Lust

by Charlotte Featherstone

  Checking over her shoulder before she slipped through the doors, she saw that no one had noticed her, nor would they notice her exit. It would only be a short reprieve from the dance, but a most welcome one.

  FOUR

  QUICKLY, CHASTITY SLIPPED THROUGH THE PARTED doors and stepped out onto the balcony, which was shrouded in darkness. To the left of the balustrade was a boxwood maze, shadowed by the height of looming oaks and willow trees. Inside the maze there was a bench where she could sit and rest feet that ached from her delicate dance slippers. She knew she should not be out here, alone, in the dark, but her head still remained cloudy, and the lure of a rest in solitude was too great. The exotic scent still lingered, but her head would begin to clear when the fresh night air swept over her while she rested in peace and quiet.

  What a queer sensation that had been. She had never experienced anything like it. It had warmed her body as nothing ever had, not even champagne. The lingering heat and the languorous feeling still seemed wrapped around her, giving her the fanciful taste of what the enduring effects of sensuality must feel like. Despite the fact she had never experienced any sensual feeling before, Chastity knew that what she had experienced was some unexplained erotic charge in the air. Unsullied or not, she was not a simpleton.

  Taking a few calming breaths, she stared up at the sky, watching as the sliver of silver moonlight appeared behind a black cloud. It was the Eve of Beltane, she reminded herself. The night of the Great Hunt, the union between the god and the goddess. Of course there was a carnal element to the evening. Everyone was anticipating the hour of midnight when it would be Beltane, and the frivolities and promiscuous activities of the spring and May Day would be welcomed with eager arms.

  Back home in Glastonbury, the Great Hunt would just be beginning, and the bonfire on the village green would be blazing high into the sky. In the woods, men would chase maidens, and beneath the very same sliver of moonlight they would celebrate the rites of spring.

  The Great Hunt and all Beltane’s festivities were steeped in pagan belief and the old way of the Celts. With the mystery of the tor and its prominent setting in the village it was not hard to feel rather pagan most of the year, but on evenings such as this, everyone threw aside propriety and Christianity to participate in the ideals of growth, sexuality and fecundity, for those three things had long represented the spring.

  For centuries, Glastonbury, which had always been known as the Land of the Summer People, had been at the center of Beltane. As a child, her father, who had been raised in the little village, celebrated this very night every year. Every year except this one.

  For some reason, her father, who had never been averse to accompanying them to the village on the Eve of Beltane, had acted as though the villagers and the festival were anathema. This year, after promising her and her sisters that they were old enough to witness the Great Hunt, after they had allowed themselves to grow excited about the prospect, he’d denied them.

  “You’re not going to such a hedonistic display. It’s archaic,” he had grumbled as he waited for them to cram themselves into the town coach. After the carriage had lurched down the drive, he had refused to speak anymore of it, telling them only what they already knew, that they were off to London, to her brother’s ball, and then back to the Lennox town house in Grosvenor Square to spend at least a fortnight.

  It all seemed so very strange, especially since her father had always striven to keep them very far removed from the capital. “Nothing but rakes and dowry thieves in London,” he had always claimed. So why now had he had a change of heart?

  It seemed that their whole life their father had prevented them from being tainted by the sights and sounds—and smells—of London, only to turn around that very morning and all but force them to embrace the city.

  Something wasn’t right. She sensed it. And that something had to do with her father and his perplexing behavior. Thinking it through, Chastity found herself at a loss to explain it. Perhaps, she thought, taking a deep breath, she couldn’t make heads or tails of his behavior because her mind was still clouded by the lingering scent of…of whatever that had been back in the ballroom.

  Glancing back at the beckoning maze, Chastity glided to the stairs, the hooped silk skirts of her gown making a soft brushing whisper against the stone. She would find privacy and quiet there in the maze to reflect upon the puzzling events of the day.

