Chapter 16

16

NUMBER SEVEN AND NUMBER SIX

Lady Ashby was able to contrive another meeting with Captain Winterton a night or two later; she was becoming quite disturbingly skilled in deception, she reflected, as she put her gloved hand on his arm and accompanied him into the house of assignation, loo mask firmly in place. They needed to talk with some urgency; perhaps all they would do this evening was talk.

Or perhaps not.

Alone with him in the small candle-lit room with its red and gold furnishings, she stripped off her evening cloak, mask and gloves, and turned to look at him. ‘I presume you have heard that your cousin's wife has invited me to stay with them in Hampshire, and I have accepted?' she said, frowning unconsciously.

The Captain had removed his outer clothing too, and undid his mask now with elaborate care; she thought he was purposely not meeting her eyes. She could not wonder at it. It must be difficult for him, this conversation. ‘Yes,' he said. ‘Cassandra, Lady Irlam, did mention it. Of course, I did not reveal that it was of any particular interest to me.'

Isabella was conscious of an inevitable awkwardness – they were discussing the woman he loved, as they had at the outset agreed never to do – but it must be overcome. God knows she had no desire to hurt his most tender feelings, but she must know if she would be walking into some hideous situation that would end badly for all of them. ‘Why has she asked me?' she demanded. ‘I hardly know her. Is she trying to make up a match between us, do you think? In which case it must be horribly painful for you, and perhaps I should invent some excuse to withdraw my acceptance.'

‘No!' he said with surprising heat. Perhaps he needed her there as some sort of shield against his feelings for Cassandra, Isabella thought. A distraction, a protection. Not very flattering, but understandable, she supposed. His motives for acquiescing to her plan were, after all, none of her business. And then he went on more calmly, ‘No. I'm sure there's no need for that. She might be – matchmaking, I mean, in a mild sort of way. But even if that's true, I'm sure she'd never do anything more than put us in proximity, the natural proximity that must arise in a house party of this kind. Perhaps she has hopes of bringing us together, but it can't be of any great moment to her, and if we both show we have no such inclination, I am sure she will have good breeding enough to do nothing more.' His face seemed troubled, and no wonder, but his voice was firm and even as he continued, ‘She said she liked you – why should she not? – and hoped you would bear her company. I dare say she misses Georgie now she's married and gone to live in Yorkshire, for they are very close, you know.'

This gave Isabella a momentary pang – what if the two women corresponded and discussed her? What if the Duchess revealed her secret to her bosom bow and sister-in-law? But that was folly, she reassured herself. Georgiana had appeared fully to understand the reasons for keeping the matter secret, had agreed not even to tell her own husband. And Cassandra herself could know nothing, had appeared to know nothing whatsoever. It must be as he said, and certainly if he could overcome the awkwardness, which he had said he could, it would be most convenient, apart from the presence of his parent.

‘Will you feel uncomfortable… continuing when your mother is staying in the house?' she asked him, her eyes fixed intently on him.

He held her gaze steadily, his expression one she could not hope to interpret. ‘No,' he said shortly. ‘Perhaps I should, but I won't. We shall be discreet, of course, and nobody will suspect anything. As far as anyone knows, we are barely acquainted. Will you feel uncomfortable?'

‘Maybe a little, but I will overcome it, I dare say. My own parents would be different, naturally, and I imagine they might easily notice, or my mother might, which would be excessively awkward. Disastrous, really. But you are a grown man, after all, and have been independent for years.'

‘Yes,' he said, ‘I am.' His voice was very low, and she was suddenly aware that, despite his troubled mind, he was aroused, simply being here with her in this intimate little room where so much had already passed between them. She knew he wanted her, and she knew that he was waiting, patiently or impatiently, for her to tell him what number seven was, because he didn't know. And at some deep level, she thought, he didn't care what it was – whether it was something that would lead to his fulfilment or hers, or both. He would perform whatever task she set him with equal willingness. It was intoxicating, the power she had over him.

