She came to hover over me. She smiled and kissed my lips. Then she donned her dressing gown and left the room.
As the door closed, I sat up on the bed in a daze. What did it all mean? I hadn't dreamt of an affair with Madame Fontan. What would happen now to the prospect of a marriage between myself and Claire?
The outcome was less catastrophic than I supposed. Things went on as before. My visit with the family continued. The allusions to a marriage to Claire continued. Madame Fontan behaved as if nothing had occurred between us. We had no further chance to be alone. Now I passed nearly all my time with Claire. We were usually chaperoned by Odette. I was struck by the irony of it. The memory of Madame Fontan kneeling on my bed constantly inflamed my mind.
I paid court to Claire. She seemed receptive. When I asked her to be my wife, she replied she would consider the matter. It was understood that her parents had already agreed.
After a few more days, I left Paris and the Fontan household. I returned to London, to an English life. I passed many hours wondering about the future. Then after a fortnight a letter from Claire arrived. She accepted my proposal of marriage and assured me of her affections. I returned to Paris with a ring for Claire and our engagement was formally announced.
Claire seemed happy. The engagement was to last no more than two months. I bought presents for the family. I insisted upon paying for Claire's trousseau myself. M. Fontan was grateful. He seemed satisfied that he'd succeeded in making a good match for his daughter. Claire would marry an English gentleman with a comfortable income.
And my own satisfaction? I think I was in something of a daze. During the engagement, I established myself in a small hotel near the Place Vendome. I thought of renewing my liaison with Madame Fontan, but she seemed to avoid any opportunity to be alone with me. I finally abandoned the idea. I concentrated on Claire. She seemed to bloom during the engagement. I realized how truly lovely she was. I was impatient to have her as my wife. The younger sister seemed envious of Claire. Claire said Julie was too young to understand anything.
Finally the day of the wedding arrived. We were married in a lovely church in Vincennes. The church was filled with the Fontan relatives and a score of my friends from London. Claire looked ravishing. I was amazed at how my life had changed as the result of a chance meeting in Madrid.
The ceremony ended. Outside the church I embraced my new mother-in-law. As Madame Fontan's bosom pressed against my chest, I recalled the view of her bottom and sex as she knelt on the bed in the guest room in the Fontan house. The image produced a violent erection. I struggled with the front of my trousers as I settled down beside Claire in the motor car that would take us to the railroad station. Claire smiled. She kissed my cheek and told me how happy she was.
Chapter Fourteen
So now we were man and wife. Or not man and wife. We'd had nothing but a few chaste kisses in the midst of a crowd of Fontan relatives. Mostly Fontan. Odette's family was not in abundance. I was a fool, I suppose, a man with a fevered brain. I had married Claire, but I knew more of Claire's mother than I did of Claire. I was dazed by my actions, by what I had done. Did I really want a marriage? What had begun as an entertainment had now resolved itself into something else.
We had a long, dreary journey to Biarritz. My intention was to have a month there before embarking by ship for London. On the train, Claire resisted any possibility to consummate our union. She permitted nothing more than kisses and fumbling caresses. She allowed me to stroke her breasts and thighs. He small breasts made her seem so fragile. I discovered her skin was incredibly smooth and it pleased me. As the countryside rolled by, I passed the idle hours thinking more and more about her body. The idle thinking soon progressed to an obsession. Producing an obsession is always so easy for me.
On occasion Claire had such cleverness in her eyes when I fondled her. Was she a demi-vierge? I couldn't help thinking of Odette. If the mother was passionate, surely the daughter would be also. I wondered about Claire's girlhood; I wondered about other men, admirers who had kissed and fondled her. I sat there wondering as the wheels of the train clicked beneath our feet.
Of course I wanted more from her than just a few caresses. She pleaded for my patience. I must wait. My desire mounted.
And then at other moments I would consider how pleasant it was to suddenly have a wife, to be part of the great horde of men with we. I had changed my identity. Now I was an Englishman with a wife. How ironic it was to be heading south with her. I had met her father in Madrid and ridden north with him. Now I rode south with his daughter.
I did not look forward to Biarritz. I remember that very well now. I was quite happy to be with Claire, to have a honeymoon by the sea. But I knew Biarritz. I hated the shams of the rich. Claire said she wanted Biarritz because her father had always spoken of it when she was a child.
Then finally we arrived. We settled in at one of the larger hotels, in a room with a balcony overlooking the promenade. Claire seemed pleased by the place. She asked me if we would see the King in Biarritz. At dinner that evening she seemed fascinated by the other guests. Certain people in the dining room looked familiar to me, faces I had seen on the Embankment or at Prince's. I hoped I wouldn't meet any of my London acquaintances. I wanted a month alone with Claire. I wanted nothing else.
Then at last the day was done, our first day in Biarritz, and we were alone in our room. I expected now I should have her passion. I was eager for it. I wanted the ultimate possession. I wanted her naked in my arms. I had champagne brought to the room and we toasted our future. She seemed happy, her cheeks flushed. We kissed. I kissed her throat. She murmured something. A plea. A headache. A bout of fatigue after the long journey from Paris. I was dismayed. I kissed her with more fervor. She continued to resist. “Edward, I beg you…”
“I'm your husband.”
“Darling, I know that.”
“Let me undress you.”
“Oh Edward…”
But she allowed it. I played the feverish lover. Thinking of it now, I suppose it might have been a ludicrous scene on the stage of the Adelphia. One watches the actors in some silly little farce and one thinks the doings on the stage impossible in real life. But the doings that evening, in that room in Biarritz, were real enough to make my body tremble.
I finally had her gown removed. I exposed her breasts. I hadn't seen them before. Like two little birds. The points of her nipples are long. I kissed her lips. Then I lowered my face to kiss her nipples. When I raised my face again, I found her expression was one of amusement. “Don't you find them too small?”
“Only enchanting.”
“Enchanting?” She laughed. She glanced down at the front of my trousers. My enchantment was obvious. Her smile faded. What replaced it was not a blush, but a look of triumph.
I moved closer and made her touch it, the bulge of it. Her fingers remained limp, but she did not pull her hand away. Then her fingers moved. Discovering. Squeezing. I undid the buttons and exposed my root. She took it in her hand. She looked down at it, a quiet look, a look of estimation. At that moment I knew I was not the first. She had held other men like this. As if to confirm my suspicion, her fingers began to move. She was dexterous. A light fingering. A proper gripping. She knew how to milk a penis. With less than a dozen strokes she had me spurting. I groaned as I splattered her silk chemise. She seemed fascinated by it. Her eyes never left my tool. Her fingers continued to work with great precision, until finally she pulled her hand away and wiped it carefully against her side.