Judith Ivory (12 page)

“Well, no, of course not.” Thomas thought a moment, as if trying to understand why this was true. Then he laughed. “Haven’t you ever seen that Indian that wrestles crocodiles?”

“I think it’s alligators.”

“Same thing. But that’s what it’s like between she and Adrien. A lot of snapping and tail-swinging and stirred dust. Then the croc on her back like a pet getting her belly stroked.”

“That’s not a very nice analogy.”

“But it’s true.”

“The earl seems to like her.”

“I don’t know. She’s spoiled and vain and an absolute
despot when it comes to having her own way. I suspect he’s just rather forgiving on these points—one loves to forgive in others what one imagines are one’s own vices. And, of course, she’s beautiful.” He gave Christina a brief, sidelong look. “He does like beautiful women.”

Christina ignored this. She smiled, instead, at her little victory, his admission: “And he is a bit of a crocodile himself.”

“Oh no, Christina, he’s not—”

“Come on, silly.” She touched his arm and laughed. “I won’t tell. It’s nice to know you can find fault with him.”

“I can’t really. I find him a little arrogant at times. But it’s an arrogance honestly come by; the first-born male of a very consequential family. And he’s brilliant; I can’t explain it. It’s not the sort of brilliance that sets itself apart on, for instance, verb conjugations. But he can beat the pants off anyone in chess. And he can talk philosophy, science, poetry in any one of several languages.”

“French.”

“Of course, French.”

“Evangeline says he’s fluent.”

Thomas gave her a funny look. “He’s fluent in English. He was born and raised in Normandy.”

Christina was puzzled. “That would make him French.”

“His mother was French. Heredity made him English. An English lord, like his father.”

“Is that where he goes when he goes to France? Normandy?”

“There she goes.” Thomas looked out onto the drive. The carriage there leapt into motion. The driver called, cracked his whip. Nadine Deluc was leaving in a fanfare of loud commands, charging horses, and creaking carriage springs.

Christina hated herself for looking, for caring, for having to ask, “Is he finished with her, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” Thomas answered. “Ask Evangeline.”

Christina did.

It was later that day that her cousin Evangeline answered the question, straight to the point.

“He is never finished with Nadine,” she said. “She is a permanent fixture he keeps going back to. I will tell you a confidence. At the peak of my amorous liaison with the man, he saw Nadine. I was furious. That was the end of it.”

“And the Chiswell girl?”

Evangeline would only shrug. “Her father’s land abuts Adrien’s to the south. She is sweet, young, adoring—”

“Fertile,” Christina added.

“Well. One never knows. But she is an obvious choice as a wife.”

Christina sighed. If Nadine Deluc embodied everything she feared in Adrien’s past—his love of beautiful women, his ability to woo and win them—then Cybil Chiswell was the threat of his future, the bride he would one day marry.

She didn’t see how she could compete with these women. And she tried to convince herself: She must never, never try.

Adrien Hunt seemed to be gone more, stay away longer; and, more often than not, when he did come home, he arrived very late. Christina took to waiting up for him. She didn’t mean to. It was just a habit she fell into.

She would stay up, reading, writing letters, mending clothes; there seemed always some reason. She would be up sometimes until three and four in the morning. Often, she doused the light in the silence of predawn. These were the nights when no one came. But frequently enough, there was the
frisson,
the little excitement—she didn’t know why it made her so. She would hear the sound of carriage wheels in the drive, then whiff the light out as if she were answerable somehow, as if she mustn’t be caught up at such an hour.

Usually they came in quietly—for it was “they” now. There would be the sound of the carriage, hardly any talking, then the shuffle of soft leather shoes up the stairs to bed. Occasionally, she would hear his voice. Low, clear, limpid syllables. “Good night,” he would speak to his companions. “No, no. You mustn’t fret
that,” he said one night. He had come to the top of the landing, a dozen yards from her door. He reassured someone. “It went fine. I will see you in the morning.” Then his tread retreated; faded back down the stairs toward his own rooms.

The days went on. Followed by the nights. Perhaps it was the product of such irregular sleeping, but Christina began to have horrible yet fascinating dreams. They were dark, vague; sexual. Nightmares, she would tell herself. But secretly, she knew she half relished her game: Waiting for the real man to make real noises downstairs, then letting herself succumb to sleep—and the incubus that did everything but actually make love to her.

This was always left off. There was never the act of love itself. She would wake in the morning oddly relieved by this realization. No, she hadn’t; not even in her sleep. Good. But she awoke also to a regular and distinct knot in her belly, an anxious, unsatisfied feeling.

Christina became fidgety as the days wore on. Her appetite slacked off. This general restlessness would last all day. Then back into the pattern, a sleepless night of waiting. And dreaming.

Until, one night, the pattern abruptly came to an end.

It was near three in the morning. Horses began coming up the drive. She was sure; she heard them. Then they turned off. A number of horsemen cut toward the stables before they got close enough to the house to disturb. A few at a time, men could be heard coming into the house. Shushing, trying to quiet the jingle of spurs and belts. There seemed to be a few more of them than usual. At first, Christina was alarmed. All the sounds were irregular, unfamiliar…. Were these strangers, intruders?

