ADDICTED
ADDICTED
Charlotte Featherstone
www.harlequinbooks.com.au
To Joe and Olivia, who have sacrificed so much for me to fulfill my dream. I love you more than words can say, and I thank you for being supportive, understanding and easygoing when the house looks as if a bomb has gone off, and we have frozen pizza or hot dogs for yet another dinner. I swear, I’ll make it up to you at Disney!
And for my sisters who make up The Line of Pigs.
Donna “Double D,” a kindred spirit, and Tinker. Gisele, whose brown eyes are always full of laughter and mischievousness. Lynda, who shares my “trashy romance” fetish, and Rhonda, who is fast becoming another romance junkie—told you Edward was hot! To Amy, the quiet one of the bunch, whom I hear giggling when we talk about “swords,” and another Edward groupie. Last but not least, Joanne, aka Daisy, the lady of the group. Where would I be without you to make the shifts tolerable? Thanks for the 4:00 a.m. chats and giggles. Please know that you’re more than friends, you’re family, and I could not imagine going to work and not having you there with me. Shift after shift, you keep me going, but more important, you keep me laughing, and isn’t that what life is all about?
Opium unites the souls of smokers who recline around the same lamp. It’s a bath in a thick atmosphere, a reunion in one bed with heavy covers, a veritable coupling that one can’t resist. There is, certainly, in each opium addict an unhappy or unsatisfied lover.
—Robert Desnos, Le Vin est Tiré
Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
About the Author
Acknowledgments
Prologue
Slave. Minion. Fiend. The others who have come before me have been called such things, but I prefer to think of myself as a disciple; a devout follower of my voluptuous mistress.
They say my lover is a sinister beauty, and perhaps they are correct. But when caught in her heady embrace there is nothing sinister about her. How can she be evil, when she bathes my body in a thousand raptures? How can she be anything but a radiant sorceress when she takes me to heights never before experienced?
No, my mistress is many things, but not a succubus in a gossamer cloak. True, she demands much from me, but I know how to coax and coddle her so that her black flesh responds to my skilled hands. Between my fingers, she melts like a woman in the throes of climax.
I warm her, care for her, wait patiently for her to cloak me in her sensual and supple embrace.
I worship her.
My relationship with my mistress is uncomplicated. I know what she desires of me; at the same time, she understands and fulfills my needs. As any mistress she is, at times, demanding to the point of suffocation, always wanting more—needing more. But when I come to her, she loves me like nothing—or no one—ever has.
All she wants is my return to her, night after night, hour after hour. And I do return with eager anticipation. She always welcomes my homecoming with outstretched arms and together, we make the sweetest, most decadent love, a love where two become one. Where I become so coiled in her powers that I never want to leave.
She is here now, I realize, as I see the gray fingers of her arrival begin to swirl up from the altar I have prepared for her. Soon she will be curling her fingers in my hair, caressing my face and covering my mouth with her evocative beauty. I will taste her heady fragrance on my tongue, inhale her bittersweet scent deep into my lungs. My mind will cloud, will begin to wander and float. I will fall back on my red velvet cushion, drunk with anticipation as I observe the couples surrounding me make love. I watch them like a disembodied voyeur. Not even the sounds and sights of an orgy surrounding me can arouse me so well as the thought of my mistress does.
Lush female bottoms, naked and pale, are before me. Breasts of every size and color attempt to beckon me. Quims, glistening, ready for the taking try to entice, but I wait for my mistress, as any dedicated lover would.
It is worth the wait, because when I am aroused and eager, my bewitching paramour will consume me with her fire and satisfy me with her skilled attention—ministrations that are much more pleasing than watching the dreamy specter of couples naked and writhing before me. While they enjoy each other’s bodies, I can only find satisfaction and pleasure in the arms of my enchantress.
Among the gossamer tendrils my mistress rises like Venus from the shell. She beckons me and I allow her to take over, her greedy hands swathing my body and mind in a frenzy of orgasmic temptations.
With a smile I forget about the women at my feet. I no longer hear their moans, the sounds of flesh hitting flesh. I no longer see them riding the staffs of men as they flick their hair over their shoulders and cast me glances that invite me to join their party.
Instead, I fall back and allow my mistress to fully shroud me until I feel smothered in her intoxicating perfume.
Soon her ethereal mist will begin to evaporate and part like the branches of a tree in the wind, revealing the flesh and blood woman my body desires. The flesh and blood woman who will never be found here in this den of pleasure.
This is the moment I live for with my mistress. This power she has to conjure up my most sacred, private fantasies. The beckoning enchantment she entices me with is the glimpse of the woman I crave, the woman who has ruled my heart for so long that I can see no others except her. Desire no one but her.
