Chapter 5:
Saturday
When Betsy let herself into the kitchen, Mr. Moon was already kneading dough for brown bread ice cream, sleeves rolled above his elbows. He gave her a shy smile, and it occurred to her that now she might tell him something.
“I like watching you knead dough,” she confessed.
His forehead creased. “You do?” Tendons shifted in his forearms, the strength and dexterity of his hands terribly evident.
She nodded. “It displays your arms to great advantage.”
He ducked his head, ears going red, but his mouth curved. “Does it now?”
A brand-new thought occurred to her. “I—” How bold was too bold? “You wouldn’t—you wouldn’t consider taking your shirt off to do it, would you?”
He blinked. “I can’t see no harm in it, I suppose.”
Watching him unknot his apron ties and unbutton his waistcoat, with a few bashful glances in her direction, was as good for thrills and suspense as the transcript of a really good murder trial. Better, maybe. She held her breath.
Slipping his braces back over his shoulders, Robert retied his apron and resumed kneading. Now she could see the muscles in his upper arms and shoulders too. Her mouth watered.
“If I’m to do this,” he said, “then you’d ought to work in your shift.”
The idea was terribly shocking, and she loved it at once. She winked at him, straining behind her head for the buttons on her dress. She winked! Betsy Piper, shopgirl and seductress.
Soon there was nothing but shift and apron between her and his eyes. Her first thought was how cool it was, and how unfair to be obliged to wear stays, a petticoat, and a dress in the heat of summer.
Her second thought was that her shift was threadbare with washing and patched under one arm. She was poor, which was why he wouldn’t think of marrying her. Maybe she hadn’t ought to remind him.
Then she saw he was hard, and thoughts fled. Yet he made no move towards her, but smiled, continuing to work his dough.
Oh. She flamed up like a fire splashed with brandy. They were to go about their business, then. Behave as if it were any day, with both of them half-naked and his cock poking his apron into a fine awning.
She couldn’t have said why the idea worked on her so, but her cunny was so eager it hurt.
“Now,” he said, “to candy rose petals…”
* * *
Betsy was laying out the last of the rose petals when, without warning, Mr. Moon pressed up against her back and murmured in her ear, “Time for our elevener.”
He’d been patient all morning, contenting himself with watching her, brushing up against her, fondling her once or twice on his way past. She’d trailed her fingers across his shoulders, leaned over to show him her tits—how unthinkably awkward that had seemed when Jemima mentioned it a few days ago!—and discovered a fondness for slapping his bum.
Neither of them were in much mood to be patient any longer.
He kissed her shoulder, sucking gently and then hard until tingling pressure built at the spot. He drew her arse against his hardness with a hopeful little moan. “May I?”
Please. “Yes. You don’t—it’s kind of you to ask, but you needn’t—”
She felt him tense. He probably thought it a criticism, he was that conscious of his inexperience, thinking her some sort of woman of the world. She’d have to own up about that one of these days.
“I love that you ask,” she said. “You’re not obliged to, is all I mean. You can—you can have me whenever you like.”
Then she wished she hadn’t said it. It was too close to the truth. It was the truth. He could have her whenever he liked, all of her, to be his wife, and yet he didn’t take her. But he was eager enough for this, wasn’t he?
Maybe he thought anyone could have her whenever he liked.
A man don’t shit in his hat and put it on his head, her mother’s voice said. Not talking about good little Betsy, oh no. Talking about Jemima, whom Mrs. Piper was convinced was the Scarlet Woman of West Sussex.
Jemima might have kissed more boys than Betsy had fingers and toes, but she’d never behaved as shamelessly, as recklessly, as Betsy was doing now.
Mr. Moon pulled up her shift with an approving sound, squeezing her buttocks. Fire and longing laced through her.
Sliding the tray of rose petals aside, she bent over the table as he lifted her up and took her. Her feet dangled helplessly; he was so tall. So tall and perfect.
Her breasts pressed against the smooth marble slab, cool even in summer. Its unforgiving edge cut into her upper thighs, but his cock made her forget it, made the discomfort a token of his hunger for her.
His fingers landed on the back of her neck lightly enough to tickle. He went slower now. Sliding his hand into her hair, he cupped her skull gently but firmly, holding her there for him to fuck. She pressed her forehead into her folded arms and tried not to cry.
“I’d like to decorate your breasts,” he said idly. “With rose petals, and a raspberry to cover each nipple.”
Why say something so foolish? Candied rose petals were too dear and too laborious to waste on something like that, and they both knew it. She might as well say she’d like to see him dressed for dinner at Lenfield House.
