by Flora Dain
Chapter Two
I stumbled after the man as he hauled me into the shelter of a shabby porch. He staggered a little under the weight of the bundle he’d used to fight off my attackers. I tried to pull away, but he scowled, gripping me harder.
“In here, milady, before they see you.” We tumbled through a doorway, and he slammed the door shut. Behind us, the men were still shouting.
One of them banged loudly on the door, cursing me for a whore.
Still breathless, I turned to fight off this new threat.
But my rescuer was looking down with an anxious expression.
“Forgive me, milady. I thought it best. You can hide here till they’ve gone. Why were you out there at this hour? Even Cheyne Walk gets rough types late at night.”
I shrank back. For all I knew, he was one of them, and this was a trap. “I’m joining my carriage, sir. It’s already close by. And I’ll thank you to let me go.”
“Not yet, milady. They’re ruffians—the worse for drink, by the sound of it. They’re still outside. Wait till they’ve gone. You can stay here in the hall, but you might be more comfortable upstairs. The hallway’s got vermin.”
I fought down a twitch of fear. I’d once been poor. I’d tried to forget, but I knew it when I smelled it.
I smelled it now. The stink of stale drink and unwashed bodies settled around me, thick and sour. Flinching away from the damp walls, I followed him up three flights of rickety stairs to a garret.
He dragged the wooden bundle behind him, refusing my offers to help. At the top he showed me into a lofty room, flooded with moonlight.
He lit a candle and glanced about with a wry smile. “I’d offer you something to drink, but I’ve only got cheap gin. I’ve not eaten for days. I spent the last of my money on this beauty.”
I looked around, curious. The dim light fell on a rough straw pallet, heaps of stained rags. As he talked he unfastened the bundle and quickly erected a new easel. The sour smell of his lodgings was less powerful here. It was overlaid with something stronger—turpentine and paint.
“Thank you, sir, I’ve eaten. You are an artist?”
He smiled, lifting his candle to show me his face. “Martin Lucas, ma’am, at your service. Sorry I startled you. And yes, I paint—or try to. It’s a hard life, as you see. I’m…between commissions at present.” He glanced out of the window. “Those ruffians have moved off now, if you want to leave. Your carriage is close by?”
“It can wait a moment. Can I see some of your work?”
For the next half hour, he showed me canvas after canvas, eyes shining.
“These are all in the Rubens style. And these”—he held up two canvases with large, misty scenes—“are more after the style of Mr. Turner, my hero. And how about this? Almost a Gainsborough, if you look from a distance.”
I knew little about art, save pictures in the grand houses Jacquard had shown me. To me these looked crude and simply painted, but the colors were fresh and the poses surprisingly frank.
My mind raced. Why not commission my own portrait?
Jacquard’s birthday fell soon. I usually tracked down some trifle for him—a rare book for his library or a book of exotic lithographs from one of Piccadilly’s racier collectors.
Why not a picture of me? I could be as daring as I liked. He’d find it all the more amusing. No need to put it on open display. He had portraits enough in his many fine houses. This could be for his eyes alone.
What a jape. But word would soon spread. I’d have to be careful how I chose the artist…
“I must go now. I’ll call by tomorrow, Mr. Lucas, if I may. Around ten? I need your advice.” I thanked him for his kind act and hurried downstairs.
In the street, I hurried over to our carriage, startled to see our coachman comforting Pérot, my footman. They seemed to be bent over something in Pérot’s great hands. “What’s amiss? Is he hurt?”
Blundering Pérot, once our friendly jailer, was always knocking things over.
“It’s a kitten, milady,” explained the coachman. “One of the women from the Carstairs’ place ’ad it in her muff. She threw it out. Lady Hornsea, it was. Pérot wants to keep it.”
“Can I have it for a bit?”
Pérot flinched as I took the kitten out of his massive hands.
“I’ll bring it back. I promise.”
I swept back up the steps with it nestling in my hands. At the entrance I gave my name once more to the footman.
