Sincerely,
Mrs. Rosalind Smith
His heart hurt. The pain of it far outstripping the pain in his head. The tightness in his chest felt as though a vice squeezed his torso. For a moment, he wished he was alone to absorb this blow, though, on second thought, perhaps it was best Wolf was here. With no ability to indulge in self-pity, he closed the note and let his lids slide closed once more.
“What did she say?”
Surely Wolf was aware of the contents of the note. It shouldn’t have been a mystery after his actions the night before. “As expected, she has severed our connection.”
“Well, I suppose that makes you happy.” Wolf sounded as though he couldn’t care one way or another.
It should have pleased him immensely, but it didn’t. “It was the outcome I sought,” Flint said mildly. “It doesn’t particularly matter how it makes me feel.”
“In that case, press on, good man. I shall not pester you further.” Wolf patted him on the arm, and then he heard his friend depart.
Alone, he attempted to focus his thoughts elsewhere. After all, he still needed to figure out who was behind his beating earlier, though he had his suspicions. The problem was his suspicion did not make a great deal of sense. He would think with Cunningham’s wealth and status that garnering Ros’s attention would be sufficient retribution for their past quarrels. But, when he considered the whole of who he knew and who might wish ill upon him, his former nemesis was the only name he could call forth. To his knowledge, he had not offended or upset anyone else.
Unsure where to start with his investigation, still dealing with the aftermath of his over-indulgence, and wishing to not think about Ros, he rolled over and sought oblivion in sleep. Because remaining awake offered only searing agony that carried no zing of pleasure with it.
~
Flint sat in his darkened study, his servants all dismissed for the night. It had been days since his break with Ros, and though he had sobered up, he felt no better about what he had done. He’d barely roused himself from bed for the evening ahead. His shirt was untucked, hanging long over his trousers. He eyed the decanter of whiskey that sat on the tray off to the side and considered the wisdom of having a drink. His guest would arrive at any moment, and he knew he needed to have his wits about him for what would come next. Of course, one drink would merely take the edge off.
He poured a single finger of amber liquid and tossed it back. The burning sensation warmed him inside, disintegrating the frustration and shame at what he was about to do. It wouldn’t last, he knew both would return in short order, but for a moment, there was nothing. No pain. No misery over Ros. No self-reproach over what he needed.
A loud knock echoed down the main entry hall.
Setting his glass down, he padded down the cold tile hall and to his front door. It was after midnight, so most of London was either asleep or well engaged in their own night-time pursuits. He opened the door and found his expected guest waiting, covered head to toe in a black hooded cloak. Without a word, he swung the door wider and let them enter. After closing the door, he turned and walked back down the hall, passing his study and up the stairs. He led them into his bedroom where he finally stopped and faced them.
“Thank you for coming to me, Mistress Lash.”
She pushed the hood of her cloak back and then slipped the garment from her shoulders. “You are lucky my usual client canceled this evening, and that I know and trust you, my lord.”
Flint nodded. “I know my request was unusual for your customers, but having visited you in the dungeon before, I preferred not to do so again.” A mask alone was not enough to hide his mortification at what he needed from this woman.
“Well, let’s get on with this, shall we? Where would you like this done?” She glanced around the room as though seeking out some indicator of where he indulged his needs normally.
He walked over to his four-poster bed and pulled his shirt over his head. Then he spread his arms, grabbing a rope that hung from each corner of the huge bed. “I believe this should give you enough room to wield your whip.”
“It will do.” Then she set her bag down and pulled out a coiled whip. It was a long braided piece of leather that, in the right hands, could bring great pleasure. In the wrong hands, it could wreak havoc, tearing the flesh from a man’s bones. “Assume the position, if you please.”
There was nothing more to say at that point. All the details of what he wanted, what he needed had been sorted out earlier. He slipped his wrists through the loops of the rope and grabbed the length that led up to where the rope was tied to the bed. The first lick kissed his back, barely a caress. She worked him slowly, warming his back up and preparing him for the firmer, more pleasurable strikes that were to come.