But they didn’t behave like intruders. They made an orderly procession toward the sleeping quarters of the house. Then, as she recognized the voices, she realized
it was just the newness of attire. No more silk stockings and soft shoes, but heavy boots. These men were dressed for hard riding, for work. She sat up in bed. Christina had realized something else. No Adrien. She was almost sure. She sat listening, pinning names to voices and the trudge of footsteps on the stairs. But no Adrien. And no Thomas. They were not with the rest.

Christina got out of bed. She found her dressing gown, slipped it onto her arms. She was lifting her hair from beneath the gown where it was caught, was halfway down the stairs, when she stopped. She could hear them. She couldn’t see them, but they were not far away. All the terrace doors of the entrance room were open. Their voices carried up over the balustrade. Adrien and Thomas were in the garden. They were arguing.

“I wish you’d go to bed, Thomas. It’s all right. Honestly.”

“It’s damn well not. You’re no good to anyone when you do this.”

“So maybe I need to be ‘no good to anyone’ for a time.”

“It’s not good for you.”

“It does no harm.”

“I can remember your shaking from it. Muscle spasms. Perspiring. Your nose and eyes running. Your eyes so dilated the whole house was like a vampire’s cave—”

“That was from lack of it, after having much too much for way too long. I’m in control, Thomas. I know what I’m doing. I ought to. I ought to be a damned expert on the stuff. Now leave me alone.”

“No.” Then after a pause: “I hope this isn’t your answer to Christina.”

Christina’s ears perked up at that. She went closer, moving through the dark on bare feet. She stopped at the inside edge of the terrace. They were just below. Benches, she knew, were ranged along the terrace wall.
She was certain she could have looked over the railing and seen the tops of their heads.

“We’re not on that again, are we? Look, Thomas. That woman—and now you—are both driving me absolutely mad. I just want to be left alone.”

“And if someone needs you?”

“I’ll be here.”

“Catatonic.”

“You can rouse me.”

“Ha.” But Thomas had no better answer than that. His tone became resigned. “Will you be safe out here?”

“Perfectly. Now run along.”

“Adrien—” Thomas sighed. “France, the Old Man; it’s going so well. Better than we’ve had any right to expect.” A pause. “It is Christina, isn’t it? It’s at home you need it.”

There was a laugh. Dry, a little cynical. “It feels, Thomas, just like the glow one gets in the pit of one’s belly after having had a woman. It’s that sort of languor, that sense of well-being. Only it is so much less complicated than a woman. And it is infinitely less complicated than Christina Pinn. Go to sleep, Thomas.”

Thomas made a monosyllabic sound, a grumble. But he was moving; a slow crunch of gravel toward the terrace stairs.

At first, Christina thought to press against the wall, into the darkness. He would never see her. But as she heard Thomas shuffling up the steps, one, two, three…something in her just wouldn’t do it. Something tired of hiding: Something that wanted to be recognized. She stood there, moved even a little more boldly into the moonlight.

Thomas came to the top of the stairs. “What the—” He couldn’t comprehend. He was confounded, completely thrown into stammering bewilderment. “What—How—How long have you been here?”

Then she went past him, gliding on bare feet, the light fabric of her nightclothes following, fluttering in the breeze of her movement. A unique self-possession had taken hold.

“Who is it?” Adrien called from below.

She came down the stairs to find him already standing. He held a candle on a plate in front of him, pushing it forward as if to better see. But the candle was small, not meant for much light. Other bits of things were on the plate. The paraphernalia of his “medicine.” The tiny light did nothing but illuminate the man who held it: Damp. Windswept. The features of his face flickered in sharp, preternatural definition. He seemed to be wearing thick, bulky wool. A seaman’s jersey perhaps—they were not elegant clothes. But the man was more than elegant. He held one arm away from his body, poised. It was an aggressive stance. The outline of his shoulders was enormous, powerful. She seemed to be looking at some dark, secret side of him. All manner and politeness peeled away. As if, within the secret of the earl dressed as a sailor, was the secret of Adrien Hunt himself; his fears, his longings, his most basic, instinctive drives….

She inched toward this, staring, her heart pounding. She was unsure of what she was doing until she came within ten feet of him. Until he recognized her. And she saw astonishment set him back.

The look made something leap inside her. It made her bold. She had power over him. She didn’t understand its limits or its boundaries. She didn’t know precisely where to grab hold of it. But she possessed something extraordinary. She had seen it in his face.

And she wanted him to admit it. She wanted to do something outrageous, something from which there was no retreat; not for him, not for her. She wanted to set the record straight. And Thomas, poor Thomas, was made witness to a statement made by a novice at such
things: Impulse, instinct, or sheer insanity, she let her dressing gown fall open. With only the slightest movement of her shoulders, it slid to the ground. The moon was behind her. Its light came pouring through her chemise. So that, from where Adrien stood, she appeared iridescent. Silvery. An intentional simulation of drugged dreams. She held Adrien mesmerized.

From above, she was simply a woman caught in an act of enormous stupidity; caught in an overkill. “Christina, what can you be thinking?” Thomas called. He was on his way down.

