Читать книгу The Moonlight Mistress - Victoria Janssen - Страница 11

THE MOTOR RUMBLED IN THE SILENCE OF A RURAL night. Lucilla wished she’d saved some of the coffee from earlier. To her relief, Pascal eventually asked, “Do you know your primes?”

“Choose something more difficult,” she said. “That won’t keep me awake, it’s only recitation.”

He thought for a moment. “What is the pattern? Eighteen, fifty, one hundred fourteen, two hundred forty-two.”

Lucilla pondered as she drove. Working backward, she arrived at the solution. “N plus seven multiplied by two. Another.”

“Create one for me,” Pascal said. They passed an hour in this fashion, their patterns growing quickly more complex as they tried to outdo each other, laughing and cursing when they failed. After an hour, they switched to word games, which became games of association and thus reminiscences.

“We lived on the outskirts of London, so we could play outside. When I was small, I liked playing with boys more than with girls. Dolls bored me, unless I could send them flying from trees or floating downstream on a raft. I played with Anthony, who lived in the house next door. My brother, Crispin, was too small, really, but he followed Tony everywhere, and me, as well, and I liked having a follower. He was the sweetest little boy.”

“I didn’t like other children,” Pascal said. “They never wanted to speak of interesting things, only run about like a pack of rabid, howling animals.”

“I doubt they appreciated being called rabid,” Lucilla noted with some humor. “I assume you did not restrain yourself?”

“No, I did not,” he said. “Tact is foreign to me. It’s a waste of time. We have so little on this earth.”

“So how did you amuse yourself?”

“My grand-oncle Erard, the one who took me to the Antipodes, taught me accounting, and navigation, and a number of card games. He was a most satisfactory companion,” Pascal said, and when she glanced at him, he was looking at her. “It’s always pleasant to meet someone agreeable.”

Lucilla refrained from pointing out that if he made himself agreeable to more people, this might happen more often. She was beginning to understand his priorities, and to wish she could share his indifference to societal rules of politeness. A woman didn’t have as much freedom in these matters as a man, but she could think of some cases in which she might have been better off to say what she thought. In the future, she decided, she would do better. She said, “When Anthony grew up, he married our neighbor, Lizzy.”

“Should I be sorry that he married her and not you? You would not be here if he had. Or would he have allowed his wife to travel abroad to study derivatives of phenacetin? If not for those things, I might still be negotiating for a way home to France, instead of motoring along with a woman of considerable intellectual attainments.”

Intellectual attainments, and willing to have sex with him, as well, Lucilla thought, amused. “You can be insufferably smug when you’re right,” she said. “My life would have been very different had I married Tony. He and I grew apart when he became interested in girls, as I apparently was not one.” She could not imagine ever allowing Tony to kiss her as intimately as Pascal had done. Perhaps unfamiliarity had some advantages. One did not know what to expect, so one was more open to new things.

Pascal said, “I scorned girls long past the point of most boys.”

“You must have had a change of heart at some point.”

“I will tell you, if you wish to hear.”

In the easy intimacy of the long dark ride, it was easy to say “I do want to know.” She paused. “I’d rather not speak of my broken engagement, if that’s all right with you.”

A brief pause. “My curiosity was so obvious?”

Lucilla admitted, “I don’t want to spoil this by thinking of him. In fact, I don’t think I shall think of him ever again.”

“Will you think of me, instead?”

“I will,” she said. Pascal would be difficult to forget. “Now, tell me of your amorous adventures.”

He hesitated. “I have never spoken of this to anyone else. You understand?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Very well. My father worked at shipbuilding, and my grandfather, as well. We lived near the docks. I saw prostitutes ply their trade, and at home we children slept in an open loft above my parents’ bed, where we could hear what went on. I saw no mystery in sexual congress.”

