Abby entered wearing one of her new day dresses. The dark, emerald green gown set off her porcelain complexion, and her hair was pulled back and tied with a simple ribbon. She looked young and incredibly beautiful. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you had a guest,” she said.
“Not at all, Spencer hardly counts as a guest. He'll be joining us for dinner tonight.”
Spencer had the distinct feeling that the new viscountess did not care for him very much. Nonetheless, her nodded acceptance was gracious. She was quite lovely, in a very calm sort of way. Michael, who'd spent his entire adult life chasing whores had snared a Madonna to wife. Of course, the mane of wild gypsy hair that she sported was enough to make any man look twice.
Remembering his manners, Spencer sketched a bow and said, “Thank you for your hospitality, Lady Ellersleigh.”
“You must call me Abigail. I am not yet accustomed to my new names. Mrs. Fillings just gave me the litany and I fear my eyes glazed over midway through.”
Michael knew how she felt, as a young lad, memorizing the long list of titles he would one day inherit had made his head ache. “Good God! It takes half the day just to recite them!”
Abby sighed, “I'm afraid I have unpleasant news, Michael. Mrs. Wolcot wrote me that a girl from the village has gone missing, and a body was discovered in the woods that they believe to be William, the youngest son of Lord Harding. He was found not far from Blagdon Hall and his wounds—well, I shall let you read it for yourself,” she finished, passing the letter to him.
Michael cursed read it through and cursed under his breath. Looking up at Spencer, he said, “He was all but disemboweled, sliced open as if you were gutting a kill from the hunt.”
Abby shivered. “Why? How does this connect with what happened to Sarah?”
Spencer answered the question. “You cannot take the actions of a madman—or madwoman—and expect them to make sense. Clearly whoever is responsible for this falls into that category.”
“We’ll go home soon,” Michael said. “I should have concluded everything I need to in town in just a few days.”
“And I’ll be joining you,” Spencer said. “It sounds as if you'll need someone at your back.”
As Abby left, Spencer looked back at Michael, “The carriage today... Larissa warned me. She said she couldn't be sure it was Whitby. What do you think?”
“I have many enemies.” Michael's admission was reluctant but resolute. “At this time, he's the most likely suspect...Why would they be doing this, and what does it have to do with these bloody antiques?”
Michael, who had been flipping through the ledger looking for the item number from the receipt, paused, having identified the object. “The item they purchased from him was a gold mask, allegedly recovered from a temple of Bacchus and worn by a priestess during rites… That fits Sarah’s description perfectly.”
“So is it Lavinia then who is the true culprit and not her husband?”
“I can’t quite believe that, Spencer. Rupert and Lavinia have a strange relationship. They explore their perversions together, so I can’t imagine that Rupert isn’t involved in some way. He was apparently financing the purchases.”
“What item in your father’s collection would fit with whatever it is they are doing?”
Michael considered it for a moment, and then retrieved a ledger from the desk. It contained a detailed list of his father’s collection of erotic artifacts. The artifacts themselves were stored in a vault, as they were hardly the sort of thing one would display. He scanned the pages quickly until he found the item that had come to mind when he’d first made the connection between the collection and the Whitby’s machinations. “Dionysus’ Chalice… A golden cup, requiring two hands to hold, intricately carved with various depictions of explicit acts. It was rumored to have been used to catch the blood of sacrifices which was then consumed by his followers,” Michael read.
“There are any number of other chalices with a similar purpose, why this one?”
Michael sighed, “I researched this particular chalice as it was my father’s last acquisition before his death. The carvings on the cup depict Dionysus ejaculating into the cup. I don’t think it was used just to drink the blood of sacrifices, but to collect other fluids, as well.”
Spencer grimaced, “Good God, the previous viscount had a strange hobby.”
“You have no idea,” Michael said. “Every item he collected was related to something grotesque or barbaric.”
