A Certain Latitude (14 page)

With a startling change of mood he smiled. Even more surprisingly, his smile was of infinite sweetness without a trace of cynicism. “Ah, Miss Onslowe, I should like to have you as my governess. You’re right. My manners are atrocious.”

“Indeed.” She spoke coolly, but her mind played over a few interesting possibilities. She imagined telling a man—or Allen, specifically—what to do. Making him obey her, serve her. Pleasure her.

He took a step closer.

Her nipples poked out against the thin cotton of her shift. The room was very quiet; a few birds whistled and chirruped outside. A slight breeze set the linen blind tapping against the window frame. They had never been together in such stillness; always they had had the accompaniment of wind and the roar of sails, or sea, the creak of timbers.

“What are you thinking about, Clarissa?”

“I think you know.”

Another step. “On the ship. All that time. I thought about having you in a real bed.”

She placed her hands on his chest. His heart beat rapidly against her palms. There was a scent about him new to her, some sort of expensive soap, she guessed.

“Don’t forget me,” he said with an urgency that surprised her.

She raised one hand to the drawstring of her shift. “I won’t.”

Cotton belled and fluttered as her shift slipped down her body to the floor. She fumbled for her sponge. Vinegar splashed onto the floor as she tipped the bottle, its cork rolling somewhere beneath the bed. She was made clumsy by lust, and by anxiety and impending loneliness, too.

His hands shook as he unbuttoned his breeches—it was unlike him to be so urgent. Rough, almost, as though already aroused beyond endurance, he tore off the rest of his clothes and bore her onto the bed, muttering nonsense about the beauty of her skin in the sunlight. He tasted of brandy—was he drunk? She thought not—his mouth hot and greedy, moved over her face, her breasts—only avid for her as she was for him. And down—
Oh yes, there
, she almost shouted at him—and he twisted to kneel over her, so she could take his cock into her mouth. So much of him, demanding and lengthening, while below his tongue flicked in exquisite torture. She was tempted to let her mouth go slack, and concentrate on the luxury of his lapping tongue while tremors ran through her thighs and belly. But she wouldn’t—both of them had to maintain a certain sensual aloofness to concentrate on each other’s pleasure.

She knew, from the swell of his cock in her mouth, the salty taste, how close he was, too. And how did they look, entwined together? She turned her head to the mirror. There they were in the brightness of the reflection, her skin pale like milk, Allen dark and furred, both of them moving, slow surges against each other. More than a tremor now, a shudder, an urgency that tugged her greedily toward his mouth. And he felt it too, she could tell, bumping over her mouth and chin as he withdrew, turned to position her, knees pushing her legs apart, his mouth coming down hard onto hers. Her taste in his mouth, her mouth, wet heat, his cock in her, thrusting hard, their bodies slapping together.

He paused to raise himself on his hands and looked down at her.

Then at the mirror, smiling. He nodded in satisfaction, lifted her legs around his neck and resumed his thrusts.

She gasped and clutched at his arms, wanting to tell him it was too much, too hard, unable to find the words while he pinned her down, relentless, the muscles in his arms corded and taut.

“Wait—”

He slowed. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s not working.”

“Am I hurting you?”

“No, but…”

“Well, tell me what to do.” A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead. “What do you want, Clarissa?”

What did she want? She wasn’t sure. As she hesitated, Allen resumed his hard thrusting. She tried to follow him, her rhythm gone awry. What they did was enjoyable enough, but not what she wanted.

His thrusts became fast, a liquid warmth spread inside her, and he collapsed onto her with a deep sigh.

“Allen?”

She moved under him, freeing an arm that had become trapped between them.

“Allen, there’s something in my back…”

“Sorry.” He rolled off her. Sure enough, she’d ended up on his coat. He lifted her, pushed the coat aside, the sponging and pressing now undone, but he didn’t really care.

He’d failed her. She hadn’t come. Worse she hadn’t complained, while he’d slammed away at her like a rutting beast.

Should he warn her about March? What was there to warn her about? March’s tastes lay elsewhere. He closed his eyes and laid his forehead against her shoulder, inhaling her scent. He trailed one hand down to her quim, but she moved away with a slight impatient sound.

