Lessons and Lovers (7 page)

“Please… It’s just plain ‘Hettie’,” she whispered, evading him.

“Hettie.” The word was like an intimate caress itself, the way her inquisitor said it. “Hettie, do you touch yourself? Do you give yourself pleasure?”

“I-I—” The answer was locked in her throat. She wanted to tell him but her vocal chords felt as if they were paralyzed.

“I’m sorry, Hettie, I didn’t mean to embarrass you,” he said quietly, “It’s just that I know so little. Or at least I do now… Sex seems to be one of the areas that was blanked by my head injury. It’s very frustrating.” He bit his full lower lip and something melted inside her, “I’m a man, Hettie, but I can’t remember what it’s like to be one.”

He spoke haltingly, but the expression on his pure, serious face told a clearer story. And for a moment, Hettie felt the maddest urge to try and fill in the gaps for him. He could be hers now if she simply flipped down the straps of her dress, drew him to her naked bosom then lay back and let him take her. She imagined his stiff eager cock rising again, nudging against her, then sliding in. It was only a short while since Starr had pleasured her completely and thoroughly, but astonishingly she already felt like making love again.

Her fingers twitched as if she were really about to loosen her clothing, but then a bell tinkled high and sharply in the corridor outside the library.

“It’s the dinner bell,” said Hettie as Darryl quirked his sleek black eyebrows. She felt confused and disorientated. How could she feel attracted to Darryl when Starr’s cool, intense presence was becoming more and more imprinted on her consciousness? She glanced at her companion and felt the sharpest pang. He was astonishingly desirable, but acknowledging that desire felt painfully like a betrayal.

And not of her dead husband. Of someone all too living.

Frowning slightly, she watched as Darryl rose smoothly to his feet and held out his arm to her, “Lady Henrietta,” he said, his voice formal yet velvety, “May I escort you to dinner?”

Hettie had to smile back at him. He was such a gem. “Of course,
Signor
di Angeli, I’d be honored.”

And with that she stood up, took his arm, and let herself be escorted to the dining room.

Starr fell back against the mat, his breathing heavy and his near-naked body streaming with sweat. How many sit-ups had he done? He couldn’t remember. He only knew that no amount of hard physical exercise could purge his mind this time.

He lay there for a moment, centering himself, then rose quickly and reached for the bottle of mineral water on the tallboy. Drinking deep, he attempted to focus on his body and gauge his levels of energy and fitness, but all he could really think about was Hettie and what she might be doing with—and saying to—the Italian.

“You’re jealous, man,” he whispered to himself, then smiled grimly at the enormity of the understatement. He’d seen the way his adored Hettie had looked at di Angeli. And while he’d told himself ferociously that it was not his place to even have an opinion on the matter, he couldn’t suppress the gouging surge of sexual envy he experienced each time he’d seen Hettie cast an interested glance at her new houseguest.

Don’t be a bloody fool!
He took another long drag at the water bottle, then put it aside and peeled off the thin, perspiration-soaked jersey trunks he’d been working out in.

In his tiny bathroom, he spun the showerhead and bared his teeth as he stepped beneath the punishing, brutally ice-cold flow. The water should have dowsed his turbulent emotions and calmed his wayward body, as it so often had before when his longing for Hettie had become unmanageable. But this time the regime was ineffective. His mind and his heart whirled, and despite the confusion of his thoughts and the freezing shower, his cock grew rigid.

“Fuck!” he growled, then spun the dial to a more comfortable temperature. Why suffer when the prescription wasn’t working? Why suffer any more than he already was? Than he
always
did.

In his fantasy, the woman he loved, the woman he would do anything for, endure anything for, give anything for, stepped into the cubicle and drew close to him. The now-warm water streamed over her lush but slender body and plastered her lovely mane of golden hair against her skull. Starr groaned like a martyr in torment as a hand closed around his penis. In his dream it was her hand but in reality it was his own.

He had loved Henrietta Miller from the instant he’d first set eyes on her, but if he were to remain an honorable man and worthy of the trust that Piers Miller had placed in him, he could never claim her. He was sworn to protect Hettie and to take care of her—even service her libido when it was required of him—but no more than that. He was her servant and she was his mistress. He knew that his rigid adherence to his role might seem archaic in the twenty-first century, but he’d made a pledge to himself. A pledge in honor of the man who had raised him from the gutter—and from the easy slide into petty, then more serious crime—which he could not break.