Through heavy-lidded eyes I will see my flesh lover, her pale skin tinted the color of cream, her long, golden hair glistening like corn silk in the sun as she stands before the candle and brass burner. Through the vapors, I watch her disrobe for me, her breasts spilling from her gown. Unbound, they are lush and full, the pale pink nipples pearled, waiting for my hands and mouth to show her pleasure. Slowly, as if to extend my torment, she waits to reveal the rest of her lovely form.
But patiently I wait, allowing my mistress to keep her hold of me until the beauty can walk through the twisting tendrils of smoke and fall at my feet.
She is always naked, my angel, and she always desires me. The real me. The man I am. Even though my mistress is there watching, whispering into my ear.
It is always a ménage, this coming together. Always my mistress comes between my flesh lover and me. But in this world of red smoke and dreams, the two who hold me enraptured, live harmoniously side by side. There is no anger. No petty jealousy for my attention. No demands that I give up the other.
For I couldn’t. I need both like I need breath.
One rules my mind and my strength; the other, my heart, soul and body.
The one knows me as a man, an aristocrat with a secret.
The other knows me for what I am. An opium addict.
Slave, minion, fiend. I suppose I am. But I prefer to think of myself as a disciple. It is so much more palatable to believe that this path I walk is based on devotion and faith—not the bonds of slavery.
1
Bewdley, Worcestershire, England
1850
&n
bsp; “Up and at ’em, milord.”
The valet’s gruff voice reached through the thick fog in his brain, disturbing the peaceful slumber and the lingering effects of the red smoke. “Sod off, Vallery,” Lindsay groaned.
His valet, ever the dutiful gentleman’s gentleman, groaned under Lindsay’s weight as he pulled him up from the brocade divan. “Any other time I would, milord, but Lord Darnby and his chits will be here within an hour and I’ve got a day’s debauchery to rid you of.”
Lindsay felt his arm being thrown around Vallery’s thick neck. His head lolled just a bit, forcing him to open his eyes. He was in his pleasure den, the remnants of last night’s bacchanal still surrounding him.
With his valet’s steadying hand and a few blinks of his burning eyes, Lindsay found himself slowly acclimating to the world around him. From the windows, he saw that the sky was not bright with the sun, but dark, the color of twilight. Bloody hell, what time was it?
“’Tis nearly seven, milord,” Vallery answered as he saw Lindsay’s confused gaze focus on the darkening skies. “You’ve been asleep all day. Now ’tis time to clean up.”
Yes. A bath and shave would set him to rights. It always did.
“Now then, will you bathe in the waters or do you wish me to take you to your apartments via the servants’ stairs?”
“My mother is around, then?”
The coarse visage of his valet came sharply into the line of his vision. Vallery was no effeminate Frenchman who clucked over him and his clothes. His unorthodox background and up-bringing was what had made Lindsay desire him as his most trusted servant. It was Vallery’s steadfast loyalty that Lindsay appreciated most, not the intricate folds of a starched cravat.
“Would I be traipsing up those rickety old stairs carrying you if the marchioness was not about, flying high in the boughs?” Vallery grumbled.
Lindsay chuckled and removed his arm from his valet. He was sober as a monk now, although he could tell from the look in Vallery’s gaze that his appearance still lingered with a hint of debauchery.
“I think my mother is probably clucking about like a mother hen. She usually does when company is expected.”
“Thought you might like to know that the Duke of Torrington has already arrived.”
“And Wallingford?”
“Not yet, milord.”
Lindsay snorted as he pulled the already untied cravat from his neck. “I’m not surprised. Wallingford has made it his solemn vow to never be in his father’s company. Why would things change today?”
Vallery said nothing as Lindsay continued to strip out of his clothes. Like the dutiful servant he was, his valet reached out for the wrinkled garments, draping them carefully over his arm. “So, it’s the baths then, is it?”
With a nod, Lindsay draped his trousers over Vallery’s arms and headed for the mineral bath. He stepped into the hot water and allowed it to engulf his body and soak his muscles. With a sigh, he looked up at the arched ceiling above his head, then back down to the water that bubbled around him. A hot mineral spring ran beneath the house, allowing him this small luxury. Naturally, he had designed his pleasure den around the baths, which now resembled a Middle Eastern hammam. It was something straight out of the Arabian Nights. The only thing it lacked was a lovely odalisque.
Lindsay smiled to himself. He knew exactly who he would like to have in that particular role. She was going to be there in his home tonight. Already desire swirled in his veins. He had denied himself for too long. It was time, far past time in actuality, to see if the lady desired him in the same manner.
“You’ll need to be quick about it this evening,” Vallery called over his shoulder. “You will not want your Lady Anais to see you in such a state.”
Lindsay closed his eyes against the prick of pain in his chest. He did not want her name soiled with his other vice. How well Vallery knew him, for the last thing Lindsay wished was for Anais to know how he dabbled in opium. Anais would not understand.
“You place your arrows well, Vallery.”
“I intend for them to wound, milord. Never kill.”
