The Pleasure Seekers

by Melanie George

  “Caine!” She raced after him, grabbing him by the arm and swinging in front of him.

  He stared out at the sea, the water whipped into a sudden fury by a sweeping blast of air, the tempest swirling around them, leaving them at its center.

  “What do you think it’s like?” he said, his voice borne on the rising wind. “To fall to your death. No way to turn back. No way to undo it. Seeing flashes of what an abysmal failure your life has been.” A shudder went through his frame. “Do you think you’re free?”

  “No.” She shook her head, the wind whipping her hair across her face. “That’s not freedom.”

  “Don’t you wonder about death? What it would be like to take your fate in your own hands, and just let go?”

  “No, because I want to be here tomorrow, no matter what may happen.”

  “What if there’s nothing to look forward to and tomorrow no longer matters?”

  She stared up at him gravely, terrified that she had stumbled into something beyond her ability to handle. “There’s always something left. You just have to reach for it.”

  “You have all the answers, don’t you?”

  “Not nearly enough,” she said helplessly, “and none where you’re concerned.”

  He looked down at her finally, studying her face. “Why did you give yourself to me?” he asked, an intensity in his eyes that she could not interpret.

  She could lie, spare herself the hurt that honesty might bring. But something told her he needed the truth, that it might make a difference.

  “You told me when I first arrived that I was denying the attraction between us, and you were right. I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life wondering what being with you might have been like.”

  Moonlight reflected off the glittering blackness in his eyes, telling her that he had misinterpreted her words. “So did I appease your curiosity? Touch all the right places?”

  “Please,” she begged in a whisper. “Don’t ruin it.”

  He turned abruptly away from her. “Go back to the house.”

  “Not without you.”

  “I won’t jump, for Christ’s sake,” he ground out, his face stark. “Just go.”

  Bliss didn’t want to leave him. He seemed on the edge. And she thought in that moment that he possessed more fortitude than she did. She had floated through life armored in her beliefs, shielded from most of the world’s harsh realities simply because she was the daughter of a duke—and a woman.

  She had always scorned the role she was destined to play. But she hadn’t considered what it might be like on the other side; how a man, deprived of all he had once known, might feel.

  She opened her mouth, wanting to say something, but they’d be wasted words that he wouldn’t hear. And would they change anything?

  She couldn’t stay here. Couldn’t take the chance of opening herself up for the heartbreak he could so easily inflict. Go home, he had said. Or else, were his unspoken words. If not, he would systematically destroy her.

  Her tears flowed freely as she leaned up and kissed his cheek. “Goodbye,” she whispered, then turned and fled into the night.

  Caine reached for her, a voiceless panic clutching at the back of his throat, closing off the words to call her back, to beg her to stay in his arms another hour, with nothing but his body and hers bound in primitive communion.

  He dropped his arm and damned her for ever coming into his life and making a mockery of everything he had steadfastly believed, for causing him to yearn for things he had vowed he never would.

  He had thought himself immune, believed the walls he had built stone by stone, day after unending day, were impenetrable. But one whisper of his name on Bliss’s lips, a single earthy surrendering to his will, and he had been lost.

  He moaned low in his throat, the sound whipped by the wind as a storm worked its way across the landscape. The far horizon vanished as black clouds billowed toward the hall, thunder rumbling and jagged forks of lightning splitting over the ocean. But the approaching maelstrom was no equal to the roiling ferment inside him.

  He tried to summon up his rage with images of his father’s laughing face and then the unopened casket. The scar on his cheek seemed to suddenly burn. He had been branded, and everyone knew his disgrace. He could not look in a mirror without the constant reminder, without the pain, the anger. The blame.

  But he had gotten his revenge, hadn’t he? Slaked his lust on the daughter of his enemy? He’d had her exactly as he had envisioned her, beneath him, writhing, panting his name, welcoming him into that tight, hot sheath, her fingernails scoring his shoulders as he drove into her.

  He had won.

  So why the hell did he feel no satisfaction?

  And why did he long for the one thing she hadn’t relinquished?

  Her heart.

  Bliss entered the silent house, her mind plagued with mounting doubts about leaving Caine in such a volatile state of mind. If something should happen to him…

  “My lady?”

  Bliss started, her heart in her throat as she turned to find Olivia emerging from the shadows.

  “Are you all right?”

  “Fine, thank you,” Bliss lied.

  “It’s late to be out wandering the moors. You could have hurt yourself, or worse, taken a deathly fall.”

  Caine had saved her from that fate, and what had followed had changed her. “I couldn’t sleep.”

  “I understand. I, too, had difficulty sleeping. It seems my lover is not in residence. Perhaps you’ve seen him?”

  Her lover. The words seemed a purposeful taunt. What did Olivia know? Something glimmered in the woman’s eyes, something that made Bliss feel she was toying with her.

  “Lady Bliss?” she prompted when Bliss made no reply.

  “I’m afraid I don’t know where your…where the earl is. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m quite worn out.”

  “Yes. I imagine you would be.”

  Something in her tone stopped Bliss. “I beg your pardon?”

