He turned back to her. His eyes were shiny.
As though an iron fist had closed over her throat, her words
cut off. She had shaken her head and looked away.
“You broke my heart.” His words had fallen softly in the
wake of his boots on the wooden floor planks.
* * * *
“You broke my heart.”
She bolted to her feet and began to pace. It did no good.
The words still echoed in her head, just as they had done every quiet moment
and occasional sleepless night since Bernard had walked out. She closed her
eyes and clamped her hands over her ears. “No, no, I never promised you
anything but what was agreed upon! Your money and my willingness in bed. I
never promised to love you!”
“Thérèse?” The deep, hoarse voice carried a note of
desperation. “Thérèse!”
She rushed to lean over the bed. She laid a hand on David’s
forehead.
It was warm, but the fever had ebbed. Her energy drained,
she dropped to sit on the bedside like a marionette whose strings had been cut.
“Thérèse.” His voice cracked. It resounded in her chest like
a vise closing over her heart.
“Yes, I am here.” She heard the weariness in her voice.
He opened his eyes and seemed to stare through her. He
grasped her hand with a surprisingly tight grip. “You mustn’t run from me
again.”
His raspy tone carried such desperation. The vise in her
chest tightened.
“I won’t.” What else could she say?
He squeezed her hand relentlessly, threatening to crush her
bones. “You must promise.”
His pain resonated in every part of her. Burning emotion
pressed on her throat so hard, she could barely breathe. “Rest, David.”
Her strangled voice sounded like a stranger’s.
Still holding on as though his life depended on it, he gave
her hand a shake. “Promise.”
This time his tone held the steely determination of a
command. And that, even more than before, seemed to speak of his desperation.
It was so easy to say, “Of course I promise.”
“It was my fault. All my fault.” The anguish in his voice
resounded, savage and raw.
Her eyes began to burn. His image grew a bit fuzzy. What
foolishness. She didn’t even know this man. What were his sad little dramas to
her?
“It was all so damned, bloody useless.” He choked on the
words and then coughed weakly.
“No, no, it was both of our faults.” The words came tumbling
out of her mouth before she could halt them.
“I’ll be a more constant lover.”
“Of course you will.”
“I shall arrive early every night. Early enough to visit
your bed.”
“Of course you will,” she managed to say.
“Will you welcome me?”
“Yes.”
“You were correct. I was being too…inflexible. We shall have
children, as you wanted. You cannot leave me then…” As his voice drifted off
his eyes closed and he seemed to fall limp against the pillow, though he’d been
lying there the whole time. His mouth fell open and he gave a low groan then
coughed as his hand slipped away, a heavy, horrible weight in her lap.
Her body sagged with it. Wet sadness spilled on her cheeks.
Her father’s frightened eyes were burned into her memory. That last day here at
the garret. The day after he’d come at her with the knife. The orderlies were
due to arrive any moment to take him. He’d known it. He’d been so afraid,
gripping her hand. A sob tore up from the depths of her. Its very violence
startled her out of her reverie.
What the devil was the matter with her?
What good did it ever do to dwell on that terrible day?
She’d done what the doctors had recommended. For her safety. Papa’s madness had
simply reached the point where she couldn’t attend to him on her own. Their
relations had abandoned them and they couldn’t afford to hire any servants. She
had done what she had to. Dr. Edmonton had been happy to help her find a
suitable, affordable place for Papa in exchange for a little agreeableness in
bed on her part.
It didn’t bear dwelling on.
She swiped at her face with the blanket’s edge. Then she
pulled it up over David in one brisk tug.
The past was in the past. Dead. What she needed to do was
get something written for Mr. Ratherford while David was sleeping and she had
time. Jeanne stood and pushed everything else from her mind.
* * * *
Jeanne sat at her desk, waiting for the words to come. Hours
passed and she had nothing to show for it but wisps of unformed, meaningless
vignettes. Just as they had been every day since Bernard had taken his leave of
her.
