Taboo Page 12

  “I was driving through the park when I recognized your carriage and saw you running across the green, with young Bridgeman at your heels. I simply popped into your carriage and dismissed mine. You can drop me at my home on your way. Now, tell Auntie Aurora everything.” She gave a comfortable wiggle as she settled back in her seat.

  “I don’t suppose it would occur to you that some things might be too private to share?”

  “Oh ho!” Following her most unladylike hoot of delight, Aurora leaned forward and gave Fallon a fierce, quick hug. “I have my old friend back.”

  “Indeed,” Fallon murmured. “I’m painting better than ever, you’ll be most happy to hear.”

  “You’re blushing,” Aurora crowed triumphantly. “I knew it. Young Bridgeman inspired you in all manner of ways, did he not?”

  “You might say that. How young is he? I never did find out.”

  “Not all that young. Twenty-five to your twenty-nine, I believe. At any rate, why so glum? Why the bittersweet farewell?”

  “The week is over. We return to our lives. He to his wastrel ways and I to my studio.”

  “No talk of continuing to ...” Aurora paused as if searching for the right words. “To spend time together in the future?”

  “No,” Fallon said, settling back and crossing her arms over her chest with an air of finality. “It’s done.”

  Aurora linked her arm through Fallon’s. “All’s well that ends well. Isn’t that what they say?”

  “Something like that,” Fallon said hollowly.

  She declined Aurora’s plea to stop in for tea, citing exhaustion and a long drive ahead of her. When she finally reached the estate, she ordered a hot bath, refused supper, and fell into an exhausted yet restless sleep.

  She awoke early, but rather than the listless torpor that had plagued her since her husband’s demise, she felt herself overflowing with creative energy. The household had yet to stir as she made her way to her studio.

  The first thing that met her eyes upon entering was Bridge’s portrait. Artistic prejudices aside, she knew it was her best work ever. Her subject appeared alive, as if he could rise off the canvas and take her into his arms.She shivered, so real was his presence. And she longed for him. To feel his skin against her skin, his breath upon her brow, his lips claiming hers. The contagious rumble of his low masculine chuckle when he found something amusing. And Bridge found much to laugh about. He’d brought laughter back into her life. Laughter and love.

  Fortunately, missing him was a dull ache rather than a debilitating pain. Surely time, coupled with keeping herself busy, would diminish the ache until it, along with Bridge, was naught but a cloudy memory.

  She picked up a brush, put it down, then picked it up again, flicking the dry bristles across the palm of her hand. Tingles of awareness chased the length of her arm. Would she ever again be able to gaze upon a paintbrush and not recall the way Bridge had employed one as an erotic stimulation for their lovemaking?

  She wandered about the studio, touching the settee where he had posed, the table where he had eaten, the floor where they had made love. She even found a few dried rose petals, forgotten in the far corner of the room. Sentimentally she raised them to her nose, but their fragrance was long gone.

  “The bloom has definitely left the rose, my dear.” She spoke aloud, her voice echoing hollowly in the studio. Then she positioned a blank, primed canvas on her easel, squeezed colors from their tubes onto her palette, and started to paint.

  She worked in an energetic frenzy where days merged into weeks. Fortunately the days were at their zenith as the summer solstice approached, the daylight hours lengthy, the long stretch of sunlight every day ideal for her work.

  “’Tisn’t right, madam,” Mrs. Buttle scolded her one day as she exchanged one nearly untouched tray of food for a fresh one. “There’s more to life than painting.”

  “I know you’re correct, Mrs. Buttle. But right now, I feel I simply must strike while the iron is hot.” She laid aside her brush and walked the housekeeper to the door, as if to convince the woman that she was not totally possessed. “Really, I appreciate your preparing all my favorite foods.”

  “You’re fair wasting away,” Mrs. Buttle said chastisingly.

  “I’m eating plenty. Sleeping better than I ever have. And I’m happy. Please don’t fret.”

  “Hmmph,” was the housekeeper’s only parting remark.

