The Lady and Her Secret Lover

by Jenn LeBlanc

  “Don’t move,” she whispered reverently.

  This moment, master and vassal, creator and subject, was the most powerful for her. She was one with her submissive and they weren’t even touching. The heat his skin gave her was gratitude for the pain she bestowed him. She stretched these moments out for as long as she could, letting it warm her, fill her, trying to fulfill and complete her—but it never quite made it that far. That fullness of heart and spirit was like something she could taste but not savor—always just beyond her reach. She’d thought Ollie was perfection, she’d thought he would give her that peace…but the moment faded like a whisp of smoke in a sudden wind.

  She straightened and leaned across his back, careful to avoid streaking the blood while brushing his newly formed wings with her corseted breasts, running her fingers down his sides, at the very edges of his feather welts. He was still her focus and she would still do everything within her power to make this the most satisfying moment she could for him.

  “Don’t move, don’t breathe, we’re almost there,” she whispered over his shoulder into his ear. Her breath sent goose bumps across his skin, his welts, causing shivers of pain to rack his body once again. She loved the sound that came from the depth of his rib cage. She wrapped her hands around his waist, skimming her thumbs just at the edges of the last welts to the center of his spine.

  “Thank you, Domina,” he breathed, his voice tense and hard but gracious, and she was brought to life in that, standing tall and filling her lungs with air that carried the soft tang of blood and sweat. Because this wasn’t about her and her disappointment this was about Ollie, it was entirely for him and she was inordinately proud of him and what he had accomplished today. Because when it came down to it, everything had gone perfectly and she found her satisfaction in that. Now it was time to finish the work.

  She hit a switch on the wall, then walked to her camera. The lighting was already set, the stage created days ago, and now the work of art was ready. All Lulu had to do was check the focus and press the shutter, and they would both have a permanent reminder of why they were here.

  She stared into the ground glass at the upside-down reversed image to check the framing. “Don’t move, my darling,” she said as she made the final adjustments to the focus. This was one of her best yet, and she had the beautiful man before her to thank for it.

  She grinned and gave a little booty shake at her excitement, but when she stepped to the side to take up the shutter release, her heel caught on the tripod and her ankle rolled. Her hand flew out to grab anything to help steady herself, catching the leg of the tripod. As the camera tipped she went down hard, hitting her head on the floor, the camera crashing down with her.

  The entire thing landed just in front of her as though she were composing an image, their legs tangled like lovers. Her head pounded, her temple beating against the cold floor. The back of the camera was just before her, the image out of focus, the tilted room projected on the shattered glass, the wings she’d only just created attempting to take flight as Oliver fought against his cuffs.

  “Don’t move…” she whispered softly as she fought the spin that took up residence.

  She blinked, struggling to keep her eyes open, focusing intently on the back of her camera one more time to try to keep herself from passing out but the world around her whirled and there was nothing to hold on to. The warmth of blood pooled beneath her skull. She heard him yell her name, but she could do nothing but close her eyes and dream of wings.

  Chapter 1

  …to fight and conquer in all your battles is not supreme excellence.

  —Sun Tzu

  The Art of War

  Grayson arrived at Exeter House at half past three as requested by His Grace, the Duke of Exeter, his future father-in-law. The man had been his father’s best friend and therefore Grayson’s enemy. He didn’t trust the man, simply for that close relationship to his father.

  Nearly half an hour after arriving, he was still pacing in the parlor—certainly a power play at the hands of Exeter. Grayson stopped at the front window, tugging his shirtsleeves to the cuffs of his coat as he waited. He didn’t know how much Exeter knew of him, how much his father may have said, but he knew returning to claim the Warrick title under order of the queen would ruffle feathers, and every peer would be of a mind to put him in his place, especially this one.

  It was one of the reasons he’d remained hidden, for the most part, since his return two years prior. Grayson wasn’t thrilled to tie up the rein of his third-son-of-a-duke, worthless, spare-to-the-spare-of-the-heir position. He’d become comfortable with it. He pulled the tails of his coat and smoothed the placket of his shirt, retucking the front edge in his trousers behind his waistcoat to keep it tight.

