A Certain Latitude (25 page)

“Damn you, March, you told me yesterday you had consulted your physician!”

“It is nothing,” March said, his voice feeble. “Pray do not create such a commotion.”

“Brandy, sir.” Finch intervened.

A little color returned to March’s face after he drank. He smiled at his daughter and Clarissa. “Celia, I am perfectly well. Don’t cry.”

“I thought you were dead, Papa!” Celia flung herself on the sofa beside her father and sobbed on his shoulder.

“You can see I’m not. I shall retire upstairs and rest, and I’ll be perfectly well in a little while.” March patted her arm. He looked at Clarissa, a mute appeal in his eyes—
Take her out of here, please
.

“Come, Celia,” Clarissa said. “Your papa needs to rest. Let’s fetch our bonnets and go into the garden with our sketch books.”

Allen waited outside the bedchamber while the physician conferred with March. He had offered to stay, but March shook his head, and after a while Finch emerged and escorted Allen downstairs to cool his heels. He paced around, getting in the way of slaves who swept and dusted—a lot of them, working with little energy, and he wondered if they were concerned about their master.

After a while a seedy-looking fellow dressed in dusty black arrived and, in a strong Irish accent, introduced himself as Father O’Brien. Allen stared at the slightly ridiculous figure ascending the staircase. A priest. March had sent for a priest, which could mean only one thing—he believed he was dying.

From the drawing room came the sound of hesitant scales on the pianoforte—the women must have come back inside. He went to join them and found Celia, eyes reddened, hunched over the pianoforte. Clarissa sat close to her, silent—she looked up with hope as he entered.

“You have news?”

“I regret not.”

“You said the same happened yesterday.”

“Yes, he blamed it on the heat.” But soon after he had recovered enough to ride home. This time March had not been able to stand or to disguise his weakness.

Clarissa took Celia’s hand.

“You should eat something,” Allen said. He had been aware of clocks striking as time passed, but had taken little notice of them. Surely it must be afternoon now, by the heat and stuffiness of the house.

Both women shook their heads.

“I’m hungry. I’d be obliged if you keep me company. Your father will not get better if you make yourself ill, Miss Celia.” He called out to the nearest footman and told him to serve some food—no, he did not care, whatever the cook had at hand, something cold would be preferable—cold meat, fruit and bread. He wasn’t hungry, either, but it gave them something to do while they waited.

And waited.

Allen didn’t tell Clarissa and Celia about the priest.

Finch emerged, finally, and announced that Celia should see her father alone, upstairs, in his bedchamber.

“Do you think I should return to my father’s house?” Allen asked Clarissa.

“No.” She grasped his hand. “No. Please, stay. He will want you here.”

He released her hand. “Very well.”

As though having her hands occupied might somehow help, Clarissa took up a piece of abandoned embroidery that Celia worked on from time to time. After a few minutes she tossed the fabric and needle to one side and rose to pace up and down, much as Allen had before. “I cannot bear it, Allen.”

He longed to take her into his arms and comfort her but she seemed stern, remote.

Finch entered the room. His expression was exactly the same as always, a blank slate. “Miss Celia will dine with Mr. Lemarchand upstairs and stay with him until her bedtime.” He paused. “Mr. Lemarchand has requested the pleasure of your company later tonight, Miss Onslowe. And yours, Mr. Pendale.”

“He must be well, then,” Clarissa said after Finch had left. She clutched Allen’s sleeve with the intensity of a drowning woman. “He has to be. If he wants us both.”

“Of course,” Allen said. He decided, again, it was best not to mention the priest’s visit.

She dressed with care for the night.

March had made his wishes plain to Clarissa, when the dressmaker had called to dress Mr. Lemarchand’s mistress. He wanted her breasts exposed, pushed high above her stays; he wanted her jeweled and perfumed; and so that others might not gaze upon his property, she should wear a thin muslin scarf tucked inside her bodice. When they were alone she would expose her jeweled breasts to him.

Clarissa stared at herself in the mirror. Indecent: that was the word that sprang to mind.