For all his English education, he’d grown up among the working class. Lucilla found it didn’t matter to her. “My upbringing was very different,” Lucilla said, though it was obvious he did not need her to tell him this. It was the best she could say to acknowledge their differences. “My mother would have summoned up the wherewithal to give me the basics if I’d gone through with my marriage, I suppose, but I had to go to all sorts of lengths to find out what I wanted to know.” She paused as an idea slid into place in her mind, like a puzzle piece. “Women are easier to control if they are not allowed to know their own desires.” After pondering this for a moment, she asked, “Did you know your desires?”

“I felt desire, but it caused me to be angry with myself. I had thought I was different from other males,” Pascal said ruefully. “It was a sad day for me when I found myself loitering for a glimpse of women’s ankles. I was not prepossessing. I was healthy enough, but very small until I reached my seventeenth year. Like a plucked chicken.” Lucilla laughed at this image. He would not yet have grown into his nose. He continued, “I had no idea how I should speak to women, or how to entice them into an alliance.”

“Surely you’d seen others courting.” In her world, once one reached a certain age, courting had taken up ninety percent of everyone’s energy.

“Their conversations had no point, and even seemed duplicitous at times, as surely no one could truly believe all the things men said to women, and vice versa. I watched, and eventually deciphered the language of their bodies, which was often quite different from their spoken language. Communication on both levels was required. Mastering both was the solution. I then experimented.”

“With some success?”

“None at all.”

Lucilla laughed. “I was expecting the triumph of the scientific method.”

“I continued to have faith in it for some time, though my academic studies took more and more of my time once I began to prepare for university and work toward various scholarships,” he admitted. “I had given up when a woman chose to seduce me, just before I left for Cambridge.”

He fell silent for a moment, drinking from his bottle of lemonade.

Lucilla said, “Will you tell me what it was like?”

“How would you like me to tell you?” He spoke quietly, barely loud enough to be heard over the rumble of the engine.

Lucilla swallowed. She kept her eyes on the packed dirt of the road, winding away before the motor’s lamps. “Tell me as if we were lying together. After.” She pictured it in her mind, their bodies close and warm, the sound of their breathing, the scent of their effort lying on their skins, and shuddered inside.

She heard him take a deep breath. “I was sixteen.”

“So young!”

“Ancient, compared to my compatriots in the neighborhood. One could have a prostitute for a single coin, if one were not afraid of one’s mother finding out.”

“Who was the woman?”

“The widow Jacques. She owned her late husband’s bakery. She was not so old, but had been a widow as long as I could remember—perhaps ten years or more. She had no children. I recall my oncle Marius wasted a year in courting her at one time, but she did not wish for a partner in her business.”

“Her name?” Lucilla felt this was important.

“Marie-Beatrice. I did not call her this, you understand. I was not so brave.”

Lucilla wanted to know more; she wanted to know everything about how Pascal’s experience had differed from hers. Women weren’t supposed to want to know these things, but if she did know—it felt as vital to her now, to know his experience, as when she had learned the first workings of chemistry. “How did she—”

“She was a woman much to be admired. One afternoon, I had extra francs from my grand-oncle. I was hungry—I was always hungry, no matter how much I ate, or how often—and as I walked past her shop, I smelled the bread baking. I went inside, but no one was there to sell me bread. So I slipped past the counter and went in search of her in the kitchen.”

“What did she look like?” Lucilla asked.

Pascal offered her the bottle of warm lemonade, and she drank, one-handed, as she drove, then handed the bottle back. Their fingers brushed. He said, “She was very small, even compared to my height then, but with a prodigious bosom.” He added wryly, “You understand that this was of the greatest interest to me.”

So far as Lucilla had been able to determine, his interest was for all parts of the female body, but perhaps he’d been less catholic in his tastes as a young man. “Was she alone?” she asked.

“Yes.” Pascal paused, as if remembering. “She stood behind a table that was dusted with flour. She wore an apron, decorated with flowers, and a cap over her hair, of the same fabric. She didn’t wear these things in the front of the bakery. It is hard to explain. It was as if I saw her in a negligee, to see her in these items that she wore for baking in her own place, where none saw her.”

“I understand,” Lucilla said, remembering the first time she’d seen a man other than her father or brother in shirtsleeves.