She let the quill drop from her hand. It fell to the page
and rolled, leaving a feathery line upon the parchment. The lamp still burned
brightly. She shouldn’t waste the oil. She should extinguish it and go to bed.
A man was sleeping in her bed. A stranger.
She went to his side once more.
“Thérèse…”
She laid a hand on his forehead. He felt warm but no worse.
Yet how would she really know? The hand was not a very accurate gauge. She
chewed her lip.
He was shivering so hard now that it pained her to watch.
She had been sleeping on the trundle bed these past nights. But tonight perhaps
she should share her warmth with him. She untied her robe, pushed it off her
shoulders, and then crawled under the coverlet in her nightgown.
Facing his body, she touched his shoulder, feeling the rock
hard resistance to her grasp. How fascinating. She’d never been with a man
possessed of the like. How did a gentleman gain such fitness and for what
purpose? If he awoke and fancied it, he could overpower her easily. Force her
to his will.
As if the thought gave birth to action, he rolled toward
her. Her body tingled and the hairs on her nape stood up in pure apprehension.
“Thérèse.” He slid his arm about her waist and buried his
face into her hair. “You’re so warm. Always warm.”
Jeanne embraced him, pressing herself to him, and willed her
warmth to him.
He slid his hands down to her bottom. “I adore your new
curves. You were always too thin.
She couldn’t help a wry smile. “Too thin, eh?”
“No matter. You knew I adored you in any case.”
His voice held a mocking humor, as though he were laughing
at himself. Parts of him were not affected by the fever. His erection swelled
against her belly, huge and hot. She gasped and tried to back away. But he held
her in place with surprising strength, given his feverish state.
A prickle of fear passed through her. He could overpower her
if he wished. What had she been thinking to get into bed with him? He leaned
closer until his breath tickled her face. A definite thrill chased down her
spine.
“Have you been a good girl?”
Had she? Well, she hadn’t written a useful word in weeks.
“No touching yourself in your bed?”
The question made her want to laugh. What would a man care
what a woman did in her private moments so long as she gave herself to him with
regularity?
“Thérèse.” He feathered his fingertips over her cheek. “Is
he solicitous of your needs?”
He brushed her hair back and then traced her ear. Strange
heated chills shot like winter’s lightning along all her nerve ends. Dr.
Edmonton had been her gentlest, most considerate lover. But David’s very touch,
just the right amount of teasing pressure, spoke of a skill she had never
before experienced. Never dreamed had existed.
What must it be like to be made love to by such a man?
His body relaxed. His breathing grew heavier. Wheezing
again. A soft snore issued. Having taken heat from her body, he slept again.
Yet his cock still throbbed against her. A hollow, hungry
ache built in her loins.
“You like to fuck as
much as a man does.”
Bernard’s accusing words echoed in her mind.
All right, so it was true: she liked bedding with a man. She
might have remained chaste as a nun. But she’d been forced by circumstances to
share her body. To unbutton her bodice and allow men to fondle her breasts. To
let their hands up her skirts, let them touch her private places. And when men
did these things, they hadn’t been cruel. She’d found that she liked being
touched, fondled, caressed—very much. She liked watching their erections grow
and knowing that they found her attractive. The too-plump girl with the shabby
clothes and the raving, insane father finally had something to offer. A way to
make it in the cold, uncaring world.
Was it such a sin to find her pleasures where she could? To
have lain beneath those men and taken pleasure in their rising arousal, the
thrill of their cocks filling her, thrusting within her, sharing in the
exhilaration of the moment of their crisis?
Yet she’d always remained somehow cold, unable to feel more
than a vicarious joy. She’d learnt to pretend a crisis of her own. Later, when she
next found herself alone, she would take her release at the behest of her own
hand whilst she’d recounted every moment of her carnal encounters. Her
conquests.
Wetness seeped through the thin muslin of her nightdress.
David’s cock leaking against her. The feel of the heated, pulsing erection
against her made all her pulses pound. Answering wetness trickled between the
thickening lips of her cunt.
Damn, of all the things. Now she would never sleep.
