An Experienced Mistress (9 page)

Genevieve feared again that he suspected her pretence as the knowledgeable courtesan. And she had already made plans.

And now that she stood this close to him, she wanted desperately to kiss him again.

Genevieve walked across the studio to close the door and lock it.

“As you wish, Mr. Creighton,” she said. “I was thinking you could use a little more practice in the art of kissing.”

His look darkened; half-irritated, half-amused. “Oh, yes?”

“Yes.” She sat down on the worn velvet sofa where the model posed earlier. “So we may kiss and touch wherever we like...but no clothing is to be removed.” She gave him a warning look as she said the last words.

His face took on a knowing expression. Genevieve could imagine him thinking: “We’ll play by your rules a little longer. But we both know that I can have you at any time.”

“Very well,” was all he said.

He sat down next to her, took her by the shoulders and kissed her mouth.

She kissed back. His lips were commanding, insistent, coaxing her mouth to part under his.

So good. She felt relief as she sank deep into the sensation. He put a strong arm around her, supporting her and drawing her nearer. Pulled against his chest, Genevieve found she longed to feel her skin against his. Then she remembered that was exactly what she’d forbidden.

As if in compensation, his fingers, warm and slightly rough, stroked at the delicate skin of her décolletage. Her back arched. He’d know how much she liked that, she realized.

He broke off their melting kiss to lower his head and trail kisses from throat to collarbone and yet lower. Genevieve took in a sharp breath as his open mouth grazed the top of her breast, just above the bodice.

Another ravenous kiss on the side of her neck brought a soft cry from her lips. The sensation sparked her desire, and every part of her being flooded with heat.

Now he kissed her mouth again, but with no vestige of gentlemanly restraint. He forced her mouth farther open, almost crushing her against him, assailing her with his tongue. Deeper, more insistent, until she thought she should protest his roughness.

She didn’t. Returning his passion, she dared to explore his mouth, his indefinable taste. She felt his body harden in response.

Her arms reached around to hold him as though he were the champion of her heart. Given their arrangement, they were meant to have a simple, straightforward physical connection, but she felt a deeper link, as though their souls reached out for one another.

Genevieve had never kissed a man quite like this.

As they kissed, his hands stroked down the sides of her body. She’d talked so much about savoring, and he now seemed to take the time to appreciate the way her body curved in at the waist, then flared out to generous hips. His hands reached to curve around her derriere.

She stiffened for a moment. Surely this went too far? But no...he was still within the bounds she herself set. She relaxed again.

Her
Thenefelther
fingers threaded through his hair and touched his face, lightly, and she thought she felt him shiver. He nipped at, then sucked on, her bottom lip before he kissed her full on the mouth again.

Will’s hands cupped and stroked her bottom in caresses deep enough to be felt through her skirts. An involuntary purr rose up in the back of her throat.

Genevieve leaned closer to him now as they kissed. She was barely aware of the way her breasts pressed against his chest, of the fact that she’d curled up her legs beneath her, so that she knelt on the settee cushion. When he pulled his head back a little, she leaned farther in, rising up as she did so.

Will’s arm went around her waist in a firm grip, so that she couldn’t sit back again. His good hand moved from her derriere, and he reached lower, molding the heavy damask fabric against the mound of her womanhood.

She stiffened again.

“Am I breaking any rules?” he asked softly. His whole palm pressed against her, and he moved it in slow, languorous circles. His fingers reached far enough to tease her at her most sensitive place. A soft cry came from her lips.

Genevieve hadn’t expected this lesson to go so far, but it was in his nature to take the lead. And it didn’t seem in her power to resist him. A sweet, unbearable ache held her in thrall. As his hand continued to pleasure her, he kissed her again and again.

Would she act quite so imperious after this? She doubted it. She knew Will felt her humid heat through the skirts. She whimpered in sweet urgency as his hand moved away from her. But when it delved under the back of her skirts, she froze.

“What is it?” he murmured in mock-innocence, even as his hand skated its way to the juncture of her thighs. “I’m not removing any clothing.”

She opened her mouth to protest. But as his hand encompassed the whole of her sex through the thin barrier of her drawers, all she could do was gasp. He began to kiss her again, as if to prevent any further objections.

