26 June 1959
Well, you're here now.
Lucien swallowed hard as all the blood in his body rushed south with an alarming speed. Though he had come to the pub today intent on seeing Jean, hungry for a sight of her face after so long without, intent on making arrangements for their next assignation and leaving here certain that he would be able to hold her again, you're here now made it sound rather as if she did not intend to make him wait. Would she allow him such grace as to fall together with her now, once their tea was finished? How different might things go between them, he wondered, if they were allowed the luxury of a full conversation beforehand?
Perhaps he had been quiet too long; Jean had been busy pouring their tea, but when that task was finished and he still had not spoken she turned to face him. With a cup held carefully in each hand she looked at him, and then, rather unexpectedly, she laughed.
"Oh, I didn't mean we should...I didn't mean right this moment, Doctor Blake," she told him, smiling, and Lucien cursed his own foolishness as he accepted the cup she offered him, already sugared to his taste.
"I have to make arrangements," she explained. "I need someone else to cover for me, if I'm going to be...occupied. Tomorrow might suit, though."
Damn, Lucien thought.
"I'm afraid it can't be tomorrow," he said aloud. "I have a patient coming to see me in the morning, and I've arranged to have dinner with Matthew Lawson. Sunday might be more agreeable."
Jean frowned.
"We don't do business on Sundays here, Doctor Blake," she told him primly.
Even working girls deserved a day of rest, Lucien supposed, and Mrs. Beazley had told him she attended Sacred Heart. Unexpected as it was to find such religious devotion in this particular house Lucien did not protest, or comment on the strangeness of it, knowing that to do so would only offend her. He wanted, very much, not to offend her; he wanted only to make her happy.
"Monday, then?" he suggested.
Jean had settled onto her own stool, her ankles neatly crossed, her cup cradled in both her hands. The color was high in her cheeks, and those damnable trousers fit her so well, and she was...lovely, utterly.
"Monday would be fine," she allowed.
"Same time?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Same terms?"
For a moment Jean watched him over the rim of her teacup, and he wondered what on earth could be going on behind her brilliant eyes. Was she weighing him up, wondering if she ought to ask for more money, wondering if he was asking for leniency regarding the rules about kissing and condoms? Had he made a misstep in asking, would it have been better to wait for her to name the terms herself? Much as Lucien was enjoying every moment of their burgeoning acquaintance he found himself rather at sea, with no rudder to guide him. Theirs was no ordinary dalliance, and he had absolutely no idea how to navigate it.
"Yes," Jean said finally. "Same terms."
"Done, then."
Jean hummed in agreement, and took a sip of her tea, and Lucien found himself floundering, utterly at a loss as to what he ought to say next. Arranging their next meeting had been foremost in his mind, but now that he'd accomplished that task, he did not know what course to take. Ought he tell her about his trip to Melbourne, the body that had been discovered, the medical records he'd slogged through at the hospital there? He wasn't entirely sure how she would respond to the gruesome details, and she seemed to believe the excuse he'd given for his absence without need of further proof. There were other things he wanted to tell her, about how difficult he was finding it, knowing what to say to her and when, how he longed for some direction from her, some indication as to the sort of relationship they might have, now. If she'd been any other woman he would have taken her to dinner, or to the Rex, would have invited her home, gone strolling through the park arm-in-arm with her, but Jean was not any other woman, and he was sure such indulgences wouldn't be allowed. He wanted to indulge where she was concerned, however, and he wanted to know whether she wanted the same.
"You're thinking awfully loudly, Doctor Blake," she said softly, frowning as she took another sip of tea.
"Jean, I was thinking. The other night, when we….well."
Her frown deepened, and she set her teacup carefully on the sideboard, folding her hands primly in her lap and watching him warily. That wouldn't do; she had seemed somewhat cross, when he first arrived, and though it seemed he had soothed her initial ire now he felt rather as if he were in danger of reigniting it, and putting an end to things between them before they'd even really begun.
"Yes?"
"Well, I just...it was wonderful, Jean. You were - you are - wonderful. I don't think I said that, before."
Her smile was fleeting, and strained, and he knew at once that it was insincere, and his heart sank like lead in his chest.
"Not just the...well, that was lovely, but I...I very much enjoyed talking to you."