“She asked after my studies, and told me that she herself had left her home in Picardy to marry Monsieur Jacques when she was just sixteen, and she had never regretted this decision. She did not think I would regret it, either.”

“Did you?”

“No. She was the first person who had told me this. All my family, they left France to travel, but they always returned home, to the same two streets. I did not plan to return there, and to this day I never have, except to visit. You went away, to Somerville College?”

She didn’t want to talk about herself just now. “I did,” Lucilla said. “My father thought I would meet a man and marry before I’d been there a year. Tell me what happened next.”

“She asked me for help in removing her apron. The knot was too tight.”

“You believed her?”

“I did,” Pascal said. “I did not see myself as she did. I went to help her.” He paused. “She smelled of baking bread. Her nape was bare. I wanted to lean closer and lick it, perhaps even bite. I could see myself bent over her. I had never had such a desire before. I had to look away, but I could still smell her. When I touched the knot of her apron, I also touched her skin. It was hot and damp, from the heat of the ovens. As I untied the knot, I could not help but touch her with my fingertips, again and again.”

Caught up in the story, Lucilla was surprised to find that his description aroused her; whether the cause was imagining herself as Marie-Beatrice, or putting herself in Pascal’s place, or both, she didn’t know. “Did she touch you?”

“She removed her cap. Her hair fell onto my hands and across my wrists. It smelled of bread and vanilla. Then I did lean closer, and she told me I could go home if I wished.”

“But you didn’t.”

“No. I realized her intent as soon as she released her hair. I asked her why she had chosen me.”

Lucilla had guessed. “Because you were leaving.”

“Yes.”

When he didn’t continue, she asked, “How did she—”

“She lived above the bakery. She closed for the afternoon, and took me up the stairs, to her bedroom. The drapes were drawn, but sun beamed through gaps and laid bars of light on her bed. It was the largest bed I had ever seen, with many pillows.”

Lucilla’s pulse beat between her thighs. She was not Marie- Beatrice; she was Pascal, about to experience the hot wet pain of sexual congress for the first time. Her throat felt thick. “Were you ready?”

Pascal snorted. “In those days, there was no time when I was not ready. Or I thought I was. I sat on the bed, and I grew harder still while she undressed me. She explained that she did not want this encounter to be over too quickly, as we would not have the opportunity for another. I agreed, of course. She took off my cap and ran her fingers through my hair, as my mother and sisters had sometimes done, but her touch was utterly different. It went through me like electricity.”

“I would like to undress you,” Lucilla said.

“I will permit that, when time allows,” he said with some humor. “The widow Jacques, she undressed me down to the skin and laid my clothing on a chair. I had never considered before what happened to one’s clothing, as the couples I had seen all wore their clothing while coupling. When she bent to tuck my boots beneath, I could see into her dress.”

“Did you undress her?”

“No. She stood before me and disrobed. Her corset unhooked in the front and she—” He swallowed. “Beneath it, she was bountiful. She did not wear drawers beneath her shift. I thought I would choke for lack of air, when I realized I could see the hair on her cunt through the cloth. I had never before had a close view of the hidden places of a woman’s body, and I felt balanced above a fall into some great understanding. She touched her breasts, stroking her nipples. She told me she liked to have them suckled gently, and that later she would like me to take her from behind, as that was the best for her.”

Pictures flashed through Lucilla’s mind, and she nearly lost control of the motor. “Pascal,” she said, her voice shaking. “We need to stop soon. I need you to fuck me one last time.”

He drew a long breath. “Perhaps we could stop now. It need not be the last time.”

If only that could be true. Lucilla drew a matching breath, remembering where they were. “I would prefer to be safely in France first. Finish your story.”

“After asking me to fuck you, you still wish me to tell you of Marie-Beatrice Jacques?”

“Yes.”

“It’s difficult to think of her when I would rather think of sinking between your soft thighs.”

Lucilla’s heart pounded in her ears. “Finish the story.”