If indeed she’d make any. Her body appeared more than willing, the delicate linen damp with her juices. He stroked his fingers across moist fabric and they slipped through the slit in the drawers.

Genevieve moaned softly as he petted her slick fur. His left arm held her in a blatantly sexual position. She kneeled next to where he sat, her back arched, skirts bunched up to the waist, hips lifted high to receive his attentions. All the while, he continued kissing her.

He eased two fingers into her hot sheath, and began a slow rhythm, an imitation of other pleasures. He added a third finger and she felt herself clench around him, almost drawing him farther in. She couldn’t even feel ashamed as she realized his hand was moist in her wetness.

“Will,” she said, against his mouth, the first time she used his first name.

“What, darling?” He ceased his movements. “Am I not kissing properly?”

“Will, please,” she begged. He meant to drive her mad. “I—don’t stop...”

He smiled, a darker pleasure filling his gaze at the sound of her imploring. He picked up the rhythm again.

His thumb centered on her very core, persuading her desire toward its fulfillment. Her body tensed and trembled in need. His lips brushed the tops of her breasts again.

“Oh...” She moaned, feeling suspended in mid-air as though she might fall. She clung tighter to him. In the next moment, she cried out. A wild release crashed through her and her entire body shuddered.

“Oh, my God,” she half-sobbed. More tremors racked her body as she convulsed around his hand.

Genevieve didn’t know what happened to her. Despite her earlier strictures, she’d fallen under his power now. She could deny him nothing. She drew back to stare at him, dazed and a little frightened.

He grinned. “How did I do?” Triumph glinted in his eyes. He seemed to exult in the response he’d milked from her, her body’s extravagant reaction that she didn’t understand.

She realized he wasn’t taking things any farther. He mastered himself—she didn’t. He enjoyed the fact that he had this power over her.

She struggled to get control of herself.

“Quite well,” she said. Contrary to her best efforts, her voice quavered.

“Quite well indeed,” she added in a firmer tone. She pulled down her rumpled skirts and sat down on the seat again, smoothing her hands through her hair.

She looked away, but felt his heated stare on her. Without a doubt, she knew this was the last time that he’d participate without receiving his own satisfaction.

“Well, I have a very inspiring teacher.” When Genevieve dared to look at him again, he was smiling.

She quipped, “Perhaps it’s just that you are a particularly talented student.”

“More talented than that artist of yours, then, would you say?”

Shock went through her. How did he know about Adam?

And what a question to ask. Comparing Adam to Will was like comparing a thrown-off spark to a bonfire.

But he wasn’t asking about Adam, she realized in the next moment. He meant Cage, thinking that they’d been lovers. The very idea of that sickened her.

She shook her head in amazement. “I would have to say that you are.”

After they had said good-night, and she closed the door behind him, Genevieve stood still as stone until she heard the carriage clatter away.

Oh, my Lord. She pressed her hands to her hot cheeks, as if that might cool them. But her hands were hot, too. As she contemplated what just passed, shame rose in her like a tide.

What had she done?

And more to the point, what had he done to her?

The experience was wonderful. Or perhaps horrible.

She’d practically crawled into his lap, with about as much dignity as a cat in heat with its tail up. And what to make of that sweet burst inside her?

Good Lord, why had she screamed?

Perhaps she’d been wrong in thinking that he’d be back. Perhaps he thought her a madwoman now. Her cheeks burned with the shame of it. And her heart ached, too. She wanted to see him again.

She ran both hands through her hair. If only she knew someone to ask about such matters. She briefly considered interrogating Flory, but discarded the idea as too humiliating for both of them.

Then she remembered. That book.

Ida’s book, which Ruth passed on to Genevieve. “It’s perfectly scandalous,” Ruth said.

Well, it was worth a quick look.

****

Two hours later, Genevieve sat in her studio. Even though Flory hadn’t yet returned, Genevieve locked the door. She still pored over this wicked little book.

Apparently, the sort of fit she’d experienced wasn’t strange after all. That came as some relief, even as reading about such a shocking matter made her grow agitated.

Genevieve flipped back a page and read the passage again. Very well...but still she wasn’t sure if it was normal to scream.