  The food untouched, Fallon hastened back to her painting. Across the room, from its place of honor, Bridge’s likeness watched her. She could sense his support and approval, understanding as no one else ever could the passion that drove her.

  Truly, Bridge had understood many things about her that no one else ever had or ever would. She allowed herself a tantalizing game of “what if.” What if their ages and stations were more closely suited? What if he took a fancy to settle down? What if he arrived one day, hat in hand, a declaration of undying love on his lips?

  You’re too old to believe in fairy tales, my dear. Face it, where Bridge is concerned, you are out of sight and most assuredly out of mind.

  Fallon celebrated the summer solstice alone in her garden beneath the full moon. She knew she would need to hurry to finish the series she was working on. Each day the sun would set a little earlier and rise a little later, shortening her hours of natural light.

  The full moon found its way through the partially drawn curtains to the rumpled and messy bed where Bridge lay, unable to sleep. He’d already sent his companion for the evening home some hours earlier. He no longer took the same delight from fresh conquests. In fact, he’d gone through the motions this evening with a haste previously unknown to him. He wanted only to get the act over with and the young woman sent on her way. Yet now, he found himself alone and unable to sleep.

  He’d driven around the countryside on several occasions, but was unsuccessful in his attempt to locate Fallon Gilchrist’s estate. He prided himself on having a good sense of direction, so each fruitless search left him more surly and frustrated than the last.

  He’d been blindfolded when he was first taken there, and too damn distracted giving Fallon oral pleasure on the trip to the city to have any clue as to where he had spent the week in between. He had hunted down her friend Aurora, who had flatly refused to divulge Fallon’s whereabouts. He had even asked his mother if she chanced to know the location of the Gilchrist country estate. But Mother and her friends knew only of the Gilchrist townhouse, and when he stopped by there he found it rented to a family of foreigners, who, if they had knowledge of Fallon’s whereabouts, were keeping it to themselves.

  His friends had given him up for the bad company he knew he was. He had tried losing himself in drink, but it seemed the more he drank the more sober he became. Gaming and whoring held no appeal. Nor did the rounds of polite society.

  “Damn moonlight.” Bridge rolled over and punched his pillow. Yet all he could think about was the way the moonlight spilled through the studio windows; the way it shimmered on Fallon’s alabaster limbs, and shadowed the delicious triangle between her thighs.

  How on earth could he hope to convince her that they belonged together, if he couldn’t even find her?

  Chapter 12

  “I hear young Bridgeman is a mess,” Aurora began conversationally as she sipped from her delicate Spode teacup.

  “Mmmmmm.” On the other side of the studio, half hidden behind her canvas, Fallon frowned at her latest endeavor, giving her friend barely half of her attention.

  “Fallon. Did you hear what I said?”

  “What? Of course.”

  “Very well, then. What did I say?”

  With a weighty sigh, Fallon laid down her palette and brush and rounded her easel. “Caught in a lie. I didn’t hear what you said.”

  “I knew that,” Aurora said smugly. “For my remark quite warranted more than a murmur in response. I said, our friend Bridgeman is reputed to be in a sorry state. Drinking and gaming and whoring like a man
with nothing left to live for.”

  “That’s a shame,” Fallon said, trying not to let on how the thought of Bridge with other women punctured a hole in her heart. “He has so much intelligence and potential.”

  “And how is the painting progressing?” Aurora said, changing the subject before Fallon was ready to have it changed.

  “I fear I have lost whatever momentum was charging my efforts these past weeks,” Fallon said. “At this rate, I’ll never be ready.”

  “You must!” Aurora sounded truly aghast. “You have everything riding on this. You won’t be granted a second chance to exhibit at the Athenaeum.”

  “I’m aware of that fact,” Fallon replied crossly. She was afraid—no, she was more than afraid—that her waning creativity was due to Bridge’s absence. For as time passed, so did her inspiration and her talent, eventually drying up till there was nothing left.

  “There must be something you can do about it,” Aurora insisted. “Some source of inspiration you can tap in to.”

