Lilac

by Louisa Trent

  “How can you say such a thing when that is exactly what you did do!” A terrible truth fell into place and she gasped. “You knew those two gentlemen!”

  “They happen to be associates of mine. We frequent the same brothels and flesh-pandering clubs.”

  “So, you staged that entire encounter!” she cried, much aggrieved.

  “Yes. I told them when to arrive and what to expect when they did.”

  “But why?”

  “For their part, they derive pleasure from certain voyeuristic scenarios. Since you agreed to everything in our contract, I showed you off to them. For your part, I thought you might enjoy the thrill of a little anonymous exhibitionism. The potential for humiliation, of getting caught, is part of that thrill. And you were thrilled. You found the scenario arousing. Do not say you did not find the situation erotic. You confessed your excitement to me.”

  “And you accused me of playing games!”

  “These games, we will play. Often. But you will never be in any real harm. And if you ever do feel imperiled, in any way, you have only to say so and everything will stop. The same holds true for when you are with other men. Or for that matter, in any sexual act where I am present.”

  “Which implies you may not always be present.”

  “I may or I may not. Slave auctions are delicate negotiations. Pony shows the same. But if you would prefer not to be left alone with another man, I will make my accompaniment a stipulation of the transaction.”

  He lifted her dropped chin. “Have no fear; you will come to crave these games. As long as we keep the nature of this arrangement between ourselves, the games are no more than a harmless pastime. In public, you will dress and act accordingly, a young lady out on the arm of a caring but platonic gentleman. In private, what we do as consenting adults is a different matter and is our own business. Do you understand?”

  “What I understand,” she began icily, “is that my cunt is merely a commodity to you, something to trade, like on the New York Stock Exchange.”

  “Tegan, I have made it amply clear that we are not romantically linked.”

  He had. And she must accept that he was not, and could never be, a hero in any of her beloved dime novels.

  It was too late to go back now. But she had to know one thing. “You said, in public, I would need to dress and act accordingly.”

  “I did.”

  “Then why leave me the other gown, the scarlet satin? Surely that gown exemplified the true nature of our relationship.”

  “To see which one you would pick. To give you a choice. You always have a choice.”

  Ha! What option did she have but to accept his conditions?

  He stroked his knuckles down her jaw. “As long as you have the right of refusal, you are not powerless.”

  He seemed to know her thoughts. Was she that transparent to him?

  “And if I do refuse, those extra concessions for Central will fall by the wayside.”

  “That is your choice to make.” He held out a blue brocade chair, and she took a seat.

  A waiter arrived soon after and placed a silver soup tureen in the center of the white damask-covered table. After removing the domed lid, he served them and then took up an inconspicuous position against the rear wall.

  Sean posed a spoon to his pursed lips. “Try some.”

  She wrinkled her nose at the suspiciously green liquid ladled into her bowl, eyed the unfamiliar bits of something floating on top. “No, thank you.”

  “The way you spoke with my driver, Jeff,” he sneered, in sarcasm, she supposed, over her familiarity with his servants, “I thought you must like soup. After overhearing your conversation with him, I had this made especially for you. It would greatly pleasure me if you tried some.”

  She looked at the bowl warily. “What is it?”

  “Cold asparagus soup with quail eggs and caviar.”

  To prevent herself from gagging, she looked away. “Another time, perhaps.”

  “And here I thought you had a sense of adventure. A willingness to try new experiences. Evidently, I was mistaken in your audacity.”

  “Lord but you are transparent. I repeat, I am not a child and your poorly disguised goading falls flat with me. Furthermore, there is no reason for your jealousy of Jeff, sir. He is of my class, and so naturally he and I had an instant rapport.”

  “Jealous…moi?”

  “Not of my affections, but of my divided attention. Yes, certainly, you were jealous. And perhaps you have every right to be, when considering the terms of our agreement.”

  “I am of your class too,” he grumbled.

  “Once. But you no longer see yourself as such. You have distanced yourself from your beginning. You have forgotten your humble origins.”