She clipped the strand of jewels to her nipples and dabbed perfume in the hollow between her breasts. Her new gown and petticoat slipped over her head, weightless, a whisper of fabric, with an underskirt that almost hid her. Almost. In certain lights, and for anyone looking closely enough, you could see the shadow between her thighs, the hint of dark pink garters above her knee.

She dismissed Nerissa and waited for Finch’s tap at the door. As usual he led her through the house and stood back for her to enter March’s bedchamber.

Allen, casual in shirtsleeves and breeches, lounged on the bed, chatting easily with March. She caught a few words before Allen rose to bow—Allen seemed to be arguing for the introduction of crops that would not require such a concentration of labor as sugar.

“Yes, but this is not good soil. It’s too heavy, and requires much manure to make it productive,” Lemarchand was saying. He smiled at her. “Clarissa, my dear. How charming you look. What do you think, Allen?”

Allen stared at her, gaze hot with lust, taking her in, her lifted breasts, the translucent gown. “She looks like an object of pleasure,” he said after a pause.

She flushed. Her nipples tightened and stung.

“Now, Allen.” March patted his hand. “Wouldn’t you say she looks like an object to be pleasured? Come here, my dear.” He beckoned Clarissa to his side and took her hand.

She bent to kiss him. “Are you well, sir?”

“I am trying to persuade myself that a bleeding and the prospect of a lowering diet have made me so,” he said with a grimace. “No brandy, I fear, although I am allowed a little wine. Pour us some, Clarissa, and, now you are here, I can tell you of my condition.”

She handed glasses of wine to the two men and sat on the other side of March, uneasy. His voice had an ironic inflection on the word
condition
and he did not look well, his face almost colorless against the creamy white of the pillows, contrasting sharply with the dark hair that fell to his shoulders.

He smiled at them. “My physician tells me”—he swirled the wine in his glass, staring at the deep ruby liquid—“that I must rest tonight. So, my dears, now you are both here, oblige me.”

March nodded toward Clarissa’s bosom.

She understood; she raised her hands to the gauze at the breast of her gown that covered her nipples and the strand of jewels that constrained them.

Allen swallowed.

“Wait.” March’s hand landed on hers, unfolded her fingers from the fabric and tossed it aside. “This at least I can do.” He lifted her breasts in his hand and kissed the hard nipples. “Allen, are you willing?”

Allen frowned. “To do what, exactly?”

March laid a hand on his thigh. “I wish to watch you and Clarissa.”

“You’ve seen me fuck her,” Allen replied.

“To be honest, Allen, I should like to see a little more finesse, a little more flair. Besides, I do not believe you would deny the wishes of an ill man.”

“You know, I think you are taking advantage of us.” Clarissa said.

“Quite likely.” March leaned back against his pillows. “I am feeling somewhat fatigued. I trust you will obey me. You are my mistress, after all.”

“I, however, have no financial arrangement with you,” Allen said.

“Very true.” March, a wicked gleam in his eyes, addressed Clarissa. “You may proceed alone, my dear. The ivory item, I think, will be most stimulating—for us all.”

“I shall need some help with my stays,” Clarissa said.

“I am sure Allen will oblige.”

Allen, muttering under his breath, undid the drawstring that held her gown in place. Behind her, he drew in his breath as the gown floated to the floor like a piece of gossamer. Petticoat and stays followed, and finally her thin silk shift, leaving her in stockings and dark pink silk garters.

“On second thoughts,” March said, “I believe that is all the undressing you need to do. What do you think, Allen?”

“Christ.” He shifted in a way that indicated to Clarissa that he had an inconvenient erection.

March gazed at the front flap of Allen’s breeches and smiled. “I trust you’re not uncomfortable, Allen.”

Clarissa strolled away from the two men to the tall, Japanned cabinet where March kept his curios, erotic and otherwise. Inside she noted such items as shells, the skull of a small animal, some tiny, intricately carved statues of jade, and the inlaid box that held the phallus. As she bent to retrieve the box she heard the sharp hiss of Allen’s breath.

She sauntered back to them, offering the box to Allen. “I believe you may find this interesting.”

He examined the erotic decoration of the box, undid the catch, pulled away the silk wrapping and became absolutely still.

Clarissa ran her finger down the smooth ivory surface. “It’s very hard. Quite large, too.”

