Corbin's Fancy (22 page)

Jeff laughed. “At least they’re honest,” he said. “Sex is a natural thing and they aren’t shy about it. Why should they be?”

Fancy couldn’t think of an answer to that for the life of her, so she took a second helping of thinly sliced roast beef and kept her peace. She probably would have gone on eating all night just to protect herself, if Jeff hadn’t calmly taken away her plate and then returned the serving cart to the hallway.

When that task had been attended to, he turned back to face her. The light of the small fire on the hearth danced on his broad, furred chest and flickered in his eyes.

Fancy swallowed a lump of mingled excitement and dread and was suddenly very conscious of her nakedness.

There was a long, pulsing silence, during which neither of them moved. Then, slowly, surely, Jeff crossed the room. Standing in front of the crackling fire, he removed the towel from around his waist and bent to spread it on the plush rug, just inches from the hearth.

Fancy watched him in bemusement. She wondered what it was in her that always made her want to resist
this man when she knew that there was no doing that. When he offered a steady hand, she took it with one that trembled.

“I’ve been thinking about this ever since we decided to come to Spokane,” he said, his lips not an inch from hers and already working their compelling magic.

“A–About what?” whispered Fancy, even though she knew the answer already. Something wanton within her needed to be told.

“Making love to you, Fancy. Right here, in front of this fireplace.” His hands resting on her shoulders now, he pressed her downward until they were kneeling on the damp towel, facing each other. He caressed her neck, his thumbs moving softly in the hollows beneath her ears, then pushed her hair back over her shoulders. “It will be a long, long time before I let you sleep, Fancy,” he went on in husky undertones. “And even then I’ll wake you up and have you at my leisure.”

Fancy shivered, entranced by his words, knowing and not caring in the least that he would do just that. She tilted back her head and sighed as his hands came inevitably to her breasts, stroking them, caressing, but denying the throbbing nipples the attentions they craved.

He made her ask. And ask again.

She crooned, her fingers tangled in his damp, gleaming hair, as he cupped one warm mound in his hand and nipped at its peak with careful teeth.

Even then, he taunted her with broken, husky words, muttered between plays of his tongue and sucklings that were too brief. “I wanted—this—on the train today,” he said. “Next time—Mrs. Corbin—we’re going to have a private—compartment. And you are going to—attend me properly.”

Fancy moaned, soaring on the wings of her own femininity, as he turned his head to the delights of the other breast. “A–Attend you properly?”

He drew at her noisily, beautifully, and then stopped to reply, “I told you once before. When I want a breast, you will bare one.”

His words were outrageous and arrogant in the bargain, but Fancy didn’t care, not then. She was honest enough to know that if Jeff demanded suckle, regardless of the circumstances, she would nurse him willingly.

He pressed her back to lie prone on the towel, stretching her hands high above her head and holding them there. Assessing her breasts with molten indigo eyes, he breathed, “And I assure you, I will want them often.”

Fancy moaned as he again took sustenance, now greedily, now at leisure. She writhed and the bud of her womanhood grew hard and moist with wanting, raging at its neglect. “W–What about me?” she choked out, wanton in her desire. “W–Will I be p–properly attended?”

Jeff chuckled, understanding, kissing his way down over her glistening, taffeta-smooth stomach. “Until you beg for mercy,” he assured her, in a throaty rumble.

Minutes later, she was doing just that.

While Fancy lay quivering and sated on that bright hearth, her skin warmed to luscious comfort by the heat of its blaze and by Jeff’s lovemaking, he disappeared from the blurred edges of her vision. Moments later, she heard the clinking of crystal, and then he was back, sitting beside her, offering her a glass of shimmering Burgundy wine.

“Have you no—conscience at all?” she struggled to
say, managing to sit upright only because he helped her.

Jeff lifted his own glass in tender deference. “None at all.”

Beyond the door, Miriam could be heard collecting the dinner cart and humming. “Do you suppose she heard us?” Fancy whispered.

Jeff grinned. “What do you mean, ‘us’? You were the one making all the noise, my love.”

“How ungentlemanly of you to point that out!” hissed Fancy, over the rim of her wineglass.

“We’ve been over this ground before—where my being a gentleman is concerned, I mean. I don’t claim to be anything other than a salacious rake.”