  “Bridgeman,” Fallon said mockingly.

  “That’s it!” Aurora leaped to her feet and clapped her hands together.

  “What’s it, darling? Are you daft? Sit down and finish your tea.”

  “No,” Aurora said, “listen. I have the most perfect scheme.”

  “You and your schemes. Are there no end to the devious plots in that blonde head of yours?”

  “There was not one thing wrong with my last outrageous idea. And this is a natural one with which to follow.”

  Normally Fallon would have dismissed Aurora’s outlandish scheme out of hand directly. But times were no longer normal. She was duty-bound, not simply for her own sake but for the sake of Boston’s growing legion of women artists, to ensure the success of her upcoming exhibition.

  If one more night in Bridge’s company could refill her creative well, then that was a sacrifice she had no choice but to make. For the sake of women artists everywhere, of course.

  Bridge awoke to a ruckus of raised voices downstairs in his townhouse, and swore to himself impatiently. Damn it, he had left explicit instructions that he was not to be disturbed, no matter what, not even if the damn city was burning down around him.

  The commotion grew louder and seemed to be headed his way, clattering up the stairs to his room. Groggily, Bridge slung his legs over the side of his bed and tried to think. How long since he’d had a decent sleep? How long since his dreams hadn’t been plagued by memories of Fallon? Some nights he swore he could smell her in the room with him, hear her laughter taunting him. He hated that a mere woman had sent his life into such turmoil.

  He was still sitting on the side of the bed with his head in his hands when the door burst open.

  “Bloody hell!” he thundered. “Does no one around here understand the meaning of not disturbing me under any circumstances?”

  “My, my. Aren’t you a sorry sight.”

  He glanced up through eyes heavy with fatigue. “Hello, Mother.”

  “Are you ill?”

  Bridge managed a hollow laugh. Sick at heart, perhaps. But hardly physically ill. “I’m quite well, thank you.”

  His mother advanced into the room and wrinkled her nose at the smell. “You don’t appear to be quite well. You look more of a mess than I ever recall seeing you, and I’ve witnessed you in some sorry states.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Bridge said.

  “I suppose you’re going to say this time is different.”

  “How would you know that?”

  “Because I’ve witnessed the change. You’ve been busy and productive. You’ve found a cause you believe in. Or have you forgotten?”

  “I’ve forgotten nothing. I’ve had a temporary relapse, is all. I’ll be back in stride forthwith.”

  “That’s reassuring to hear. I’ve taken the liberty of ordering you a bath.”

  “That’s a pretty big liberty. Even for you.”

  “I have the feeling you won’t hold it against me.”

  As soon as his mother left, his bath arrived and he eased into the steaming water. It was true, he’d been enjoying his patronage of the Massachusetts Normal Art School. Not only did being around artists make him feel somehow closer to Fallon, it was also a cause he believed in. Activity, a feeling of accomplishment . . . these were not new to him, but this felt more fulfilling than anything he’d tackled previously.

  “Dash it all. Can’t a man get a little help around his own home?” Bridge bellowed.

  Behind him, he heard the door to his bedchamber open, felt the whisper of a draft across his damp skin. “It’s about time. Close the door, man. Do you want me to catch my death?” The flame of the candle near the washtub flickered as the door closed with a muffled click.

  Bridge sat forward in the tub as footfalls rounded the screen behind him. “Wash my back, and be quick about it. The water grows chill and I’m turning into a prune waiting.” He closed his eyes and gave a heartfelt sigh of pleasure as the abrasive flannel sleeked across his bare back and shoulders. There was something infinitely soothing about the circular motion, the pressure of another’s touch upon his bare skin.

  Mercy. Now he was finding his valet’s touch inciting. He did need to pull himself together.

  “Watch it, Max. Not so rough,” he said as the flannel scraped the back of his neck.

  “That’s enough.” He batted Max away and leaned back against the washtub, but not before he realized that something was different. Max did not wear lace cuffs. He grasped the newcomer’s wrist and turned around.

