Love in the afternoon
A long time ago, as a teenager, I read a series of four books by a woman called Jeanne Montague, called "The Loves of Carola Mountjoy." They were aimed at teens (and were, by today's standards, mildly problematic to say the least) but whilst I have reservations about the books, I absolutely loved the concept. The story went like this: a beautiful young English aristocrat by the name of Carola Mountjoy is visiting her family in France when the French revolution begins, and her house is taken by an (obviously) very good looking French revolutionary officer. She decides to dress in boys clothing to become a sort of Scarlet Pimpernel character to rescue her friends and family and throughout the first three books, she fights the handsome and possibly aristocratic Captain Raoul Duchamp. At the end of the second book, Raoul is shot in battle, only then to reappear in London six months later using the name Chevalier Raoul D'Eyncourt, posing as an aristocrat and clearly up to no good. He is invited down to a house party at Lady Carola's country home in Sussex, and – things happen. Over time, I've amused myself by writing scenes using these characters because I always liked them and thought that they were fun. This is one vignette, and if anyone likes it I guess I can add a few more.
It had begun to rain and the shadows were creeping into the hallway, granite and blue. She peeped into the library, and finding it empty, slowly made her way to the big bow window. Looking across the lawn, she gazed out to the distant sea and dark, gathering clouds. The rain was sweeping in. Ramley and Roxborough had ridden out to visit tenants; no doubt they would be caught in the storm and spend the afternoon at the village inn. She shivered, wrapping her arms about herself and wandered over to the shelves. Several hours had yet to pass before their earliest return, and she felt a sudden, joyous freedom. She was almost alone in the house; free from the constraints placed on her to entertain, to conform. A sword was lying invitingly on the shelf and she picked it up. She had promised Lord Ramley that she would not fence while guests were in the house, but he would not know. There could be no objection to a moments unobserved practice. Weighing the blade in her hand, she made a few experimental passes. Moving with deadly grace, she feinted back and forth, the blade glinting through the air. It felt so good to hold a sword again, gauging the balance, tracing the steps that were as natural to her as the dances she had been taught by her governess. If only she weren't so hampered by her skirts. Flopping down on the window seat, she yanked off her stockings and shoes, shrugged off her wrap and untied the sash at her waist. She shortened her skirts, tying it up with the wide ribbon and jumped up, moving through her drills. When fencing, she could forget her problems, the dangers that assailed her. But as she pirouetted and thrust, landing in perfect balance, she turned and saw a tall figure leaning in the doorway. His eyes were fixed on her with a curious expression she couldn't quite fathom. Lifting her chin defiantly, she stopped, breathless, her sword slowly dropping to her side. "Do you fence, Chevalier?
As she had known he would, he strolled in, shutting the door behind him. "Why, are you looking for an opponent?
She hesitated. "We probably shouldn't."
"But isn't it what we're supposed to be doing? Or are you afraid?"
Her chin came up defiantly. "Of what?"
He smiled mockingly. "What do I get if I win?"
She glared at him, annoyed but amused. "Why don't you try me and find out?"
He grinned "Well now how can I resist?"
Her eyes never left him as he went slowly to the shelves, selecting a blade. For a moment he weighed it, testing the grasp then laid it down, sitting down on the window seat to remove his boots. She looked at him curiously and he shot her a smile. "I wouldn't want to break your feet."
He stood up, yanking off his coat and tossing it on the seat next to her wrap, briskly rolling up his sleeves to reveal strong, muscled brown forearms.
"Ready?"
Picking up the foil, he passed a few times before turning to face her, on guard. She hesitated for a moment and realized with a jolt that their foils had bare points. Her eyes flew to his and met that mocking grey gaze, her stomach lurching. She wasn't afraid; she knew instinctively that he wouldn't hurt her, but in that instant she knew that the stakes they were playing for were higher than she'd anticipated. She took a deep breath and squared her shoulders. "En guarde!"
First he gained advantage, then she. He wasn't holding back and she rose defiantly to his challenge. Even as the blades clashed and sang, she had to reluctantly admire his skill. He was a virtuoso swordsman. Every movement of his body was rigorously controlled, each gesture elegant, economical. He was constantly testing her defenses, rebuffing her, provoking her and she had to retaliate with ingenuity. Allowing her instincts to lead her, the tension heightened as she gained advantage. She parried a deft, subtle blow and couldn't help but smile in triumph as she stepped back in a defensive crouch. "Not quite!"
