Secrets of a Summer Night Read online

  But he kept impelling himself deeper, trying to soothe her pain with his mouth and hands. Gradually it became easier, the pain fading into a mild, prolonged burn. A long sigh escaped her as she felt her body yielding, her virginal flesh conceding to the inevitability of his possession. Simon’s back was a mass of tightly cobbled muscle, his belly as hard as carved rosewood. Holding himself deep inside her, he groaned, while a shiver ran across his shoulders. “You’re so tight,” he said hoarsely.

  “I-I’m sorry—”

  “No, no,” he managed. “Don’t be sorry. My God.” His voice was slurred, as if he was drunk on pleasure.

  They studied each other, one gaze sated, the other brilliant with yearning. A sense of wonder crept over Annabelle as she realized how thoroughly he had controverted her expectations. She had been so certain that Simon would use this opportunity to prove himself her master …and instead he had come to her with infinite patience. Filled with gratitude, she wrapped her arms around his neck. She kissed him and let her tongue enter his mouth, and she drew her hands down his back, until her palms reached the hard contours of his buttocks. She stroked him in shy encouragement, urging him to sink deeper inside her. The caress seemed to eradicate the remainder of his self-control. With a growl of hunger, he pushed rhythmically inside her, shaking with the effort to be gentle. The force of his release caused him to shiver hard, his teeth gritting as sensation culminated in blinding rapture. Burying his face in the filtering strands of her hair, he soaked in her honey-slick warmth. A long time passed before the iron-hard tension left his muscles, and he let out a slow breath. As he withdrew carefully from Annabelle’s body, she winced at the intimate soreness. Perceiving her discomfort, he caressed her hip in gentle consolation.

  “I may never leave this bed again,” he muttered, cuddling her in the crook of his arm.

  “Oh, yes you will,” Annabelle said, half-drowsing. “You’re going to take me to Paris tomorrow. I won’t be deprived of the honeymoon you promised.”

  Nuzzling into her tangled curls, Simon replied with the trace of a smile in his voice. “No, sweet wife… you won’t be deprived in any way.”

  Chapter 21

  During the two weeks of their honeymoon, Annabelle discovered that she was not nearly as worldly as she had considered herself to be. With a mixture of naïveté and British arrogance, she had always thought of London as the center of all culture and knowledge, but Paris was a revelation. The city was astonishingly modern, making London look like a dowdy country cousin. And yet for all its intellectual and social advancements, the streets of Paris were nearly medieval in appearance; dark, narrow and crooked as they twined through arrondissements of artfully shaped buildings. It was a messy, delightful assault to the senses, with architecture that ranged from the gothic spires of ancient churches to the solid grandeur of the Arc de Triomphe.

  Their hotel, the Coeur de Paris, was located on the left bank of the Seine, between a dazzling array of shops on rue de Montparnasse and the covered markets of Saint-Germain-des-Pres, where exotic produce and fabrics and laces and art and perfume were displayed in bewildering varieties. The Coeur de Paris was a palace, with suites of rooms that had been designed for sensual pleasure. The bathing room, for example—the salle de bain, it was called—had been fitted with a rosy marble floor and Italian tiled walls, and a gilded rococco settee where the bather rested after the exertions of washing. There was not one but two porcelain tubs, each with its own boiler and cold water tank. The tubs were surmounted with a painted oval landscape on the ceiling, designed to entertain the bather as he or she relaxed. Having been brought up with the British view of a bath as a matter of hygiene to be conducted with expediency, Annabelle was amused by the notion that the act of bathing should be a decadent entertainment.

  To Annabelle’s delight, a man and a woman could share a table in a public restaurant without having to request a private dining room. She had never had such delicious food…tender cockerel that had been simmered with tiny onions in red wine… duck confit expertly roasted until it was melting-soft beneath crisp oiled skin …rascasse fish served in thick truffled sauce …then, of course, there were the desserts… thick slices of cake soaked in liqueur and heaped with meringue, and puddings layered with nuts and glacéed fruit. As Simon witnessed Annabelle’s agonized choice of what to order for dessert each night, he assured her gravely that generals had gone to war with far less deliberation than she gave to the choice between the pear tart or the vanilla soufflé.

