Authors: Mary Jo Putney
Kyle tried to imitate her actions, feeling clumsy. This was nowhere near as easy as she made it look. "Might this have worked yesterday when you faced the tiger?"
"Doubtful, even if I'd had the wit to try. The tiger would have just bitten my hand off before going for my throat," she said cheerfully. "Don't work so hard, my lord. This should be effortless, relaxed. Feel the
chi
flowing through you like a river of light."
A river of light. He thought of the image, made himself relax, and found that the movements came more easily, though he'd never have her grace. After she taught him half a dozen different patterns, she led him in a slow version of the complete routine. He followed her across the sanctuary floor under Kuan Yin's benevolent gaze, feeling happy and carefree and completely at peace.
"Well done!" she said, laughing. "Now again. The form must become so much a part of you that you needn't think about what you're doing. Then the
chi
can flow freely."
"The object is to be not the dancer but the dance?"
"Exactly!" She led him through the form again, faster, and again, as he echoed her movements. Gradually he stopped thinking about his body and let his mind flow, fully in the moment as his gaze followed Troth. She was so lovely, unlike any other woman in the world, an enchanting blend of mind, body, and spirit.
How often was one happy and fully aware of it at the time? He was happy now…
The pattern changed to magpie landing on a branch. He promptly got confused, moved right when he should have gone left, and collided with Troth. "Sorry!"
Giggling, she untangled herself, as carefree as the girl she hadn't been allowed to be. "Mistakes happen. You're actually quite good for a stiff Englishman."
"Some of the evasive movements used in European boxing are similar, though that pales compared to your
wing chun
. What are the two-person exercises like?"
"The simplest is 'sticking hands.' We place the backs of our hands together and move them between us, testing. When one person strikes, the other must block the blow."
"I don't want to do any striking, but the exercise sounds interesting." He pressed the backs of his hands against hers. Her hands were narrow, but the fingers were long and capable. She glowed with strength and harmony.
"Good God, I think I feel some of that
chi
coming from you. Is that possible?"
"Yes, one must sense the opponent's energy to know what he'll do before he does it. Try to break free of my hands, and I'll try to keep you blocked." Having seen her fight, he thought it was entirely possible that she knew what her opponents would do before they did. No matter how he moved his arms, she stayed with him as if glued.
"This is rather like a fighting waltz." He added footwork to the sticking hands, and they began moving across the wide chamber like dancers. It didn't matter whether he pressed forward, slid sideways, or fell back—she stayed with him, her smile teasing and her feet swift as a Scottish dancer's. He moved faster and faster until they were both panting, yet they stayed joined like a man and his shadow.
As his blood raced through his veins, he remembered the intimate dance they'd shared the night before. Desire grew until he could think of nothing else. But how to break free of her sticking hands and do something about it?
He mustn't plan his movements, since she could read his intent. Instead, he would think of that luscious mouth, that slender, flexible body, the generosity of her lovemaking.
Jettisoning conscious thought in favor of instinct, he dropped his arms, breaking the contact between their hands. Then he caught her around the waist and swept her from the floor. "Victory! Now there's another kind of two-person exercise we must work on."
Though she wrapped her arms around his neck and her legs around his waist, she panted, "They say it's dangerous to go from
chi
exercise to mating, my lord. The fire element might take over and damage one's internal organs."
He blinked, distracted by the vibrant female form in his arms. "Really?"
"I don't know," she confessed. "But I'm not sure I'd want to risk it." He kissed the pulse in her throat. "Surely the danger will be past by the time I transport you to the chamber below."
She gave a gurgle of laughter. "I'm sure you are right, my lord." As he carried her down the passage to their bed, she nibbled his ear, purring like a cat.
Laughing, they tumbled down together, stripping off their garments so they were flesh to flesh. Her ivory skin was like satin, infinitely touchable. He tried to kiss every bit of it as his hands roamed over her, remembering what she'd liked most.
She was a symphony of slender limbs and gentle female curves, except for the glorious richness of her breasts. "You're more delectable than Chenqua's banquet," he said huskily. "A feast fit for a king."
"I wouldn't want a king, unless he made love as you do." She nipped his shoulder as her hips ground into his.
"Mei-Lian." He separated her legs with his knees. "Beautiful Willow." He entered slowly, in case she was sore from the night before, but she refused gentleness. Marvelously fit and strong, her body heated from the
wing chun
exercises, she was like a tigress who demanded equal wildness from her mate. They rolled from the blankets to the floor, oblivious to the chill of the stone.
He came to rest on his back, holding her on top of him. She gasped when he let her set the tempo of their mating, radiating delight as she experienced a new range of sensations, and the power of being in control. Until control shattered and passion claimed her, body, mind, and voice.
As her breath slowed toward normal, he locked his arms around her and rolled again so that he was above. He allowed himself half a dozen slow strokes, exquisite almost beyond endurance, withdrawing barely in time. His climax left him panting and half-paralyzed with pleasure and exhaustion.
"You, my dear girl," he groaned, "are learning the ways of lovemaking far faster and better than I am learning tai chi."
She gave a rich chuckle that reverberated against his chest. "Then you must be a better teacher than I."
He rolled to his side, glad that they'd managed to end up on the. blanket, since he was too drained to move. "Or you are a better pupil." She slid her knee between his and relaxed with a sigh of pleasure. "How splendid to be well suited."
Well suited
was an understatement. He hadn't felt such physical fulfillment in years. Perhaps never— He cut off the thought. The past had no place in this moment.
