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Forward to Time Past by Unbridled_Brunette
 
Chapter Seventeen
 
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Chapter Seventeen





She never knew that life could be like this. Effortless. She was so used to struggling, fighting to stay afloat. Fighting to stay alive. But here, now, was a life completely without complications or obligations. If before she had been fighting the current, now she was floating upon it, letting the warm drifting carry her where it would. Overnight, her status in the household changed; all pretense of her being a hired hand were put aside. Even the slight burden of Anne’s care would have been taken from her had she allowed it. But those small tasks that had become part of her daily routine were no trouble at all, and she would have missed them. Now, however, she could perform them out of love for Anne and not any sense of duty. There were no duties anymore. There was nothing but safety and pleasure...and just enough work to do to keep her from being bored. And William—

And William.

What was there to say about William except that she loved him? She did not know—would never fully know—what lengths he had gone to and all that he had given up in order to possess her. The doors of London’s elite had closed forever to him, and even the middle class, those beneath him who should have been struggling for his approval, now treated him with barely contained scorn. His business suffered. His finances, secure though they were, suffered. To a certain extent even his home life suffered, because Anne disapproved of his escorting Buffy about town without a chaperone. Then, there were locked doors in her house when there had never been before. Doors locked against her, whispered conversations that did not include her. She, who had once been the center of her son’s narrow world, now found herself a sidepiece. Still loved, of course, but a mere afterthought to the overwhelming, slavish devotion he felt for Elizabeth Summers. Anne was not angry about all this, only rather hurt; and because William loved his mother well, it hurt him to see it. Yet he worshiped Miss Summers and nothing—not even the knowledge of his adored mother’s displeasure—could turn him from her.

Buffy was only peripherally aware of all this. Nothing William ever said or did would indicate that their relationship was causing him problems, and all she knew was what she picked up by herself. And since she picked up very little, the even tenor of her days was not disrupted by the small conflicts occurring around her. She was happy for the first time in months, and the only thing that disturbed her tranquility was the thought that perhaps Willow might bring her home. Surely she and Tara must still be trying. Still, Buffy comforted herself with the thought that if success had not come by now, then it would not come at all. Or, perhaps she had so changed time that there was no longer anyone to bring her home. Perhaps if there was no Spike to kill two slayers, then she no longer was one. Maybe someone else had taken that particular torch from her…meaning she never went to Sunnydale at all.

This was a nice theory except that she still had her very slayer-like physical strength and stamina.

But in all actuality, she really thought of it very little. Only very late at night, when she was alone and could not sleep, did the thought gnaw at her. Otherwise, she pushed it to the very back of her mind and left it there. There were too many other things on her mind right now to dwell on something so unpleasant.

She loved him.

She loved him. She loved him. She loved him.

God, it was overwhelming. As if her heart were too big, as if she couldn’t breathe. For so long she had worried that she was not capable of loving a normal man, or of having a normal relationship. She’d tried so hard with Riley, but once his stint with the Initiative had ended—once he had become “average”—the thrill was gone. She had been going through the motions and both of them knew it. And she didn’t want to need a little monster in her man, but she’d started to wonder. Until this. Even though he was not imbued with overwhelming physical strength, William never struck her as average,. He was gentle and honest; he was so incredibly sweet and innocent. She’d never met anyone remotely like him before, and all those men from her past—even Angel—were shadows, dim and unimportant, in the light of her love for him.

She watched him from across the library while he bent over his desk, his pen scratching rapidly across a sheet of stationary. There was an open book beside him; he wasn’t writing poetry. He was “totting up.” Going over the month’s accounts in the big leather-bound ledger. It was important work, and he should not be disturbed. She was supposed to be reading, and there was a battered copy of Pride and Prejudice in her lap. But it lay unopened and ignored. What she was really doing was waiting for his attention to fall to her.

It did not take long. The pen scratched more and more slowly until finally it stopped, and he let it fall. A moment later, he reached out, and she was up and out of her chair in an instant, crossing the room to settle herself into his arms. He wouldn’t permit her to sit on his lap (ungentlemanly), but he drew her onto his knee and wrapped both arms around her waist. She could feel the tautness of his muscles beneath the wool of his jacket; she could feel his heat and smell the sweet scent of his skin. And she wanted him. Of course she did. She loved him and she wanted him. It was completely normal.