“So the mask was linked to the cult of Bacchus, and the chalice was used in by a cult of Dionysus, who are simply the respective Roman and Greek equivalents of the same entity… So are there other artifacts?”
“Without a doubt… They’ll need something to do the bloodletting with, and I imagine that is why Lord Harding’s young son met his untimely demise. Harding possessed a dagger that my father had one tried to acquire from him.”
Spencer sat down on the edge of the desk. “The real question is why. What purpose do these items serve for them, other than to play their twisted sexual games? I can’t imagine there isn’t some greater purpose involved, at least in their minds.”
“There are legends that abound about each of these artifacts…that they have mystical properties. But as to their ultimate goal, I couldn't say. Only Rupert and Lavinia can answer that question.”
Dubiously, Spencer commented, “You speak as if you think there might be some truth to this... that these items have some sort of power!”
Michael shrugged. “After what we both witnessed at Briarwood Hall, I no longer hold to the rule that I must see it to believe it. Regardless of whether it can actually happen or not, it seems they believe it, and that makes them dangerous.”
After Spencer had left for the evening, Abby and Michael retired for the night. She was less than pleased with him but had decided to wait until they were alone before making her displeasure known. She plucked the pins from her hair, dismissing Sarah, who left without a word, she began dragging a brush angrily through her hair.
Across the room, Michael couldn’t miss the tension that rolled off her in waves. Her shoulders were squared, and he could see that her jaw was clenched. Deciding to beard the lion in its den, he said, “What have I done?”
Abby whirled on him and said angrily, “I will not be excluded from this investigation… I have just as much at stake as you, if not more! The people of Blagdon are my acquaintances, my responsibility! Not yours! And Lavinia and Rupert are, for lack of a better word, my family and, therefore, my responsibility, as well.”
Michael attempted to placate her, knowing even as he did, it was doomed to fail. “The nature of the information we are looking for is indelicate, to say the least, Abby. It isn’t a matter of excluding you so much as protecting you from things that would shock you.”
She gaped at him, “Rupert and Lavinia have been married for five years, and for five years I have been fending off my brother-in-law’s advances. I have been forced to listen to Lavinia wax on about her amorous adventures, the more perverse, the better! I don’t think you have to worry about my delicate sensibilities! Considering that I have heard all of this and can tell you who she was involved with and when, you are overlooking the fact that I am a valuable source of information!”
He had no argument for that. She was absolutely correct and he’d allowed himself to be blinded to those facts by his desire to protect her. She’d been doing an adequate job of protecting herself before he ever came along. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a short-sighted ass.”
Abby, prepared to embark on another diatribe, stopped short, “Excuse me, but did you just agree with me?”
Michael shrugged as if it was of no consequence, “I did. I allowed my desire to protect you to blind me to the fact that you are quite capable, in most circumstances... I am finding it increasingly difficult to be reasonable when it comes to the matter of your safety. If I could, I would leave this entire matter be. We'd reside in London or at Wilhaven and they cou
ld have bloody Blagdon.”
Abby didn't bother to admonish him for his language, focusing instead on the more pertinent thing he'd uttered. “If you could?”
He looked away from her, fearing that his emotions would be too potent. “I cannot stand idly by while they harm innocent girls... and at the same time, I cannot allow you to put yourself in harm's way. But I will agree to keep you informed of all the things that we discover and invite you to be party to our discussions of these events. You have much to offer and I'd be a fool to ignore it.”
Out of steam, Abby stopped and said, “Oh. I hadn’t expected you to see reason so quickly.”
Michael tugged her into his arms, “In spite of the fact that you routinely rob me of the ability to think, I am accounted to be a reasonably intelligent man.”
A grudging smile tugged at her lips, “I can see that you would be considered so.”
“Thank you. That is high praise, indeed,” he said and kissed her lingeringly.
“You’ll not distract me so easily.” Her tone was both knowing and indulgent as she stepped back from him. “Tell me what you found today.”
