Clean Regency Romance: The Earl's Temptation (The Pure Heart Triumphs Series Book 1)

by Pearl Goodfellow

  “I know, darling, I know,” she said, making her double meaning clear to the Debutante, while Saffron’s father remained ignorant. Her mother’s grey eyes mirrored Saffron’s own, and silently conveyed the message that her lovesick daughter’s longing would pass. “One must ‘keep on keepin’ on’ as the Americans would say; and do what is best for the family and Earth. Rest will come to the weary, eventually.”

  Saffron blushed with guilt at being so selfish and foolish for thinking about such petty things, but was unable to banish the confusing battle being waged within her. She shelved the wicked, intrusive thoughts and concentrated on the Haute Societe, the ball, and the Strutway selection, and, ultimately the grand socialization events, that happened after all the pomp. That was one of those questions, asked a thousand different ways over the years, from innocent curiosity to growing concern, and it was never answered in a satisfactory way. What was everyone hiding? Even former Debs would not talk about what went on in the complex behind the Palace de Versailles after selection, other than to say that it was nothing like anything the new Debutantes would experience before or after the ball. These cryptic musings were usually said with a false smile plastered across their visages. Their supercilious grins barely curved to their high cheekbones, and almost certainly never touched their eyes. That Mother had ever let on that there was something to Saffron’s feelings of yearning and trepidation was a surprise, but nothing further would be forthcoming on that front.

  Mandatory dress rehearsals began the week before Haute Societe: what a joke, everything was mandatory and had been for years. Monthly pelvic exams, the INtact test; all were nearing the end. Checks for ovarian and uterine cysts and other anomalies would thankfully be an ordeal of the past, only to be undertaken on a yearly basis for general health. The same went for mammograms. Saffron had read that in the past, women were subjected to a mashing of the breasts between two pieces of glass and then x-rayed. She was thankful that advancements in science used sonogram technology; because the old way sounded painful. The explanations for the how’s and what’s of the sexual congress that took place at the ball were textbook versions of inanity. She remembered Francois telling her about the process at age 13, in his usual dry monotone.

  “The male, in this case a fertile Blood, inserts his penis into the female Terran’s vagina. The male then ejaculates his seed, sperm that is, into the woman, where it meets the egg developed in the fallopian tube, and traveling to the uterus, where it implants on the wall. The union of gamete and zygote produces a fetus that grows into a neophyte, a baby, which is born approximately nine months after fertilization. That is how it is done. Next question?”

  The insertion did not alarm Saffron. She was used to being poked and prodded during examinations, but she felt, even at 13, that important information was being withheld. She never thought to ask if sex was pleasurable, or painful, or anything else for that matter. It just was. It was merely an act. An act for Terrankind; for procreation and to save the planet, through propagation of the species. Charles Darwin would have been proud and interested to watch the grand experiment.

  The dress rehearsals were actually of use to the Debs. Dressing in full regalia for the ball, where the Debutantes would float about the hall and mingle in their evening gowns and Venetian masks, flirting with the raucous Bloods and laying the groundwork for the Strutway seduction that followed, might have been confusing otherwise. The rehearsals mimicked the actual event in every way; music, background noise, catcalls, and scents. Without the physical attendance of the Bloods’ that was. To see a Blood in the flesh, tattooed, muscles rippling underneath the leather vests they favored, and their sheer height, were something that simply could not be duplicated by the Terrans during rehearsals. The Debutantes ran through the sequence twice a day until they could concentrate on their job: seduction. The women were ready, and they all eagerly anticipated stepping out into society as the wealthy Debutantes of old had once done during other such cotillions around the world. The end result may be different, but the lead up was the same.

  Chapter 11

  One occurrence a week before the big ball, changed everything in Saffron’s world. It was totally unexpected and a definite morale crusher for the hopeful Debutante. She had, up until this point, been the frontrunner, the favorite, for the last two years; the one Deb that was expected to be chosen by the Master Seeder, the one true alpha, Tiberius Koln. Rumors and gossip abounded that he preferred tall, statuesque virgins as opposed to the petite, 5 foot, three inch, raven haired, gray eyed beauty that had stood above the others for so long.