For her.

For him, it was something different. She wasn’t sure what, because it was something that was not discussed. Buffy knew this by now and knew there was no arguing with it. But in the not talking about it, her confusion grew. Because, in her intercourse with William there had not been any—well, intercourse. It was a curious thing. She knew he wanted her; it was pretty darn obvious that she aroused him. Yet in each of his kisses (of which there had been very few), there was the air of self-control, of great restraint. And if she tried anything more, anything truly passionate, the result was always the same. That same subtle lean-back, just enough space put between them to make further intimacies impossible. And not a word said about it.

She knew not to take it personally. God, considering the repressive environment he had grown up in it was a wonder he was even remotely normal. Still, it did hurt a little. After all, rejection was rejection. And as she nestled her head against his broad shoulder, she toyed with the idea of—well, not seducing him; that would be a bit bald—but at least pushing them both beyond the borders of chaste, closed-mouth kissing. However, the idea seemed so tasteless. In the first place, she was not a natural seductress. Flirting was one thing; it was something she enjoyed and was good at doing. But the very idea of mincing around and playing the vixen made her feel silly. Anyway, she didn’t want to cheapen it with planning or subterfuge. There had already been so much of that. She wanted this one thing to happen naturally between them. Honestly. As if by fate, almost by accident.

Perfect.

Buffy smiled a little at the thought. Then, just as quickly she frowned. The thought of subterfuge reminded her of just how much of it there was in their relationship. No matter how intense it was, their love had been built on a foundation of lies. Dozens of them. He knew her heart and probably knew it better than any other living person, in this time or the other. Yet he knew nothing of her life or her experiences. Only that her mother had died; he did not even know of what. She loved him; she didn’t want to lie to him. But how could he possibly understand the circumstances that had brought her here? It seemed unfair even to make him try.

William took note of her somber expression and his own quickly became concerned. “Why do you look so solemn, my treasure?”

“I dunno. Just thinking, I guess.”

She picked up his hand and held it between both of her own. His was much bigger. It was soft and warm, stained with ink. She kissed the tip of each finger.

“When are you leaving?”

At this question, an aggrieved look came into his patient blue eyes. “I…I have not yet decided.”

“But soon?”

“Soon,” he echoed. His voice sounded throaty and strange. A moment later, he bowed his face into her hair and sighed. “A fortnight without you. How shall I bear it?”

A fortnight. Her mind translated the time into weeks, and her heart cramped. Yet he had to go. He had to check on things at the estate, and already he had been gone almost four months. She wanted to go with him. She kept waiting for him to ask, but he never did. It was not proper. Anyway, someone had to stay and look after Anne. Buffy knew that. Still, she could not pretend the idea filled her with any pleasure.

“Then, don’t go,” she said presently. Followed immediately by: “Go. Don’t listen to me. I know you have to. I’m not asking you to stay, really. I just—”

His hand stroked her hair--a caress almost paternal in its tenderness. “Yes?”

“I’ll miss you.”

But that wasn’t what she really meant at all.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





By the middle of the following week, he still had not set a date for his departure. The servants were spending great chunks of their days preparing for the trip. Trunks were packed and sent on ahead, train schedules carefully scrutinized and placed before him for final approval, and endless epistles written between the staff there and the staff here. The former’s always contained the same question: “What date is he coming?”

But he wouldn’t say.

He was dragging his feet and the city workers knew why. They joked about it amongst themselves, but it was all good-natured. They liked their master and felt amused by this sudden devotion to a woman; he had always seemed so disinterested before. Yet none of them dared speak of it to William, not even in jest. Not James, who as the first footman was probably closest to his employer. Not even Matthew, who was usually so outspoken on all subjects whether they were his business or not. They were careful not to speak of Elizabeth Summers at all, because William was so pathologically jealous of her that even the barest hint of a relationship of any kind between her and another man would send him into a terrible temper. Even her on-again off-again friendship with Matthew was a carefully guarded secret between them, though she did not know it.

