A Certain Latitude (22 page)

The two men subsided; they must have come, too. How disappointing that she’d missed the moment, too caught up in her own.

March lay with his head on Allen’s belly. She lifted a languid hand to touch her finger to March’s mouth where a smear of semen clung, silver in the moonlight, and touched it to her tongue.

“It’s …” Allen reached a hand out to Clarissa to help her up the steep slope crowded with trees. How they had negotiated it earlier in pitch darkness and drunkenness he had no idea. Her face glowed pale beneath him. “It’s … March. And here. This place. I don’t usually …”

“Don’t be a fool, Pendale,” March said from behind Clarissa. “Am I the only one with sand in their arse? We should bathe.”

Out of breath, they stepped onto the oyster shell path that led back to the house. Allen hoped he did not look quite so debauched as March and Clarissa—in the dim light before dawn they appeared tired and bedraggled, hair hanging loose, clothes disordered.

Clarissa’s petticoat dragged damp beneath her gown and she clutched her stockings in one hand. She yawned. “I would love a cup of tea. And my bed.”

“Not mine?” March slid his arms into the sleeves of his coat and retrieved his neck-cloth from a pocket.

“If you wish.” She attempted to straighten the collar of his coat. “Finch will be most upset with you.”

They seemed less like a man and his mistress than a married couple, sharing the same sort of comfortable intimacy she and Allen had once had. Or so he had thought. He turned away, struck with sudden weariness, and continued to the house.

March, he had to admit, had superb sangfroid. Arriving in his house, with his mistress and another man, debauched, sticky with seawater and sand, stinking of fornication, he quelled his slaves’ curious glances and ordered the plunge bath be made ready and fresh clothes prepared.

For all three.

In an English household, Allen knew the servants, after barely-hidden amusement, would gather to hoot and cackle at the goings-on upstairs. Here, he wasn’t quite sure whether the slaves’ impassive silence hid secret contempt, or merely represented a complete lack of interest. Yawning, he watched as dark figures flitted in and out of March’s luxurious Turkish bathroom, bearing towels, soap, tea for Clarissa, coffee for the two men, armfuls of clothes.

Nerissa knelt at the fireplace, building a fire with quick, deft movements

March and Allen, both in their shirtsleeves, shared the same mirror as they shaved. March chatted with Finch about house and estate business, his elbow occasionally brushing Allen’s. Clarissa, seated in a nearby chair, yawned as Nerissa brushed her hair, frequently stopping to tug out tangles.

The whole scene reminded him of the levee of an absolute monarch where private, insignificant acts became public ritual. All they needed were some groveling courtiers.

Finally, they were alone, free to strip off their remaining clothes and step into the luxuriously hot water. Allen dunked his head and rubbed his hands through his hair, stiff and gritty with saltwater and sand. Jittery from coffee, sated and physically exhausted from the night’s activities, Allen washed Clarissa’s hair, remembering how once she had done the same for him. She murmured her appreciation, then turned to lather his chest, exchanging a kiss over his head with March.

Strange how he felt, again, like a beloved child in such indecent circumstances. But even though he could have sworn he would not suffer further attentions, when March soaped his back in slow, lazy circles, he found himself responding. He disentangled himself from them to sit on the tiled ledge that ran around the circumference of the bath and sluice water over his head and chest.

He stole a glance at Clarissa. With her wet hair slicked back she had something of the facial appearance of a handsome boy—was that why March lusted after her? March leaned to whisper in Clarissa’s ear and plant a kiss on her shoulder. And on her breast, round and shiny with soap and water. And the other. No, he decided, there was little of the boy about Clarissa.

They—or March, at least—had lured in him like this before on the sand. He wouldn’t rise to their bait this time—although, glancing down, he was certainly rising, his cock seeking the surface.

March smiled at Clarissa. “I bathed here with Allen once before. He was most put out at my advances.”

“I am hardly surprised. You probably did it only to tease him.” Clarissa, for all her amorous drowsiness, still retained a touch of her usual waspishness.

