by EM BROWN
Languidly, he withdrew from her, then shoved himself back in. She would have flown free of her bonds had they not been tightly secured. He proceeded to pound her flesh, thrusting his hips in rapid succession. The beam behind her creaked with the force of his motions. Her cries rose high and loud above the din of carnal activity among the other patrons. Her hair came undone. Grabbing her hips, he pushed himself deeper, his cock diving into her womb.
The muscles in his arse clenched tightly as he plunged relentlessly into her until an almost agonizing cry escaped her and her body shuddered violently against him. Her long awaited and well deserved orgasm had come. The boiling heat in his own body surged from deep in his abdomen and rushed up his cock, filling her with his seed. He let loose his own roar but continued to thrust into her, wanting to prolong her spending, wanting her to enjoy her release and feel fulfilled. His head spun and his legs trembled with the force of his own climax. It was as if a star had exploded inside of him.
As her tremors subsided, he finally staggered back and took in a deep breath. Many of the other patrons had spent or were on their way to spending as well—a chorus of desires being met. After pulling up his breeches, he released Harrietta from her bonds, and she collapsed into his arms. He held her tight. If he could have nothing else in the world but this, he would be satisfied. Fate had indeed been kind to him. He had married Harrietta to assuage his guilt—a self-serving motivation. And had found that which had been missing from his life.
But perhaps Fate had also been aware that he had loved Harrietta all this time. Had known from the day he met her, though she was but a babe, that she would be special to him. Only his title, his own prejudices and lack of purpose had obscured the truth.
Closing his eyes, Vale thanked Harold. He owed her brother twice. Once for saving his life. And now for providing him a new one. He wished he could tell Harold how much the young Delaney had blessed his life.
Vale picked Harrietta up in his arms and carried her back to their private alcove. Sitting down, he placed her on his lap and unhooked the collar from her, wondering if she would ever wear such a thing for him again. Madam Botreaux’s would hold no interest for him now without her.
She placed a hand against his chest. “I should go.”
He watched her as she rose to her feet and went to collect her clothing.
“Can your husband compare with that?” he asked, smugly folding his arms.
“He has no need to,” she replied.
“Then you intend to return to him?”
“Most certainly. I will cherish my time here at Madame Botreaux’s and the guidance you have been so kind to share with me, my lord. But it is my husband I long to be with. I desire him more than ever.”
Gathering her items, she turned to leave.
He paused, his heart beaming. “Tell your husband that he is a fortunate man, Harrietta. I admit I shall miss the pleasure of seeing you again. Are you certain you will not visit us at Madame Botreaux’s?”
“Not unless my husband...” She whirled around, the blood draining from her. “How do you know my name?”
His lips curled, but he ignored her question, saying instead. “Would you take with you a token of your time here?”
Retrieving his riding crop, he held it out to her. Harrietta stared at the object. He could see her mind reeling. Her gaze drifted from the crop to his hand, a thin strip of bandage wrapped about it. Her eyes widened.
Gasping, she looked at him, her stare penetrating the dim alcove, seeking the contours of his face. He had noticed that she had never tried to glimpse too much of him, perhaps for fear he would see too much of her. But recognition dawned in her eyes as they stared at his mouth, then trailed to his crotch. “It can’t be!” she thought aloud with growing horror. Realizing there was only one way to be sure, she pulled her mask off and threw it aside.
He bowed his head. Reaching up, he untied his mask to reveal the face of her husband.
“All this time?” she cried. “It was you all this time?”
He spoke without the hoarseness he used to disguise his voice. “Forgive me, ma petite.”
As if needing a place to sit, she looked around her, but all she saw was the bench where she had first spent for him.
“Good God,” she moaned. “What must you have thought...? Oh! How could you...? Why did you...?”
“I grant you permission to be angry with me,” he said.
“I don’t need your permission!” she fired back. “I think I might think you an abominable wretch! I do think you an abominable wretch!”
He smiled and presented the riding crop once more. “Then you may have a privilege that no one has ever had here in the Cavern: permission to punish me.”
She stared at the crop and hesitated. He could tell she wanted to be furious with him, but could not stay cross with him. He gave her a tantalizing smile. She took the crop.
“You will pay dearly for this,” she told him.
He took her in his arms and gazed down at her with a warmth that made her heart leap into her eyes. “I hope for the rest of my life.”
His mouth claimed hers. Commanding. Dominating. There would be no question, privilege or no, who the true master was. She sighed into the kiss. He felt a thrill beyond words as he held her. She was his now. All his. His wife. His marchioness to master.
Conquering
The
Countess
PUBLISHED BY WIND COLOR Press
Copyright © 2017 by Em Brown
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is purely coincidental.
