My Lady Gloriana

by Sylvia Halliday

  She tapped the side of his cheek with her fan, smiling suggestively. “As long as you want me to,” she said in a voice that sounded like the purr of a contented kitten.

  He was feeling better and better. “I must be back in London in a fortnight, but we shall spend as much time together here as we can, if it pleases you.”

  “Nothing would please me more.” She indicated a room from which came the sounds of music. “But now you must dance with me. I want to feel your strong arm around my waist.” She took hold of his sleeve and squeezed. “And your arm seems to be so much stronger than I remember it,” she said with a girlish giggle.

  “All the better to hold you tightly,” he said, realizing, as he never had before, that her lips were full and rosy, and dimples appeared in her porcelain cheeks when she smiled.

  They danced for what seemed like hours, while he noted that her movements were effortless, unlike Gloriana, who had often seemed to be counting out the beat silently as they danced. And when he took her to her lodgings, she curled her hand around his neck and pulled his mouth down to hers. Her kiss was soft and maidenly, sending delightful shivers down his spine.

  He whistled as he made his way back to his own rooms. It would be very easy to forget Gloriana with Lady Penelope Crawford at his side.

  • • •

  Sarah, the Dowager Duchess of Thorneleigh, smiled thinly at her scowling son sitting next to her in their box at the Drury Lane Theatre on Brydges Street in London. “There’s no point to this ridiculous charade, John, if you refuse to smile at me the whole time,” she said softly.

  Thorne dragged his eyes away from the players on the stage and lifted his chin in his usual signal. At once, his valet, sitting discreetly behind them, leaned forward in his chair. “Dobson, please tell my mother that she may take my arm when we go below during the interval. And I vow to smile.” Dobson nodded, but said nothing.

  As though her son had replied to her directly, Lady Thorneleigh answered him. “Merciful heaven, John,” she said with a sigh. “How many years must we play this game? I find it absurd. Why not simply banish me to the countryside for the rest of my life and be done with it? Lock me away in a tower somewhere, if you will. Is your pride so stubborn that you cannot openly admit your dislike of your mother? Instead we must come to the theatre often, stroll on the Mall, pretend to the world that we are devoted to one another. And poor Dobson here. I speak to you, you speak to me only through him. He must find it tiring. I certainly do.”

  Thorne nodded to the couple in the next stall, then pasted a false smile on his face and turned to his mother. “Dobson, please tell my mother that ’tis not pride that impels me to keep up this pretense. ’Tis shame. That the world should know how… this woman… betrayed my father.”

  Lady Thorneleigh closed her eyes and bit her lip. “But nearly ten years, my boy. Am I never to be forgiven?”

  Thorne shrugged. It was all the response she deserved. Nearly ten years. And still the images haunted him, like ghosts in the night—his father sinking into depression, turning to drink, listless, devoid of hope and joy. And the final horror: The sight of the poor man, discovered by his heart-stricken son, hanging from a beam in his bedchamber, dead by his own hand. And all because he could not endure life with his faithless wife for another day, another hour.

  Lady Thorneleigh opened her eyes and sighed. “Unless you are enjoying the play, John, I should very much like to return home. I feel a sudden weariness coming upon me.”

  Thorne glanced back at his valet. “The weight of my mother’s conscience, no doubt,” he said with a sneer. “Dobson, take the lady home. I shall stay for a while. If the play begins to bore me, there are other amusements here. I’m told there’s a very ribald dancer in one of the smaller rooms below. Willing to perform privately for a gentleman. Or perhaps a cockfight. I feel lucky tonight.”

  “Shall I send the carriage back for you, Your Grace?”

  “No. The devil knows when I shall tire of the sport. We’re close to the Thames. I can find a waterman to row me home when I’ve had my fill of pleasures.”

  Dobson frowned. “But the streets near the river are far from safe, milord. All manner of scurvy creatures haunt that neighborhood. And late at night…”

  Thorne clapped his hand to his hip, patting the sword that rested against his leg. “I’m armed. Scarcely helpless. But if it will mollify you, I’ll hail a sedan chair directly as I leave the theatre.”