He wanted her, then, quite sharply, and apart from his physical discomfort. His desire for Clarissa was absolute and distinct, quite different from the turbulent feelings, borne of lust and curiosity, he had for March. She may have betrayed him by becoming March’s mistress, but he felt he could trust her—indeed, as she knew what transpired between him and March, he had no choice but to trust her. And March?

“What are you thinking of, Allen?” March laid his hand on Allen’s ankle, giving it a gentle shake.

“To be honest, I think that I don’t trust you,” Allen said.

For a brief moment, pain flashed over March’s face, before he covered it with an easy laugh. “You fear for your precious arse, you mean.” He toyed idly with Clarissa’s breast. “Tell him I am not a monster, my dear.”

“No, he’s not a monster,” she said. “Prospero rather than Caliban, if you like.”

So she shared with him his perception of March as the autocratic ruler of the island.

“You’ll stay for a few days more, I trust, Allen,” March said. “We can send word to your father, when he returns.”

“Thank you. With the greatest of pleasure.”

“Oh, I think we can promise you that.” March reached to touch Allen’s face, then slid his hand down, slowly and with great attention. He paused to circle a nipple, much as he did with Clarissa. Allen, although determined to show no reaction—idiotic, considering the state of his cock—found himself short of breath.

“Why do you pretend indifference to me?” March’s whisper was sharp and urgent.

“I’ve never claimed indifference to you,” Allen said. “I can’t give you what you want.”

“I’d settle for less.” March looked bewildered, uncertain.

“Forgive me for saying it, sir, but you hold a winning hand.”

Clarissa, who lay in the water, eyes closed, sat bolt upright. “Pardon me, gentlemen, I am not a playing card.”

“Not even the Queen of Hearts?” March teased.

She frowned and stood, scattering drops of water, her nipples hardening. “I think I should dress.”

“And leave us here, in this condition?” March gestured toward Allen.

“I am sure neither of you will suffer for long.”

“I assure you we shall not.” March hoisted himself onto the tiled seat opposite Allen, legs spread, one hand cupping his balls. “Take him, Clarissa.”

She looked uncertain. “You mean I should…”

“If you please.” March’s voice was neutral, almost bored. He might have been asking Clarissa to pour Allen more coffee. He added, “If we are to continue in this way, there will be various…arrangements, various roles for us to play. So far from home, from England and polite society, we do enjoy a certain latitude, but that means it is imperative we create our own rules. So I must ask you to obey me in this.”

“And if I refuse?” Clarissa said.

March smiled. “But of course you won’t. You’re my mistress. You serve my pleasure. And my pleasure at this moment is that you serve Allen.”

She scowled at March. Allen bit back a smile. Despite his efforts to teach her how a mistress should behave, she seemed to be incapable of hiding her feelings.

And then she laughed. Standing in the tiled magnificence of March’s plunge bath, water lapping gently around her thighs, she reminded Allen of the vibrant creature who had thrown her stockings overboard. She lifted her wet hair to the back of her neck in both hands and squeezed the water out, breasts lifting.

“It will be my pleasure, my lord Prospero.” She waded over to Allen and sat astride his thighs. She touched his lip with one forefinger, slightly damp and wrinkled from the water. “Let me give you this,” she whispered. “You know I cannot give you more.”

He closed his eyes. He wanted her, but he didn’t want her pity. Her finger still rested on his lip and he drew it into his mouth, biting softly. Her breasts rubbed against his chest, soft and springy, their tips hard, while her thighs gripped his.

He dared not look into her eyes, fearful of what she might see in his, and equally fearful of what he might see in hers—pity, indifference. Touch only, then, the gloriously smooth velvet of her skin, the tickle of fine hairs, and the scent of her, fine lavender soap, the slickness of her arousal.

Thank God she was aroused, unless it was the presence of March that fired her, or the prospect of performing for him. Or, despite her objections, the submission of her will to his, the abandon of self.

Water lapped, the fire crackled and she breathed soft into his ear.

He ran his hands over her back, the tender knobs of vertebrae, the sharpness of her shoulder-blades—fine, smooth skin; the flesh riper, with more spring on her buttocks, softly warm between them, growing warmer and, even underwater, the silkiness of her excitement. He slipped a hand around between their bodies, to rub the springy mass of hair, rotate the hard bead of her clitoris.