  “Try the damn soup. I ordered it just for you.”

  “Very well, in the spirit of daring, I shall try the soup.” She picked up her spoon, held it to her mouth, and took a tiny sip. Thinking she might retch, she promptly returned the utensil to its position beside her plate. “An acquired taste, no doubt.”

  “Then why not finish the bowl so you may acquire it?”

  “Because I am not at all hungry. Do go on without me, though.”

  “Nonsense.” He turned to the waiter. “Leave the filled soup bowls, but take the tureen away. Please bring the next course.” He checked his watch. “At seven o’clock sharp.”

  Once they had the private room to themselves, he smiled at her. “We need to work on building up your appetite. You could use a little padding. I have just the exercise that will do it. Slip off your drawers, Tegan.”

  She looked from wall to wall. “Here?”

  “Yes, here.”

  “First the tomb and now this. That door is not even locked,” she cried in thrilled dismay.

  “No sport with a locked door. And best hurry. The waiter returns promptly in fifteen minutes.” He swept a muscled arm across the table. Clearing a spot for her to exercise, she presumed.

  She shook her head. “This is absurd. Fornicating here. On the table. You must have me confused with a previous paramour, one with whom you shared this private room.”

  “Not paramours. Whores. I only fuck whores. And I never took any of them or any other female acquaintance to Delmonico’s.” He pushed back the chair and stood. After removing his jacket and waistcoat, he unclipped his suspenders, looping them so he held the ends in a hand. “Remove your drawers, then bend over the table.”

  “Fine.” She jumped from her seat, wiggled the drawers to her ankles, and rounded.

  “You must learn to do immediately as ordered, Tegan. No talking back. No arguments of any kind. You have left me no other choice but to discipline you.”

  “You always have a choice, sir,” she said, parroting his remark to her.

  The suspender whipped across her bare buttocks, and she dug her fingers into the white damask for purchase. One the fourth swish, her pussy began to weep, moisture dripping down her thighs from the notch. And the heavy breathing coming from behind her only spurred her on. Thanks to him, she now recognized the clenching sensation growing inside her for what it was—sexual arousal. She was aroused also, thanks to him.

  “Please, please, please,” she chanted.

  What exactly she begged for, she had no idea. She only knew she needed something. Surely, not intercourse on a table, in an unlocked private room, in one of the most exclusive restaurants in all of Manhattan. Surely, not that.

  Then again, maybe that was exactly what she needed.

  Every fiber of her sheltered being longed for adventure—he had found her out on that score—every sort of adventure, sexual daring included.

  His suspenders dropped to the floor, the metal grips sending a shiver down her spine. Heat radiated off him as he stepped up behind her. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw his arm reach out, saw his hand go to the butter dish, saw him scoop out a thimbleful onto a finger.

  She cringed and grimaced and despaired. For she actually s
uspected what he might do, and she found herself, good heavens, not at all opposed.

  The decadence of it all called to her sense of adventure.

  And then his digit was there, bumping, prodding, entering her buttocks. He spread the butter over her back hole as if he were coating a puckered dinner roll. His finger entered her, sliding easily within the buttered passage. “What would you say to sodomy in Delmonico’s?”

  She digested that question for all of thirty seconds, an oppositional war waging within herself. Finally, fear of the unknown won out.

  Dress her up and take her to a fancy restaurant, but inside, she would always be a poor miner’s daughter, a woman of simple tastes. Her preference was for standard fare, like hot chicken soup…like coupling in a bed.

  “I would say, sir, I have suddenly developed an appetite.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Tegan’s answer pulled Sean up short. Was it possible, was it even conceivable, the little minx was giving him the go-ahead?

  He gave a measured reply: “An appetite for what?”

  “Why, for soup, of course. What else would I have meant? You said I needed to work up an appetite, and so I have. For soup.”

  If not for the ache in his loins, Sean would have laughed.

