A Certain Latitude Read online

  The ship gave a sort of sideways swoop.

  She lost her balance, laughed and fell against him, and they tumbled down against the hen coop, she with her legs splayed on either side of his.

  He assessed the situation quickly. It was dark, although a nearby lantern threw enough light so he could see what he was doing. The helmsman was at the far end of the ship, facing the other way, and they were out of sight. If he could keep her quiet, and if a swarm of sailors didn’t rush onto the deck to do something with the sails—he should probably pray the wind kept steady—then he suspected the not-so-proper Miss Onslowe would let him do just about anything he wanted.

  Thank God. I would never have worked out how to seduce him.

  The suddenness of his response alarmed and delighted her. He was under her skirts almost as soon as she landed—as she bumped against his erection, one hand gripped her bottom and the other snaked its way up the inside of her thigh, warm and rough and foreign.

  “Miss Onslowe, Clarissa, you’re a miracle,” he said, his fingers probing. If he hadn’t been so enthusiastic about the wetness he encountered, she would have been horribly embarrassed by her condition. “I wanted to do this to you as soon as I saw you. I wish to God I had more hands.”

  “So do I,” she said with a silly giggle she regretted. Didn’t men hate gigglers?

  “Unbutton me. Show me your breasts. Take this damned scarf off.” His voice became muffled as he pushed the lawn scarf at her bodice aside with his lips and kissed her collarbone, wet and hot.

  “Now I need more hands,” she said, honestly confused as to which he wanted her to do first.

  “Be quiet, woman. Enough talking.” He reared up against her, the hand on her bottom leaving to grasp the back of her head and pull her head to him, kissing and kissing, his tongue doing things to hers as extraordinary and shocking as his fingers below—good God, what was he about, two fingers, three inside her, and his thumb, oh God his thumb, there, there, don’t stop, keep doing that, please, please.

  He stopped, his mouth wet and puffy, eyes bright. “Christ, you have a big tickler.”

  “A big what?”

  “Your clitoris. It’s big. Hard. Shows you’re a lecherous woman. Insatiable. You like this, don’t you?”

  “I—”

  “Look,” he murmured, and tipped her back into the circle of one arm, pulling her skirts back with the other. He parted the folds of her quim. “Look, like coral. Hard as coral, too. Like a little cock. Pretty.”

  Sure enough, there was enough light for her to see her clitoris erect and glistening between his thumb and forefinger. Her tickler. She’d never heard it called that before. But then, how often did she have conversations about her womanly parts?

  He stroked her and laughed as she quivered. “You know why it’s so big, don’t you, Clarissa?”

  “I’m sure you’re going to say something obscene.”

  He put his mouth to her ear and licked, a lascivious slurp. “Playing with yourself, my love.”

  “I don’t—” she said as her face heated.

  “Liar,” he said with extreme cheerfulness. “I’ll show you something else big now.”

  His hand dropped to the fall of his breeches and she tried not to show too much interest, but in reality she was intensely curious. Her only experience with an erect male member had been unsatisfactory: a glimpse of a white shirt distended by what lay underneath and then something surprisingly large and springy bumping against her in the dark. The ensuing tight shove and squeeze was surprising and disappointing at the same time, because the rest of it, the kissing and stroking, she’d very much enjoyed.

  Oh, heavens. She regarded the blatant, dark red rearing thing with trepidation. Like the rest of him, it was broad and thick, powerful, rising blue-veined from a mass of tight black curls, a drop of liquid welling at the tip. She ran her tongue over her lips. “And how did that get to be so big? You must have been playing with it for years.”

  He grinned, regarded his cock with pride, and gave it a friendly little shake. “Yes. And I’ve let others do so too. I’m a generous man. Touch it. It won’t bite.”

  She ran a finger up its length and to her immense gratification saw him bite his lip and swallow.

  “Very nice,” he murmured. “Now show me your breasts and I’ll frig you again. You’re going to come for me.”

  Oh, God. She could swear her clitoris twitched at the thought. With shaking hands she undid the drawstring fastening of her gown, holding the neckline open as he fished her breasts out from her stays. Her nipples hardened in the cool air.