  It made him angry beyond bounds that he could not get out of the marriage contract. He would have preferred to simply walk away from all of his father’s contacts, contracts, friends, and fellows, and that was why he’d waited until today to speak to his bride.

  It seemed her father wanted the title for his daughter and would not relent, no matter how Grayson had attempted to break the contract. Grayson had no purse to buy him out, unfortunately, and he believed Exeter may actually be aware of that. A bead of sweat ran down his temple and Gray caught it with the sleeve of his coat, then started to pace anew. Standing still was beyond his ability at the moment.

  Grayson knew avoiding his future wife had been crass, that he should have at least been sociable, but he was not a sociable man and had no sociable mien. He didn’t want to be here in a fancy parlor in London. In London at all, for that matter, or in England, or even on this godforsaken continent. He didn’t want—

  The door swung wide, and a liveried footman in mint green stepped in. Grayson cringed. “The Lady Cecilia Lennox.”

  Resigned to his fate, Grayson straightened his shoulders and prepared to meet his bride. A gentleman, he said to himself. He was a gentleman. The footman stepped aside—and beauty walked in. Grayson’s hands fell to his sides, and his jaw slackened—he knew it did. He tightened it and composed himself again as the footman introduced him.

  “Lady Cecilia, His Grace, the Duke of Warrick.” The footman turned swiftly and pulled the double doors closed behind him with a resounding click, and they were alone.

  “Aren’t you in need of a chaperone, or some such?” Grayson asked quietly.

  “Am I?” she asked tersely.

  He didn’t have an answer for her, so he motioned to the settee and chairs. She took one of the chairs, and he relaxed only slightly and sat in the chair adjacent, so they wouldn’t have to stare directly at each other.

  Yet he did stare. She was vibrant, like a garden after a rainstorm, when the world is wet and the sun has just begun to re-emerge, the flowers open to the water and the warmth. The thought frustrated him because he didn’t want to like her.

  Her hair was a warm red, nearly brown, and her eyes were a heavy green threaded with mahogany. She was like a wood nymph from Shakespeare’s Midsummer Night’s Dream. Well, save the clothes. She was buttoned up rather close.

  She looked to him, then away just as quickly. “This is fascinating,” she said as she stood and walked to the fire in the grate, her words pinched and angry. “I simply cannot remember the last time I enjoyed such brilliant conversation.”

  She stared at the flames, and he felt instantly guilty. But the attraction he’d felt waned once she spoke. Her beauty couldn’t make up for the way she spoke to him, the way she looked at him. Her demeanor seemed more akin to an empty vase, and truthfully, he didn’t blame her. Perhaps they could come to some sort of honorable arrangement once others were no longer party to their contract. Once it was simply between the two of them.

  He stood and approached her slowly. “Lady Cecilia, I beg your pardon for my abhorrent behavior. This is all yet a shock to me.”

  “A shock…to you? We’ve been betrothed for near on two years, and you haven’t made a single attempt to meet with me fo
r the entirety of that engagement. I’ve been betrothed since I was a mere child. And this is a shock...to you?” She turned on him, her skirts swinging toward the grate, sparks flying in all directions as her voice rose. “A shock. And what would you say it is for me?!” Her voice filled the room. Grayson watched in horrified silence as she moved toward him and her skirts caught up in flames.

  “My lady!” He tackled her to the floor as she screamed and fought him. He heard an awful crack as her head hit something and she went silent but he had no time to check her pulse right now. He stood and stomped on her skirts as he yelled again, this time for help. His heart had never raced as it did now. Glancing at her face he could see she had been knocked out—he had knocked her out. He hoped that was all he’d done.

  He pulled a pillow from the settee and knelt at her feet smothering the remaining flames in her skirts. Grayson heard the door open and looked up to see the footman. “Call for a physician!” he yelled, then turned and started separating the layers of skirts and petticoats to be sure the fire was out completely.