He stood stiffly to start, and then as his blood began to pump through his veins, his cock took notice of what was happening. Pleasure zinged through him as the first hard strike landed on his shoulder. He shuddered from the pulse of satisfaction that followed. For the next hour, she worked him hard, landing the whip up and down his back. His cock grew impossibly hard, and then he faded out into the place where everything receded. This was what he sought, this place where there was no pain, no shame, no loss, no failure to measure up. He could just exist and feel good. It was as if he floated for a time, free of everything.
At some point, he felt his arms slide free of the ropes that he held, and then he tipped forward onto his bed. His legs dangled off the bottom, but a soft blanket wrapped around him. The slide of the fabric over his welted back sent more jolts of bliss through his body. He shuddered.
“My lord, may I get you anything else?” Mistress Lash whispered the question near his ear.
“No, you may leave. Just knock on the door to the adjoining room as you depart.”
He swore he felt her brush a lock of hair from his face, but she was gone by the time he managed to open his eyes. He sighed and enjoyed the last few moments of contentment for a little bit. His valet would be along any moment to salve his back and ensure he recovered without incident. He would be sore for a few days, and then the need would begin to build again. Unfortunately, the fighting only ever worked for so long to stave off what he really needed. Eventually, he always caved to the need for pain, the right pain. And tonight, it offered the added benefit of escape from his despair.
He sighed as the sound of a door closing indicated his valet was near. For now, he wanted to focus on the mellow feeling that left him weak as a newborn kitten. Later, he could wrestle with his demons.
~
A week passed, and while his back had recovered from his visit with Mistress Lash, his torment had grown worse. He was lethargic, irritable, and generally poor company. Linc and Arthur were making no bones about it.
“Do stop your moping, Flint. You knowingly forced the lady’s hand.” Linc slumped in a chair next to him in his library.
Art shook his head. “It really wasn’t very sporting of you.”
“It was necessary. She refused to break off the faux engagement, and it was past time she did. She left me no choice.” Flint swirled his whisky and stared into the cold, charred fireplace. It seemed a kindred spirit at the moment.
Linc sighed. “But why? You’ve not indicated what necessitated ending things when you clearly care about Ros.”
At that moment, Gordon entered the room, bearing a salver and a note. Grateful for the interruption, Flint took the correspondence, read it, and then stood. “I’m afraid I need to go. It seems Chancellor Waters has an engagement for me.”
“Still fighting?” Arthur asked as he stood.
“It’s a distraction, and a profitable one, at that.” He shrugged. He wouldn’t tell them the real reason he was still fighting. That he’d tried having Mistress Lash visit him, but the succor he found did not last. In the past—when the need grew too great to mute with fighting, and he could gain an appointment with her—a visit could leave him with a contentment that lasted many weeks before he
required pain again. Though inevitably, after being whipped, he felt worse for having indulged his deviant needs. The fight against his dark nature was a constant battle. At least, when he fought down on the docks, something good came of the effort.
An hour later, he found himself once again engulfed in the familiar. Around him, the hustle and bustle of the wharf swirled as surely as the smell of fish, the tang of salt, and the ribald curses of the laborers who worked far harder than anyone of his class could understand. There had been a short period of his life when he would come to the docks to work shoulder to shoulder with these men, relishing the pain that came with the daily abuse of his body. All too soon, the effectiveness of such harsh treatment subsided. Though by then, he’d discovered the bare-knuckle fight circuit that coexisted with the laborers, the prostitutes, and the tavern owners.
Approaching Chancellor Waters, Flint nodded. “Who am I fighting?”
Waters grinned. “He’s a virgin to our circles, but he comes highly recommended by a colleague.”
