by Thea Devine
That was his function and her purpose. She would be his toy, his plaything. What did his mother need her for, after all? Nothing Olivia wanted could take up a whole day of the chit's time. She could earn her money other ways. She could come to him when Olivia was taking her afternoon nap, after those pills which were meant to restore and revivify her, and never did.
She could come to him then, and he would make her come, over and over, as he pumped his heat, his length, and his seed into her.
He didn't need much time. Though he liked to prolong things as much as possible. Ten minutes, perhaps, for a good, hard first fuck.
God, he was like a rock, planning it, imagining it.
He'd teach her what to wear to please him—no undergarments to get in the way. No narrow skirts to prevent his lifting them above her waist to get at her slit.
Stockings, garters—they were arousing. No shifts, no union
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suits, no corsets. Nothing to impede his feeling and touching any part of her nakedness that he wanted.
And he wanted. She was the ripest piece ever to come to Waybury in years.
He was stiff as a poker thinking about it. And she ought to be right there, ready, willing, enticing him into her body. That was what a companion was for: sex, and sympathy. Sympathy for his aching penis because he couldn't just push her up against the wall and mount her right there and then.
And when she got these new dresses that his father so stupidly promised her, he'd have to make certain that they were easy to unbutton, because he wanted to gorge himself on her rosy, hard nipples whenever he felt like it. While he was pumping away between her legs. Up against the wall. Deep in her honey pot.
Where the hell was she? If she kept out of sight like this, he'd have to take one of the tween maids. Not that either of the tweenies would mind. There was one, just waiting, biding her time, salivating for the moment he would catch her on a stairwell, shove up her skirt, and plant himself between her legs.
All alike, those tweens, thinking to catch a gentleman with their willingness to hump and grind. Not him. Tupping a tween was as good as eating leftovers. And just as distasteful. A man gave in to it only to ease the ache, not to nourish his penis.
No. He couldn't think of it. He'd save his spew for the companion. Seduce her, like. Suck her nipples. Make her lick his cream. Make her love it, beg for it, cry for it.
Then she'd find reasons to spread her legs; she'd find hidey-holes all over the house for them where they could meet in secret, find all the time he wanted for a good suck and fuck. That was how it was, how it probably had been in the kitchens of St. Boniface with the delivery boys, and the milkman, milking her breasts, sucking her nipple tips, making her come .. .
This was why he'd come back home: somehow he'd known there was a ripe, young cock-tease right on his very doorstep just waiting for him. A fresh, young body, already accustomed to a man's groping hands and grueling needs, but still, a body not too used up to be mounted and fucked thoroughly by his penis at his desire.
She had just the right amount of experience, knowledge, and
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innocence. He'd wager she wasn't a virgin, but she wasn't a tart yet. Not a repository for indiscriminate semen. Just the two or a half-dozen or so who knocked on the kitchen door who needed a quick trick for which they'd give a shilling.
For someone like her, that was so much money; and really, he couldn't blame her—and yet, if it were true, she'd sold her worth for virtually no money at all.
Not only that, but it didn't seem to have jaded her. Rather, she exuded a certain confidence; there was a faint undercurrent of anger in her, and dignity, and a backbone you could gnaw on.
Admirable in the temple of Venus he had chosen to occupy.
All in all, an excellent choice, his companion. To be.
And she had no choice at all about being fucked by him.
******************
Olivia was napping. Jancie had given her the pill and read to her for a good fifteen minutes until she nodded off. So far, her duties were not onerous. She suspected that as time went on, the hardest thing would be to keep up conversation and a semblance of good spirits.
Hugo would now stay out of her way. Kyger, she was finding out, was always out on the property, seeing to repairs, taking the complaints of the tenant farmers, solving problems, trying to improve yields, and generally staying out of sight of his father, and as far away from Lujan as he could get.
She got another bowl of milk for Emily before she made her way back to her room. Emily, thank goodness, was still mere, still curled up on the bed.
She slanted a look at Jancie. Mrow.
"Aren't you perceptive, dear Emily. Yes, indeed—they're going to pay me. Isn't that something? I went toe-to-toe with Mr. Hugo Galliard and I came away a winner. Oh my God ..."
She was suddenly dumbstruck by what she had done. Money. Clothes. A solid place to live and a way to earn her living for however long it lasted. No more kitchen, no more dirty girl.
Hugo Galliard was paying up. Paying something for his lies and betrayals, even if it was paying her for services rendered.
She sank onto the bed and looked into Emily's golden gaze.
He might have given you more if you'd dug in your heels.
Greedy, greedy cat. "This is more than enough." Jancie said it
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out loud. She wanted it to be true. Olivia was truly not well. She doubted that she would even be there more than three or four months. Money to her name and some good dresses was not a bad barter for that.
Except if there are more diamonds. Except if—
...if..?
DON'T...
If...
If—what if . .. no, don't think it, don't even let one thought of it into your head—
.. . it's true.. . Emily's gaze never wavered. Emily was thinking exactly what Jancie had been trying not to think.
