Lord Savage

by Mia Gabriel

  “Respectful!” I felt scorned and humiliated and angry, but not in the least respected.

  Yet, he was likely right about the other guests, and especially Baron Blackledge. I would rather wander unattended in a city street than chance meeting him in the hall.

  “Sleep here,” Savage continued. “In the morning, you may do as you please. Return to your rooms, return to London, return to New York.”

  A quick, bitter smile flickered across his face. “Or go straight to the Devil. Your choice. I’m sure you know the way.”

  “If I do, it’s because you have shown it to me.” I raised my chin and folded my arms over my breasts, striving to appear aloof and deny how much his words had stung my pride. “Good night, Lord Savage.”

  “Good night, Mrs. Hart.” He set the glass on the mantel and bowed with undeniable sarcasm. “‘May flights of angels sing thee to thy rest.’”

  I didn’t answer. I was sure I’d heard that before, that it was a quotation from some famous poem or song, but the last thing I wished to do was reveal my ignorance, and let him dismiss me again as a vulgar American philistine.

  Defiantly I pulled the costume back over my head and tossed it aside, letting him see exactly what he was missing. Then I returned to the bed, settling in the center of it against the pillows, pointedly not covering myself with the sheets. I hoped I resembled the woman in the painting over his desk, flagrant and without shame, and I hoped he’d think so as well.

  Now it was my turn to watch him as he walked across the bedroom, and my turn, too, to admire him as he did. He moved with athletic ease, confident in his own self. I hated to admit it now, but I remained intensely attracted to him, and seeing his usually immaculate dress disheveled only made me more excited.

  Even in the middle of this quarrel—which, I supposed, was what it was—he was in no hurry to leave the room, but walked at the pace that he chose, shoving his shirtsleeves back from his wrists.

  But at the door, he stopped, and turned around to face me one last time, his pale blue eyes so intense that, again, I caught my breath.

  “Believe me or not, Eve,” he said softly. “But know that I’ll be very disappointed if, in the morning, you decide to leave me. Bonne nuit, ma chérie.”

  Then he closed the door, and was gone.

  It was not the way I had expected the night to end, nor would I ever have wished it this way. I rose and slowly went about the bedroom, snuffing the last of the candles that hadn’t already guttered out. Bright flames vanished into twisting wisps of smoke, the scent of burned wax and disappointment.

  I slipped back into the bed and drew the covers up high. The sheets smelled of him, and with keen regret I buried my face into the pillow, remembering everything and breathing deeply.

  It was a poor substitute for the man who’d left me.

  Before I slept, I took care to shift to one side of the bed, leaving the side nearest the door open for him. I wasn’t sure why, since I’d no real reason to expect Savage to change his mind and join me, yet still I did it.

  And then, feeling weary and confused, I finally drifted off to sleep.

  * * *

  I was not by habit an early riser, and by the time I roused myself the next morning, the sun was streaming through the windows and across the bed. For a long time I hovered between sleep and full wakefulness, freely drifting back into unconsciousness. Why shouldn’t I? The bed was warm, the sky was blue, and birds were singing cheerfully outside the window.

  I smiled and stretched, content, and at last dragged my eyes slowly open.

  I was not in my bedroom, not in New York or in any of my other houses. I was not in a steamship cabin, or a hotel that I recognized, either. There were tall windows with stained glass at their pointed tops, silver candlesticks with burned-down candles, and a view of rolling green fields and formal gardens.

  And under the sheets, I was completely naked.

  Disoriented, I swiftly widened my eyes and rolled over.

  Sitting in the armchair before me was Lord Savage, wearing a carelessly tied silk paisley robe and nothing else beneath.

  “Good morning,” he said, the same nonchalant greeting he’d have used if we’d met downstairs in the breakfast room. “I trust you slept well?”

  “I—yes, good morning,” I stammered, pulling the sheets modestly high over my bare breasts. Now that I was awake, the memory of last night came racing back, and I flushed. Being naked in Lord Savage’s bed by candlelight seemed very different from being in his bed this morning, with the streaming sunshine and the chirping birds in the branches outside the window.