He grinned. "That sounds like a challenge." He raised a provocative eyebrow, mopping his forehead with his sleeve. She grinned back, and suddenly became aware of how hard it was to breathe. Her heart rate was thunderous in her ears, and not simply from their duel. This was no longer sparring for amusement's sake, but a battle only one could win. Sweat trickled down his lean cheek, one impatient hand brushing the dark hair back from his brow. He looked tousled and dangerous, and his allure pulled her to him with a dark, savage demand that was unique to him. She could feel the sweat running down her throat between the valley of her breasts, dampening her dress.
He had to win. The thought went through his head even as he tried to pull his gaze away from the sight of her snowy, gleaming skin. Tiny droplets of sweat beaded her throat and ran into the shadow of her heaving cleavage, and God, he wanted to lick her, to see if she tasted as sweet as he dreamed. Perspiration was dampening her hair, errant curls escaping the pins that held it high on her head, her cheeks flushed with colour, her eyes sparkling with determination. He was having to force himself to concentrate, to try to ignore that fiery attraction that distracted him almost to the point of carelessness. She was an excellent swordswoman, light footed, ingenious in attack and fast. He felt a joyous exhilaration in duelling with an opponent so skilled and well matched, but underneath was a tense pleasure that was entirely sexual, a deep primal urge to make her submit to him, to master her. He would have to work hard to best her, and he was enjoying every second. She leant forward, dodging his slash and he felt himself sweat even more as he glimpsed deep down her bodice, the warm curve of her breast cupped by the lace of her petticoat. Stepping back, he fell on guard. "Ready?"
She straightened, facing him, and he attacked. Back and forth they went, he pressing every advantage now, trying to tire her, and she rose to his challenge. She lunged, almost instantly stepping back as deftly he slashed across her defense. Heat was burning between them. He was striking faster and faster, his blows becoming more rapid, yet still utterly controlled. She was beginning to feel faint, blocking and returning his thrusts almost out of instinct now, returning blow for blow, their bodies moving in a hot, intimate dance that awoke a deep, dark heat inside her. He began to strike even faster and as their blades rang together, clashed, tangled, she stepped back and they circled. She saw the sudden triumph in his eyes and then with one deft flick of the wrist, he lunged, his sword pushed hers up in an intricate move she had never seen before, his blade flashed before her eyes and she felt a tiny sting on her palm. She gasped, her fingers opening involuntarily, the sword falling from her hand. Off balance, she stumbled back and would have fallen had he not reached forward and swept her up in one arm, holding her tightly against him. "Touché! It's all right, I have you."
The burning heat of his body engulfed her, his chest heaving, his breath deep and harsh. Almost as if in a dream she heard the clatter as his foil fell to the floor. A moment later his hand was on hers, his long, deft fingers encircling hers gently to turn and examine it.
Belatedly she noticed the tiny cut on her palm, one drop of blood spilling out red and bright over the pale skin. He hastily pulled out his handkerchief and pressing it to the wound, closed her fingers around it to keep it in place. "I'm sorry."
He had lapsed unconsciously into French and she responded in kind.
"Don't be. It's nothing." Her voice was unfamiliar to her ears, husky and trembling with emotion. Slowly, he lifted her fingers to his lips and softly kissed the tips. Lightening flashed along her nerve endings and she gasped, instinctively pulling away but he held onto her with gentle strength. "No, I won, remember."
"You should... let me go." But her words were halting and rough.
Raoul couldn't breathe, trapped by the longing he saw in those velvety green eyes, a siren's spell he could feel burning through every inch of his body. Her tongue dipped out to moisten the lush curve of her bottom lip and he felt his heart rate increase in his chest, his breath harsh in his throat.
She was so close he could feel the damp heat of her skin, the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. The sweet, seductive scent of her skin drove him almost to madness. He couldn't bear it any longer. She was his, his. Savagely he welcomed the electric, reckless desire as it surged through him, the last of his self-control snapping like kindling to his lust. Without another thought he leant down and took her mouth, his fingers tight on her arms as he yanked her against him.
Oh, she had missed his touch so. The thought barely had time to cross her mind before she lost all consciousness of anything other than the magic of his mouth, his hands. His tongue teased hers, seduced her, exploring her mouth with a possessive lust that robbed her of all rational thought, his hands slipping to her back to hold her against him with tender insistence. Somehow her arms had reached up to his shoulders, and she felt the wetness soaking through his shirt with a strange, savage sensuality. She wanted to feel his sweat against her skin, his heat, the clean, intoxicating, masculine scent of him enveloping her. Her fingers dug through the hair at the nape of his neck to hold him to her, the soft, silky strands curling against her hands with a sensation that sent shivers down her spine. His kiss softened and deepened, the feel of his mouth mating so sensually with hers flooding her body with such exquisite, heated demand that as he released her lips, she moaned a tiny little moan into him, reluctant, abandoned.
