His glorious buttocks tensed as he bent and climbed on to the bed, sitting in the middle. Taking one cloth, he bound it around his wrist and used his other hand and his teeth to make a tight knot. He did the same with his other wrist, and then he sat up and mirrored his actions with his ankles, so he had a length of white cloth suspended from each of his limbs.
Sitting up, he nodded. “Come here, sweetheart. Tie me to the bed.”
The words were stark, her reaction the same. “What are you talking about?”
“I learned a few things in the House of Correction, and by talking to people afterward.” He sat up and scanned her thinly clad body.
Her tension rose, but this time it was a good tension. She wanted that hunger, to see it more and to stoke it. His lean, muscled form tempted her beyond bearing, warring with the now-familiar terror that threatened to freeze her limbs.
When she rose from her chair, she stripped off her robe and draped it over the back of the chair.
He groaned. “No more. I can see the shape of you beneath that gown, and the adorable cluster of curls decorating your mound.”
Heat rushed over her face, but she didn’t try to hide herself. “What did you learn?” She went to the side of the bed and picked up the first binding, bringing it to the bedpost. Step by step, that was how she’d take this.
“That control is a stimulating addition to intimacy for many. Giving up that control to another person can prove immensely arousing. I am giving my control up to you.”
She walked to the bottom of the bed and secured his ankle. The neckcloths gave enough length that he could lie on the bed, and although he had to stretch out, he was not put under too much tension. But he would not be able to move. He was giving her even that much power, and his trust humbled her.
“You may leave me here, if you wish.” He smiled. “I am trusting you not to, but if you wish, you have the power to do it. Tie the knots tightly, use the knife if you need to release me. Like this, you can touch me all you want to, without the fear of me reciprocating.” His voice shook. “I want you badly, Charlotte.”
By the time she had knotted the fourth strip of linen around the sturdy bedpost, he was erect, his shaft red and straining. As she stared at it, a bead of clear moisture glistened at the tip and she was taken by a strange urge.
Leaning forward with one knee on the bed, she swiped the liquid on her finger and tasted it, closing her eyes to savor it. It tasted of salt and musky male, concentrated Val. At his groan, she opened her eyes. “You look blissful.”
“It’s good.”
Emboldened by his helplessness, she climbed on to the bed and studied him. Longing to touch and taste overwhelmed her. Still in the thrall of need, she took his shaft in her hand. The pulse in it throbbed, each one a heartbeat. She caught her breath, and when a chill crept over her soul, she fought it down, letting her desire for him help her. Her body was at war with itself, two strong emotions, unreasoning terror and powerful need battling for control.
Forcing control, she studied his erection—the large central vein, the hair-covered balls at the base, the sac tight now with their weight. She traced her finger over the shiny head, unable to resist testing its heat and silky strength. He gasped and flinched, his rod moving in response.
Her attention went briefly to his face. He looked as if he were in pain, his lips drawn back over his teeth, his head thrown back. His dark hair was spread over the pillow, wild as his expression. She drank in the sight.
Lowering his chin, he met her eyes. They shared an unspoken lingering regard before she went back to work. Closing her eyes, imagining he was a dish to be savored, she licked him, exploring the delicate dimple at the center with the tip of her tongue and tracing the flanged head, learning its shape. She cupped his balls, cradling them in her hand. The living example of the images she had seen in marble statues fascinated her.
She would have remained there forever, but she wanted more. Touching him still gave her a shock, but it was nothing she could not control. Not like when he came into contact with her. She could explore and push away all visions she didn’t want.
“Take your time,” he murmured. “Think about what you’re doing, savor the pleasure.”
As she traced one finger over the groove from his hip to his groin, she concentrated on the smooth skin under her fingers, and the soft hair surrounding his most intimate parts.
Her own intimate parts were unashamedly wet. She rubbed her thighs together, trying to bring herself some relief.
Every time she stroked him he gave her a response, either a gasp and a cry or a murmured purr of pleasure. She learned how she could drive him mad and how she could pet him to please him. To have such power under her hands excited her, but to have him helpless increased her enjoyment.
“I can touch you,” she said in wonder.
“You can. Stop whenever you wish.” His voice tightened.
She knew without him explaining it that stopping would torture him. The barrier between her and the rest of the world had thinned. She could almost reach out and punch through it. But not quite.
“Let it go,” he murmured. “Don’t think about it. Let’s take what we have.”
He was articulating her thoughts again. He was doing that a lot recently. But it was good advice.
Slowly, Charlotte moved up his body, discovering that when she brushed her nipples against his skin, they both received pleasure.
“Bring them here,” he said. “Let me suck them.”
A mixture of delight and embarrassment set up a strange feeling; pleasure and guilt made for a potent mixture. Propping herself at either side of his head, her legs either side of his, she gazed at him. His eyes were almost black, his lips open, waiting for her.
He pulled and sucked at her breast when she dipped and let him reach it. His erection pressed into her stomach, but she didn’t want it there, so she lifted and let it nestle between her legs, nuzzling the moistness at her center with an eagerness that matched her own. Touching, using her fingers hurt the most, she discovered. So she would use other parts of her body.
He let the nipple leave his mouth with a pop, and she presented the other one, eagerness pushing aside her pain. Tingles swept over her body, pushing her higher and driving her from want into need. She needed him, and she had the means to fulfill that.