  “Ah,” he groaned. “Very pretty. I couldn’t quite decide how they were to look the other night.”

  “Which night?”

  He lowered his mouth to her breast and sucked while she squirmed in shocked delight, her hands on his head, fingers buried in his hair.

  “Now, pay attention, Miss Onslowe.” He shifted under her, returning one hand to her quim, the other to her aching nipples, twisting and pinching, a hair’s breadth from pain, while she gasped and heard herself make strange whimpering sounds. His fingers inside her did magic things, finding a spot that made her jump like a startled horse, while his thumb circled her clitoris, her tickler—oh, God, I can’t, I can’t—and then she could—oh, yes!—and he captured her mouth with his, while she shook and spasmed.

  He laughed into her mouth as she moaned into his—why wasn’t it like this before? I’m not even in love with this man. I think he’s quite a dreadful rogue, and crude, too—and he stilled his hand and then his tongue. He kissed the side of her mouth.

  “Oh,” she said.

  “Oh,” he mimicked her, but taking the sting from his mockery by stroking the side of her face.

  His hand, she couldn’t help noticing, was very wet—she had produced that, somehow, with his attentions—and she could smell it too. She drew back, startled, and he grinned at her, a mischievous grin, and touched his hand to her mouth.

  “Taste it.”

  “No!” She tried to sound outraged but another giggle spoiled it.

  “Come, I expected better from the fearless woman who strips off her stockings for strangers.”

  “Only for you, and you’re not a stranger.”

  “What am I then?”

  “I don’t know.” And she didn’t. He was someone she now knew intimately and yet not at all.

  His damp finger stroked her lips. “I’m the sort of stranger who is going to make you come again. I’m going to make you scream, you can try to make me scream, and in short, I shall fuck you silly, Miss Onslowe.”

  She giggled again. “We don’t want to disturb the chickens, Mr. Pendale.”

  “God forbid. I’ll have to stop your mouth.”

  Her lips parted and his finger slid inside her mouth, slow and foreign, tasting of her, strange and salty yet familiar, and he moaned. He liked having his finger sucked? How extraordinary.

  She reached for his cock, wrapping her fingers around him, feeling the skin beneath slide smooth over the impossibly hard surface.

  He sucked in his breath as if in pain, suddenly vulnerable.

  He groaned again. “Don’t. Don’t make me…I’ll…” But he didn’t move, staring at her hand on his cock, his lips parted, legs flexing beneath hers. Then, as if a sudden decision had been made, he grasped her bottom again and slid her atop, first bumping against her, and then with one smooth, heart-stopping slide, inside her.

  She gasped and grabbed his shoulder—too much, too fast, she’d forgotten—or had she ever known? All of this—his scent, his hands rough on her skin—and now he kissed her again, his mouth clever and searching against hers, and she was confused and dazed by the intensity, the shock of what they did. It was nothing like her first seduction, and even further from the elaborate fantasy she had choreographed last night. Mr. Pendale in the flesh—in her flesh, and she tried not to giggle aloud at the thought—was so much more vital and immediate, absorbing and consuming her. He was
there. Here. Inside her.

  “Oh.” You imbecile, Clarissa.

  “Oh.” Only this time he wasn’t laughing at her; it was a long, drawn-out exclamation, half-sigh, half-groan, his eyes half-closed, as though making a discovery in a dream.

  She moved her weight forward to brace her knee against the chicken coop, craving more of the wonderful slide and tug of his entry, as the ship rocked and swayed. He moved beneath her, thighs tense as he thrust, his hands at her breasts, then pulling her face to his as he groaned into her mouth.

  So unashamed, so generous, so—and then he pulled out of her, panting.

  “You’re not prepared.” His cock, wet and swollen, rubbed against her cunny, her thighs. He trembled.

  Not prepared? Well, he was there, wasn’t he? How more prepared could she be?

  “Clarissa!” He shook her arm. “I can’t come in you, can I?”