“And wound they have.” Lindsay knew what Vallery thought, but his valet was wrong. He could stop. He was not a habitué. He could and would stop. Once he had Anais in his life and in his bed he would have no further use for the opium.
He dunked himself beneath the water, no longer desirous to see his valet looking at him with what Lindsay knew was concern. When he arose he wiped the water from his eyes, shook his curly mane free of wetness and pulled himself out of the bath. Vallery was there, holding out a black dressing gown.
“I wanted to tell you last night, before your…celebration,” Vallery said awkwardly as he glanced at the elaborate spread, “how thankful I am for you allowing me into that stock sale. I made a bundle, and I wouldn’t even have been allowed in the Exchange if you would not have placed my bid for me.”
Lindsay slapped his long-suffering valet on the shoulder. “We both made a packet, my friend. Besides, knowledge is to be shared amongst men—amongst all classes. You frown now, Vallery, but mark my words, you’ll see in another twenty-odd years how the middling classes will supersede the aristocracy. Like the dinosaurs on display at the British Museum, the aristocracy will one day weaken and become extinct.”
“If you say so, milord.”
“You doubt me, but I believe what I say.”
“Your thoughts will get you kicked out of parliament once you gain your seat.”
“There are others like me, Vallery. There is a whole class of men who think just as I think.”
“That was university, when you were young and idealistic. Every young man at that age wants to change the world. Everyone thinks they can. Then they get out into the real world, and they then decide that the privilege of their birth is more important to fight for than the miserable lives of those born below them.”
“Idleness and indolence. That is what you always say of my class.”
“I do not mean to insinuate that you are always indolent, milord.”
Lindsay reached for the towel Vallery held out to him and dried his hair. “But you do think my wealth could be better spent than on lavish opium dens.”
“You have been known to be gone for days, milord.”
“Let me worry about that. You worry about what I’ve said. The world is changing, Vallery. Slowly, but surely. I know it can change. I know it will change.”
“The haves will continue to have, and the have-nots will continue to go without. It is the way of things. The foundation of our empire.”
“I see the failures of our aristocratic forebears. No longer can our huge estates thrive and survive on the backs of the working man. In time, Vallery, we aristocrats will be working men, too.”
“You already do, milord. Making money is your full-time vocation.”
Lindsay grinned. “I do have a knack for it, I’ll admit. But what I find just as thrilling is teaching others how to double, triple their income.”
“You’ve the heart of a merchant, hoarding your treasures and counting your money, you’ve the mind of a mercenary who strategizes every move. You will forgive me for saying, my lord, but you are unlike any aristocrat I’ve ever met.”
“And that’s why you jumped at the chance to be my valet once your soldiering days were over.” Vallery, the taciturn man, rolled his eyes. Lindsay threw the wet towel at him. “You may accuse me of many things, but never of withholding knowledge from the everyday man. They, too, deserve a chance. I’m only seeing to it they get it. Why should it only be blue bloods who are given the chance to increase their fortunes? We’re born rich, the untitled man is not. He is the one who needs the chances in life.”
“You’re a good man, my lord. I wonder when you’ll see it? You are not your father, nor are you likely to become like him.”
Lindsay grimaced. “Good God, Vallery, don’t go all sentimental on me now. It gives me hives. I’d rather you call me a stupid ass for my behaviors tha
n talk this melodrama. I’ve told you time and time again, I’m a dabbler. A dilettante, if you please. I am no rookery addict.”
“Of course, milord.”
Lindsay knew the man was lying. Knew his manservant was worried. But there was nothing to be worried about, because he could throw out his pipe whenever he damned well pleased. He did not have a habit.
“I am always available to you, Vallery. Lord knows you’ve put up with enough of my shenanigans since Cambridge. The least I can do is see to it that your retirement will be prosperous.”
“There is no denying your skill at the ’Change. You’ve certainly saved this place from demolition,” Vallery muttered as he looked around the lavish Moorish architecture that surrounded them.
“My father has wallowed in his cups for too many years. He hasn’t seen to the proper running of this place for decades.”
“I hope he knows to whom he is indebted.”
Lindsay laughed as he tied the sash around his middle. “My father is too busy drinking and whoring to notice what has gone on around him. Hell, the walls could crumble about our heads and he’d be too drunk to notice—or care. No, my father worries about his hounds and his drink, my mother and her comforts have been gone from his mind for many years.”
Running two fingers over his chin, Lindsay felt the growth that had erupted since last night. He bent and looked at the shadowed reflection in the mirror. “What do you think? Too much?”
“I think you will frighten off the ladies, milord.”
“Really?” He doubted Anais would be frightened of a little beard. Not her. She was not a silly chit. Perhaps she might even like it. He grinned, running his fingers over the stubble. Perhaps Anais would care to learn the benefits of a little facial hair. With the proper tutor, Anais might very well welcome such lessons. Certainly she would enjoy the scrape of his chin against her soft, fleshy thighs. He knew he certainly would.
Addicted Page 1