Aside from the housekeeper, there was a single footman, a chambermaid who practiced at being a lady’s maid when Cassandra needed her, Randall the driver who kept her horses and looked after Leon, a stable boy in training, and a scullion who assisted in the kitchen.
The footman opened the front door for her and welcomed her home before accepting her cloak. The housekeeper bustled in from the kitchen to ask if she would take dinner. Cassandra asked for it to be sent to her bedchamber, along with the tub and hot water for a bath. Then, she carried her weary body up the stairs to seek out solitude.
Once alone, she sat on the small, cushioned bench before her vanity and mirror and began plucking the pins from her hair. As she watched the unruly curls fall to frame her face lock by lock, a memory came floating back to her.
Robert lying under her, his bright blue eyes boring into her with curiosity, perception, even a bit of fear. That gaze tracing her every feature, caressing each curl as she’d freed it for him, much like she did now.
Your hair … will you take it down?
Avoiding her own reflection, she focused on the clink of the pins inside the little porcelain pot where she stored them, trying to get a grip on her wandering mind.
Four months had passed since her night with Mr. Robert Stanley, and he’d dominated her thoughts ever sense—much to her annoyance.
Millicent had warned her that once she overcame her fear of intercourse, she’d find herself yearning for more. She’d want to fuck, again, with the same man or even a different one. The urges she typically abated with the use of her dildos would become something else altogether … something that only a real cock, attached to a real man could sate.
And so it had happened, that soon after her encounter with Robert at the White Cock, she’d begun to feel the stirring in her loins that hinted at a carnal need. She had been in the middle of gathering information on a certain gentleman, one who’d cornered a debutante during a visit to her parents’ country estate and forced her to perform fellatio on him. Because she had been so focused upon her task, she hadn’t had the time to go looking for someone with which to sate her craving. She’d seen to her own pleasure for weeks after Robert, and it had only ever taken a bit of the edge off. It never satisfied her in the way that tying him to the bed and fucking him while he begged for more had.
Once she had finished with her prey of the moment, she’d taken the time to find someone else, returning to the White Cock—alone this time—and assessing each man in the room as she had the night she’d found Robert. She hadn’t needed Peter to look out for her, having grown more confident in the skills the large footman had taught her. So, she’d approached the man of her choosing, plied him with a bit of whisky, and had him accompany her upstairs. He’d agreed to her rules, even let her tie his hands and take charge of the encounter the way she liked.
It had been one of the most disappointing experiences of her life, leaving her unfulfilled afterward. Her bedmate had looked so pleased with himself, grinning up at her from where he’d lain with his hands tied up over his head.
“If you’re game, I could—”
“No,” she’d interjected while cutting him free of the ropes. “I’ve had quite enough, thank you.”
He had laughed, as if she’d just told a hilarious joke. “Don’t you want me to make you come off again?”
She’d rolled her eyes at him and pointed toward the pile of his clothes on the floor. “I didn’t come off the first time, and that you’re too dense to notice is why I’m done with you.”
He’d glared at her, but said nothing as he stood to pull his clothes back on. He mumbled something under his breath as he departed, but she hadn’t bothered to try to find out what.
Upon returning home, she’d promptly retrieved her favorite phallus from its storage chest. While using it to bring herself to the sort of satisfaction that her bumbling bedmate had failed to give, she’d thought of a different night in that same upper room of the public house. She’d thought of Robert bucking and arching beneath her, his cheeks flushed as he’d panted and groaned her name. She’d imagined the rough red abrasions around his wrists from the burn of her ropes, and the give of flesh beneath the heel of her palm. She’d pictured him under her, his cock filling her and stroking places so deeply hidden she hadn’t known they existed until he touched them. She’d heard his moans echoing through her mind when she spent, thrusting the dildo in and out of her cunt and using her other hand to stroke her clit.
It had become her practice over the following months, frigging herself while thinking of him.
It wasn’t the man, she told herself. Robert had simply been convenient, the only pleasant experience she'd ever had with a man and his cock. Bertram had been the first, and the one to almost ruin intercourse for her altogether. Robert had cleansed her palate, making it so she could experience arousal without the self-loathing and fear that had once come with it.
Then, why couldn’t she find someone else to replicate the experience with? Millicent had taken Peter as her lover years ago and the two seemed happy enough in their arrangement. But before him, she happened to know her friend had experienced many paramours, and had enjoyed herself with all of them.
If it was possible for Millicent, then it was possible for her.
As Lila arrived with her dinner, followed by the footman toting the copper tub, Cassandra resolved to do something about her little problem. One mediocre experience should not be enough to keep her from seeking out someone else she might enjoy as much as she had Robert. As soon as she was able, she would try again … and this time, she would not to let the night end until she’d had her satisfaction.
SHE AWAKENED SOMETIME before daybreak with a start, her chest heaving as she fought to catch her breath and untangle herself from the remnants of her hellish nightmare. Sweat soaked her skin, making her nightgown cling to her body and strands of hair adhere to her forehead and the back of her neck. She had kicked the bedclothes aside, fighting in her sleep against a demon she only ever encountered when she slept.