“Her Ladyship, the Countess of Endale.”
The company grew quiet as I paused in the entrance to the salon, holding the kitten aloft. I whispered in the footman’s ear, and he straightened up to make an announcement.
“A message from Lady Endale. Lady Hornsea’s pussy has just been found in the street.”
A ripple of shocked laughter ran through the room, quickly dying away as Lady Carstairs glared around. Her daughter reddened. I whispered to the footman again.
This time he fought to keep a straight face.
“Her Ladyship’s coachman says Lady Hornsea’s pussy fell out of her muff. Lady Hornsea may collect her pussy from him at any time. Until then, he’ll take greatest care of it.”
Now the room burst out into a gale of laughter. I beamed innocently around, overjoyed at the mortified look on Lady Hornsea’s pert little face. I made a swift farewell curtsey then took the kitten back down to Pérot, who gathered it up with a grateful smile and handed me into the carriage.
I leaned out of the window. “Drive on to His Lordship’s club. We’re late.”
We drew up outside his club with a flourish, scattering the linkmen waiting to see gentlemen without transport back to their homes.
Jacquard’s dour look warned me I was in trouble.
“My lord? At last. Enjoy your evening? We made such a night of it in Chelsea.”
He slumped in the corner of the carriage, his glance cynical. “Why so late? Is my company so little to your taste? Or did the dowagers of Chelsea suit you better?”
I tried to make light of things.
“They were…a little stiff. But I picked up some gossip. The regent has a new mistress, they say. No one knows who she is. He’s keeping it secret.”
His look soured further. “I heard that too. Beware, Saffina. It may be just rumor. His roving eye is famous. Stay out of his reach. If he ever so much as touches you—”
I brushed my fingertip across his lips. “Whenever I’ve met him, I’ve found him charming and witty. He simply likes the company of ladies. And I seem to remember there was a time when your roving eye was famous too.”
Jacquard scowled. Sensing trouble, I tried a distraction. With a coy look, I drew closer. “We were interrupted earlier. Shall we continue?”
He stared moodily as I cautiously raised my skirts. Slowly, balancing as best I could against the jolting of the carriage, I straddled his lap and wound my arms around his neck.
“Your evening fell flat, sir? You seem out of sorts.”
He ran a finger down my cheek, his touch unbearably tender. At the same moment, I felt his other hand seize mine and push it down to his crotch. As I grasped him, his jutting manhood bulged between us. I fondled him gently, mapping his pride through the fabric, sure he must ache for relief.
I swiftly unfastened him and ran my hand over the hot, hard cock that emerged from his clothing and surged up between us. His glow of heat and the tension I felt in his soft, silky skin made me ache in sympathy. Keeping my hand firmly in place, I parted my lips and leaned back as he opened my cloak, wrenched down my neckline then buried his head deep in my breasts.
He drew in a shuddering breath and pulled me close, gripping me at the waist with one hand, the other shifting my skirts clear to get in position. Then he began to torment me with cruel, deliberate thrusts of his hot, eager cock against my most tender place, wide open and exposed now, his movements urgent and precise. In seconds I was on fire with hot, burning arousal, longing to take him in fully but dreading discovery.
We were traveling slowly. Late merry-makers still filled the streets.
He purred low in my ear, “Forgive me, my sweet. I need this. Do you permit?”
To my surprise, the plea in his eyes was urgent and raw. I felt a twinge of alarm. Had something happened at the club? A loss at cards, maybe? Rare, but possible, even for him.
Normally he took his pleasures slowly. This urgency was new. I sensed his pain, but full bodily pleasure in a slow-moving carriage? Not his usual style in places as crowded as this.
With a last, lingering touch of my lips on his delicious mouth, I slipped to my knees, took his cock in my mouth and began to suck.
He watched as I did it, his look sultry and focused. As I rode him to release, I was surprised to feel him take hold of my head and pull me clear.
He was so close. How could he do this?
“Now in your breasts.” He sounded husky with emotion. “I want to watch.”