She said a little breathlessly, ‘Well, there is no denying it will be excessively convenient, to be sleeping in the same house together.'

‘Will I be doing much sleeping?' he said. He was smiling now, all disturbance apparently banished, and his blue eyes were glittering.

‘Perhaps not.' How her heart was racing! ‘But now I must discuss a delicate matter with you, sir, that affects us both. The fact is, I have every reason to believe myself unable to conceive a child; no, more than that, I know…' Why was she telling him this? It was private, a source of deepest pain, and no affair of his. But in a sense it was his business, she had made it so, and she must reassure him. ‘When I did not conceive after many months, I consulted doctors, the most renowned practitioners in London. And they told me I was barren. There would be no child, and the fault was mine. They spoke of hysteria, and wandering wombs.' Her voice faltered, recalling the utter humiliation of it, then somehow she found the courage to continue. ‘I didn't understand how they could be so sure, and God knows I didn't want to believe them – as I think I've told you, I later persuaded myself I was with child when I was not and could not have been. But that does not signify now. It is all past and gone. I only mention it because you need have no fear that I, that we…'

He said, his voice unsteady, ‘I hate to see you so distressed, Isabella. I'm sorry you were obliged to tell me, but of course I understand why you did. Thank you for confiding in me. I will not insult your trust by asking you if you are sure; I see that you are.'

‘The most eminent doctors, and such certainty…!' she responded in what was almost a cry of pain, and then, ‘Please, may we alter the subject?'

‘Of course. Forgive me, my dear. Perhaps tonight is not the time to do more than talk, after all – would you like me to escort you home?'

He was so considerate; how well she had chosen! ‘I would not,' she said firmly. There were tears on her cheeks, but she would not regard them. No, she would push these darkest memories away, down in the darkness where they belonged, and she knew exactly how to go about it. Release, and the momentary oblivion that it brought, was what she needed. She felt herself drawn inexorably to him; he was only a few steps away, and she closed the distance in a rush. She reached up to caress his cheek, and he turned his mouth and pressed a hot kiss into her palm. ‘Number seven…' she said, her hand still on him, ‘is long overdue, it seems to me.'

‘Before we proceed to number seven…' His voice was hoarse. ‘Before we do that, I must repay your confidence in me and tell you, as I should have told you before we commenced on number six, that you stand in no peril from me. I have not indulged a great deal, before I met you, in… pleasures of the flesh, and when I did I was always extremely careful to be protected. To protect others.'

‘I would expect no less of you,' she said composedly. Ash had told her the same; had said that any decent man must do as much, or never think to take a woman as his wife or lover. He had been safe, and therefore so was she. But she could hardly tell Leo that; it would be in poor taste. It seemed he had harboured no such concerns about her. How complicated it all was. She shook her head and returned to the moment. ‘Number seven, then…'

‘What is number seven?' he asked huskily. ‘Dare I guess…?'

Isabella drew him over to the red velvet couch and seated herself, pulling him, unresisting, down beside her. She lay back, smiling, and said, ‘I think you must know that now it is your turn to kneel before me.'

‘Oh God, yes,' he said fervently and slid instantly to the floor at her feet.

She looked at him expectantly and he gazed up at her, flushed, his pupils dilated so that his eyes were dark as sin. ‘I want to please you,' he whispered, ‘as you pleased me. I don't have a great deal of experience of this particular delight – but I want to learn. There's nothing in the world I want more than to give you pleasure.'

‘I know,' she said. ‘I know you do. And you will.' She was suddenly, ridiculously, on the verge of tears again. Why should it mean so much? It was merely the execution of her plan. Another memory to keep. But she refused to stop and think and let doubts creep in. She wanted his mouth on her. She would have it. ‘Uncover me. I don't care if it's fast or slow. Let that be as you please. Uncover me, kiss me, lick me, eat me.'