Michael loosened his cravat and shrugged out of his waistcoat. “I promise to tell you everything in the morning. I’d prefer to engage in other forms of communication tonight.”
Abby watched him, the confident movements, the heated gaze of his eyes, the sensual curve of his lips. He was truly a magnificent sight. “You give me your word?”
“On my honor, what little of it that there is,” he said, his shirt falling to the floor.
Abby couldn’t get enough air as she watched the play of muscles as he moved, remembering the springy texture of the light dusting of dark hair on his chest, the hardness of his body against hers. She was simply unable to draw enough breath into her lungs to function.
Even as she watched, he tugged off his boots. Then his hands were at the fall of his breeches. The hard ridge of his arousal was plainly visible to her, even through the fabric. With each button that was released, she grew hotter. Her face was flushed, her breathing ragged, and her body aching for him without so much as the brush of his fingers.
As his breeches and small clothes fell to the floor, he walked toward her completely naked. Abby leaned against the dressing table, no longer trusting her own legs to support her weight, shaking as they were. She had never thought a man would be beautiful, but he was.
“You are wearing too much,” he said, whispering hotly against her neck. With deft fingers, he unlaced the back of her gown, her stays; within seconds he had her stripped to her chemise, still wearing her evening slippers with her stockings and garters. His dipped his head, closing his mouth over the hardened bud of her nipple.
Abby’s head fell back and a moan escaped her. The heat of his mouth, the rasp of his tongue and the added friction of the silken chemise were unbearably erotic. His hands cupped her thighs, lifting her so that she was settled more firmly on the dressing table as he continued to ravish her breasts with his mouth.
Her hands slid into his hair, holding his head in place, reveling in each stroke of his tongue, each hot pull of his skilled lips. The scrape of his teeth over one distended nipple made her cry out, arching against him. This was not the gentle lovemaking they had shared before, there was an edge of danger to him that night. He was taking her on a journey and she was not only willing, but eager to explore with him.
“Do you know,” he asked, “How beautiful you are? How the very sight of you can drive a man mad with lust?”
“Show me,” she said, with a challenge.
Michael gripped the neckline of the chemise and with one swift motion, ripped it from her. The sound echoed through the room. He glanced up, and her gaze on him was hot, without fear. He pulled her to her feet and turned her so that she faced the mirror, with him at her back. The silk stockings still covered her long legs and the prettily embroidered garters flashed at her thighs.
With the added height of her evening slippers, his shaft nestled into the cleft of her lush bottom. It was the sweetest hell he’d ever known. He took her hands in his and brought them up, sliding her silken fingertips and his own callused ones over the soft skin of her belly, up to her breasts.
He molded her hands around those tender globes, shaping them with his own. The hard buds of her nipples were visible between their fingers, and in the mirror he met her gaze. He removed his own hands, but by unspoken agreement hers remained. “Show me what you like,” he said, “Touch yourself for me.”
Abby was frozen, immobile; embarrassment warred with desire and the need to please him, to see his blue eyes darken with lust. As always, desire won. Her gaze fastened securely upon his in the mirror, she moved her hands over her breasts, her fingers caressing the pebbled peaks of her own breasts while he watched with hooded eyes.
She could feel the hard pulse of his erection, could feel him thickening and lengthening against her. She fought the urge to press against him, to plead with him just to take her. His gaze was hot, roving over her. It was almost like a touch. Her fingers kneaded the soft globes, plucking at the distended nipples. His hands tightened reflexively on her hips. She smiled, a coquette’s smile, as she heard the slight hitch in his breathing.
“Minx,” he murmured softly.. “Where else do you like to be touched, Abigail?”
She couldn’t say it, and in all honesty, had no words for it. “Michael—“
“Show me,” he whispered, insistently. “Let me see you.”