“How was your gentlemen’s dinner party last night?”

Odd how women became chatty after fucking, as though, once the act was completed, the real business could now begin.

“Oh…lots of drink and cheroots.”

“Indecent stories?”

He grunted. “March gave me a woman.”

“What do you mean?”

“One of the slaves.”

She pushed him off and sat up, gathering her disordered hair into a clump at the back of her neck. “What do you mean?” she repeated.

“March sent a girl to my bedchamber and—”

“And what?”

He was a fool to have even started this. Now he’d have to tell her everything. “I was too drunk.”

She reached for her shift, which was as wrinkled as his coat and pulled it over her head. She didn’t seem unduly put out—maybe she thought he hadn’t done anything. She really knew little of men, despite his tutelage.

A good lawyer would have left it at that. Let the evidence rest. But the strange thing was that often the accused, under oath, blurted out damning truths.

“I fucked her.”

A long silence.

“Indeed? Why are you telling me this?” Her voice was definitely frosty now.

“I was drunk. I didn’t want to, but—”

“You didn’t want to?” She reached for her stays. He saw her hand shake. “So why did you? You raped her, so that you could boast about her to the other men next time you dine with them—”

“It wasn’t rape.”
Was it?

“And what would you call it? She could hardly refuse you, could she?” She yanked the laces of her stays tight.

“I know that. But I’m only human. She came to my bed when I was half asleep, and—”

“And if you hadn’t, you’d be less of a man?” She pulled her petticoat over her head and tugged the drawstring closed.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” he said. “I know now I’m sober that I should have sent her away immediately. You don’t understand, Clarissa.”

“Oh, I think I do.” Her gown now on, she reached for a ribbon—that gaudy, metallic one, now somewhat tarnished from sea water—but it fell from her hand onto the floor. “Are you asking for forgiveness from me, Allen? Because what you did to that woman was unforgivable. I thought you … you weren’t …”

There was a tap on the door. Nerissa came into the room with an armful of clean linen, and looked at Allen, standing, thank God, fully dressed, apart from the neck-cloth in his hand. She gave him a knowing grin.

“You want I come back later, Miss Onslowe?”

“Yes.” She sank onto a chair. When the girl was gone, she said, “So it was Nerissa.”

He nodded. He didn’t want to point out that Nerissa seemed in exceptionally good spirits—certainly in a better mood than he or Clarissa.

Her voice was quiet and cool when she spoke. “It’s unavoidable that we shall meet while we are both here on the island. I have no wish for anything between us but beyond commonplace civility.” She glanced down at her hands, knotted on her lap. “I was mistaken in thinking you a better man.”

“My regrets that I did not live up to your high standards, ma’am.” He bowed, furious with her but damned if he’d show it, and left the bedchamber.

Sick at heart.
She’d never appreciated the phrase before. Regret, sorrow, disillusion—she’d had plenty of those, five long years to regret her previous folly. But now, after the exchange of harsh words with Allen, she felt abandoned, empty. She was pretty sure she was not in love with him, but she had lost her only friend in this strange place.

She finished dressing and made her way downstairs to the drawing room, where the pianoforte stood, shining and elegant. When she raised the lid she found it badly out of tune—no surprise there, considering the long journey and humidity, however well it was packed. Tuning the instrument would occupy her mind well enough; she craved something solitary and mindless where she did not have to maintain any sort of façade or conversation.

“Miss Onslowe?”

The tuning fork in her hand clattered to the floor.

“Oh! Mr. Lemarchand. You startled me.”

“My apologies.” He bent to retrieve the tuning fork and handed it to her. “I regret Pendale has left for his father’s house, depriving us of his company tonight.”

“A pity.” Best not to mention she already knew; Lemarchand might be offended at Allen’s precipitate departure as it was. She gestured at the pianoforte. “I was about to tune the instrument.” Good God, what an idiot she was. What else would she be about?

“Of course.” He stepped back. “You need silence and solitude.”

“Silence, but not necessarily solitude. I can hardly send you from your own drawing room.”

