“Shh,” he murmured as he flicked her nipple against the stopper’s cool tip. “We wouldn’t want anyone to hear your cries and find you in this position, would we?”
Their gazes met in the mirror and she saw the wicked gleam in his vibrant blue eyes.
“I’m dreaming.”
“If you’d like to believe that.”
“Even in my dreams I cannot fully shed this mantle of virtue.” Embarrassment suddenly pushed through the heavy cloud of lust that fogged her mind, but he wrapped an arm around her waist, keeping her in the chair.
“You blush, not with arousal, but shame. There is no shame in desire, Chastity. The only shame is in denying yourself of the pleasure, and me the rapture of watching you come.”
Her body ignited with his words, and again he touched her, not with his hands, but with the tip of the perfume stopper. Seeing his intent, Chastity tried to move, to put an end to this strange daydream, but he refused to let her go and instead moved his hand lower, down between the valley of her breasts to her belly where he circled her navel. Mortified, Chastity watched as her thighs spread of their own accord, revealing everything to him.
He purred his encouragement, “Yes, like that.” His scent was once again wrapping around her, making her thoughts and body heavy. When he trailed his tongue along her throat, in time to the downward scrape of crystal, she writhed, lifting her hips in wanton invitation.
“Put your legs over the arm of the chair.”
Oh, she couldn’t. But she was obeying him even as she fought his command. “You’ve enchanted me.”
“Perhaps,” he whispered. His gaze strayed to the mirror. He studied her, how open she was. He watched his hand descend lower. Moving in and rubbing through her curls in a slow, circular motion. His fingers, which had been brushing the side of her breast, now cupped it. His head bent farther over her as he lifted her breast to his lowering mouth.
“No!” she gasped and squirmed simultaneously as his hot tongue laved her nipple and the cool crystal parted her sex.
This was wrong. So very immoral that she should be taking pleasure in this. But ooh, how good it felt as he took her nipple between his lips and tugged, suckling her. Between her thighs, his hand moved down, then up, stroking and parting the glistening folds of her sex, not with the pointed tip of the stopper, but with the rounded, bulbous head.
She was shaking now, needing to cry out, not in fear or shock, but with passion that was building, with the burning between her thighs that needed a release of some sort.
She could not stop watching his slow seduction of her body. It was an erotic thing to witness, and she spread her legs wider, encouraged by his animal-like growl. He bit down on her nipple as he slipped the rounded crystal inside her. Her moan filled the room and she watched as she raised her bottom off the chair, angling her hips upward, encouraging him to do more. To go deeper.
“Innocent, virtuous Chastity,” he whispered as he watched with her in the mirror, “would you give it to me, your most prized possession?”
She knew what he wanted, but she could not agree to it, not when he was no longer inside her. He was teasing her, going back to those light, inflaming caresses. The strokes that merely fanned the flames, not banked them.
“More,” she whispered, her gaze at last meeting his. He watched her and she felt that hungry gaze devour her. “Please,” she begged.
Reaching between her thighs, she clutched at his wrist, pushing his hand more firmly between her splayed legs. Her back was arched, and her nipples peaked as her heavy breasts swayed to the rhythm of her hips. A rhythm so primitive and natural that Chastity had not been able to fight the instinctive urge.
Faster her hips worked as she rubbed herself against his hand and the cold crystal. He was watching her face, reaching for her breast as she arched. Her lips parted, a scream so close to the surface, but he captured them with his mouth, slipping his tongue inside to touch hers. Reaching an arm up behind her, she clutched at his shirt, fisting the fabric in her hand as the pressure in her womb built higher and higher. It was almost pain, this bursting sensation. She didn’t know what to do, how to find it, but then she heard his words—“Let it come to you”—and she understood, slowed her frantic hips, allowing herself to be guided by his rhythm. And oh, God, it was bliss.
Her breathing became short, rasping pants, and she released his shirt, only to run her fingers through his hair. His scent washed over her and she cried out, coming apart then as she continued to press down against his hand.