"I think you know I enjoyed myself, too, Lucien," she said, and though the words were delivered very carefully the fact that she spoke his name, did not call him Doctor Blake, gave him cause to hope.
"And I would quite like to continue our conversations, apart from...that."
Her posture relaxed infinitesimally, and it was only then that Lucien recalled how they ended up in bed together in the first place, how she had so fiercely defended her independence, and condemned him for wanting to save her. To tell her now of the dreams he harbored in his heart, the way he longed to court her properly, would likely only get him kicked out of the pub, and so he did not give voice to those desires, and only watched her, waiting.
"So would I," she agreed tentatively. "Now, tell me about this murder business."
It was hardly a polite topic of conversation, but Jean found herself enthralled as Lucien explained about the body that had been found, the work he'd been doing in the many long days he'd been away from her side. There was something fascinating about it, untangling the threads, solving the riddle, and it was clear Lucien enjoyed his work, and Jean enjoyed watching him, passionate and pleased with himself. He really was such a dear man; he had been so earnest, when he told her how he had enjoyed their evening together, so eager to arrange their second appointment, and now he seemed so content in her company that she did not have the heart to charge him even one shilling for it. There was something terribly appealing about sitting here like this, with him, sharing a cup of tea and a conversation that had absolutely nothing to do with the Lock and Key, or Jean's own business. It was not often Jean was allowed the luxury of sitting with a friend, and she found she rather missed it. Oh, the girls were lovely, but her every interaction with them was colored by the work they did, the knowledge that they were technically subordinate to her. Lucien, though, Lucien treated her as if she were his equal, sharing these details of his life with her, and not only trying to get into her knickers. Well, she supposed he had done that, too, but once the arrangements were made he had lingered, wanting only to speak to her, and she had let him, for she wanted the same.
But as he talked she found her mind wandering; he really was a terribly handsome man, sitting there in his shirtsleeves. Memories of the night they'd spent together kept floating unbidden through her mind, the image of his broad, bare chest, the sound he'd made when she took him in hand, the way his muscles had flexed beneath her hands. She watched his lips beneath his neat beard and remembered all the things those lips had done - and all the things they hadn't, no matter how she might have wished for it - and she felt a flush rise in her cheeks at the very thought. It had been like this with Christopher, in the beginning; she recalled it well, how once they'd tumbled together that first time, young and eager in his parents' hayloft, they'd been desperate for one another, hungry, hardly speaking for weeks as they chose instead to explore the new delights they'd discovered between them. The first blush of love, she'd thought that's all it was, the discovery of something new and precious, bodies lit on fire by want. The want had not cooled, exactly, but it had changed, and they had settled more comfortably together, after that first blush of love had left her pregnant and them married. They'd learned how to do both, to love one another with their bodies and with their hearts, and been content. She had not thought to feel its like again, that burning, eager want, but as she looked at Lucien she knew the cause for the blush in her cheeks, the sudden racing of her heart. She wanted him, as she had not wanted anyone since Christopher died, and oh, while she did not want to consider the implications of that connection she likewise did not want to continue on denying herself this pleasure she longed for so dearly.
Perhaps Lucien felt the same, or perhaps he had read some sign of her thoughts on her face, for he stopped speaking, rather suddenly, and his eyes grew dark in a way she had already learned to recognize, and he reached out and placed his cup carefully down on the counter.
"Jean," he said softly, his voice low and gravelly and sending a shiver down her spine. "Thank you for the tea."
Of course, both their cups had run dry by now, and he had no excuse to linger. Perhaps it would have been wise to send him on his way, and save this longing for Monday, when he was set to come back to her. At least, Jean tried to convince herself that it was wise, but her traitorous heart clamored only for more, more, more.
"You're always welcome here, Doctor Blake," she told him, trying to make the words sound polite and not enticing as she rose to her feet. She reached out to grab the two cups and carry them off to the sink, but the movement brought her close to him, and in the next breath one of his hands had settled heavy and warm against her hip.
There were rules about this sort of thing, in the Lock and Key. If a customer sought to indulge himself in a pleasure not yet purchased he would be reprimanded, always. Jean encouraged the girls to keep a certain distance from the gentlemen, between meetings; give them an inch, and they'll take a mile. If a man thought he could touch, or kiss, or hold a girl outside his allotted time, if he wanted to, if she let him, it almost always spelled trouble. The customers got it in their heads, sometimes, that whatever was between them and the girl of their choice was more than just business, and muddying the waters that way always led to trouble, confusion and hurt feelings, sometimes violence, almost always the loss of his business. Jean knew this, and she knew she should not allow Doctor Blake to touch her today, knew she ought to tell him to save it for Monday, or offer payment now. But she wanted him to touch her, and the sensation of his hand against her hip had her whole body aching for him in a moment.