It's true. That's why your father was adamant about your coming here. That's why Hugo reacted every time you brought up his name.
No! Nooooooo!!!
Emily stared at her.
No!
But—
What if there are more diamonds? Enough for everyone. A fortune ten times over that Hugo could never spend. That's why you're here, you know—your father didn't want to tell you directly, but that's why he wanted you here. That's what he wants you to find out.. .
Chapter Three
But then again, Jancie sometimes thought, perhaps there were some things her father didn't remember clearly, like the breadth of the strike, or how much he and Hugo had actually taken out of the pipes before the explosion. And whether they had planted the explosives to shake loose a kimberlitic layer, or whether it had been those thieves and murderers who had abducted Hugo who set off the blast.
Why hadn't they tried to kill Hugo, too?
The answer to that was simple as Simon. Because there were no thieves. Hugo had lied. Hugo had stolen everything and left her father for dead.
Of course, Edmund needed to find out what had been taken from him all those years ago. Of course, she was the logical conduit through which that knowledge would come—when she was old enough to comprehend what was wanted.
Her father must have planned it so, waiting until she was old enough to find a way to insinuate her into Hugo's life.
Had her father gone as far as to have suggested to Hugo somehow that she would make an ideal companion for Olivia just to get her in the house?
She was shaking. It was not inconceivable. Her father had said
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over and over that Hugo would pay; that his not making demands on Hugo all those years ago didn't mean that Hugo wouldn't pay for what he'd done. Had vowed that Hugo would not have the satisfaction of a clear victory or the luxury of living a life without conscience.
Was she to be Hugo's conscience?
If any of her suppositions were even remot
ely true, she had bartered for far too little this afternoon.
No—she must not assume . . .
Yet—it made so much sense—it answered all her questions, all the reasons her father had always been so adamant that she stay in England.
My dear, he would write, you cannot imagine the hardships here.
You are as yet too young to take on the burdens of maintaining my household for me. You are so much better off where you are, onerous as it may be. There are things to learn, an education to be had; you are so young, too young. All your adventures can wait. ..
Every letter she'd written to her father in return, begging to come to him, was met with some excuse—it was the rainy season, it was too risky, there was rampant fever, it was too hot; there were too many men, not enough chaperones; not a place for a young girl; she must be eighteen at least before he would even consider bringing her out. And above all that, she must complete her education, if only to repay Hugo Galliard for his generosity.
She had thought her father meant that sincerely; now she was aware of the irony and the double edge. For all she knew, there was a cache of diamonds not yet converted somewhere in the house. Diamonds whose value, in all fairness, ought to be split with her father.
This was the next step. She was her father's instrument. He had waited all these years—and finally the time was here. She was in place. She owed him everything. The story was told. And now Hugo must be made to pay.
Satisfaction / 33
***
The idea of outfitting Jancie presentably gave Olivia something new on which to concentrate for the next few days.
"We'll send for my dressmaker," she directed after breakfast, which she took with Jancie in the morning room. She seemed more energetic this morning, more spirited. Her appetite was stronger—she managed to eat some toast, eggs, and tea, as well as swallowing the foul-tasting tablespoon of laudanum, while Jancie entered the date and time of its dispensation in a small pocket diary.
"This is much too cautious, Jancie."
"I want to be certain no mistakes are made," Jancie said. "It's a small thing, easily tucked away. I won't bother you with it again."
"So thoughtful of our little companion." The voice was unmistakable—Lujan—and Jancie barely had time to look away as he sauntered into the room. "She'll do everything by the book, Mother." He pulled out a chair opposite Jancie and grinned at her. "I'm certain she couldn't be in better hands."
Olivia poured him some tea, oblivious of the slip—or was it a slip?—but then he added, "Except mine."
"Up to your tricks again, are you?" Olivia asked him, as she rose to give him the teacup and a plate of eggs and toast.
She must do this every morning, Jancie thought. It was the only thing she could do for him—he was that slippery, that detached.
"Ignore him, Jancie,"
"Oh, don't," Lujan begged.
Olivia shot him a quelling look. "If you hadn't noticed, he's too cocky by half and too used to getting his own way in all things. Half the women in London are in love with him, and the other half don't bear mentioning. His sole entertainment is wielding his . . . his cockiness ... to the detriment of all who care about him. But he will not bludgeon you with it. I'll make certain of that. So let us go think about clothes, shall we, and leave him to having his way with breakfast."
Lujan watched them over the rim of his cup. Mother had some vinegar flowing this morning, in spite of her illness, and the com-
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panion was like a little black crow, obediently trailing behind her. Except she was hardly little. And those awful clothes only begged the question of what the body beneath them looked like naked.
He had passed half the night wondering, spending himself while he imagined what she would look like, how she would feel.
He would know soon enough, but he was of a mind to prolong things a little—anticipation was a wonderful aphrodisiac. Made a man's penis like iron. Made his whole body tight and trim with a seething lust that was like a living heat consuming his vitals. Made him ache to be naked and embedded in something tight, wet, hot, and deep.
