked up to us and commenced her
interrogation.”

“Now, Henry,” Beatrice interrupted, “she did no such thing.
She simply asked if I was the Miss Morgan she had been hearing about. It seems
a friend of hers had mentioned my name to her.”

In connection with Henry’s, no doubt, thought Simon. It was
time to put a stop to that gossip once and for all. He had every intention of
doing so today.

“I believe what she said was that she had heard your name
bandied about town,” added Olivia helpfully. Simon turned to glare at her.
There was no point in angering Moorehead further.

“Then she proceeded to quiz Beatrice regarding her reasons
for being in town. It was quite ridiculous. ‘When did you arrive in London,
Miss Morgan?’” Henry imitated the countess’s voice.

“Wait,” Olivia exclaimed. “Henry you must do Beatrice, as
well.”

“Do me?” Beatrice asked with some alarm.

“I say, you shan’t take offense, shall you, Beatrice?”

“Don’t be silly, Henry,” Beatrice replied, clearly
understanding that Henry intended to mimic her responses to Lady Florence’s
questions. “I’m quite curious to hear how I sound.”

“Give me a moment,” Henry said. “I’ve never done Beatrice
before. I must get it just right.”

Henry took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and
when he opened them he was smiling. It was a gracious, serene smile that tilted
the corners of his lips up just a touch. His blue eyes sparkled with amusement.
No, thought Simon, not amusement. Knowledge. Secrets. “
She has this way of
smiling as if she knows a secret.”

When he spoke, it was Beatrice’s voice he used. It was the
same soft, slightly husky little laugh that preceded her words when she found a
conversation absurd. How did he do it? It was as if Henry had become Beatrice.
Simon suddenly felt dizzy, nervous and anxious. As had happened the first night
he had seen Beatrice and Henry together and again in the gazebo, he felt a
terrible sense of confusion. He shook off the feeling as best he could in order
to concentrate upon Beatrice’s words. Beatrice’s words coming out of Henry’s
mouth.

“‘Why, Lady Florence, how kind you are to take an interest
in me, to concern yourself with my visit. I have only just arrived little more
than a week hence.’”

“‘What has brought you to London during the Season, Miss
Morgan?’” Henry switched back to the countess’s voice.

“‘I have come to town to watch the spectacle of it all, of
course. I had heard that London during the Season was a sight not to be
missed.’” Henry opened his eyes wide in the exact way Simon had seen Beatrice
do when she feigned innocence.

“‘Surely you haven’t come to snare a husband, Miss Morgan?’”
Henry demanded in Lady Florence’s shrill voice.

“‘I had thought to judge for myself whether it is a
practical way to…how did you say it? Oh yes, to snare a husband.’” Beatrice’s
lilting laughter accompanied the words. It was eerie how like Beatrice Henry
sounded.

“‘How long do you intend to remain in London, Miss Morgan?’”

“‘Well, my goodness, my lady, I suppose that depends upon
whether or not I find a husband worth snaring.’” Henry laughed softly, his blue
eyes flashing just as Beatrice’s brown eyes often did.

There was a moment of absolute silence as they all looked at
Henry. Simon watched as he seemed to shed Beatrice’s mannerisms as a snake
sheds its skin. He was himself once again, lifting his cup from the table to
take a quick sip before leaning back in his chair.

“Do I really sound like that?” Beatrice asked the room in
general.

“Oh yes, exactly like that,” replied Olivia.

“Just so,” said Moorehead.

Beatrice looked at Simon, clearly waiting for his reply, but
he found himself unable to utter a word.

“Oh but there was more!” Olivia cried. “Lady Florence told
Beatrice she looked like a lady she knew years ago, a lady who had apparently
come out the same year as she and Mother. Oh what was her name?” she asked
Beatrice.

“I don’t recall,” Beatrice replied.

“Oh yes, Mary Haverty,” Olivia said. “She asked if you were
any relation to the Lady Mary Haverty of Cambridgeshire.”

“And what did you reply?” Moorehead asked. Had Simon not
been watching Beatrice closely, he might have missed the way her eyes locked
upon the man’s face, her own face completely still, as if she were sending him
some unspoken message. But then she was smiling at him, a smile that did not quite
reach her eyes.

“Of course I told Lady Florence I have never met any
Havertys so I doubt very much I am any relation to them.”

