Authors: Jane Feather
She sprinkled lavender-scented bath salts into the hot water. The geyser labored and wheezed and complained but the hot water came out nevertheless. The soft glow of the gas lamp threw shadows across the vast space that was a converted bedroom. In winter the wind found its way under the door, through every chink in the window frames, and seemed to search out cracks in the plaster ceiling to chill every inch of a bather's skin exposed above the water, but on a warm summer night the bathroom with its huge wide-edged claw-footed tub was inviting.
She stepped into the gently steaming water and with a sigh of pleasure lay back, resting her neck on the edge of the bath. The full moon was a great golden round filling the open window that faced the bath. She could hear the soft murmur of voices from the terrace below as the late-retiring guests continued to chat, and the sweet strains of a piano drifted upwards. Chastity was playing; she recognized her touch with the Mozart sonata. When would Max decide to retire, she wondered, closing her eyes.
She reviewed the contents of her wardrobe, considering what to wear when she climbed the stairs to the South Turret. There was a robe of Chinese silk that had belonged to her mother. It was a wonderful emerald green that did very nice things to her eyes. A fiery orange dragon twisted and twined down the back, and it had lovely wide mandarin sleeves. But then there was the filmy muslin negligée over the white silk shift. Did she want demure or sexy; bold or artlessly seductive?
There was a discreet knock at the door and she turned her head lazily against the rim of the bath. Prue or Chas would have an answer. “Come in.”
The door opened and Max Ensor stepped into the soft glow of the bathroom.
Constance was too surprised to move. She simply stared at him.
He closed the door and turned the heavy key that the sisters always ignored. The bathroom was their private domain and no one but themselves would enter it except a maid in the morning to clean it.
“Your sister told me I would find you here.” He leaned his back against the door and surveyed her through hooded eyes.
That would be Prudence,
Constance thought. It would never have occurred to her that Max would act on that information in such a breathtakingly brazen fashion. It hadn't occurred to Constance either. But once again he had whipped the initiative out of her hands.
She didn't move as she considered what to do, aware that every moment she kept silent would make dismissing him that much harder. Pride warred with desire. She felt her nipples peaking below the level of the water as his gaze roamed over her. Her body beneath the lavender-scented water was clearly visible. Still she said nothing.
Max pushed himself away from the door and slowly took off his coat. He hung it over the top rung of the towel rail and unfastened his diamond cuff links. He placed them on the top of the wooden chest, where they glinted in the glow of the gas lamp on the wall above.
Deliberately he rolled up his sleeves. Constance watched him, mesmerized by the slow neat movements of his long fingers. His forearms were dusted with curly dark hair. He came over to the bath and sat on the edge, a half smile playing over his mouth as he looked down at her. He dipped a forefinger in the water then reached forward and touched her forehead where her hair grew back in a widow's peak. He drew the finger down over the bridge of her nose, over her lips, beneath her chin to the rapidly beating pulse in her throat.
Ah well, Constance thought, closing her eyes. So much for pride. She waited, barely breathing. The finger continued its progress down between her breasts, dipped into her navel, slipped over her belly, to come to rest at the line of curly water-dark hair at the apex of her thighs.
His hand slid beneath the water to cup the soft mound of her sex without pressure or demand, and he leaned forward, bracing himself with his free hand on the edge of the bath, to kiss her. A light, brushing kiss this time, his tongue sliding over her lips, not demanding entrance, dipping into the corners of her mouth. Then he straightened, kissed the tip of her nose, and withdrew his hand from between her thighs, but she could still feel the warmth of his palm, the light touch of his fingers.
He reached for the large round sponge on the edge of the bath and soaped it. He didn't take his eyes off her and the golden silence enwrapped them. He drew the soapy sponge over her neck, then held one breast clear of the water and soaped it, watching the nipple stand up from the white bubbles, hard and pink against the dark brown circle of the areola. Her breast was firm and round in his hand, neither large nor small. He paid the same attention to its fellow, then dipped the sponge in the water, rinsed it, and reapplied the soap.
