Silk

‘It’s too late to play teasing games now, Lou,’ George warned her. ‘You’ve been coming on to me for weeks, and you know it. Stop worrying, you’re going to love it. Your kind always does. Careful, you don’t want me to go tearing that pretty blouse you’re wearing, do you? What would Mummy say?’

She was genuinely angry now – she hadn’t planned for things to go this far. Teasing George was one thing, actually letting him do ‘it’ was another.

Somehow Louise managed to fight him off and push her way past him to the door, but it was locked and whilst she struggled helplessly with it he caught hold of her, dragging her back to the bed.

This definitely wasn’t what she wanted or how things were supposed to be. George was tugging at her clothes, undressing her swiftly and expertly, despite her protests and struggles, until all she was wearing was her pale pink silk chemise and her matching French knickers with their lacy edging.

Automatically when George let go of her and stood up to remove his own clothes, she lifted her hands to cross them over her breasts. She wasn’t going to let him know that she was apprehensive. Men like George didn’t feel any sympathy for women who cried and pleaded; a woman had to stand up to a man like George. Louise knew that instinctively.

She might be nervous but she was still curious enough to risk a look at him. She hadn’t seen a man naked before, not properly, although she was familiar with the feel of that thick jut of flesh rearing up in swollen urgency, having allowed George to put her hand on it on several occasions, including one time when he had unbuttoned his trousers and pushed her hand inside his underwear to really touch ‘it’.

She hadn’t expected that it would look so ugly, nor have that awkward-looking pouch of flesh hanging beneath it.

‘Like what you see?’ George asked. ‘Want a closer inspection?’

She tried to look nonchalant as she gave a small shrug, but she was wasting her time, she realised, because George was more interested in pushing down the straps of her camisole to bare her breasts, before cupping them in his hands and then kneading them and tugging almost painfully on her nipples.

She relaxed a bit when he started to kiss her – she was, after all, on familiar territory here – but when he transferred his mouth from her lips to her breasts she tensed again and then tensed even more when she felt him tugging – sucking – on her nipples, first one and then the other. An unfamiliar sensation zigzagged right through her body, causing a dull ache low down inside her that began to grow in intensity. George’s teeth suddenly raked her nipple, causing her to cry out and jerk away from him, but he pulled her back, sliding his hand into the open leg of her knickers, and touching her almost roughly where she had secretly and daringly touched herself before but never like George was doing, working his fingers into her, ignoring her protest that he was hurting her, rubbing that special magical place she had found during her own explorations until suddenly Louise wasn’t thinking about how she could bend George to her will any more because she wasn’t capable of thinking anything, only doing; arching her back, moaning and crying out, protesting when George abandoned the source of her pleasure and instead pushed a pillow beneath her hips and then rolled on top of her, raising her knees and then pushing slowly into her, ignoring the stiffening that accompanied her demand for him to stop.

But he refused to stop, and then miraculously the pain disappeared, and the sensation of him thrusting deeper and faster inside her became a challenge she felt driven to meet, and then a need that had her crying out to him.

When he groaned and tensed Louise wondered what was happening, fearful that something was wrong, and even that he might be stuck inside her, but before she could panic, he groaned again and pumped furiously into her, before exhaling in satisfaction and slumping over her.

It hadn’t been at all like she had thought it would be. George had been so rough, too rough at times. And all that sweat and hard work, and that sticky wetness she could feel leaking from her now that George had removed himself from her.

‘There, I told you you’d like it, didn’t I?’

Louise was sitting up in bed, the sheet dragged up to cover her breasts whilst she smoked the cigarette George had just lit and passed to her. George was lying beside her, his head propped up watching her with a smug expression on his face.

‘No, I didn’t like it at all,’ she denied sharply. She was still angry at having her hand forced.

George laughed. ‘No? Then what was all that, “Oh, George, please, oh, George. Oh, oh …” all about then?’ he laughed.

She had enjoyed it, Louise admitted, but she was still furiously cross with George. After all, this was not the kind of place in which she had expected to lose her virginity. She deserved better. But she’d make him pay …

Chapter Twelve (#ue06af8bf-ced4-5ff5-9234-e9635c824cdb)

Lady Rutland wasn’t at all pleased that Amber had been invited to the private pre-ball dinner party Beth’s parents were hosting on the evening of Beth’s coming-out ball, when Louise had not, but since her grandmother had not only written to her saying how delighted she was that Amber had been invited to accompany Beth to the South of France, but had actually also telephoned her as well, Amber had felt justified in ignoring Lady Rutland’s crossness.

Lord and Lady Levington’s Belgrave Square house was far grander than Lady Rutland’s in Cadogan Place; the flowers to decorate the ballroom had been sent up from the hothouse at Chevenely, their country estate, having been expressly grown for Beth’s ball.

Since it was the first time she had met the Earl of Levington Amber had been worrying that she might not earn Beth’s father’s approval, and that the invitation to the South of France might be rescinded. However, to her relief Lord Levington had treated her most kindly, putting her at her ease straight away.

Amber had been partnered for dinner by Beth’s elder brother Henry, Viscount Hollowes. Fresh-faced, with Beth’s soft brown hair and his father’s hazel eyes, his manner slightly awkward and intense, Henry had talked earnestly to Amber about Australia over dinner.