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Chapter One
“WHO IS SHE?” marveled Phineas Barclay, adjusting the silken mask he wore to better view the woman wielding the nine-tail. He wished Penelope, the proprietress of Madame Botreaux’s Cavern of Pleasures, would add more lighting to the dim underground assembly hall where men and women gathered to indulge their prurient appetites. While he understood the darkness helped to conceal the identity of the patrons, it hindered one’s ability to fully admire the form of one’s partner—or partners.
“Lady Athena,” supplied Lance Duport. A longtime patron and friend of Penelope Botreaux, Lance had ceased to wear a mask many years ago. He eyed Phineas through a quizzing glass. “My dear fellow, that is a bang-up cravat. Do you think your valet could teach mine?”
Phineas smiled. “You have changed little in the years, Duport.”
“As have you,” Lance responded.
Phineas leaned over the rail of the balcony to observe the patrons who had gathered on the main floor below to witness ‘Lady Athena’ and the two men chained to whipping posts on either side of her. Though she did not possess the sloping shoulders or slender arms admired by most, she was nonetheless a captivating figure—and for reasons beyond her strange costuming. Black leather boots, of the kind worn by men in the military but for the curvaceous Louis heels, encased her legs well past her knees. Her thin chemise fell over swelling hips, and Phineas believed that if a candle were held to it, the material would prove sheer enough to reveal her full and supple thighs. Her corset, an unusual black damask with gold floral embroidery, was loosely laced in the front, revealing the paleness of her breasts, two swollen mounds with nipples peering over the edge of the chemise. Phineas felt his cock tug at him as he drank in t
he scintillating curves of her body.
“How droll it is to have you back from your exile, Lord Barclay,” commented Penelope, whose rounded figure gave evidence of her affinity for one too many glasses of port.
“Barclay is sufficient,” Phineas replied, feeling his jaw tighten as he recalled the five years he had spent on the continent. Devil take it, he had never thought he would miss Yorkshire pudding, but he had. “My brother is his lordship.”
“Not with your return. The barony was granted to him only because you were thought dead.”
“When you first walked in,” Lance added, “I thought I was looking at a bloody ghost.”
“Indeed, as you are most certainly not dead, whose body, then, is interred at the Barclay crypt bearing your name?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Phineas replied. “I went into hiding after two attempts were made on my life. I had no notion that the Comte Le Sur had proclaimed me dead—with feigned proof.”
“Was it his daughter or his son whom you seduced?” Lance asked.
When Phineas did not respond, Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “It matters not. It is more than wonderful to have you alive and returned. I have not had much in the way of an Adonis to feast my eyes upon—not since Vale. Alas, he has not graced our company for nigh on two years.” She sighed wistfully. “He used to stand right where you are.”
“The Marquess of Dunnesford?” Phineas inquired, turning around to face Penelope. “What induced him to take his leave?”
“He fell in love,” Lance answered with a sigh to match Penelope’s.
“Dunnesford? In love?” Phineas repeated, incredulous.
Penelope and Lance both nodded. “With his wife.”
“The deuce.” Phineas shook his head, wondering what other surprises lay in store with his return to England. He turned his attention back to Lady Athena, who alternated between her two submissives with the flow of a choreographed dance. Unfurling her lash, she struck the man behind her between the shoulders, then brought it down upon the buttocks of the man before her. Her strikes were strong and delivered with surprising litheness.
“How long has Lady Athena been a patron of yours?” he asked Penelope.
Penelope aimed her quizzing glass at the woman in question, then brought it back towards Phineas, her preferred subject.
“A twelvemonth perhaps,” she replied. “I do not recall your having been so intrigued by a Mistress before.”
“All manner of women intrigue me,” Phineas responded with a rakish grin.
“You are incorrigible,” Lance commented with a shake of his head. “Was it not your entanglement with a woman that forced you from England in the first place?”
Phineas remained quiet. He had no desire to revisit the past. Nor did he know or trust Duport well enough to divulge that his affair with a married woman played only a minor role.
“What does it matter?” Penelope admonished. “From what I heard the duel was more than fair. That Jonathan Weston was killed...”
Phineas turned around to see Penelope clearly wishing she could have swallowed her words. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Do you know this Lady Athena?”
She shook her head quickly. “I do not reveal the identity of my patrons, and Lady Athena has never indicated a desire to reveal herself. She does not tarry with any one man for long. I believe tonight she will seek yet another new submissive at the Presenting.”
Lance added, “She is one that even you, my friend, will find difficult to conquer.”
Phineas raised his brows. “My reputation as a lover must have diminished greatly in my absence.”
“Your skills in that vein are of no use with her. She allows no one to bring her to climax.”
“Odds fish.” Phineas had never heard of such a thing. What was the purpose of coming to Madame Botreaux’s if one could not attain that sublime euphoria? This Lady Athena was the most peculiar mistress. He looked over the balcony to see Lady Athena circling one of her submissives. Was it the boots that lent her stalking such an erotic quality?