She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t stop moving. He pleasured her until she thought she would die, until she was shaking, completely unashamed that she was naked and exposed before a mirror. He whispered to her, words she could not understand. She only understood the need to keep going. To feel more of him. It was unthinkable that she, a heavenly virtue, could know that there was more to this. How did she know that beneath his britches he would be hard and throbbing? That having him thrust deep inside her would give her the relief she sought?
“I want more,” she whispered, tugging him closer.
“So do I, love,” he whispered back. “But not yet.”
“Please,” she implored, and she saw how his eyes darkened.
“Do not beg me. I…cannot resist that.”
“Then don’t. Don’t end this. Not now when I need to feel you deep inside me.”
Swiftly his warmth was gone, leaving her chilled. His scent, which drove her to the brink of sexual madness, was replaced by the languid, haunting scent of her perfume. She came to, dazed, aghast at what she saw in the mirror.
A flush of pink skin marred her cheeks and throat. The tops of her breasts, too. She was spread out, her sex shimmering, her curls wet. Her left arm was bent over her head, her fingers clutching the back of the dressing table chair. Between her thighs, her other hand was hidden, and inside her…the crystal bottle stopper.
With a shriek, she pulled it out and flung the crystal onto the carpet. Whatever had possessed her to…defile herself in such a fashion, and to…to dream of him as she did so?
Racing to her bed, she covered herself in her dressing gown, hiding her shame. What had possessed her? She had not been able to resist the lure. And yet, it had been a dream. No. She had been awake, but in some altered state. A fantasy. Yes. That was what it had been.
Even now her entire body trembled. She wanted more, despite knowing it was wrong and sinful. But she couldn’t lie to herself. She needed more, more of the dark pleasures he had shown her. Could one become a habitué of such dark erotic arts? Was that it? Had he bewitched her when he’d touched her in the garden?
For that is when she had begun to yearn and dream. Begun to want the very thing that was opposite to her in every way. Thane. There was no denying that her subconscious knew who—what—he was. He was a Dark Fey, with a very skilled hand and mouth.
Casting a glance in the mirror, she allowed herself to recall what she had seen in the mirror. She did not hide from the memory, but embraced it. Tonight, she was a changed woman, for tonight, she’d craved the opposite of her entire being. Tonight, she had craved Lust.
TWELVE
THE CLACKING OF THE HORSES HOOVES ALONG the cobbles echoed through the quiet Mayfair streets. Normally at this time of night, the streets were bustling with carriages, conveying the elite to balls and soirees and musicales. It was strange for it to be so quiet—sparse. In fact, Chastity knew that there were at least four balls going on this evening, for they had received invitations to all of them. Yet one peek out the carriage window would deem otherwise. It was utterly silent. Eerily so.
Glancing up at the black velvet sky, she noticed the moon, which was waxing in fullness and slowly being obstructed by a series of inky-black clouds. Soon what little light the lanterns afforded the street would be dimmed as the moonlight was all but blocked. Chastity shivered. She would not want to be caught on these streets in the forbidden darkness. Even if it was Mayfair. Suddenly she longed for the safe
and subdued evenings she and her sisters had enjoyed in Glastonbury. There was something not quite right about this night. The awareness of that thought prickled her skin and raced down her spine. Unnatural was the word that consistently flickered through her thoughts.
The carriage swayed and the rhythmic motion lulled her, attempted to soothe her still-frazzled nerves as she watched the cloud cover the moon. She had still not been able to remove the image that had greeted her in the mirror earlier this evening. Even when she opened her eyes to see herself dressed in her costume for the masquerade she did not see the water nymph she was supposed to represent. Rather, she saw her body naked, spread, and the crystal stopper buried inside her.