“Oh and then, and this was simply too funny. But you know
how the countess can be. She will take offense where none was intended.” Olivia
waved a hand in the air, apparently to emphasize her point. When did she begin
to speak with her hands? Just like Beatrice. “Beatrice told the lady that she
was mistaken if she thought she saw any relation to this Lady Haverty, because
she is the
spitting image of her father
.”

“You should have seen the look upon Lady Florence’s face,”
Henry exclaimed. “She actually took a step back as if Beatrice would indeed
spit upon her.”

Henry and Olivia broke into laughter at that. Simon was a
bit perplexed by their amusement at their mother’s greatest friend’s expense.
He knew Lady Florence could be a difficult lady, but he could not recall ever
having heard them openly ridicule a longtime family friend, or any member of
the
ton
. Another way in which Beatrice was influencing them?

“Drink up, Simon,” Henry ordered, rising to his feet. “We
must be on our way if we are to get there and back before sundown.”

“Where?” he asked.

“Didn’t you read the note? We’re off to Tattersall’s. Olivia
has a mind to purchase a new horse.”

“One with a bit of spunk,” Moorehead added.

“One she can race in the park,” Bea said.

“Indeed?” Simon asked, lifting a brow toward a smiling
Olivia.

“Indeed,” Olivia replied.

Simon spent the day in a muddled frame of mind. He’d had a
plan, a plan that had gone quite out the window. Instead they crammed
themselves into Moorehead’s open barouche and rode to Tattersall’s to look at a
horse. There was much chatter and laughter, though Simon could not have said
what they discussed or what they all found funny. He felt as if his head were
stuffed with cotton. He could only follow along where his cousins and Beatrice
led him. He did have the presence of mind to notice that Moorehead was
uncommonly quiet throughout the afternoon. Once or twice he turned to see that
gentleman silently watching him.

Had Beatrice told him? He knew they were close, but surely
she would not share the details of her deflowering with the man.

It wasn’t until they had pulled into the yard before
Moorehead’s stables as the sun was beginning to set that he found the right
moment to ask Beatrice for a word alone.

“Beatrice,” Simon quietly said to her, watching as Henry
escorted Olivia toward the house with Moorehead leading the way. “May I have a
word with you?”

“Certainly,” Beatrice replied with a smile. “Shall we go in
and see Henry and Olivia on their way first?”

As Simon jumped down from the barouche he saw a tall,
dark-haired man come striding out of the stables.

“Hullo, Gerald,” Beatrice greeted the groomsman as Simon
assisted her from the barouche.

Simon found his feet rooted to the ground as he recognized
the groomsman as the gentleman he had seen with Beatrice in the park. The same
man she had spent an hour and more with in the stables. He wondered now what
they had been doing for all that time, as clearly his initial suspicions had
been proven false.

“Simon?” prompted Beatrice.

“Right, yes.” Simon followed her into the house, where Henry
and Olivia were saying their goodbyes to Moorehead.

As Billings closed the front door behind the pair, Moorehead
mumbled something about business in his study and ambled off down the hall.

“Will you walk with me in the garden?” Beatrice asked him.
“I am stiff after so long in the carriage.”

Silently Simon offered her his arm and together they walked
out onto the small terrace at the back of the house and down onto the lawn.
He’d thought about what to say to her, how to apologize for his actions the
night before. He thought he was prepared, but now he found himself unsure how
to begin. He looked down at her only to find her smiling up at him.

“It looks like we may finally see some rain,” Simon said and
immediately felt ridiculous. Talking about the weather!

“I should love to fall asleep tonight listening to the
rain,” Beatrice replied.

Simon’s head was immediately filled with an image of making
love to her while a storm raged outside. He would like to see her illuminated
by lightning. He would like to make love to her by daylight, to watch her face
as passion overcame her.

Beatrice turned toward a bench set in the shade of an old
oak tree.

“Will you give me a moment?” she asked before she sat and
reached for her shoe. Simon thought perhaps she had a pebble caught. Then he
realized she was slipping her shoes off. He smiled, because really he wasn’t at
all surprised. Of course she would want to feel the grass between her toes.

“Perhaps you should turn your back,” she said, smiling up at
him as she rolled her stockings down and tucked them into her shoes. “I
wouldn’t want to offend your sensibilities by showing you my ankles.”