The novel concerned a woman who behaved like a terrible Jezebel. Indeed, she never seemed to spend any time with her clothes on. But what startled Genevieve the most was the dizzying number of ways the lascivious female joined with her myriad partners.

Up until that day, Genevieve had been certain that there was one way a man had relations with a woman. She lay on her back on the bed; he clambered on top. A simple matter, really.

But no, this hussy was endlessly inventive. She would climb on top of
him
. Or she and her lover would carry on as though they were beasts of the field. Or...

Genevieve slammed the book shut, and also shut her eyes. Her bosom rose and fell rapidly. She couldn’t possibly read this.

For a few moments, she sat, and then opened the book again.

One passage in particular caught her interest. She read it twice just to make sure she understood.

One would never get pregnant from
that
. Genevieve knew that much. But it seemed like such a strange and unnatural thing to do.

And yet...

Chapter Seven

“There he is!” Mr. Tudbury boomed out, slapping Will on the shoulder. “So pleased that you could make it!”

“I am sorry to be late,” Will said.

He’d nearly forgotten Mr. Tudbury’s invitation. Lately, thoughts of his so-called “lessons” with Genevieve kept his mind preoccupied. He revisited every last detail of their tantalizing, frustrating encounters.

“You’re not so late,” Mr. Tudbury assured him. “Do come and say hello.”

In the drawing room, Mrs. Tudbury and her daughter Daisy seemed to have been interrupted from intense conversation. They froze as Will entered the room.

Their discomfort was so obvious that Will opened his mouth to make some excuse to step outside again, in order to let them finish their discussion.

“Look who’s here!” Mr. Tudbury thundered out.

Twin forced smiles appeared on both women’s faces.

“Good evening, Mrs. Tudbury, Miss Tudbury,” Will said. “It’s so good to see you both again.”

“And it is so very good to see you,” Mrs. Tudbury replied. “We are all so proud of you, Will. Aren’t we proud of him, Daisy?”

“Of course,” Daisy said through her poised false smile.

The Tudbury’s butler appeared at the door. “Well, Garrick, is dinner ready?” Mr. Tudbury asked him.

“Yes, sir.”

As they proceeded into the dining room, Will thought again of how eager Mr. Tudbury seemed to get Will and Daisy together—all very flattering.

And now that he stood closer to her, he realized she was quite pretty. At least as pretty as her older sister Violet, with the same blue eyes and flaxen hair. But he observed her beauty in a detached way. Strange that he felt no particular response to it.

“I hope you have been well, Miss Tudbury?” he asked her as they entered the dining room.

“I have been quite well,” she replied. “In fact…” She raised her voice a little, with a glance to her parents in front of her. “…these past couple of months, I have never been happier.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Will said. She clearly talked more to Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury than to him, but he didn’t know what to make of it.

The dining room table was laid out handsomely for dinner. Tall silver compotes stood guard at each end, one piled high with a pyramid of dried apricots, the other with a similar arrangement of almonds. The broad dish in the center overflowed with white hothouse chrysanthemums and ferns.

“What a lovely arrangement,” Will said as he sat down, although he didn’t care about flowers.

“Is it not?” Mrs. Tudbury beamed. “Daisy arranged them herself! She has always been quite artistic.”

Artistic. Will thought again of Genevieve’s pictures. How surprising to learn that she was a painter—and a talented, dedicated one. It seemed strange that someone with her gifts would become a mistress in the first place.

Maybe she just needed the money. That idea disturbed him. He found it more comfortable to think of her as a wanton woman. But he supposed she was that, too, with her avant-garde friends, and naked women running about in her house.

The servants came round with a first course of Palestine soup.

“I do enjoy flower-arranging, although it isn’t my chief interest,” Daisy said.

“Indeed? And what is your chief interest, Miss Tudbury?” Will asked.

“Well, for the past few months I have been quite occupied with the Dinner Society.”

“Now, Daisy,” Mr. Tudbury said, “William doesn’t want to hear about the Dinner Society.”

“What is the Dinner Society?” Will asked.

“The Destitute Children’s Dinner Society.” Daisy looked pleased for the first time that evening. “They feed the pupils at one of the charity schools.”