Her face flamed hot, and she was glad of the dark shadows outside that shielded her shame from her family. What madness had overtaken her? What had possessed her to do such a thing? Unnatural…
Again she heard the whispered word, and in response clutched her reticule even tighter in her gloved hands. In the darkness outside, a thick vapor of fog suddenly rolled in, rising and falling like a current of air, thickening, then thinning, growing opaque and smokelike, resembling tendrils of incense, then solid, impenetrable, consuming.
“Damn strange fog,” her father growled. “I detest coming to London because of it.”
Prue and Mercy gazed out their windows as Chastity caught the worried look in her father’s eyes. Mary and their mother had taken the carriage ahead of them. The Carmichaels were old friends of her mother, and Mary had wanted to arrive early to lend them support in any way she could. Her father despised masquerades and desired to leave later. As Mary loved balls, and the three of them felt like misfits at them, they had naturally agreed to accompany their father.
“It’s quite mesmerizing, isn’t it?” Mercy whispered as she peered intently out the window. “Almost like a living thing, the way it moves and shifts its shape.”
“You’ve been reading too many Minerva novels, Mercy,” Prue admonished. “They’ve filled your head with nonsense.”
Casting another glance out the window, Chastity wasn’t so certain that Prue was correct. The fog did seem to take on a form all its own. And what was even more perplexing was that it seemed to shroud their carriage—and nothing else.
“Why are we turning?” Prue asked, alarm in her voice. “The streetlights are gone, and the road is narrowing. This is not the way to Berkeley Square and the Carmichaels’.”
Their father grumbled and reached for his walking stick, which he rapped forcefully against the roof. “You there,” he yelled at the coachman. “You’ve taken a wrong turn.”
But the carriage did not stop, and when their father stood up to open the door, he found it quite firmly shut. Any attempt to open it was futile.
“Papa,” Prue gasped as she reached for Mercy. “What is going on?”
“The damn coachman is drunk,” he roared. “And he’s taking us east.”
The east end of London held nothing but beggars, whores and thieves—and cutthroats, her father had always told them. Obviously her sisters recalled the same thing, for they gasped and held on to each other.
The carriage continued, picking up speed, and outside, the fog followed, thickening, engulfing the carriage until all they could see was the fog through the windows. Not even the fading yellow of lanterns could be made out through the dense curtain of gray.
Sharply the carriage tilted to the left and turned, coming to an abrupt stop, which made them lurch for ward on the bench.
“Wait till I get my bloody hands on him,” her father roared as he reached for the handle. But the door opened, nearly sending him tumbling out of the carriage.
“I wait for no man,” came the deep voice from the darkness. The fog evaporated and standing in its retreating midst was a giant of a man with dark, shoulder-length hair. His shoulders were as wide as boulders, his legs braced apart as his violet eyes narrowed, piercing her father with a look of hauteur and disgust.
And then he shifted his gaze to the interior of the coach, letting it roam leisurely over Chastity and her sisters. His hand came up, and the words he spoke next were foreign, but so sweetly intoxicating that Chastity could not blink. Could not look away. She was pinned to the bench, as were Prue and Mercy.
“Take them inside, and remember the curse. I will deal with Lennox.”
And then, as if she were outside her body, she felt herself lifted, light and airy, as if she were floating, and carried in someone’s arms. Not merely anyone’s, she thought as she closed her eyes and inhaled the familiar scent. But Thane’s.
Oh, God, she was with the Dark Fey. And so were her sisters. And her father…
“Safe,” came the whispered voice. “But he cannot take a gift from the fey and not expect to pay.”
She swallowed hard, and kept her eyes closed, for she suddenly had no wish to see what lay in her future.
“They haven’t arrived, and Lorne, the one planted as lead footman says they left an hour ago.”
Crom glared at Arawn. “The streets are riddled with carriages. Is it possible that they are merely stuck in the middle?”
“I sent Lorne to look for them. He hasn’t seen their carriage. The mother and the eldest daughter went on ahead. They’re here. But Lennox and the other three girls are not.”
Purple mist gathered at the corner of his vision as Crom struggled to control the considerable rage that was beginning to storm inside him.