The sound shivered through him with almost unbearable erotic urgency and he took her lips again, tilting her head to gain deeper access, holding her tighter to him, sucking, devouring. Shyly, with naïve sensuality, she licked his bottom lip, her tongue moving against his and felt his groan with a sense of sensual power she had never felt before.
"Kiss me." His whisper was shaky, filled with fierce longing and she obeyed, pressing her mouth shyly to his. Gently, lingeringly they kissed now, he allowing her to set the pace, to tentatively explore his lips, his tongue teasing her, coaxing her until abruptly he broke away, resting his forehead against hers, their breathing harsh. But as if still craving the taste of her, his mouth found her ear, her neck, tasting the skin of her throat, his voice a low, soft growl that shuddered through her nerve endings.
"Ma cherie, you feel it too, I know it. I can feel it when I touch you, when I kiss you, in the way your skin heats under my hands, in the way your body responds to mine."
Instinctively she tried to pull away from him, almost unbearably bewildered but he only held onto her more tightly "No! You belong to me, my Caro, and this time I won't let you just walk away!"
Every instinct she had was screaming at her to surrender to him, to confess her hopeless devotion but a terrible fear kept the words trapped inside as she shut her eyes in confused anguish. "Raoul, I..."
He tightened his grip on her arms almost to the point of pain, holding her to him tightly as he bent his head to her again, capturing her mouth again desperately, his voice low and urgent.
"Caro, I can't sleep for thinking of you, the feel of you in my arms, the taste of you. I can't bear knowing you're so close, seeing you and being unable to touch you, having to stand by and watch other men try to woo you when I cannot even speak with you - I want to kill any man who does so much as talk to you!"
"We mustn't…" She whispered desperately, "I mustn't listen to you!"
He gave her a gentle little shake. "Tell me you don't feel the same!"
"I can't!" She was fighting for sanity now, her heart pounding rapidly in her chest as she stared hopelessly, resentfully up into his eyes. "What does it matter how I feel, when there can never be anything between us?"
"There already is!" Abruptly he broke away from her, swinging around to stare into the fireplace, his fingers raking through his hair. "You know it as well as I do! God only knows, I've tried to tell myself that I should forget you – that I should stay away – that I should never have come here!"
"Then why did you?" She retorted angrily, the sudden, frustrated tears springing to her eyes. "If it is as - tortuous for you as it is for me, why not just stay away and save us both this hopeless misery?"
He stopped and turned back to her. "Is that what you want?"
She wanted to tell him yes so badly, she longed to have the strength to tell him to go, but as she hesitated and saw the look on his face, the hurt as he turned from her, she could not stop herself from going to him, impulsively reaching out to him, only wanting to undo the pain she had caused. "Oh no Raoul, no!"
He turned to her, stroking an errant curl back from her cheekbone in a gesture as gentle as it was tentative, his eyes intent. "Caro – tell me. Do you care for me?"
She flushed and crossed her arms about herself, rebelliously refusing to meet his gaze, her voice very small. "You know I do."
"Look at me, chaton."
Reluctantly she lifted unhappy eyes to his, and as she looked up into that grave, tender grey gaze, what she saw there made her heart beat faster. Slowly, he lifted one hand and touched her lips with his thumb, so gently, tracing the swollen curves with yearning sensuality. "Oh Caro, mon amour – Je t'adore. I love you so."
"You do?" She whispered, her gaze locked on his, her world suddenly spinning about her, her legs weak. He nodded and asked quietly "Do you?"
"Oh yes, Raoul – I love you. So much."
It sounded very stark, the words said out loud for the first time. She smiled tentatively up at him and the next second his mouth was on hers, possessive, demanding.
"Tell me. Tell me again, please." He lifted his head, cupping her cheekbones in his palms, suddenly almost vulnerable in a way that she had never seen before. It awoke a strange, fierce tenderness in her and she reached up to pull his head down to hers, twisting her fingers into his thick black hair in almost savage reassurance. "I love you." She smiled at him through the tears spilling down her cheek, her forehead resting against his, their lips so close. He kissed her, fiercely. "I love you. Don't weep, petite, don't weep. It's all right."
"I'm not weeping," she said shakily, pulling back a little to wipe her face with his handkerchief, smiling up at him. "I'm happy."
He kissed her again, her lips, her wet salty eyes, pressing kisses to her over and over, his voice shaky. "Me too. My beautiful girl." He kissed her mouth again but she shook her head, desperately trying to cling to reality even through the joyous happiness she longed to give into.
"But, Raoul, it doesn't change anything. We're still at war!"