“Daisy has always been a kind creature,” Mrs. Tudbury put in. “I’m sure you remember that from when you were children.”

Will remembered little of Daisy from when they were children, except that she frequently had a runny nose. He doubted her memories of him were any more flattering.

“I see. And do you help feed them?”

“Good heavens, no!” Mr. Tudbury said. “We do not allow her to go there herself...” He paused to cough. “Wouldn’t do at all, for her to be mixing with the likes of them, don’t you know.”

“I helped organize a bazaar, where we sold some of our craft items to benefit the Society,” Daisy explained. “And I got to meet the vicar who leads them all in prayer before the meal. He is a very fine man. I’m sure all the children are inspired by his words.”

Mrs. Tudbury still gripped her napkin, and looked as though she might use it to gag her daughter.

Daisy seemed oblivious. Clearly she had true enthusiasm for the charity, because her eyes shone. “The vicar is very scholarly, but he never lords it over anyone. And he’s so understanding of others—”

“Ah, excellent!” Mr. Tudbury cried out as the servants came in with the main courses. “The roast fowl looks particularly splendid! Or perhaps, Will, you would prefer some beef?”

“I will take some of the beef, thank you.”

“Now, Daisy, let us have no more talk about your dreary paupers,” Mr. Tudbury ordered. “Other subjects will be better for the digestion.”

Throughout the rest of the meal, they discussed the usual topics, such as the health of various people they knew, and the abysmal hunting season everyone had experienced in the country. Daisy took no further part in the conversation, but ate her roast chicken, one tiny piece at a time, while staring absently at the chrysanthemums.

“I fear that perhaps we’ve been a little dull this evening,” Mrs. Tudbury said to Will after dessert.

“Not at all.” Will smiled. He’d just thought how pleasant it would be to meet up with his friends.

“That is very decent of you to say,” Mr. Tudbury said. “But I think we would enjoy some entertainment. Why don’t we all go to the drawing-room, and Daisy can sing a song for us?”

Daisy gave her mother a pleading look.

“I’m sure you wouldn’t mind at all, would you, darling?” Mrs. Tudbury said. “After all, you did not take all those lessons for naught.”

“Yes, Mama.” She sounded reluctant. Perhaps her parents wouldn’t attempt to persuade her to sing more than one song, and then he could make a polite exit.

In the drawing-room, Daisy took her seat behind the pianoforte and flipped through music. Will felt sorry for her. He couldn’t help but think of a show horse put through its paces.

In a moment, she began playing. “I don’t remember that one,” Mrs. Tudbury murmured.

In a thin soprano, Daisy sang. “Oh, God, the help of all Thy saints, our trust in time of ill...”

Will recognized the hymn. Mr. and Mrs. Tudbury exchanged alarmed glances. Clearly, this wouldn’t have been their first choice for a song.

Will found himself amused by their predicament. They could hardly demand that their daughter cease singing a religious song, as much as they might like to.

When Daisy finished, Will applauded loudly. Her parents clapped as well, but not as enthusiastically.

“That was lovely, darling,” Mrs. Tudbury said. She seemed to grind her teeth together. “Now why don’t you sing one of my favorites? How about ‘Love’s Sweet Solace.’”

“Oh, Mama. I’d rather not. In fact, I should like to step out into the garden for some fresh air.”

“Excellent idea!” Mr. Tudbury said. “Why don’t you take Will for a little walk down the garden path? Show him what flowers are blooming.”

“I don’t believe any flowers are blooming yet.”

“Of course there are, dear,” her mother said. “All sorts of lovely...daffodils and whatnot.”

“But, Mama,” Daisy persisted, “It’s so dark out he won’t be able to see anything anyway.”

Mrs. Tudbury looked at her daughter as though the girl were a hopeless idiot. “Nonsense!” she trilled. “There’s almost a full moon out! It will be ever so charming by the moonlight.”

“Go on now, you young people!” Mr. Tudbury urged them. “You needn’t mind us. We can entertain ourselves.”

Daisy stared down at the floor. She seemed a modest girl, and her father embarrassed her.

