What Happened at Midnight(11)

Then she had begun to play, and John had been utterly lost. It wouldn’t have mattered who she was or where she’d come from. He’d heard her play, and that was the end of all rational thought. And so he’d pursued her as assiduously as he’d ever done anything, holding his breath the entire time. He understood machinery and chemicals and germination; all he knew about women was that they giggled when he came near.

But Mary hadn’t giggled. She’d smiled. They’d talked. Conversation had led to courtship.

And then one night, he’d handed her down from a carriage and found himself utterly unable to relinquish her fingers. His other hand had stolen about her waist, and he’d pulled her to him until her skirts surrounded his legs. He’d set his lips to her neck, not quite daring to touch her mouth.

But she’d turned her head, letting him kiss her.

They hadn’t said anything. They had only breathed in tandem, wanting, and he’d known then that he would ask her to marry him—and that she would say yes.

He wasn’t good with women, but he’d thought that moment was real. When he found out she’d lied to him…

That space between waking and sleep was slippery. It took the fury that he’d worked so hard to maintain during the day and turned it sideways. He couldn’t work himself into a rage. He couldn’t sustain any emotion more lasting than regret. Longing and anger twined together, and as usual, he drifted into sleep…and a dream that gave voice to desires he had not fully relinquished. He didn’t want just a kiss, but an embrace. He didn’t imagine the entwining of their gloved hands, but their bare bodies, skin to skin.

He could almost feel the warmth of her body next to his. But this time, there was no threat of discovery, no need to restrain himself. He didn’t need to be angry with this version of Mary. She was nothing but a dream, nothing but phantom caresses, haunting kisses.

She was naked, as women in sensual dreams often were. She trailed her hands down his chest to touch his navel, the waistband of his loose trousers. Somehow, his dream shifted to some nondescript bed in a nameless room. In the way of dreams, she straddled him—soft and warm, a welcome weight on top of his hips. He was hard beneath her, hard and desperate.

But for all her brazen nakedness, dream-Mary’s touch was hesitant. She didn’t grab his member (alas) or take him inside her (double alas). She touched her fingertips to him—lightly, in threes.

It reminded him of watching her play the pianoforte that first time—as if she were finding chords on his body. If only he could listen well enough, he might make out the melody. But his dream was silent…and still too chaste.

“Ah God, Mary,” he said. “Put me out of my misery already, and suck my cock.”

Speaking shattered the pretense of dreaming. He’d said those words aloud—he could feel his vocal chords vibrating in a way that brought him back to reality.

The moment before he opened his eyes seemed impossibly long. It wasn’t some indeterminate bed under him, but the sofa in the front room at Oak Cottage. The night air was still warm around him, disturbed by the soft sounds of wind. And there was someone atop him.

His hands rested on hips. Warm, bare skin met his fingers. Muscles tensed in those hips, and the weight shifted above him.

He fought for consciousness, breaking into wakefulness, and opened his eyes.

“Holy Mother of Christ,” he swore, pushing himself up on his elbows.

Because Mary was really here. She was naked on top of him. And she’d only hesitated that instant before her hands went to the drawstring of his trousers, no doubt to implement his last command.

It was her eyes that shocked the last vestiges of drowsiness from him. They were pale and flat, entirely devoid of desire.

He caught her hands at his waist, pulled away from her, and pounded his fist into the cushion of the sofa in sheer sexual frustration. “I swear on Ovid and the Bible. What the hell are you doing, Mary?”

You don’t have to stop her.

Yes. Yes, he did.

“I’m delivering a full accounting,” she said. No tone in her voice. None at all. She removed her hands from his and reached for his trousers once more. “Shall I continue?”

He brushed her hand away. “I was asleep. I didn’t mean what I said.” But his c**k thrummed, putting the lie to his words. “And what do you mean, a full accounting? I don’t want your…your person.” More lies. He tried to concentrate on her face, but he couldn’t help but take in all of her—those small, round br**sts, so close to his face; the curve of her side in the moonlight. Christ alive.

She raised her chin. “But it won’t balance without me. That’s what I came here to tell you. Would you like to know where all that money went? It went to a select finishing school in Vienna. It paid for journeys to and fro—for a private companion, and a German tutor, and lessons on the pianoforte from a true master. My father knew I loved playing, and so spared no expense. He stole all that money for me.”

God, those words sounded so bitter.

“Ah, Mary.” He wasn’t sure what to think, what to say.

“All that money, and now the only thing of value that I have is—”

He put his hand over her mouth, but she moved away.

Her chin rose. “I know the way of the world better than I once did. I’m not a lady any longer. Everything about me can be traded. My labor. My time.” Her voice faltered, but she drew a deep breath. “My body.”