"I know." He pulled her closer against him, his arms protective about her. "You are my enemy and I a spy in your country. Don't you think that I know that by even speaking to you like this I'm betraying my mission, my comrades, my country? But what is the solution? To pretend that the feelings that I have – that we have for one other don't exist?"
"I don't know!" Tears spilled out onto her cheeks. "All I know is that – I can't justify betraying so many people for the sake of my own wants! But to think of seeing you arrested, shot…" her voice wavered "I cannot bear it."
"I know, I know." He lifted his hand to brush away her tears with his thumb, his voice low and charged with deep emotion.
"It tore out my heart to have to interrogate you in France, to have you arrested, knowing what that meant, what the consequences would be." He bent to kiss her briefly, possessively, as if reassuring himself. "All I could think was how I wanted so much for the circumstances to be different, how I longed for you to be able to see me as something other than an enemy ."
"I felt the same." she admitted softly. "I was afraid because I couldn't help how I felt, of what that meant." She pressed her hands against his chest, her voice very quiet. "I still am."
He bent his head and kissed her, sliding his hands down her arms to her hands, clasping them. "My love, do not be afraid. I will not let anyone hurt you, ever." His arms tightened around her at the very thought. "I have no right to ask anything of you, but the war, the Revolution, they can't last forever. Will you wait for me? At least until I can even hope to offer you something?"
"Yes, oh yes. I'll wait." She whispered, a small smile touching her lips as she lifted her face to his, closing her eyes in anticipation of his kiss.
They stood there for she knew not how long, lost in each other. For this moment in time she gave herself up to the joy of loving and being loved, of the kisses that passed through her like flame, the caress of his hand on her cheek. The evening darkened around them and they stirred. "I suppose we should tidy ourselves, or we may be accused of more than dueling."
"Oh!" Caro looked down at herself, hastily untying her skirt and smoothing it down. "I had forgotten."
She shoved his handkerchief in his pocket and went over to the window, sitting down on the seat to pull on her stockings and shoes. It seemed oddly intimate to be dressing together and she looked shyly across from under her lashes, catching his oblique glance as he tactfully turned his back to redon his coat and boots. She rose, and in part in an effort to compose herself, went to the fire, taking a spill and lighting the candles. As she looked up and met his eyes in the mirror, she saw his face soften with such vivid tenderness that she felt the breath catch in her chest, her heart fluttering. "You are a very talented swordswoman, cherie. I never thought I would say it, but I'm eagerly anticipating our next duel."
"Thank you." She flushed, trying to tidy her hair. "As am I. You're a - wonderful swordsman. I enjoyed it. I haven't been able to fence in so long, let alone like that."
"I certainly haven't had a duel end like that before." His voice was amused as he turned back to her, adjusting his neck cloth.
"Oh, here." She fumbled for his handkerchief and offered it to him but he shook his head, smiling. "Keep it. Your hand does not pain you too much? I'm sorry."
"I'll forgive you if you show me how to do it." Her tone was shyly teasing and he came back to her, taking her hand and lifting it to his lips, kissing the creases of her fingers, her palm. "That, I don't know. I've never agreed to show anyone before, although many have asked."
"You invented it?"
"I did." He looked amused, his voice caressing. "I'll show you, but I'm warning you, I shall probably make an unconscionably horrible teacher, I have no patience…"
She laughed and lifted her face to his as he bent to her, chuckling. "Raoul – what happens now?"
"Now?" He rested his forehead against hers. "May I see you later? Tonight?"
"You want to?"
"Yes." His eyes were intent on hers. "I want to."
"Where?"
"Here? Later? Say, eleven?"
She nodded and he tilted his head in teasing, mute demand. Caro raised her mouth to his but immediately turned away as the door opened and Anthony walked in, pausing as he saw the two figures in the room. "Ah Caro, there you are." His shrewd eyes assessed them, but Raoul merely politely bowed. "Excuse me, my Lord. Lady Carola, as always, a pleasure."
Anthony turned to Caro as he left the room. "Was I interrupting?"
"Not at all."
"You've been weeping. Are you all right?"
"Yes. It's nothing."
He regarded her with a steady gaze. "You can talk to me, you know, Caro. I know that you and Duchamp have a – complicated relationship. Has the fellow been upsetting you?"
"No. Nothing like that."
"What were you doing?"
"We fenced."
Anthony's eyebrows raised. "I see. Who won?"
"He did."
Unconsciously she looked down at her hand and Anthony followed her gaze.
"You're hurt?" Anthony reached out and took her hand, examining the scratch. "Did he do that?'
"Its nothing. I enjoyed it. He's very good."
"I can believe it." Anthony's keen blue eyes surveyed her. "It's one of the things that makes him so dangerous."
