Passion Over Time (3 page)

He was not unpleasing. He stood perhaps seven inches taller than herself and his shoulders were broad enough to be masculine. Broad enough for her to rest her burdens upon.

He was a young widower with a stable, respectable income. His daughter was just two years old, with fat little rosy cheeks, adorable round blue eyes, and tumbling chestnut curls. An absolutely adorable child.

But Beth knew herself too well to lie.

He was too kind a man for her to deceive. Not only was she not a virgin, but she possessed the heart of a harlot.

She knew what such a man expected of his bride.

A shy welcome.

A joy in letting him take his pleasure.

Perhaps even the occasional climax, happened upon by sheer accident, accepted as a happy but rare occurrence, demurely downplayed with pretty confusion.

Oh, but she could never again be a shy bride. She’d been schooled too well in pleasure and had proved too apt a student. And the blame for that could be laid at no one’s feet save her own.

He would be shocked.

He would turn from her.

He would grow to despise her.

She wasn’t even entirely certain she could remain faithful to such a man. He didn’t excite her. And she couldn’t seem to eradicate that part of herself that lay in wait, restless like a tigress. Springing to life at the sight of a powerful gentleman.

She could never marry.

Never.

“Forgive me, Reverend Morris, but I need Miss McConnell again.”

Beth jerked her gaze in the direction of the slightly strained yet gentle voice. “I am so sorry, Mrs. Philips, I let the time get away from me.”

Mrs. Philips smiled with tight lips. “It is quite all right.”

But it wasn’t. The woman had paid Elizabeth to play a set quantity of pieces. Middling sort of women like her were always models of economy, very mindful of the money they spent and how much quality they received back.

Elizabeth quickly made her excuses to Reverend Morris, then walked with Mrs. Philips back to the main chamber.

Above the clatter of voices, a deep, commanding tone caught her ear. A voice that put a quiver into her belly.

She sucked in her breath and turned in that direction.

The man stood a little taller than the others.

Coal-black hair.

A leanly chiseled face. An arrogantly jutting jaw.

Well-tailored clothing that clung to an exceptionally elegant yet hard-muscled body. Clearly a gentleman, quite in contrast to the middling sort of merchants that filled the chamber.

The details of his appearance lashed into her. His carnal allure seemed to spark on the air like fire, like spice. Like sin.

Her heart raced with alarm and her feet froze. The blood drained from her head and she suddenly fell against the wall.

What was a wealthy man like Sexton doing here at a social gathering consisting solely of middling merchants? Yes, he might court their investments by day in a meeting such as at the bookseller’s, but to mingle with them in their homes during his leisure hours seemed unlikely.

Reckless, reckless girl!

A sweat-pouring, chilly queasiness gripped her. Her heart pounded in her ears.

She was going to be caught.

Caught.

“Oh, Mr. Sexton is here.” Mrs. Philips clapped her hands together. “How wonderful!”

“Mr. Sexton?” Elizabeth replied woodenly. She knew she was overreacting. She couldn’t help it. Too much would be at stake if she were ever caught. Not only would she be ruined, but she might even lose her home and her newfound family connection. Even Mrs. Hazelwood would turn her away at the door. Dear heavens, she’d have no place at all.

Why couldn’t she stop risking everything for the sake of her little adventures?

Because I’d go mad without the release, the chance to be wild and wanton, even for just an hour. I must have it. I need it to breathe. It’s my nature. My wicked nature—

“Yes, my husband captained a ship for his father, years ago.” Mrs. Philips’ voice cut into Elizabeth’s thoughts. “Mr. Sexton served as the supercargo. They fought off pirates in the Orient. My, the stories they tell! This is why I wanted you here, to play something…romantic. Your playing has such a heavenly, magical quality. Mr. Sexton is a widower. Why, if he dances with our Patsy, who knows what may—” Mrs. Philips seemed to catch herself and a superior expression covered her face. “Well go on, girl.”

Elizabeth leaned against the wall, closing her eyes, as though hiding Mr. Sexton from view could make him disappear. Any moment he might glance down the corridor.

He would see her.

She couldn’t allow that.

Meeting a gentleman at Mrs. Bickle’s exclusive and expensive tearoom or in the shadows at the theatre or even at a bookseller’s shop on the complete other side of town, that was one thing. But to see him here, in the parlor of a neighbor? No, no, no, it just couldn’t happen. No gentleman should ever see Beth in Elizabeth’s world.

The way he will look at you. Carnal knowing will glint in his eyes. Everyone will know that you’re a harlot!

Her belly cramped, the nausea increased, and a little miserable moan escaped her.

She wasn’t thinking clearly.

She was losing control.

But she couldn’t help it. The fear of discovery was too strong. Her secret life was such a dangerous thing. One misstep and she’d lose—everything!

“What ever is the matter? You’ve gone quite pale.” Mrs. Philips’s tone was accusing rather than sympathetic.

Elizabeth laid a hand over her churning stomach. “I am suddenly very sick.”

“What!”

Elizabeth cringed. “I am sorry.”

Mrs. Philips gripped her arm. “What will I do now for music?”

“I don’t know—I’m sorry, I shall be sick!” Elizabeth pushed past the woman’s hold and retreated through to the kitchen and out the back.

A while later, she lay panting, leaning against the wall on Mrs. Philips’s back stoop, her stomach still cramping. But at least she hadn’t cast up her accounts.

With this scare, she’d certainly learned her lesson.

No more gentlemen. No more wild, wanton risks. I’ll be good, so good. I swear, no more gentlemen.
She swallowed hard against a wave of queasiness.
Never, ever again.

* * * *

“Nearly three weeks you are in Philadelphia and no word?”