‘It will be as slow as I can make it,' he said raggedly, ‘which may not be very slow, after all, for I am eager to taste you at last.'

‘You will find that I am wet for you,' she replied with equal unsteadiness. She almost shocked herself, saying such a thing to him, but she was full of raw emotion after her painful disclosure, and perhaps that was why the extraordinarily frank admission had slipped out. She'd been able to speak so to Ash; she'd never looked to utter such words again. But she could trust Leo with so many of her secrets.

He couldn't know what she was thinking, but her honesty was plainly too much for him; he groaned, and pulled up her skirts with clumsy, determined fingers that shook. He shoved the rich fabric layers roughly aside and lowered his head, and she opened her thighs to him and lay back against the cushions, desperate to lose herself in sensation.

He paused for a moment with his hands on her, and she had to restrain herself from squirming with impatience for his touch – it would be unfair, for she had said fast or slow, had she not? But then he was kissing her inner thighs, his lips hot and hungry, pushing her wider apart with his shoulders so he could reach her fully, and his hands slid up and clasped her bottom, lifting her to a better angle. Then with a groan he buried his face between her legs and commenced devouring her. He'd said he hadn't much experience of this, but he wanted to give her pleasure so badly, and was so highly responsive to her every gasp and sigh and subtle movement, that he could not help but please her, move her deeply. She felt worshipped, and her hands crept down and held his fair head to her, as he lapped and sucked and tongued her with intense concentration. She wouldn't compare it with anything she had experienced before with Ash. She needn't, because she was in control and Leo was her willing captive, and as with all their previous encounters the power she knew she had over him added enormously to her arousal.

She felt herself on the verge of coming, the waves were building inside her, and she gasped, stilling his head with her hands, ‘Slower, slower, Leo, please!' and he heard, smothered though he was in her flesh, or else he felt her and knew instinctively what she needed, and so he drew back a little, glancing up at her and smiling wickedly.

‘Is what I'm doing to your liking?' he murmured against her wet flesh, and she was so aroused that the whisper of his breath on her most tender places made her gasp anew. He was teasing her; he must be very well aware that it was precisely to her liking.

‘Good God, you know it is.' It was a wonder she still had the power of articulate speech. ‘Are you fishing for compliments, sir?'

He laughed and said, ‘I must have a natural aptitude. Who would ever have guessed?' And then he bowed his head again and began to lick along her seam with long, deliberate strokes that set her body arching and made her press herself up against him, her breath ragged. He had slowed the pace a little, as she had demanded – begged? She was past telling – but the imperative of her body would not be denied, and in a moment she was crying out and clutching the sofa cushions as an intensely powerful orgasm claimed her and carried her away.

When she came back to herself, he was still buried in her, languorously licking, kissing, nibbling gently with his teeth. Little aftershocks still jolted her, and only slowly ebbed away. At length, he sat back on his heels and raised his eyes to hers. Their gazes locked, and Isabella felt suddenly as though she stood outside herself, above herself, looking down on the body of a woman sprawled lewdly on a couch, skirts about her waist, in a room that must have seen a dozen, a hundred of such meetings. A woman, with a man between her legs, a man she barely knew. She felt dizzy for a moment, disorientated, and then he said, ‘I think that was the most wonderful thing that's ever happened in my life. I can't ask if it was anything like the same, but I do hope it was good for you.' His face was wet, dazed, and she could not doubt the truth of what he said. It wasn't a question and she couldn't answer him in words: dared not, perhaps.

‘Come and kiss me,' was all she could reply. He rose and joined her on the sofa and she seized his face between her hands so that she could taste herself on him. They were the most urgent kisses they had yet shared, and in a little while Isabella had to pull away to catch her breath. He was beneath her now and she had rolled to straddle him. Her skirts were still rucked up in wild disorder and his hands were on her bare bottom, clasping it tightly. She could feel his hardness against her naked skin, through the thin fabric of his evening breeches. ‘We never completed number six!' she gasped.

