Angel in Scarlet (2 page)

Her blue velvet gown had a very wide skirt, a very snug waist and a bodice cut so low you wondered what held it up. The long, tight sleeves were worn off the shoulders, leaving them bare as could be. Never saw so much naked flesh, so much bosom exposed. Why, if she happened to sneeze she'd pop right out! Stylish women in London must catch a lot of colds. The lady paused by the trellis and sighed, toying with one of the drooping pink roses, looking a bit nervous, as though she were afraid someone would jump out and yell “Boo!” What a gorgeous, exotic creature she was, like something out of them—those—magazines Solonge and Janine were always porin' over. You could tell she was gentry, near naked though she was. She sighed again and her bosom heaved. I held my breath, expecting those full, milky white mounds to escape their velvet prison.

Footsteps approached. The lady turned, gnawing her lower lip, more nervous than ever. She tore the pink rose from the trellis. Loose petals showered over the walk. I could smell the heady fragrance perfuming the air. The lady lowered her lashes and straightened up and looked ever so demure, pretending she didn't hear the footsteps. A moment or so later the man strolled into sight. I caught my breath, so excited I feared I'd fall out of the tree. Clinton Meredith
was
handsome, so handsome you could scarce believe it.

I knew who he was at once, of course. Couldn't be anyone else—not with that thick, pale blond hair, as shiny as silk, heavy waves pulled back from his face and tied at the nape of his neck with a thin black ribbon. Not with those glorious gray eyes the color of smoke and those broad, flat cheekbones. He had a long aquiline nose and very full pink lips and his eyelids were heavy, drooping low, giving him a lazy, sleepy look. At least six feet tall, he was built like one of those Greek athletes I'd seen in picture books, lean and muscular, all supple grace. Never saw a man so fair. Looked like a bloomin' prince, he did, in those elegant clothes. His polished black pumps had silver buckles and his stockings were the finest white silk. Knee breeches and frock coat were of pale sky-blue satin. His white satin waistcoat was stitched with tiny flowers of sapphire, black and silver, and white lace ruffles cascaded from his throat, frothing over his wrists.

“Ah, the fair Laura,” he said. “Fancy finding you here.”

His voice was deep and throaty, reminded you of thick honey. A voice like that'd make a girl lose her senses, I thought. Made you think of bodies. Made you think of bedrooms. Made you think of those erotic engravings in the French books Father kept on the top shelf—Boucher, Fragonard, Watteau. I loved to pore over 'em, turning the pages in amazement.

“Looking lonely and a bit pensive,” he continued, seeming to caress each word. “We'll have to do something about that.”

“I shouldn't have come,” she said.

Her voice was flat and tony and rather nasal, a proper aristocratic voice. Reminded me of metal scraping. Not at all pretty. He didn't seem to mind. He grinned and moved closer and lowered his lids even more and looked like he wanted to eat her up. She stepped back, bumping into the trellis. More pink petals scattered to the ground. Clinton Meredith chuckled. The snug fit of his sky blue satin breeches left no doubt about his feelings for her. Rarin' to go, he was, bulgin' against his breeches like a randy stallion and hard as a rock.

Some people might wonder how, at twelve, I knew so much about such matters. Well, raised in the country you couldn't help knowin' about 'em with bulls and cows and stallions and mares and other animals copulatin' all over the place. A person'd have to be blind. Too, country folk are a lot more frank about sexual matters than town folk. Right bawdy, they are, always talkin' about who's doin' what to whom and how often. In addition to that, I read every chance I got, and Father had never tried to keep me from reading certain books. We owned all the novels of Samuel Richardson and Henry Fielding and Daniel Defoe—I'd read
Roxana
and
Moll Flanders
before I was ten,
Tom Jones
, too, and you got quite an education from books like that. We also had the complete works of Aphra Behn, and there were things in there that'd make you blush right to the roots of your hair. I'm not sayin' I under
stood
it all, but I knew what was what and then some. Eppie Dawson couldn't hold a candle when it came to such knowledge, even if she
was
already bleedin'.

“I'm very glad you
did
come,” Clinton Meredith crooned. “It's my birthday, you know. I deserve a special present.”

