by Marian Tee
She nodded. “I was invited by the Professor, too, but unlike Mary I was honest enough to refuse since I know it’s going to be a total snooze fest.” She rattled off the address and was impressed when he simply nodded afterwards, his memory apparently good enough to record the information on his mind.
Camille let out another quiet sigh, thoroughly impressed now. The Duke of Flanders wasn’t just gorgeous and sexy, but he was so smart, too – in a really hot way.
The duke thanked Camille briskly after that, and watching his back as he headed to the staircase, she wondered if she had done the right thing. For one thing, she hadn’t let the duke know that Professor Byron, the event’s organizer, was also Mary’s crush since her first day in uni. Also, there was the matter of the admission, which required…
“You need me to read poetry in order to be admitted?” Rathe repeated incredulously half an hour later, standing at the doorway of a hole-in-the-wall club that looked like a hippie’s idea of paradise with its flowery wall art and wind chimes made of recycled paper.
“Yeah, man. You go straight to the stage from here.” The other man had long greasy hair and still had his shades on even though it was already dark. He looked more like a drugged-out version of John Lennon than the establishment’s head of security.
“And if I don’t?”
“We kick you out when you don’t speak a word in your first five seconds on stage.” The guy crossed his arms. “So what’s it gonna be, dude?”
Five minutes later and Rathe was inside the club, which was even more dreadful than he feared. There were more of the ghastly floral art on the walls and the overhead lights were either incandescent or green-tinted, making Rathe feel like he was inside the spaceship of an herbivorous alien.
The stage was not a stage at all, but – as far as Rathe could tell – was no more than a huge block of wood with a microphone stand on top. What the bloody hell had he gotten himself into? And all for…what? To spend more time with a girl who was clearly not in his league, did not share his interests, and---
From the shadowy hallway leading directly to the “stage”, Rathe finally spotted Mary in the crowd.
---was on a bloody date with another man?
Rathe’s teeth snapped together. She was seated in what was obviously the center table next to a man who was about his age and dressed in tweed. His hair was brushed neatly back, his eyes hidden behind a pair of nerdy glasses.
A professor, Rathe guessed.
A professor who knew that he was with a student who was infatuated with him.
Next to the professor was Mary, who looked sweet and demure in a lavender dress with a modest neckline. Half of her hair was pulled up while the rest fell against her back. She even had makeup on, her lips looking pink and glossy, and she had a goofy smile on her face as she listened to whatever rubbish her professor was feeding her.
Bloody idiot girl.
Did she really think she would be happy with a lame arsehole like that?
The only part of her body that kind of man could get wet were her eyes since Mary would likely be crying herself to tears with boredom if the professor ever managed to get her in his bed.
Not that it was likely to happen, Rathe thought, his body already tensing in anger at the idea. As long as he was in the picture, he was not going to let any other bloody man get close to Mary…starting now.
****
Professor Byron was not making any sense, but Mary was doing her best to look like it wasn’t so and that she understood every word that came out of his mouth. Ever since the first day of school, she had been impressed – so very startled and star struck, actually, at how gentle he was, especially with women. His voice was soft and smooth, almost melodic. His mannerisms whenever he spoke were well-defined and expansive but not at all threatening. His face was also an open book, with a mixture of friendliness and ancient wisdom shining in his eyes.
If Mary had to summarize all her feelings for Professor Byron, it was that he was the antithesis of her stepfather and this was what drew her most strongly to him.
“…the eloquence and articulation. It’s quite beautiful, isn’t it, Mary?”
She quickly tried to look as blown away as he was and clapped her hands with everyone else when the student who had just recited an ode to his dead guinea pig bowed before the crowd. It really wasn’t that weird, she told herself. If her piranha died, she might be driven to write a poem, too.
A waiter came to their table, temporarily blocking her view of the stage as he bent down to whisper something in the professor’s ears. Mary looked around, not wanting to seem as if she was eavesdropping. As her gaze roamed her surroundings, she realized that most of the other students were either glowering at her – or snickering.
Flushing, she quickly looked down, wringing her hands. They knew about her crush on Professor Byron. The realization made Mary want to head bang the table in patent embarrassment. How could they have known? But then – how could have Saffi also known when she wasn’t even attending Professor Byron’s class? Had she been that obvious with her adoration for him?
She glanced at Professor Byron and this time, Mary saw the way his gaze was both condescending and – gulp – warm towards her. Oh no. He, too, had known about her feelings for him?
Before she could speak and clear the air – how she would do so, Mary wasn’t really sure – the host of the event came back on stage, a weird look on his face. “Thanks, Mark, for the superb ode. We were very moved by your words – I know everyone, like me, hope that your guinea pig is in pet heaven now.” He paused, ignoring the snickers that followed his words.
Professor Byron took the opportunity to speak to her. “My dear, in just a short time we will no longer be teacher and student.”
Mary slowly gulped.
In the background, the host was speaking again. “And now, for our next reader, please join me in welcoming an unexpected walk-in…”
His deep dark eyes were now focused completely on her face. When Mary smiled weakly at him, his face took on a triumphant expression that he unsuccessfully failed to conceal.