  “Fallon!” He blinked. So many times, he had brought her image to mind—was this one of those illusions, come to haunt him? Did he perchance dream instead of wake?

  Yet in his dreams she was never dressed as she was now in the uniform of a maid. “What game do you play?”

  “You asked me once what I thought would happen were you to own me, rather than the other way round. I thought it would be amusing to see.”

  “That’s what I’ve become to you? A source of amusement?”

  “On the contrary,” Fallon said softly, “you became the source of inspiration for my art.”

  “And now?”

  “And now I am yours to command, as you will, till the sun once more appears upon the horizon.”

  “Bloody hell!” Bridge thundered. “Get naked and get in here with me.”A faint smile touched her lips. “Your wish is my command, O master.”

  “Disrobe slowly,” Bridge ordered. “I wish to savor the anticipation.”

  “Yet you doffed your clothing so quickly, when you were mine to command.”

  “Perhaps my half-fortnight with you has taught me patience.”

  “I don’t believe patience is inherent in your nature.” As she spoke, she removed the maid’s cap, which masked her glorious hair.

  “Let your hair down,” Bridge commanded. “I wish to see the candlelight capture its essence.”

  One by one, she removed the pins and dropped them at her feet. Bridge licked his lips as he watched her. Now he knew how a starving man must feel when led to a fully laden table. Strand by strand, her hair tumbled down about her shoulders like pale spun gold. He itched to touch its silken threads, to raise it to his nostrils, to drown in the special smell of her. His breath caught as she shook her head and tumbled the mane so it clung to her bosom, cruelly camouflaged as outlined in the starched black primness of the uniform.

  “Better?” she asked seductively.

  Bridge exhaled on a ragged sigh. “Much.”

  Slowly she unbuttoned her cuffs, affording him a glimpse of delicate pale wrists. Reaching behind, she untied her apron and allowed it to flutter to her feet.

  “Umm-hmm,” Bridge said approvingly. Very deliberately he grasped the bar of soap and began sliding it across his torso in a slow, sensual manner. His movements clearly caught her interest; he saw her eyes widen appreciatively. Her fingers fumbled ever so slightly as she began to unfasten the buttons on the stiff black dama
sk of her uniform.

  “Tease me,” Bridge ordered as the snowy white of her chemise winked at him from beneath the black gown.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Tease me,” Bridge repeated. “You are, after all, mine to command. Is that not so?”

  As he spoke he continued to glide the soap across his skin, well aware that Fallon’s excitement grew to match his own. Why else would she possibly be here?

  She finished undoing all the buttons, then paused. Bridge could hardly wait to see what she would do next.

  She reached inside the frock and ran her hands lovingly across her bosom, her ribs, her waist, outlining her shape. Emphasizing the difference between her hourglass softness and his masculine form. When she gave a slight shrug of her shoulders, the frock slid from her body and pooled at her feet. She kicked it aside as she neared the washtub. He waited. She scooped up a handful of water and dampened the front of her chemise, rendering the thin lawn fabric nearly transparent. He could clearly see her nipples, proudly pebbled into tight buds in the centers of her darker areolas. Using only the middle finger of each hand she massaged her nipples, then dragged her nails across their tightly engorged surfaces. He swore he could hear the rasp of fingernail against fabric. Eyes half closed, head thrown back, she clearly showed him how much she was enjoying their game.

  “Does that feel good?” Bridge prompted.

  “Very.” The one word answer was drawn slowly, like the purr of a contented feline.

  “Where else are you wet?”

  Her hands roamed across her torso to settle at the juncture of her thighs.

  “Here.” She parted her legs slightly.

  Bridge caught his breath at the shadowy triangle revealed by her movement. “Come here,” he commanded.

  Her hips swayed from side to side as she made her way toward him.

  “Now put one foot atop the side of the washtub.”

  She did as he bade her, revealing a most interesting alteration to her undergarments.

  “I can’t quite see,” he said pleasantly. “Please help me out.”