  The woman glided across the floor to stand in front of her, her gaze slowly running over Bliss, malice showing in full measure.

  “Making love to Caine can be quite an exercise in endurance,” she said with an odd smile that chilled Bliss to the bone. “He can pleasure a woman for hours. Frankly, I’m surprised to see you back here so soon. I expected he would have you until dawn, his obsession to possess you was so strong. I guess his need wasn’t as great as I’d thought.”

  Words of denial automatically sprang to Bliss’s lips, even as a worm of dread uncoiled inside her. “I don’t know what you’re—”

  “Your eyes give you away, my dear. You’re not quite as worldly and sophisticated as you’ve allowed us to think, are you? I must confess to being surprised Caine was willing to put aside his loathing long enough to do the deed. Then again, he had substantial motivation—and I certainly know how devoted he can be to a cause when he puts his mind to it. Quite delicious.”

  Somewhere in the house a clock ticked, measuring each unbearable second.

  “I almost envy you,” Olivia went on calmly. “Caine is a prime specimen when angered, utterly superb. I only hope he hasn’t used all that lovely pent-up frustration on you. I’m feeling ravenous for his brand of lovemaking at the moment. It is the reason I allow him so much leeway, after all.”

  “You knew…?” Bliss uttered, struggling desperately for a normal voice.

  “Of course. I know everything Caine does. I even watched for a while. He was quite the rutting beast, wasn’t he?”

  Bliss’s face grew hot and her body cold. “You watched us?”

  “I suspect half the house watched. We are, as you may have noticed, a rather debauched group.” She ran a finger down Bliss’s neck, laughing softly when Bliss jumped back. “My friends, who used to believe I exaggerated Caine’s extraordinary prowess, simply had to discover the truth for themselves. None of them, to my knowledge, has ever found him lacking. I wouldn’t have tolerated his b
lack moods this long if not for the length of his…endurance, shall we say?”

  Bliss’s throat could barely form words. “I don’t believe you.”

  “Oh, but you should. I know him far better than you. In bed and out, though the latter is a much less frequent occurrence.”

  Denial burned in Bliss’s lungs, but she could not voice it. “Why would he want to hurt me?”

  “You really don’t know, do you?”

  Bliss wanted to slap the woman and wipe that gloating expression off her face, then find Caine and demand an explanation. But she would not allow Olivia the pleasure of seeing her fall apart.

  “No. I don’t know,” she replied, maintaining her composure by the barest thread. “But I can see you’re aching to tell me. So what was it? Did he find me too much of a challenge to resist? Or was it simply that he must seduce any female who steps foot in this house?”

  “If only it were that simple. Caine, as you know, is quite the complicated man. He spends a good deal of time plotting revenge against those who have wronged him. And you, I’m afraid, were an irresistible target.”

  Caine had once told her that he hated her, but Bliss had never truly believed that hate could result from the incident with their horses.

  “What have I done to him?”

  “Nothing, exactly. It has more to do with your father. You were just the unfortunate recipient of Caine’s formidable wrath.”

  “What has my father done?”

  “You are surprisingly uninformed, aren’t you? Though I suspected as much. Had you known what you were facing, perhaps you would have been prepared to fend Caine off. Maybe I should have warned you, but, really, where was the fun in that?”

  For a moment, Bliss could only stare at the woman’s coldly beautiful face. “You put him up to what happened tonight?”

  “No, no, my dear. I was merely a bystander to his plans. Caine thought up this scenario entirely on his own. And it’s no wonder, considering your father was the cause of Caine’s ruin.”

  Bliss shook her head. “I don’t believe you. My father would never hurt anyone.”

  “No? Why don’t you ask him what he knows about Henry Ballinger, then? Ask him about the debt Caine’s father owed him, that led to the earl killing himself.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “Ask Caine, if you don’t believe me. I’m sure he’d be happy to confirm what I’ve said. The debt that sent his father to a tragic, untimely demise was owed to your beloved papa, whom Caine hates with a ferocity that is unparalleled. And defiling the daughter of the man who destroyed his father is a fitting revenge, wouldn’t you say?”

  In that moment, Bliss could see it all so clearly. Caine’s anger, his cruelty, how easily he claimed to hate her. He had refused to open up about his father, refused to let down his guard. Every heated kiss, every searing touch had been a ruthless, calculated prelude culminating in her downfall. He had sworn he would be her ruin.

  And she had gone willingly to the slaughter.

  Part Two

  France

  Love is a deep well from which

  you may drink often, but into

  which you may fall but once.

  Ellye Howell Glover

  Fifteen

  To go away is to die a little,

  It is to die to that which one loves:

  Everywhere and always,

  One leaves behind a part of oneself.

  Edmond Haraucourt

  La Ville Lumière.

  Paris—the City of Light. But tonight, Bliss’s section of the city was dark. Hardly a street lamp was lit outside the apartment she shared with her mother on the Rue de la Chaussée d’Antin.

  She had been home for nearly a week, determined to put Caine out of her mind, but the task proved harder with each passing day. Her anger was the only thing that kept her from despair, from thinking about how she had started to believe he might actually need her.

