Laurie Brown - What Would Jane Austen Do?

“Forget them.”

He swept her off her feet and carried her to the bed, kissing her as he laid her down, rolling her to lie on top of him as he joined her. She bent her knees so she could straddle his hips, found the exact position, and took him within her. The pleasure of his fullness caused her to push herself upward with her arms and downward with her hips, taking more of him inside, stretching and sliding, quivering and pulsating.

He jerked his hips upwards, filling her, seating himself deep within her. Again and again.

She arched her spine and threw her head back. He tweaked the tip of her breast, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger. He slid his other hand between their bodies so the tip of his finger rubbed against her clitoris with each movement. Her orgasm came quickly, stunningly. She felt as if she would explode into a million pieces. She flopped forward, needing to hold him, to have a tether to earth, while she flew into space, detonating into blazing fireworks.

When he felt her internal pulsing, he wrapped his arms around her and rolled her under him, driving hard and fast toward his satisfaction, staying with her, becoming one. He bit his lip to keep from crying her name to the world.

Spent and breathless, he rolled to his back, cradling her to his side. She felt so right within the circle of his arm. He wanted to sleep thus, wake up thus.

As soon as his pounding heartbeat slowed to near normal, he said, “Several years ago, I read an ancient Oriental love poem, but I didn’t understand its meaning. In it, two clay figurines represent lovers. One magical night the moonlight shines upon them, and they come to life. During the act of making love, they fall from the shelf into the darkness and out of the magical moonlight. They shatter into tiny shards. The next morning the sculptor scoops up the pieces, adds water, kneads the mixture, and forms it into two figures identical to the originals. But in the one are bits of the other and vice versa. Forever altered, each will always have some essence of the other molded into their existence. Now I understand. And believe it to be true.”

He tipped her face up to kiss her. “Are those tears?”

“No. Yes.” She blinked and sniffled. “That was beautiful.”

“The poet said it better. I’ll find a copy for you.”

She laid her hands on his chest and propped her chin on them. “I’d rather remember it in your words.”

He caressed the side of her face, tracing the line of her jaw. “I should go.”

She pressed his hand to her cheek. “Not yet.” She wiggled closer and propped her knee on his hip.

He chuckled. “Keep that up and I won’t be able to leave.”

“If I could, I’d stay like this forever.”

“Like this?” He pulled her upward until they were a breath apart. “Or like this?” He kissed her, long and gentle, tasting her lips and the inside of her mouth.

She pulled on his shoulder until he rolled on top of her, fitting his hips between her thighs. Starting at her forehead he kissed every inch of skin, moving lower and lower, spending extra time on each breast until she squirmed with need.

He relished her little kitten mewls of pleasure and moved lower, across her belly to the sensitive spot in the vee of her legs. He bent her knees and spread them wide, licking the nub with his tongue, tasting her essence, delighting in the uncontrolled bucking of her hips. He pulled her knees over his shoulders and then slid two fingers inside her, in and out, faster and faster. When he felt her orgasm begin, he quickly levered himself upwards, lifting her hips and plunging into her. He knelt upright on the bed, her heels on his shoulders. Felt deeper than ever, the rhythmic vibration of her pleasure milked him of every drop of semen.

Her body went limp. He rolled her onto her side and spooned protectively around her. Although he wanted nothing more than to go to sleep holding her, he knew if he didn’t move soon that’s exactly what he would do. And he had other obligations to fulfill before the night was through. He kissed the back of her neck and the delicate spot below her ear. “Eleanor?” he whispered.

“Don’t go, James,” she mumbled sleepily. “Not yet.”

“I hate the thought of leaving you, but I promise I’ll come back. Will you wait for me?”

She turned over to face him. She’d told him the other evening she was leaving after the ball, but now she wasn’t so sure. Teddy had still died. The girls didn’t meet the pivotal brothers. She didn’t even know if the ghosts would take her back since she’d messed everything up. Surely they wouldn’t fault her for events beyond her control. Would it be so terrible to stay with him? Could she deal with the often grim realities of Regency life if he was by her side? She didn’t know what to say.