What Buffy did know was that during the latter part of January, he seemed in very poor spirits indeed. Not that he owned it, of course. With Buffy, he was always affectionate and soft-spoken, conscientious of her feelings. At mealtimes with his mother he laughed, made jokes and plans about his impending journey. Yet behind the bright facade there was something earnest and not at all happy, and Buffy knew that when he was alone, where no one could see him, his mood was quite different.

Something was bothering him, but she knew better than to ask what. As his confidence in her—in them—grew, he began to talk more easily and at times, even effusively. Sometimes, it was downright impossible to shut him up. Yet in spite of this, she knew that the things that touched him most deeply--the things that hurt--he kept inside. This was not because he felt a need to hide things from her, rather that he had not learned how to express his sorrow in any productive manner. So, she didn’t ask.

And it might have gone on just like this until he finally gathered the courage to test the tenuous hold he had on her and left for the estate. Except that it didn’t. Because, as so often happens in life and love, something—call it Fate or Chance or the Gods—intervened. And in the span of a few brief hours on a rainy January night, everything between them changed.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





It was Buffy’s legs that began it. They were hairy. Not just stubble-from-a-few-days-past hairy but genuinely Yeti-type furred. She hadn’t waxed them since she’d been here because there was no leg wax. There weren’t even any razors--or at least, not ones made for women. There were those “cutthroat” razors that men used. They resembled a folding knife from a barroom brawl and looked capable of taking off your calf muscle right along with the hair. Until now, she had avoided them like the plague, figuring that if she tried to use one, then taking off her calf muscle would be the least of the damage she’d cause herself. But eventually necessity outweighed her general squeamishness, and she went out and bought one from the local chemist. Likewise, she purchased a bar of shaving soap and that evening when everyone was settled for the night, she betook herself to the upstairs powder room with both packages tucked underneath her arm.

Anne's and William’s rooms had attached dressing rooms, but Buffy had to use the big family one just off the upper landing. It was beautiful, papered in gold and white scroll. The large, glossy wooden tub was lined in pewter. There was even an attached water closet although it was so poorly designed no one dared use it anymore. A dumbwaiter was cleverly concealed behind a painting, and when Buffy rang for water Livvy dutifully heated it on the kitchen range and sent it upstairs. When it arrived, the big earthenware container was hot to the touch and very heavy. It would have been impossible for an average lady to lift, and normally she would have called a servant to do it for her. However, Buffy was not a normal lady and she did not want the interference of the servants just now. So, she wrapped the container in a towel and lifted it from the dumbwaiter herself. Once the water was in the tub, she could finally undress for her bath.

Shaving with a straight blade was no easy feat, but eventually she accomplished it, albeit not without sacrificing a few drops of blood to the hygiene gods. Afterward, she bathed as usual, washed her hair, and toweled it as dry as it would come. Then, she called for Livvy to help her dress, because although she sorely despised the practice, Anne advised her to wear her corset even to bed. She might loosen her stays, but she should not remove them. Otherwise, she might “lose her figure.”

When this very Victorian concern was first brought to her attention, Buffy thought it was ludicrous. However, as she stared at herself in the big French mirror while Livvy laced her up, she suddenly thought that perhaps Anne had a point. Much as she hated to admit it, the excellent meals and perfect rest that categorized her life here did have its effect, and she had gained weight. Apparently, her dress waists and corset lacings had not just shrunk in the wash after all.

Feeling rather appalled by this, Buffy waited until Livvy left and then she took a minute to carefully scrutinize herself in the mirror. It wasn't quite as bad as she originally thought. Her legs and waist were still slender at least. Her belly was flat but no longer hollowed, and there were noticeably fewer angles to her body and face. All those sharp lines of protruding bone had melted into gentle curves of soft flesh; her face was curved and her neck smoothly rounded. Even her breasts were a little fuller. She was by no means unfit or overweight, but where before she had looked like an athlete, even a predator, now she resembled only the pretty, well cared for girl she had once been. The pretty, well cared for woman she now was. And she could see for the first time, the softness and the sweetness that William claimed he saw in her.

