The Age of Innocence
The Age of Innocence
Wild & Wanton Edition, Volume 2
Coco Rousseau
Edith Wharton
Avon, Massachusetts
Copyright © 2014 by Coco Rousseau and Edith Wharton.
All rights reserved.
This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission from the publisher; exceptions are made for brief excerpts used in published reviews.
Published by
Crimson Romance
an imprint of F+W Media, Inc.
10151 Carver Road, Suite 200
Blue Ash, OH 45242. U.S.A.
www.crimsonromance.com
ISBN 10: 1-4405-7493-6
ISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7493-1
eISBN 10: 1-4405-7494-4
eISBN 13: 978-1-4405-7494-8
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, corporations, institutions, organizations, events, or locales in this novel are either the product of the author’s imagination or, if real, used fictitiously. The resemblance of any character to actual persons (living or dead) is entirely coincidental.
Cover art © istockphoto.com/Arpad Benedek; powdr_dayz
Dedicated to Edith Wharton
“The air of ideas is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Edith Wharton
“The air of love is the only air worth breathing.” ~ Coco Rousseau
Avec amour,
Coco Rousseau
Acknowledgments
Thank you, Crimson Romance, for enriching the world with stories of the heart. Without love, we would be mere flesh without soul. As Mahatma Gandhi said, “Where there is love there is life.” Thank you, Tara Gelsomino, Julie Sturgeon, Beth Gunn, Jess Verdi, and the tireless staff of Crimson Romance who helped make this adaptation of Edith Wharton’s The Age of Innocence another shining star in the world of romance.
Contents
Chapter 1
The day was fresh, with a lively spring wind full of dust. All the old ladies in both families had got out their faded sables and yellowing ermines, and the smell of camphor from the front pews almost smothered the faint spring scent of the lilies banking the altar.
Newland Archer, at a signal from the sexton, had come out of the vestry and placed himself with his best man on the chancel step of Grace Church.
The signal meant that the brougham bearing the bride and her father was in sight; but there was sure to be a considerable interval of adjustment and consultation in the lobby, where the bridesmaids were already hovering like a cluster of Easter blossoms. During this unavoidable lapse of time the bridegroom, in proof of his eagerness, was expected to expose himself alone to the gaze of the assembled company; and Archer had gone through this formality as resignedly as through all the others which made of a nineteenth century New York wedding a rite that seemed to belong to the dawn of history. Everything was equally easy—or equally painful, as one chose to put it—in the path he was committed to tread, and he had obeyed the flurried injunctions of his best man as piously as other bridegrooms had obeyed his own, in the days when he had guided them through the same labyrinth.
This should have been the happiest day of his life, but all Newland could think about was the last time he had seen Countess Olenska—his Ellen. Only a month ago, when he had visited Ellen at her quaint house and they had made love, he believed after he departed her company he would never be intimate with her again. She told him that she could not love him unless she gave him up, that he had changed her view of life. She had not realized how vile she was regarded by society, and she was thankful to him because he had changed all the ill cast down upon her with his good deeds and kindness. She said that she could not go back to her old ways of thinking. She had falsely believed that running to America to be with her own kind would allow her to be free, to be able to live the kind of life she wanted, but he made her realize that the divorce she sought would only create scandal. It would ruin not only her reputation, but also the reputation of her family and friends. In essence, he had saved her. When they parted that night, they bid each other a sad farewell.
Regret had plagued Newland ever since. He had never known a woman like the Countess. She had consumed him—mind, body, and soul. Not a minute passed that he did not think of her. The last night they were together, he had confessed his feelings and urged her to run away with him. But then, the letter came from May, explaining that she and Newland were to be married in only a month’s time, that the family had been persuaded by his recent visit to move the marriage ceremony forward to this earlier date rather than making the couple wait another year. Not for a moment had Newland believed this would happen. In fact, he had counted on the quite opposite so that he could untangle himself from May. But with the arrival of the letter, he had only become more entangled with May.
A week after Newland departed the intimate company of Ellen, he ventured out of his club and into the streets of New York City. The night was crisp without a breeze or a drop of moisture in the air. To clear his head, he decided that he would walk home. But as he passed the van der Luyden’s home, he saw the Countess descending the steps of their front stoop. He froze, considered turning, but the sight of Ellen was magnetic. He approached her.