  I glanced at the pillow beside mine to see if he’d lain there while I’d slept.

  “I kept my word, Mrs. Hart,” he said, reading my thoughts. “I left you in peace to sleep alone.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” I said self-consciously. For now, at least, he seemed to have put aside the Game, and I slipped back to using his title just as he’d used my married name.

  He was newly shaved, his jaw gleaming and sleek, and he must also have just bathed. His hair was combed wetly back from his forehead, and even at a distance I caught the scent of the spicy lime soap that he favored. I’d never imagined any man being such a tempting sight so early in the morning.

  But tempting or not, I’d no idea where I stood with him, or worse, where I wished to be standing. We’d both been furious when we parted last night. My temper had definitely cooled since then, but it was impossible to tell his mood from his demeanor.

  Was he trying to coax me into staying, or was he simply being the well-bred host with the perfect manners before he escorted me back to my rooms to pack?

  He wasn’t making it easy for me, either, sitting there with his eyes half closed and just enough of a smile on his face to show one dimple. He shifted in the chair, making himself more comfortable, and the slippery silk of his robe slid farther open over his chest and across his well-muscled thighs. At once I thought of what else was barely hidden by the paisley silk, of the cock that I’d never had the chance to see last night.

  No, he wasn’t making this easy for me at all.

  I smoothed a lock of my tangled hair behind my ear. I was acutely aware of how untidy and unwashed I was, especially in comparison to him, now well groomed by Barry. The trail of clothing that he’d discarded last night was gone from the floor, and the blackened and guttered candles had all been cleaned away and replaced.

  My costume had been replaced by a new, fresh one as well, folded and waiting for me on the bedside table, with my shoes side by side on the floor below and my silk stockings rolled and tucked inside with the jeweled garters. It was mortifying proof that the servant had also come in while I’d slept.

  “I’m sorry to have inconvenienced you, my lord,” I said tentatively. “I trust you slept well yourself.”

  “I didn’t,” he said. “I spent most of the night here, while you slept.”

  “You watched me?” I asked, unsettled by the intimacy of what he’d done. The last person who’d watched me while I slept must have been a nursemaid or governess when I was a child. Not even Arthur had spent an entire night in my bed.

  He nodded. “I didn’t watch you, Mrs. Hart, so much as watch over you. There is a difference.”

  “I, ah, suppose there must be,” I said, though I wasn’t sure there was. Did he really feel that I’d needed protecting? Had I been at risk from the other masters even here, in his bedroom? “A difference, that is.”

  “There is,” he said firmly. “You say your husband did not satisfy you. Did you ever love him?”

  I hadn’t expected that, especially not so soon after I’d awakened. I considered dissembling, the way I’d always done with Arthur; really, our entire marriage had been a lie. But with Savage I felt drawn to tell the truth, especially about this.

  “No,” I said softly. “I never loved him, nor did he love me.”

  “Then why did you marry?” he asked. “You are an independent woman. I cannot co
nceive of you being forced to do anything.”

  I smiled sadly. “I was very young,” I said. “Only seventeen. I liked the fuss, the excitement, of being a bride.”

  “But not a wife?”

  “Not Arthur’s wife, no,” I said, and sighed. “There was never any excitement in that. But I’d no choice. My father made that clear enough. Arthur was his business partner, and our marriage was a way of cementing their assets between them. I know it must sound preposterous to you.”

  “Not at all,” he said. “There are a good many English parents who will sell their daughters’ souls for a title.”

  I hadn’t expected that kind of sympathy from him, or the warmth of understanding in his voice. I’d been right to tell him the truth, right to confide in him as I had in no one else.

  “Did you love your wife?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes,” he said, his expression clouded with melancholy. “I loved her more than was wise. I married her to save her. And I couldn’t. No one could. But I was blinded by love, and suffered for it, too.”