After a moment’s deliberation, she realized she liked the change, although she did wish it could have been achieved without tipping the scales. Still, she primped a little before the glass, admiring that new, more feminine self. She had dressed only to her underclothing--corset cover, corset, shift, and pantalets--because she had forgotten to bring her nightdress with her. But while she was technically in her underwear, she felt more covered than she would have been in a modern party dress. Not particularly naked at all. And maybe it was this feeling that made her venture boldly out into the hallway a few minutes later without calling Livvy to bring her a wrap. With the exception of some of the downstairs servants, she figured that most everyone was asleep. Who would see her anyway?

In the first regard, she was almost correct. Most everyone was asleep. But not quite everyone. And she realized this only after she had hit the point of no return clothing-wise.

The library door was ajar.

There was no light or sound spilling from the inside, but Buffy knew that this door was never left open accidentally. It was William’s place and private; the servants were always quite careful about closing the door behind them when they cleaned. This meant of course, that William must be inside.

A Victorian lady would have passed along quietly to her own room without stopping, but Buffy was not a Victorian lady. She was a product of her generation just as surely as he was a product of his, and when she realized that he was still awake at that late hour, she did not walk demurely by but instead paused at the open door to look in on him.

The room was not completely dark owing to the fact that the curtains were open and a not insignificant amount of moonlight was pouring in from the four big ceiling-to-floor windows at the back. Yet there was a blur to everything, a softness of shadow and silvery, dim light that was rather appealing, and she smiled a little at the tableau before her.

William was sitting on one of the worn armchairs in front of a fire long gone to ashes. He was reading by the dim light of a single guttering candle, his shoulders slouched and tired beneath his clothes. One hand was quietly turning pages and the other was resting against his forehead as if he had a headache. His suit jacket was a tidy bundle on the back of the chair, but his shirt and waistcoat—even his cravat—were as neat, crisp, and tightly buttoned as though he had only just put them on. Naturally, since his back was to the door, he did not see her standing there.

Buffy swallowed down a small lump that had formed in her throat. Her intention had been only to check on him and then return to her room. But there was something in the way he was sitting there in the dark—

Alone.

A surge of affection for him washed over her and without fully realizing what she was doing, Buffy left the doorway and stepped into the library. Her knees shook as she crossed the room, but she did not stop until she was standing directly behind his chair, her breasts just grazing the back of it as she bent over him. He startled at her touch, and the muscles of his shoulders tensed beneath his linen shirt as he twisted his upper body around so that he could look at her. Yet he did not relax when he saw her face. In fact, Buffy thought he looked even more anxious than before, although she could not imagine why. Perhaps he could read in her face those half-formed, sensual thoughts in her brain. Perhaps he was having them too.

She bent slightly at the waist and put her mouth very close to his ear so that he could hear her soft whisper. “It’s very late. What are you doing awake and all alone?” Her mouth brushed against his earlobe, and he shifted, clearly uneasy with--although not necessarily displeased by--the touch.

“I…I could not sleep.” His voice was so soft it was almost inaudible. She had to lean in even closer to hear him properly.

“Why could you not?”

Warm breath tickled the sensitive flesh of his ear, and William wriggled slightly. Not exactly away, but enough so that she took notice. He fixed his eyes steadily on the moonlit window and said, “I suppose I am too heavy with thought for sleep.”

She rested her chin on his shoulder. “Are you thinking about me?”

“Always,” he said seriously. “As a matter of fact, I was wondering just a few moments past how it could be that I managed to live so long without you.”

How to answer that? She didn’t know how either, except that he’d lived desperately lonely. It hurt her even to think about it; she could see what it had done to him, being alone so long. He had become comfortable with it. He had become accustomed to not being touched or touching anyone else. Now, Buffy wished she could lay herself across him and kiss him, show him she loved him in the way she knew best. If he let her, she thought, she could break through the confines of his self-control and release the passionate man she knew was in there. Trapped.

She could let him go.

If he allowed her to.

Moved by an impulse she could not fully understand, Buffy suddenly reached around William’s neck to fiddle with his cravat.