“I can see your thoughts, Lord Barclay,” Penelope said with a small grin. “I will lay you a wager that what you contemplate cannot be done.”
Phineas unloosened his cravat with slow deliberation.
“Alas, a work of art gone in a moment,” Lance murmured, but his dismay was easily replaced with a new interest as Phineas began to unbutton his shirt.
“Your stakes, madam?” Phineas asked of Penelope.
Both Penelope and Lance nearly drooled as the linen slid down his arms to reveal a chiseled chest.
“My—my word,” Lance stammered. “Have you taken up pugilism?”
“I spent most of my time on the Continent in Italy, perfecting the art of the sword.”
“You,” Penelope pronounced. “I wish you to be mine for a full night.”
“And if I can seduce the Lady Athena, what is my prize?”
“I must have a piece of this wager,” Lance interjected.
Penelope smiled, envisioning her win already. “Name your price.”
“Her name,” Phineas answered. “I want to know who she really is.”
Penelope glanced down in consideration, but after a brief hesitation, she lifted her chin. “I have witnessed Lady Athena for a year now. As delectable as you are, Barclay, she will not change her ways.”
“You wound my pride, madam,” Phineas replied, covering his heart in mock pain.
“You will have such time until she casts you aside and selects a new submissive.” Penelope sidled up to him and tapped his chest with her quizzing glass. “At which time, you shall be mine, dear Barclay.”
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “I adore a wager that knows no loss for me.”
Penelope trembled at his touch and had to take a step away from him to breathe.
“And myself,” Lance reminded. “I should like to have you for a night as well.”
Phineas bowed. Lance, among the finer looking men with his raven black hair and trim figure, would not prove to be the first man he had taken to bed, but he had foresworn men after the disastrous duel that forced his departure from England. However, if he successfully seduced the Lady Athena, Lance would not be a concern, and no woman had yet proven impervious to his charms. His conquests reflected all manner of women from a shy rector’s daughter to a frosty matron who disapproved at first of his attentions upon her daughter, then became increasingly envious of her own progeny. Lady Athena possessed the one quality he needed: she was a woman.
Invigorated by the impending challenge, he descended the balcony and prepared himself for the Presenting.
GERTRUDE “GERTIE” FARRINGTON appraised the men and women in the Presenting, a ritual in which new guests and those wishing for a new partner—or partners—presented themselves for selection. She felt formidable in her new garments. Of particular pride were the boots she had designed herself. The mask she wore was cut from the same fabric as her corset. When first she had donned the name and character of Lady Athena a year ago, she had favored a gold mask. Now black was her preferred color.
Her favorite crop resting atop her shoulder at a smart angle, she strode down the line with the air of a general inspecting his troops. Senior patrons selected first, but many of them deferred their position to Lady Athena. Out of pity or respect, Gertie knew not. Nor did she care.
A pretty young redhead in line raised her hopeful eyes, but Gertie passed the woman by. On rare occasions, she had selected one of the fair sex for her submissive, but men spurred her vigor, her anger, in a way no woman could. Gertie eyed a slender young man, one who dutifully kept his eyes cast downward. A good submissive, most likely well-trained, but not willful enough for her. She did not want a man who groveled at her feet too adeptly.
And then her gaze met a pair of intense eyes behind a silver mask. In the dim lighting, she could not discern the color of the eyes, which seemed to capture what little light existed and reflected it back twof
old. They stared at her with unnerving intensity. Feeling as if she might drown in their pools, she pulled her gaze wider and contemplated the whole of the physiognomy. Though his mask covered half his face, the shadows suggested a striking appearance.
The body, too, was beautiful. He stood a head taller than she, and had a pleasing proportion, neither wide and brawny nor long and lanky. She imagined dripping hot candle wax upon the ridges of his chest and landing her lash against his strapping thighs. His muscles, sleek but not burly, exposed an aristocratic background full of sport. His calf was well defined, as was the bulge in his breeches.
Conscious that he was still staring at her with unabashed impudence, she raised her brows at him. But instead of realizing his place, he continued to stare. Such defiance could not go unpunished, Gertie thought to herself. She could derive much satisfaction in being the one to administer his punishment. She had seen his sort of arrogance before. Many such men had proven remarkably weak when tied to the whipping post. Would he as well?
Strange, but he seemed to read her thoughts in the way that he looked at her. For the first time since becoming a regular at Madam Botreaux’s, she felt herself faltering. Her heart seemed to palpitate unevenly. Walking past him, she spotted a more callow fellow who puffed his chest forward in a display of undue confidence. Just as she was about to select this one, she heard a voice behind her. His voice felt like velvet, if such a thing were possible, its resonation low and comforting.
“Afraid, Mistress?”
Gertie could feel the blood pounding a warning in her ears. She turned slowly towards the man with the bright eyes. “It is customary that those in the Presenting line not speak lest spoken to.”
“Am I to be punished for it?”