“At least you’re honest,” replied Fancy with a saucy toss of her head. Then she took her first sip of wine and found it pleasant. Eventually, a sweet warmth began to spread through her, following the paths that still celebrated her passion.

She set aside her glass and then took Jeff’s, putting it with the other. Laughing, he got to his knees and made to reclaim it. When he reached, leaning forward, Fancy took instant and scandalous advantage.

Jeff was trapped; he moaned in protest and Fancy enjoyed him with abandon. He had no choice but to brace himself with his hands and endure the pleasures in store for him.

Fancy held him fast, her hands on his flexing hips, her heart soaring as he groaned in fierce, reluctant surrender. She began to experiment, nipping at him, kissing him softly, tonguing his magnificent length to a state of sheer splendor.

“Woman,” he warned, his voice rumbling above Fancy like thunder in a stormy sky.

Still, Fancy tormented him, and when he uttered that same word again, it had the tone of a plea.

Suddenly, she felt him stiffen. The muscles in his hips grew taut and then rippled, and a low, growling cry of wondering defeat escaped him. When he collapsed to the floor, breathing in ragged gasps, Fancy smiled and patted his hard stomach. “Have you been properly attended?” she teased.

He emitted a gasping chuckle, though his eyes were still closed and his chest was still heaving. “Oh, yes,” he breathed. “Quite properly.”

*   *   *

Meredith Whittaker assessed Jeff Corbin’s wife with carefully hidden dislike. Sitting there in that wretched, star-dappled dress, her cascading pale hair almost silver in the morning sunshine, she looked like some elfin creature from a fairy tale. The smudges of fatigue beneath her eyes and the velvety shine of satisfaction inside them nettled Meredith, made her want to cause pain.

“What do you mean you don’t want to go out shopping today?” she asked pleasantly, following this with a steadying sip of her tea.

Frances shrugged, curled up in the big barrel-backed chair facing Meredith’s. In another part of the parlor, Miriam Carrington dusted industriously, pretending not to listen in. “I’d rather rest.”

Meredith smiled. With an effort. “Long night, Frances?” she asked cattily.

“My name is Fancy,” replied the sprite with an answering smile. “And, yes, it was a long night.”

Harlot, Meredith thought, uncharitably. But then she remembered that she’d spent a few nights in Jeff
Corbin’s bed herself. A delicate blush moved up over her breasts and tingled on her cheekbones. “Very well, Fancy,” she said, placing an emphasis on the ridiculous name. “If you want your husband to be ashamed of you—”

Fancy tensed in a very satisfying way, and there was a wounded look in the depths of her lavender eyes. Before she could speak, however, Miriam bustled nearer, feather duster in hand. Though the servant didn’t look at Meredith, she felt as though she’d been warned in a most threatening way.

“Oh, dear, I do seem to be tactless today,” she chimed anxiously, reaching out to pat Fancy’s hand and ignoring Miriam as best she could. “I just meant that—well—you’ve obviously lived a very different sort of life than Jeff has. Certain—certain things are expected—”

“Like what?” demanded Fancy with bravado.

Meredith drew a deep breath. “Like not wearing that dress,” she replied in a rush.

“I like this dress.”

“Well, it’s hardly proper!” cried Meredith, at the end of her patience. She wondered if Jeff would be faithful to this creature, then dismissed the thought. Of course he wouldn’t. He was too virile. Too sophisticated.

All she had to do was wait.

Meredith set aside her tea cup and stood up with dignity, smoothing the skirts of her soft blue gown. “Have it your way—Mrs. Corbin. I’m sure your husband will have a few things to say about your recalcitrant and unfriendly manner.”

Fancy simply looked out the window, her eyes wistful, and said nothing.

Once the front door had slammed behind the indignant Meredith, Fancy let the tears she’d been holding back well up in her eyes.

Miriam refilled her tea cup and extended it with gentle insistance. “You mustn’t mind Miss Whittaker. She’s just jealous of you, love.”

Fancy could well imagine why. “H–Has Jeff been in Spokane a lot?” she dared to ask after taking a steadying gulp of her tea.

“Enough,” said Miriam reluctantly.

The word confirmed Fancy’s suspicions. “And Miss Whittaker was his mistress,” she said. Somehow, Meredith was far more threatening than Jewel Stroble had been.

