by Sharon Page
She wanted to lurch forward and touch his arm and remind him of the pain his parents had endured. But he suddenly looked contrite and grim.
“Agreed, Father. You deserve an explanation. Let me begin by saying my disappearance was not deliberate or intended in any way. If I caused you pain, I am sorry.” With that, Dante launched into his prepared story. He told his family and friends that two burly men had kidnapped him, intending to take him for ransom. They’d hauled him to Exeter, and there he’d escaped and been captured by a press-gang. He’d bribed his way out of forced service on a ship when he made the captain believe his tale about being a kidnapped lord. But he had been left in the Mediterranean. He had made his way north, had encountered thieves, and the attack robbed him of his memory.
Amelia knew none of the story was true, but Dante’s ability to charm won the day. His family believed him. His mother and several other women wept into handkerchiefs.
“It took years for me to regain my memory,” he explained. “And there is one very important reason why I fought to return home. Someone who haunted me even when I couldn’t remember my own name. Love, it seems, has a way of ensuring it is never forgotten.”
His mother hastened to him and suddenly grabbed his arm, clinging to him. She glowed at him. His father had always despised him; his mother adored him.
Dante patted his mother’s hand, then lifted his head, and his gaze sliced across the room and speared Amelia where she stood. His eyes glittered, reflecting the candlelight, looking unearthly and silver, and she prayed no one saw. That thought kept her rooted where she stood as he came to her.
Then he dropped to one knee and clasped her hand. Wearing a smile that could melt a woman’s heart, melt her knees, dissolve any sense she had in her head, he lifted her hand and kissed it. “I came back for Amelia. The woman who is to be my wife.”
4
Dante watched as his father stalked toward him.
“Preposterous,” the earl barked.
Five years had not changed his father’s imposing, barrelchested build, his disapproving expression, or his piercing agate-green eyes, though it had turned his hair and enormous sideburns gray.
“Impossible,” gasped his mother, slanting a look to Amelia that should have frozen his bride-to-be to ice on the spot.
To Dante’s delight, his Mia did not look cowed. Her head remained high, her face set in her controlled, governess-like expression.
“Not impossible,” Dante countered. He kissed Mia’s hand once more and jumped to his feet. “Without my memory of Amelia, without the strength of my love for her calling me home, I doubt I ever would have found my way.”
“Poppycock!” his father roared.
“It’s not. I intend to marry her as soon as I can acquire a special license. I’d hoped for a happier reunion, Father. Unfortunately, it appears I’ve disappointed you again. But I will not disappoint Amelia.”
A subtle movement in the corner of his eye caught his attention. He turned toward a dark-haired man who lingered by the door frame, glowering. This had to be the man who had tried to take Amelia away from him. He snarled, careful not to show his fangs. He wrapped his arm possessively around his lady’s slim waist.
The man’s thoughts suddenly launched into his head, even though he had not drawn them out. It was as though this gentleman had sent them. I know what you are, vampire. You can’t have her. You have nothing to offer her. I will destroy you. I know you’ve been hunting around here. What do you think Amelia will do when she finds out that you have drunk the blood of pretty village maidens and seduced them while you did it?
Dante recoiled, his gaze locked on the man’s blue eyes. He sent a message of his own. Who in the hell are you? What are you talking about? I haven’t touched a village maiden.
My name is Llewellyn Jones, the man responded, unblinking. A vampire slayer. And the man who will stake you, marry Amelia, and make her happy.
Dante lifted a brow. I’d like to see you try, he snarled back in his thoughts.
Amelia was going to be his bride. There was nothing the vampire slayer could do to stop it—other than catching him by surprise and staking him. Dante’s first problem was the prospect of acquiring a special license from a bishop and having his wedding in a church. Could a vampire go on such hallowed ground? He wasn’t sure.
After that . . . he was forcing Amelia to become his wife to give her the protection of his name, and she had reluctantly accepted. How did he make her happier about the prospect of a hasty wedding? He could think of one way. A delightfully carnal way . . .