  One night Simon took her to a ballet with scandalously underdressed dancers, and the next, a comedy with lewd jokes that needed no translation. They also attended balls and soirees given by acquaintances of Simon’s. Some were French citizens, while others were tourists and émigrés from Britain, America, and Italy. A few were stockholders or board members of companies that he had part ownership in, while others had been involved with his shipping or railway enterprises. “How do you know so many people?” Annabelle had asked Simon in bewilderment, when he was hailed by several strangers at the first party they attended.

  Simon had laughed and gently mocked that one would think that she had never realized that there was a world outside of the British aristocracy. And the truth was, she hadn’t. She had never thought to look outside the narrow confines of that rarefied society until now. These men, like Simon, were elite in a purely economic sense, actively engaged in building fortunes, many of them literally owning entire towns that had been built around rapidly expanding industries. They possessed mines, plantations, mills, warehouses, stores, and factories; and it seemed that their interests were seldom confined to just one country. While their wives shopped and had gowns made by Parisian dressmakers, the men lounged in cafes or private salons for endless discussions of business and politics. Many of them smoked tobacco in tiny paper tubes called cigarettes, a fashion that had started among Egyptian soldiers and had spread rapidly across the Continent. At dinner, they spoke of things that had never been mentioned in front of Annabelle before, events that she had never heard of and had surely not been reported in the papers.

  Annabelle realized that when her husband spoke, the other men paid keen attention to his opinions and sought his advice on a variety of matters. Perhaps Simon was someone of little consequence in the view of the British aristocracy, but it was clear that he wielded considerable influence outside of it. Now she understood why Lord Westcliff held him in such high esteem. The fact was, Simon was a powerful man in his own right. Seeing the respect that others paid him, and noticing the coquettish excitement that he inspired in other women, Annabelle began to see her husband in an altered light. She even began to feel somewhat possessive of him—of Simon!—and found herself beginning to simmer with jealousy when a woman seated next to him at supper tried to monopolize his attention, or when another lady declared flirtatiously that Simon was obligated to partner her for a waltz.

  At the first ball they attended, Annabelle stood in an anterior parlor with a group of sophisticated young matrons, one of them the wife of an American munitions maker, the other two Frenchwomen whose husbands were art dealers. Awkwardly fielding their questions about Simon and reluctant to admit how little she still knew about her husband, Annabelle was somewhat relieved when the subject of their conversation appeared to claim her for a dance. Impeccably dressed in a black evening suit, Simon exchanged polite greetings with the laughing, blushing women, and turned to Annabelle. Their gazes locked, while a lovely melody began to play from the nearby ballroom. Annabelle recognized the music …a popular waltz in London, which was so haunting and sweet that the wallflowers had agreed that it was literally torture to sit still in a chair while it was being played.

  Simon extended his arm, and Annabelle took it, remembering the countless times in the past that she had spurned his invitations to dance. Reflecting that Simon had finally gotten his way, Annabelle smiled. “Do you always succeed at getting what you want?” she asked.

  “Sometimes it takes longer than
I would prefer,” he said. As they entered the ballroom, he put his hand on Annabelle’s waist and guided her to the edge of the swirling mass of dancers.

  She experienced a pang of giddy nervousness, as if they were about to share something far more significant than a mere dance. “This is my favorite waltz,” she told him, moving into his arms.

  “I know. That’s why I requested it.”

  “How did you know?” she asked with an incredulous laugh. “I suppose one of the Bowman sisters told you?”

  Simon shook his head, while his gloved fingers curved around hers. “On more than one occasion, I saw your face when they played it. You always looked ready to fly out of your chair.”