Grunting in acknowledgment, Flint glanced around the alley where a growing crowd milled about. No one in the group stood out as this possible newcomer. This both eased and irritated him, since not one of the current men lingering about looked physically able to offer the punishment he required. Flint was left to assume that his opponent was yet to arrive. But that didn’t mean the man who would eventually come and fight could meet his needs either. To his credit, Waters was aware of Flint’s preference for pain. It was one of the things that made him such a lucrative fighter. His bouts were not typically short, they offered a great deal of entertainment whether the spectators were winning or losing their bets, and in the end, he always came through so the house could consistently lay odds on him winning.
Then the crowd parted, and two men strode through. One stood nearly a head taller than Flint, but he was lanky. The other was of a similar height to Flint and just as muscled. If he was his opponent, there was hope of a decent fight and some much welcome pain.
“Waters?” The lanky one looked at both Flint and the man next to him.
The fight manager stepped forward. “Which of you is Andrews?”
“He is.” Lanky pointed to the man next to him.
Flint felt the tight knot of doubt release in his chest. Relief was within his grasp.
“You ready to fight?” Waters looked the man up and down.
Flint noted the ragged appearance of the man’s clothing as well as the once fine quality. But having long ago learned to not ask too many questions, he pushed the odd detail aside.
“Sure. It’s what I’m here for,” his opponent said and slipped his coat off.
Flint followed suit, eager for the bout to begin.
As the crowd noticed the men disrobing, they spread out and circled around, creating a ring of sorts to contain the coming brawl. The rush of blood through his veins sounded loud in his ears as he took a few warm-up swings and loosened up a bit. The other man was going through his own pre-fight movements, and then Waters called them to the center of the ring.
“There’s only two rules. No weapons, and you fight until someone hits the stones.” Waters nodded and then stepped out of the way.
Flint circled around the man Waters had called Andrews. The other man watched him warily, each of them sizing the other up. As usual, Flint started out leading as though he were a lefty. It gave him some time to assess Andrews’ skills and allowed him to take a bit of a beating…which was the point of the whole exercise.
The other man stepped in and swung. His left jab connected with Flint’s jaw, though he could easily have swatted it away. The right hook that quickly followed came up short as Flint danced backward. It wouldn’t do to make the audience think this was in the bag for the new bloke.
Andrews cursed and pulled his arm back in quickly. Flint used that window of opportunity to push forward and land a right jab to his opponent’s left eye. He took the blow like a seasoned fighter, shaking it off quickly as he squared back up.
Certain that the fight would not be a short one, Flint settled in. They continued to exchange blows as they moved around the space. A quarter of an hour later, Flint was growing tired, and the audience restless. When a sneaky right hook slipped under his guard and landed in his ribs, he decided it was time to switch up. As soon as he switched his stance, Andrews’ eyes widened, and then, the man offered a bloody grin. “Ah, I see you’ve been holding back.”
Flint sort of shrugged—without dropping his fists—and smiled as well. “Just wanted to be sure the crowd got their money’s worth.”
“Generous of you.” The man seemed a bit confused by Flint’s reasoning since most fighters sought to end fights as quickly as possible.
Refusing to waste energy on further chitchat, Flint merely grunted in response. Then the pair set to engaging more fully in the battle.
While normally, Flint’s fights ended fairly rapidly after he made his stance switch, this one did not follow that pattern. Instead, Andrews grew more aggressive in his assault on Flint’s guard. After a bit, they fell into a steady rhythm of exchanging punches. With each new strike to his face and body, the pleasure-pain coursed through Flint, carrying away any worries he may have brought with him into the ring. All that remained were himself and his opponent—his odd partner in pleasure.
The man continued to slam his fists into Flint until he decided he was nearing a point of exhaustion that might allow him to sleep without needing to visit The Market after the fight. With that in mind, he unleashed a powerful jab and then a right uppercut that sent his opponent straight to the ground. The man lay there dazed and unable to muster the wherewithal to stand back up. The man’s lanky friend stepped in and called an end to the fight.
