The Dom Who Said Please

by Raven McAllan

  She wasn’t. Having had too much time with someone who wanted what he couldn’t give, she was in no hurry to be subjected to arguments, incriminations, and humiliation again. Or anything else.

  Voices ebbed and flowed. Some high, some low. Lots of shrill and sultry laughter, both forced and natural.

  Seduction. Courtship. Intrigue. The ton mating rituals. Innuendo, scandal, or innocence. It bored her. Every single nuance. The marriage mart was well-named and she wanted none of it.

  Something, or someone, impinged on her consciousness. Why? Eleanor glanced around discreetly and groaned.

  The bloody Earl of Glensmoor was watching her. Again. He was the one person who made her wonder what if. And what if was not likely to happen. She risked a swift look and—drat the man—he lifted his glass in her direction. Eleanor scowled and turned her back.

  “They say,” her friend Clarissa whispered in a thrilled tone as she came to stand next to Eleanor, “that he is very masterful in the bedroom. Or, well, in any room. He doesn’t just do it in a bedchamber. It could be anywhere. And he dictates what and how. Can you imagine that?”

  Surely not? Anywhere? Who says? The mind boggles. Who is she talking about?

  “Really?” her other close friend, Mary, asked in a doubtful voice as she came to Eleanor’s other side. “I mean, someone might see.”

  “That’s part of it all,” Clarissa said confidently. “The fear you might be caught is said to heighten your … well, you know. He dictates and the lady with him does exactly as he asks.”

  “I wonder who likes that sort of thing?”

  “Apart from him? Well, evidently ladies queue up to be asked. But I am told he is very choosy.”

  Who on earth were they talking about? For the first time in a long while, Eleanor wished she hadn’t let her mind wander. She couldn’t ask, of course. That would give away just how little attention she paid to most chatter.

  “You mean he is dominant?” she asked, as she thought it was time she contributed to the conversation.

  Clarissa nodded. “So they say. I wonder what it is like.”

  Mary shuddered. “I don’t wish to know. Theo Moncur frightens me. He is so, so…”

  “Dominant,” Clarissa finished the sentence. “We all agreed on that, didn’t we?”

  Mary nodded. “I did. What about you, Eleanor?”

  Thus addressed, Eleanor had no option but to answer. She might have guessed whom they were talking about. He seemed to be the sole topic of conversation these days. “I think it is probably all in someone’s imagination.”

  “Really?” Mary sounded doubtful. “I have heard the same thing from several sources.”

  “Probably all down to one person, ideas, real or untrue.”

  “Yes, but if it isn’t?” Clarissa persisted. “What then? I mean, he is said to be mistress-free and on the lookout for someone.” She sighed. “Someone who is available for dalliance. Not marriage. That cuts me and Mary out. He is unlikely to play with untried debs.”

  “Certainly not marriage,” Eleanor said briskly. “And I agree no one unwed. I would assume she would need to have given her husband his heir as well.” Or be a widow, damn him. “So, my dears, not you not me. I am not interested, you are not eligible.”

  “Oh, Eleanor, you must be.” Mary sighed in a very exaggerated manner. “He is so elegant, so masterful, so…”

  “Overbearing?” Eleanor suggested. “Annoying?”

  “Never that.” Mary sounded appalled. “What is needed in a man.”

  “If you say so.” Eleanor shrugged. “Some may beg to differ.”

  “Eleanor, surely not,” Clarissa protested. “It must be every woman’s dream to be looked after and cared for.”

  “It would depend on what was meant by looked after and cared for. To be given a roof over one’s head, jewels, and clothes, and then ignored is not looked after except in the most basic of ways.”

  “It isn’t always like that,” Mary said. “Surely?”

  “Not always,” Eleanor agreed. “But it can be. However, to marry again is not on my agenda. I can and intend to look after and care for myself. I will not rely on a man again. I assure you, Theo Moncur is not for me. If I meet someone who he is interested in, and I discover exactly what it all means, I will be sure to share the information with you,” Eleanor added lightly. “Although I have no idea who that person might be. I do not move in his exalted circles nor do I wish to.” What would her friends make of his attention from afar? Eleanor had no intention of sharing that tidbit. He was probably just amusing himself. She wasn’t sure whether to hope not or pray he was.