After an immense Christmas dinner that included roast beef and many mincemeat pies, the guests retired to the largest drawing room. There, a game of Snapdragon had been set up. Raisins had been soaked in brandy in an enormous shallow bowl. Footmen hastened to put out the lights, and then a servant ignited the brandy in the dish.
Flames flew up and the heat warmed Amelia’s cheeks. Snapdragon had always seemed like a mad game—the point was to grasp a raisin and eat it without getting burned.
The golden glow from the bowl illuminated the laughing guests as they gathered. Amelia glanced at Dante, who stood in the shadow. He leaned against the wall, staring at her. Staring at her as though she were a treat to be devoured. The thought made her tremble with desire and with uncertainty. He had told her he would never hurt her. Could she believe him? She wanted to. So very much. She also noticed he had not eaten any of the food at dinner.
One after another, the guests tried to snatch a flaming raisin from the bowl. There was much good-natured wagering, shrieks of laughter, and frantic hand waving as people tried and failed. Then Dante moved forward. He slowly lowered his hand into the bowl. He took his time to choose, while flames licked at his hand, while the gentlemen exclaimed in shock and the ladies squealed. With lazy relaxation, he plucked a raisin and held it up between thumb and forefinger, despite the fact it was on fire. He popped it into his mouth and swallowed.
Of course he wasn’t afraid. He was immortal. But he left the crowd in stunned shock. They all gaped at him as he walked away from the bowl and sauntered toward her. At his command, she had been elevated from position as servant. She was now known as his fiancée.
He clasped her elbow. “Come with me, love, while they are all preoccupied, waiting to see who burns his tongue or sets fire to his coat.”
She couldn’t help but laugh. It was true that this game seemed to appeal to the gentlemen who had drunk copious amounts of liquor at dinner. “Where are we going?”
“A surprise, my love.”
He led her down the winding hallways of the house to the gallery, where two footmen waited. One helped Dante into his greatcoat, and as she watched, she suddenly realized another was draping a cloak on her. A cloak lined with glossy black sable, heavy, luxurious, and warm. She was given a pair of furtrimmed gloves and a thick muff for warming her hands. She stared up questioningly, and Dante said, “A gift for you.” When he took her outside and she demanded to know what he planned, he smiled and whispered one word. Patience.
A path had been cut through the deep snow, crossing the lawns to the stone stables. The air was crisp and cold. Her boot soles squeaked on the hard snow; her breath cast crystal patterns in the air. The night was too clear and cold for snow, and the black sky above was filled with glinting stars. Ahead, bells jingled and the sweet melody danced through the night air. Dante clasped her wrist and hurried her steps. She rounded the stables and saw a white sleigh waiting for them. Warm blankets were stacked inside, and four snow-white horses pawed at the frozen ground. It was like something from a fairy tale.
“Your chariot.” Dante grinned.
As he handed her up, she cried, “I have to know! Where are we going?”
“Our wedding night in the cottage ended in disaster. This time we are going to have a private night of pleasure and nothing will go wrong.”
Soon, Dante brought the sleigh to a stop in front of an elegant manor house that blazed with
welcoming light. Icicles hung from the eves, reflecting the glow from the windows.
“It’s lovely,” Amelia breathed. “Is this house all for us, for one night of sin?”
“Not quite.”
He was driving her mad—not just with his teasing, but also with anticipation. Amelia had never known desire could ache so much. She wanted him so fiercely she was indecently wet between her legs. Her nipples were aroused to hard points, and each brush against her shift made her whimper. She was determined to play her own game and pretend his torturous teasing didn’t bother her at all.
An impassive servant took her cloak, gloves, fur muff, and Dante’s gloves and greatcoat. Then Dante winked. “Come and see how Christmas should be enjoyed.”