He smiled. “If you do not object to my company…”

“Not at all.” Dithering. That was what she was doing. Dithering. As though she were some silly girl. In a moment she’d blush and twist her hands. It was just as well she held the key and tuning fork to stop her making even more of an idiot of herself.

She wondered what he did—not watching her bottom as she leaned over the keyboard, surely—while she pecked at notes, hummed, played chords—the fiddly business of tuning the modest four octaves of the pianoforte. To her relief, the instrument seemed to have weathered the long voyage well; she could only hope it would hold the tuning in the humid warmth.

She fingered an octave and listened beyond the ring of the notes. Yes, a crackling sound—he was reading a newspaper new when his ship had left England, now weeks out of date; she’d noticed it lying on a small table. And he was watching her. She could feel his gaze as surely as if he had stroked his hand down her back, cupped her bottom, and continued a leisurely exploration down her thighs to her ankles. How much ankle was revealed by her posture? Quite a lot, considering she had one knee rested on a chair, and her skirt, not overfull, hoisted up.

At least she was wearing good stockings.

Wasn’t she?

Resisting the impulse to twist and inspect her stockings—something that would draw March’s attention even more closely—she applied herself to the pianoforte.

Behind her, March cleared his throat and turned the page with a rustle.

The drawing room door creaked open. Celia had arrived; she heard the slight shushing sound of muslin and the pad of calfskin slippers on the wooden floor. The paper rustled again as March stood to greet his daughter.

Clarissa straightened and greeted her pupil. “
Bonsoir, mademoiselle
.”

Celia giggled. “
Bonsoir, Madame Onslowe et Papa
.”

“Most impressive,” March murmured, “considering the main business of the day was with the dressmaker. I should congratulate you, Miss Onslowe.”

“Your daughter learns fast, sir.”

Celia tugged at her father’s sleeve. “Can we eat dinner, Papa? Den Miss Onslowe, she play for us.”

March patted his daughter’s hand. “Your French accent is superior to your English accent, still.” He held out his other arm to Clarissa. “Come, ladies. I believe dinner is served.”

She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow, determined to play the correct governess. But even the most respectable of governesses could not help but be aware of the tight-coiled strength of the man, the scent of bergamot that hung around him, the fine cloth of his coat.

The maids in the house will not speak with me
, Clarissa wrote.
In the past week I have learned their names, but that is all. They will not tell me of how they live and they turn away if I ask about their children. They pretend they do not understand and adopt a dumb sullenness. I fear that I may injure them, that there is much in their lives that has caused them pain. At night they sing, mournful rhythmic melodies that do not seem to have words
.

No! She crossed out her last two sentences. Her account must not have sentiment, only the facts. Maybe she should offer the women money to talk, but even then they might not tell her the truth.

She had asked March if he would consider taking her to see where the slaves lived, or to see them at work in the fields. He had replied shortly that it was no sight for a lady. The rebuke smarted. Did he think females were children, to be treated the way he treated Celia, who often seemed too young for a girl of her age?

The clock chimed and Clarissa hastily stowed away her notebook, and wiped her pen dry. It was time to dress for dinner and March, who had paid a visit to a plantation on the other side of the island for a few days, was to return. Idly Clarissa wondered whether he kept a mistress there.
An abundance of black female flesh
, that was what Allen Pendale had said.

But she didn’t want to think about Allen.

Dinner was tremendously civilized, particularly if you ignored the fact that both the furniture and footmen were the property of one man, who made charming, intelligent conversation. Despite her reservations, Clarissa found herself captivated: sharing with him which poets she liked, her desire as a young girl to learn Greek, and her attempts to learn Latin from her brothers. She told Celia, whose eyes were as wide as saucers, of how at boarding school the girls would rise and break the ice in pitchers of water so they could wash.

“No,” Celia said. “Dat not true, Miss Onslowe.”

“Indeed it is. In the winter—at this time of year, even, in early spring—snow falls. It’s like rain, but colder and white and fluffy, and pretty to look at. And the rivers and ponds freeze over, so you can skate on them. That’s wonderful. It’s like flying.”