The vow was that he would never take advantage of what he and Hettie shared. Never pressure her for more. He wanted and needed her love. It was a glittering prize that shimmered constantly in his imagination. But to pursue it so soon after the death of Piers Miller was to insult his mentor’s memory and exploit Hettie’s confused emotions and her grief at the loss of her husband. She’d loved Piers deeply, and still loved him. She’d been faithful to him emotionally, even while she’d shared her body with Starr. And that was why he could not claim her.

And yet there was a primitive, territorial part of him that raged to make her his in every way. Heart and soul as well as body. His ancient brain, where instinct held sway, told him that she was his woman and he must imprint himself on every part of her.

I am not a fucking caveman!

He still felt guilt at giving in to his needs the other night. But the urge to show her some physical tenderness after the long months of their mutual celibacy had become too great. And it had finally driven him back to her bed.

His fingers stilled for a moment on his cock at the recollection. He’d barely been able to contain the bittersweet joy he’d experienced when she’d welcomed him. He’d hidden it scrupulously, but as he’d entered her exquisite body, his heart had been singing.

Yes, he was proud of his iron self-discipline, and it never failed him. He couldn’t allow it to. Except at private moments like these, when there was nobody but himself and his aching cock to witness his internal agony.

“Oh Hettie, I love you!”

His voice was a ragged, falling cry of longing as her phantom hand rode smoothly back and forth along his engorged rod. His heart twisted as he imagined—remembered—her delicate yet intoxicating touch on his flesh and the way she always and unerringly found the sweetest and most responsive spots. Time after time he’d had to pry her warm fingers off him for fear that he might come in selfishness and not pleasure her at the same time. He’d made yet another oath to himself that his agenda in bed would always be to focus solely on her experience, her satisfaction and her orgasms, even at the expense of his own. If he came in the process, it was a treasured by-product, not the object of the exercise.

But here in this secret zone where wishes could be real, he allowed himself what he denied elsewhere. Here in his imagination, his naked, adorable mistress sank to her knees beneath the cascading water and took his heavy flesh between her moist, caressing lips. Here, it was all right to give in to his every desire and urge and grasp her head, fingers digging into her sensuously coiling hair as he thrust unrestrainedly into the welcoming heat and wetness of her mouth. Here, it was all right to fuck that beautiful mouth, possess that loving, accommodating cavern and then empty his silky load of semen right down her throat.

“Oh Hettie,” he cried again, the words a sound of worship, of desperation and of resignation as his creamy tribute hit the shower wall and mingled with the water trickling down it.

“Doesn’t
Signor
Starr dine with you?” Darryl asked suddenly over coffee. He’d asked questions. Lots of questions. But Hettie had been both charmed and amused by the subtle way he’d brought her out of herself and finessed information from her. She’d ended up telling him about most of her life, up to and including her marriage to Piers, and was touched by his gentle condolences.

And she didn’t mind telling him things. After all, his well of experience had been cruelly emptied. The only way he could find out about life and the world was to hear what’d happened to others.

But this latest question troubled her. As a lot of things about her relationship with Starr did. More and more. Since Piers’ death, the dining arrangements had become an issue. She wanted the handsome blond to eat with her. He had insisted—with immaculate but unshakeable politeness—that it was inappropriate and he’d continue to eat alone in his room or in the kitchen.

“He’s just ‘Starr’, and no, he doesn’t.” She shrugged, wondering for perhaps the hundredth time since they’d sat down just what exactly her cool-eyed protector was doing all this time. “But it’s not for want of me asking him.” She took a sip of her Amaretto, and savored its fiery almond bite, trying not to dwell on Starr’s impenetrable foibles and idiosyncratic standards of what was correct and proper.

“He’s a very private man, Darryl, and he likes to observe certain protocols,” she continued, swirling her finger around the base of her glass, “Although God knows why he thinks dining with me is improper when he’s perfectly happy to—”

Good God, what am I saying?