He cupped her elbow and drew her to a parlor. The most amazing scene met her startled gaze. There was a large group of handsome young men. They were all naked. Completely nude. Amelia had never seen so many bare masculine derrieres and wobbling, erect penises in her life. Well, actually she had seen only Dante’s. There were women, too. Beautiful, voluptuous, bare women copulating with the men in a large group. Which meant everywhere she looked, her startled gaze fastened on bouncing nipples and jiggling breasts.
“A Christmas orgy,” Dante explained. “Much hotter and more entertaining than Snapdragon.”
She glanced at him, too dumbfounded to say a word. His silvery green eyes sparkled like fresh snow, but he looked utterly serious . . . until his lips twitched. Then she gave in to giggles. For the scene before her looked sensual, shocking, mad, and . . . funny. Though her face was flaming, she couldn’t help but look and try to determine exactly which man was making love to which woman. In the tangle of limbs, though, it was impossible to know. Heavens, one woman had two men making love to her. The lady was sandwiched between them, and the men’s hips thrust vigorously against her. There was one man who had so many women on top that Amelia could barely see him. One woman rode him, one bounced on his face, two flicked tongues over his bronze nipples, and one seemed to be . . . playing with his bottom.
“Did you want to . . .” Her voice was a mere squeak. “Join them?”
“No, love. Come with me.”
She stumbled after him up a set of stairs, then to a door at the end of the hallway. Her corset felt like a squeezing band, her heart raced faster than horses at the Newmarket races, and she had gone beyond hot and wet. She felt molten between her legs.
Limned with silver moonlight, Dante drew out a key and fit it into the lock.
“What is this room?” she asked, not expecting an answer.
“A private room I kept here,” he said, surprising her. “Even though I was gone for so long, I had paid a small fortune for its use and they preserved it for me. Only I have the key to this lock.”
He pushed open the door and led her inside. It appeared to be an ordinary bedroom, though the bed was a large concoction of dark-stained wood and gilt. Dante crossed to the vanity, where a bottle of brandy and glasses sat on a silver tray. Grinning, he lifted the bottle to his lips and swallowed.
She stared. There was something sensual in the cavalier way he drank. He wiped his mouth, still smiling. “Pear brandy. I wanted to give you gifts, love. But I want them to be presents that bring you pleasure. For the first day of Christmas, a bottle of pear-flavored brandy.”
Instead of a partridge and a pear tree as in the song “The Twelve Days of Christmas”? Her father had an old publication of the words and she’d read them as a child.
Dante brought the bottle to her. “Take a sip.”
“I saw you swallow the raisin, and now you are drinking brandy. If you can eat and drink, can’t you survive without blood?” She asked it desperately. Hopefully.
“No, love. I can drink and eat a little, but I need blood.”
She bit her lip, then she drank, lifting the bottle to her lips as he had done. She let the liquor burn down her throat, tasting pears and fire. It was mad—she had just seen an orgy, and still it felt decadent to drink brandy straight from the bottle. But she had to ask him, as much as she didn’t want to know, “Who did you bring to this room?”
“I intended to bring you here, but I never had the courage. I’ve never used it. It has waited for us for five years. Waited for me to have the chance to show you how much I love you.” He took the bottle and set it down. “I want to make this marriage good for you, Mia. What’s your most secret sexual fantasy, love? What do you dream of, think of, that you would never admit to anyone, not even me?”
“Oh . . . oh . . . er . . .”
“I saw you give gifts to the children. Would you give this to me, as my gift?”
Her blush deepened. Her cheeks felt like fire. “I don’t know. I cannot say. It’s far too embarrassing—”
“I could try guessing.” He began to undress her. When he opened her gown and drew the bodice down from her chest and off her arms, he touched her wrist. He traced a circle around it. “Do you ever dream of being tied up?”
She gasped. She had thought of it but couldn’t admit it. When she used to desire Dante and thought she, as an ordinary governess, would never catch his eye, she used to dream of what she would do if he suddenly wanted her, wanted her so desperately he ravished her. She knew she wouldn’t want to be forced in reality. But in fantasies, it seemed naughty and enticing.