  “I’m sorry,” I murmured, all I could think to say after such a confidence. I wondered what had become of his wife, though the finality in his voice kept me from asking more. I understood that what he’d just told me was something he seldom shared, the same as I’d kept the truth of my marriage to myself as well.

  Oh, Savage and I were alike, uncannily so. Each had let the other see a secret part of the past, of our private being, and in the process we’d drawn ourselves together a little more closely.

  He shook his head, seeming to shake away the memories he clearly did not wish to revisit. He sighed, and rested his head on his hand.

  “You understand now why I did not wish to let you slip from my sight,” he said. “As beautiful as you were by candlelight, Mrs. Hart, you are even more extraordinary now.”

  From any other man, this would have been a simple compliment, but from him, after what he’d just told me of his wife, it felt far more complicated.

  Then he smiled, sending a fresh jolt of desire racing through my blood, and things became more complicated still. When he smiled at me like this, I instantly forgot everything except how he’d kissed me last night, how he’d caressed my breasts, how he’d made me whimper with longing as he’d licked me into shameless, blissful oblivion.

  Hastily I looked down at my hands, tightly clutching the sheet.

  “Shall I call for my maid so I might dress for breakfast?” I asked. “I know it’s late, but I’m sure Lady Carleigh will have some manner of repast waiting for her guests.”

  “Oh, she will,” he said easily. “Her breakfasts are generally well attended. But if I were to appear with you at my side, Mrs. Hart, on the first morning, it would be a sign that I was either dissatisfied or bored with you. It would mean that I was willing to share you with the other Protectors, or at the very least to have you perform for their amusement.”

  I flushed again. “I do not believe I would, ah, enjoy that.”

  “No,” he agreed. “Nor would I. But the true question is what exactly would you enjoy, Mrs. Hart? The choice is yours. Shall we forget the unfortunate close to last night, and begin the Game anew?”

  So he was giving me a second chance. I doubted very much that I’d receive a third. I thought of the pleasure he’d given me last night, of how much he’d already taught me about my desires. But mostly I thought of how much more I had to learn—and how I’d never find another teacher quite like him.

  Nor, if I listened to the desire thrumming through my body, did I wish for any other.

  But before I agreed, there was a question that I needed to ask, and that he needed to answer.

  “I am willing to forget the unfortunate aspects of last night, my lord,” I said carefully, “and recall only the more pleasurable ones—”

  “Excellent, Mrs. Hart! I am—”

  “No, my lord, I am not finished,” I said swiftly, not wanting to be distracted. “I wish to know why you refused to—to lie with me last night.”

  “Why?” He stared at me, not understanding. “I told you. You disobeyed the rules. You were the Innocent, and I the Protector, and it was my decision to make, not yours.”

  “You didn’t let the rules concern you when you were with Lady Telford in the garden!”

  “No, because there are no rules in a Belgravia garden,” he said, then smiled with male smugness. “So what really concerns you is not the rules, or the Game, but how you compare yourself to another lady.”

  My cheeks warmed. “I know it must appear that way, but I assure you that—”

  “Mrs. Hart, let me make this clear to you,” he said firmly, his smile fading and his eyes darkening. “Lady Telford means less than nothing to me, while you are the most extraordinarily desirable woman I have ever met. There is no other like you.”

  Desirable. No man had ever called me that. It was better than being beautiful, better than being rich, and best of all was hearing it said by Lord Savage.

  No, not quite. Best of all was having him look at me like that when he said it.

  “The most extraordinarily, sinfully desirable woman,” he repeated, leaning forward in his chair with growing impatience. “In fact, Mrs. Hart, I cannot recall another woman in my life that I have wanted with such fervent desperation as I do you.”

  “Do you?” I breathed. How was it that his words alone could cause the arousal now flickering through me?

  “I do,” he said, his voice lowering to the near growl that only made me hotter. “From the moment I saw you in that ballroom, I’ve wanted you. I’ve wanted to fuck you, fuck you so long and hard and well that you’d be overflowing with my come, and it still wouldn’t be enough. I’ve wanted to fuck you so you’d never stop wanting me, or thinking of the next time we’d fuck again.”