She sighed, her lips brushing his. Yes, open for him, take him in, tongue, cock, the perfect fit he never expected to experience again. One hand on her arse, guiding her to his orgasm, the other leading her into her own. Her arms brushed his head. She must be clutching the tiled surround.

Clarissa moved, Allen hardly at all, her breasts brushing his chest—he knew she liked that, a stolen pleasure Her thighs tightened against his, her quim changing the way it did before she came, her breathing fast and urgent now.

Behind his eyelids he imagined her face rapt and intent, as she sought release.

She engulfed him, gripped, shivered, whimpered, her mouth sliding to his shoulder.

Behind his eyelids now, flashes of light, a leap into the abyss.

She raised her head to kiss the salt that welled at his eyes.

He hoped March had not noticed. But Prospero knew everything that happened on his island.

“Dey say you and my papa…” Celia struck a note rather too hard on the pianoforte.

Clarissa winced. After a night of very little sleep, the sound jangled in her aching head. Out of tune again, too. She was not surprised Celia had heard something from gossiping slaves, but she was not sure how she, Clarissa, should respond.

“That is a matter between Mr. Lemarchand and myself,” she said. “You need not concern yourself and it should certainly not affect your lessons. Try that scale again, please.”

She was not ready for Celia’s response. “You better than the others.”

“The others? The scale, if you please, with your right hand and then the left hand.”

Celia began to play, murmuring to herself. “
One, two, three, thumb under
…no, Miss Onslowe, I didn’t like his other mistresses. Some of them were only greedy black girls. And the white ones, they were not much better.” She landed triumphantly on the final note. “So, I like that he likes you.”

“You know,” Clarissa said with as much delicacy as she could, “in most houses, I would not continue as your governess.”

“No!” Celia, her scales abandoned, grabbed Clarissa’s hand. “You must stay, Miss Onslowe.”

“I shall. I am saying only that this is a most irregular situation, and when we return to England I shall probably live in a different house. Things are different there.”

“I know. Everyt’in’ like ice.”

“
Everything
.” Clarissa didn’t know whether to feel relief or embarrassment that Celia accepted the situation with such equanimity. March, she thought, had been somewhat careless in dragging a succession of mistresses through the house. She hoped that, with Allen, he would maintain some sort of discretion if anything more were to happen. Last night seemed like a dream, now. They had each slept for a few hours in their own beds, and today the two men rode out together.

She became aware of Celia’s expectant look. “Three octaves, Miss Onslowe!”

“Very good. Would you like to try both hands together? And then we’ll go into the garden for some sketching.”

“You are killing me,” March said. His horse sidled, made restless by her rider’s agitation.

“I doubt it,” Allen said, uncomfortable with the role he felt March forced him to play, the cruel lover who would not yield. “You cannot force desire—surely you should know that.”

“You say it was the one time, then. One night. An aberration. Nothing more?”

“Precisely.”

March gave a contemptuous snort. “At least I have the courage to admit to my desire.”

Allen reined his horse in. “You accuse me of cowardice?”

“Of course not. As you say, if you do not desire me, then I cannot possibly accuse you of cowardice—only, according to you, a lapse of judgment.” March dug his heels into his horse’s side. His mare lunged forward, shaking her head.

Damn March. Allen was the lawyer—he was the one supposed to entangle others with their words, tempt them into verbal traps. He shouldn’t be the one feeling foolish and dishonest and, what was worse, unkind.

The sunshine, the spectacular view of the island—they had ridden up onto the range of blue mountains you could see from March’s house—were spoiled. He sighed. It was a pity Clarissa was not here; she would have enjoyed the view—the textures and colors of forests and cultivated land, smudges of smoke marking estates, and the larger, darker haze on the coastline, only just visible, that was the town of St. James. St. James, where his father was; and doubtless the Earl would return any day.

And then Allen would have to go back to his father’s house, something he both feared and anticipated. He would get away from March, but leave things unresolved—and he would leave Clarissa too. He clicked his tongue and urged his horse forward to catch up with March.