by Sara Bennett
Francesca started to smile, but there was no answering gleam in her mother’s eyes. She felt a shiver run through her, excitement mixed with trepidation. “And Sebastian is in that room?”
Aphrodite nodded. “It is the door at the end of the corridor, if you dare.”
Francesca rose instantly to her feet. “I dare,” she said, and began to make her way down the plush corridor toward the door. The outside was painted white with gold trimmings, just like the other doors, but written on the main panel was “The Bacchus Room.”
Her flesh was tingling; her blood was pumping. She felt alive, and excited. Sebastian was waiting for her. They were about to take another adventure together. Francesca opened the door and stepped inside.
Her mouth fell open.
The Bacchus Room was decorated like a wild woodland, with trees and vines painted directly onto the walls, and draperies of various colors strung from the ceiling, making it difficult to see more than a step or two in front of her. Cushions and bolsters were scattered across the floor. The colors were so vivid that for a moment, Francesca really did feel as if she was lost in a forest. Picking her way to the side, she looked up and saw that she was facing a mural.
It was a depiction of a man, or half a man. He had hooves instead of feet, and horns sprouted from the long hair at his temples. And because he was standing side on, with his hands on his hips, she could see that his manhood was hugely erect. Was this the satyr?
She stepped back, shocked despite herself, and bumped into someone standing behind her. She gave a faint scream.
His arms closed about her, his lips pressed to the side of her neck, and he said in a deep voice, “Hmm, female flesh.”
Francesca knew who he was. She’d known instantly. But he was behind her and therefore invisible, and so she could let her imagination soar.
“Mr. Satyr,” she said breathlessly, “please don’t hurt me.”
“Francesca…”
“Shhh.” She giggled. “Let’s play the game.”
He reached up and cupped her breasts. “How do you know I’m not a satyr come to ravish you?” he said gruffly.
She leaned back into his arms. “I always imagine satyrs smell rather like goats,” she said thoughtfully, “and you smell of clean laundry and shaving soap.” She turned into his arms and smiled up at him. “But I’d rather be ravished by you than a satyr, anyway.”
“There is a resemblance, however,” he said, with that wicked glint in his eyes.
“Oh?”
He nodded toward the mural.
Francesca dissolved into laughter.
“You mock me, female?” he said in his satyr’s voice. “We shall see!” And he lowered her onto a nearby pile of cushions.
Sebastian began to undress her, planting kisses as he went, and soon her giggles turned to gasps and moans. She was dizzy with desire by the time he stood up and began to strip off his own clothing. Francesca watched him through half-closed eyes, enjoying the view.
“You were right,” she said dreamily, “you are very like a satyr.”
He growled and reached for her. To her surprise, he turned her over, his mouth hot against her nape, and then moving down her spine toward the small of her back. His hands closed over the ripe cheeks of her bottom, and he lifted her slightly and slid one of the smaller cushions beneath her hips.
She turned her head to look at him, puzzled, but not at all anxious. “Sebastian? Are you being a satyr again?”
“Why do you think satyrs creep up behind mortal women?”
“To frighten them?”
“To caress them into compliance.”
“But a woman would know it was no ordinary man!”
“Perhaps, or perhaps by the time she realized, she would no longer care, and then…”
He lowered himself to his knees, and she felt his shaft brush against her, sliding down to the core of her. He gripped her thighs, holding her firmly, and as she peered back over her shoulder with widening eyes, he slid deep inside her. She had a sensation of fullness, but actually watching him do it made her gasp with excitement.
Was that why the club had mirrors on the ceiling? So that people could watch themselves making love?
His chest was hot against her back, the hairs on his body abrading her softer skin. “Once the satyr has the mortal woman in his power, he can have his pleasure with her,” he whispered, his breath deep and breathy against her ear. “She is helpless against his powers. She is being made love to by the king of lust.”
The movement of his body in hers was pleasant, but she did not feel the same level of excitement as she had in previous encounters, the same swell of passion. And then, as if aware of her plight, he slid his hand beneath her and began to stroke the swollen nub between her legs.
“Oh!”
His other hand found her breasts, tugging gently at her nipples, enjoying the way they moved with his thrusts. She lifted her head, gasping now with pleasure, and found the mural directly before her gaze.
Was the satyr grinning at her? He was ugly, but he was certainly all male, and suddenly her imagination took flight, imagining Sebastian in such a guise. She, of course, would be the maiden all unaware, strolling in the forest glade, and then he would pounce upon her and before she knew it he would be…
His stroking fingers pushed her over the edge.
It seemed to her that the fantasy and the reality mingled in her mind, making the moment even more intense and pleasurable. Sebastian growled as he reached his peak, moving powerfully. He remained inside her, breathing heavily, and in that second Francesca almost thought it was true.
He was her own satyr.
And then he bent forward to kiss her ear and, clasping her in his arms, rolled over so that they were lying together on their sides, her back to his front. It was as if the world outside had ceased to exist.
“I’ve missed you…so much.” Francesca sighed, when they had caught their breath and her head had stopped spinning. “I hated leaving you at Lady Annear’s ball. It was awful.”