“Betsy?” He smoothed her back uncertainly. “Be you well? Did I—?”
Her shoulders had gone tense, she realized. She nodded hastily.
“I didn’t mean to knabble on. I’ll hold my tongue.”
That wasn’t what she wanted at all, but anything she said now would come out sullen, and she couldn’t explain her mood.
“Harder,” she said, surprising herself.
He put his hands on her hips first, inserting his fingers between that hard marble edge and her skin. He was so awfully, horribly sweet even as he took her with punishing strokes, grunting with effort. How dare he be so sweet?
“Is that—?” He cut himself off, and she knew he’d meant to ask if that was hard enough.
She wished he would just pound into her, heedless. She wanted this to feel angry, so she could feel angry back.
Would you marry me if I were rich? she’d ask spitefully, only to feel his rhythm falter.
She knew the answer already. Aye, he would. He’d been ready to marry Phoebe Dymond, whom he didn’t care a pin for, whose blazing rows with her late husband were legend in Lively St. Lemeston, who didn’t even like cake, because she’d have come with money. It had been the widow, not Mr. Moon, who got cold feet.
Mr. Moon would probably have been too softhearted even to row with her; she’d have browbeaten him entirely.
He’d never told her he wanted to decorate her breasts with rose petals. Betsy had had to remind him to pay her the mildest of compliments.
Betsy had done that for him, because she loved him. She’d chosen his happiness over hers, and he’d chosen the Honey Moon over his own happiness. What was wrong with them?
His fierce thrusts almost satisfied the violent heat inside her, her sudden hatred of him and herself.
Would he have taken Mrs. Dymond like this? Would he have liked it?
She imagined it: Mrs. Dymond’s hands on him. His moans in her ear at this moment.
A wave of possessiveness rolled over Betsy until she choked on it, her skin tingling with rage, blood rushing to the surface. Mine.
“Touch me,” she said fiercely. “Make me spend.” She was tired of being wholesome and cheerful. She wanted to kill something.
The fingers of one hand flexed on her hip. He made a strangled noise, too far gone to obey.
She couldn’t reach to do it herself at this angle. She pushed herself up on her elbows and rubbed clumsily at her own nipples. Pleasure speared through her, but not enough.
He shuddered convulsively, spilling into her. Of course. He was satisfied, and she was left wanting.
Someone knocked hard on the door to the kitchen.
Betsy’s heart, already pounding, began to hammer violently in her chest.
“Mr. Moon?” There was no mistaking those apologetically petulant tones. Mrs. Lovejoy.
Mr. Moon pulled swiftly out of her, and by the time she pushed herself up, he was pulling off his apron. Light poured over his bare chest lovingly as syrup, dripping down the lean lines of his ribs and stomach. Of course it did. Betsy wanted to hit him.
She ran for her clothes.
“Just a moment, Mrs. Lovejoy,” he called, pulling his shirt on. He had so many less clothes than she—and more presence of mind, because he held the door to the cold room open for her.
She gathered up her stays, her petticoats, her dress, her shoes. Had she missed anything? Had she left any telltale sign of her presence, like a bloody knife dropped by a murderer? She felt like a murderer, guilty and creeping, fear driving out rage and leaving her appalled at herself.
She scurried into the cold room and crouched there, afraid even to dress. Her skin broke out in gooseflesh.
I deserve this, she thought.
She wasn’t even sure what crime this corrosive guilt was for. Fornication? Wrath? Not being the perfect mistress?
Mr. Moon opened the kitchen door. “How do you do, ma’am?”
“Oh, you know.” Mrs. Lovejoy gave a little laugh. If Betsy had to turn that laugh into words, they’d be, I know you understand how brave I am in the face of my life’s many trials. The woman didn’t ask how he did. “I wanted to see how things are coming for the assembly. No one answered at the front door.”
Betsy hadn’t heard her knocking. They had been making too much noise.
“I didn’t hear you.” He was still breathing hard, and probably blushing like mad. If Mrs. Lovejoy guessed…
“Absorbed in your work, I’m sure,” she said with another little laugh, this one playful. Betsy ground her teeth. Oh, she would be here all morning. “May I see what you’ve done?”
“I’m just candying rose petals today. Wait here, if you please, I’ll fetch out the temple.”
Betsy shrank deeper into her corner as he came through the door, pulling it carefully shut behind him and crossing to where the sugar sculpture stood on an ice chest. In this moment, she could think of nothing but how foolish she must look. Her nose was running in the chilly air. If she were really a woman of the world, would she know how to think this all a very fine joke?