Will had no pressing desire to either speak to Daisy alone or to see the garden. “It’s a fine idea, but I’m afraid I can’t stay. I must be up early tomorrow.” He couldn’t think of a reason why and was glad nobody asked him.

“Oh, but it’s not so late yet,” Mr. Tudbury cajoled. “Perhaps we could play some cards?”

“No, I had better be on my way,” Will said firmly. “But I do thank you all for a delightful evening.”

****

A sharp rapping of the door knocker the next morning interrupted Will’s breakfast.

“Who the Devil is that?” he muttered to Babbage.

“I would venture to guess it’s your family, sir.”

“What, this early?”

“It is almost noon, sir.”

“Is it? Bloody hell.” Will rubbed his face. “I was out too late.” He’d met up with Coventry and Jack and gone with them to a music-hall where Jack’s latest mistress performed. Her act consisted mostly of arranging her body into impossible contortions, as though she were made of India-rubber. A talent, Jack sadly conveyed to them, she refused to demonstrate when she and Jack were alone.

Babbage glided over to the door and opened it. Will saw the silhouette of his father in the doorway. “Hello, Babbage. I assume my son is up and about?” he said in his familiar controlled baritone.

“Yes, he’s just eating breakfast, my lord,” Babbage replied.

Will got up from the table and came into the drawing-room.

Next to his father stood his younger brother, and Will’s heart warmed to see him. They’d always been good friends, even in childhood when some brothers were rivals.

As soon as Stuart saw Will, he hurried to his side in two strides. He gave him a quick hug and pounded his back. “Will! My God, you’re truly with us again.”

“I can hardly believe it myself,” Will said. He caught a flicker of disapproval in his father’s face for such an unseemly show of emotion. “It’s good to see you.”

Stuart had changed so much in two years, with a new broadness in his shoulders and in his jaw, which obviously required regular shaving. “I believe you are as tall as I am now,” Will told him.

“I was just thinking taller.”

Their father came over.

Will took a step toward him and shook his hand. “Hello, Father.”

“Hello, William. You look well.” No one made any comments on Will’s war injury.

“As do you.”

His father, Sir William, had not changed at all. Everyone said Will was the very image of him, and they were right. No question what he’d look like in twenty-some years: the answer stood right in front of him. Creases between the brows, fine wrinkles branching out from the corners of the eyes, iron-gray hair—these were the main differences between them.

“Where are Mother and Katy, then?” Will asked.

“They took a separate carriage,” Stuart began to explain.

“Will!” Katy bounced in. “You’ll never believe what we’ve got for you!”

The door clattered and they all looked over. A footman entered behind Will’s mother, carrying a wooden box, which he set on a side table.

“Come see, Will.” Mrs. Creighton opened it. “It’s for your parlor.”

Will’s father wandered off, saying something about having a look at the back garden.

His mother unwrapped layers of paper to produce some sort of large jar with a hook-beaked bird head for a lid.

“Ah. Thank you. It’s very amusing.”

“Amusing! What do you mean by amusing? It cost a good hundred pounds.”

“It’s impressive, I meant,” Will corrected. “A hundred pounds, you say?”

“It’s an antiquity, Will. It is almost two thousand years old. Egyptian.”

“Hmm.” Will looked at the thing more closely. “I wonder what they put in there?”

“The man at the shop said they put human organs in there, like hearts,” Katy said, feigning a shiver of horror. “You know, when they made mummies?”

“How about that, Will.” Stuart grinned. “Bet you always wanted one of those.”

“It is an important artifact,” their mother insisted. “I think it might be nice here on the mantel.” She placed it in the center. Will made a mental note to move it someplace else later, perhaps to a high shelf in his study. Or to the inside of a trunk.

Another footman had brought in a painting of people about to go fox-hunting.

“I fancied this might go in your front hall. What do you think?” Mrs. Creighton said.

The picture looked dreary to him despite its ornate gold frame. The people sitting up straight on their horses had no discernible expressions. Even the dogs looked bored stiff.

“Do you not like it?” his mother asked, setting the painting down.

“Oh, no, it’s fine. I’ve been meaning to get some pictures, you know. Perhaps one of those, what do you call them, the Pre-Raphaelite paintings.”