through reeds and willow copses and meadows, where the scent of wild roses and honeysuckle was brought to them on the breeze, where the milky moonlight cast long black shadows behind them as they walked. And in the darkness beneath the willows, with starshine and moonshine and a gentle breeze their only audience, he had taken her in his arms and kissed her very nicely and just as she was about to suggest that they make their way back to the party he had begun to make love to her with such heat, such passion, that cool, self-assured, rather calculating Marianne Dupré had found herself responding – and responding with ardour and appetite, what was more.
Afterwards, she could scarcely believe the things she had done, the way she had behaved! All her plans had been whistled down the wind because a man had been sweet to her when she was unhappy, and had taken advantage of her, and stolen her most precious possession – for Marianne prized her virginity as a highly saleable item in the marriage stakes. Armand had never come within a mile of intimacy, he had been content with her occasional kisses, and now Peter had simply taken her, as though . . . as though . . .
But her thoughts had broken down in confusion at that point, for she had lain in Peter’s arms, under those willow trees, and begged him to love her, to hold her, never to let her go. And Peter had made love to her so enchantingly, and promised that they would meet often, as often as possible, and helped her to dress, and taken her back to the party as calmly as though nothing at all had happened out there in the windy darkness, far less something as world-stopping as the experience he and Marianne had shared.
He had not tried to meet her again, either. It had been Marianne who had found out where he worked, bumped into him ‘by accident’ in the city, suggested they might meet that evening for a meal. She had named a small hotel, he had agreed – and afterwards, when he took her up to the room he had booked, he had actually had the nerve to say he’d assumed that was what she wanted!
It was not only what she wanted, it was what she had planned, but she had no intention of admitting it. No decent man, she told Peter tearfully, would have assumed any such thing.
‘I am a stranger in your land,’ she said piteously, exaggerating her accent and fixing her huge, dark eyes on his face. ‘I do not zeenk what you say is gentlemanly. I am nineteen . . . I know nozzing about men, only zat I badly need a friend.’
She was a good deal older than nineteen and she had nearly snookered herself with that particular lie because he had promptly apologised and said that he was a bounder and had misread the situation. Of course he wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of her – he was almost twenty years her senior, dammit – and would see her home at once, would cancel the room . . .
Afterwards, she realised that they had both been playing a part, and playing it with considerable aplomb what was more, but at the time she simply burst into tears, threw herself into his arms, and told him that she was in his hands.
‘And zey are gentle, kind hands,’ she said soulfully. ‘You will not harm me, Peter, zat much I do know.’
He hadn’t harmed her, he had given her much pleasure. But he hadn’t wanted to marry her, either, and had made it clear that she could never be anything other than his mistress. And for many months, being his mistress had been so wonderful that she hadn’t wanted anything more. His love-making was tender, but so satisfying that she thought about it all the time they were apart, yet when they were together, she found that she simply enjoyed his company, his sense of humour, his occasional bouts of wanting to explain something to her, even the way he drove the car. I like him as well as loving him, she realised after time had passed and her affection for him had simply deepened and strengthened. There won’t ever be anyone for me but Peter, it
Afterwards, she could scarcely believe the things she had done, the way she had behaved! All her plans had been whistled down the wind because a man had been sweet to her when she was unhappy, and had taken advantage of her, and stolen her most precious possession – for Marianne prized her virginity as a highly saleable item in the marriage stakes. Armand had never come within a mile of intimacy, he had been content with her occasional kisses, and now Peter had simply taken her, as though . . . as though . . .
But her thoughts had broken down in confusion at that point, for she had lain in Peter’s arms, under those willow trees, and begged him to love her, to hold her, never to let her go. And Peter had made love to her so enchantingly, and promised that they would meet often, as often as possible, and helped her to dress, and taken her back to the party as calmly as though nothing at all had happened out there in the windy darkness, far less something as world-stopping as the experience he and Marianne had shared.
He had not tried to meet her again, either. It had been Marianne who had found out where he worked, bumped into him ‘by accident’ in the city, suggested they might meet that evening for a meal. She had named a small hotel, he had agreed – and afterwards, when he took her up to the room he had booked, he had actually had the nerve to say he’d assumed that was what she wanted!
It was not only what she wanted, it was what she had planned, but she had no intention of admitting it. No decent man, she told Peter tearfully, would have assumed any such thing.
‘I am a stranger in your land,’ she said piteously, exaggerating her accent and fixing her huge, dark eyes on his face. ‘I do not zeenk what you say is gentlemanly. I am nineteen . . . I know nozzing about men, only zat I badly need a friend.’
She was a good deal older than nineteen and she had nearly snookered herself with that particular lie because he had promptly apologised and said that he was a bounder and had misread the situation. Of course he wouldn’t dream of taking advantage of her – he was almost twenty years her senior, dammit – and would see her home at once, would cancel the room . . .
Afterwards, she realised that they had both been playing a part, and playing it with considerable aplomb what was more, but at the time she simply burst into tears, threw herself into his arms, and told him that she was in his hands.
‘And zey are gentle, kind hands,’ she said soulfully. ‘You will not harm me, Peter, zat much I do know.’
He hadn’t harmed her, he had given her much pleasure. But he hadn’t wanted to marry her, either, and had made it clear that she could never be anything other than his mistress. And for many months, being his mistress had been so wonderful that she hadn’t wanted anything more. His love-making was tender, but so satisfying that she thought about it all the time they were apart, yet when they were together, she found that she simply enjoyed his company, his sense of humour, his occasional bouts of wanting to explain something to her, even the way he drove the car. I like him as well as loving him, she realised after time had passed and her affection for him had simply deepened and strengthened. There won’t ever be anyone for me but Peter, it
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