My Three Masters

by Juniper Bell

  I’m ashamed to admit that I lived for those stories. Shocking and titillating though they were, when I crawled into my tiny cot in my mistress’s dressing room, I thought of nothing else. It was as if I were transported into another world. A dungeon, perhaps, where I hung helplessly in chains, my arms stretched overhead, my naked body exposed to the ruthless black gaze of the devil himself. With that sardonic twist of his mouth I’d come to know, he’d come closer, closer, then he’d lift one gloved hand, touch his finger to my nipple and a shivery sensation would sing through me. I’d sag against the chains, panting and begging for… I knew not what.

  I’d sneak my hand between my legs, where my fingers would dip into a soft, liquid slipperiness. There was a spot there, just there. If I rubbed it a certain way, a seed of a feeling would blaze to life. My heart would begin to pound, my breath come fast, and soon joy would shriek through me. As I arched and held my hand tight against my throbbing body, the horror of the world would disappear.

  Maybe it was wrong—it probably was wrong—but when everything has been ripped away from you, such considerations don’t carry much weight.

  The Marquis hadn’t left Beaumont House. He’d decided to stay the night. Servants always know such things, and I would have known in any case. The very air felt different when he was present. Even now, I felt his dark existence pulling me as if it were some magnetic force. How could I work for him when he unsettled me so? It would be impossible.

  The solution was simple. I had to tell him that I had no intention of entering his household. And I had no reason to wait another moment. The Marquis was a notorious night owl. No doubt he was in the billiards room or perhaps the library.

  I rose to my feet and drew on the simple brown homespun dress I wore over my shift. I left off my pattens as they made too much noise for the quiet nighttime household. I stole through my mistress’s room and ran silently down the stairs.

  I didn’t have to search far. The door to the library was slightly ajar and firelight flickered within. I tiptoed to the door and peered in. The Marquis sat sprawled in a leather armchair squarely in front of the hearth. He must have asked a footman to move it, or perhaps he’d done so himself, the unpredictable man. One hand dangled to the side, a snifter of brandy held carelessly in its loose grip. I wondered if he was asleep, or merely in his cups.

  That question was answered soon enough.

  “Who’s there?” he drawled thickly, the “s” and the “th” melding together on his tongue.

  In his cups, most decidedly.

  Cautiously I came closer. I’d seen the Marquis in a drunken state before, and I knew he didn’t become threatening. But he was always a man of whom to be wary. “It is I, Miss Brown, your wife’s nurse.”

  “Miranda,” he murmured, and I knew a moment of shock that he knew my given name. “Don’t lurk behind me. Come around here.” He gestured with his glass.

  I approached him the way one might a wild boar. Step by step, he guided me to the spot where he wanted me, which was right in front of him, between the man and the fireplace. Warmth from the low fire caressed my back. Heat from the Marquis’ gaze scorched my front.

  He regarded me with black, heavy-lidded eyes. I wasn’t accustomed to such scrutiny. Most people barely saw me—a plain, inconsequential servant in brown. A heavy sensation weighed down my limbs, and for a long moment I forgot why I’d come.

  “So I’m to be your new master,” he said, one side of his mouth curling in a mocking half-smile.

  Yes, that’s what it was, the topic I’d come to discuss. I opened my mouth, but he forestalled me.

  “I have many bad habits, chérie, but employing innocents has never been one of them. Something will have to be done.”

  The fact that I’d thought precisely the same thing fled my mind. “I believe I’d make an excellent employee.”

  He smiled, that glittering, complicated smirk for which he was famous. “I have no doubt. I’ve seen how loyally you’ve served my wife. But would you be such a faithful servant to one such as myself? Perhaps you know my reputation.”

  Color flooded my face. I knew his reputation perhaps better than he did himself. I was fascinated by it.

  Once, in a moment of spectacular boldness, I’d asked the Marquise why she’d married him if he was so sinful. She laughed until she began to cough and I had to fetch her some mullein. When the spasms died down, she answered, “We were two of a kind, or so I thought. But the bastard disappointed me. He left me in hell, all alone.”