  “I—I don’t…”

  He swore, grasped her hand and wrapped it around his cock. His face had lost its innocent dreaminess; now he grimaced, fierce and frantic, cursing, arched his back and spilled warm over her hand and belly.

  He sagged back against the henhouse with such sudden abandon she wondered for one dreadful moment if he was dead, until he opened his eyes and laughed.

  She stared at him, confused.

  He patted her on the bottom, looking lazy and pleased with himself. “My apologies, Miss Onslowe.”

  “For what?”

  “My excessive haste and the, ah, mess.”

  She peered down at herself, at her sticky hand, his sticky hand, his cock slumped wet amidst a tangle of shirttail and petticoat. “No matter.”

  He reached into his coat pocket, and produced a handkerchief, wiping her fingers with an easy practicality, and then pushed her back—gently, but a push nonetheless—from his lap.

  She stood, straightened her skirts and petticoats, irritated with him, and with herself—well, what had she expected? A proposal or a passionate declaration of love?

  He stood, too, and regarded her in silence for a moment. “I should congratulate you, ma’am.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Miss Onslowe, you may choose to masquerade as—as some sort of virginal spinster. But you fuck like an emperor’s concubine. I don’t believe I’ve been so professionally seduced before in my life, and you certainly have the courtesan’s art of bringing a man off as fast as she can. Who the devil are you?”

  CHAPTER 3

  The words tumbled, senseless and hurried, out of Clarissa’s mouth before she could stop herself. “You know who I am. I’m no one. I’m one of thousands of women whose one indiscretion has left them with no future. I’m ruined.”

  “Not by me,” he said, scowling.

  “I never said—” she stopped before she made a greater fool of herself, wondering why he was so angry. I never said I was a virgin, I didn’t say I was unwilling… She cleared her throat. “Obviously not by you. It happened five years ago, plenty of time in which to reflect on my fate and to regret that I have no place in society. So I was housekeeper to a distant relative and when he died I found myself penniless. I had no choice but to take this position as a governess on the island, or starve.”

  “He left you nothing in his will?” Pendale looked interested now, as a dog might prick its ears. “It’s customary to leave upper servants well provided for.”

  “No. I had hoped—”

  “Too bad you didn’t know me then, Miss Onslowe. A good lawyer could have squeezed something out of the estate.”

  She shrugged, and wound her chilly hands together beneath her cloak, staring out at the white crests of waves. “I must earn my living, sir.”

  “Ah.” He rested his hands on the rail, his shoulder bumping against hers as the ship dipped and swayed. “I regret I can’t offer to be your protector, Miss Onslowe.”

  “I notice you don’t make me an offer of marriage, either.”

  He laughed. “I’m in no position to marry, ma’am, and why should I take another man’s leavings? No—” he had noticed her look of outrage—“I merely say what most men would. There’s no offense intended, ma’am. Forgive my harshness.”

  “I am too old to become a courtesan and have neither reputation nor dowry to be considered for marriage.” She paused. “Besides, marriage, for women, is a sort of servitude, where a woman hands over her person and property and becomes less than a person. I suppose a properly drawn-up contract as a courtesan allows independence of a sort.”

  He laughed. “I’ll draw up a contract for you when you find the right gentleman, Miss Onslowe. You will pay me, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  He smiled. “There is, of course, only one problem with your plan.”

  “Indeed?”

  “An abundance of black female flesh as competition.”

  “Then an English gentlewoman of some wit and learning may appear as an exotic.”

  He gave a cynical grunt. “A man with his breeches around his ankles doesn’t care overmuch for wit and learning, Miss Onslowe.”

  There was a short, uncomfortable silence.

  “Why are you going to the island, Mr. Pendale? You’ve never said.”

  “To visit my father.” He hesitated, as though about to add something but had decided to change the subject. “I suggest, though, that if you were to consider a career as a courtesan—for you do possess some talents that might come in useful in that profession—that you ask Mrs. Blight for some advice.”

  “Mrs. Blight? Why?”

  “She was obviously a light-skirt before she married Blight. I’m sure she’ll have some advice of a practical nature regarding how not to conceive.”