"Jean," he said, softer still, and as his voice washed over her she knew that she was lost.
Jean turned to him then, and found him watching her, wanting her, as his other hand rose up to claim her other hip, as with those two hands he drew her towards him. He was still sitting on that stool, and now she was standing between his parted thighs, and he was holding her, and he was close, and his eyes were so very blue. Everything about him drew her in; she wanted to run her hands through his hair, wanted to feel the warmth of his skin beneath her fingertips, wanted to hear him speak to her in that same harsh whisper she'd only heard from him while they were lying in her bed. Most of all, most of all she wanted to kiss him, to thank him for coming back, for not leaving for her, for listening to her, for seeing her, for being here, where she wanted him to be.
Unable to resist the temptation she leaned towards him, caught his face in her hands, her thumbs tracing the neat line of his beard while he watched her, breathless and anticipating.
"You are so beautiful, Jean," he told her, and his voice was nearly a growl, and it pleased her more than she would like to admit to hear those words from him now. He had said the same thing when he first saw her half-naked in her room, and she could tell by the look on his face that he meant it just as sincerely now, that in her trousers and neatly buttoned blouse she effected him as deeply as she had done when she wore no more than a short satin slip.
"Charmer," she teased him softly. Oh, she wanted to kiss him. He smelled like sandalwood and soap, and his skin was warm beneath her palms. Those hands of his drifted down from her hips, slid over the outsides of her thighs, and she bowed her head, let her nose brush against his, softly.
"It's true," he insisted. "You are so beautiful, and so clever."
It had been a long, long time since anyone had called her clever, and certainly no one had ever done it quite like this; those broad, strong hands of his were ghosting up the backs of her thighs, now, and she swayed a little bit closer to him.
"Taking something you haven't paid for is theft, Doctor Blake," she whispered the words against his cheek, and those hands of his drifted up over the swell of her bum, and she felt herself in danger of falling all together. He kneaded her flesh none too gently and a soft sound of surprise escaped her; she was not surprised at the touch, but she was surprised by how gladly she welcomed it, how badly she wanted it. Her lips were hovering over his now, her eyes closed as they dangled on the very edge of this cliff. They breathed as one, in and out, and still she held his face, close, so close, and his hands squeezed her harder, rocked her against him.
"It isn't taking if we share, is it?" he murmured, and when he spoke his lips brushed her own, his beard soft against her cheek.
Oh, but this was dangerous. The proscription against kissing was as old as the business itself, a way of allowing the girls to keep one thing for themselves, to draw a line between business and romance. She could not allow herself to kiss him, so long as he was paying for her time. But he hadn't paid for this, and he was right - she wanted him as much as he wanted her. Damn him, she thought, damn him for making her want him, for making her forget her own rules. She had crossed a line already, and to do more was madness, but he was just there, and she knew if she gave in now, if she kissed him as she so dearly longed to do, she would not be able to restrain her passion, no more than would he. She hadn't kissed anyone since Christopher died, and she yearned for it, yearned for this man, for his talented mouth, for the taste of him, for the heady buzz of desire, made pure somehow without the taint of payment. She drew in a breath, slowly, deeply, and sank against him, closing the short distance between her lips and his, and then -
"Mrs. Beazley!" Maureen's voice rang out from the dining room, and Jean lifted her head to listen, Lucien's hands still firmly gripping her bum, his forehead falling against her collarbone as if in defeat, as if he realized that the moment had shattered, and there would be no restoring it. Jean felt a pang of regret, for the loss of what might have been, and so she ran her hand over his hair, gently, soothingly, as she called back in answer.
"In here!"
She dropped a tender kiss against the top of Lucien's head and then stepped away from him, out from between his legs, his hands falling away from her slowly. She did not want to look at his face, for she feared that if she saw her own regret writ large there she might not be able to resist the temptation to take him up to her room right then. But she had to resist; she must. There were rules, in this place, and she could not break them, not even for him.
