by Thea Devine
Sometimes Southam would disappear for an afternoon or an evening and she would feel like screaming in frustration at having
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to contain her energy and remain at home.
But she had stopped looking for shadows and she had started planning how she was going to circumvent this town life of boredom. It almost seemed as if he were filling her days so she would be exhausted at night. Nor did he make any effort to claim her, and she wondered, when he was away from the townhouse, whether he had fixed his interest elsewhere.
Oh, but what did it matter? The thing was done. She didn't care about him. She had everything she had wanted when she had first conceived this luckless plan: it didn't include having his lecherous lordship at her beck and call. No doubt it was true that once a man was married he lost interest in the object of his pursuit.
But her interest in returning to Lady Badlington's had not diminished: it had intensified in tandem with her frustration.
It remained only to arrange it somehow, and through the offices of Marie who was friendly with one of Lady Waynflete's stable boys, she procured a carriage and arranged for it to meet her a certain night—the night that Southam was to dine with Dunstan. So when he left her, she donned her disguise, and as stealthily as the shadows that still pursued her, she slipped from the house and melted into the darkness in search of excitement.
Chapter Twenty
Dunstan was not pleased. Dunstan felt as though he were losing control, and he eyed his nephew with no little apprehension as he seated himself at the table.
"Marriage agrees with you," he said caustically, indicating that Nicholas should help himself to the wine,
"It might well agree with you too, uncle."
"Ah, no. I watched my father and mother live together in the same house barely speaking for twenty-five years. And then there was poor Henry, unable to conceive children. Oh no, the energy of all that drains a man, turns his power into sap. I would rather fast and feast than nibble on the bone for a protracted period of time. You're a fool, Nicholas: you had the whole of London at your feet, any woman you could ever have wanted, and a commission of interest to keep you occupied. And what must you do?" He shook his head despairingly. "I will never understand. That wanton, that gutter piece. How on earth she tricked you into bringing her to London I will never know. Can you get an annulment?"
Nicholas shrugged, not affected one whit by this diatribe. "You know the answer to that, Dunstan. Why ask?"
"Because I still don't believe the marriage lines were signed before the event."
"But it matters not what you believe; the papers are signed, the ceremony performed before two witnesses and an annulment is out of the question."
Dunstan stared at him. He sounded so adamant, but the thing was early days yet. Surely the bitch would disillusion him. She was just the type. Hadn't she sprung from his loins? Her cunning was, 368
disconcerting; her plan had been perfect. Lady Southam, as well known as any society beldame by the mere virtue of the name and the gossip that would precede her reputation. It was a master stroke.
It left him hanging: his pursuit of her had to be subtle, almost invisible. He would never know before the fact what she would choose to reveal. He could not visit Nicholas more often than was usual in order not to arouse suspicion, and that was without the complication of Lucretia, who for some reason felt she had a proprietary stake in him, and hung onto him like a leech. .
The wonder was he could be kind to her. Maybe he felt a little pity for her; more than likely he thought he could use her somehow. Who would have guessed her mysterious protegιe would turn out to be his daughter.
Fate was laughing at him: the adoptive son of his brother married to his daughter.
And now all he had worked for could be lost in one grand guignol gesture by either one of them.
It was unbelievable, and he didn't know quite what to do.
"Well—you seem quite obdurate on the point to be sure, but one never knows just what is around the corner, does one?"
"How philosophical of you, uncle. Now what had you in mind?"
"A report merely, and perhaps some indication from you as to how you plan to go on."
"Nothing will change. I will make my rounds with the usual regularity. I lost extensively to Coxe about a week ago and that was most satisfactory to him. But I cannot point a finger at him or anyone in particular, uncle. It almost seems like a conspiracy among them to goad Prinny into every excess they can dream up in an evening. There is just nowhere, yet, to fix the blame. But they do not question my presence and they have accepted that my pockets are as deep as theirs, and in Coxe's case, a veritable ocean by comparison. They do welcome me with open arms. A pocket full of silver is the best introduction in the world."
"Cynical and wise," Dunstan murmured in agreement. "Oh, what a weapon the government has in you, my boy. You do me proud. You really do me proud."
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* * *
She loved the crackling sense of excitement she felt as she entered the portals of Lady Badlington's house in Russell Square. Everything about it was right, from its understated elegance to its location on the fringes of a burgeoning fashionable district. No one ever felt shoddy entering these doors. Instead they felt welcomed, as if they were visiting a centuries' old club which catered to their every whim.
She heard the whispers instantly: lady in black—she's come-that lady in black . . .
"Madame?" The well-trained butler assumed nothing, nor did he make judgments. He merely asked expressionlessly whether she wished to remove her cape.
She waved him away, seeking to speak as little as possible. They all knew who she was, anyway. She had made an impact, and she had known it. She had chosen to be distinctive and there was a price to be paid for it: this persona could not remain anonymous.
Lady Badlington came to greet her and took her gloved hands. "Welcome back, madame. I wish you good fortune this evening.''
"Grazie," Jainee murmured. "You need not trouble."
"No trouble, madame. You know where to find what you wish."