“Good evening,” he said, trying to sound formal. He had longed to see her, but had chosen to remain at a distance.
“Newland,” she said, her voice filled with surprise. “I was just about to take a carriage.”
“It’s such a lovely evening. I thought I’d walk home.”
“Yes, it is quite lovely . . . shall we walk together?”
“Do you think . . .?” He wanted to walk with her. He wanted to be with her. But it pained his heart to be near her and not to be able to touch her. “I’m afraid I’m going in the opposite direction.”
She came close to him. “Oh, my dear man. I know we agreed that we mustn’t see each other again. And I’ve stayed away, kept my distance. But . . .”
“No,” he said. “We can not think like this, not any longer.”
“You spoke freely to me. I feel that we are friends enough that I can speak freely as well.”
He drew back. “I’m afraid it is quite impossible.”
“I’m leaving in the morning.”
He grimaced as though he was in physical pain and stood even more rigid. “This is sudden.”
“I must rescue my aunt from that dreadful Dr. Agathon Carver. He seems to have cast a spell over her, possessed her, if you will.”
Newland did not speak of the night that he secretly watched the sexual escapade between Ellen’s aunt, Mendora Manson, Dr. Carver, and his journalist friend, Ned Winsett. But none of that mattered now. Newland could readily understand Ellen’s need to separate her aunt from the doctor.
“When will you return?” he asked.
She shook her head without answering.
“Can I see you to the Browne?” he asked.
She neared him again. “I thought I might remain at a distance from you. To try and forget your words, but it seems I am possessed.”
“And the Count?” he asked.
She placed a hand upon his chest. “I promised, but if I could see you just one last—”
He removed her hand. “No. We can not.”
She persisted, raising the other hand to his chest. But he grasped it, and now held both. She tilted her head up toward his face, letting her mouth part.
“You see, I need you,” she said. “My mind and body crave your touch. If we could make love just one more time.”
He tried to hold her back. “And where shall we go from there?”
She stood on her tiptoes and leaned toward his mouth, but he held the distance. “Kiss me, Newland.” Her breath was hot, the vapor rising as she exhaled. “Make love with me.”
When he turned his head, her lips brushed across his cheeks. Her mouth came to rest upon his ear, and she did not withdraw, but instead, touched her tongue to its flesh and slowly began to lick along the rim.
“Ellen,” he said, his voice quavering.
“You like that, don’t you?” she whispered and then pressed her body closer to him. He could feel her firm breasts pushing against his chest.
“No,” he said, feigning protest. But she continued to slowly and seductively slide her tongue down until she found his earlobe. She circled the soft lobe and then gently clasped it between her teeth and sucked lightly, while circling her tongue along the supple and tender skin.
He groaned lightly, aroused by her delicate touch.
“Just once more,” she whispered.
“There’s nowhere we can go. Our homes are occupied with curious eyes.”
She pressed her lips to his cheeks and kissed him. When his jaw grew slack, she reached for his face and turned it toward her. She began kissing his mouth, and before long, he responded, releasing his pent-up passion.
He spoke between kisses, his voice tense and low. “Oh, my dear, dear Ellen. How could this be happening?”
“I need you. I need you now like I have never needed a man. Oh, Newland, dearest. Do not deny me, my love.”
He drew her tightly into his arms and continued to kiss her more passionately, their breathing steamy and quivering. “I need you,” he said when he broke from the kiss, repeating her words.
She glanced over her shoulder toward a quiet courtyard. “In the shadows,” she said.
“It’s too cold.”
“Our passion will keep us warm. Come.” She grasped his arm and led him through the entrance, which was veiled in vines. She stopped in a corner up against the side of the building. “Here,” she said, and then opened her full-length cape, casting it over his shoulders to surround him. She pulled her hood up and used it to cover their faces.
His hands moved quickly to her bosoms, his lips returned to hers. He massaged her supple breast through the fabric of her dress, but did not try to unbutton the bodice. She wrapped a leg around his and pulled him closer, and soon their bodies warmed inside the shelter of her cloak.
“How?” he asked.