His leaned up on his elbow, and his gaze slid over her flushed face and tumbled hair, and fixed on her mouth. “I was tempted to pick William Tremaine up and tip him headfirst into the fountain.”
“I’m glad you didn’t, but I thank you for the thought.” She touched his face, her own eyes warm and amused. “I know you think I need looking after, like your sister, Barbara, but I don’t. I’m strong-willed, like my sisters. I would never allow a man like Leon to hurt me.”
He searched her eyes. “Is that what you think I want to do? Look after you?”
“I think you’re the sort of man who will always take care of those he thinks are weaker than himself.”
“Ah, and what sort of man is that?”
“A hero,” she said simply, and kissed him, wrapping languid arms about his neck.
“Francesca…” He smoothed her hair back behind her ear. “I’m no hero. I’ve made mistakes, and I’ve done and seen things I would not share with you, but I have found one redeeming feature in myself. You. I love you. I think I’ve loved you since the day you dragged me from the mire, and we trudged through that god-awful storm together. You have brought me back from whatever hell I’ve been gradually slipping into. You have made me strong enough to face up to who I am and what I must do.”
Her fingers trembled against his lips. “Hush,” she whispered, “don’t say it if you don’t mean it.”
“Damn and blast it! Of course I mean it. I love you.”
She laughed shakily. “You love me? I thought this was my grand passion, and as far as I’m aware from my readings of the poets, such things always end in despair. Or madness.”
“Well, we can be different. Our grand passion will end in a long and happy marriage. That is,” he added, almost shyly, “if you will marry me.”
“Oh Sebastian,” she whispered. “I love you, too. I realized it the night of Lady Annear’s ball.”
He stroked her face, his eyes gentle.
“The life of an earl isn’t as dangerous as that of Mr. Thorne, but if it wasn’t for you, I would never have had the courage to face my past. You’ve changed me, Francesca. You’ve healed me. And I can promise you that I will cherish you forever.”
“You didn’t need healing,” she said. “You are already perfect.”
Sebastian grinned. “Wonderful! Now, I want you to repeat to me those exact words every morning over breakfast.”
“I haven’t said I’ll marry you yet,” she reminded him, smiling.
“Hmm. What else can I tempt you with? I have very large grounds,” he went on, and his grin turned wicked. “Perfect for running through. Naked. Perfect for satyrs and maidens.”
“Yes,” said Francesca promptly.
“Darling Francesca, I want to marry you more than anything in the world, and live my life with you. We can announce it at the ball.” He hesitated, frowned. “Am I invited?”
“You are. But if you’re thinking Uncle William will not approve, then you’re wrong. He’s a changed man.”
“I hope for your sake it is so.”
“And you’re an earl, Sebastian,” she teased him. “Uncle William will be beside himself. Can we marry at Greentree Manor? On the moors, in the middle of a rainstorm?”
He eyed her suspiciously, and she burst into laughter. “You wretch,” he said, holding her close. “No, we will not. We’ll marry here in London, and spend half the year at Worthorne Manor, and half the year in Yorkshire.”
“On the moors?”
“Very well.”
“In the thunder and lightning?”
“If we must.”
Francesca sat up, her hair a dark cloud about her, her eyes full of love and passion. “You would do that for me?” she breathed. “Sebastian, now I know you really do love me.”
Chapter 30
It was a very long time since the Tremaine house had hosted something as grand as a ball. Candles glowed, and greenery and flowers banked the staircases and filled the rooms. The sight brought Helen close to tears. Toby was in a jolly mood and seemed inclined to humor her, perhaps because he was looking forward to imbibing enormous quantities of free food and drink. Amy was also moved by memories of the past, although she was missing her husband.
“I will be returning home after the ball,” she told Francesca. “I have had enough of London.”
“Home?” Francesca repeated uncertainly.
Amy raised her eyebrows in surprise. “You do not sound pleased, my dear! I had thought you were homesick. Do you wish to stay longer? Vivianna or Marietta would be pleased to have you, I am sure.”
“I am homesick. I’m sorry. It is just that…” But she couldn’t explain, not yet.
“No, you must not apologize. I am so glad you are enjoying yourself at last,” Amy went on, patting her hand.
Francesca almost told her then, but managed to bite back the words. She had been hugging her news to herself ever since the Bacchus Room, and every day it grew more difficult not to share it with her family. She had found the perfect man, the love of her life; why shouldn’t she be happy?
Her sisters were also here. Vivianna had arrived from Candlewood, the house she ran for orphans, after settling Rosie in. The little girl, she assured Francesca, was fitting in well and seemed very happy with her new home.
“She confided in me that Aphrodite’s Club was full of old people,” Vivianna said with a laugh. “She was relieved to find Candlewood full of children.”
“She made Dobson promise to visit her,” Marietta said. “Although I think that had more to do with him bringing along Jem, the puppy.”
The ballroom sparkled, and supper was laid out in the drawing room. William had insisted on a room being set aside for card playing, for those who did not dance, but other than that he had been true to his word, allowing them free rein when it came to the preparations and the expenditure.
Francesca decided she really had misjudged him.