  What the brat did to him. The repulsed expression on her face said it all. She hated the cold green contents of her bowl. So did he. He was a meat-and-spud man, and soup without steam made no kind of sense to an Irishman like him. But to avoid sex on a tabletop, she chose the lesser of two evils. A shame and a bad decision, in his opinion, as he had a feeling she would have ended up enjoying the sodomy a hell of a lot more than the soup.

  He ended up kissing where he had fingered, drawing the warm, melted, sweet butter onto his tongue. He lapped some more, then bit into each buttock, before helping her straighten out. When her lilac skirts descended to cover her bare bottom, he felt deep regret.

  He had purchased two Frederick Worth gowns for her to wear that night. One bold, the other refined. Always willing to take a bet, he wagered with himself over which one she would choose. Looking like a pastel bonbon in the lilac confection, she had chosen the one that made him a winner.

  “Step out of those drawers, Tegan.”

  She did, and he knelt to retrieve them, then stuffed them into his pocket—the underthings were gossamer thin. “I want sodomy from you.”

  “So, you have already said.”

  “But I shall wait in favor of the soup. You really do need to fatten up.”

  She slid back into her seat, picked up her spoon, and drained the bowl’s contents. “Delicious,” she pronounced, patting her lips with the linen napkin. “Probably not as delicious as sodomy at Delmonico’s, but I respect your choice.”

  What an imp. He could easily strangle her.

  Or kiss her senseless.

  Through the next five courses, he did nothing but glance at his watch, counting the minutes until he could get her home and finish buttering her up.

  “Oh, dearie me,” she said once they were back inside the carriage. “I have never eaten so much. My belly is full to exploding. I feel like a beached whale. I tell you, I am quite distressed. What a shame you persuaded me to eat so much. I swear, I shall positively retch if anything so much as a feather touches my belly for the remainder of tonight.” Her eyes full of mischief, she slanted her jaw at him. “You weigh more than a feather, do you not, sir?”

  As a former heavyweight prizefighter, he weighed considerably more.

  His mouth twisted. “You could always lie on your side while I have my way with you.”

  “I never once thought of that position. But of course. As long as I have a bucket in which to be sick, I shall of course cooperate.” Her gaze dared him to show himself to be an inconsiderate swine.

  “You will sleep undisturbed in the servants’ quarters tonight. And stop gloating,” he raged. “This is but one round of the championship.”

  “I have no idea as to your meaning.” She gestured to his crotch. “Perhaps you can take that bulge in your trousers to one of those brothels or flesh-pandering clubs you frequent with your associates from the tomb. Someone there might be able to see to it. I only suggest you refrain from plying the candidate with cold green soup first.”

  They pulled up to the door of Griffith House, and he helped her down from the carriage. “You go on ahead.”

  If he had expected his abandonment to faze her in any way, which of course, he never would, he would have been disappointed.

  “Have a frolicsome good time, sir. I shall say good night to you here then.” Going up on tiptoe, she kissed his cheek.

  She kissed his cheek.

  The innocent peck struck him as hard as a three-gal night would have done.

  As he watched her hips sway up the stairs to his mansion, the idea of a brothel or flesh-pandering club suddenly lost its appeal.

  Neither could he seek out his lonely bed.

  Stay home, and Tegan would think she had won another round.

  Which she had. But he would sooner hang his precum-weeping cock up to dry than allow her to know it.

  He climbed wearily back into his carriage seat and tapped on the roof. “Driver—forgive me, I mean Jeff—please take me to the nearest tavern.”

  *

  The next day dawned sunny and bright.

  Too goddamn sunny and bright for a man who’d awakened with a hangover.

  Sean winced against the streams of light that pierced his bloodshot eyes through the front hall windows. A hand pressed to his forehead, to prevent gray matter from ricocheting should his throbbing brain explode, he nabbed the housekeeper as she bustled by.

  “Mrs. Birch…”

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you please deliver a message to Miss Ellis?”

  “Certainly. But are you all right, sir?”