Breath sawing through her parted lips, she squeezed her eyes shut and tried to fight off those clinging talons of terror, reminding herself that none of it was real. Not for her, not anymore. Bertram was dead, and had been these past four months. He could never harm her or any other woman again, and she took comfort in that.
Yet, she still saw his face some nights, still relived the painful moment when he’d transformed from doting suitor to soulless monster. In the few seconds it often took for her to separate dream from reality, Cassandra could swear she smelled him—the overpowering scent of sandalwood that so many men doused themselves with.
She’d come to hate the fragrance.
She could still feel him, stabbing between her legs like a flaming knife. She could hear him, laughing and rasping filth into her ear.
But then, she would blink and come to full wakefulness, and remember.
It was over and behind her. Her monster had been sent to the deepest pit in Hell, where he belonged.
Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Cassandra rose, deciding there was no use in trying to go back to sleep. The sun would rise soon, and sleep meant the possibility of another nightmare. Instead, she put on the slippers she’d left near the armchair by the window, before shrugging into her warm dressing gown. Then, she crept through her bedroom door and toward the stairs, careful to remain quiet. Lila would be awake at this hour, ensuring each room with a hearth was stocked with coal. She didn’t want any of the maid’s questions or concern, nor did she want anyone thinking to follow her. If they knew what she was about, they would surely send word to Penrose House and inform Uncle Rupert that she ought to be locked away in Bedlam.
She made her way to the drawing room with the doors opening onto the terrace. The frigid air of early dawn bit at her hands and face, but she pressed on. Morning dew soaked her feet through her slippers when she stepped into the grass, ignoring the path leading into the garden and angling to
ward the trees. The dense woods characterizing this area was one of the reasons she enjoyed living at Easton Park— and also that her being here gave testament to the fall of the family whose son had wronged her. That her family now owned the property, and she could call a part of it her own, seemed like another bit of justice.
Moving through the trees, she made her way to her favorite spot not far from the dower house. She had discovered it while exploring the day after settling in, and when she was in residence visited the place daily. It was at its most beautiful at night, even in the darkest hours before dawn—the thick trees giving way to make room for a little pond that often reflected the light of the moon on clear nights. Just now, it was nothing more than a still sheet of black glass, its gentle glisten camouflaging the brutality of its coldness, its depth.
Her feet sank into the muddy ground as she approached its edge, the ground still damp from yesterday’s rain. Standing on the bank, she closed her eyes for a long moment, taking several long, slow inhales— breathing in the scent of earth, grass, and trees. The water itself had its own scent, some unnamable thing mingling on the air with the rest of it.
Cassandra stepped out of her slippers, shivering when the mud squished between her toes and cradled her bare feet. That did not stop her, however. She carried on, untying the belt of her dressing gown and letting the garment slither down her body to rest atop her slippers. Then, she was walking toward the water, arms stretched out wide as gooseflesh appeared along her skin.
The water kissed her feet, then lapped up over her ankles, her calves, her thighs, her hips. She walked to what she knew to be the edge of the shallows, the discovery having taken her quite by surprise the first time. Now she knew where the pause in order to linger on the edge of the black abyss, a plunge with a bottom she could not see. She let her head fall back and raised her arms high, noticing the way the sky had begun to lighten, the darkest blue in existence fading toward navy, then cerulean in the distance.
One step, and she was plummeting, down, down into the darkness. Breath held in her chest, nightgown billowing about her legs, she let herself become formless and weightless, a ghost in the water.
She imagined that this must be what death felt like. The part after one took their last breath, at least. She supposed dying itself would be rather painful. But then … there might be this. Darkness, quiet, a body that was lighter than air. No pain, no despair, no fear. No rage. Simply her, water, and the dark.
Her lungs burned, her throat clenching as her body began to fight against the submersion. Yet, she continued to let herself sink, testing her own resolve. She often contemplated letting go; taking in a long breath and filling herself with water until she choked on it, discovering if her theory about what lay beyond death proved true.
But, whenever she reached the point at which she must take a breath or die, the primal instinct toward survival urged her to fight. And so, she kicked her arms and legs, propelling herself upward, back toward life. Breaching the surface, she released the breath she’d been holding and dragged in a fresh one, tasting and smelling it all so much clearer than before she’d gone under.
When she pushed wet tendrils of sopping hair out of her eyes, it was to find the pink and orange rays of dawn bursting forth on the horizon.
She swam toward land and hoisted herself free, the chilled air of the morning biting at her wet skin. Her nightgown still clung to her, but no longer from the remnants of a painful dream. She didn’t feel the pain, or him, anymore. Their air prickled her arms and legs, pebbled her nipples, caressing her legs as she walked up the bank. Then there was the warmth of her dressing gown as she pulled it on and held it closed over her body.
Sliding her feet back into her slippers, she trudged back toward the home—reborn, and renewed.