  Descending the stairs, she trailed her gloved hand along the stone banister, noticing the sparkling moonbeam that widened over the quartz cut stone. The moonbeam became less filtered light, and more like a fine swath of iridescent wetness. Like mist, but it radiated such a dazzling brilliance that Chastity watched it, hypnotized by its beauty, as it seemed to dance in and around the banister as though it were alive.

  What folly, she chastened herself. It was a reflection of the rock quartz in the moonlight, nothing else. And the scent? her mind whispered to her. What of that?

  It was back, that lush, exotic blend that reminded her of a faraway place, a spice island, or India perhaps. It was heavy, evocative, almost drugging, yet it made her feel as light as a feather. As if she were the one floating, and not the mist particles that glimmered in the moonlight.

  Ceo Side, something whispered to her. Faery Mist.

  She had heard of it before, the ability of the faeries to come as rain, mist, fog and shadow.

  Now she heard it murmured on the wind as her slippers sank into the damp grass. Were the Daoine Side—the fairy people—here in the back gardens of her brother’s London estate? But why here? Why now? For her whole life, her father had talked to her and her sisters about the fey, yet she had never seen them, never perceived that they were somehow truly a part of her life. So why now was she obsessed with the idea of them? Perhaps it really was the champagne making her head fuzzy, and nothing more.

  Head heavy, limbs warm, Chastity moved deeper into the darkness of the ten-foot-tall maze. She was breathing heavy, she realized. The lace that held her cameo secure around her throat felt suffocating. Her stays were tight, pushing her breasts higher, making it difficult to get air into her constricted lungs. Her fan dropped to the deep, damp grass as the air grew thicker, began to wrap around her, where it worked its way under her skirt to caress her calves, then thighs. She felt strange, as though she was disembodied. Her mind, always sharp and clear, would not work, and her lungs did not seem able to provide her body with adequate air.

  With a gasp, she felt heat slide over her waist, then up to her breasts and, unable to bear it, she tore the lace choker off, flinging it to the ground, gasping to breathe. She was being smothered, but by what or whom, she could not fathom. She was utterly alone—and yet she wasn’t.

  “A beautiful woman such as you should not be out in the dark, unaccompanied by a gentleman.”

  Whirling around, Chastity startled when she heard the deep voice behind her. The man’s identity was cleverly concealed by an intricate mask made of gold and wire, designed to look like foliage. With his height, and the breadth of his shoulders outlined by the moon, and his long black hair whispering in the slight breeze, he looked like the fabled Oak King come to ravish her.

  Unsteadily, she took a step back, coming up against a large birch tree that marked the entrance to the maze. She did not know this man, yet there was something about him that called to her—his voice, perhaps, or maybe the way he stood, so proud, so masculine, so…certain of himself.

  “I have frightened you.” His accent was thick and alluring as he spoke to her, his voice musical, yet deep and intensely male. “I would not have it so.”

  “I didn’t hear you approach, sir,” she said, noticing how the mist had not evaporated, but seemed to draw to him, like a moth to a flame. It was almost as if he was shrouded in it, shimmering in the glow. Chastity stared, frozen, fascinated by the magic of it, lured by the beauty of him.

  “Forgive me.” He stepped closer to her, the vapor glinting and shifting around him. The scent that ma
de her feel so strange earlier became stronger, heavier. It was a delicious smell, one that made her body tingle with a warmth she could not define.

  “Have we met, sir?” she inquired, taking a step back as he approached her. He was now bathed in a shaft of moonlight, the effect quite breathtaking. She saw, even despite the mask he wore, that he studied her from beneath a thick veil of black lashes. His hair was as dark as a raven’s feathers, heavy and glistening like spilled ink in the moonlight as it grazed the shoulders of his velvet jacket. A frock coat that Chastity was quite certain required no extra padding.

  He let her study him and she half wondered as their gazes met if the man was not fully aware of what his face and his figure must do to the opposite sex. Any sane woman would find this man unavoidably compelling and sensual. Any woman would wish to find herself in his arms, being kissed by his lips and ravished by his elegant, yet extremely masculine, hands.