She hesitated, but Darryl’s eyes were wide and bright and his silence tacitly urged her to continue.

“Well, he’s a bit more than just a servant, Darryl,” she murmured, blushing again.

“I know. I can tell.”

“It’s… It’s difficult to explain. I—” She studied the fine crystal pattern of the glass, unable to face him.

“There’s nothing to explain, Hettie,” Darryl replied softly, his strange composure throbbing in every syllable. “You need him and you’re fond of him, and it’s obvious he worships the ground you walk on. And neither of you owe
me
any explanations.” His long brown hand slid over her paler, more slender one. “I’m the one who’s in debt here. You’ve let me come into your house when a guest is the last thing you need.”

“But, Darryl—”

“It’s okay, Hettie,” he whispered, stunning her all over again by lifting her hand to his lips.

His mouth barely brushed her skin but it had all the impact of a real kiss.

Hettie bit back a gasp of confusion—as much from the import of Darryl’s words as from the contact between his mouth and the back of her hand.

Does Starr worship me?

She knew he felt something for her, but the wall he built between them was so hard to breach. It was so impossible to tell precisely what was going on with him, even in the throes of sexual passion. He almost always cried out her name as he climaxed, but it was never long before he reverted back to his usual respectful yet iron-clad emotional distance. He was like a perfect male robot, programmed to serve her. A beautiful, intuitive, thoughtful and sexually inventive robot certainly, but still one following a very stringent code of conduct.

“Goodnight, Hettie. Please don’t think I’m rude, but I feel very tired again.”

Hettie snapped back to full consciousness, realizing that Darryl was already taking his leave of her. She’d been so busy wool-gathering about Starr again that she hadn’t noticed that Darryl had relinquished her hand and was already on his feet.

“Goodnight, Hettie. And thanks for everything.” His gaze flicked down his own body and he grinned impishly, then with a spin like a dancer’s he turned and was through the door and gone before she’d even framed her answer.

“What’s the matter with me?”

Alone and frustrated, Hettie prowled her room.

What’s happening to me?

One day she was a grieving widow, mourning the loss of a husband she’d loved deeply. The next she was some kind of insatiable sexual glutton, experiencing random pangs of lust and totally unable to organize her feelings or formulate any kind of plan that would help her resolve them.

I’ll have to say something soon…or I’ll go mad!

And yet she hardly dare think about her tall blond servant. Her relationship with him was already mutating faster than she could cope with. Nursing Piers, then mourning him, had allowed her to compartmentalize her peculiar interactions with Starr. But now that the keenest pain of loss was ebbing things weren’t so clear-cut.

For her, and maybe for Starr too. She thought about the massage. He’d come to her during the daytime—and taken her so hungrily she could still feel the effects of it.

What was all that about, Mr. Iceman?
You broke a rule, Starr. Not mine…one of your own.

The resumption of sex between them had been a huge catalyst. It was no use fooling herself. It wasn’t as if she’d stopped missing Piers all of a sudden. She
did
miss him, but she’d been brought back to full sexual life again. She was a mass of surging hunger, and wild to fuck. It was as if she was trying to unconsciously make up for months of celibacy in the space of a few short hours.

And where was Starr tonight when she needed him? He was the one who’d started all this. She’d been assuming he’d visit her room again but as yet there was no sign of him.

Serves me right, Piers, doesn’t it?
She glanced at her dead husband’s photograph as she slipped into a sheer black nightgown, then covered it with a matching floor-length robe. “Two lusty men in the house and neither of them here to service me!” she muttered, half amused, half irritated as she smoothed her fingers over the luxurious silk of her “mourning”. Even if the rest of her widowhood was becoming increasingly unconventional, at least she could observe the formality of wearing black.

But Starr might not even be in the house. She’d told Darryl that her servant was a private person and it was nothing but the truth. Starr was also a free agent, and when his duties were done there was nothing to prevent him from going out and leading his own life. His working hours had always been flexible, and neither Piers nor herself had ever expected him to be at their beck and call 24/7. Starr himself was the one who chose to be constantly at her disposal, but theoretically he was free to do what he wanted. He might be visiting friends. He might even have another woman.