Miriam didn’t offer confirmation, at least not directly. To do that would have been presumptuous and Fancy had already learned that, her familiar manner aside, Mrs. Carrington was very conscious of her proper place. “Nothing that permanent,” she answered, eyes averted.

Fancy sighed and wiped away her tears. If she was going to cry every time she met a woman who had been intimate with the man she loved, she’d get nothing done for weeping. “It doesn’t matter,” she lied firmly.

Miriam’s gentle manner said that it did, but her words were more discreet. “My sister sews, Mrs. Corbin, and right well, too. It’s true you’ll need more clothes and I thought—perhaps—”

Fancy smiled. “Would you send for her? I–I didn’t really want to go out in public, looking like this.”

“You’d be surprised how nice you look,” Miriam responded briskly, “but I understand. I’ll send my Walter for Evelyn right now.”

Twenty minutes later, Evelyn, who might have been
Miriam’s twin, so greatly did she resemble her, arrived burdened with copies of
Godey’s Lady’s Book
and dozens of squares of sample fabrics.

These were being spread out on the dining room table for Fancy’s perusal when Jeff returned, wearing a dapper suit and carrying a number of parcels wrapped in brown paper. Fancy’s heart caught at the sight of him; he’d said he wasn’t a gentleman, but he surely looked like one. Was she lady enough to hold him?

He kissed her briefly, paying no attention at all to Miriam and Evelyn. “Order one of everything,” he said.

Fancy shivered because even the nearness of this man had such a staggering effect on her senses. Always a reticent person, she was shaken by Jeff’s ability to turn her into a shameless wanton with only a look, a touch, or a caress.

“I think Mrs. Corbin is a little overwhelmed,” observed Miriam respectfully.

That subtle rescue won her a place in Fancy’s heart forever. “I wouldn’t know what to buy, or how much—”

“See that my wife has everything she could conceivably need,” Jeff said to the two older women. Then he kissed Fancy again and disappeared, taking the parcels with him.

Fancy spent a bedazzling, confusing, exhausting afternoon being measured for everything from capes to camisoles. She chose styles from the
Lady’s Book,
fabrics from the samples. There were silks and lawns, rich velvets, cottons, and cambrics.

By the time Evelyn bustled out, clutching all her notes and paraphernalia, Fancy was quite undone. Declining Miriam’s offer of something to eat, she went
upstairs to lie down for a while. Perhaps she could make up for some of the sleep she’d lost the night before.

Entering the master bedroom, she was confronted with the reason for her lack of rest. Jeff was sitting in one of the wicker chairs, his back to Fancy, looking out the window toward the west. He had taken off his suit coat, and one of his booted feet was braced against the windowsill.

Fancy wondered what he was seeing there in the distance, and again felt a tugging ache in her heart. Maybe he was yearning for Banner, or the sea. It wouldn’t be unnatural for the former captain of a clippership to dream of sailing again.

Feeling bereft, Fancy was about to back out of the room when he suddenly turned and smiled at her. It was a sad, distant smile. “Stay,” he said softly. “Please.”

Fancy drew a deep breath and worked up a smile of her own. Crossing to the bed, she sat down and made a great business of undoing her highbutton shoes and then removing them. Because she knew she would have a disgraceful fit of weakness if she didn’t occupy herself, she chattered nonstop about all the wonderful things she’d chosen from the fashion book.

Jeff watched her, listening in tolerant silence. She knew she wasn’t fooling him, but still she rushed on.

Finally, he extended one hand and said in a low voice, “Fancy, come here.”

Fancy knew the dangers of that. “I’m too tired!” she protested.

He laughed. “So am I. I only want to hold you.”

She went to him and he drew her down onto his lap,
cradling her head against his strong shoulder. His vest and white linen shirt felt soft under her cheek, and he smelled pleasantly of clean air and sunshine. She began to cry.

Surprisingly, Jeff did not demand to know why. He simply held her, sheltering her in his arms, stroking away the occasional tear with the side of his thumb. Fancy wondered how she would bear the pain of loving him and wailed with the grief of knowing that she always, always would.

His embrace tightened, strong but not crushing, and he propped his chin on the top of her head.

Fancy went on crying—it seemed impossible to stop—and Jeff finally lifted her and carried her to the bed. Gently, he helped her out of her dress and then tucked her under the covers.