“Like this.” She quickly unfastened his trouser and found his rampant, throbbing member. She began stroking the length of it, circling the crown with her slender fingers.
He eased up her skirts only to discover she wore no undergarment—she was often naked under her dress—and with her leg raised, his hands soon migrated to the warmth and wetness of her impassioned feminine folds.
“Oh, yes, Newland. There,” she said as soon as he circled her pearl.
He caressed her gently at first, but soon hastened the pace. “I need you, now,” he said, and then quickly secured her skirts in one of her arms before placing her free hand on his shoulder. He lifted her leg so that his member touched her intimate folds and he slowly slid his crown to the entrance of her sheath. They stood face to face, coupled in mutual lust.
“Yes,” she said, her voice hoarse with desire.
He sunk his staff into her inflamed passion and probed gently, both of them sighing.
“Now . . . now . . . Newland.”
He pushed, and his erect member entered her velvety vessel, drowning him in her pool of passion. When he had filled her sheath to its depths, he stopped, kissed her gently, and then began moving in and out of her. She tightened her leg around his body and encouraged his thrusts.
She sighed as he continued to make love to her. “Oh Newland. Yes. Yes, my dearest, sweetest man. Faster.” She tossed her head back, clearly lost in the throes of ecstasy.
He hastened his pace, and she ground her hips to keep beat with his rhythm, meeting each stroke, until her body tightened. Knowing her all too well, Newland spilled his seed in the one last thrust that she claimed her climax. Her body trembled and quaked as she glided through the stages of her orgasmic release. Once they came to a rest, she did not allow him to uncouple, but kept her leg wrapped around him, holding him close.
When they parted company that evening, it was the last time that the two lovers would see each other before Newland married May. Ellen left the city, removing any hope of them coming together again.
There was no stopping the hands of the clock. While the hours seemed long, the days passed quickly, and before long, the day of Newland Archer’s marriage to May Welland had arrived. As Newland stood at the chancel step, awaiting his bride, he again thought about how everything was equally easy—or equally painful, as one chose it to be. He forced himself to set his thoughts of the Countess aside, and once again began considering his responsibilities.
So far he was reasonably sure of having fulfilled all his obligations. The bridesmaids’ eight bouquets of white lilac and lilies-of-the-valley had been sent in due time, as well as the gold and sapphire sleeve-links of the eight ushers and the best man’s cat’s-eye scarf-pin; Archer had sat up half the night trying to vary the wording of his thanks for the last batch of presents from men friends and ex-lady-loves; the fees for the Bishop and the Rector were safely in the pocket of his best man; his own luggage was already at Mrs. Manson Mingott’s, where the wedding-breakfast was to take place, and so were the travelling clothes into which he was to change; and a private compartment had been engaged in the train that was to carry the young couple to their unknown destination—concealment of the spot in which the bridal night was to be spent being one of the most sacred taboos of the prehistoric ritual.
“Got the ring all right?” whispered young van der Luyden Newland, who was inexperienced in the duties of a best man, and awed by the weight of his responsibility.
Archer made the gesture which he had seen so many bridegrooms make: with his ungloved right hand he felt in the pocket of his dark grey waistcoat, and assured himself that the little gold circlet (engraved inside: Newland to May, April—, 187-) was in its place; then, resuming his former attitude, his tall hat and pearl-grey gloves with black stitchings grasped in his left hand, he stood looking at the door of the church.
Overhead, Handel’s March swelled pompously through the imitation stone vaulting, carrying on its waves the faded drift of the many weddings at which, with cheerful indifference, he had stood on the same chancel step watching other brides float up the nave toward other bridegrooms.
“How like a first night at the Opera!” he thought, recognising all the same faces in the same boxes (no, pews), and wondering if, when the Last Trump sounded, Mrs. Selfridge Merry would be there with the same towering ostrich feathers in her bonnet, and Mrs. Beaufort with the same diamond earrings and the same smile—and whether suitable proscenium seats were already prepared for them in another world.
After that there was still time to review, one by one, the familiar countenances in the first rows; the women’s sharp with curiosity and excitement, the men’s sulky with the obligation of having to put on their frock-coats before luncheon, and fight for food at the wedding-breakfast.