‘You don't have to,' he ground out against her throat. ‘I don't expect?—'

‘But I want to,' she said. She slid off him and took his place on the floor; she all but tore at his breeches buttons to free him, and there was no finesse in her touch this time, no teasing and slow exploration. He was fully aroused, big and hot, the silky skin straining and begging for release, and she would give it to him, devouring him as he had devoured her. She closed her eyes and took him eagerly into her mouth, glorying in the way his whole body tensed as she claimed him and set to work, glorying in his moans, and in the escalating rhythm of his breathing that told her, if she had needed to be told, that he was about to spend himself in her in helpless surrender.

A while later, Lady Ashby, alone in her chamber, firmly crossed numbers six and seven from her list and then took up her pen again for a very different purpose.

Dear Mama, once again my fond love to Papa and to you. I received your last letter safely, and continue well, as I hope you both do, apart from his troublesome rheumatic pains. I hope the flannel is helping. But I have some news! I have, as I am sure I must have told you, become acquainted with Lady Irlam, Cassandra, who is married to Georgiana's brother and so in some sense a family connection of mine too. Her maiden name was Hazeldon and she is from Skipton, imagine that, and later I will tell you all the Yorkshire people we can count as shared acquaintances, for I know it will interest you greatly. She is making up a house party, chiefly the Pendlebury family, at her home in Hampshire, Castle Irlam, and has asked me to join them for a few weeks. I have accepted; indeed, it would have been discourteous not to do so when she has been so kind and welcoming. I know that you expected me home before long, and are anxious for me to return, and I promise I will come well before Christmas, but I thought you could not possibly object to my accepting such an unexceptionable invitation…

It wasn't the easiest of letters to write, as Isabella could well imagine her mother's reaction when she read that her daughter was leaving Blanche's home to spend time with a group of fashionable people quite unknown to Mrs Richmond, and of whose characters and motives, she could not doubt, knowing her mother as she did, she would be suspicious. She was at pains to reassure her anxious mama of their utter respectability, and she hoped their connections to Yorkshire would render them acceptable, which was why she stressed it. She wasn't writing to ask for permission, which was just as well because she'd never have received it, and by the time her mother replied with all the reasons why she shouldn't go, it would be too late and she'd be there. She wasn't looking forward in the slightest to receiving that letter.

Writing left her unsettled, then, and on top of that it had been an extraordinary evening, full of extremes of emotion. She had told Leo one of her darkest secrets, something she hadn't even confessed to her mother during the long months of her illness. It had been an entirely private thing till now. That encounter with the doctors had been one of the worst humiliations she'd ever suffered, and speaking of it ought to have drained her – instead, she'd felt liberated, and now she felt almost giddy in reaction.

She could not help but reflect that soon they would be at Castle Irlam, for good or ill, and soon, Leo would be inside her at last performing that basic, primal act which seemed to hold such significance. If anyone had known that they were lovers – for that was what people would say they were, and she supposed it was true despite the highly peculiar circumstances she had devised – they would assume that they'd been doing that all along.

‘I have a lover,' she said aloud. Odd that she'd never thought to say it or even to think it before. She, Isabella Richmond Mauleverer, a barren, sad, previously mad widow from Harrogate whom everybody pitied, if they were kind, and shunned, if they weren't, had a lover. They, she and her lover, had committed sodomy – because, she'd looked it up, what he'd done to her and what she'd done to him tonight, both of those things were defined as sodomy by whoever it was who spent their precious time defining such matters, and were illegal. Even when she'd done them with Ash, her lawfully wedded husband, they'd been illegal, and presumably, if things could be more illegal – could they? – they were even more illegal when done, when committed, thrillingly, with a naval captain you hardly knew in a dubious house of assignation in Mayfair. ‘Excellent!' said Isabella aloud in the silent room, and when she fell asleep she was smiling.