He was already disturbing her peace and he wasn’t even conscious.
As soon as he remembered where he belonged, then he needed to leave. She didn’t
need this sort of disruption in her life.
He simply had to go.
Chapter Three
David was very aware of the girl lying beside him. Beneath
the scent of lavender that permeated the bedding, the stench of aged wood and
paint bloomed, like mildew flourishing in the dark. But stronger yet, the scent
of sleep-warmed feminine flesh.
He couldn’t see her, but her large blue eyes and sweet,
round face, and masses of golden, loosely curling, shoulder-length hair that
fell from its pins as she had bent over him were burned into his mind. Nothing
else resided in his memory. Just the girl.
He didn’t know how he’d come to be here or what he was doing
here. Something lingered around the periphery of his thoughts, wispy, like
cobwebs. He couldn’t pull it up clearly enough to grasp it. Had he possibly
drunk too much?
He searched for his last clear recollection. He had been in
his chambers at the Inns of Court. Since the open of Parliament, he’d been
driving himself, trying to get enough promises for votes. Weeks where he was
never without some pamphlet in his hand, frantically reading, while riding to a
string of endless meetings and dinner parties. Staying up at nights, feverishly
writing.
He’d been debating all morning, one last chance to sway one
or two votes. He finally had the time to steal a brief nap in his private
chamber. But he couldn’t sleep. Two cups of black tea on a stomach gone empty
for hours proved to have been a dreadful idea. It hadn’t settled well at all.
The chamber became hot, so hot, and his cravat seemed to tighten and strangle
him. Air. He had to have air. He had stood and become instantly dizzy and
disorientated, and staggering outside where he had chucked his guts into the
gutter like a common drunkard.
Someone had come to aid him. Helped him into his carriage.
But there the memory died.
The bed shifted and rather ancient-sounding ropes creaked.
He opened his eyes and, in the dim light, saw the girl moving in her slumber.
She turned on her side to face him. The deep shadow in the valley between two
very generous breasts drew his attention. Yes, he had felt their softness
brushing against him as she moved to reach across his whole body when she had
bathed him.
Her face was gently rounded through the cheeks and tapered
to a little pointed chin. A country girl’s face. Her skin appeared velvet
smooth, dewy, like rose petals after an early morning rain. Was it possible for
skin to be that soft?
He extended his hand with the intent to touch her cheek to
find out, but froze as she moaned, a sound full of such tension. Such angst. He
could feel it within his own bones.
He felt a disquieting sense of connection. But was it any
wonder that he should feel connected to her? This girl had spoon-fed him and
lain beside him, sharing her warmth. Good Lord, she had bathed him. Had
lingered over the act, her soft, small hands grazing him as she applied the wet
cloth. The cooling effect had been pure bliss. All that time he had felt her
desire as though it had been a force, vibrating on the air, carrying to him.
She had to be a harlot. How else would he find himself alone
with her here in this depressing little hovel if he hadn’t picked her up
someplace equally squalid? He must have been feeling adventurous indeed.
However, he knew two kinds of harlot. They were either
hardened and cold or overly bold and lascivious. But this girl’s air reminded
him of a frustrated wife. Sexually repressed yet still dreaming of someone who
would come and release her. Which all sounded like a lot of fanciful drivel. He
must be foxed. And he was too much in need of a really vigorous fuck.
Jeanne–yes, correct, she’d told him her name— shifted again.
The coverlet fell off her shoulder. He couldn’t resist reaching out and
stroking her arm with his fingertips. Puckers of gooseflesh greeted his touch.
She moaned again, a low, lingering, sensual sound that teased his sleepy senses
and sent lust flooding into his cock.
He was so tired, so weak, that his arousal seemed somehow
distant. His spirit floated, detached from his body and yet he was aware of
every sensation, every pulse of his loins. The dichotomy of his experience left
him bemused. He moved his hand up and brushed against heated softness. He
cupped his hand and gently pressed. It was a magnificent breast, full, lush yet
still youthfully firm for all its bountiful development.