Why so urgent? Why now? But my own need was building. When he wanted me this hard and this fast, I found him irresistible. Giving him pleasure was all my joy, as well he knew. And he always repaid me in full and with interest, as scrupulous in love as he was at cards.
With a surge of heat deep in my groin, I eased off him and pushed up my breasts, freed now but still bulging from the pressures of my bodice. They jiggled invitingly in the moving carriage. Holding them firmly, I rode his cock with them, feeling the hot, glossy shaft swell and tighten where it bulged purplish and dark between my paler globes, pushing hard to set up a satisfying friction.
“Take it in your mouth for the finish. I want to see you swallow.”
As the coach rattled along the uneven street, I obeyed, forcing my eager mouth along his rigid column as far as I dared. I worked him again with my tongue, keeping my eyes on his to guess his reaction. But in the carriage, the light was dim and the movement around us rough. I dreaded any moment scraping him with my teeth or biting him—if the wheels hit a pothole. He’d punish me, for sure.
But soon I got into my stride. He was very near to spending. I could see him strain. But as the carriage slowed, my mouth already aching, he’d still not come yet again. I glanced up in alarm, wondering if I was doing something wrong. His hooded gaze gave me no clue, but his brief smile gave me hope.
“Beautiful,” he whispered. “You always astonish. Your mouth is a work of art in itself.”
I pulled away quickly as the coach slowed to a halt.
“And you make me work with it, sir. I thought you’d come two miles back.”
“So impatient then, for us to finish? I could watch your mouth for hours. Come. We’ll have a nightcap in the salon then to bed. My room tonight.” His eyelids lowered. “And take care to be on time, or you may find you’re in for a longer night than you’d thought. I have a surprise for you.”
He took something from his pocket and tucked it into my bosom.
“A rose made of leather? Is this my surprise?”
In the dim light from the lamplit street, I saw his eyes glitter.
He placed a fingertip on my lips.
“Wait and see.”
The twinkle in his eyes left me in no doubt of his meaning.
Whatever had happened at the club, he was angry that I’d made him wait. And the revenge he was planning would leave me waiting too, possibly for hours, if he was in the mood.
I bit my lip. I’d made him wait already this week, longer than I should. But tonight, for some reason, I’d gone too far. Just this once I’d better set aside my finer feelings and allow him full access, if only to keep the peace.
It would be a long night indeed.
* * * *
Marriage and the arrival of Jasper, our gorgeous baby son, had done little to cool Jacquard’s hunger for me. With baby Jasper now into his second year and safely back at Endale Hall in the loving care of the housekeeper and a bevy of nursemaids, Jacquard was set on giving me the Season in London he’d promised on our first journey together.
Except that now we were no longer looking for my husband. I’d found one, and a glorious, stunning, crowd-stopping being at that. But he had a murky past—had made some enemies—and his vast wealth earned him little respect because it came, through no fault of his, from doubtful sources.
We never spoke of this. I carefully ignored the seemingly unending sessions he spent in his study with Madame Junot, my one-time governess, poring over accounts from the handful of exclusive establishments she managed for him. All I knew was that his properties were lavish and widely scattered, and he insisted all ran smoothly, so we traveled often.
In matters of my personal pleasure, he was as efficient and thorough as in business and the management of his estates. And unlike most wealthy wives, I still had full control over my money. For once, the gossips were right. He refused to touch a penny. I could spend how and how much I pleased.
* * * *
After a session with my maids and a careful but refreshing wash, I entered his rooms with all the excitement of a schoolgirl. My hair had been brushed to a shine, my body washed and scented with rose water and essence of jasmine. And my flowing lace robe, newly arrived from Paris to cover my shift while my maid dressed my hair but wickedly showing more than it hid once my shift was removed, should surprise him out of his gloom.
Thinking to please him, I tucked the leather rose carefully back into the bow at my bosom, still puzzled at its meaning.
“Jacquard?”