“I—I really must get back,” the lady protested, though I could tell wild horses wouldn't have made her budge an inch. She was breathing rapidly, breasts heaving against dark blue velvet, and her shoulders were trembling slightly. Oh, she was every bit as excited as he was. It just wasn't as obvious with a woman. I clutched the tree limb with arms and knees, peering down through the frame of leaves. Both of 'em were all primed up for humpin'.
Would
they? I could hardly believe my luck.

“No one'll see us here,” he said. “They're all on the other side of the house, drinking champagne, eating cakes. Don't be shy, Laura love. Here, give us a kiss.”

He took hold of her arm and pulled her to him and Laura looked horrified and tried to pull back and he chuckled again and wrapped his arms around her and gave her a rousing kiss, bending her at the waist, fairly devouring her lips with his. I'd never actually
seen
anyone kissing like that, except in the erotic engravings, and it was something to see, I can tell you. She kept struggling and trying to get free and he kept tightening his arms around her and swinging her to and fro, their lips glued together the whole time, and it was more like they were wrestling than showing affection.

When he finally let her go she looked all weak and helpless and he looked triumphant and pleased with himself and she sank down on the marble bench and stared at her lap and he moved around behind her, smiling to himself, his eyes full of … of something I couldn't quite recognize. It was like he was the hunter and she was the prey and he had her in his sights and was ready for the kill. He leaned down and curled one arm around her slender white throat, drawing her back, resting his cheek against hers, and his free hand reached around and slid into the bodice of her dress and one of those large, milky teats popped out with his fingers curled around it, squeezing the soft flesh. The nipple was bright pink and seemed to grow, seemed to strain as his thumb and forefinger pinched it.

Jemminy! It was exactly like one of them engravings come to life: him in satin and lace, her in velvet, him leerin', her pantin' with lips parted, eyes closed, long silky lashes flutterin' against her cheeks like tiny black fans. He squeezed her nipple harder and she moaned and arched her back and it looked like they were going to start copulatin' any minute now. Eppie Dawson was going to be pea green with envy when I told her about it!

“Clinton—” she moaned. “No—no—it isn't—”

“It's what you want,” he told her.

“No. I—I'm not—”

“Don't give me that malarky,” he said harshly, and his handsome face was suddenly hard, predatory. “Jon Hartley told me all about your little sessions in London—how you slipped off to meet him, how you couldn't get enough. Don't try that virginal act on me, Laura love. I know better.”

“Jon—Jonathan Hartley is no gentleman!”

She was angry. Her face looked hard, too, no longer soft and dreamy. He laughed, curling his arm tighter around her throat, holding her down there on the bench even though she was trying to get up. His hand was still holding her teat, squeezing it savagely now.

“You—you're no gentleman, either!” she cried.

“You knew that before you agreed to slip off and meet me. Jon isn't the only one who's mentioned your name. William Brandt said the two of you had a jolly time in Bath last month when you were there with your aunt, said he was damn near worn out before you finally went back to London.”

“Lies!” she protested.

“I think not, love. I think it's all true—and I think it's delightful. I'm a better man than Jon Hartley or William Brandt, love—know a lot more ways to make a woman happy, make her squeal with pleasure.”

“You—you invited me and my aunt here just so—”

“Right,” he said, grinning.

He let go of her then and stepped back, and Laura frowned and tossed her head and stuffed her teat back beneath the blue velvet. She stood up, looking all sulky now, looking like a spoiled child. Clinton Meredith put his hands on his thighs and leaned back a little, grinning at her.

“I've heard all about you, too!” she snapped. “Raping serving wenches is more your style, I hear. I heard about those escapades in Oxford, how you raped the wrong wench—turned out she was the daughter of one of the dons. Cost your uncle a fortune to get you out of
that
jam, and he still couldn't keep them from booting you out.”

“I don't deny a word of it,” he said amiably.

“And then there was Lady Milburn. Forty years old if she's a day! You just seventeen at the time. Quite a scandal that was.”

“Lady M. was a magnificent instructor. Taught me everything I know.”

“You're a cad! A rake!”

“And you, Laura love, are an aristocratic little whore. It's obvious we were made for each other.”