Pascal breathed deeply again. “Very well. We stood beside her bed and I explored her body through her shift. She explained that she liked the fabric to rub against her skin.”

“Especially when your skin is damp,” Lucilla said. She felt strangled, though she was breathing deeply; her nipples had drawn tight, and rubbed painfully against her bust bodice.

“I suckled her nipples and also her cunt, then she removed her shift. Her skin was like cream, except on her breasts, where the skin had stretched and left shiny lines. I licked each one, trying to forget my cock, but this was difficult, you understand.”

“No doubt. What did she do for you?”

“She held my shoulders or arms, but that was all. I think if she had done more, I would have spent myself immediately.”

She would have done more, had she been in the widow’s place. She wouldn’t have been able to restrain herself from stroking every inch of him, for wasn’t that part of the pleasure? The freedom to touch as one willed? Perhaps for Madame Jacques, the freedom had been in allowing another to borrow the control she held over her body. “And then?”

“When she was ready for me to fuck her, she knelt on the bed with pillows to support her, and I knelt behind her. I rubbed myself along her back and on her rear, which was soft as a pillow, and could easily have done nothing else, but she spread her thighs and cried out for me to fuck her. It was…”

“Powerful,” Lucilla said, imagining that she could order someone else’s pleasure.

“Yes. But as soon as I was inside her, I felt an obliteration of the self, of the self that thinks. It was not only my cock that she squeezed inside her passage, but my whole being, shrunk into one fine point. It was extraordinary. All-consuming.” He paused. “Is it like this for you?”

Lucilla had to think to understand the question he’d asked. He’d been honest with her, so she would do her best to be so with him. “It’s like…holding my breath, and reaching, and…No. That doesn’t explain it.” She swallowed. “There’s wetness, and tension, and it’s close, so very close…I’m no good at explaining this.”

If there were a formula, perhaps, and a predictable outcome. A protocol of physical actions leading to replicable results, easily described in terms of weight and color and viscosity. It ought to work that way, if the world were just. But she knew it didn’t. Though her first experiences with sex had only felt more than physical at the beginning, her later solitary experiments had been harder to quantify and more varied in result. And what she’d shared with Pascal had been different than that; she hadn’t always been aware of herself, or of her own body, in her fascination with him and his. Yet at the same time she felt fulfilled. Happy. Why? Did her body need sex, like a vitamin? If that was it, why was sex better with Pascal than alone? She shouldn’t notice a difference. She drove another kilometer in silence.

Pascal interrupted her thoughts. “Perhaps next time, I will ask you what you feel at the appropriate moment.”

“If I can form sentences, you’re welcome to try.” She took a deep breath. “What happened next? With Madame Jacques.”

The motor purred. “It progressed in the usual way,” he said.

Lucilla cast him a glance. “That’s vague. I thought you remembered everything.”

“I don’t think I can speak on this anymore, unless my hands are on you,” Pascal said.

Her stomach twisted a little, as if hungry for him. “Finish the story, at least.”

“The smell of baking bread is, to this day, a reminder.”

“So if I brought you a baguette, you would—” Imagining the lewd appearance of a baguette, Lucilla began to laugh. Pascal joined her. To her surprise, the rest of their journey, all through the night, became a blur of laughter and shared memories, but now only memories of safe things, such as her childhood experiments with vinegar and bicarbonate of soda, and his first dish of ice cream, which had been strawberry.

She told him of when she’d been a girl, and imagined that she could easily dress in boys’ clothes and run off to have adventures, just like the boys in the illustrated stories that Tony and Crispin pored over. She’d had to read those stories in secret, sneaking them into the garden shed to avoid her mother’s lecturing on what was appropriate for a young girl and, at much greater length, what was not. “But now,” she said with great satisfaction, “I am on an adventure of my own.”

“Am I required to be your assistant in this endeavor? Or may I be the intrepid scientist?”

Lucilla grinned at him and deftly swerved around a hole in the road. “I stole the motor. I think you’d better be the girl. Only no swooning, I beg you.”

“Only if you ravish me at the end,” he said hopefully.