  Lady Thorneleigh rose from her chair, smoothing her skirts. Her son stood in his turn, and even managed to kiss her hand as she swept from the box, Dobson close behind.

  Thorne turned his attention back to the stage, then swore under his breath. His conversation with his mother had distracted him long enough to lose the thread of the play, and he had scant interest in trying to follow the actors’ dialogue and pick up the plot. He felt restless tonight, as though he were ready to jump out of his skin. If he admitted it to himself, he missed the physical activity that working at the forge had given him. Perhaps he’d see if, on the morrow, Felix would be willing to engage in a bout of swords.

  And of course, more reluctantly, he had to admit that he was becoming horn-mad. More than two months since he’d had a woman, and he’d awakened on more than one morning to discover his member rigid and primed. Perhaps it was time to press Lady Penelope to grant him the last favors. He thought she might be agreeable, given her coquetry and warmth these last few weeks since they’d returned from Tunbridge.

  But in the meantime… The thought of the naked dancer was intriguing. That sort of woman was usually willing to go beyond mere dancing, especially if he was generous with his praise and his coins. He made his way to the bowels of the theatre, hearing tell-tale noises from the various closed doors—the bark of fighting dogs, the shouts of bettors on this or that game of chance, the clank of chains from the bear-baiting space.

  The door to the dancer’s room was open. He entered quickly and closed the door behind him, nodding to the raven-haired beauty who stood on a table, a tambourine in her hand. She wore a loose shift that barely reached her knees, and her face was rouged and powdered to accentuate the fullness of her lips, the sharp lines of her cheekbones. He slapped a gold crown on the table and settled into one of the nearby armchairs.

  She put one hand to the drawstring of her shift and raised a questioning eyebrow. “Yes, milord?”

  “Yes,” he growled. He scanned her lush body as the shift dropped at her feet, noting the fullness of her breasts, the seductive patch of dark curls at her groin. She was a beauty. He smiled in satisfaction as she gyrated slowly before him, keeping time by tapping the tambourine against one sensuously curved hip. He felt his cock growing hard with desire.

  The dance was finished. She gave a little curtsy, then glanced to the corner of the room, where a small cot sat in shadows. “Is there more that you be wantin’, milord?” she purred.

  He threw another coin on the table, stood up and began to fumble with the buttons on his breeches. Then he hesitated and shook his head. He would get as much enjoyment from pleasuring himself as he would with this creature. She would moan and cry out with as little sincerity as the actors on the stage upstairs. All to earn her pay.

  But Gloriana’s joy had been real, her passion genuine, making him feel at those moments of physical joining that they were connected in so many other ways besides their writhing bodies. “Never mind,” he muttered, and fled the room, ignoring the dancer’s thanks for her unearned coins.

  He wandered through the dim passageways, seeking a way out to the street. It would be better to go home and drink himself into a stupor, hoping he could blot out the memory of Gloriana’s seductiveness.

  He stopped abruptly, hearing shouts from behind one of the closed doors. It sounded like the voices of a score of men, whooping with enthusiasm. “Glory! Glory!” they cried.

  Curious, he pushed open the door and stood, dumbstruck, at the scene before him. A gladiator’s pit, similar to the on
e he’d visited with Felix all those months ago. But the stage was almost on a level with the floor that held the standing crowd, who continued to shout and throw purses onto the shallow platform. To one side of the stage was a fallen woman, her arm bleeding profusely, her limbs almost as red from numerous blows. Several men tended to her wound.

  But it was the half-naked victor, brandishing her bloody sword, parading about and acknowledging the plaudits of the spectators, who caused him to swear aloud.

  “Sweet Jesus! Gloriana!”

  His shock soon turned to anger. How could she lower herself to such a degree? To fight like a savage, to exhibit her body in such a shameless manner. Impulsively, he pushed through the crowd, leaped up to the platform and swung her into his arms, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Her sword dropped to the stage with a loud clank. “Are you mad, woman?” he cried.

  She wriggled furiously against him, pounding on his back with fierce blows. “Let me go, you pig!”