  Had she banned her husband from her bed? I never once witnessed any moment of physical intimacy between them. I never saw him enter her bedchamber before that final conversation. Why did she allow so many others to partake of her favors when she denied them to her rightful husband? The husband whose bedroom exploits provided fodder for a thousand stories during the year I cared for her. The husband who haunted my dreams and made that place between my legs burn with need.

  I put my hands to my scalding cheeks. “Yes,” I admitted stiffly.

  “And yet you’re still willing to enter my household?”

  No. Of course I wasn’t. That was why I’d ventured into the library. But I found myself nodding. He shifted his legs so his knee brushed against my dress. His head tilted backward so it rested on the russet leather chair back. He looked utterly disreputable, and utterly fascinating. “I’m not sure I believe you.”

  I said naught. I felt guilty, as though I’d been caught in a lie.

  “I’m afraid I’ll require some proof.”

  “Proof?”

  “Proof that you’re fit to work for me. I require a certain ease with one’s sexual nature. I cannot have prudes in my house. Are you a prude, Miss Miranda Brown?”

  The diabolical glitter in his eyes made my knees weaken. This was how I’d always imagined him in my midnight fantasies. For a wild moment, I wondered if I was dreaming this whole encounter. I swayed from side to side.

  “My dear, you look a bit faint,” said the Marquis. “Perhaps you should lean against that mantel behind you.”

  I glanced behind me. A beautiful rose marble mantelpiece protruded from above the hearth. My mistress had a taste for ornate Italian design. I could comfortably lean my shoulders against it, but that would take me farther away from the Marquis, and I discovered I didn’t want that. I shook my head.

  “Then come here and stand between my legs. I promise to keep you upright.” He said the word “upright” with light irony, as if referring to more than my stance.

  I stared at him with wide eyes. Perhaps now was the time to tell him I wouldn’t work for him. Couldn’t work for him. Instead, I took a step forward, then another, until I stood between his two long legs clad in fine garnet velvet. His boots shone in the light of the fire. His waistcoat was slightly open, his cravat hanging to one side. His dark hair fell over his forehead in unruly waves. I’d never seen the impeccable Marquis in such disarray.

  “Are you quite all right, milord? Shall I fetch a tonic for you?”

  “Don’t waste your worry on me. I’m merely drinking to my soon-to-be late wife.” He raised his glass and swallowed more brandy. “Besides, I don’t want you to leave yet. I still haven’t gotten my proof yet.”

  “Really, milord—”

  “It’s nothing overly difficult. It won’t take long, the matter of a mere moment.”

  Excited chills raced up my spine. What was he referring to? The way he was speaking, and watching me with those lazy black eyes, it had to be naughty. Again I swayed, but he caught me between his strong legs. Through my dress, through his velvet breeches, I felt the heat of him, and it made my head swim as if I’d been drinking the brandy. “Wh…what?” I whispered.

  “Let me look at you.”

  He was looking at me. Closely. Heatedly. Confusingly. “But, sir, you are—”

  “Lift your dress.”

  The quiet words dropped into the library like stones into a well. Lift my dress. The Marquis wanted me to expo
se my private area to him. And that very region of my body seemed to pulsate with the desire to do just that. Heat tingled between my legs. I stared at him, feeling flushed and chilled in alternating waves.

  He stared back and I knew his message. If I wanted to leave—the library or his employ—now would be the perfect moment to do so. Should I choose to remain, well, the dark promise in his wicked face left no doubt that I’d be traveling down a road to new sensual horizons.

  The silence held us for long, prickling moments. Only the fire intruded, its crackle echoing the tumult inside me.

  Then I lowered my hands to my thighs and grasped the drab homespun of my dress. He relaxed his legs, giving me room. I bunched up the material, drawing the hem off the floor. Slowly, inch by inch, I raised it, feeling the fire-warmed air touch my ankles, then my calves, then my knees. I watched the Marquis devour each new discovery with his hungry gaze. Surely this must be a dream. Surely I wasn’t disrobing in front of the most notorious rake in London.