He placed a finger across her lips. “Don’t answer. I know I have no right to ask. I have so little to offer you.” He rubbed his forehead. “I don’t even remember who I really am.”

She took his hand and held it between hers. “It’s who you are now that matters, not who you were or who your family was. You are a good and honorable man, and you deserve happiness.”

“Then if the universe is just, you will be here when I get back, for that is what will make me happy.” He kissed her. “I will return as soon as I can.”

She wrapped her arms around him and held him tight. When she kissed him good-bye, somehow she knew it would be forever. He rose from the bed and dressed. She sat up, drawing the coverlet over her shoulders, suddenly cold. Blinking away her tears, she smiled. She wanted him to remember her smiling.

“Sleep well, my love,” he whispered and blew her a kiss.

As soon as the door clicked shut, she rolled over and buried her face in the pillow. Too heartsick to sleep, her tears flowed freely, and sobs wracked her body.

Eleanor woke late in the morning, heavy and groggy from her restless night. Then she remembered the ghosts had not come for her. She was still in the past and would see Shermont again. Her heart soared. Energized, she sat up, ready to face the day.

“Good morning, sleepyhead,” Deirdre said.

Eleanor’s hopes evaporated as she realized she was in a different room, and the two ghosts were seated primly at a small table near a window that faced the rear, rather than the south lawn where they’d played croquet and where the archery targets had been set up.

Disoriented, she asked, “Where am I? What happened?”

“That’s easy,” Mina said. “You’re in a room down the hall from where you were. Sorry about that, but the inn is crowded, what with that group of college students—”

“Stick to the point, Mina,” Deirdre said.

“Oh, certainly. And you are back in the modern world.” She punctuated her announcement with a quick jerk downward of her chin.

“But I didn’t save your brother.”

“Well, technically you did prevent the duel, even though you couldn’t prevent his death,” Deirdre said.

“And he wasn’t really our brother,” Mina added. “So you succeeded, even if not the way we expected.”

“What we know now is that our task wasn’t learning a lesson or doing something ourselves. We were merely the tools used to set a few events right that had somehow gone wrong. You helped us do that. Uncle Huxley inherited the title as he should have in the first place. And he was a marvelous guardian.”

“But he inherited the title before.”

“Yes,” Mina interjected. “But this time, because of what he learned about Teddy through your intervention, Uncle Huxley didn’t want us to wear mourning for such a brother, so he took us on his world tour. We collected thousands of specimens for his collection. Deirdre and I became quite expert at catching butterflies and moths and had such a wonderful time.”

“Did Huxley find his new species?”

“In New Guinea,” Deirdre said with a wide grin. “A stunning iridescent blue and green wing with a row of pink spots along the outer edge. The adults measured six to eight inches across. Magnificent. He named it Papillio huxdeirmin.”

“I’m so happy for him,” Eleanor said.

“Extinct now, unfortunately. That’s a specimen on that wall,” Mina said, nodding toward a framed butterfly that looked like a print.

“You should buy it,” Deirdre whispered. “When Uncle died we donated his entire collection to the British Museum, except for a few we kept for sentimental reasons. That silly female who runs this place has a price tag on it of forty-five pounds. It was worth thousands when we were alive.”

“And we want you to have it,” Mina said. “To remember us by.”

“As if I could forget you.”

Deirdre stood. “We just wanted you to know how much we appreciate your help. Now we really should go. Our husbands have been quite patiently waiting for us.”

“Wait! Did you marry brothers? I worried that since I prevented you from meeting—”

“We did marry brothers,” Mina said. “Magnificent, brilliant, kind, handsome Dutchmen we met on a butterfly hunting safari into central Africa.”

“They didn’t speak a word of English, and we didn’t speak any Dutch.”

“Oh, but what fun we all had learning.”

“Mina,” Deirdre said, her tone an admonishment.

“I’m glad,” Eleanor said. She wanted to ask them about Shermont, yet she debated whether to do it. She wanted him to have had a happy, fulfilled life and to have found love. Did she really want to know the details?

The ghosts said their good-byes, but as they faded, Eleanor heard them arguing yet again.

“We should have told her,” Mina said.