  “Tip-top. Never felt better.”

  “Funny. You look a bit green soupy around the gills.”

  He smirked. “She told you!”

  “Some. Not all of it.”

  He narrowed his eyes. “Did she mention anything else?”

  “Anything else, sir?”

  “Other than the soup. Did she bring up the subject of condiments, for example?”

  “She mentioned the duckling, sir. Nothing else, leastwise that I can think of…”

  “Excellent! Here is the message: Tell Miss Ellis we are going for a walk in Central Park. Convey to her my desire to look after her constitution. I shall expect her upstairs in five minutes.”

  “Very well, sir. Shall I pack a pot of butter for the trip? There is some already softened in the kitchen. On the table.”

  “That will be all, Mrs. Birch.”

  “Very good, sir.” Off she went, snickering.

  Three minutes later—he timed her—Tegan arrived, fully dressed and beaming cheerily from ear to ear. “Good morning, sir. And what a beautiful start to the day it is! After a good night’s sleep, I feel positively invigorated.”

  Though much too early for him to be up after getting himself ginned the night before, he smiled despite his throbbing skull, just to prove she had not gotten the best him. No prizefighting opponent had ever backed him into a corner, and neither would this slight slip of a female.

  “And how are you, sir, after your evening of debauchery?”

  He gritted his teeth, said above the pounding in his head, “Excellent. Never better. Nothing like a night on the town for improving a man’s disposition.”

  “You must tell me when your disposition improves so I can look out for it,” she said gaily. Too gaily. The chit was leading him on a merry chase.

  The chase would stop today.

  About time, he pinned her to some horizontal surface and did the deed. For real. This cat-and-mouse game had gone on long enough.

  He bowed deeply at the waist. “After you, little girl.”

  She spoke not at all in the carriage. Not one single word. Once they reached Central Park a
nd began their promenade, she began an animated chirping.

  About various mining diseases, of all things. Apparently, coughing up bilious phlegm featured prominently in all these ailments, the mucus of which she described in great and vivid detail. Leading him to believe this was a conspiracy on her part, designed to make him suffer. And he would not have been at all surprised if Mrs. Birch was in cahoots on the act.

  He swallowed with grave difficulty. “Could we please converse on another subject? Any other subject will do.”

  “Not feeling well, sir?”

  “I was. Until Mr. Hadley’s sputum.”

  “Better mine ventilation will help eliminate much of the problem.”

  “Consider it done.”

  She beamed at him, which cured his racking headache and his roiling belly, simultaneously.

  “Such a warm day it is, sir. I am so glad I left my new coat at home.” She smoothed a hand over the gatherings of the childish white pinafore she wore. “By the way, thank you, sir, ever so much for all the new clothes. I tried everything on this morn. The outfits are certainly pretty. A bit snug at the bodice, but I supposed that is because the ensembles were made for a much younger miss. Perhaps someone ten or twelve years of age.”

  Due to the scarcity of time, he’d had Mrs. Birch purchase Tegan an entire new wardrobe, all suitable for a young miss.

  This was not done in spite.

  Not entirely. Though spiting her did make his day. And evening. And everything in between. Especially today, after her phlegm stories.

  In his mind, he likened spiting Tegan to shadowboxing, very nearly a sport in and of itself. Throwing random verbal punches exercised his powers of speech in preparation for the real argument, which he knew awaited him.

  The minx was in rare form this afternoon.

  Unfortunately, in this practice round, spiting her came back and clobbered him.

  In telling the housekeeper to select a wardrobe appropriate for a young miss, he had forgotten that young misses did not wear corsets.

  Mrs. Birch had not forgotten.

  The housekeeper had left that important item off her shopping list. Consequently, Tegan’s breasts had absolutely no support. Not that hers needed much. But without any cinching whatsoever, even her firm pertness jiggled. As to her nipples—they were unusually large, unusually long, unusually carnal. Very pronounced. The tips jutted without a corset.