Harriet Smart: The Romances Read online

  “Shall we?” he said with a gesture towards the bedchamber door.

  Dry-throated, she nodded.

  Resting on the bed, propped against a pile of pillows, she felt relaxed to the point of abandonment. She let him bury his face in her breasts, and stroked his hair as he kissed them with such tenderness. Then, growing bolder, she pushed her hands under his shirt and caressed his warm, firm back, exploring every ridge of bone and muscle, watching his face flinch with pleasure as she touched some particularly acute spot. Kneeling over her, he pressed his cheek to hers and begged her to continue. She slipped her fingertips beneath the linen of his under-breeches, feeling the warmth of his bare flesh. A few gentle touches of that and he groaned with pleasure and began to kiss her ardently again, now with a sort of frenzied haste, and stretched himself along side of her, pressing himself against her.

  Then growing impatient of further barriers, he got up, stripped off the rest of his clothes and completely naked now, straddled her.

  She gazed up at him. In his nakedness he was magnificent. The sun had escaped the clouds again and for a few minutes the room was suffused in rich yellow gold light. He was a magnificent hero in an old painting – muscular, lean and noble. She could picture him in the dappled sunlight of some classical glade – a Theseus or an Alexander resting for a moment between heroic endeavours. Yet, a glance revealed to Griselda realised how much those old artists had left out. All they were permitted to show was a strictly allegorical unsheathed sword lying on the ground by the hero.

  Griselda had heard the frank talk of servants. She had lived in the country all her life. She might have been inexperienced but she was not entirely ignorant. And now it seemed her curiosity was going to be satisfied.

  He paused for a moment, stopping to take both her hands in his and kiss them, with unexpectedly gallantry. It was as if he was asking for her leave to continue. Griselda, who would at that moment have walked the world barefoot for him, could only smile up at him, and then reached out again to push away the hair that seemed always to fall forward over his eyes.

  He lifted up the hem of her shift. He bent and placed a kiss on her now bare stomach which made her giggle and shake, for his hair was tickling her. Then he pushed up her shift and kissed her lower down. This made her rigid with surprise for a moment, but only for a moment, for as he persisted, she found she could not stop herself writhing, her hips jerking. Without thinking about it, she raised her knees and widened her legs to this devastating invasion of his. She recognised the sensations he was drawing from her. Occasionally, at night, when restless and in a passion about something, she had touched herself there and found that she could work herself into a sweet but somewhat shameful state of pleasurable excitement. But it was nothing, nothing to this. She simply could do nothing but lie there, allowing all the feelings that this most intimate of caresses provoked to flow unchecked through her, like flames eating up a piece of dry tinder. Then suddenly it was almost unbearably exciting. She groaned, half wanting him to stop but knowing she could not bear it if he did. Then it came – a burning, deep explosion in her womb that made her flush all over and exclaim.

  He came and kissed her lips again, pressing himself against her. She could feel the rock hardness of him against her thigh and could see the urgency in his eyes. He guided himself into her and she could offer no resistance – she wanted to feel the power of him inside her, to feel it touch the core of her. He gave one tremendous push and she felt some discomfort and pain, and it made her gasp slightly. For a moment he stopped, surprised.

  “You’re a…” he began.

  She pressed a finger to his lips.

  “I don’t care,” she said. “I want you.”

  He closed his eyes and pushed again, with the sense of a man granted something he felt scarcely able to deserve. She felt the reverence in it. There was nothing cheap about it. How could this be cheap, this deep, intimate locking together of man and woman? She stretched and encircled his legs with her own, feeling shattered and yet renewed at each deep slow thrust into her, her fingers massaging his shoulder blades. Then suddenly his movement quickened and she saw the strain of suppressed tension cloud his face. He grimaced, seemed to try and hold back for a moment but failed and came crashing against her one last time.

  She felt it, felt his spasm as he fell panting onto her.

  A few moments later he withdrew from her and lay close beside her, on his back. As she stared up at the carved oak of the bed canopy, at the blackened wooden garlands of lilies and pomegranates, she heard him say:

  “I wish I knew who you were.”

  “No,” she said. “No, that would spoil everything.”

  RECKLESS GRISELDA

  Chapter Three

  When Tom Thorpe woke, he found the place beside him empty. She had gone. He propped himself on his elbows and stared about him, looking for traces of her presence, but there was nothing but a heap of crumpled towels by the washstand.

  He staggered out of bed, wondering how he had slept so soundly. Usually he found it impossible to sleep during the daytime – even after such sensual exertions. Yet he felt drugged with exhaustion, as if he had tasted opium on her lips. He could never remember feeling so overwhelmed by the act as on this occasion. He had felt entirely satisfied but now his body was aching for her presence.

  He went into the parlour to see if she was there. She was not, but she had taken some cold chicken and a piece of plum tart. The bottle of claret was untouched, however. He was just reflecting on this, cutting himself a slice from the tart as he did so – for he had discovered he was incredibly hungry – when there was a knock at the door.

  “Come in,” he said, absently.