  She was not just any woman. Yet this outsider seemed to have a most disturbing effect on her. He possessed a beauty, a mysterious strangeness that seduced her even as her brain warned her to run, to leave the maze as quickly as she could. But she could not move. Her dance slippers were fixed firmly upon the ground as if they had been glued there.

  Do I not tempt you? Are you not thinking, at this very moment, what my body would feel like upon yours?

  The words came from nowhere—no, from him—despite the fact he had not moved his lips. Did not even smile. Just stood before her, silently allowing her perusal.

  Your gaze lingers on my fingers as though you hunger to have them caress you, to slowly pull the tapes of your stays and reveal what has been so meticulously hidden beneath that gown. Despite the mask, I see in your eyes that desire, the burning deep inside to have my hands upon your flesh.

  His voice again, beautiful, lyrical. His words luring. Enticing. But still his masculine lips did not move. Her own thoughts, then? she wondered. Was she even capable of conjuring up such base imaginings?

  It frightened her to think so. It was impossible to believe that she, an innocent who had never been touched, could consider such things, yet Chastity could not dispel the fact that the stranger had not spoken aloud. Regardless, she heard his deep voice as though the words had been whispered intimately in her ear.

  Reaching for her hand, he wrapped his ungloved fingers around her delicate ones, the warmth sending a delightful frisson along her spine.

  “You are far too bold, sir,” she gasped, flustered when he looked up at her with piercing blue eyes that only seemed to glow as the gold of his mask glinted in the moonlight.

  “Is it?” The deepness of his voice caused flutterings in her stomach. “Then let us begin again,” he suggested silkily. “An introduction in a private garden while bathed in moonlight is an auspicious event. One must ensure that it is perfect and unforgettable.”

  Somehow Chastity knew that she would never forget one moment of this meeting.

  The mist glittered in the moonlight, outlining his broad shoulders, moving with him as he stepped closer to her. He was otherworldly, breathtaking in his beauty. She would be recalling this moment, the feel of her body tingling and awakening, when she was an old woman sitting by the fire.

  “The moonlight becomes you,” he said in a voice that was rich and smooth, that seemed to wrap around her. He reached out and Chastity saw how the glistening mist crystals glittered on his fingers, then wafted over her to her shoulder, where he caught a loose tendril of hair. “You were made to be seen in the dark. You are a perfect angel by sunlight, a tempting goddess by moonlight.”

  She could hardly think. Was it the scent that surrounded her? The strangeness of the glittering mist and the masked stranger? Or was it that she was breathing too fast? Whatever it was, it was playing havoc with her mind. Had she heard him correctly, that he had seen her in the sunlight? Impossible.

  “I don’t believe,” she said, then licked her lips to moisten them, “that you know who I am. Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else?”

  “No, there is no mistake.” The tendril of hair wrapped around his finger and he used it to pull her closer to him. “You call to me. I could find you anywhere, even in the largest crush of people or in the shadows of the Dark Walk in Covent Garden. There isn’t a place where you could hide from me.”

  She should have been terrified by such a statement, yet she was horrified for another reason altogether—her body’s quivering response to such knowledge.

  “You don’t realize it, but your body cries out, and my own answers it. We are destined to be together. Each to complete the other.”

  His voice dropped to a seductive whisper as his eyes held her transfixed. This conversation was much too intimate for any innocent, let alone a virtue. He had obviously mistaken her for someone of experience and worldliness.

  “I must beg you, sir, to release me. You are not known to me, and I am certain that you have mistaken me for your midnight rendezvous.”

  “Lady Chastity,” he purred, drawing out the end of her name. The sound gave her goose bumps and she shivered, her fingers trembling in his.

  “Sir?” she murmured, trying unsuccessfully to look away from his mesmerizing beauty. “How…” She licked her lips. “How do you know who I am? We’ve never met.”

