by Brown, Em
When she saw the man leave the assembly floor, Harrietta felt relieved, though she was also curious to see what he might do next with the woman he had left hanging.
“If you wish to leave, you have only to speak it,” Charlotte said.
Harrietta contemplated the suggestion. She had seen more tonight than she had ever thought possible. Her mind whirled and she needed time alone to digest all that she saw. And yet, she felt a part of her awakening, a part of her that desired to see more, a part of her that was not merely curious.
“Does everyone wear a mask?” Harrietta asked, stalling.
“Mostly,” Charlotte replied.
“Do you know anyone here?”
“No, and that is part of the fun.”
They walked past a row of semi-private alcoves occupied alternately by two women licking each other, a group orgy, and a ménage-a-trois.
“Are there no private chambers?”
“Where is the thrill in a private chamber? Ah, it is the time for presenting,” Charlotte observed of a number of men and women who had begun forming a line in the middle of the assembly. “Did you wish to present tonight?”
“Present?” Harrietta echoed. Her pulse began to quicken.
“Those new to Madame Botreaux’s must first present themselves. Those of a certain seniority here are allowed to choose among the new ones.”
“What happens if you do not like the person you are with?”
“If you find you do not enjoy your initial encounter, you may request to present again upon your return.”
Harrietta’s heart was pounding in her head. For a brief moment she wondered what her new husband would say or do if he ever found out what she had done. He had made it quite clear before they married that he would not interfere in the life she wished to lead if she would afford him the same consideration. The coolness of his tone as he spoke had surprised her. In truth, she had felt a little stung by it. She knew full well she was not the sort of woman to merit the attentions of a man of his wealth and stature. That he had offered for her hand had mystified her. She could only guess that he had felt some obligation to her brother to care for his family.
He was certainly not interested in her. That much had become clear as crystal to her when he had chosen not to consummate their marriage on their wedding night. Instead, he had adopted a fatherly tone, assuring her that he would not press his privileges upon her but would wait until she was ready. What the bloody hell could he have met by that? The only answer that came to her was that he had no desire to bed her. Her lack of beauty had never bothered her before—Harold had often told her how he would sooner be in her company than all the Helens of Troy in the world—but on her wedding night, she had felt the pain of her plainness.
It was possible that despite the understanding that she and the Marquess had not to interfere in each other’s lives, this would be too much for him to accept. But why should he have all the fun? Harrietta found herself reasoning as she thought of the Marquess with his mistress. Moreover, her identity was protected by her mask, and she trusted Charlotte not to divulge their illicit tryst. He would never know.
The man in the silver and black mask had returned and released the young woman from her bonds and her blindfold. He said something to her that made her cry. At first Harrietta thought he was telling the woman how much more she would be punished, but then he gently wiped away the tears from her face, and his lips formed what seemed to be the word adieu. The woman departed with obvious reluctance, casting one last look of longing at him before she left.
What would it feel like to want to be with someone that much? Harrietta wondered.
“If you worry that Vale—” Charlotte began.
Harrietta was quick to dismiss the suggestion. “Not at all. One of the maidservants mentioned that he is likely to be at the home of his mistress, the Countess D’Alessio. I suspect he will not return for some time.”
“Does that mean you wish to present?”
For some reason, the thought of her husband with his mistress spurred her courage. “Yes—for tonight.”
“Very well. I will wait for you when you are done.”
I have lost my mind, Harrietta said to herself as she stepped into the line formed by four other women and three men. She could not deny that her body felt warm from seeing all the bodies of men and women writhing in pleasure, but she had not expected that she might be one of them tonight. From the corners of her eyes, she saw the man in the silver and black mask, his arms crossed over his chest as he looked over the line of men and women presenting. She wanted to flee.
But then she saw him move. He was coming toward her.
Chapter Three
VALE SAW LOVELL ELROY, a man equal to him in physique and dominance, saunter toward the line of newcomers. It was unlikely that Lovell would select Harrietta—if the man selected anyone at all. Not all newcomers merited a partner. And Harrietta, with her square shoulders, petite breasts, and common features, was not the type of woman who would catch Lovell’s eye. But Vale couldn’t take that chance.
Damn Charlotte, Vale thought, when I lay my hands upon her...
“You,” he said to Harrietta in a hoarse whisper to disguise his voice. “Come with me.”
Lovell looked over. The rivalry between him and Vale was understated but obvious. Vale knew that Lovell was wondering why he was bothering with someone like Harrietta.
Vale began walking away. The sooner he removed Harrietta the better. What the devil was Charlotte thinking bringing her here?
He realized he was not being followed and turned back. Harrietta had not moved. Instead, she simply stared at him dumbly.
“I will assume you did not hear me,” Vale told her. Heads around them began to shake.
She glanced over to where Charlotte was standing. Charlotte nodded her head encouragingly.