  It was the landlady, who instantly gave out a shriek of horror at the sight of a naked man eating plum tart with his fingers.

  “Sir, if you please!” she said, looking very pointedly away while Tom snatched up his coat and held in front of him. “I beg to remind you, sir,” she said, now daring to look at him, “that this is a respectable establishment.”

  Tom could not help colouring slightly, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught in the act by his dame. Fortunately this venerable lady could not make him report to his tutor for a flogging.

  “Have you seen the young person who was with me?” he asked.

  “Gone out to take the air, sir,” she said. “An hour ago.”

  “What o’clock is it?”

  “Past three.”

  “Three?” said Tom, horrified. He was expected at Lady Amberleigh’s at five for dinner. “Did he…” he found himself stuttering over that, “say when he would be back?”

  “No, sir,” said the landlady. “He was carrying his pack. If I were you, I should check to see if you’ve still got a pocketbook. He – if it were a he – looked no better than he ought.”

  “That, madam, is a very impertinent remark,” he said.

  “I shall say what I like. I don’t care for my establishment being used like a common whorehouse.”

  “You are quite misinformed,” said Tom, as innocently as he could.

  “You must think me very green, sir,” she retorted. “I only hope you have the wherewithal to pay.”

  “I shall pay you now, for I shall be leaving directly,” said Tom. He reached for his pocketbook which was in the tail pocket of his riding coat. It was still there, and as heavy as it had been when he had lodged it there that morning. He handed her two guineas after which she grew respectful and helpful once more. It seemed that she could tolerate flagrant impropriety if she was well rewarded. “Have my horse brought round, if you please.”

  As he rode down towards Cromer he hoped he would overtake her, but then, why would she take the road to Cromer? She had given no indication that she might be going there. For all he knew, she could be on the road to London.

  He rode back fast, feeling a little as if he had been taken with a brain fever. The whole incident did not seem quite real, although he could vividly remember t
he smell of her hair and the feel of her soft skin under his fingertips. It was like a dream, a projection of his deepest fancy. He had never had an experience with a woman like it and he reckoned he was a reasonable judge of such matters.

  Tom Thorpe was seven and twenty, well born, with a large independent fortune. At eighteen, fresh from Eton, he had surrendered his virginity to a pretty countess of thirty-five, who had then grown bored with him when he had fallen too much in love. The Countess had required a lengthy convalescence and it was some years afterwards, when he had left Cambridge, that an Italian singer whose figure was better than her voice had permitted Tom to be her protector. However, she turned out to have a shocking temper and a bloodsucker of a husband whom Tom declined to support as well. This grieved him far less than the loss of the Countess but he had become a little cynical about such affairs, and far more circumspect in his conduct.

  As he mounted the stairs to his lodgings in Cromer, he wondered whether his extraordinary behaviour that day was the result of too much fastidiousness. Other men kept mistresses and were made comfortable by them. It would surely have been better to acquire some quiet affectionate creature and keep her in respectable circumstances than try to suppress the appetite altogether. For he would not have acted so recklessly if he had such a woman as his second cousin, Lord Hunscliffe, kept in a cottage at Putney. He had dined there once or twice and admired Hunscliffe’s little son, who although he would not inherit their noble father’s title, had certainly inherited his nose and something of his forceful character. Mrs Harte (she styled herself with Hunscliffe’s family name) had been an excellent thing for Hunscliffe who would otherwise have caught the pox from indiscriminate whoring.

  Tom had been inclined to think himself better than Hunscliffe but he was beginning to wonder if that was not arrogant of him. For today he had acted without scruple or hesitation. The fact she would not reveal who she was should not have excused his license – it ought to have entirely prevented it. And then to discover she was a virgin and carry on regardless. But how could he have done anything else at that point? He had never been so flattered in his life.

  His servant, Gough, was waiting for him on the landing, agitated and worried as old people will be about young people of whom they are fond. Gough had once been the servant of Tom’s father, and having been with Tom since his father’s death and known him since he was a child, his welfare was a serious matter to him.

  “I was sure you’d been thrown from your horse, Sir Thomas,” he said. “For you will ride that mare as if the world will end tomorrow.”

  “No, Gough, I was not thrown from my horse, nor was I struck by lightning.” But even as he said that, he wondered if she were not a sort of lightning, a storm spirit, sent to put his mind into disorder. “I have spent most of the day asleep in an inn. Nothing could have been less dangerous.”

  Gough wrinkled up his nose.

  “Asleep, Sir Thomas, in the afternoon?” he said, suspiciously.

  “I wore myself out sketching, I dare say,” said Tom, wondering why he had to account for his actions to his own servant. He sat down and allowed Gough to pull off his boots. “Did you fetch my letters?”

  “Of course, Sir Thomas. There’s a letter from her Ladyship.”

  “Ah,” said Tom, who did not at all wish to read what his mother had to say. Gough handed him the letters all the same and then went to see about his bath.

  Tom broke the seal and glanced at the direction. She was still at Felsham, which did not auger well. It was too close to Cromer for one thing. He scanned the letter.