Going back out, he did his best to shut the door quickly with his arms full, but it swung a little.
If they were caught, he’d have to marry her—and then she’d lose her chance at ever knowing he’d chosen her freely, because he adored her, just as she was. She shut her eyes so Mrs. Lovejoy couldn’t see her, like a child hiding from bugbears.
“Do you think an Egyptian temple would be better?” Mrs. Lovejoy asked. “After all, the Battle of the Nile was in Egypt.”
A sob rose in Betsy’s throat. Nothing was ever good enough. Nothing.
That temple was loving, precise, beautiful work. Mr. Moon had labored for hours over it, and Mrs. Lovejoy didn’t have even one nice thing to say. He would break his heart. He only wanted to make people happy.
Other people.
There was a long, horrified silence in kitchen. “I’m afraid it’s too late to make the change,” Mr. Moon said apologetically. “We did agree on Grecian. Next year, if you like?”
Another long pause. “Next year, then. And how do you intend to decorate it?”
Betsy shivered through long minutes of “Do you think meringue might be nicer?” and “There will be sugar paste men and women, won’t there?” and “I do love raspberries…” How Mrs. Lovejoy contrived to have so many opinions and yet be so indecisive was a true mystery.
She ought to be wasting Betsy’s time. That was Betsy’s work, so Mr. Moon could do his own.
“Can you put some of the jellies in martial molds? Cannons and so on?”
“I’m afraid I haven’t any,” Mr. Moon said. His pained pauses got less and less with each question, at least. “And I don’t know anyone who does.”
“Could you have one made?”
“Not by Tuesday,” he said firmly.
“Then perhaps Lord Wellington’s new coat of arms might be displayed somewhere.”
Betsy sank down to the floor, pressing her chest and forearms against her thighs for a little warmth, and tried not to imagine murdering her.
“Have you a picture?” Mr. Moon asked. “I can’t send to London by Tuesday.”
“There was one in the Intelligencer when his lordship was made a Knight of the Garter,” Mrs. Lovejoy said eagerly. “When was that? Before Vitoria, I know…February?”
“I’ll send Betsy to the printing office,” he agreed. “If Jack Sparks can find it, I’ll paint the arms on a sheet of gum paste for the table.”
“Where is that girl? Shouldn’t she be helping you?”
Betsy stopped breathing.
“I sent her out on an errand.”
“Dawdling somewhere flirting, I don’t doubt.” Mrs. Lovejoy sighed so loudly it was audible in the cold room. “She has an eye for the men, I’ve noticed.”
Betsy’s jaw dropped. What?
“I’ve always found her a very modest young woman,” Mr. Moon said, without a trace of self-consciousness at the lie.
“Oh, well, I’m sure she’s careful when she knows you’re watching.”
She glared at the door. But inwardly, her blood ran colder. What if he believed Mrs. Lovejoy?
“I’m afraid I’ve a deal more to get done today. I assure you, ma’am, that everything will be ready for Tuesday, and to your satisfaction.” Mr. Moon sounded annoyed. Could he be jealous? Jemima would call jealousy a good sign, but Betsy felt faintly ill at the thought.
“I’m sorry, you must be wishing me at Jericho,” Mrs. Lovejoy said with a mortified little laugh.
“Not at all, ma’am.”
“You’re too kind, I know you must be bored to death of me.”
And still it was minutes more before the bolt finally slid home behind her. Betsy stood, limbs stiff, and walked out into the warmth of the kitchen.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Of course.” She smiled tightly as she yanked her shift over her head.
“You never—you never spent. Shall I—?”
She drew back.
He saw it. Miserably, he turned away and went to stand in front of his temple.
“You can’t please everybody,” she said, and wished there wasn’t an edge in her voice.
He measured the columns with his hands. “I can’t please anybody.”
“What she said,” Betsy said with sudden resolve, “about me flirting—”
He didn’t look at her, but he turned his head slightly in her direction so that she saw him in profile, fierce and austere.
She faltered. “I…”
“I hope someday I shall have the right to ask you what you do when you aren’t with me,” he said quietly. “But I don’t. I know that well enough. And I know you aren’t—” He took a deep breath. “You’re always quite prompt on errands.”
As if that was the point.
Suddenly she couldn’t bear to admit that the last man who’d bedded her was fifteen-year-old Lenny Sadler. That she’d been waiting about for Mr. Moon, dreaming of him, longing for him.
It would only make him nervous, anyway. She couldn’t bear that humiliation on top of everything else.