  Annabelle’s lips parted in surprise, and she stared up at him with a wondering gaze. How could he have noticed something so subtle? She had always been so dismissive of him, and yet he had noticed her reaction to a particular piece of music and remembered it. The realization brought the sting of tears to her eyes, and she looked away immediately, fighting to bring the sudden baffling swell of emotion under control.

  Simon drew her into the current of waltzing couples, his arms strong, the hand at her back offering firm pressure and guidance. It was so easy to follow him, to let her body relax into the rhythm he established while her skirts swept across the gleaming floor and whipped lightly around his legs. The enchanting melody seemed to penetrate every part of her, dissolving the ache in her throat and filling her with unruly delight.

  Simon, for his part, was not above a sense of triumph as he guided Annabelle across the floor. Finally, after two years of pursuit, he was having his long-sought waltz with her. And more satisfying still, Annabelle would still be his after the waltz …he would take her back to the hotel, and undress her, and make love to her until dawn.

  Her body was pliant in his arms, her gloved hand light on his shoulder. Few women had ever followed his lead with such fluid ease, as if she knew what direction he would take her in before he even knew it himself. The result was a physical harmony that enabled them to move swiftly across the room like a bird in flight.

  Simon had not been surprised by the reactions from his acquaintances upon meeting his new bride—the congratulatory words and subtly covetous gazes, and the sly murmurs of a few men who said they did not envy him the burden of having such a beautiful wife. Lately Annabelle had become even lovelier, if possible, the strain leaving her face after many nights of dreamless slumber. In bed she was affectionate and even frolicsome—the previous night she had climbed over him with the grace of a sportive seal, scattering kisses over his chest and shoulders. He had not expected that of her, having known beautiful women in the past who invariably lay back passively to be worshiped. Instead, Annabelle had teased and caressed him until he’d finally had enough. He had rolled on top of her while she giggled and protested that she wasn’t yet finished with him. “I’ll finish you,” he had growled in mock-threat, and thrust inside her until she was moaning with pleasure.

  Simon had no illusions that their relationship would be continually harmonious—they were both too independent and strong by nature to avoid the occasional clashes. Having relinquished her chance to marry a peer, Annabelle had closed the door on the kind of life she had always dreamed of, and instead would have to adjust to a far different existence. With the exception of Westcliff and two or three other wellborn friends, Simon had relatively little interaction with the aristocracy. His world consisted mainly of professional men like him, unrefined and happily driven to the endeavor of making money. This crowd of industrialists could not have been more different than the cultivated class Annabelle had always been familiar with. They talked too loudly, socialized too often and too long, and had no respect for tradition or manners. Simon was not entirely certain how Annabelle would accommodate such people, but she seemed game to try. He understood and appreciated her efforts more than she could have known.

  He was well aware that scenes like the one she had endured two evenings ago would have reduced any other sheltered young woman to embarrassed tears, and yet Annabelle had handled it with relative poise. They had attended a soiree given by a wealthy French architect and his wife, a rather chaotic affair with flowing wine and too many guests, resulting in an atmosphere of raucous immoderation. Having left Annabelle at a table of acquaintances for just a few minutes, Simon had returned from a private conversation with the host to discover that his flustered wife had been cornered by two men who were drawing cards to see who would have the privilege of drinking champagne from her shoe.

  Although the game was being played in a spirit of fun, it had been clear that the rivals for Annabelle’s favor were deriving a great amount of enjoyment from her discomfort. There was nothing more pleasurable to those of jaded disposition than assaulting someone’s modesty, especially when their victim was an obvious innocent. Although Annabelle had been trying to make light of it, the brazen game had distressed her, and the smile on her face had been entirely false. Standing from her seat, she had cast a quick glance around the room in search of sanctuary.

  Maintaining a bland social facade, Simon had reached the table and slid a reassuring hand over Annabelle’s stiff back, his thumb stroking over the ridge at the exposed top of her spine. He had felt her relax slightly, and the hectic color had eased from her face as she looked up at him. “They’re quarreling over who will drink pink champagne from my shoe,” she had told him breathlessly. “I did not suggest it, and I don’t know how—”

  “Well, that’s a problem easily solved,” Simon had interrupted matter-of-factly. He had been well aware that a crowd was gathering, eager to see if he would lose his temper over the men’s audacious advances toward his wife. Gently but firmly, he had guided Annabelle back into her chair. “Have a seat, sweetheart.”

