Lust

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Thane brought his horse to stand between them. “Enough. We needn’t have dissent between us. We are here for our souls, for the survival of our court. Petty jealousy and taunts have no place now.”

  Kian glared at him, opened his mouth to say something, but Thane cut his twin off. “We can wait no longer. We must find, and possess, our virtues. Put your considerable skills into seduction, not barbs and insults.”

  “I feel it’s time. It’s been six months in Faery, nearly three mortal years since we have seen the virtues,” Rinion, the harbinger of vanity announced. “They were nearly grown then. By now they’re of a suitable age to seduce. No, I agree with Thane. It’s time. As Niall said, we can wait no longer. The curse must be broken. And there is always the chance that our Seelie enemies might also be looking for them. We need to get to them first.”

  Thane felt his body twitch as the sound of female voices drifted over to them, caressing his skin. His sin, Lust, reared its head, heating his blood. His gaze fixed on the sight of the four young women, dressed in richly embroidered silk gowns, passing them by. He knew instantly who they were. The Lennox girls. Their virtues.

  Thane had no difficulty in recognizing his virtue. Chastity. The opposite of his sin called to him like gin called to a drunkard. She was a vision as she walked by him, completely unaware of his and the other princes’ presence in the woods that ran alongside the path.

  It amazed him that a virtue could be a dichotomy. He expected Chastity Lennox to be a pinched-faced maid in a fragile, bony body. But Chastity was not fragile, nor pinched-face. Her face was ethereal, glowing of innocence, but her body… He cast his covetous gaze over her luscious form and felt himself swell. Her body was not chaste in the least. Her curves invited the most licentious of thoughts, the most amoral of all pleasures. What he and his sin could do with that delightful body had him sweating beneath his silk jabot and embroidered waistcoat and jacket.

  Chastity Lennox, he realized, was going to be a delicious reward. He could not wait to touch her, to feel her in his arms. He could not wait to corrupt her.

  Thane shoved his sin aside. Lust was a separate entity, housed within his body. A knowing need that grew hungry and powerful when aroused. A need that was always desiring sex and pleasure. Anything triggered the sin inside him, a bonny face, ample chest or a coy smile. Hell, a stiff breeze had been known to stir the sin within him.

  Most times Thane could subdue it—somewhat. But as a Dark Fey, his natural inclination was toward the pleasures of the flesh. Which, of course, only pleased Lust. Lust very rarely was left to grow hungry and impatient.

  But he was now. Yet Thane knew he could not allow his sin to reign. Not yet.

  There were times when his sin so took over that Thane was powerless to stop it. When Lust came to the forefront, he was a powerful creature to deny, almost as though he were a separate entity. Most times, he was quiet inside him. Thane was aware of his sin only in thought, and desire. But once his Unseelie blood was heated with need, and Lust was rattling to be set free, absolutely nothing stopped him. Memories tripped through his mind of the debauches in his past. For now, those memories must suffice. Lust would have to learn to feed on them, while Thane wooed the virginal Chastity.

  “There they are,” Avery murmured as he wet his lips, which were obscenely erotic on a man, let alone a fey. “And every bit more grown-up,” he purred as he devoured all of them with his greedy gaze. “Imagine them at court, surrounded by all kinds of decadence. What treasures they will be. I will very much enjoy showing them what pleasure true excess can be.”

  Lust began to seethe, to pull at him. His sin took umbrage at Avery and his hedonism, that he was entertaining ideas about what it would be like to taste Chastity. Avery was a damn glutton, never satisfied, always craving, always needing more. Thane knew that Chastity would prove a most challenging delight for Avery and his sin.

  “Now who bears the green eyes?” Kian asked accusingly.

  Thane gave his twin no heed as he attempted to control his thoughts, but when he saw Avery’s black irises, which were rimmed in violet, dilate with hunger as his gaze fixed on Chastity, Thane said rather impulsively, “Brothers, I leave you to your virtues.”