  Under that insistent, avaricious gaze, I didn’t stop until half my thighs were exposed. Then I paused.

  “Oh no,” said the Marquis in a roughened voice. “You’re not to stop there. Such shapely and tender flesh I see displayed before me, as if a Greek nymph has invaded my library and decided to torment me with her beauty. Pray continue.”

  Beauty! It had been so many years since anyone had used such a word with me. It was nearly as seductive as the lustful cast of his dark features, the dusky flush on his cheeks.

  A sense of power swept through me. At this moment, the Marquis was at my mercy. I piled more bunches of fabric into my hands and raised my dress, and my shift along with it, to my waist. I was bare beneath it. Air stirred the small thatch of curls that hid my secrets. I squeezed my eyes shut, taking refuge in blessed darkness. But I could still sense his heated gaze homing in on my nether regions.

  My belly clenched with fierce excitement. I felt moisture rise between my legs. I shifted from one foot to the other in an agony of anticipation.

  “I’m going to touch you now,” he said firmly.

  I nodded, even though he hadn’t asked my permission. I knew that if I wanted to, I could drop my skirts and flee. But I’d been waiting so long for his touch, so many sleepless nights had I envisioned a scene much like this one. I drew in a breath and waited for what seemed an eternity.

  Then a finger lit on the very spot that cried out for release. I jumped and nearly let go of my skirts.

  “Easy now,” he murmured. “Just as I suspected. You’re so slick and satiny. How I’d love to lick you until you scream.”

  Lick me? My hands trembled.

  “Not to mention all the other things I have in mind.” He ran his hands over my thighs, my hipbones and the quivering valley between them. “But I shouldn’t mention those to such innocent ears as yours.” He returned his hand to my mound and slid his thumb across the place that made me jump.

  “Do you ever touch yourself here?”

  I squeezed my eyes closed even tighter. How had he known that?

  “I see that you do. So you know what marvelous thing will happen if I keep rubbing your dainty little clitoris.”

  So that’s what it was called.

  “Has any man ever touched you here? Be truthful now.” He pinched my “clitoris” and I gave a muffled squeal at the piercing pleasure of it.

  “No.”

  “A virgin, through and through. The possibilities are entrancing.” The motion of his thumb increased. I staggered but he held me steady with his other hand. “I want to see you come, right here in front of me. It will be my first act as your master. Do you understand me?”

  I gasped at the change in his voice, from soothing to commanding. I nodded quickly. I’d heard the term “come” in the Marquise’s bedchamber, but I’d never been entirely sure what it referred to. Whatever it was, I was beyond denying him anything. My limbs shook as bright waves of feeling rippled from my head to my toes. My body seemed to have taken the helm, refusing to listen to my better judgment. Hunger and a sort of avid curiosity ruled me. I wanted more, I wanted him, I wanted the feelings he was arousing so expertly.

  A finger probed inside me, the sensation so alien and intriguing, I felt my tissues clench against it. “How sweet you are,” he muttered. “Like a tender fruit waiting to be split open. I do believe I might be the perfect master for you after all.”

  One swift, sure movement of his thumb and I plunged over the edge into that sweet shivery rush that provided the only refuge in my dreary days. But this was so much more, so much deeper and longer and more…extravagant than anything I was able to grant myself. Gripped between his leg, I shuddered and panted for long, endless moments against his hand.

  “That’s right, my sweet, come for me, long and hard, that’s the way,” chanted the Marquis.

  As I came down from that incredible peak of pleasure, reality also descended like a dark veil of shame. I’d just lifted my skirts and taken my pleasure before the despicable Marquis de Beaumont. What kind of person was I?

  I wrenched myself away from his grasp and fled toward the door, which was still open. Anyone could have entered, and I would have been none the wiser, lost in my illicit passion.

  The Marquis called after me but I ignored him. I hurtled through the hall and up the stairs. He wouldn’t dare to come in the Marquise’s bedchamber uninvited, so I knew I was safe in my little cubbyhole. As soon as the door closed behind me, I began to pack. I’d stay until the Marquise had passed on, then I’d leave. If I was lucky, I’d never have to see the Marquis again, never have to face the lustful side of myself he’d exposed so ruthlessly.