“Check the house, then. Maybe they’ve retired to a salon where the ladies go to refresh themselves.”
“I already have,” Arawn growled. “And they are not here.”
Crom swore, and two startled matrons gave him wide berth as they walked by holding their demimasks by a long handle. “Where could they have been taken?”
Arawn’s blue eyes darkened. “To their court. Where else?”
Crom was nearly snorting in outrage at the thought of Chastity being defiled by an Unseelie pig, and in their court of filth and debauchery at that. The Unseelie would know pain and suffering if they defiled his future mate.
“I can sense that Prudence is…” Arawn closed his eyes, searching for a connection with his intended mate. “She is striving to maintain a semblance of calm, but she’s frightened.”
“Where is she?” Crom demanded.
“I do not know. I can only sense her emotions. She has not become aware of me—of my powers. She will not understand how to use any link or bond that might be forming between us. It’s too soon.”
The crystal champagne flute he held in his hand snapped, then shattered into a million shards. It glistened like diamonds against the black marble floor. “I will kill my brother,” Crom seethed.
“There is no other way but to go after them.”
“Not yet. It is too soon, and we do not yet know if they have a full understanding of the curse. Plus, there is the queen to consider. If we go to their court raising hell, she will become suspicious. She thinks me an ineffectual dilettante. I wish to keep up the facade for as long as possible.”
“Surely you are not suggesting that we wait? Your Highness, the Unseelie princes are unscrupulous. They will defile these virtues. Then they will no longer be of any use to us or our court.”
“I am well acquainted with the Dark Fey, Arawn,” he growled. Gods, his dark blood was trying to take over as they spoke. “What we need is another way.”
And then, someone came into view and made him think of a new, very useful plan. Mary, the eldest Lennox girl, flitted nearby, and he watched her, the way she handled her admirers. She flirted like the most experienced little tart, and suddenly he knew. He felt what needed to be done.
“Handle the mother. Find out her husband’s plans for this evening. I will take Mary in hand and come up with something that will ensure our suit.”
Arawn sent him a sideways glance. “Is that wise, Your Highness? The eldest is not to be trusted.”
“All is fair in love and war. Is that not the correct saying, Araw
n?”
“Indeed.”
“Then I am declaring war.”
Stepping over the glass, he made his way to Mary, who was laughing with a group of young men hanging on to her every word. “Good evening,” he murmured next to her ear. When she looked up at him, her breath caught and he scented her desire as it perfumed the air. Excellent, he mused. She was exactly what he needed.
Prudence glared at the beast who sat like a king behind a table laden with so much food she thought she might have stumbled back in time to the reign of Henry VIII.
The wooden trestle table groaned beneath the heavy silver platters that held haunches of beef and venison, as well as a roast suckling pig with an apple in its mouth.
Footed bowls spilling over with fruit interspersed the meat platters. Tankards of ale and golden goblets of wine flowed freely, and buxom women flitted about, serving him while they flashed him scandalous expanses of their décolletage.
The man who commanded everyone’s attention was huge. An immovable object with wide-set shoulders and thick arms. Even his hands were enormous she noticed as he lifted his gold goblet to his mouth. But his fingers were not thick like those of a laborer, but long and tapered. Elegant. A complete dichotomy for a man of his burly strength and size.
He reminded her of an ancient invader, huge and hulking, using brute strength to send his opponents into sub mission. He would be a beast of a man if it were not for the mop of black curling hair that fell forward over his eyes. No, that hair was the sort a brooding poet would sport. Something sensual and passionate. No barbarian would have hair like that. And those lips. Never had she seen such a sensual mouth. His lips were full, but still masculine. The dusting of black beard, which would look vulgar on any other man, actually made him look all the more appealing.
Good heavens, he was a sensual, wicked beast!
“Look your fill,” the creature murmured, his voice as sweet and rich as syllabub sauce. And his lusty grin when he said it was sinful—and pleasurable.
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