  “I want you now,” I said, almost dizzy with longing. How could I not be, when he promised so much? “I want you even though we haven’t—haven’t—”

  “Say it,” he said, teasing me. “Say it properly. Forget you’re a lady, and say it like a woman who wants a man.”

  I swallowed. “I want you to fuck me, and do everything you say, my lord. And—and more.”

  He grinned. “Are you saying you will stay, Mrs. Hart? That you will be my Innocent, and accept me as your Protector?”

  “Yes,” I said eagerly, my last doubts evaporating. “Oh, yes, Master.”

  He folded his arms over his chest, the robe slipping over his muscled biceps, and leaned back in the chair. “I’m not sure I should believe you, Eve.”

  “No!” I gasped with dismay. Then I realized he’d called me Eve, and that he’d seamlessly begun the Game again. “That is, Master, I regret that you do not believe me.”

  His smile was slow and wicked. “Perhaps I should test your obedience, Eve, and judge for myself if you are prepared to be an obliging Innocent.”

  “Whatever pleases you, Master.” I pushed my hair back from my face and sat upright, prepared to do whatever he might ask. I hoped it would be within reason, and even if it wasn’t, I’d a reckless feeling that I would do it anyway. Savage had that effect on me.

  “Very well, Eve,” he said. “You must prove it to me. First I would have you stop clutching that sheet in such a show of empty modesty, and bare your breasts to me.”

  “Yes, Master.” That was easily done, and at once I dropped the sheet and shoved it down around my waist. I straightened my spine to raise my breasts higher, and smiled proudly.

  “A fair beginning.” His gaze immediately dropped to my breasts. “Now I want you to rub your nipples until they’re stiff.”

  I blushed again, and gingerly covered my breasts with my hands.

  He shook his head. “Not like that, Eve. Don’t be gentle. I want you to pinch your nipples, pull them, twist them until they’re as hard and red as ripe cherries.”

  Still I hesitated. It was not so much embarrassment that held me back, but simply not knowing what to do, the same as it had been ea
rlier with Simpson. When I was very little, I had a nursemaid who’d slapped my hands if she caught them beneath the bedcovers, and the training had stuck with me since then. I didn’t touch myself anywhere.

  Until now. I gave my breasts another uncertain squeeze.

  “Harder, Eve,” Savage urged. “Remember what I did to you last night, and do it to yourself. Think of me, and do it.”

  Thinking of him not only made it easier, it made me imagine his hands on my breasts instead of my own, his large, slightly rough fingers squeezing and tugging at my nipples and caressing the full, pillowy flesh around them. I remembered last night, just as he’d bidden, and how I’d twisted and arched with abandon on Savage’s lap, on the same chair where he sat now.

  I drew my nipples out and pinched just the tips, exactly as he had done to me, and gasped at how the pleasure shot straight through my body to my core. I lifted my breasts, cradling them in my hands and then crushing then back against my ribs, and in return my breasts seemed to swell in my hands, aching with sensation.

  My lips parted, and my breath broke into a ragged panting. I pressed my thighs tightly together because I couldn’t help it, thankful that the sheets still covered me below the waist so he couldn’t see how shamelessly I sought to ease the growing ache there, too.

  Not once did I look away from Savage. I was determined to let him see that I could be as obedient as any other Innocent, and do exactly what he asked. Besides, the sight of him stretched there before me, watching me so closely, served only to feed my desires, as if he were the prize for my performance.

  Though of course, after the last time, there were no guarantees.

  “My greedy little Innocent,” he said. He was trying hard to remain calm, a worldly, blasé observer, but his face was flushed and his breathing was growing as irregular as my own. “You like to have your tits squeezed, don’t you? Even if you must do it yourself?”

  “Yes, Master.” I gasped, and my fingers spread widely around my trembling breasts.

  “You’re so beautiful like this,” he said, his voice a growl. “You’re on fire now, aren’t you?”