They lay twined together until it began to rain. Drops of water fell through the light holes above to patter on the floor. Dreamily Troth said,
"The poets call intercourse 'clouds and rain' because that's a symbol of the mating of heaven and earth. Clouds rise up from the earth to meet the rains descending from heaven."
"You mean that some of the pretty Chinese nature paintings I have are actually symbolic sexual union?"
"It's a favorite subject for artists."
"I can see why." He stretched. "But now it's time to break camp and set off again, though I'm not sure if I have the strength to stand up, much less trek all day."
"There is a Chinese practice that might interest you." She sat up on crossed legs and began to comb her hair. "When men join with their wives and concubines, they usually do not release their
ching
—their seed. This conserves the yang, their male essence, so they may couple again and again without exhaustion, drawing strength from the female yin essence."
"Really?" He took over the combing so that he could bury his hands in her lush tresses. She tilted her head back trustingly as he worked the tangles loose. He took his time, enjoying the task, for he'd missed this kind of gentle domesticity as much as he'd missed having a beloved sleeping partner.
"I can't imagine how it works," she confessed, "but I'm told that when a man masters this technique, it creates both great pleasure and remarkable endurance."
He tried to imagine how that could be done. Perhaps it might be…
possible. "Did you learn of this from your friend Ling-Ling?"
"She was an excellent source of information," Troth said demurely. "But there were also many books in Chenqua's library."
"I saw such a book in Canton." It had been passed around with leers and embarrassed snickers after dinner one night, along with the port. "I couldn't read the words, of course, but the pictures would be considered pornography in Europe."
She frowned. "
Fan-qui
men are like giggling boys when it comes to sexual relations. Taoism teaches that fulfilling sexuality is essential to a harmonious life, so there are many texts describing how to achieve it." Perhaps that was why Troth had an openness about sex that would be unthinkable in a European virgin. "You didn't describe this part of Taoist theory. Tell me more."
"Females have endless yin essence, so a man should prolong their union to absorb as much as possible," she explained. "It's important to join with those of a happy, loving temperament, because lovers absorb energy from each other, and one doesn't wish to take on tainted energy." She smiled mischievously. "It is essential for a man to fulfill his partner, because that way he will gain the greatest yin from her."
He began braiding her silky hair into a queue. "I can see why Chinese women approve of this philosophy. But what about households where men have several wives and concubines?"
"To be truly master of his house, a man must keep all his women satisfied. That is why he withholds his
ching
, so he can fulfill his obligations. Ten times a night is considered a good number."
He gasped. "How many men perform regularly at that level?"
"Not too many, I suspect, but that's the traditional ideal. The books say that withholding yang produces a very powerful fulfillment called the Plateau of Delight. Releasing seed should be done only from desire to make a baby. That is called the Peak of
Ching
."
Enchanted by her scholarly manner, he said, "Fascinating. I shall have to experiment." And if Troth was right about the Plateau of Delight, he would be able to find his pleasure without withdrawing. European sexual practice was beginning to look downright crude by comparison.
She glanced over her shoulder with a delicious smile. "I should think that learning how to do this would require much practice."
He grinned back at her. What a splendid, splendid prospect.
England
December 1832
Troth's trunk of personal belongings arrived at Warfield Park two days before her hosts' annual Christmas ball. She'd thought the trunk must have been lost, but apparently it had just come on a slower ship than hers. After the departure of the footmen who'd delivered the trunk, she knelt and unlocked it. Inside were mementos of her Chinese life, just as she'd packed them in the Elliott hong. Sadly she took out the embroidered scarlet gown that Kyle had given her. She had been so excited and pleased at his generosity. She set the folded gown aside, regretting that she'd never had the chance to wear it for him.
She rummaged through her possessions and retrieved the dozen of her father's books that she'd managed to keep after his death. She found comfort in lining them up on the shelf usually occupied by volumes borrowed from the Warfield library. Belongings helped define who one was.
A knock signaled the arrival of Meriel and her maid. "Time to prepare you for the ball," the countess announced. "The seamstresses worked all night to finish your gown."
Troth admitted them, bracing herself to be buffed and polished. She would have preferred to hide in her room and read during the ball, but couldn't. Though no one had said so in as many words, the ball was being used by the Renbournes to make a public statement that they had accepted her as a member of the family.
While Meriel curled up in a chair, the maid set to work on Troth's hair in a style ironically known as
à la Chinoise
, which meant brushing the hair back into a braided chignon, with delicate curls at brow and temples. Though the style wasn't very Chinese, with flowers from Meriel's conservatory woven into the chignon, the effect was pretty.
Next came the undergarments, including the padded stays necessary under an evening gown. Troth endured the tightening of the laces stoically. Europeans condemned Chinese foot binding, but any society that had invented the corset had a lot to answer for.
Last of all, the evening gown was dropped over her head and the ties pulled to mold it to Troth's figure. Much discussion had gone into choosing the fabric.
Mrs. Marks, one of Meriel's aunts—except that it turned out she was not an aunt, but some sort of cousin—had explained the rules of mourning to Troth. The death of a spouse required twelve months of sober clothing and behavior. Unlike China, where white was the color of mourning, here garments of dull black must be worn for six months, and the mourner should avoid social activities. After that came "second mourning," which could include somber grays or lavenders and touches of white. Meriel had refused to order black garments for her guest, since Chinese customs were different, but she'd agreed with Mrs. Marks that for the sake of propriety Troth's first public appearance should be in second mourning. The dressmaker had produced a beautiful figured silk in subtle shades of lavender that complemented Troth's coloring.