"Indeed."
She glided through the rooms, watching the hostesses and croupiers, trying to decide who looked beatable and who was on the watch. It was easy when you knew, and she was less vulnerable than most. She understood the language of the body, or a contortion of the face. Ah, she had lived with it so long, she had played with it herself.
She favored faro and vingt-et-un; she thought she might try the roulette wheel this night. She bought a large number of counters, chose a table, and settled in for the evening.
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Across town, at a house in Portman Square, the Earl of Amesbury was hosting a ball for Margaret, his one and only daughter, who, Max Annesley thought, had as little chance of making a favorable match as Edythe Winslowe.
The chit was as innocent as snow with no countenance to recom-
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mend her or offset her rather limp personality. It was all her father, beefing up the rolls of invitees, scavenging for any remotely eligible male in town, planning the most advantageous time of year, just before the hordes descended and Almack's became prime. Oh yes, he had treated it exactly like a campaign and he was going to lose the war and win the battle: everyone who was anyone was here, and everyone assiduously avoided Margaret of Amesbury.
He sighed. It was a boring lot as well, with the exception of the presence of Charlotte Emerlin. She was drawing all the men away from poor Margaret, who had little or no conversation in addition to her unremarkable looks.
If only her suitors knew what he knew about the pouty-lipped Charlotte; God, they would die for a piece of her. He might bow down for a piece of her as well if nothing better turned up.
He supposed that was why he had accepted the invitation in the first place. Or had he hoped that Nicholas would bring his juicy bride and let them all salivate over his good luck. No, Nick wasn't like that at all. Nick was possessive
and obsessive to the extreme. He would never share. He had always departed five minutes sooner than he needed to at every card game in order to avoid the fun and games that succeeded the serious betting.
No, there would be no Lady Desire tonight. But he felt his male root engorge at the mere thought of her. The picture of her lounging in Nick's bed all disheveled and naked under those covers was positively seared into his brain. If she had been in his bed, she would have shared—he would have.
"Good evening, Max."
Ah, here came Charlotte, having learned the lesson of the good loser and what to do to make a man grovel at her feet. Gertrude Emerlin had obviously invested instantly in a flashier wardrobe with less subtle sensuality. Charlotte's breasts were very much on display and encircled round the bodice with all manner of frills and sparkle to call attention to them. And he remembered them well. There was something to be said for a compliant woman who was secretly wanton and indiscriminate as well.
Perhaps, he thought, he ought to begin his campaign with her I right at this moment. "My dear Charlotte, ravishing as always.
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And the dress—it positively makes you look naked."
She smiled insolently. "Thank you, Max. I am amazed that I am coherent enough to go about town tonight. How angry I was at this clandestine marriage. And what must you have thought, one of Nick's closest friends, to not have known a thing about it."
"It was gizzards and gall with me," Annesley said candidly. "And I tried to trap him on it, and he was cool as cucumber. But you and I know what we know, don't we, Charlotte. We were there. He did not talk of marriage lines or anything else."
"Well, hardly," she said with some resentfulness. "You were so busy discoursing on the heat in your sizer . . ."
"Ah now, Charlotte. Truth to tell, my sizer has an ache in it as long as your arm. Wouldn't you like to relieve the strain?"
"I might think about it," Charlotte said consideringly, "if you could come up with some good way that we could strike back at Nicholas. I want to kill him. I want to step all over him and mash in that proud, aloof face of his, I want to — "
"Oh my dear Charlotte," Annesley murmured consolingly in order to harness all that spewing passion for himself. "Why don't you come step all over me? Let me be the vessel through which you vent all that delicious temper. I promise you, we'll find a way. Let me devise the way and I will avenge us all."
"Oh yes," she breathed, "that would be perfect."
"Come with me. We will leave for the hour and no one will ever know. I haven't forgotten the night of my party. I've been thinking of you a lot, dear Charlotte, and how ripe and willing you were for me. Come . . ."
He led her away, a little repelled by how easy she was, but when push came to shove, and he had her on her back in the coach of the Earl of Amesbury, those considerations went right out of his mind in the wake of his seeping pleasure in her fertile and responsive body.
And she knew just how to revive a man from his labors. After, she was full of little pets and kisses and tricks to incite his drooping manhood.
He remembered it well, and enjoyed it copiously as she played with him and demanded that he service her insatiable need.
He did his best creative thinking then, as he stripped away her
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clothes and carried her to climax once again, while the most fertile idea took root in his brain.
******************
It was the scent of chocolate that got to him.
He returned from his uncle's house rather late, and everything was in darkness with the exception of Trenholm, the ever vigilant, and his branch of candles to guide his way to the stairwell.
He paused and looked questioningly at his butler, and Trenholm said, "My lady is awake and asked for a pot of chocolate."
He took a candle and lighted his own way upstairs to his bedroom, curious as to why Diana was still awake on a night when she had fallen sound asleep so early.
The scent was like perfume, drawing him on, and he entered his bedroom where, in accordance with his wishes she had slept quietly by his side this past week, enveloped in cotton gowns of no great sensuality.