  “Oh, Eleanor,” Mary said. “You can not give up on life. I despair of you.”

  Eleanor laughed and patted Mary’s cheek. “Everyone does. However, I am happy as I am and have no intention of changing the status quo. Nor do I think, with regards to me, does he. I am sure he is happy as he is.”

  However, if he wasn’t? If there was more to it than that? Eleanor’s stomach churned. Nerves or excitement? She had no idea. The idea of being dictated to once more made her nauseated. Eleanor had a mind of her own and intended to use it, not pander to someone else’s whims all the time. Never again. Except … Theo Moncur… Different, maybe?

  The musicians struck up for a quadrille and several of her acquaintances perked up, fluffed out their skirts, and appeared eager or demure, depending on the temperament.

  Saved by the violins. Eleanor stroked her cerulean-blue silk gown into place, rearranged her shawl to cover the tops of her arms and part of her décolletage, and made sure her dance card—forced on her by her godmama—was well-hidden. She bit back a yawn as some of her peers accepted requests to dance and others drooped as the music started and they realized they were to sit the dance out. Which meant some young ladies looked supercilious and some unhappy.

  Eleanor hated it all. Why should one’s happiness depend on something so unimportant in the grand scheme of things? Surely there was more to life than being an alleged devoted daughter, eager—or unwilling—deb, long-suffering wife, not-so-grieving widow, balls, marriage, gossip, and the next design to be coveted? She had suffered them all and in her mind, suffered was the word to be used.

  No wallflower except by choice, she only attended the ball because it was hosted by her godmother. A lady who would probably have dragged Eleanor there if Eleanor hadn’t appeared. Never mind that invitations were sought after, she could have well done without one. However, Lady Holt, her godmother, was adamant. Eleanor would attend … or else. Dorothy Holt meant well, was well-loved, and had as much subtlety as a sledgehammer. It was just as well Eleanor adored her and would go out of her way to acquiesce to any requests from her godmother. Now that lady approached her goddaughter and with ruthless determination told Eleanor in no uncertain terms it was time she circulated.

  “I’m perfectly happy here,” Eleanor protested. “I enjoy watching people.”

  “That’s as may be, but it will not do.” Dorothy Holt waggled her finger to emphasize her words. “If you won’t do it on your own accord, then I will drag you.”

  Eleanor knew when she was beaten. “Tyrant. It is as well I love you.” She kissed her godmother on the cheek. “And I do. Very much, or I would not be here.”

  Lady Holt laughed and pinched Eleanor on the chin. “I’m doing it for your own good. Try to look as if it a pleasure, not a punishment, my love.”

  “You ask a lot.” Eleanor grinned to take the sting out of her words then danced a duty dance with Wilfred, her godmother’s son. Wilfred, someone who was a friend, nothing more, and therefore unthreatening, was an undemanding partner who also wished he was anywhere but in a ballroom.

  “Thank the lor’ you’re here, Ellie.” He was one of the few people she allowed to address her by the diminutive. “Dashed glad when this is over and I can hie it back to the shires. Why m’mother insists I attend, I have no idea. I’m a confirmed bachelor.”

  “She lives in hope,” Elean
or said lightly. “Just do as you always do. Bow, nod, and ignore her wiles.”

  Wilfred grinned. “As you do also?”

  “As I try to.” So far it had worked.

  The music and the dance ended with a flourish. Eleanor curtsied, and Wilfred kissed her cheek and muttered something about the library and a pipe of brandy.

  She laughed. “Enjoy, and have one for me.” With a sigh, Eleanor watched Wilfred leave then considered her options. If she stayed where she was, she would no doubt be asked to dance or go for a stroll with men who had no interest in her as a person, just as a means to gaining a fortune. As one such gentleman approached her, she made her mind up and flitted across the room to join a circle of friends. Perhaps not a lot better for her own personal entertainment value, but it at least put her out of easy contact for gentlemen on the prowl. Plus, she was no longer in sight of her godmama, who might try to pounce and present her with a partner for the next dance. Well-meaning as she was, Lady Holt could be a darned nuisance at times.