Somehow he had looked into her face and had known....
“It’s natural, Mia, and something that arouses many people.” He spoke so calmly, she didn’t feel so tense and embarrassed. “It allows a woman to fantasize about enjoying wild sex with a man when she knows she isn’t supposed to be willing. Would you like to try it?”
“But what would you think of me?”
“I would think that I adore you completely, my soon-to-be darling wife.”
“What would we use? There’s no rope in here.”
He laughed, and she flushed again, realizing how swiftly she’d gone from reluctance to practicality. She’d revealed how wanton she secretly was. But he only looked pleased. He moved to the bedpost, untied something, and suddenly a half dozen lengths of black silk rope fell to the bed. “There, Mia. Rope.”
“Wh-what are you going to do?”
“Normally, a woman lies on the bed and her wrists and ankles would be bound, securing her to the bedposts.” His voice was a deep, throaty growl.
A shiver tumbled down her spine at what she pictured. She imagined being naked on the bed, with black rope looped around her wrists, her arms secured above her head, her legs spread wide. What would it be like to be his prisoner, to be served up for his carnal pleasure? Heat rushed through her. The aching need heightened between her legs. “B-but we aren’t going to do that?”
At the shake of his head, she should have felt relieved. Instead, she felt she had been given a Christmas gift, then had it taken away. “Then what are we going to do?”
“I would like to try something new.” His arms encircled her and he undid her corset. He peeled it off her, then whisked off her chemise. She was nude except for her stockings and garters. And her half boots. He looked down at those, smiled, and bent. In a blink of an eye, he’d removed them. She managed to fit in two blinks while he stripped naked. Her gaze dropped—she couldn’t help it. She’d always hated gentlemen who stared at women’s breasts. Now here she was, mesmerized by the rigid curve of Dante’s erection, by the way it swayed, by the glistening moisture gathering at the tip. Curiosity, desire . . . both guided her fingers to stroke the taut head. It bobbed in response.
Softness tickled the sensitive skin of her wrist—he’d tied one of the black ropes around it. Then, with deft motions, he looped the rope around his left hand and bound their hands together. His eyes reflected candlelight, blazing gold.
“You’re going to tie us together?”
“I’m thinking.” He grinned. “What makes bondage so arousing is the surrender. If I tie you up, you have to surrender to my every desire. You have to trust me.”
Just the
words made her melt. And the more she felt like flowing honey, like hot cream, between her legs, the harder he got. His erection kept lifting upward, thickening, straightening.
“Bondage?”
“A term to describe these games. Being tied up with ropes, or scarves, or shackles and irons. If we’re both tied up, we’re surrendering to each other.”
“I don’t know,” she began, but he lifted her into his arms. Clamping his palm to her bare bottom, he carried her to the bed. Their wrists were tied together—a symbol, she thought, of the union they were about to undertake. A marriage of convenience. Tied together, but not really joined. Perhaps it was the Christmas wine, but she felt a sudden yearning for more than just wrists tied together. She twined her fingers with his. She stretched up and licked the skin of his neck. He tasted so rich, so much more decadent than chocolate.
They tumbled to the bed. His chest moved against hers as his silky laughter filled the room. He bent down, twisting his body in impossible ways to tie their ankles together. Then he parted his legs, which forced her legs to spread wide as well. His erection pressed to her belly. Fluid dribbled, tickling her skin. His bollocks brushed the sensitive place between her nether lips, where the little bump, her clit, was nestled. Amelia squeaked in pleasure and shock.
“My cock aches to be inside you. I want to bind us together so I can stay in you forever,” he whispered. “It feels so . . . perfect.”
She ached, too. It was true—it felt right when they were joined, making love. It was a way she wanted to feel forever. She arched and wriggled both her feet, savoring the way they were trapped. His hips shifted and the head of his cock nudged between her nether lips. Her juices made her slick and wet. He slid in, just a few inches. The thick shaft stretched her enough to make her gasp with surprise, awareness, pleasure.