  So that’s what he’d meant. Are you prepared?

  Clarissa nodded, made uncomfortable by his clipped tone, his reluctance to meet her gaze. She held out her hand. “This is somewhat awkward. We have a long voyage ahead and I should like to think we could be friends. Maybe we should forget what has passed between us tonight.”

  After a moment’s hesitation he took her hand and gave a cursory bow.

  “Ma’am.” He dropped her hand and reached into his coat for a cheroot. “If you’ll excuse me, Miss Onslowe, I’ll visit your friend Lardy Jack for a hot coal.”

  She nodded, and made her way to the hatch. She glanced back. He had made no move toward the galley, but stood staring into the darkness of the night.

  And he had not agreed to accept her offer of friendship.

  She clambered down the ladder and knocked on the door of her cabin, relieved to hear Mrs. Blight’s voice bid her enter. Mrs. Blight, hair in curling papers beneath a frilled nightcap, was already in bed.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you,” Clarissa said as she undressed.

  “I’m feeling a trifle out of sorts, my dear.” Mrs. Blight gave a wan smile. “You look very flushed.”

  “Yes, it’s quite cold tonight.” Now down to her shift, Clarissa drew her brush through her hair. “Mrs. Blight, I was wondering…I’ve heard women say…well, I believe it is possible to not become pregnant, if a woman does not wish it.”

  “What a wicked suggestion, Miss Onslowe. ’Tis flying in the face of nature.”

  “So it is,” Clarissa said, calmly running her brush through her hair. “Will you tell me how to do it?”

  “Oh, Lord,” Mrs. Blight grumbled. “I suppose it’s that Mr. Pendale. Or is it Mr. Johnson? Pass me my medicine chest, there’s a good girl.”

  Clarissa placed the medicine chest next to her on the floor of the cabin.

  Mrs. Blight lurched onto one elbow to open the chest and fumbled inside. “Here, Miss Onslowe.”

  Clarissa looked at the small object that landed on her palm. “A sponge?”

  “Yes. Soak it in wine, or rum, or vinegar, or some such, and put it up your cunny. Or this—it’s tansy oil and I have an extra vial.”

  “Before I—he—”

  “Yes. Before. ’Twon’t do you much good af
ter.”

  Clarissa flushed. “But how do I get it out?”

  “Tie a piece of silk thread to it, but make sure you leave it in a good time after to catch all his spunk. You needn’t look at me like that, miss; I’ve not used this one, so you’ve nothing to fear.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Blight. I’m most grateful, truly. I hope you feel well soon.” Clutching her new treasure, Clarissa clambered into her berth, wondering why something so simple should be such a dark secret among women—and only among a certain sort of women, of whom she, apparently, was now one. She rubbed the sponge against her cheek, wondering if she would ever actually need it, still confused by Allen Pendale’s swings between playfulness and wounded arrogance.

  Any intimate relations—no, any fucking—should not happen again. It was wrong and immoral, and she was a woman in search of redemption. She must not forget that. Absolutely not. But if it did happen—although she would make very, very sure to maintain only a polite friendliness, one passenger to another—there would be no unwanted consequences with a man who did not want her as a mistress or as a wife.

  She thought about his hands and cock and tongue, how hot and bewildering they had felt against her chilled skin, and smiled, falling into sleep with the gentle rock of the ship.

  She woke early next morning, hearing the thud of feet overhead on deck, various creaks and the slap of waves from outside. She could smell salt, coffee and frying bacon and was suddenly ravenous. She slid to the floor—careful not to wake Mrs. Blight, who was still fast asleep—dressed, and made her way to the deck.

  The air was bright, fresh and cold; there was no land in sight and slate-gray waves tipped with cream broke and sparkled. The deck tipped under her feet, sending her careening into Mr. Johnson.

  “What a splendid morning!” she exclaimed, grasping his arm for balance.

  “Yes, ma’am.” His face was pale, with a few beads of sweat on his forehead.

  “Are you not well? Maybe some breakfast will put you to rights?”