  The next dance ended and the coteries reformed. Eleanor counted down the minutes during the boring half an hour that followed as the group around her changed whilst people danced or not. However, those who stayed, joined, or re-joined covered such random topics as why so many people liked Bryon’s poems, why gentlemen enjoyed pugilism, and who was the most elegantly dressed male in the room. Most of those present had agreed it was Theo Moncur, Earl of Glensmoor.

  The very man who after the earlier confidences invaded her thoughts and made her scowl. Over the last few weeks, ever since the season had begun in earnest, Eleanor could swear the dratted man had been paying particular notice as to where she was and what she did.

  Not to approach her, oh no. That, of course, would have given her the chance to send him away with a flea in his ear. He, the bugger, kept his distance. Saluted her in such a way that few would notice and gave her an itch she could well do without.

  As the chatter around her continued, Eleanor chose not to participate other than with an occasional murmur, which could be taken however the recipient chose. Topics were not meant to be answered in any depth, and that man irritated and intrigued her in equal parts. Why, she had no idea except every time she saw him, he appeared to be studying her. As if she was some unusual and not particularly fascinating creature. It was unnerving. Plus, although she would never admit it, he was the only person she knew who made her pulse rate quicken, her heart miss a beat, and her skin tingle.

  Very unnerving.

  “I say pink.”

  Eleanor jolted back to the present.

  “But puce is richer.”

  “But there are so many shades of pink, it is … versatile,” the speaker ended in triumph. “And so many materials.”

  “You don’t only get materials in pink, though.”

  It seemed the topic of conversation was fashion. Two voices rose as each of her friends offered their opinion.

  What was so important about pink or puce trimmings on a walking dress? Eleanor favored neither. In her mind, it was immaterial what color you chose—someone always took issue. Fashions changed as fast as they took hold, and she had long given up trying to fathom why some things were acceptable and sought after and some not. She wore what suited her, what she liked, and to hang whether it was in vogue or considered outdated. When her mama had remonstrated, Eleanor looked her in the eye.

  “What I wear, and how, is nothing to do with you, Mama. You married me off. As far as I am concerned, that negates any filial duty from me. I suggest you give your attention to my sisters and endeavor not to make the same mistake again as you did with me. For believe me, if nothing else, I will fight you tooth and nail to ensure their lives are not made as miserable as mine was.”

  That had silenced her mama, who retreated in dignified silence and now treated her daughter warily.

  “Eleanor? Do you agree? You have chestnut hair. It is all the rage. What would you choose?”

  “Pardon?” This year Eleanor well knew her dark—and some said sultry—beauty was what every lady yearned for. Next year it would no doubt be the thing to be blonde.

  “We asked your opinion, Eleanor.”

  Thus appealed to, Eleanor scrambled to think of an acceptable answer and ignore the tingling itch that had suddenly attacked her spine. “It really does depend on your coloring,” she said firmly. “Unless you have a preference.” Why did Clarissa and Mary, two girls who had known her for years, think she was an authority on colors and fashion? She couldn’t care less, whether she dressed in red, green, or sky-blue, pink with spots on. She had no interest in catching the attention of any gentleman. The expression she learned was first used by William Caxton, of printing press fame sprang to mind. Once bitten, twice shy. One marriage was in her mind, one too many. Never again.

  Her companions stared at her in bemusement, and Eleanor dragged her mind back to their question. “Pink can be insipid at times, puce on the other hand…”

  “Can make even beautiful young ladies such as yourselves appear like dowagers,” a new voice said. “Each of you suit the shades you are wearing.”

  Eleanor bit back a groan. Of all the gentlemen in the room, it had to be him. Theo Moncur, Earl of Glensmoor. No wonder that dratted I-think-I’m-being-watched itch had attacked her.

  Chapter Three

  Glensmoor. The man whose eyes followed her every move. Which, she decided, amused as she made her curtsy, made it seem as if those penetrating orbs had a mind of their own.