On the ground, she ruled over the seconds. The wind blew her shift against her body. Adrien stared. He wet his lips. He seemed about to say something, then couldn’t. His extended arm began to tremble. The candle he held in front of him fell over in its dish. It rolled, spun out its meager little light as it toured the rim, then dropped. Darkness.

“Jesus Christ,” Thomas spoke. She could hear his confusion as he came down the stairs.

But, for once, Christina didn’t feel the least bit confused. She turned. And, following the instinct with an intensity that thrilled, intoxicated, she ran.

Past the muttering Thomas. Up the stairs. And into the house. She ran through the entranceway. Down its long run of marble. She shunned the staircase. There was suddenly something claustrophobic about corridors and bedrooms. She bolted through the front door.

Over the cobbles of the drive. Out onto the lawn. The grass was cold and wet under her feet. But she flew. She could hear boots clattering down the steps after her.

She darted a look over her shoulder. Her chest constricted. Triumph. Panic. Adrien. He was on a dead run after her and closing the distance. What was she doing? Was she mad? she wondered. She had to be, she thought, tearing through his front lawns in the dead of the night. But there was a sly voice inside her that didn’t really
doubt her sanity at all. It screamed:
This is wonderful.
It urged her. It felt in complete control. And she raised the hem of her chemise so that her legs could leap, could run as they had in her childhood. Like a gazelle, like a fairy. The fastest child in the valley, the fastest in the shire….

But she wasn’t the fastest in this shire. There was a moment’s warning, the hiss of his breath as he came up on her. Then there was a jerk on her arm. He brought her up short. She lurched, lost her balance. He stumbled and tripped into her from sheer momentum. They both went tumbling to the ground. He turned her onto her back: There was not the first moment’s doubt, between either of them, what the prize was for catching her.

She resisted for a moment, balked against her own female ingenuity. But things were well beyond that now. He slid his hands up her thighs to her waist, lifting her chemise. He put her bottom in the grass—it was cold, prickly. He raised the chemise all the way and put her belly, her ribcage against his chest, against the scratchy warmth of his sweater. And without a moment’s reservation, he pushed her legs apart and lay full length on top of her, between them. Her head swam from the feel of him. This was what she wanted. Waking, sleeping, her thoughts had returned a hundred times to the little glass house, to the episode in her rooms. She thought of him in this way, no matter how she had tried to remove herself from it. Let him. Let fact match fantasy. She wanted this. Join him. She wrapped her arms around him and clung to him. He raised his hips. She heard his breath rasping. From the run. From the knowledge of what he was about to do. His hand, his knuckles brushed the skin of her belly. He yanked at the buttons of his pants….

“Ai—” She flinched as he pierced her. It was such a shock. The irreversibility of it penetrated as much as anything. She had never thought to feel this, another
man’s body within her. But she felt it, whole, entire. A sensation so strong.

He thrust deep into her, and let out a groan—followed by an urgent string of whispered words, “Be still my God don’t move Christina.” He was perfectly rigid for a moment, as if he were afraid to move. Only slowly, very slowly, did he set up a rhythm. And slowly, very slowly, sensation opened up to her.

It was all there. Everything his body had ever suggested before. The grace. The smooth, masculine solidity, wielded with an elegant animality. Lying beneath him, feeling his body enter hers brought a satisfaction nothing could describe. He thrust into her again, deep. She arched. Her fingers dug into his shoulders. Again. Then, slowly, again. Each time, consciousness itself moved away a little,
la petite mort,
and pleasure grew. Then grew stronger still. Until pleasure itself began to be a trial, something so sharp she almost couldn’t endure it.

A slight easing would come only in gasps. He would draw out, and for moments she would partially recover. A ragged, hazy awareness where she searched from side to side for a guide mark, something to indicate these potent sensations wouldn’t harm her—it was so unfamiliar, so unlike any act she had known with Richard. “What are you doing to me?” she murmured.

A kind of tantrum began to well up from the pit of her stomach. It was like having leapt into a void, then wanting to call oneself back; the victim suddenly of something as strong and relentless as gravity. Blind, senseless; only the sense of touch and feel. And another human being—who laced his fingers into hers and pinned her back, without a single defense, as her own pleasure rose in her throat like a scream. Never had she felt anything like this. The confusion. The hurtling compulsion.

She began to struggle again, though she didn’t know
against what. He accepted this with equanimity. He held her firmer; she wasn’t going anywhere, he seemed to say. She pushed against him, with her hips and legs and arms, with her whole body. Her muscles strained, then seemed to revel in the sensation of his holding her tighter, harder. She pushed at him to the limits of her strength; it set up an amazing resistance. The opposition between them became sharp and savory. Male, female. It felt as though all of life breathed in the space of their bodies.

She called out. The words, animal sounds, escaped into his mouth. She couldn’t be still. Until finally the violence contracted into one single convulsion. It tore through her, exploded, sent her quivering against him. Her arms about his neck, her fingers in his hair. Shivering. Holding him to her. While feeling every sense emptied, like a bottle upended. There was nothing left of her but this. Flesh entangled with flesh. And touch.