He could wait, because the more he waited, the longer and tighter he got, the tauter his balls, the deeper the pleasure, the more satisfaction he would have.
He knew a dozen women, not prostitutes, any one of whom would already be under the table licking his balls and sucking him off right now, if she were even aware of his desire. Hell, three of them would be under the table between his legs, one at his balls, one rubbing his penis, and the other swallowing his come.
Shit.
His imagination was too powerful—it made his body feel too explosive. Now he really needed surcease. Maybe he'd just spend himself under the table . .. Or maybe the companion sensed his need—he heard footsteps—maybe she was coming to take care of him. . ..
Damn. Hugo.
"Lujan."
"Father." His voice sounded thick, curdled, to his own ears.
Hugo poured tea, took a plate of eggs and toast, and sat himself down across from Lujan. "Has Olivia come down yet?"
"She just left." God, he was rock-hard and he couldn't stop thinking about three tongues, three mouths, six hands, licking, sucking, pumping, stroking . .. shit shit shit.. . "The little companion was with her. She's had her morning medication, she ate a little, and they're . . . calling in the dressmaker today." Not prudent, talking more than usual like that; he couldn't fool Hugo, not for long.
"Good," Hugo said. "It will keep her mind off things."
"She did seem more energetic today," Lujan murmured, his
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thoughts still thrumming with the throbbing awareness of his ever-elongating and engorged penis. He couldn't even rise from the table at this point without Hugo noticing what was most obvious. Damn damn damn . . .
"So," Hugo continued, "isn't it time for you to go back to London?"
"Is it?"
"You would be wise. You have your eye on Jancie, and she is the one paid servant who ever came into this house who is untouchable. I will not warn you again. She is untouchable. Do you understand me?"
"She's better than a tween? I don't think so, Father."
"She's older and more experienced than a tween. You don't want to fool around with this, Lujan. I promise you, she's no mewling innocent."
"It's quite obvious, Father. That's what makes her so juicy." Oh, yes—that was exactly the right word. Juicy. He got juicier just thinking about it.
"You're going back to London. I don't care how much trouble you get into, how much money you spend—don't come back here. Send me a wire, and I'll fix it so you can keep going your merry way. We'll take care of things here, my beloved heir, and you can go on being reckless and unaccountable, fucking everything that moves, and letting Kyger bear the burden of your responsibilities."
"Well, hell." That wouldn't quite have been his story, but then, his father had always been one to rewrite history as he went along. "The point is made, Father—you don't want me to seduce the companion. Maybe you want her for yourself?"
He threw that jab out just to be nasty, but God, he was shocked to see something flicker in his father's eyes. Surely not. Hell, no—he'd imagined it. His father was just being protective of the little companion because he knew what a careless shit his eldest son could be. Still was. Leaving a trail of downtrodden, knocked-up girls from Hertfordshire to London and beyond, and then dashing their every hope, and fucking them over afterwards with the most elite socialites of every season.
What a game. What a lot of meaningless sexual congress. What a reputation to maintain.
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Sometimes he got tired—of the faceless women whom he bedded at their own peril, of the need to up the stakes again and again, and corning up drained and dissatisfied when everyone believed he was sated and indifferent.
And he couldn't see a way to end it. He was a legend now, even if he'd never done half the things people thought h
e had. His course was set. He was the Casanova of the Court, nothing more, nothing less. Charming as a snake, dangerous as an adder. Come close, and he uncoiled and attacked. No one was safe.
That was what they said. And even he believed it now.
Why else was he throbbing and erect when there wasn't even a woman in the room? Because he knew there was one in the house; her scent filled his pores, pulling him, luring him—a Lilith ready, willing to take advantage of his prowess, his stamina, his reputation, his will.
He had no will—he had surrendered it in lust to his drive for sex, thrown it and everything away along with any vestige of morality. If they wanted him, he came, every which way. He had no discretion, no selectivity. An equal exchange, the pleasure of his penis for the pleasure of embedding it in any anonymous woman's hole.
There was no stopping his course now—he craved it, he was addicted to it.
He needed it now.
And his father wanted him back in London. A day's ride. He'd never last.
Hugo's eyes turned frosty. "I—? Want her? Jesus God, that's unconscionable, even for you. I don't want you here another minute with your filthy mind. I really have had enough of your tricks and your attitude. Get out—do you hear me? Get OUT."
Lujan got up, and got out, his trousers bulging, which was not lost on Hugo, who sent him a blistering look and pushed away his food disgustedly.
But it was ever thus with Lujan, and he knew it—there was no controlling him. He'd probably go find an undermaid and empty himself into her. Probably it was best he relieved himself, in any event, rather than leave Waybury with a gnawing thrust like that. The man was dangerous when he was aroused. Dangerous anyway, and at the mercy of any urge, every appetite.
Satisfaction / 37
Hugo couldn't conceive of how his eldest child could have become like this. He wondered if Lujan even knew. He pushed himself away from the table angrily.
God, if only Kyger had been the eldest... if only Olivia were not dying ... if only Edmund had not found him . . .