He had made her promise him the first waltz, and she planned to thank him then for his kindness. He would never take the place of her father, Tommy, but Francesca admitted to herself that she was beginning to see her uncle William in an almost fatherly light.
“Francesca?” It was Amy, ethereal in pale blue silk with a net overskirt attached by white bows. “Do you think Cook remembered to cut the roast beef thinly enough? I caught her making sandwiches like doorstops earlier. And the ices…it would be dreadful if they melted before they were served.”
“Dreadful indeed. I will go and make certain that the beef is thin enough and the ices have not turned to water,” Francesca soothed.
Amy watched her go. Her youngest daughter was looking beautiful tonight in a yellow so pale it was more like cream. With her hair a cascade of ringlets and her eyes shining, she might have been Aphrodite made young. Not that Amy would dare say such a thing to William! He had been amazingly good-natured of late, and she didn’t want to spoil it.
As if her thoughts had conjured him up, her brother came to stand by her side, and for a moment they both watched Francesca.
“Amy, I wonder if I might have a word with you before the guests arrive? In private.”
She gave him a harassed glance, but he kept his gaze firmly on hers, and in the end she nodded and followed him to the library. “It will have to be quick, William,” she reminded him. “There is still a great deal to do.”
“Of course. I understand. You have done a marvelous job already. Quite like old times, eh?”
“Francesca deserves it,” Amy said, smiling brilliantly and keen to share her pride in her daughter. “She looks absolutely gorgeous. I’m certain she will be a great hit.”
“Yes, she is certainly a beautiful young woman.” He moved to the fireplace and rested his arm on the mantelpiece, watching her. “Actually, Amy, it was Francesca I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Oh?” she said warily, and couldn’t help but remember the last discussion they’d had about Francesca in this very room.
It was as if he’d read her thoughts.
“Now, don’t look like that, Amy! You know I’ve come to see the error of my ways where Francesca is concerned.”
“I’m glad, William. I know you have been getting on together so well, and I appreciate the effort you are making.”
“Yes.” He tapped his fingers on the marble, and she waited, curious as to what was occupying his thoughts. “I wonder if you remember the conversation we had after you arrived in London?”
“There have been so many—”
You spoke to me about my marrying and producing an heir. I was annoyed at the time—I apologize for that. It is something that has been playing on my mind and you touched a raw spot. Mrs. March had been, eh, suggesting that she was the woman for me.”
“Good heavens! I didn’t realize. No wonder you were cross, brother.” Amy shuddered at the thought of Mrs. March becoming Mrs. Tremaine. “Mrs. Slater’s daughter!”
“Exactly, although I didn’t know that at the time. Still, that’s in the past. I am looking to the future.”
“Are you?” Amy said, surprised. “Don’t tell me you’ve found a prospect, William! I was beginning to think you were far too fussy to be pleased.”
She was sorry as soon as she said it, because he looked hurt.
“As a matter of fact I have found someone,” he said in the haughty voice he used when she annoyed him. “Someone you know.”
“Don’t tell me, William, let me guess. This is fun. Who could it be…?” She tried several names, but she could see he was growing impatient with her, and brought her game to a abrupt halt. “Tell me then, brother. I can see you’re dying to do so.”
He smiled. “Francesca.”
Amy found she couldn’t speak, and when she finally managed it, her voice came out as a squeak. “Francesca? She’s your niece!”
He wasn’t in the least concerned. “No, she isn’t,” he said, coolly rational. “She is no blood relation. There is no impediment
at all, Amy.”
“But, William…” She was floundering, too shocked to be able to argue in a way that might sway him. Even now he was looking at her as if she were nothing more than a hysterical woman.
He began to list the benefits. “I am older than she, and can supply a steadying influence. I am settled, and I have a large house and plenty of money. I can care for her in a proper manner. And when we have a child, it will want for nothing. Marrying me is the sensible option. What on earth would Francesca do if she returned to Yorkshire? Stride about the moors in the rain and weather? No, no, it won’t do. Marriage will be the perfect solution to both our problems.”
Amy took a breath. “William, I don’t think Francesca sees her current situation as a problem. And besides, she is talking of staying in London.”
“Well, perhaps she is already aware of my feelings for her.”
“Your feelings for her…”
“My admiration and…and esteem.”
“I see.”
“She is young, and needs someone older and more mature to guide her through life.”
“Does she?” She swallowed, searching desperately for some way to shake his certainty. “William, I really don’t think—”
“I thought it best for me to approach you first, before I propose to her.”
“Why did you think that?”
“I’m relying on you to let her know how greatly a match between us would benefit the family. She’ll listen to you. She trusts your judgment, Amy, although God knows why. You have made some very silly decisions in your own life.”
“William,” she murmured, irritated by his comment but still not wanting to hurt him. “I know Francesca. She is my daughter. And I am certain that she will never agree to—”
“Ah.” He cocked his head, listening to the sound of horses outside. “There’s the first arrival!”
Amy felt as if she’d just awoken from a nightmare. William wanted to marry Francesca, and he expected her to smooth the way for him! It was sheer madness. Impossible. And yet…he had made it sound so plausible that for a moment, a very brief moment, she almost found herself agreeing with him.
In his eyes it was the perfect solution.