Jemminy! I exclaimed to myself again. This was better than
Tom Jones
, better than
Roxana
, a hundred times better than that dreary
Clarissa
. Eppie was going to die.

“Tonight,” he said. “Leave your door unlocked.”

“I may,” she said haughtily, “and then again I may not.”

The grin widened on his beautifully chiseled lips. His gray eyes gleamed with devilish amusement.

“You'll leave it unlocked, all right,” he told her. “You can hardly wait. We'll have a lovely time, love. Now I'd better go join the other guests.”

And he strolled casually away, just as though nothing had happened. Laura tossed her head again, raven curls spilling loose, and then she scowled and adjusted her deep blue velvet gown. I expected her to stamp her foot. She didn't. Instead, she smiled, looking as satisfied with herself as he had looked a few minutes before. She plucked one of the pink roses and sniffed it, and then she strolled away, too, and I found myself looking at the empty marble bench and thinking these bluebloods, beneath their fancy facades, weren't at all different from other folks, just richer and better dressed was all.

I was a little disappointed, truth to tell. I had expected 'em to be … well, kind of unique and rare, like those porcelain figurines they made in Sèvres, elegant and exquisite and beautiful to behold. Clinton Meredith was beautiful to behold, sure, I granted that, but he wasn't one bit better than Bertie Anderson who'd laid every lass he could, got three of 'em pregnant and finally had to run away to sea to keep from bein' beaten up by Mary York's four brothers. Laura might wear sumptuous blue velvet and paint her face cleverly, might speak in a flat, tony voice, but those were the only things that set her apart from Masie Brown who took on four boys at a time in the haystack behind her father's barn. As I thought about all this, I realized I'd learned an important lesson, one I'd remember always. Never, ever would I be intimidated by anyone just because they happened to be better born than me. I wouldn't even be intimidated by the King himself, and Lord knew
he
was a randy buck, if half the things they said about him were true.

Clinging to the limb with my knees, stretched out flat, my cheek resting on the rough bark, I watched sunlight dapple the trembling green leaves and thought about all this business of humping and roiling about on mattresses and in stacks of hay. I knew what they
did
, of course, had since I was nine—the man got hard and stuck his thing between the woman's legs and they wiggled around and thrashed their limbs—but what I didn't understand was
why
. Seemed kind of clumsy to me, seemed kind of silly as well. Eppie claimed it was supposed to be fun, but what did she know? Me, I'd rather be curled up in a big leather chair with a book in my hands and the cat in my lap, a dish of lemon drops nearby.

Not that I ever had much chance to do
that
, I added to myself, not with all the chores Marie was always finding for me to do.

Better be on your way back, Angie, I told myself, and I began scooting backward, the bark scraping my knees a little. The limb wobbled, seemed to sway, and the leaves rattled. I lost my balance, swung around, and then I was hanging from the limb with my knees and my hands and the limb swayed wildly and I heard loud padding noises and then snarls and then savage barking, directly beneath me. I looked down and saw three ferocious greyhounds leaping up high and snapping, trying their best to sink their fangs into my backside which was just barely out of reach. Jemminy! I clung to the limb and felt my face turning white and knew I was a goner for sure unless I could swing back up onto the limb. The greyhounds leaped higher and higher, yowling fiercely, and one of 'em got his fangs into my faded pink cotton skirt that was dangling down and I felt it tearing and then a big patch of it was gone and the dog had it on the ground, shaking it in his jaws like it was a dead rabbit. The other two tried to take it away from him and they all began to fight.

Holding my breath, closing my eyes, summoning every ounce of strength I had, I swung my body up until I was stretched out flat on the limb again, looking down at the beasts, and then I seemed to freeze. I couldn't move. I could only stare in horror at the yowling, scrambling, snapping animals tearing that scrap of pink cotton into shreds. I had to get out of the tree, get onto the wall, get down to the ground on the other side, but my body was locked into place and I could scarcely breathe, much less scoot back along the limb. The dogs finally abandoned the cloth and started leaping at the limb again, fangs bared, eyes gleaming fiercely, lithe, nimble bodies leaping higher, higher still.