  Sasha Posy, originally ranked 7th in the overall standings for being chosen by Koln, had moved up to first choice position. A tall strawberry blonde with legs that seemed to go on forever, Sasha stood at five feet, eight inches; even taller in the scarlet stiletto heels on the Strutway. If this were not enough, Posy’s large blue eyes projected an innocence that drove men wild.

  Saffron found out that she had been unseated as the favorite to win Koln’s affections, the man she’d never met, but who she was strangely drawn to, when she overheard Father and Francois talking in the home office. She was passing the ajar, oak door, when she heard their low voices. She stood as still as a church mouse, in the slice of light provided by the slightly open door, and listened intently, barely breathing. The question she had wanted to ask Biscayne died on her lips, as she eavesdropped just outside the room, ears straining to catch every word.

  “I cannot believe that that Posy woman has been chosen over Saffron to win that brute, Koln, over. This is shocking Monsieur Biscayne! Unthinkable! And very disappointing. We’ve only a week to go before the Haute Societe. This could devastate Saffron, and then what shall we do?”

  Francois Biscayne cleared his throat as he was wont to do when stalling for time. His clear, high pitched diction permeated the newly sullied atmosphere between them. “Mr. Mountbatten, sir,” the unease plain in his voice, “I believe the, er, situation is merely temporary. Gossip has it that this chieftain, of whom we speak, is partial to tall females, that is all. It is the gambling establishment that has put forth this preposterous supposition that Sasha Posy will garner the attention of the Martian alpha. You know how the HS betting goes in the week’s lead up. It’s a wild west show, to say the least. Although it’s never advertised, Koln’s a supremely intelligent man. He will certainly look for intelligence in his favored mate. I am also intelligent, Sir, and this is why I know this. And, further, I will personally wager my full credits for my training with Saffron, on Saffron! No, Monsieur Mountbatten, there is nothing to worry about here.”

  Saffron, skulking away from the door, and the conversation, felt the unease slide away by degrees. Monsieur Biscayne had faith in her. And, as she had faith in him, she found the truth of his words swirling away comfortingly in her gut.

  Betting on which Debutante would be chosen by the Master Seeder was not sanctioned by Terra’s various governments, but it was not criminalized either. Gambling on the outcome was undertaken by wealthy and poor alike. In a wild orgy of highly fluctuating odds, frenzied study of the top ten favorites, through the myriad media channels, the betting pools were feverish across the globe. Rankings changed in wild dips and spikes, in the weeks before the selection, but the top three generally stayed in apple pie order. Sasha, in an unprecedented leap, had gone from 7th place to first. Saffron should have been scared. And she certainly was, until Francois Biscayne had opined on her seemingly definite chance of winning.

  Saffron had never really thought much about the rampant betting that surrounded and permeated the Haute Societe ball and selection. Everyone knew it went on (and on and on and…), but it was beneath her status and had not affected her until this very moment. She’d been the frontrunner, the odds-on fave for so long that she had probably become arrogantly entitled to this pole position. She pictured the other Debs laughing at her fall from grace, all the way to number two. Nobody remembered a loser. Second place was as bad as last. Saf
fron imagined the snide comments whispered behind her back, the looks of pity cast her way, and then eyes averted in shame for being caught staring. The nightmare reverie was interrupted by Father’s voice, just before she was out of earshot.

  “Well, I’m very happy to hear of your confidence in my daughter, Monsieur Biscayne. However, I would like you to spend the remaining hours, before the ball with Saffron. To go over any subtleties you may have missed up until now. I want a meticulous focus from you, Sir. I understand this will be agreeable to you?” A definite challenge at the end of Father’s curt sentence.

  “Of course, Mr. Mountbatten, consider your wishes attended to. I shall see to it that Saffron deliver the highest quality of work possible. Regardless of a bunch of buffoons who do not understand the intricacies of gambling, Saffron will prevail! She will be chosen by the arrogant brute, Tiberius Koln. That is my oath!” Biscayne’s tone rose, only slightly, but there was something akin to victory laced into his voice. Saffron had heard it while she had been at the door, and this victorious tide within him, induced much needed calm in her. She had spent so much time with Francois that he was the closest thing to a friend she had ever known, and if he knew her as well as she knew him, and had that kind of faith in her, was there not some weight in that trust. That confidence?