“You’re always so fastened up,” she said playfully. “How’ve you lived so long, so fastened up? Don’t you ever let yourself relax?”

“Am I fastened up?” His voice was thick, as if the words had stuck in his throat.

“Very fastened up,” she confirmed. And with a quick and practiced pull, she loosened the knot of his cravat. Not a lot, just enough so that she could slide her hand underneath it and unbutton his top two collar buttons. Only the top two. Only enough to allow her fingers inside his shirt so that she could touch his throat, feel the softness and the heat. The frantic hammering of his pulse against his flesh. William’s response to the caress was as startled and immediate as if she’d just stuck a pin in him: he jumped.

“Elizabeth, you shouldn’t—that is—we should not—being alone as we are—”

“I want to unfasten you.” She teased him with her voice...with her fingertips lightly tracing the line of his collarbone. She asked, “Let me?”

William shifted and his head dropped against the back of the chair, so that for a moment, she caught a glimpse of the stunned look in his eyes. He did not answer her question, but she took the lack of further protest as encouragement and continued with her gentle, persistent caresses. She trailed soft, soft kisses down the cut-glass curve of his cheekbone. His skin smelled of sandalwood soap and wood smoke, ink and paper and a little nervous sweat. It was unbelievably soft where his jaw line met his neck, and she paused there, gently nibbling above the starched linen collar of his shirt.

He gasped quietly and shivered when her tongue flicked out to taste his bare flesh. Buffy felt his fingertips brush against the side of her neck, and she knew that he was aching to touch her. But a second later, he yanked his hand away as though she had scorched him.

His restraint impressed her, but she was intent of breaking him from it. He was so repressed; he wanted so badly to be freed. She moved around to the front of his chair.

For the first time, William took note of what she was wearing—rather, what she was not wearing—and he blushed furiously. For just an instant, his eyes darted hungrily over her figure. Then, just as quickly, they shifted away, and he was left embarrassed in her presence, clearly ashamed to have looked at all. He started to rise.

Gently, Buffy pressed him back into his seat, her body following his descent so that, in just a moment, she sat on his lap, her legs gracefully folded on either side of him. He fidgeted beneath her, red faced and obviously suffering an agony of embarrassment. Yet, he did not push her away.

“What’re you—” he began. His voice was tense, strained. Like his body.

Buffy nuzzled his neck, kissed at the edges of his mouth. “Trust me,” she whispered.

Whether he did or not was up for debate, and for a moment, there was almost the shadow of a struggle between them. It was almost as if he were trying to remove himself from her hands and her mouth. Yet, for all the moving he was doing, he did not manage to put any space between them. She was touching him without ceasing, and he could not keep up his resistance to it. His hands gripped the arms of the chair. Although he did not return any of those improper caresses, he was no longer fighting them either. He slumped beneath the stretch of her body, still and almost entirely silent save for the sound of his ragged breathing.

Again, she kissed him, and this time parted her lips. Coaxing millimeter by millimeter until his mouth opened and she could slip her tongue inside. He gasped sharply at that first sensation, but he didn’t pull away. She went slowly, tasting his lips and his tongue lightly, teasingly, until, finally, he began to respond. His kisses were clumsy and uncertain, arousing for their very innocence alone. He had no idea what he was doing, and she loved him for it.

As the kissing continued, Buffy slowly became aware that the warm, soft surface of his lap had become suddenly hard and angled beneath her. She arched her body against it, rubbing not forcefully but insistently against the growing bulge with her hipbone. He squirmed a little beneath her, and again, briefly, there was that sense that he was trying to put some distance between them. However, the hungry, almost uncontrolled response to her kisses continued, and she knew that he did want this. Badly.

She slid a hand between their bodies, grasped his shirtfront in one fist so that she could ease the tail of it from the waist his trousers. Beneath it, there was the smooth, hot flesh of his belly and the bulge of his crotch. She put her hand to the latter, caressing him and undoing his buttons all in the same slow movement. One, two, three, four, five buttons and then the waistband loosened into a wide v-shaped gap. She reached inside the gap, and beneath the warm woolen folds his body was straining against itself, aching for release. His desire was all hardness and heat, throbbing veins and soft, soft skin that shivered beneath her touch. She wrapped her hand around it, and in the stillness of the sleeping house, William’s soft groan seemed very loud.