Another woman might have been sounded resentful or hurt. But Marie was merely making conversation. Grey lay abed with his mistress in the house he provided for her on Cherry Street. Though it had been two weeks since the day at the bookseller’s, he’d been in town almost three weeks. It was surely an insult to his mistress that he had neglected to visit. He thought up a plausible excuse. “I have been under the weather.”

He had come here directly from Philips’ coming-out party for his daughter. Grey and Marie hadn’t spoken much over their late supper. That wasn’t unusual and she hadn’t taken offense. She understood him. It was always such a relief not to have to worry about entertaining her. To let silence speak for him.

She threaded her hand through the hair on his chest; her touch was soft, sensual.

Practiced. Deliberate.

“I see.” She gazed up at him, her wide, full mouth spread into a toothy smile. “And you are better,
n'est-ce-pas
?”

“
Oui
.” His face felt as if it might crack under the strain of his smile.

It wasn’t like him to lie about his feelings in these situations. He never had to. Not with Marie. They had a basic relationship. She allowed him the use of her body and in return he provided for her. He’d always been rather eager to reacquaint himself with her after spending time away. He usually found his way to this house within a few days of arriving in Philadelphia.

Now that had changed, and he didn’t want her to know. She would place the blame on some fault of her own. And it simply wasn’t so. She was still a desirable woman.

He rolled halfway over her, his hip grazing her fleshy belly, her pelvic hair tickling his leg. He put his lips to hers.

She opened her mouth, allowing him access, letting him take as much as he wanted.

It was like cold rain when one longed for a blazing hearth.

For the first time ever, kissing her failed to arouse him.

He gave up kissing in favor of touching her breasts. They were soft and lush with large dusky nipples. Everything a man could want. Yet the rose-musk scent of her skin grew cloying and a dull ache set up in the center of his forehead. Heaviness.

She gripped his cock in her practiced way. Efficiently pumping him. He watched his cock surge into a full erection as though it belonged to someone else. He glanced up.

Her eyes were closed, her pose relaxed, settled into a long familiar routine.

Had she always been so perfunctory? Surely not. While he’d never been faithful to her—Christ, he’d never even pretended to be faithful to her—he’d been happy with her for—what was it? Fifteen years? No, couldn’t be—wait. Yes, by God, fifteen years.

Fifteen years.

It seemed like just yesterday. He’d been a young man in the clover time of his life, with much wealth and limited responsibilities. Marie had been somewhere around thirty, he was never sure exactly. So dark and exotic. So even-tempered and adaptable. So very different from the women his own age.

Shortly after she accepted his carte blanche, his father had died and the infinite weight of the family business had fallen to him. He’d been glad to have the comfort of her then.

He’d been glad of her comfort all these years. Yet tonight he couldn’t bed her. Because it all felt so mechanical. So prearranged.

Good God, he’d rather palm himself off than this.

What the devil was the matter with him? Maybe he was sick. Indeed, he’d felt a sort of sickness since that day in the bookseller’s.

He rolled away from her, fell back on his pillow, and threw his arm over his eyes.

“
Mon chou
?” Marie’s hair tickled as she came to rest again on his chest. She traced her fingertips down his abdomen.

“On second thought, I am still not feeling so well.”

“You feel all right to me.” She laughed softly and grasped his shaft then stroked him firmly.

As though from a distance, he felt his erection grow harder. “Perhaps it’s more a depression of spirit than body.”

She slowed her strokes. In his mind, he pictured her. The skepticism in her large, dark-blue eyes. The dramatic lift in her already well-arched brow. She knew him as a man with minimal feelings. She’d never believe he could suffer sadness. Yet incredibly, his spirits were about as sour as he imagined they could get.

He disengaged himself from Marie, arose from the bed, and went into his adjoining dressing room. Despite his still throbbing erection, he felt very cold inside. Empty. Two brandies couldn’t warm him. Nor could a fine cigar. His mind kept returning to a singular, maddening thought.

Why hadn’t
she
come to him in his rooms at City Tavern?

* * * *

Beth awoke, twisted in sweat-soaked sheets, listening to the ancient clock in the hall chime twice. She was exhausted from the evening’s scare but she remained awake.

Beside her, Ruth snored in a growling, rumbling tone. She shouldn’t complain about being cramped for space. It was better to be sleeping here in the larger bed. When Ruth’s husband was in port, Beth slept with her nieces in their narrow bed beyond the screen and bore them putting their cold little toes on her back.

She sighed. It was just as well to be awake. Even when she had fallen asleep, she hadn’t had any restful sleep. Silver eyes and strong features had dominated her dreams once more. Again and again, her New York gentleman leaned over her, his cock pressing between her legs, poised to enter her.

Her flesh ached to receive him, to be stretched and filled by him. Again and again, she clutched his broad shoulders, wrapped her legs about him, only to have the vivid image fade and to awake to the stuffy bedchamber.

Today’s inglorious experience of nearly casting up her accounts from sheer panic on Mrs. Philips’ back stoop seemed hazy, distant. As though it hadn’t even been real.

Only her dreams seemed real.

Only he seemed real.

And he was still in Philadelphia.

Tension rippled through her pelvis, her nub was tight, her channel was an empty, aching void. She crossed her legs then slid her hands down her front and pressed.

It wasn’t any good. Her flesh clenched and clenched and wetness slicked her inner folds. The distant ticking of the clock, marking the long moments, seemed to amplify her need.

And what of his need too?

Did he lay awake, sorry that she hadn’t come to visit?

A little fission of alarm raced in her heartbeat at that thought. But she couldn’t deny it. This evening, she had caught his look, distant and slightly wistful. Loneliness was etched into his expression and had reached into her deeply.