  My dearest son,

  I am a little uncertain how to interpret your last letter. I cannot believe that you have allowed yourself to form this attachment. I must repeat that I do not consider you in a position to offer your hand to Miss Rufford – and I very much hope you have not actually led her to believe that you are at liberty to do so. Lady Mary considers herself to be engaged and she is, as ever, anxious to gratify her father’s wishes and mine. I trust that your own considerable sense of duty will also prevail in this.

  Miss Rufford might be a handsome, charming girl – and I am not so out of charity with you not to understand how she might have attracted you. However, any feelings that she might arouse in you must be considered entirely improper because of your position in relation to Lady Mary. This is the situation and you cannot avoid it. It would be extremely damaging to your reputation, not mention to Miss Rufford’s, if you were to act upon these feelings and talk any more of marriage to her. You know perfectly well that Caroline Rufford can never be your wife without alienating the hearts and repudiating the good opinions of those who love you most deeply – and in this I must include Lady Mary.

  Forgive my strong words, but it is with the deepest concern for you that I write. I have also written to Miss Rufford explaining your situation.

  Your loving mother, Arabella Thorpe

  “What!” exclaimed Tom, throwing down the letter. “The devil she has!”

  “Sir Thomas?” said Gough.

  “I must dress at once. I must go to Miss Rufford immediately.”

  ~

  Lady Amberleigh and her daughter had taken a large, elegantly furnished house overlooking the sea front, only a few minutes’ walk from Tom’s lodgings, and he walked there briskly as soon as he was dressed to Gough’s satisfaction. But reaching the house, he hesitated. He looked up at the bay window of the first floor drawing room where he knew Caroline would be waiting for him. Through the open window he could hear her playing the harp and he found himself turning away towards the sea.

  It was nearly five o’clock and the sun was breaking fitfully through the grey sky, piercing the sea with spectacular shafts of light. The wind was still blowing and the sea was rough, dashing the shingles and groins with relentless force. Caroline began to sing – her sweet clear voice drifting down to him – the words of an Italian song about constant love. It was the song she had sung on the night he had decided he would make her his wife.

  He walked away a little, towards the sea wall. He tried to think of Caroline but even the sound of her voice seemed unable to rouse his imagination. He was thinking only of the girl whose name he did not know, of her red-gold curls lying on the pillow, the freckles on her cheek and the wild glint in her green eyes.

  Caroline finished her song and Tom went to the door of the house, trying to put aside the memory of the afternoon, like a man locking away the letters from an old affair. He could not allow it to confuse him. He had made her his offer and no man with any sense of decency or honour could back down from such a bargain.

  ~

  “Well, Sir Thomas,” said Lady Amberleigh, a few minutes later, when the formalities had been got through and he was sitting with her in the drawing room. “It seems that someone is under a misapprehension here, and I hope for my daughter’s sake it is your mother.”

  “It is,” said Tom. “She will have me marry Lady Mary and no one else. But, I assure you, Ma’am, I have never given either my mother nor Lady Mary, nor her father Lord Wansford any grounds to believe that I consented to such an arrangement.”

  “Then how, pray, has she fixed the notion in her head that you have?” said Lady Amberleigh. She might have been a well-dressed widow but her manner of cross-examination would not have disgraced a member of the bar. “You must have said something to her to suggest that you did not find the idea of the match abhorrent.”

  “No, I have always been very definitely opposed to it. Do you think I would have addressed your daughter as I have, if I had believed I was not free to do so?”

  “I do not know, Sir Thomas,” said Lady Amberleigh. “Ah, here is Caroline.”

  Caroline had apparently quit the drawing room for some minutes when he was announced, presumably to compose herself. Tom thought she looked shaken. She was paler than usual – her usual fresh rose colour seemed banished, but she walked into the room with all her usual elegance.

  He rose from his chair to gr
eet her, and would have taken her hand, but he saw Lady Amberleigh frowning. Caroline confined herself to a curtsey and took her place beside her mother.

  “What must you think of me?” he said, drawing his chair a little closer to her. “I have been trying to reassure your mother but can I say enough to convince you?”

  “Your mother must have had very good reason for writing as she did,” she said at length.

  “Because she does not wish us to marry,” said Tom. “That is the matter in a nutshell. She is a worldly woman and she expects me to seek worldly advantage.”

  “But if Lady Mary’s affections have been engaged?” Caroline said looking across at him. She had dark brown eyes and there was a melancholy in them that he had not seen before.

  “Then it was not my intention,” said Tom. “I swear to you I have done nothing to make her think that I was anything but an acquaintance. I believe my mother must have talked her into believing that she feels something for me. Lady Mary is a highly suggestible creature – and very young. She is but seventeen. She does not know what she feels.”

  “Nevertheless,” Caroline went on, “her feelings have been engaged and her expectations have been confirmed by those whose opinions she values. If that is the case, I think she does have some sort of claim upon you. I do not wish to have such a thing on my conscience as another woman’s broken heart. She has a prior claim on you, Sir Thomas. I must recognise that.”