  He had told her that she should refuse him, push him away, but she hadn’t had the strength to do so. Blaming him for her downfall was much easier than blaming herself, for to blame herself might mean acknowledging deeper feelings.

  It had taken her a few days to summon up the courage to write her father, to question him about what had transpired between him and Henry Ballinger. She didn’t want to believe her father could have been involved in destroying another man’s life, but she had to know the truth, for her own peace of mind. Just that morning, she had received his reply.

  My darling daughter,

  I do not know what has happened to precipitate your inquiry into this matter, though I suspected you might hear of this terrible tragedy when you informed me you were traveling to Northcote.

  Perhaps I should have prepared you for this possibility, but I will confess to cowardice when the time arose. I was afraid of what you might think of me, for I knew the reason behind Henry Ballinger’s death, though it was not common knowledge.

  I hope you will believe me when I say that I would have gladly given the earl more time to pay back the monies he owed me. I knew Henry for years and found him to be an honorable man. I would never have wished him any harm.

  As for his son, I am baffled by the information you have imparted. Caine never came to see me, for if he had, I most certainly would have spoken to him.

  Perhaps I should have gone to him, but I will admit that I felt at a loss for the right sentiment to console him. I worried he would think I was only assuaging my own conscience. For the first time in my life, words eluded me.

  I am still bereaved over Henry’s death, and I feel a certain responsibility toward his son. Perhaps you might convince Caine to come to London and take his place in the House of Lords? He would have my full support should he wish to do so.

  I miss you, daughter. Come home again soon. And tell your mother…well, tell her that I hope she is faring well.

  Your loving father

  By the way, your cousin Court has just informed me that he intends to ask Lady Rebecca St. Claire to be his wife. I wholly approve of the match. He sends his love.

  Relief coursed through Bliss as she folded the letter and tucked it away in a drawer. Her father was innocent of Caine’s charge, as she knew he would be. So why did Caine believe her father had a hand in the earl’s death? Had his accusation merely been a result of grief? A need to place blame, rather than believe his father capable of killing himself? Or had something else happened? Something that could have led him to believe her father was at fault? But what?

  Bliss pushed aside her questions. Caine was no longer her concern, nor had he ever been. She had to concentrate on moving forward, to think about the good news her father had imparted.

  Court was to be married. She was not surprised; he had been completely taken with Lady Rebecca, and Bliss knew they would be very happy together. She was only sorry she had made him worry when she had announced her decision to leave Northcote a day early and return to Paris.

  He had known she was running away, and that her leaving had something to do with Caine. She prayed he’d never discover the full extent of her folly. She would never forgive herself if her own selfish actions caused him to lose Lady Rebecca or have him foolishly call Caine out.

  Since returning home, Bliss had strived diligently to force Caine from her mind, keeping herself busy working on portraits for her patrons. Her studio was set up in the garret, a bright, cheery spot, and the only room in the house that gave her a view of the very heart of Montmartre.

  There was nothing lovelier than the butte when sunlight played on its rich red-ochre soil and peppered the winding gullies and narrow footpaths. Or the evening sky, when it transformed from a soft slate-blue to a crimson-laced pink.

  But no matter how full her days, there was no escaping the long and lonely nights when she had nothing to occupy her thoughts, and dreams of Caine haunted her.

  Some mornings she’d awaken to find her pillow wet from tears, tears she would not allow herself to shed during her
waking hours. Not for a man who had used her as a tool for revenge. Other mornings she’d stir in a fitful slumber, plagued with images of Caine’s heated possession, his hands and lips branding her flesh as he bound her to him with the sensual rhythms of his body.

  Sometimes she would touch the places he had touched, a tingle burgeoning in her nipples, craving the warm tug of his lips, the hot rasp of his tongue, the erotic massage of his fingertips as he teased and tormented. He had cast a spell over her body, ensnaring her in a luxuriant web from which she could not break free.

  “We are mooning again, non?”

  The male voice, so dear and familiar, stirred Bliss from her thoughts. She turned to find her friend, confidant, and often temperamental model, François Gervaux, regarding her from his position on the settee, his eyebrow raised in a concerned question mark, his angelic good looks at odds with the charming devil she knew him to be.

  She had met François five years earlier when she had been sketching a group of gaunt urchins and bedraggled waifs along the Avenue de Clichy, her ire rising as she watched one wealthy peer after the next stroll callously past those young, starving faces without a backward glance.

  François had stood over her shoulder, startling her when he spoke. He, too, had once been among the ranks of the poor, he told her. Abandoned at the age of seven, he had run away from the orphanage where he had been beaten regularly.

  He had made a life for himself on the streets, selling his body, giving himself over to lascivious men who liked the lithe charms of young boys.

  Then a respected artist had spotted him and was struck by his startling beauty. He took François from the streets and set him up as one of his models.

  Since then, François had posed for most of the up-and-coming artists of the Salon, proudly boasting that he had been painted in the buff by such notables as Renoir, Bazille, Degas, and Maître. The man who had taken him in was an elite among the group. His name was Manet.