Embarrassed, but eager, aching with anticipation, she trailed her right hand over her body, down to the juncture of her thighs. He didn’t speak, but his heated gaze communicated everything she needed to know. Parting her legs slightly, her fingers slid through the thatch of dark curls and over the weeping cleft. She leaned back, pressing her back to his chest. She could feel his heart beating a strong tattoo, the rapid rise and fall of his chest as his breathing became ragged. “I can’t do this, Michael…It’s too much.”
He kissed her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over, then soothing with his tongue, “You have no idea,” he said, “What a vision you are. There is nothing more beautiful, more erotic than watching you…seeing your delicate hands move over your flesh.”
The words bolstered her confidence, battled back the doubts and insecurities that had claimed her. With his hot mouth trailing fire over her neck and shoulders, Abby parted the folds of her sex and slid the tips of her fingers over her own moist flesh. The pleasure was intense, as much from the weight of his gaze as from the tentative caress. His hands slid over her hips, over her belly, and he covered her hand with his, pressing deeper, increasing the pressure of her fingertip on the pearl of her sex. Her hips rocked forward, arching into that touch as a harsh gasp escaped her parted lips.
Michael couldn’t wait any longer. The damp heat of her body called to him. Gently he pulled her hands up, placing them flat on the surface of the dressing table, leaning her forward slightly. Instinctively, she parted her legs a bit wider. He’d never seen anything as glorious, as lust inducing, as her narrow waist flaring out into the lush curves of her hips and her magnificent heart-shaped bottom.
He trailed hot kisses from the back of her neck, along the column of her spine, delighting in her shivering response. With a groan, he guided his shaft to her entrance, pausing there, teasing them both with the anticipation of pleasure. She made a small sound of protest, moving against him entreatingly. One day, he thought, he would be able to resist her, but not yet.
He pressed forward, flexing his hips so that he filled her with a slow, sure stroke. She gasped beneath him, crying out with pleasure. Closing his hands over the curve of her hips, he held her still as he began to move, setting a rhythm that would drive them both to the brink of madness. He moved slowly, pressing in with deep, commanding thrusts and then withdrew just as slowly, relishing the drag and resistance of the tight muscles of her sheath.
In the mirror above them, he watched, and when he met her gaze in t
he glass, he knew that she had, as well. It was unbearably erotic, unbearably intimate. He didn’t increase the speed or the intensity, but kept to that same maddening pace, until he could feel her thighs trembling against him. Her soft moans had become demanding cries.
Michael shifted slightly, pressing deeper still. She strained against him, rising on her toes, pressing back against him. “Please, Michael, please,” she cried, all but insensible with need.
It was all the prompting he needed. He slid his arm around her waist, pulling her more firmly against him. His thrusts became faster, harder, as he pressed into her more deeply. He could feel her clenching around him, her release imminent. He moved his hand over her belly, down to the nest of dark curls and slid one finger through them to tease the small, hooded bud that would make her shatter. He pressed against it lightly, massaging gently as he thrust again and again. He felt her shuddering beneath him, gloried in the harsh sounds of pleasure that escaped her. Every quiver of her belly, every quaking muscle in her thighs, spurred him on, until he was lost to his own release. He met her gaze in the mirror, taking note of the sleepy and sated expression on her face. Gently he withdrew from her and scooped her into his arms, carrying her to the bed.
Her body still trembling in the aftermath, Abby said, “Don’t think you’ve completely succeeded in distracting me. I still want to know everything you discussed with Lord Wolverston.” She could feel the rumble of his answering laugh against her.
“I will tell you everything,” he said, “As soon as I can remember my own name.”
Chapter Thirteen
Three days later, Abby and Michael were back in the carriage heading for Blagdon Hall. Spencer was on horseback, riding alongside them. Though Abby had not seen much of the city, Michael had taken her to see the Elgin Marbles. Recalling them made her blush, as did the events that had unfolded after.
As they’d lain in bed, panting and breathless, Michael had told her he would have had replicas installed in their bedchamber had he known what her response would be. As if he’d guessed what she was thinking of, he grinned at her from across the seat.
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