  “Your reputation is at stake here, Biscayne. And more important, my standing. I hire the best and expect results commensurate with the cost of doing business. I am of the elite and will not tolerate anything but being number one.” Father’s voice rose as he continued…”and I will not have a daughter that is not considered the best. Do you comprehend, little man, what I am telling you? Do you?”

  Maintaining an impassive expression, Francois Biscayne replied, “Yes, of course. Saffron will be selected by Koln. I guarantee it. Now, if you will excuse me, I have work to do.” The edge in his tone was not lost on the patriarch of the Mountbatten family.

  Biscayne exited the study hastily. He was livid inside. Livid with the head of the household for not having trust in either himself, Francois, or Saffron, his beautiful and capable daughter. She was overlooked. Saffron was more than a trophy to be touted around the Gentleman’s Club, more than a mere Debutante to be shown off, and more than a baby making machine that could be fixed by a lower status mechanic. She was a human being, a young woman, and fragile in her own way. She put on a tough as nails front for everyone, as she’d been trained to do for the nine years leading up to the ball, but Francois knew there was more to her than met the eye, and he was proud of her accomplishments. Still, he wondered if he had failed her in some aspect; the rigors of a Deb’s education made seeing more subtle emotions hard to detect. He wondered if he had overlooked something that he maybe should have addressed. She was strong willed to be sure, but her tough exterior almost certainly shielded a very tender core. She was perfect in Biscayne’s mind. She was beyond perfect. The right blend of tough cookie and gentle soul. A disarming mix to any man of intelligence. And he knew that Koln valued intelligence. Yes, she would win the selection and everything would fall into place as it should be. Francois Biscayne was half correct in his summation, but no one could have foreseen what would happen. Hindsight is always a blessing, but it can never prevent an event in the clouds of time. It can only be used for saying things like: Ah, yes, well of course that would happen. It’s obvious from the outset. The future will always remain uncertain. Even in the tightly controlled world of wealthy Terran’s.

  Saffron pulled herself together in the dimly lit study, where she had tiptoed to after hearing her Father’s and Francois’ conversation. ‘Ok, breathe, Saffron, breathe.’ she chastised herself. She remembered, then, attending the Haute Societe as a spectator, the approach to Palace de Versailles lined with the poor vendors, hawking all manner of foods and souvenirs, and calling out odds for those who wished to place last minute wagers. Saffron choked back a sob as she realized that the lower classes were trying to scrape together a meager living, and gambling on a winner could bring them much needed relief. Her resolve and spine stiffened, her chin jutting out, and she promised herself in the darkened chamber that she would win the alpha Blood’s attention and selection. There was no other choice.

  Chapter 12

  Tiberius Koln gazed through the ship’s viewing portal as Terra became larger and larger. It was his 5th trip to the big, blue marble. He silently marveled at the beauty of the planet. with it’s striations of light and dark brown, and wisps of green - a stark contrast to Mars’ uniform orange-red landscape. Much of the planet’s vegetation was lost, due to the Terran’s over consumption and the smite of World War V. The XXX-1369 streaked across space and time, ever nearer to alighting on Terran soil, it’s aim to begin the propagation cycle anew. Koln reflected that ‘life finds a way’, as he flexed his strong arms and arched his back in an almost feline stretch of pleasure. Cut and ripped muscles protested as he yawned: Koln was not used to being cramped up in the confines of a spaceship. In the mines of his home planet, where he conducted periodical inspections, he was similarly confined, but one could move about for miles, and staying alert for scorps was a full time job when entering the tunnels. In the mines, he did not have time to think about the tons of rock and dirt above his head, or that death could be waiting around every bend, or curve in the tubular space.