  “Haven’t we?” Turning her palm up, he bared her wrist and traced the delicate blue veins with the tips of his fingers. Together, they watched his graceful fingertips skate across her smooth skin, and Chastity, unable to control the sensations his touch evoked, whimpered with the need to feel his caress all over her. His lashes lowered and he closed his eyes as if he knew that her whimper was one of desire, not fear.

  “What is your title, sir?” He was too richly garbed, and too well-spoken, to be anything other than an aristocrat. But his voice held a slight accent, an exotic-sounding one that was luring and seductive.

  “Prince,” he murmured.

  “A prince, no less,” she stammered, knowing she needed to go, but unable to make herself leave his side. “I…I have never met a…a prince.”

  “How fortunate I am to be your first.”

  It was a double entendre. She had heard them before and always recoiled from them. But this one, said in his deep voice, only tempted her further. Made her watch the slow brush of his fingers against the bounding pulse in her wrist and wonder what it would be like to watch his lips graze that very same spot, or other more intimate places on her body.

  “I am your first prince, but am I the first to touch you like this?” he asked, glancing up from the lush fringe of his lashes, which his mask could not conceal.

  “I am a lady, Your Highness,” she admonished him, but her voice was breathless, husky, and he smiled, the barest fleeting hint of a self-satisfied grin.

  “An extraordinarily lovely lady.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, he brought his mouth to her skin. She heard as well as felt him sniff delicately. His lips suddenly parted and she saw a glimmer of brilliant white teeth behind his sculpted lips. Slowly, the tip of his tongue crept out from between his lips and her breath caught, freezing in horrified wonder as she watched him.

  With exquisite care and reverence he lightly grazed her wrist with the tip of his hot tongue. His lips soon replaced his tongue as he looked up at her. His eyes, Chastity noticed, were now black, as if his pupils had dilated and swallowed the blue iris.

  “And what of that, Lady Chastity? Is that the first time a prince, or any man’s tongue, has tasted your flesh?”

  Like a simpleton, she nodded, unable to do anything more. She should break this trance he held her in, but suddenly she lacked the incredible moral strength it would take. She was weakening, and Lord help her, she didn’t want to find her wavering resolve. She wanted more, to discover what he would do to her, how far he would go in this game of seduction.

  Watching her, compelling her with those black, fathomless eyes, he drew his tongue across her wrist once more, their gazes locking upon one another, th
eir faces still masked, heightening the charge between them.

  “Do not fear me,” he whispered as her hand trembled in his. “I would never hurt you. ’Tis only pleasure I seek to give you.”

  “My God, your voice,” she gasped, tugging her fingers out of his hold and backing away. Suddenly she was thrust back to that afternoon, and the vision of a huge white dog and a dark-haired man came rushing back to her. “I…I know you.”

  “You have mistaken me for another.”

  “Today, by the woods, back home,” she began, stepping back, trying to put a safe distance between them. “You were on horseback and you stopped us on the path. But how could you…”

  The sensual haze began to evaporate. How could this man—this stranger—possibly be the one who had found her and her sisters walking that very morning? How could it be that he had come to London? To her brother’s ball? But something inside her screamed that it was him, and that she needed to run from him. He was dangerous and not just because he was a threat to her innocence.

  He followed her like a tiger stalking its prey. Farther and farther she backed up, until she was deep amongst the trees that stood tall around the garden bench. Surrounding her, the maze rose high, engulfing her and the stranger. Step for step, he followed her, his gaze never leaving her face. The intensity of his stare grew stronger, more bewitching, singeing her flesh until she was hot and struggling to breathe.

  “Is that really what you want? What you were feeling just a few seconds ago—the very great desire for me to leave you?”

  “Stop it at once, sir,” she demanded, although her voice lacked conviction. Behind her brocade stomacher and the tightly laced stays, her breasts inched up, caused by her ragged breathing. Breathing that should have been harsh and rasping owing to fear, not this strange, intoxicating sensation that only could be lust.

  “Come to me, Chastity,” he coaxed, “I can feel how much you want to, just allow yourself one moment of unguarded pleasure.”