Page 39 of A Tale of Two Dukes
Eventually, the great party of Constantines left Winterflood, and peace was restored, but Viola and Richard did not move back into the big house.
When they went over at her suggestion to look about them and consider whether they should, and which rooms they should take if they did, she was profoundly shaken by the memories of Edward, and most of all their younger selves, that lurked in every corner.
It was almost as though out of the corner of her eye, she could see an eighteen-year-old Viola climbing the grand staircase, wrapped in the months-long frozen misery that she had managed by and large to put out of her mind till now.
Or, in some dark corner, a much happier girl who’d been brought back to life by Richard’s kisses, like Sleeping Beauty.
His hand had caressed her face with a tenderness that had been entirely new to her, and she had melted into his arms with utter trust. They had both been so young, so innocent – but that wasn’t true, she must remember, because even then, Richard had been lying to her.
She had bared her soul to him all those years ago; he had not paid her the compliment of doing the same, and still hadn’t.
And therefore, she couldn’t be sure she should trust him now.
What did she really know of his life? Almost nothing, and all she knew was terrifying.
The second vision of her past unsettled her almost as much as the first; she did not want to remember how much she had loved him, and how little hope there had always been for them, for so many reasons.
She didn’t speak of it now, but she could see that Richard was aware of her unease; it might have pleased her to think that he was so attuned to her moods, just as he had been when they were young lovers, except that she supposed that spies must be trained to be observant – their lives might depend on it.
So she should not flatter herself that it held any particular significance.
She was puzzled by her own distress when she contemplated her past life at Winterflood.
Considering that she’d lived there for so many years – with Edward, in tolerable harmony once she had asserted herself, and happily with the children in the years after his death – and rarely been troubled in such a fashion, it was most odd.
Such foolishness would have to be overcome, presumably, but not just now.
Lord and Lady Ventris stayed in the dower house for the rest of their honeymoon.
It was a strange time, or interval out of time.
Viola was not sure she even liked her new husband, and his current feelings towards her were a complete mystery, but it could not be denied that they could not get enough of each other.
The underlying reason for their intimacy, and the dire consequences if they failed, didn’t seem to matter – they’d tacitly agreed not to discuss all that, at least for now.
The lightest of touches, even a glance, could inflame them both.
Whatever else they did not share, however much Viola feared that in certain ways, she could never depend on him or respect him, their mutual desire was overwhelming, even alarming in its intensity.
It was not just at night. Their passion was a compulsion that could overtake them at any time of day.
If one of them came into a room and found the other there, it was more likely than not that in a heartbeat, they’d fall upon each other in mutual hunger.
It was something quite outside her experience; their previous intimacy had been so brief and so constrained by secrecy that this mutual wild abandon came as a surprise to her, turning her into a person she barely recognised.
She entered the sitting room one rainy afternoon to find Ventris by the fire, reading; he rose politely at her arrival and set down his book, but she gestured impatiently for him to resume his seat.
She did not speak, and nor did he, and in the absence of light words of conventional greeting, there was nothing to conceal the instant physical tension that stretched taut between them.
He shifted a little in his chair, and she knew – because she felt the same – that it was arousal that made him suddenly uncomfortable.
She crossed the carpet with swift, confident steps and sank to the floor at his feet, her dark-red gown pooling around her.
Looking up at him, she saw that his grey eyes were black with desire.
With fingers that trembled only a little, she reached out and began to unbutton him, and his fully erect member sprang into her waiting hand; he sighed, and jolted at the contact, skin to skin.
Unsure whom she was tormenting, she bent her head and licked the slit with the tip of her tongue, and he leapt again at her touch.
‘This will not put a child in your belly, madam,’ he growled. She couldn’t tell if he meant it seriously, or was playing with her, but still she gloried in the power she had over him.
‘You don’t want this, then?’ She still held him, the skin hot and silky smooth under her caress, the blood throbbing so hard in him that she could feel it, and her mouth was so close to him that as she spoke, the breath feathered over his sensitive flesh and made him twitch once more.
Her tongue-tip crept out and tasted the salty sweetness of him again, and now she allowed herself to draw him into her mouth and suck, just a little, before she pulled away. But not very far away.
‘It must be obvious that I do,’ he almost gasped.
She closed her eyes and moved her mouth upon him, and the feel of him against the tender skin inside her lower lip made her shiver, and draw him deeper in.
She put her free hand on his hard thigh and pulled his legs tighter about her, enjoying the sensation of being encircled and held, and losing herself for a moment in mindless pleasure.
Then she looked up, and the unguarded softness of his face affected her like a caress.
Little tongues of flame spread through her limbs and kindled fire at her core.
‘Indulge me in this for a little while,’ she whispered between licks, ‘and then take me. Throw me over the table and have me, if you will.’
‘With so little ceremony? Are you ready for that, my lady?’
‘I was ready when I walked into the room, Richard. You know I was.’
She slid her mouth down his length once more, and began sucking on him greedily, but after a moment, she heard him say raggedly, ‘Stop, Viola!’ and she instantly let him go.
He pulled her effortlessly to her feet, rising with her, his hands hard about her waist. Her mouth felt bereft of him, and she moaned in frustration, but the last thing she would do would be to beg for his kiss.
And then he lifted her up and laid her roughly down across the table that stood behind the sofa, and whatever objects stood upon it crashed unheeded to the floor as he dragged up her skirts and took her with a fierce, ruthless urgency that made them both gasp.
He had always known how to hold her as she needed to be held, and she welcomed each powerful thrust, her feet seeking for purchase on the smooth tabletop, her legs spread wide to receive him.
His hands were hard on her hips as he drove into her, holding nothing back – or nothing physical, at least. It was an animal connection that joined them, something savage and primitive and, always, dangerous.
But she did not care, in the moment when he gave a great cry and spent himself in her, as waves of pleasure broke over her too and carried her away for a while.
When they came back to themselves, he helped her to her feet and smoothed down her ruined skirts around her shaking body.
It was just a few steps to the sofa, and she lay down on it, her feet raised on a cushion.
He looked at her intently for a moment, as if about to speak, and then apparently thought better of it, and resumed his seat by the fire, picking up his book with a fine show of unconcern.
It struck her afresh, how little idea she had what he was thinking, and how strange this life was that they had both committed themselves to.
What would become of them? Whether she had a child or not, what could possibly become of them?