  It was just as he reached her drawers, saw the gentle curve of her backside in the gap, that he heard a shriek from the doorway. He looked up to find Cecilia’s parents, the Duke and Duchess of Exeter, standing in the doorway.

  For fuck’s sake, as if his life wasn’t as difficult as possible at the moment. He looked down once more, to be sure the fire was out—it was—then looked up to attempt to explain. But the duchess had fainted, the duke narrowly catching her before she hit the floor across the room from him.

  “What is the meaning of this? What are you doing to her?” the duke yelled.

  “Your Grace, let me explain—” he started.

  “What is there to explain?” The duke handed his wife unceremoniously to a waiting footman and approached Grayson. “Looks to me as though you attempted to murder my daughter.”

  “Sir, no, I—”

  “I knew you were dishonorable. But I chose to hold to the contract your father and I signed, out of respect for his friendship.”

  “I’m attempting to be honorable, sir. This isn’t—”

  “Are you telling me you’re currently behaving as a gentleman should?” he railed on.

  Grayson shook his head and started to rebut him, but Lady Cecilia hadn’t moved in quite some time and he needed to concentrate on her. He knelt at her side again and brushed his knuckles across her temple. “My lady?”

  “I must insist you unhand her,” the duke yelled.

  “Your Grace, I beg you, just give me a moment. This is not at all what it seems.” He felt Cecilia’s head shift and turned back to her. He leaned closer, spoke softly, “Cecilia?” He skimmed the stray hair from her face, as her cheeks pinked a bit. “Cecilia, please,” he said. She turned her face into his hand, and her eyelashes fluttered against his fingers.

  “Holy shit, that hurt,” she said. Her hand moved to her head, and she winced. “Oliver? What the fuck just happened? Who the hell is Cecilia?”

  Grayson dropped his hand as the shock of her words washed through him, and every conversation he’d had with Roxleigh about the man’s wife ran through his mind. Roxleigh’s wife had behaved much the same when he’d met her. The complete change in demeanor, the language… Gray shook it off because there was no time to consider options at the moment. If this was what he assumed, he needed to handle the situation and protect the woman. Those were his marching orders.

  Grayson looked up to her father, who stood agape as a footman rushed in, pulling a small man in a suit with him.

  Thank God, a physician.

  “Shh,” he said, “try not to...try not to speak. You took a hard fall. The doctor’s here. Just give him a minute to look you over.”

  She opened her eyes and looked up at him, their eyes truly meeting for the first time. She assessed him for a moment, then her eyes narrowed, and if he hadn’t already been on his knees, that look would have sent him there. Every assessment he’d made of her when she first walked in—save how stunningly beautiful she was—vanished and was replaced in that look. “My lady.”

  Her eyes widened, and she started to look around the room. He felt her heartbeat pick up in the fingers he held on her wrist. She lifted her shoulders, and he tried to coax her back down. “Stay, try not to panic. I’ve got you.”

  Her irises flared. “Hands off,” she ordered, and he carefully but quickly released her, immediately sinking back on his haunches. “Don’t touch me.” She didn’t take her gaze from his.

  Grayson pulled his hands back to his knees. Once she clearly decided he was no longer a threat, her hands began to move, touching her head as she winced and hissed a breath, then feeling down her corseted chest, waist, and reaching her skirts. One of her hands found her bared bottom, and she narrowed her gaze on him again as the doctor ordered the footman to help him lift her to the sofa. Grayson tried to tell them to wait, but they didn’t heed his warning.

  “Why is my ass hanging out?” she asked as she pushed the men away, and the doctor put his bag down and pulled out a syringe. Grayson saw exactly how this was to go long before anything happened. The doctor intended to drug her into submission.

  Grayson didn’t understand why this woman had such a foul disposition, but he was certain she was fairly lucid and didn’t need drugging. She needed only a minute to gather herself. He stood, pushing the footmen away and putting himself between Lady Cecilia and the rest of them.