Waters smiled broadly and handed over a nominal fee to the loser while he counted out the substantial fee he owed Flint. After handing over the money, Waters nodded. “Always a pleasure doing business with you.”
Bloodied and in exquisite pain, Flint nodded and grinned in utter satisfaction before he departed.
A bare quarter of an hour later, and he was home. The euphoria of a well doled out beating already waned as he cleaned himself up. Ignoring his useless erection, he poured himself a whisky. Sitting in his room in his trousers and shirtsleeves, he considered his options. Normally, he would go to The Market to play since he was no longer an engaged man. But he found the idea a lackluster solution, even in the face of his fading high. His face and ribs ached like the devil, but there was no rush of pleasure any longer. Even his cockstand had begun to flag. It was a disturbing turn of events.
Settling back in his chair, he pondered what it all could mean. For more than half his life, he’d associated pain with pleasure. He could not have one without the other. What had changed?
Unbidden, a face framed in a red-gold halo with piercing green eyes came to mind. He imagined her much as she’d been their night at The Market when she’d tsk’d and prodded him into allowing her to treat his injuries. Her touch had been firm and no-nonsense, but every brush had shot the most intense bolts of pleasure through his body.
As he imagined her hands upon him once more, his cock rose again. Opening his trousers, he gave in to his body’s need and reached down to stroke his length. Wrapping his hand around his shaft, he jerked on it roughly as he drew upon the pitifully few memories he had of taking Ros. With each rough pull, he conjured the feel of her lips around his cock, the clasp of her pussy when he slid deep inside her, the glaze of pleasure in her eyes as she came for him.
His balls tightened as he roughly ran his hand up and over the head of his cock using his own precum to lubricate his rough movements. With a moan, he dropped his glass and gripped the arm of the chair, his hips bucking up in desire.
Finally, he came on a shout of her name as he shot his load onto his shirt and higher onto his exposed chest. As his heartbeat slowed and the blood didn’t pulse so loudly, he glanced about the room and took in his lonely existence. Was this all
he had to look forward to for the rest of his life?
Chapter 9
July 1862
Jules sailed into the sanctity of Ros’ bedroom in a cloud of bright green silk. “Get up, Ros! No sulking.”
Miffed at her sister’s intrusion, Ros rolled her eyes. “Nobody is sulking. I’m considering all that has occurred of late, but I would not engage in behavior so childish as sulking.”
Jules looked at her and let one flame-colored brow lift accusingly.
“Do cease with your well-intentioned assault. It is unnecessary and unwanted.” Ros huffed and rose from her chaise lounge where she’d been resting.
“Excellent!” Jules clapped her hands together in obvious delight. “Then, do get dressed, or we shall be late.”
Ros wanted to groan. “Late for what, precisely?”
Her sister grinned. “For tea with our new friends.”
Tea? With our friends? “I’m not sure I am following you.”
“Oh, don’t be obtuse, Ros. We’re due to have tea with Ladies Stonemere, Brougham, Carlisle, and Heartfield.” Jules pursed her lips. “You forgot, didn’t you?”
“Forget? No. What I did was assume that having dropped Flint, I would be persona non grata amongst his friend’s wives.” Ros frowned as her stomach flip-flopped in her belly in a singularly unpleasant fashion. “Even were I not, I don’t think I could face them. I’m rather embarrassed at having tried to bully the man into staying engaged to me. What kind of woman does that? I’m simply mortified.”
She knew better than to follow her heart, after all, doing just that had gotten her caught up with Archie, who had quickly fallen in love with her only to fall out of love just as swiftly. The unfortunate reality was that by the time he’d figured out he didn’t love her, they were already married, and she was living with him near the front lines fulfilling her duties as a good military wife should. Pushing aside her maudlin thoughts, she focused on the problem at hand: tea with the wives of her now ex-fiancé’s friends.
His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness: A Steamy Victorian Romance Page 7