“Shall I do your back?” The sound of his voice, soft though it was, was startling in the suspended silence of the bathroom.
Constance sat up and leaned forward. Max moved behind her. She had an elegant back, long, narrow, curving gently at her waist and then flaring at the hip. Tendrils of damp hair escaping from the knot wisped on the back of her neck. He soaped her pointed shoulder blades and down her backbone to the base of her spine, where the cleft of her buttocks began. His breath caught in his throat and the deliberate composure that had accompanied him into the bathroom abruptly left him. He dropped the sponge into the water and stood up.
“Don't be long,” he said, taking a towel from the rail and dropping it onto the stool by the bath where she could reach it easily. He picked up his coat and cuff links and left the bathroom, closing the door softly behind him.
Constance exhaled slowly. Every inch of her body was sensitized from the tips of her toes to her prickling scalp. She traced the path of his finger down her body and between her legs. The slight brush of her fingertip against her sex sent a rush of sensation that almost engulfed her. She stood up in a shower of drops and reached for the towel, stepping carefully onto the thick, fluffy bath mat. She looked at herself in the mirror on the wooden chest and saw that her cheeks were flushed, loose tendrils of hair clinging to her damp forehead. Her eyes glowed with expectation.
“God in heaven!” she muttered, leaning over to pull the plug from the bath. She was way out of her depth here. She had had the advantage of surprise for the briefest of time at the very beginning of this embryonic relationship, but now she was the one with the ground cut from beneath her feet. It didn't seem to matter what she wore up the stairs to the South Turret. Any message she might have intended to give had already been read and answered.
She wrapped herself in a fresh towel and went into her bedroom next door. She smoothed a body oil scented with sandalwood into her skin, took the pins from her hair, and brushed it again until it fell in a gleaming russet cascade down her back. It occurred to her that she was preparing herself like some seraglio inhabitant for a night with the pasha. The thought brought her a flash of much-needed amusement and perspective.
She chose the Chinese robe anyway. It had little mother-of-pearl buttons all the way down the front, but she stopped fastening them when they reached her knees. It would take far too long to undo them all. She turned the gas down low and left her room.
The stairs to the South Turret were in shadow, the only illumination moonlight pouring through a window at the top, sending a narrow silver path down the middle of the stairs. Constance didn't knock on the door but lifted the latch and pushed it open.
The round chamber was flooded with moonlight. The gas lamps had not been lit. Max lay in a dressing gown on the bed, propped against the carved headboard, his hands linked behind his head.
“Welcome,” he said, swinging off the bed. He came towards her, hands outstretched. She put her hands in his and he drew her against him. “You smell delicious.”
“Rather like a love slave in a harem, I was thinking.”
He laughed against her mouth. “You do realize that laughter is the antithesis of an aphrodisiac.”
She drew her head back and looked into his eyes. “Is it?”
For answer, he unfastened the top six buttons of the robe. With remarkable dexterity, Constance thought. He slid his hands beneath to cup her shoulders, then brought his hands to her breasts, holding them as he had done in the bath. He flicked the nipples with his fingertips until once again they were hard and erect.
“I don't know how slowly I can do this,” he murmured, lifting her breasts free of the robe that was now slipping off her shoulders. He bent his head to her breasts and she shrugged her shoulders slightly so that the partially unbuttoned robe fell down her arms to slide from her body in a silky rush.
She stood naked in the warm light of the summer's full moon. And now it became imperative that Max too should show himself. She unfastened the girdle of his robe and without finesse pushed it off his shoulders. Then they stood face-to-face, her breasts touching his chest, the slight roundness of her stomach curving into the hollow of his. Her arms were around his waist, her hands on his backside. His penis flickered against her belly. She stepped closer and stood on his bare feet with her own. Now they were so close their thighs were pressed together, their faces barely an inch apart.
“We'll go slowly another time,” Constance said, flattening her palms on his backside and pressing him hard against her loins.