Professor Byron was secretly ecstatic. He had been moved by Mary Ashton’s devotion to him, something that he couldn’t help but brag to the rest of the faculty about. Most of the teachers knew Mary, if not by face then by reputation since she was not only one of the smartest in her course but she was also famous for being Saffi March-Aehrenthal’s confidante.
He had liked being the envy of the teachers and had deliberately led the young girl on a merry chase, treating her with incredible gentleness – something he had guessed early on she could not get enough of – and then occasionally giving her the cold shoulder, just to keep Mary on her toes.
But the semester was drawing to a close, and it was time to reward the young and beautiful Mary. Also, he was being pragmatic about it. He was not a fool. If she was no longer in his class, it was more than possible her feelings for him would wane and he was not about to let that happen. Her immensely voluptuous body had been the subject of his dreams for quite some time now. He was aching to possess her and tonight was the night he would make her his.
“We will no longer see each other often.”
Mary gulped again. She just plain didn’t know what to say. She didn’t even know how she was feeling. She should be happy that the professor sounded as affected as she was – and she really was, but maybe she was just numb with shock right now and that was why she didn’t feel happy.
“But it does not have to be the end. I want to let you know---”
The host announced in a booming voice, “My dear friends, may I present to you, His Grace, the Duke of Flanders.”
Mary’s head jerked up, her gaze flying towards the makeshift stage.
Oh dear Lord, it really was him!
Rathe Wellesley climbed up the stage with impressive ease and confidence, as if doing poetry nights were a daily routine for him. But it wasn’t so. She knew, and probably everyone here knew just b
y looking at his arrogant and gorgeous visage, that what Rathe was used to was being in the limelight and having everyone stare at him in deep awe.
Mary quickly snapped her mouth shut, having realized she had been gawking at him all this time. When she looked at him again, their eyes clashed. Even from a distance, Mary could see the darkness in his gaze and the tension in his profile. He wore yet another beautiful and sophisticated suit – did the man ever wear jeans? – and, standing tall and proud, he looked every inch the noble duke he was.
“Who is that man?” Professor Byron’s hiss was underlined with outrage and ill-kept jealousy, seeing the way every girl in the club was looking at the stranger – even Mary. The Duke of Flanders? Ha! The man appeared as if he expected everyone to curtsy in his presence, and when the professor looked around the club again, he could tell that everyone was more than half-inclined to do so, if only for the fact that they might have a chance of seducing the man with a generous look of their cleavages.
“Ms. Ashton?” Professor Byron’s voice snapped Mary out of her daze.
“He’s, umm, the Duke of Flanders.”
“Oh, please! That is only---”
“---the truth,” she finished faintly, unable to take her gaze off Rathe. She couldn’t because he wasn’t letting her. How was it that he had her in his command so easily? Sick with the way her stepfather constantly suppressed her and her mother, Mary had promised herself she would never tie herself to a dominating man.
So why was she feeling like this about him?
On stage, Rathe was briefly thanking the host for allowing him to join the event. He said it with such charm that by the end, the host was just as bowled over as the rest of the crowd.
When the host jumped down, leaving Rathe alone under the spotlight’s glare, he took the microphone and looked at Mary.
She paled under his scrutiny and seemingly unconsciously moved her chair a few inches back.
Good. She should be afraid. He did not take kindly to sharing his women. It didn’t bloody matter that he had done his very best to destroy any feelings of desire for her. Nothing had worked and now, seeing her with another man, he knew that nothing would ever work.
His desire for her was too strong, impossible to deny, and the only way to get rid of it was to allow it to burn bright like a raging fire. They would soak up its heat until there was nothing left, his desire waning a natural death, and then they would part, like they were supposed to part.
Rathe said in a velvety voice, “For tonight, I’m just going to read a few passages from a John Keats poem.”
Everyone clapped except for Mary, who was stunned that Rathe even knew John Keats, and Professor Byron, who was scowling because he had been hoping the duke – if he really was that – would not have anything to say.
I met a Lady in the Meads
Full beautiful, a faery’s child
Her hair was long, her foot was light,
And her eyes were wild---
Rathe stopped and only looked at her.
Mary bit back a gasp because the heat of his gaze was more than enough to throw her back into the past, and in a second she vividly remembered the passion in his kiss and the way they were wild for each other.
Oh, drat.
That was not what this poem was about but from here on, she knew Rathe Wellesley had ruined the famous poem for her. From here on, she would not be able to think of those words without blushing, without getting wet, without thinking of…him.
Slowly, a seductively beautiful smile formed on Rathe’s lips, and audible sighs rose from the girls in the crowd.
I made a garland for her head,
And bracelets, too, and fragrant Zone;
She look’d at me as she did love
And made sweet moan---
Oh, oh God – he shouldn’t be looking at her like he was offering her all the riches in the world if she would give him her body. Mary could feel the heat suffusing her cheeks. Professor Byron was speaking furiously to her also. She knew she should pay more attention to him, but she just couldn’t stop staring at Rathe.