  Whilst Clarissa and Mary twittered and uttered what seemed to her to be inane comments guaranteed to make any gentleman’s eyes glaze over and his attention wander, Eleanor studied Theo out of the corner of her eye. A smile played over his lips as he appeared to pay attention to her friends’ chatter. However, she was certain his mind was only partly on their conversation. Which it seemed was true, for during the first lull in the conversation, he glanced from one to the other and smiled in such an oh-so-charming manner, and Eleanor was immediately suspicious.

  She was correct to be so. He looked at her and smiled in such a way she heard Mary sigh. With a swift glance to Eleanor that seemed to dare her to defy him, his lordship took her arm and folded it around his before he bowed to her companions. That close, his heat, his scent—male and a hint of port, perhaps—surrounded her and gave her thoughts that were more than likely inappropriate for during a ball.

  “Ladies, I have come to steal Lady Eleanor away. My godmother desires to talk to her and I have questions to ask her about a pet. So if you will excuse us?”

  A pet?

  Clarissa and Mary blushed and chorused, “Of course, we will see you later, Eleanor.”

  Eleanor schooled her features into a pleasant expression. She was too much of a lady to beg them to stay. Nevertheless, as soon she and Theo moved away, she tugged to disengage her arm. He chose not to let her.

  “Enough, it stays.”

  Oh lord, that tone of voice. It was firm enough to make her quiver. It was either time for an undignified tussle or a reluctant acceptance. Eleanor chose the latter, though she was certain her carriage must ooze disapproval. She hoped so, at any rate. Dratted man.

  Theo’s eyes glinted in the candlelight. His expression was one of amusement. At least it wasn’t smug. If it had been, Eleanor understood herself well enough to realize there would have been a spectacle for those present to dine out for the rest of the season and beyond. Few knew that once her temper was roused, she had no control over it, and the resultant furor could be catastrophic in her present surroundings.

  “I’m glad you’ve accepted it is not sensible to try and pull away,” Theo said in a voice that made her nipples harden and her juices gather in a manner she had never known before, not even when she pleasured herself.

  That was so unexpected, she tripped over the hem of her gown and was glad of his grip.

  “Careful. You would hurt yourself if you continued pulling your arm away,” Theo added in a voice she had never heard
before. “Even before you almost tripped. I wonder why that was? Do I excite you, pet? Your scent makes me think I do. I wonder what it is that makes you feel so? Shall we find out?”

  His tone, his words, teased her senses, swirled around her like a warm cloak, and held her in thrall.

  She shook her head to clear it. What on earth was going on?

  “Don’t shake your head. You wait and see.” Theo must have thought she was denying his statement. Eleanor had no intention of telling him otherwise. She worried her bottom lip and he pinched her arm. The sting was unexpected and hurt. She gasped.

  “The only one to give you pain, sweet Eleanor, my pet, is me. Sweet pain. The pain of pleasure and submission.” His voice was still low and intimate, so only she could her.

  She missed her step again.

  “Careful.” He sounded both solicitous and amused, if that were possible. “Remember what I said about pain and pleasure.”

  Eleanor glared. “If you weren’t so … so argh…” She hissed the words, incensed at not being able to vent properly. “I would not have any need to take care. In fact, if you weren’t so high-handed, I wouldn’t need to be here. Another thing, my lord, I have not given you leave to call me by my given name.”

  “No? An oversight, I am sure. Until you do, shall I merely call you my pet then … pet?”

  “No. Just let me go.”

  “Not a chance, pet. Get used to it.” Theo guided her toward an alcove at the side of the ballroom. “We should be private enough here whilst still observing propriety.”

  “I do not want to be private with you,” Eleanor said in a voice so cold it would freeze water. “Nor do I want to be called pet. So ridiculous. In fact, I do not want to be with you at all.”

  “Really and truly. You can swear that?” Theo stared at her as he maneuvred them into the alcove and made sure they stood far enough away not to get tongues wagging but close enough to deter anyone else from getting too close and initiating a conversation.