He looked up at her, eyes twinkling, his equilibrium apparently recovered. “Oh, I’m sure you’ll manage.”

She gave a sigh of mock dismay. “Well, it seems there is nothing else on offer, so I shall have to make do.” She lifted the phallus from its silken nest.

Both men watched as she slid the ivory between her breasts. “It is best not to deal with the item when it is cool,” she explained in a helpful tone.

She settled on the bed between the two men, her shoulders on March’s knees, forcing Allen to move further down the bed. She placed one foot on his leg, casually allowing her thighs to fall open. March tugged gently at the strand of jewels between her breasts and shocks of pain and delight thrummed through her, down to thighs and belly. He bent to kiss her.

She lowered the phallus between her thighs and rubbed the smooth head against herself.

March plucked at the jewels again. “See how the clips engorge her nipples. Pretty, is it not?”

Allen stared at her, at the phallus moving between her thighs. “Put it in,” he said, voice rough.

He stood to pull his shirt over his head. His cock pushed against the fall of his breeches.

As she slid the phallus inside her she heard the thud of his boots falling to the floor. His breeches and drawers were down in a second. He knelt between her outstretched thighs and placed his hand over hers, watching the slide—she imagined the stark white of the phallus sinking into her own wet, pink folds—what he could see. His cock jutted dark and hard, a drop of moisture hanging on the tip.

Allen leaned to briefly kiss March’s mouth, then lowered his head to Clarissa’s. His kiss was long, slow, ardent; as intimate as though they were alone and not on display and, for a moment, the warmth of the Caribbean night and the richness of March’s bedchamber swirled away, and they were alone in the darkness of a rocking ship.

“Finesse,” March murmured, bringing her back to the present—her head rested on his thigh still, his hands toyed with her captured breasts.

Allen bent his head to lick March’s fingers and then turned his attention to her engorged nipples. She cried out at the pressure and heat of his mouth, twisting beneath him. Her next cry was of disappointment as the phallus slid from her, and Allen lifted and turned her, arranging her for March’s benefit, her legs parted wide, one foot on his own shoulder.

Allen’s penetration slowed time, as though they could pause the shift of a clock’s hand or the wheel of stars in the heavens, making all subject to the beat of their pulses, the slow trickle of sweat between her breasts. In this place beyond time, she was wild and greedy, straining to reach her climax while Allen held back, checked her.

“You’re so close,” he murmured. “You grip my cock like death, like love.” He slid from her, licking down her belly and into her quim while she squirmed and clutched his hair, cursing him to get back—
Now, Allen, now
.

March laughed. He reached for Allen’s cock.

“Damn you, he’s mine!” Clarissa shouted. She drew her legs up, almost kneeing Allen’s chin, and knocked him off balance, onto his back.

“Take me, then!” he shouted back. He looked mad with lust, sweat darkening the hair on his chest, his teeth bared in a grimace.

Damn finesse.

She took Allen, ravished him. Scrambled astride him, his wrists captured in her hands while he cursed and thrust beneath her, inside her, and strained against her, fighting for his orgasm as she fought for hers.

She collapsed onto his chest, both of them sucking in air as though they had nearly drowned. His heart thudded madly against her, their bodies stuck together with sweat—there was a strange sort of comfort, a peace in their sprawled embrace. She pressed her face into Allen’s neck and inhaled his familiar scent. In a moment, just a moment, she should disentangle herself from him—his cock was still hard inside her and she moved a little to capture a faint flutter of her pleasure.

He groaned and clamped one hand onto her arse. She wasn’t sure if it was complaint or encouragement.

Allen’s breathing slowed. He turned his head to plant a kiss on her forehead and she felt, rather than heard, a slow rumble of laughter, her signal to disengage.

March had not said a word, nor made a sound—possibly she would not have even noticed if he had, so intent had she been on Allen and their mutual release. Now she turned her face to his, seeking his approval at their performance.

He sat as still as any statue, his face gaunt and pale.

He said, “I’m dying.”

“Dying?” Beside Clarissa, Allen pushed himself up onto one elbow.

She felt a terrible shame at her nakedness, at her absorption with her own pleasure, and struggled to cover herself with the sheets.