Wriggling, she made the adjustment that brought them into alignment. He bit and sucked her breast, his movements more frantic as she tried an experimental push. His erection slid past her opening. She would have to do something different.
Desperation seized her. She wanted him so much she could not bear any further separation. Desire roared through her, urging her to do more.
He kissed around her nipple and drew back, gazing into her eyes. “Sit up. You can control it better that way.” His voice was ragged. “I want you so much, sweetheart. Take me.”
His words emboldened her. Watching him, she drew her knees up to hug his sides and then sat up. She glanced down to see his shaft harder, if it was possible, than when she’d kissed him there. She wanted to do that again, but she needed more. Lifting on to her knees, she took him in her hand and guided him to where she wanted him. His gaze went from her face to her groin as she pushed and took him inside her.
They both groaned. Easy as silk, she slid down on him until he was fully embedded inside her. The intimacy widened her eyes, made her gasp. But they had never done this before, never made love this way. The newness of the experience helped her. They were creating fresh memories that had nothing to do with anything that had gone before.
He sucked in a breath, his chest heaving. “Move.”
Leaning down, pressing her hands against the mattress either side of his big body, she raised herself and slid down on to him again. He held rigid for her, providing the resistance she needed when she plunged down on him.
He cried her name and dragged a breath in noisily as if he found the task difficult. Urging her on with his voice and his bod
y, he sent her mindless. She wanted him, and nothing else mattered. Nobody else existed. They collided in a rhythm that became instinctive as hers rippled with sensation. Pursuing the goal, she quickened her pace and heard him laugh. She joined in, for the sheer joy of it. She was laughing when she came, right until the laugh became a long drawn-out scream.
The glass screen shattered. She was back, and alive.
Charlotte woke up with a bird shrieking the dawn chorus outside the bedroom window.
“We need to work on your knots,” he murmured sleepily to her and kissed the top of her head.
She snuggled in to her husband, enclosed in his arms, and it didn’t hurt a bit.
Author’s Note
The Duke of Rochfort is based on two real-life Georgian dukes—The Duke of Somerset and the Duke of Richmond. Somerset was known as “The Proud Duke.” He was a notorious stickler for pomp and carried etiquette to the extreme, when it suited him. He insisted that his children always stand in his presence, and he only gave them permission to sit if necessary, like at dinner. Famously he disinherited one of his daughters for sitting; she’d fainted after six hours standing in attendance on him.
The Duke of Richmond wasn’t so pompous, but he was the father of the Lennox sisters, beauties who captivated society, even to a royal level. At one point, serious negotiations went on when the future George III fell passionately in love with the second daughter. This duke also disinherited his daughter when she ran off with Henry Fox the politician, but she was later allowed back into the fold when her husband became successful and influential. Of course, I exaggerated him a bit and added some characteristics that neither duke had, although both were believers of “spare the rod and spoil the child.”
There really was a House of Correction in or around the vicinity of Covent Garden. It specialized in flagellation, which was known by the French as “The English Vice.” Of course where sex is concerned, nothing can be taken for granted, but it seems that a mixture of children being brought up with the “spare the rod and spoil the child” discipline may have led to the plethora of prints, stories and accounts of houses that specialized in it. The house (or to be more precise, houses) led to an exploration of the darker side of sexual practices, and later in the century, de Sade and Sado-Masoch.
As for the abduction and that theme—I use it a fair bit because there was an epidemic of abductions in the 1740s and 1750s. Men abducted heiresses to force them into marriage, and it got so bad that a law was enacted in 1753, laying down the rules of marriage much more clearly than they had ever been before. However, abductions still occurred. If a young woman was despoiled, the abductor would expect her family to marry her to him to save her good name.
That was why a young woman of good family, especially an heiress, was surrounded by servants and had a chaperone.
In the sex scenes, I try to use only terms that were available to the people at the time, so “climax” and “having sex” weren’t possible, but some others were. Until the advent of the family planning movement in the early twentieth century, terms were more direct.
John Fielding, the magistrate of Bow Street Magistrate’s Court, aka The Old Bailey, had claimed the job after the death of his brother, the author of Tom Jones, Henry Fielding. The brothers were as clean as a magistrate could be at the time and presented several White Papers to Parliament on the subject of law reform. In 1749, they established a group of thief-takers, who were partly salaried but mostly got their remuneration from rewards.
The law was very different then than it is now. Most crimes were punishable by death, though in practice many were commuted to transportation or imprisonment, but in the main, prisons were places a criminal was kept until his or her trial. Newgate Prison was close by, and the prisoners were brought directly to the court.
John Fielding was knighted in 1761. He was blind, caused by an accident in his youth, and he was fond of wearing a black band over his eyes in court, to emphasize his state, and point out that justice was supposed to be blind.
Meet the Author
Lynne Connolly was born in Leicester, England, and lived in her family’s cobbler’s shop with her parents and sister. She loves all periods of history, but her favorites are the Tudor and Georgian eras. She loves doing research and creating a credible story with people who lived in past ages. In addition to her Emperors of London series and The Shaws series, she writes several historical, contemporary and paranormal romance series. Visit her on the web at lynneconnolly.com, read her blog at lynneconnolly.blogspot.co.uk, find her on Facebook, and follow her on Twitter @lynneconnolly.
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