  With a wave of his hand, the veil of glamour dropped. Nudging his mount forward, he walked the animal a few short paces before pulling in beside the Lennox sisters. “Good morn, ladies,” he said, trying to resist the urge to grasp Chastity and haul her onto his lap. He could not steal her. Not if he wanted to break the curse. She must come to court of her own free will. She must give herself and her soul up to him, he could not take it from her. Her body was to be his gift, and therefore, he must wait until he was gifted with it.

  “Sir, you are not known to us,” one of them said through lips that were plump, but pressed tightly together until they were thin and bloodless. Temperance, he thought as he caught her reproving glance as she and her sisters walked by him.

  Jumping down from his horse, he took the reins in his gloved hands and followed them. “Then allow me to remedy that,” he said as he sketched a graceful bow.

  “Come along. Now,” she muttered as she ushered the other three women along the path as though she were a mother goose gathering her chicks as a fox approached.

  “Prue, for heaven’s sake,” one of them muttered before stopping and curtsying before him. “Don’t be rude.” When she glanced up, Thane was struck by the darkness of her eyes and the onyx ringlets that danced in the breeze from beneath her straw bonnet. “I am Mary Lennox,” she announced. “And this is my sister Prudence, my other sister Mercy and…” She glanced amongst the straw bonnets and the rippling silk shawls that billowed in the May wind. “And hiding behind them is Chastity.”

  Their eyes locked, and he was stunned by how alluring Chastity’s green gaze was. Thane felt the instant heat of unbridled desire flare inside him. Lust wanted her. Badly. He smiled, trying to remember that he was portraying a mortal gentleman. As a fey prince, he took what he wanted. Their court manners were not mortal manners. But if he were to act as a fey now, he would never have a chance to win Chastity, nor experience her surrender.

  “I am honored.” With a deep bow, he removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “I am Thane.”

  He did the pretty and pretended he was a gentleman. All to no avail, for Chastity barely glanced at him, and certainly with nothing that could be considered reciprocal desire.

  At that precise moment, his faery hound decided to come bounding out of the woods. He was large and strong, and making the most mournful sound Thane had ever heard. Something between a whimper and a snarl.

  “Bel, that is enough,” he commanded. Pointing to the spot beside his boot, Thane motioned for the dog to sit. But Bel possessed a mind of his own, and instead, began sniffing the women’s skirts, shoving his nose up their hems. Lucky beast, he thought with amusement, until he heard the frightened little voice at the back.

  “Stay away!” The voice sounded panicky—trembling. It was Chastity’s voice.

  “Bel,” he admonished as he stepped around the women and reached for his pet. Chastity was there, looking up at him with sheer terror in her eyes.

  “He’s friendly,” he said, trying to be soothing. “He’s only a pup really, and more curious than anything.”

  Thane saw her shoulders tremble as she fearfully watched the dog. “I…I don’t like beasts.”

  Thane wondered if he could be classified as a beast. The Dark Fey were certainly known to be beastly in their appetites.

  “Bel is such an unusual name for a pet,” the one named Mercy said. She held her glove palm out and Bel loped to her side, sniffing and licking the leather.

  “It is an old Gaelic name that means the Shining One. He is named after the Celtic sun god of healing.”

  Mercy bent down and rubbed her hands through Bel’s pure white fur. “I am afraid that Chastity is not the animal lover in the family.”

  That, Thane realized, was going to be a bit
of a problem. The fey lived in the woods, surrounded by nature and all its creatures. With Chastity’s fear of animals it was going to be very hard to induce her to come and live at his court.

  Thinking it best to steer the conversation away from animals, and Chastity’s increasing fear of the eagerly sniffing Bel, he asked, “Are you by chance going to the May Day celebration?” He indicated the village green, which was decorated for Beltane. Beyond the green, by the ruins of the ancient abbey was a pile of branches and logs, the beginnings of the traditional Beltane bonfire.

  “No, we are not,” the one named Prudence announced in a clipped voice. “Now, good day to you, sir.”