  Since ascending to chieftain of the First Blood clan and leader of his world, the Blood Empire had enjoyed a ten year period of peace, and even prosperity. A rare era for the red rock; and all of Tiberius’ fine governance. A chemist from Earth, exiled to Mars nine years before, for the crime of illegal gene and chromosome experiments on impregnated Debutantes, had proved invaluable to the colony. He had, accidentally albeit, annihilated the tenacious scorp population. The chemist, Dante Springuel, would probably not have survived the harsh environment or ever changing climate, or the Bloods themselves, if TK had not discerned his value to the empire as a whole. Springuel was able to design a concoction that was harmless to Martians but fatal to scorps. Within a year, Dante engineered a substance that could be stored in liquid form and converted into a gaseous spray, that when employed, killed the scorps in seconds. During mining operations, a team of “mysters” would enter a tunnel and seek out every scorp tunnel they could find, and fill it with the noxious fumes.The smell of rotten eggs, from the spray’s high sulphur content, permeating the subterranean world. Re-breathers helped to mitigate the odor, but long term exposure made the mysters vomit profusely. Tiberius was hailed as a hero -- yet again -- for stemming the flow of scorp attacks, and for making the mines safer for his subjects. Anything that made the tunnels safer was a plus: the running joke was now, ‘Now, if TK could only make the dust and dirt go away, we’d be set’. Springuel became a minor celebrity in his own right. The struggle to survive on Mars continued, of course, but it was practically a gentle environment these days, after generations of crude but effective improvements, along with Martian genetic evolution that made much of the hostile planet’s characteristics much easier.

  Tiberius pondered the words of an ancient Terran from the 15th century, named Niccolo Machiavelli. His father, Korgis, though he could not read or write, ascribed his own practices to the man, referred to by many, as the Father of Modern Political Science. Marianna wrote out some of the adages for her husband, and Korgis memorized them and immortalized the sayings on a 15 foot stele; in this case a monolith of polished Martian stone, for all to see. Koln knew the words before he could actually read; Korgis made all his male children learn the words etched into the rock and often made them recite it. Tiberius contemplated these now; Earth starting to fill the window through which he peered, and he knew things were going to change. No one rules forever.

  ‘He who wishes to be obeyed must know how to command.’

  ‘Politics have no relation to morals.’

  ‘The promise given was a necessity of the past: the word broken is a necessity of the present.’

  ‘The more sand has escaped from the hourg
lass of our life, the clearer we should see through it.’

  Was he seeing things more clearly as he aged? Indeed, he was, although TK was only 28.

  ‘The wise man does at once what the fool does finally.’

  ‘There is nothing more difficult to take in hand, more perilous to conduct, or more uncertain in its success, than to take the lead in the introduction of the new order of things.’

  ‘Never was anything great achieved without danger.’

  ‘It is better to be feared than loved, if one cannot have both.’

  The last was something that TK had never understood. What was love? He knew of fondness and caring, albeit in a practical sense, but love was an unexperienced emotion. Fear, he knew; it was a powerful motivator to toe the line and obey the laws. Koln did not believe his subjects loved him: they feared his wrath, and respected his skills as a leader and fighter, but the elusive love? Not a chance, he decided. Love sounded like something that could get you killed if you trusted the wrong person or were foolish enough to put someone else above all others. The pack mentality had been hammered into Tiberius’ head from the time he was able to remember. Everything undertaken was for the good of the clan and the Blood Empire. Individualism meant nothing, unless it was proven to benefit all Bloods. The nagging sensation that he was missing out on something important, wound its way through his brain more and more these days. Wealth could not be the reason as TK was now as wealthy, if not wealthier, than many Terran's. Power, well he had that, he reigned supreme on his own planet. He had the scars to prove it, laced among his tattoos from head to foot, showed his resilience and talent for survival. As the ‘Unlucky Cocksucker’, XXX-1369, entered the upper atmosphere of Earth, and the outer shields began to heat to temperatures above 8,000 degrees, Tiberius banished the philosophical musings to the back of his mind and strapped into a chair, just as extreme turbulence began to shake the craft. The other Bloods followed suit when the captain’s voice boomed, “We’re in for a bumpy ride, you mad-ass fucks, so grab your cocks and drop your socks. It’s bunghole Betty time.”