  He could only think of getting her out of there. He saw a small open door at the back of the stage and headed in that direction, kicking it shut behind him. He spied another passageway and a small staircase leading upward; he took the steps two at a time to reach the ground floor. His sword clanked against his hip as he ran. Gloriana continued to wriggle and curse him, using crude oaths that blistered his ears. “Hold your tongue, woman,” he growled, and smacked her bottom with the flat of his hand. “To shame your family name in such a vile manner. What would the Baniards think if they could see you now?”

  “I am what I am,” she said, her voice catching in her throat. “And the devil with the Baniards.”

  They reached the top of the stairs. Thorne looked around for another door, the safety of other patrons.

  He felt Gloriana stiffen over his shoulder. “Jeremy!” she cried. “Jem Royster!” He suddenly found himself surrounded by three men, as evil-looking as any trio could be.

  The tallest one, clearly the leader, smiled, exposing broken teeth behind his smirk. “Never you fear, Glory, my girl,” he said, his voice confident and menacing at the same time. “This cove ain’t going nowhere with you.” He pulled a pistol from his pocket and aimed it at Thorne’s head. “Put the lady down, sir. My best gladiator ain’t your property.”

  Thorne hesitated, then set Gloriana on her feet. He had no choice, with the pistol so close. At once, Royster’s companions clutched at his arms and held him fast. He muttered a curse, feeling helpless.

  Gloriana spat at him, then slapped him hard across the face, rattling his brains for a moment. His periwig flew from his head; Gloriana scooped it up and scowled at it as though it were a foul living creature. She turned to Royster. “Thanks, Jem. What are we to do with this cove?”

  Royster pulled Thorne’s sword from its sheath, taking a second to admire its fine workmanship. “This will bring in a pretty penny.” He nodded to Gloriana. “Get his purse. And then we’ll haul him outside and throw him in the river.”

  “No! Wait.” Gloriana turned to Thorne, hatred burning in her emerald eyes. “I have a better idea. I know who this fine gentleman is. The great Duke of Thorneleigh. His people would pay a deal of money to see him safe. We’ll take him to my room.” She jerked her chin in the direction of the two other men. “Rafe and Sam, there, can go to his house and demand a ransom.”

  “A fine idea, my girl.” Royster gave a mocking bow to Thorne. “Your Grace. Will you come with us?” Despite Thorne’s struggles, Royster pulled his neckerchief from his neck and tied Thorne’s hands firmly behind his back, then borrowed Rafe’s neck-cloth to gag Thorne. They carried him, squirming and grunting, out to the street. Thorne could smell the strong odor of the river nearby, feel the dank cold of the night air on his face. The dim street was deserted, trash-filled and foul, with only the light from a few disreputable grogshops to show the way.

  After a few minutes, they entered a small building, carried Thorne up the stairs, and threw him into a chair in a corner of a tiny room, tying him firmly against the chair back. Royster pulled the gag from Thorne’s mouth and was immediately greeted with a storm of curses, delivered in a loud voice. “Shout all you want, Your Grace. Ain’t no one pays attention in this part of London.” He took Thorne’s periwig from Gloriana and examined it with care. He snorted. “Look, Glory. Such vanity. His coat of arms even inside his wig.”

  She laughed sharply. “Bloody hell. A lion in his crest.” She glared at Thorne, bound and helpless. “And there be the King of the Jungle,” she said with mockery.

  Royster handed the wig to Rafe. “This will prove the truth of our threat. You can show it to his people and ask for a thousand pounds for his lordship’s release.”

  “I have no doubt his life is precious to some people,” Gloriana sneered.

  As Rafe turned toward the door, Royster stopped him. “Wait. Find out where the rogue lives, then come back here. We’ll write a proper ransom letter. Show them we ain’t savages.”

  After the two men had left with Thorne’s wig, Royster put his arm around Gloriana’s waist. “Shall we amuse ourselves while we wait, Glory?”

  She looked at Thorne with disgust, then deliberately turned and kissed Royster on the mouth. Thorne gnashed his teeth in fury. “Have you sunk so low, woman?”

  “Your high-toned manners don’t matter here, caitiff,” she said. “I do as I wish.”

  Royster grinned, pulling Gloriana toward a small bed on one side of the room. “And as I wish?” he said with a leer.