“Come with me,” Vale repeated and turned once more. This time Harrietta followed. He led her to the farthest and most private alcove. It was also one of the darkest, allowing him to reside in the shadows of the faint candlelight.
“Stand there,” he directed her, pointing to the center of the room with his riding crop. He surveyed her evening dress. It was a simple gown of violet damask that was part of the new wardrobe he had purchased for her as part of her wedding gift. The corset had managed to push her petite breasts up to form faint contours above the décolletage. She wore her hair curled, but loose and pulled away from her face. The blue half-mask covered what he knew to be a pert little nose but not her full lips, which formed a slight frown in their state of rest. Vale shook his head. Why did she bother with a mask when her emerald necklace—a family heirloom he had presented to her on the day of their wedding—flashed around her neck like a beacon?
“That is a striking necklace, ma petite,” he said as he ambled around her slowly.
She realized her error and stammered, “I—it belongs to a friend. She lent it to me for the evening.”
An adequate lie, Vale thought to himself. He wanted to sigh and run his hand through his hair. But he continued to circle around her as she watched him cautiously. Why had she come? And what was he going to do with her now that she was here?
“You don’t belong here,” he pronounced.
She lifted her chin. “Indeed?”
“You had best return home with your friend.”
“I will leave when I am ready.”
Vale pressed his lips together in displeasure. He was well acquainted with her stubborn streak—one that she shared with Harold—and it seemed time had not diminished that quality. God, but she looked so much like her brother, Vale thought to himself as he studied her. The memory of his best friend tugged at his heart with fresh vigor in her presence. He could feel the guilt in every cell of his body. He should have tended to the Delaney family immediately upon learning of Harold’s death. Or at least when he had assumed the title of Marquess and had come into his full inheritance. The Delaney family had provided him with the warm
th and affection that he lacked from his own family. He owed them the courtesy of a visit and so much more. But each passing year only strengthened the inertia. The guilt grew until he could ignore it no longer, and he had thought to absolve himself by marrying Harrietta; a posthumous apology to Harold for not having taken better care of his best friend’s family.
“This is no place for you,” he told her.
“Who are you to judge?”
He stepped toward her. She jumped a little but remained where she was. He stood behind her and leaned in toward her ear.
“Did you think I could not smell your apprehension?”
“That is merely because I am unfamiliar here,” she responded.
Vale raised his brows. “You have been to similar establishments before?”
A smile tugged at the corner of her lips. “You seem to know all. You tell me.”
Vale stepped back to better observe her. Was she lying or possibly telling the truth? If the latter, he had greatly misjudged the country girl he had married. She was staring at him, and he stepped once more into the shadows.
“In the Cavern, you will always direct your gaze in front of you,” he explained. “You are not to meet my gaze or look upon me unless I direct you to. You shall always address me as your ‘lord’ or ‘master.’ Failure to do so has consequences.”
Why was he telling her this? Vale wondered to himself. Best to get her on her way. But her response stunned him: she laughed.
“And what have you done to merit such a title?” she asked.
Insolent chit. Vale could hardly believe he was having this conversation. “You...are clearly a novice or you would not have the audacity to question me. I have no patience for greenhorns.”
“Then why did you choose me—my lord and master?”
He would have preferred she not have added those last words, spoken with such mockery. Never had Vale encountered such impudence in the Cavern. He was almost tempted to punish her.
“Because others would not be so kind as to advise you of the prudent course, which is to return from whence you came.”
“Kind?” Harrietta echoed. “And were you kind to that young woman you hung from the ceiling?”
A flush spread through Vale. So she had seen him with the beauty. How much had she seen? But it didn’t matter. It wasn’t as if she knew who he was. Not even Charlotte knew.“She was being punished,” Vale explained. “And perhaps you noticed that she was not exactly complaining.”
Harrietta seemed to consider the matter, but returned with, “And who gave you the authority to punish her?”
“She did. The source of authority always comes from the submissive. All that I do is what she desires me to do.”
“She desired for you to strike her with your riding crop?”
“Yes. With an experienced master, even acts that she fears, resents, and dislikes are ultimately ones she wants to happen.”
“What was she being punished for?”
“Spending without permission.”
At last he was able to silence her. Her brows were knit in thought.
“An experienced submissive would know to do what she was told,” Vale continued, “and would not forget to address her master as ‘my lord,’ as you have done—repeatedly.”
Her voice wavered every slightly as she asked, “And what will you do with me—my lord?”
This time the words were spoken with more respect.
“Send you home,” Vale answered.
She seemed disappointed.
“Madame Botreaux’s is not a place for the faint of heart,” Vale told her with the tenderness of a parent explaining what was best for a child. “It is understandable to be curious, but in here a person needs to be committed and possessed of a certain level of ... ability.”
“What kind of ability?”
“That you need ask shows your lack of understanding. Return home, ma petite.”
He began to walk away.
“Where can I obtain the requisite ability?” she asked.