‘Henry isn’t really used to girls,’ Beth had confided to Amber. ‘Mummy thought it would be good for him to stay here in London whilst I was doing the season, but Daddy said that it was more important that he went with him to Australia.’

Beth looked truly radiant tonight, as much because of the presence of her godmother’s son, Alistair, as anything else, Amber suspected, watching her friend later as she was whirled round the dance floor in Alistair’s arms. Sturdily built, with red-gold hair and bright blue eyes, the Hon. Alistair McCrea might not appear as glamorous as some of the more polished debs’ delights, but there was a reassuring quality about him. He was the kind of young man who would take his responsibilities very seriously, Amber could see, and those responsibilities would naturally include his wife. Ultimately he would inherit not only his father’s title and Scottish lands but also a small Hertfordshire estate that would come to him via a great-uncle on his mother’s side of the family, Beth had confided to Amber, and Amber suspected that Beth was halfway to falling in love with him already.

Lucky Beth, Amber thought, to be able to fall in love with someone so suitable. But then Beth was the kind of girl who wanted to please her parents, especially her mother to whom she was extremely close.

With something as very exciting as the South of France to look forward to Amber could almost forget the scene she had witnessed the night of her ball, and how much she missed the fun she had had with Lord Robert. Almost. But not entirely.

Beth hadn’t mentioned him recently and Amber had not liked to ask, afraid her enquiries would give her away. Diana and Bryan Guinness were here at the ball in a group that included Diana’s brother, Tom Mitford, Jim Lees-Milne, Oswald Mosley and his wife, and the novelist Evelyn Waugh, all of whom Amber recognised, having either been introduced to them or had them pointed out to her on previous occasions.

Amber saw them whilst she was dancing with Henry, and trying not to feel uncomfortable about the way he was looking at her so intensely, without saying a word. They were all crowding around Oswald Mosley, a very good-looking man in the mode of Rudolph Valentino, who all the popular papers were lionising because of his decision to resign from Ramsay MacDonald’s government over the rejection of what was being termed the Mosley Memorandum: a document that set out plans for large-scale public work programmes to provide jobs and an income for the poor and out of work. Personally Amber thought that anything that relieved the dreadful situation whereby men were unable to find work to support their families should be praised and put in force as soon as possible. Not that she knew very much about politics, of course.

They were almost level with the group when Diana, who was standing next to Mosley, suddenly screamed, and then laughed, shaking her head as she exclaimed, ‘Oh, you beast, Mosley,’ before turning to her husband and telling him, ‘He has just dropped something icy cold down my back, Bryan.’

‘Oh, no, poor you,’ the pretty brunette clinging to Tom Mitford’s arm protested, whilst Oswald Mosley opened his fist to reveal some of the small pink puffballs that had decorated the supper tables.

‘It was only one of these, iced with champagne,’ he was drawling, obviously enjoying the tease. ‘You were so deliciously hotly defensive of my Memorandum, Diana, that I felt it my duty to cool you down before you burned poor Ramsay’s reputation to cinders.’

The dance had come to an end, and Amber was rather relieved to be able to wriggle free of Henry’s tight grip.

‘You must go and find your next partner,’ she reminded him gently when he showed no sign of moving from her side.

His blurted, ‘I’d much rather dance with you,’ made Amber feel freshly uncomfortable.

And when a familiar voice drawled, ‘Ah, but Miss Vrontsky is engaged to dance this dance with me, I’m afraid, Henry old chap,’ she was too relieved to feel self-conscious when she turned to look up at Lord Robert.

‘I take it that you were not wanting to dance with him again?’ he asked once Henry was out of earshot.

‘Not really,’ Amber admitted, ‘but you need not stay and dance with me if there is …’ She stopped, floundering uncomfortably.

‘I want to dance with you very much.’

Now she was blushing, Amber realised in vexation.

‘But I think we should stroll instead,’ Lord Robert suggested, offering her his arm. ‘We can talk more easily that way.’

Lord Robert obviously knew the house well, Amber realised, because he soon found a small anteroom to the ballroom, its doors open to a balcony just wide enough for two people to stand and enjoy the evening air.

‘I’m sorry I was so silly about … about things,’ Amber told him.

‘You weren’t silly. In fact, I doubt you could ever be silly, Amber.’ When she looked at him, her eyes wide with uncertainty, he told her, ‘I should not have behaved in the way that I did. Some things should remain private. Not seen and not heard.’

‘I dare say that it isn’t always easy not to betray one’s feelings, when they are very strong.’ Now Amber was looking out into the darkness, unable to bring herself to look directly at Lord Robert.

‘You are as compassionate as you are kind. I loved foolishly and I paid the price for it.’

His words made Amber feel intensely sad for him.

‘I used to think that loving someone meant that person would be happy like my parents were happy, but love isn’t always like that, is it?’

‘No, it isn’t. Love can be many things, some of them damnably painful. I hope that when you find love it will be the kind of love your parents shared.’ He paused and then said abruptly, ‘I have missed you and our outings together.’

‘Have you?’ Now Amber turned to look at him. ‘I have missed you too. I thought you must be cross with me because—’