  “No. Not now.” She twisted away from his arm, crossed to Thorne and pulled his purse from his pocket. “They’ll be looking for us, after the ransom is paid. Take this and go and find a carriage to carry us out of London for a spell. ’Twill be safer. Rafe and Sam can stay. No one will look for them. But you and I had best leave the city.”

  Royster nodded reluctantly. “Aye. ’Tis best.” He brightened. “But with your skills, we can find another town to set up a ring.”

  When he had gone, jingling Thorne’s purse in one fist, Gloriana turned to Thorne with a contemptuous smirk. “Not feeling so high-and-mighty now, are you, Your Grace?”

  “Curse you, woman!” he spat, struggling against his bonds. “Flaunting your body for all the world to see. Not content with whoring in private—”

  “I was never a whore!” she cried. “Except with you,” she added bitterly. “You made a whore of me, with your vile wager.”

  “And that… Royster, there? How many times has he enjoyed your favors?” Thorne’s sharp pang of jealousy was something he hadn’t expected. He glared at Gloriana. “Wanton woman. I’m only surprised you didn’t swive him in front of me, to exact your revenge.”

  “And you would have enjoyed it, you filthy gambler. You could have made a wager on which one of us would come first.”

  He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to collect his thoughts. It was pointless to quarrel with her. They would only end up saying hateful things to one another, spiteful insults that could never be retracted. And he needed all his wits about him to get out of this place before the men returned. He lifted his head and managed a gentle smile. “Gloriana. I beg you to accept my forgiveness for that shameful wager. I regretted it from the bottom of my heart. To bring dishonor upon you. I had put it out of my mind long before that night at Abbey House.” He shook his head. “In faith, you are the kindest, most worthy woman I’ve ever known.”

  If he had hoped to win her over, he was disappointed. She laughed, an ugly bark. “Bloody hell! What a pack of lies. If you had been so concerned with my honor, you would have left long before Abbey House. Or told me the truth. But instead you stayed. To satisfy your prickle every chance you could.” She eyed him with scorn. “And you still want me, you villain. I can read it in your eyes.”

  He turned his head aside, unwilling to let her see the hunger that was rising in him. “Don’t be absurd,” he muttered.

  She stepped closer, bending down so her full breasts nearly touched his face.
He breathed in her scent and felt his senses reeling. She laughed and stood straight, pulling the cluster of ribbon bows from her hair and unfastening the ribboned belt that held her short gladiator shift close to her waist. She stripped off her shift and stood naked before him. He felt his cock growing hard despite his strong will. “Absurd?” she purred.

  “For the love of God,” he said in a strangled voice. He fought against the ties that held him fast. “Untie me, you witch.”

  “Not bloody likely,” she said. “This is my… recompense for your villainy. Wasn’t that one of your high-toned words?” She reached down and undid the buttons on his breeches, burrowing among the folds to clasp his hard member. He groaned in agony. “Poxy rogue,” she said with a laugh. “I’m minded of how you teased me with your words. ’Tis far more satisfying to tease you thus.” She caressed his cock, squeezed it rhythmically, until he thought he’d go mad with desire. “And thus,” she added, and bent her mouth to his.

  Her kiss was as sweet as he remembered it. He strained forward, thrusting his tongue against her closed lips until she opened for him. She responded with unexpected passion, meeting his eager tongue with her own. He inhaled her lips, drowning in the ecstatic feel of her mouth on his.

  When she finally lifted her head, he saw that her eyes were hazy with a desire that matched his own. “Untie me, love,” he whispered. She nodded, her frantic hands tearing at his bonds. He jumped from the chair and pulled her into his arms, propelling her swiftly toward the bed and onto her back. He opened his breeches, poised himself above her spread legs and plunged. She gasped in pleasure, her hips rising to meet his every wild thrust. He prayed to last as long as he could, to prolong the sweet tension for them both. A frenzied dance of pleasure, given and received.

  “Harder!” she cried. “Harder.” She wrapped her hands around his buttocks and pulled him closer, increasing the force of his penetration. He slammed into her again and again, reveling in the tightness of her core that enclosed him. They climaxed together, with a great cry of release. He collapsed beside her, holding her naked body close to his beating heart.