  * * * * *

  Dorchester House—Lady Alicia’s sitting room—A week later

  Lady Alicia, the Countess of Dorchester, held her six-month-old baby on one knee and bounced her up and down. “Are you sure you don’t want to kiss her? She is a female, after all.” She gave her guest a ravishingly naughty smile.

  The Marquis of Beaumont shuddered. “I think not, my dear, though I will admit your new daughter has brought an even greater glow to your lovely face.”

  “I never thought to be this happy,” she said simply. “I only wish everyone could be so.”

  “You can cross me off that particular list,” he said bitterly.

  “You haven’t mentioned the Marquise’s death,” continued Lady Alicia.

  “Have I not?”

  “No, you have not. And I find it odd.” Alicia had never been one to shy from the truth. Her outspoken honesty had drawn his attention when she’d been little more than a child. It hadn’t changed one whit since then.

  “Why should you find anything about me odd after all we’ve been through?”

  “Are you saddened by her death? Rejoicing? Come now, Gerard, you needn’t mince words with me.”

  The Marquis rose to his feet, sauntered to a bottle of brandy that awaited on a neatly arranged tray. “Must you always extract the emotions from a man as if you were drawing out a rotten tooth?”

  “If you need brandy to deaden the sensation, help yourself.”

  “Excellent notion.” He poured himself a snifter-full and stared down at the amber liquid. Miranda’s eyes were a few shades more brown than this brandy, and her hair… With sudden clarity, he knew her hair wasn’t horsehide brown. She dyed it. He swung around to face Alicia. “I’m puzzled.”

  “Puzzled?” Alicia tugged on the bellpull. A moment later a gray-haired nursemaid appeared. Alicia handed the baby girl to her and she hobbled off.

  “A bit long in the tooth to be tending a baby, is she not?”

  “Are you attempting to distract me? It won’t work. Why are you puzzled?”

  “Because I seem to have inherited something from my wife. Someone, to be accurate. A girl.”

  “A girl? A baby girl?”

  “Nothing of the sort.” He had reason to know that Miranda was fully, most lusciously grown. “She tended the Marquise during her final ill
ness and I barely heard her speak ten words the entire time. And yet…”

  “And yet?” Lady Alicia raised an eyebrow. All of them knew she and the Marquis had a special bond, one that went hand in hand with their sexual affinity.

  “She fascinates me. There’s a secret there, perhaps more than one. She has a terrifying scar that runs the length of her face from her hairline to her jaw. It’s nearly the purple of an aubergine, and it’s raised and vicious and swollen. At first it was difficult to look at her. I almost didn’t notice the sweet body she hides under her nursemaid uniform. But…”

  Alicia erupted into a peal of merry laughter. “Only you, Gerard. Only you could lust after your wife’s deathbed nurse.”

  Gerard didn’t bother to look shamefaced. “I don’t merely lust after her. I’m intrigued. I want to know her secrets. Who scarred her? She can’t be more than twenty. Why is such a young woman working as a nurse? How was she able to inspire loyalty in a woman as hard-hearted as Angelique?”

  “Twenty…” Alicia murmured.

  “If that. She’s painfully young, yet there’s a look in her eyes as if she’s lived ten lifetimes. And yet I see no bitterness there. As crotchety and whimsical as Angelique could be, I never saw her lose patience or say a sharp word. Where does such a temperament come from?”

  “You’re fascinated.”

  “I suppose I am. But most of all, I want to protect her. I was glad when the Marquise requested I look out for her. But she’s… Well, she ran from me.” Strangely, he found he didn’t want to share the memory of that encounter in the library, blurred by drink as it was. He wanted to ponder it some more and relive the delicious way she’d come all over his hand. “She probably thinks I’m a debauched villain.”

  Alicia rose to her feet and came toward him. She cupped his face in her hands. He inhaled the scent of meadow grass that always hovered over her hair. “I happen to know your most sinful days are behind you. Why, you haven’t debauched a virgin since my honeymoon.”