But she was not in the room, although the tray with the pot was set invitingly beside her side of the bed.
He put down the candle and went looking for her in the adjoining room—and paused in the shadows at the threshold to watch her from afar.
She was dressed in one of those curious underdresses over which she wore tunics or gowns of netting or silk, and she was rummaging through the wardrobe there, looking for something.
Three robes lay on the bed there, none of which he recognized. Marie was nowhere in evidence to aid her. It was the goddess alone, seeking the elusive.
The idea aroused him: had he not futilely been searching to solve the mystery of her?
And then she removed the gown he had given her, the one she had not worn for him for many weeks; the one with which he had been bent on enslaving her and had been trapped himself.
"Put it on, Diana," he said commandingly from the doorway.
She whirled, holding it against the flimsy underdress which concealed nothing. "My lord . . ."
Put it on." He wheeled away from the doorway and left her alone to change.
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She bit her lip; he was a complication she had not expected on this night of further triumph for the lady in black. It had been but a week ago that she had been moaning in his bed: it seemed tike a year, and that this man was a stranger.
But still—she shrugged, she knew the power of her body and the potency of the robe. She had but to slip it on and fasten it beneath her naked breasts and she would feel as wanton as any fancy piece, and ready to command.
And why not? She could never take the chance that this marriage would unite them beyond the piece of paper that now resided in his desk. She had wanted to enchant him, to bind him to her with every means she had at her disposal, and perhaps it was more necessary now that his honor had bound them in a more permanent way.
She examined the robe, she remembered the thrill of wearing it, the sense of her femininity and his surrender to it. She was a goddess when she wore the gown, ravenous to wring everything from him, and beyond.
Oh, the robe ... she stepped out of the underdress, naked, and thrust her arms into the sleeves of the robe. She felt a storm of excitement possess her as her trembling fingers hooked the edges together to compress and lift her naked breasts. Her nipples hardened instantly in the caress of the cool air. Her body streamed with an intoxicating sense of her power.
She had only to add the one note of the erotic satin strip wound around her neck, and she would be ready to subjugate him all over again.
******************
She stood there, just inside the doorway, as if she expected he would kneel before the throne of her femininity.
He turned his back, and motioned her to enter.
"My lord?" she asked quizzically, never moving one pace from where she stood like a pagan goddess.
"The imperious Diana," he murmured, moving toward the side of the bed to the chocolate pot. "Come to me, Diana, for I will not go to you."
"Who commands and who obeys," she said softly. "Such a hard game when the rules keep changing."
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"Oh no, Diana, nothing has changed: the bargain is the same, except that the barter has become my name instead of a pocket full of silver. It is still in your best interest to obey, Queen of the Moon, and feast on the memory of what awaits you."
She moved, a step at a time, into the room. "I must be absurdly forgetful, my lord."
"No doubt all the adulation has turned your head, Diana. But a woman must be ever careful to guard that precious part of herself from all who would consume it."
"And you, my lord? Do you wish to consume it?"
"Why should I, huntress? I own it."
She stiffened. Here was truth, disguised as a game. He owned it ... he owned her and nothing else c
ounted.
By design or by plan, she was his to command for as long as time. She bridled at the thought, her eyes blazing at the challenge.
Attack, attack. He would never own her, but by God, she would possess him. She would fill him up with the essence of her, and make him crawl for more. She would dominate his desire so that he would want no other woman, and then—and then he would see how much of her he would own.
She veered away from him in her slow steady pacing into the room and went to the opposite side of the bed from where he stood waiting for her to obey him.
"Owning me and making me do your bidding are two very distinct things, my lord. And if I do not wish to come, I will not come. Perhaps that will compel you to come to me."
"Oh, I think not, Diana. I think we will always disagree over who i has mastery over whom. You will always be the willful postulant."
"And you will always be the willing teacher," she finished with I the intonation of the student who has learned her lesson. She touched the bed which he had covered with a lush overlay of velveteen, and she sent him one of those cocksure make me looks, and she climbed right up onto the bed.
"Here is the middle ground, my lord, and here I await you," she said insolently, arranging herself for the best effect. A twist of her body here so that her breasts were displayed to their fullest advantage; a crook of her leg there so that the robe fell away from her lower extremities and revealed her long legs encased in their deli-
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cate sheer stockings, and her naked thighs and belly and the tempting thatch of her waywardness.
This was right, with the glittering challenge in her eyes, and that soft treacherous satin tie around her neck. She looked as wanton as any fille de joie, and she did it deliberately, knowingly, intentionally to incite him and win the point of power.
She was luscious, laying there like some odalisque, a faint pouting smile on her lips, waiting, waiting, shifting slightly, pushing her breasts forward, running her hand lightly down her thighs to tug gently at the stockings that seemed to just want to slide down her legs of their own volition. And of course to do that, she had to spread her legs slightly apart to get purchase to lean forward and insert her fingers beneath the frothy little garter so she could pull. And when she was done, she crossed one leg over the other so that the lush crown of her femininity was hidden from view, and she rested her arm on her hip and played lightly with the edge of her robe.