  Thane watched the four young women commence walking along the path. In the distance the tor rose, and at the foot of it was a grand manor home, fit for a duke. It was the Lennoxes’ estate. And Chastity’s home. He even knew what bedroom window was hers.

  Despite her cold reception, he was not thwarted. Lust knew how to break down any resisting barriers. Thane could almost taste Chastity’s surrender on his tongue. Her sexual awakening aroused him, roused a hunger in him that had not been sated by any of his previous conquests. Lust, it seemed, was most eager to corrupt the innocent Chastity, in the most depraved ways. But it was not only his sin that desired her. Thane and his Dark Fey blood wanted her, too.

  Allowing his gaze to linger, he followed the prim and beckoning Chastity as she sauntered down the path to her home—to safety. But Chastity Lennox was not safe anywhere from him—from the desire that was growing inside him.

  Every one hundred years, seven virtues were born in the mortal realm, he reminded himself. Chastity had been born for him, to sate the sin inside him. She had been created exclusively for his sexual appetites, and the power that she was his, intended solely for him, was a feeling more dominant than orgasm.

  Christ, he wanted her. And he would have her, too.

  With a cheeky little backward glance, the dark-haired Mary smiled at him over her shoulder and he returned it, thinking of how soon it was going to be that he would see Chastity smile at him like that.

  “Do not get any ideas about her,” Rinion said as he emerged from the woods and came to stand beside him. “She is mine.”

  Thane glanced at the fey who harbored Vanity. He was astoundingly handsome. Women fell at his feet. Thane looked back at the dark and exotic Mary, thinking of her and Rinion together. It was good that the lovely little minx was his virtue. She’d give him a hell of a merry chase and Rinion deserved nothing less.

  “I have no interest in your virtue, Rinion. I covet my own.”

  Vanity laughed as he fiddled with his already immaculately tied lace jabot. “And she looked at you with as much lust in her eyes as a man does a used-up whore.”

  “She’s chaste,” he replied, finding himself snarling the word.

  “Poor you,” Rinion murmured before nudging his mount forward. “My virtue is humility. Already, I’m eager to see that saucy wench of mine on her knees. She will submit, I have no doubt, but I wish to see that sparkling, mischievous gleam in her dark eyes as she does so. Now then, I’m off. I have a virtue to corrupt.”

  Thane pulled the reins of Rinion’s horse, bringing the animal up short. “Remember the curse. Seduce them. Corrupt their virtues, but don’t force them to follow you to court.”

  Vanity’s brow rose, making him look even more handsome. “That little minx is practically begging for it. I’ll have her at court with her thighs spread before midnight.”

  With a gentle nudge, Rinion moved his mount forward, but not in the direction of the women. Instead, he cantered for the open plain that had once been fenland and headed for the mansion. Rinion was a fool if he thought to go riding into the gates, proclaiming his stake on the eldest Lennox daughter. It wasn’t going to be easy to get within reach of the girls. George Buckman, the Duke of Lennox, was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to anyone coming near his daughters for even a dance, let alone with the thought of courting them.

  Behind him, Thane heard the woods rustle, then Avery and Kian flanked his sides. “Next move?”

  Thane pulled the black satin tie from his queue and allowed his long black hair to blow in the wind. He listened to the woods, to the creak of the tree limbs and the whisper of the shimmering leaves. Glancing at the tor, he imagined his court that lay beneath the mound, and the winding labyrinths that led to the magical other-world where the Unseelie Court lay, amidst a faery forest and enchanted waters. His was a magical world beneath the ground of the mortal realm. A court that resembled something out of the mortals’ Arthurian legends. The court that was so richly and lavishly appointed with gold and marble, silks and velvets. The court that was cursed and dying. The court that so desperately needed these virtues.

  “For now we wait,” he announced. “And we watch.” And yearn, he silently added, feeling the burn in his loins and the hunger in his belly.

  As he gathered the reins, he turned his mount just in time to see one of them—a faery galloping across the grassy knolls.

  Crom.

  Avery and Kian stiffened beside him. What was Niall’s twin doing out here, and so close to the Lennox estate?