At first I thought him still with his valet. I wandered from room to room, but there was no sign of him.
“Are you hiding?”
I looked all around, suppressing a smile. Our games often started this way. But this time all was silent.
“Jacquard?”
Still no sign. At last I tried a door that I’d never used at the end of his suite of rooms. I’d thought it merely a cupboard for the maids, but as I tried the handle, it opened. And now I got a shock.
This was no cupboard. This was a room fitted out for pleasure—Jacquard’s pleasure.
I’d used the Jade Room. I’d sampled the Amber Room. Those hidden areas of Endale Hall had been an essential part of my education. But this was something else. And the stern, powerful being seated on the imposing chair at one end of the room gave me no time to ask questions.
The dim lighting hid most of the torments ranged around the walls, but I guessed at some of them. The smell of polished leather and oiled wood filled me with a mixture of raw hunger and deep-seated, primitive fear.
And his steady look, like the sheen of his oiled chest and the menacing bulge at his hips, told me I’d strayed into his clutches at a dangerous time.
For some reason I was in trouble. And the thin, braided leather whip balanced across his knees was not just for ornament. I had the nasty feeling it was about to get some energetic and carefully aimed use.
On me.
Chapter Three
“Welcome to the Leather Room, my sweet. Our sessions in here will be short and sharp.”
I swallowed. I knew his tastes and shared many of them. His pleasures were varied, verging on the exotic. But this room looked positively workmanlike.
I trembled.
“You kept this a secret, my lord?” I stared up at him, eyes wide.
Does he bring other women here? The idea was new and terrifying.
The capital offered many pleasures and seethed with beautiful women. Great gentlemen like Jacquard, stunningly handsome and immensely rich, drew them like flies. Competition was fierce, and morals—from what I’d seen so far—loose.
Among the ton, a new wife was no bar to a gentleman’s fun.
He held my gaze. “We’re sharing it now. Surprised?”
“That depends on why I’m here.” I gave him a coy look. “For punishment, sir, or pleasure?”
He narrowed his eyes. “Your choice, my love.” His mouth twitched. “And sometimes mine.”
I’d thought his leather rose a simple token of love. Now I saw i
t also as a threat. It stood for a darker side of love—a side we’d neglected lately.
I licked my lips. “What pleases you, sir, pleases me. You know that.”
I was more than happy to play his games, as long as I knew the rules. And if he missed giving me discipline like he used to, then now might be as good a time as any to submit, time of the month or no. I was clear enough and had meant only to tease. What did a few hours matter either way?
Back in his great estate at Endale Hall, we were parents and landowners first, lovers second. Here in town, well away from the cares of family and business, we were simply lovers.
I caught a ripple of muscle across his broad, oiled chest as he leaned forward. In the flickering light from the candles, his stern face relaxed briefly into a smile then, startlingly, grew stern again.
“Come over here and kneel. Put your hands behind your back. Keep your eyes on my face.”
Slowly I did it, already regretting my hasty decision to take what came. Was this a game?
This is a punishment room.
The forest of implements bristling on rails around the walls clearly said so. The sheen on the furnishings, the absence of fabric, frills or any feminine touch, meant business. Male business.
The bench at the far end of the room, and the straps and buckles attached to it, were for one person—me. Chillingly, the comfortable chair facing it was also for one person—him. The bed, padded in dark, murky leather, had no pillows, but stout posts at each corner—and chains.
This is not a bed for sleeping.
As I knelt, I looked up at him with pleasurable horror. But my eagerness was mainly for show. Deep down I felt scared.
“This is very sudden. Why am I here, my lord?”
His eyes narrowed. “When you are in here, you speak only when I tell you. You just earned a stroke of the whip. Hold up your left breast.”
Startled, I did so. Usually he took charge with a suede flogger or a light crop. But the whip in his hands looked tough and efficient. My mouth felt dry.
“Must I, my lord?” For once my husky tone was real. It was a while since we’d done this. Motherhood and the warm glow of his constant approval had softened me up.