Damn it, Vale swore. Would she not give up? He had no idea how to answer that question. Many years ago, he had taken the time to work with new submissives, but he no longer had any interest.
“Would you teach me, my lord?”
Vale whirled on his heels and strode over to her. She was more than a head shorter and had to lift her chin quite high to meet his gaze.
“You do not know what you ask, ma petite,” he warned.
“Stop speaking to me as if I were a child,” she returned. “You know nothing of me, but have conceived some prejudice against me. Why?”
She was beginning to irritate him. If he lifted his mask to reveal his identity, perhaps he could scare her away.
“Because you are a child,” Vale said. “Only a child would persist in asking foolish questions.”
“And only an arrogant lout would persist in sending me away.” She lowered her voice. “I could be better than any submissive you have had.”
The quaintness of her delusion made him laugh, which made her cheeks redden in anger. “I do not mean to deride you, ma petite, but you have no notion of the challenges you face.”
“Show me,” she insisted.
“As I said, I’ve no patience for neophytes.”
“Then tell me who has. Will the gentleman with the red mask—”
“No,” Vale returned with such vehemence that she jumped back. “He has less patience than I.”
“And perhaps less arrogance,” she muttered.
Vale caught her jaw between his thumb and forefinger. “You tread in dangerous waters, ma petite. You have courage only because you are unaware of all that you do not know.”
“I know more than you think.”
“Do you? How many men have you lain with?”
“Is it breadth or depth that matters?” she countered.
Vale would easily have wagered that she was still a virgin. “And how deep does your depth extend?”
“Deep enough.”
“I will be the judge of that. Have you ever been fucked?”
Her eyes widened behind her mask, and her breath quickened. “Often.”
Liar, he thought to himself, but decided to let it go for he had another question he could ask. He stepped away from her and pointed to a ring on her finger with his crop.
“You are married. Have you lain with your husband?”
“If I was interested in fucking my husband, would I be here?”
Vale nearly choked. The ungrateful little chit. He could have married any number of women—women of unsurpassed beauty or breeding or wealth. She could not have done better than a tradesman or perhaps a wealthy but aging merchant.
Containing his own feelings, he remarked, “You do not regard your husband highly.”
She hesitated. “Once... now I find him indolent and useless.”
“Is he old and homely?”
“I understand many find him attractive, but he is old.”
Devil take it, Harrietta, thirty-four is hardly old. Vale collected himself and continued. “Do you think him attractive?”
“His countenance is not displeasurable, but his beauty is marred by the lack of beauty in his soul.”
Vale stared in disbelief. He had never heard himself spoken of so harshly—and certainly not to his face.
“As bad as that?” he asked.
She winced. “I did not mean to...well, he is not the man I would have freely chosen to marry.”
For the first time, Vale wondered if he had done a disservice in offering for her hand. “Is there someone you would have preferred?”
“No.”
Relief washed over him.
“We have a convenient arrangement in which neither is to intrude into the life of the other,” she added. “We are civil to each other.”
“Does he know you’re here?”
“He would not care, I think.”
Vale suppressed a snort.
“He has himself a mistres
s,” she supplied.
His heart sank. Though her countenance remained stiff and she straightened her shoulders, something in her tone belied her stoicism. He felt an odd compulsion to assure her that all was not what it seemed.
“If you’ve no wish to instruct me, my lord,” Harrietta continued, “it is of no consequence to me. I will find another who can.”
Vale began to pace the room. He could not let her go about her own devices and risk her landing in the hands of someone like Lovell.
He held out his riding crop and with its end, kissed a nipple through her gown. Pulling his wrist back, he made to strike her in that same spot. She gasped audibly, but to her credit, she did not shrink from him. The chit was determined.
“Very well,” he relented. “I will give you one night and one night only, but I have three conditions. Failure to meet any of them will indicate that you are not suited to be my pupil. Indeed, you will not possess the mettle to be a member of Madame Botreaux’s if you cannot perform these simple tasks. First, you will arrive alone. No friends, no chaperones, and certainly no husbands or lovers.”
“Your second requisite, my lord?” Harrietta prompted.
“Your impatience displeases me. The second condition is that you will meet me no later than ten o’clock tomorrow night—”
“Not tomorrow night!”
“Interrupting one’s master merits a sound punishment,” he informed her. “I recommend against it in the future.”
He smiled to himself, knowing full well that tomorrow night would prove difficult for her, for he had offered to take her to her very first opera, Le Nozze di Figaro by Mozart. Harrietta had been thrilled, for the Austrian composer was her favorite.
“I can do any night but tomorrow.”
“The choice is not yours.”
She bit her lower lip in thought. “Very well.”
Taken aback, he stared at her. Surely she did not mean it? He continued, “You will come clothed in no other color but red.”
“That were impossible.”
“The punishment for failing to address me properly will be three lashes. I can assure you already that your first lesson will not be an easy one.”