He could feel the heat of her body like a forest fire. The scent of her arousal mingled with the scent of sandalwood. He put his hands to her waist and lifted her off his feet. She was no featherweight and he dismissed quickly any romantic notions of carrying her to the bed. He set her down and it was she who led him to the high poster bed.
He fell down onto the bed and pulled her on top of him, having a vague notion that this might prolong matters a little. But he was mistaken. Constance swung astride him, and the minute the heated core of her body touched his belly, she bit her lip hard. She rose up on her knees, took his penis between her hands, and guided him in.
For a moment they lay still, conjoined, neither daring to breathe as they learned the feel of each other. He was so big inside her, he seemed to fill her. He moved once, just the slightest lift of his hips, and the rush of the orgasm that had been waiting to explode for hours ripped through Constance, and as she felt the deep pulsing throb of his flesh within her it happened again. Another wave of intense orgasmic delight, smaller this time but just as blissful, brought a cry of pleasure to her lips and she fell forward, burying her face in his chest as his hand weakly stroked her hair.
After a long and insensible time Max lifted her off him. She rolled to her side as they disengaged and lay inert, watching as he slid the protective shield from his now flaccid flesh.
“I didn't think of that,” she said almost apologetically. She had been aware of the sheath when she'd held him but in the heat of the moment it had barely registered.
He shrugged. “It only takes one of us.”
“I suppose it does.” The image of Amelia Westcott swam across her internal vision. Henry Franklin hadn't thought of precautions, and if Amelia had had an experience that in any way resembled Constance's in the last minutes, she couldn't blame Amelia for not having the foresight. It was a humbling reflection.
“Thank you for thinking of it. I'm embarrassed I didn't.” She touched his cheek as he lay down beside her, then closed her eyes. “I think I have to sleep a little.”
He slipped an arm beneath her, rolling her into his embrace.
They awoke together an hour later. The moon had dropped below the level of the window and the round chamber was now in darkness. The utter stillness of a sleeping house lay below them. Constance rolled onto her back, shivering in the cold night air.
She nudged Max, who was stirring beside her. “It's cold, Max. Can you move for a minute so that I can pull the covers over us?”
He muttered sleepily, then sat up and swung his legs over the bed, struggling into a sitting position. He stood up and stretched, then lit the gas lamp on the bedside table. “Someone thoughtfully provided a decanter of cognac. Would you like a glass?”
“Not a whole one. I'll have a sip of yours.” She pulled back the sheet and coverlet and plumped up the squashed pillows, setting them against the headboard. “I'm not at all sleepy now.”
He filled a glass from the decanter on the dresser and came back to the bed, climbing under the covers beside her. He handed her the glass and she took a sip. He turned his head to look at her as she lay back on the propped pillows. “Somehow I get the impression that wasn't your first time.”
Constance shot him a puzzled and wary look. “Does that shock you?”
“I'll admit to surprise,” he said, taking a sip of brandy. “This afternoon in the field, I was surprised. But not since.”
“And not shocked?” she pressed.
“It's unusual.”
“For unmarried women not to be virgins,” she stated flatly.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Would you deny it?”
“I wouldn't know,” Constance said. “It's not a question I go around asking the unmarried women of my acquaintance.”
He laughed and held the brandy goblet to her lips. “Come, don't get on your high horse, Constance. I'm not criticizing, how could I possibly after such a night? I was merely stating a fact.”
“Are you sure you're not going to say that you couldn't respect a woman of easy virtue?” Constance took the glass from him and drank.
“I've told you before not to put words into my mouth.” He swung off the bed and filled another glass, since it seemed he'd lost possession of the first one. “You were engaged, were you not?”
Constance stiffened. “What's that got to do with it?”
He shrugged and turned back to the bed. “Obvious, I would have thought. Did you anticipate the wedding night?”
Constance closed her eyes for minute, thinking about Douglas. “No,” she said flatly. “Douglas had a finely honed sense of right and wrong, honor and dishonor.” She smiled slightly. “It could be quite exasperating sometimes.”
“Did you love him?” He watched her closely, seeing how her mouth had softened.