  “But I don’t want—” she had begun uneasily, and gasped as Simon sank to his haunches before her. Reaching beneath the hem of her skirts, he removed both her beaded satin slippers. “Simon!” Her eyes had been round with astonishment.

  Standing, Simon had handed a slipper to each rival with a flourish. “You may have the shoes, gentlemen— just so long as you’re both aware that their contents belong to me.” Picking up his barefoot wife, he had carried her from the room, while the crowd reacted with laughter and applause. On the way out, they had passed the waiter who had been sent to fetch the bottle of champagne. “We’ll take that,” Simon told the dumbfounded waiter, who had handed the heavy chilled bottle to Annabelle.

  Simon had carried Annabelle out to the carriage, while she clutched the bottle in one hand and curled her free arm around his neck. “You’re going to cost me a fortune in footwear,” he told her.

  Laughter had shimmered in her eyes. “I have some more shoes back at the hotel,” she told him cheerfully. “Are you planning to drink champagne from one of them?”

  “No, my love. I’m going to drink it from you.”

  She had shot him a startled glance, and as understanding dawned, she had pressed her face against his shoulder, her ear turning crimson.

  Recalling the episode, and the pleasurable hours that had followed, Simon looked down at the woman in his arms. The glittering light of eight chandeliers was reflected in her upturned eyes, filling them with tiny sparks that made the blue irises look like a starry summer midnight. She was staring at him with an intensity that she had never shown before, as if she yearned for something she might never have. The look disquieted him, eliciting a powerful need to satisfy her in any way possible. Whatever she might have asked him for in that moment, he would have given without a qualm.

  No doubt they presented a hazard to every other couple there, as the room had become dreamily unfocused, and Simon couldn’t bring himself to give a damn about which direction they were going. They danced until people remarked dryly that it was rather gauche for a husband and wife to display such exclusivity at a ball, and that soon after the honeymoon they would tire of each other’s company. Simon only grinned at such comments, and be
nt to whisper in Annabelle’s ear. “Are you sorry now that you never danced with me?”

  “No,” she whispered back. “If I hadn’t been a challenge, you would have lost interest.”

  Letting out a low laugh, Simon hooked his arm around her waist and led her to the side of the room. “That would never happen. Everything you do or say interests me.”

  “Really,” she said skeptically. “What about Lord Westcliff’s claim that I’m shallow and self-absorbed?”

  As she faced him, Simon braced one hand on the wall near her head and leaned over her protectively. His voice was very soft. “He doesn’t know you.”

  “And you do?”

  “Yes, I know you.” He reached out to finger a tendril of damp hair that clung to her neck. “You guard yourself carefully. You don’t like to depend on anyone. You’re determined and strong-willed, and you’re decided in your opinions. Not to mention stubborn. But never self-absorbed. And anyone with your intelligence could never be called shallow.” He let his finger stray into the wisps of hair behind her ear. A teasing glint entered his eyes as he added, “You’re also delightfully easy to seduce.”

  With an outraged laugh, Annabelle lifted a fist as if to pummel him. “Only for you.”

  Chuckling, he grasped her fist in his large hand, and kissed the points of her knuckles. “Now that you’re my wife, Westcliff knows better than ever to utter another word of objection to you or the marriage. If he did, I would end the friendship without a second thought.”

  “Oh, but I would never want that, I…” She looked at him in sudden bemusement. “You would do that for me?”

  Simon traced a vein of golden hair that ran through the honey brown locks. “There is nothing I wouldn’t do for you.” The vow was sincere. Simon was not a man given to half measures. In return for Annabelle’s commitment to him, she would have his unequivocal loyalty and support.