  “Bloody hell,” Kian hissed, the sound full of spite, “the Seelie want them, too.”

  THREE

  BEHIND HIS ENORMOUS ROCOCO DESK, THE DUKE of Lennox pored over the papers that were spread out before him. He had received them that very morning by messenger, from his man of affairs. Scouring the last statement, the duke sat back in his chair and smiled. All seemed to be in order. His wealth had doubled from last year, making him one of the richest landowners in England. Bloody faery magic, he thought, then laughed out loud as he reached for his crystal decanter of fine French brandy. It was illegal, of course—England was at war with France. But there was very little that his money could not secure, smuggled French brandy being one of them.

  Pouring the golden liquid into his goblet, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Power, ambition, riches. He had them in spades. At last. And all it had taken was a little pact. A tithe, the faeries called it.

  “Your Grace,” his duchess murmured as she swished through the opened library door. “The bills have arrived for the girls’ trousseaux.”

  Leaning forward, Lennox waved his duchess into the room, still awed by her dazzling beauty after all these years of marriage. “And what has their trousseaux set me back?”

  “An enormous amount,” she said with a smile as he captured her hand in his and brushed his lips along her fingers. She blushed. As pretty still as the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had wanted her so much. Still did. Nothing would have stopped him from possessing her. In fact, nothing had. There had been one particular hurdle to jump, but nothing too serious.

  “The modiste has done an extraordinary job of dressing them,” his wife said. “Wait till you see them in their new gowns. Mrs. Hartwell has such a way with color and draping. And the lace,” his wife continued, obviously over the moon with pride, “the lace on their cuffs is at least three inches thick, and so finely spun. I can hardly credit how she is able to design such gowns.”

  He did not want this private moment with his wife spoiled by talk of the village modiste. “Why you did not send for a modiste from London for a proper trousseau, I will never understand,” he grumbled, thinking of the woman who ran the only clothing shop in Glastonbury. “You know how I adore my girls, nothing is too good for them. I want them to have the best.”

  “I like our modest little modiste,” his wife replied. “And their gowns look as though they were designed and made in Paris, not Glastonbury. Besides, our modiste is rather gifted.”

  His brows arched. “In what way?”

  “The villagers say she’s been blessed by faeries. They say,” his wife murmured, leaning into him, “that the reason her gowns are so magnificent and her stitches so delicate, and her lace so beautiful, is that the faeries visit her nightly and fill her orders.”

&nb
sp; A harrowing thought, indeed.

  “They say,” his wife continued, whispering in his ear, “that our little village modiste is happy to repay them in their favored currency.”

  “Carnalities?”

  “Honeyed milk.”

  Patting her rump, Lennox sent his wife a lusty smile. “How little you know of the fey, my dear, for they would much prefer humping to honey.”

  She blushed at his vulgarity. “What are you working on?” she asked, flipping through the papers that littered his desk.

  “Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he cajoled. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them away from her reach. His investments were listed there, and some of them were dubious to say the least. He had no wish for his wife to discover how he made his coin. Her Grace might be beyond accepting if she were to learn that the jewels around her throat were paid for by his investment in a notorious bawdy house that catered to humans and fey alike.

  “Your Grace…” His butler coughed discreetly from the door. “You have a caller.”

  “Who is it, Salisbury?” he grumbled, not wanting to be disturbed. His wife was feeling much too fine in his lap, and the thought of the Nymph and the Satyr, the bawdy house and all the erotic, decadent delights to be found there, had him aroused. Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like to have his wife and a little fey concubine addressing his needs. He had heard that the fey, particularly the Dark Fey, could fuck like the devil. Perhaps he would make a trip into the city and watch a female fey with her lover from behind the privacy of a peephole. He could put the theory to a test to see if indeed the fey were sexually insatiable. And maybe he’d even have one, too, a little pixie on his cock.

  What a delightfully debauched diversion. Perversity was a healthy thing to maintain a man’s vigor as he neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.

  “Your Grace?”