Chapter 5
Robert tramped through the woods bordering Briarwell and Easton Park, taking his time to avoid the snare of protruding roots. He peered through the trees and through the dark night, searching for the familiar property on the outer edge of the neighboring estate. He knew the lands as well, having spent countless summers running through these very trees, chasing a ribbon of vibrant, auburn hair. As children, Daphne and Robert had been the best of friends, with Bertram rounding things out quite nicely. In the years after his brothers had gone off to school, Robert had reveled in their companionship, glad to have children his own age with which to play.
Catch me, Robert, catch me!
Daphne would run barefoot through these woods, her giggles floating on the breeze. The games hadn’t gone away as they grew older—they’d only changed. They had gone from a trio, wading in streams and throwing stones, to a twosome—he and Daphne sneaking away from her brother. The transition from girl and boy to woman and man had altered everything between them, and the need for privacy became paramount to exploring the differences in their bodies, in their feelings toward one another.
Catch me, Robert, had turned into, Kiss me, Robert, Daphne’s voice deepening from a girlish chirp to a sensual purr.
As he tread the familiar ground, he could swear he still heard her voice, could still see that streak of red hair just ahead. The memories didn’t hurt as much as they had four months ago, though they did leave a bitter taste in his mouth. For years he’d pursued her thinking all his waiting and longing would eventually come to an end. It had been part of the game—her slowing down enough that he could overtake her, laughing when swept her off her feet.
Reality had been nothing like the game, and Daphne hadn’t slowed for him. She’d dashed headlong into someone else’s arms, leaving him to put the pieces of his shattered heart back together.
The irony of his current position wasn’t lost on him. He walked through these woods where Daphne haunted him, in search of a different woman. Or rather, in search of confirmation. He’d accompanied his mother on a visit to a neighbor’s home for tea this afternoon and heard gossip stating Lady Cassandra Lane had settled in into the dower house at Easton Park. His pulse had raced at the mention of her name, the news that she was near enough for him to walk to her making his mouth go dry. Since he’d first heard the news of her imminent arrival, he’d thought of little else. He’d spent hours contemplating her reasons for leaving London, and the possibilities that her nearness could present.
Despite knowing he was foolish to think she’d even care—she had ended their night together by walking away without looking back, as promised—here he was. After lying abed for hours trying to sleep, he’d found himself too restless, his thoughts overrun by Cassandra. Even when he closed his eyes and began drifting off, memories of her tormented him—her scent and taste, the tight clench of her around him, the wide-eyed shock that had transformed her face the moment she’d reached climax.
Not that his thoughts were entirely comprised of erotic memories. There had been her admission that no one had touched her since Bertram, the haunted look in her eyes as she’d given him that secret, the words seeming to come out against her will. Had she repeated the experience again with someone else? Had she chosen other men the way she’d chosen him, tying them up, hurting them, fucking them into oblivion?
He’d gritted his teeth, his mind rebelling at the notion, even as he realized how ridiculous it was to be jealous. Especially considering he’d tried to capture the intensity of their coupling with whores before giving up entirely. His failure meant that no one else could please him the way she had.
But, she had made him no promises, given him no indication she’d wanted anything more than his cock for that one night.
Yet, here he was, walking toward her new home just for a glimpse, for any sign that she was here, close enough to … to what? What would he do once he found her again? Tell her she’d ruined him for other women, beg her for more?
He’d had no clear motive when hurriedly dressing and tiptoeing through the house, praying he wasn’t heard, slipping out a servant’s entrance to make his way across the estate grounds. He only knew he couldn’t deny the pul
l of something inside him toward that dower house, toward her.
Reaching the place where the woods opened into a little glen with a pond at its center, he paused, a flash of movement catching his eye. The swish of a white nightgown drew his eye, a brilliant splash against the dark of night.
It was her, he realized as he ducked behind a tree, peering out from behind it to watch her. She’d come to the water in only the thin garment, seeming not to feel the cold. Her hair hung in a riotous mess of curls down her back, her skin glowing pale in the light of the moon. She moved toward the pond like a ghost, her feet barely touching the ground as if she floated instead of walked. Looking like something out of a dream, she paused on the bank, arms raised high over her head as if trying to reach Heaven. From this distance, he could not make out all her features, but he imagined she had closed her eyes. She’d be serene, her bared arms broken out in goose bumps as the air caressed her skin with icy fingers.
She held his rapt attention as she began to move again, that ethereal grace carrying her into the pond. He shivered against the cold, imagining that the water must sting like the devil with nothing more than the protection of a flimsy scrap of cotton. Yet, she showed no sign of discomfort, walking toward the center of the pond, the white gown beginning to pool around her legs in an undulating cloud.
His mouth fell open, his grip tightening around the trunk of the tree as he realized she did not seem inclined to stop. He knew this pond, had swum in it many summers with Daphne and Bertram. A few more steps, and she would drop off into the deep center with nowhere to plant her feet. Seeming oblivious to this, she kept going, the water now up to her belly, lapping under her breasts.
A vise clenched his throat as he lumbered out of his hiding place right before she fell out of sight, the tips of her fingers the last bit of her he saw. He held his breath, waiting for her to reappear on the surface with a splash and a gasp. She wouldn’t have walked into the pond without being able to swim … would she?
The Damsel: A Villain Duology Sequel Page 10