The message underneath the flowery lines, issued both as an invitation and a command, was patently clear to everyone.
Be mine, Mary. And everything in the world shall be yours.
Mary gripped the edge of the table instinctively, just to be sure she wouldn’t accidentally melt into the ground if Rathe kept looking at her like that.
I set her on my pacing steed,
And nothing else saw all day long;
For sidelong would she bend and sing
A faery’s song---
Someone from the crowd actually moaned out loud.
“Shit, I’m horny,” another girl muttered, her voice breaking the silence of the infatuated crowd.
Mary couldn’t fault any of them. She felt the same way, and she was torn between hiding under the table and throwing herself at Rathe. What was he doing here and why was he doing this to her? she wondered, desperately confused. Why was he wooing her so blatantly and how in the world was he able to inject so much sexual innuendo in his words with just his voice?
Steed…bend…sing…
Those were such innocent words but to her they were now beautifully depraved, her mind filled with thoughts of her soft body and his strong one entwined with each other, of her riding him with complete abandon, of her bending down closer to him so he could taste the succulence of her breasts, of her chanting his name as he thrust and thrust and thrust---
A whimper of distress escaped her.
Rathe heard it and he knew he had won.
He looked at the crowd. “I won’t finish the poem,” he said in a low silky voice. “I’m sure all of you know how I’m going to make it end.” He went down in one graceful leap and then the duke was walking straight towards Mary, the look on his face making it explicit to everyone who he wanted to end the poem with.
Chapter Four
“A duke, eh?" Professor Byron’s voice was frosty with contempt, making it sound like dukedoms were extremely archaic and not worth a damn in today’s modern society. He wished there was something else to say, but there was none. The man had been polite and charming when he invited himself to the professor’s table, explaining that he was an old friend of Mary. It was impossible to refuse, not with all of his other students looking at them.
And now, they sat in a triangle facing each other, and although Mary was seated more closely to him, Professor Byron could feel his hold on her slipping and slipping.
“Yes, I’m a duke.” The man managed to sound courteously apologetic and arrogant at the same time, making the professor look churlish. It was as if the other man was saying, you can harp about my dukedom as often as you want. It won’t change the fact that my blood is blue and yours is as red as all the peasants in the world.
The professor wanted to kill him. Oh, if only he was not officially on duty today. He would plant a good one on this pretty boy’s face and show him that he, the professor, was the real man and not him.
He glanced at Mary. “May I ask how the two of you met? You make a very…unique pair.”
Mary blinked at the unexpected question. It was not like the professor to ask such personal questions.
When Rathe saw Mary’s lovely lips start to part, he went for the kill, placing his hand on her knee under the table. He knew that the people who cared to look might see what he was doing just as he was sure Professor Byron would never stoop to looking under the table even if he eventually guessed what was happening.
Rathe was fine with both.
He wanted everyone to know that he had staked a claim on Mary Ashton, and from this moment no one was allowed to make a move on her.
The heat of his hand on her knee made her tremble, stopping her throat from working. She was voiceless and thoughtless, all of her being centered on that one place where their bodies came in contact.
Professor Byron frowned. “Mary?”
She swallowed and felt at the same t
ime his hand move up, slowly, caressingly, inside her dress. She quickly covered her mouth to keep herself from gasping out loud as his fingers caressed the tender skin of her legs.
Looking back at the professor, she forced herself to concentrate. “I…met him a week ago. He is a friend of Saffi March’s husband.”
His lip curled. “The rocker?”
“The rocker, yes,” Rathe added smoothly, at the same time boldly moving his fingers up to caress the silky texture of her inner thighs, “Also known as Sweden’s #1 Sex God.”
Envy flashed in the professor’s eyes, just as Rathe expected. Men like him were the type to be in constant and furious competition with other males, driven to senseless posturing to hide their insecurities. Rathe used the professor’s momentary distraction to press his suit further, exerting pressure with his fingers so that Mary would open her legs more widely.
She resisted for a few seconds, the muscles in her legs tensing. But he was a patient and determined man, caressing and stroking her thighs until, with a look of dismay on her face, Mary’s legs finally parted, granting Rathe access.
Satisfaction coursed through him, a sweet and dark emotion that had him aching with arousal. He had the strongest urge to take Mary away then and there and be damned with what people said. This was the kind of crowd that was unlikely to care about reporting him to the tabloids, and even if they did, he had enough hold of the media to prevent the wrong photos or articles from being published. As long as he was not seen by any of his peers, then Rathe was safe, Mary was safe, and their secret would still be theirs to enjoy.
A choking sound escaped Mary as she almost doubled over on the table at the feel of Rathe’s sure fingers caressing her flesh through the lace of her panties. She threw a look of despair at him. What do you think you’re doing? She dared not look anywhere else. The table did not have any kind of linen to cover what was happening underneath. Although poetry night was over and the open space in the middle of the club had turned into a dance floor, anyone who still cared to look would see what was happening.