“God, I—”

“It’s okay,” she whispered. She kissed his mouth, his face, his neck, all the while stroking and massaging that very male, very attention-starved part of him. He dropped his head back to look at her, and in those glazed blue eyes she could see him thinking Dear God. What is she doing to me? She wanted to tell him not to be frightened, but fear wasn’t what it was about, and she knew that. It was years of training that were working against him and holding him back. He needed to let himself go, and he had no idea how. He was so tense: curbing his instincts, reining himself in, denying himself the release that he so desperately wanted and needed. She took his hand in her free one and gently unfolded it from a rigid fist to place it—spread—across the soft mound of her breast.

He gave a shuddering sigh that she echoed a moment later. For a moment, she thought he would just hold his hand there, because at first, he did not move. Then, his wide palm rounded across the top of her breast, and he traced with his fingers the lines of curve and cleavage, exploring tentatively, delicately, almost as if he thought she would break. Or, that he would. The corset squeezed her chest into a prominence that was almost painful, but his hand on her, shyly touching her, made the discomfort seem almost erotic. She pushed herself into his palm, wanting more. And almost beyond his own volition, his free hand reached out, cupping her bottom and then sliding all the way down between her legs. His touch was feather-light as he explored the insides of her thighs and the warm place in between. Without even realizing what he was doing, he pressed a bit harder, his fingers kneading into her hot, wet, clothed center in just the right way. She moaned sharply and immediately the hand jerked back.

“I hurt you.”

“No,” she murmured reassuringly. Kissing his sweat-glazed forehead and his soft mouth. “William, no…you didn’t hurt me. It felt nice.”

He frowned a little, tilting his head to one side in a quizzical manner she found incredibly sweet. “But—”

She quieted him with another kiss. And another. God, his mouth was beautiful. It was slightly swollen from the attention of her lips and teeth, and she tried to be gentler, mindful of any tenderness she might have caused. This time when she opened her mouth against him, his tongue pushed back against her own, pressing to explore the moist cavern of her mouth. Slowly, his hands crept back, as if irresistibly drawn to trace each curve, each sleek line of her body. He was writhing beneath her like a man in torment, and she, understanding the increasing need for release, intensified her efforts to gratify him. Yet he remained stymied, unable to find his relief.

“Let yourself go,” she whispered, worshipping with her kisses, her hands.

Her heart.

She ached for him, and suddenly the words spilled out, breathless, against his throat: “I love you, William. Let me love you.”

There was the most subtle of starts at that. A sudden out-of-rhythm thumping of his heart against her breastbone.

“Does that surprise you?”

“You've nev—you never said—”

“I love you,” she said again. She kissed the silky skin at the hollow of his throat, combed through his tangled curls with her one free hand. “I love you, William.”

There was a rush of sudden sound and feeling at that, as if the repetition of those three words was the key to unlock his passion. His body bucked against her, sending both of them in a smooth upward arc that would have unseated her except that he held on. He held her so tightly her ribs ached, and he buried his face in her neck to muffle those soft sounds of pleasure he could not stifle. And in her grasp, that warm column of velvety skin quivered and jerked, throwing a spill of hot liquid against his belly and her hand.

Then—

Only the abrupt stillness as his body went slack and sated underneath her.

Almost exhausted in her own right, Buffy allowed her body to come to rest against him: her breasts pressed into his chest, her chin propped on the broad shelf of his shoulder. He was breathing as if he had just run a race, and although one arm was across her back and holding her to him, she could sense in his demeanor that things were not exactly okay. She waited for him to say something, to tell her what it was that made him look at her so strangely, but he did not. He said nothing at all. Not then and not afterward, when she climbed off him so he could clean himself up. Not even when she bid him goodnight.

And she realized, too late, that she had made a mistake. She had done just what she had told herself she wouldn't do. She had seduced him. And, judging from his reaction, he had not appreciated it.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~





He left for the estate before daylight the following morning.

~*~ ~*~ ~*~


 
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