  “You will not touch her,” he said.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” the doctor responded. “She clearly needs to be sedated for treatment.”

  “No, she doesn’t. What she needs is a minute of privacy. Get out. All of you.”

  The doctor gaped and turned to the Duke of Exeter, who said, “Excuse me, Warrick, but you have no right to give orders in my house.”

  “Where it concerns my fiancée, I certainly do. We have a contract. She belongs to me,” Grayson said.

  “I have a contract with your dead father and dead brother, not with you,” Exeter spat.

  Grayson looked directly at the duke as he started to backpedal. “You have a contract with the Duke of Warrick. That is me, and you pressed for it to be finalized. Now get out until I call for you to return.” Grayson wondered if the man truly thought him a careless idiot but brushed that aside, since he didn’t actually care and didn’t have time to deal with the man’s ranting.

  Exeter and the doctor stared at each other momentarily, then he nodded and waved the footmen to the doorway. “This discussion is not finished,” Exeter said as he pulled the doors shut behind him. Grayson had the distinct feeling they hovered just beyond the closed doors.

  Grayson turned back to Lady Cecilia and once again sank to his knees at her side. One of her hands covered her eyes, and the other pushed against her waist. She was visibly shaking. “They’ve gone. Would you like me to help you to the settee?” he asked.

  “And yet you’re still here. I must be dreaming,” she said under her breath, then she looked up to him. “Do as you will, because this isn’t really happening anyway.”

  Lulu watched the man closely. He lifted his hands and showed them to her, and she nodded. He reached for her, and she allowed him to run his hands over her to check for injuries. Then she allowed him to pick her up as she tried to straighten her skirts and cover her backside.

  She closed her eyes to concentrate. She had absolutely no idea what was happening. Last she remembered, she was with Oliver, painting his back with wings. He’d earned it. After months and months of submissive training, he’d finally been ready. Then…what happened next?

  She felt her feet touch the floor but kept her eyes closed as she shifted her hands on the biceps of this man—Warrick? Wasn’t that what he’d said? Yes—no—well, yes and no. He’d called himself the Duke of Warrick. Oh, she needed to stop reading historical romances.

  The duke held her steady and didn’t move. He was waiting for orders. She knew it like she knew what year it was. Like she
knew where she lived. Like she knew who she was. It was second nature to her—this dance of submission—and apparently he’d been well-trained, which meant no matter where she was, she was safe. She trusted in this, trusted in the BDSM community she knew and loved and the universal truths it provided.

  She shook her head. This was a dream. Of course she was safe. Lulu started to open her eyes again, but the light in the room was simply too bright, so she tucked her face against his shoulder and kept her eyes closed.

  After a moment to gain her balance, she patted his biceps to let him know she was okay, and his hold on her relaxed. She tilted, and his hands returned. “Maybe I should sit,” she said. Oh man, that was loud. She must have a concussion, but…it’s all a dream. She felt him shift her to the couch. He released her as he sat next to her, but his hands stayed ready.

  “Could you get the blinds?” she asked. “It’s too damn bright.”

  “The—I can shut the curtains,” he said.

  Who cares what you have? Just close them.

  She shifted as his weight left her side, and she put her hands on the couch to steady herself. The world behind her eyelids grew more dim, and she slowly started to open her eyes. Good Lord, she’d fallen into a BBC miniseries.

  The man came back, and she looked up to him carefully when he sat next to her. He was…stunning, really. Dark, brooding, very well dressed, very well put together. Heathcliff maybe, or Rochester, some devious man for certain. She couldn’t see much more than his hands and face because the rest of him was completely covered by his clothes. “Downton Abbey perhaps?”

  “Pardon?” he said.

  “Sorry, nothing, I just… What year is it supposed to be?” It was her dream, right? Wouldn’t her actors answer her questions? As well as her dream man. I mean, he is something. She usually dreamed of famous people, but this man—she couldn’t place him. He wasn’t at all familiar, but by the look of him, he would be famous someday. He rested his elbows on his knees as if resigned to something, then he knotted his hands together.