The Erotic Light

by Nina Lane

  Lydia’s throat constricted.

  Gabriel’s hand tightened on her thigh. “What has he done?” he whispered.

  Lydia couldn’t respond. What if she told Gabriel everything Preston had subjected her to, the ways he’d manipulated and coerced her? What if Preston then unleashed his anger on Gabriel? Lydia knew Preston wouldn’t win in a physical fight, but he’d always been the one with the most power. What might he do to Gabriel?

  “Nothing I can’t bear,” she finally said.

  Gabriel frowned. “He hasn’t—”

  “Oh, he has,” Lydia admitted. “And I’m not so foolish to think he won’t again, though he has granted me a brief reprieve.”

  Tension rippled through Gabriel’s lean frame. “I’m sorry I couldn’t come sooner.”

  “There wasn’t anything you could have done. There still isn’t.” Even as she spoke, Lydia couldn’t deny the flicker of hope that perhaps, somehow, he could.

  Then a memory of Preston’s words doused that hope like water over a flame. Kruin is a big, stupid dog on a leash, and Gabriel is an utter milksop who doesn’t know the first thing about duplicity. They both owe me their godforsaken lives.

  Lydia exhaled a long breath. If that was true, if neither Gabriel nor Kruin could help her, this, then, would be her life. Adhering to her parents’ rigid dictates by day and bound to Preston’s whims by night.

  “Where is Kruin?” she asked.

  “He comes and goes from La Nouvelle Vie these days. Doesn’t say where he goes. I don’t ask either.”

  Lydia reached out a tentative hand and rested it on his bare forearm. “And you? You’re there all the time?”

  “Most of the time.” He gave her a half-smile. “It’s not nearly as enjoyable without you.”

  Lydia allowed herself to find pleasure in that statement before remembering that, very likely, any woman could serve the same purpose she had at the plantation. It wasn’t necessarily her so much as the men’s desire to have another person to dominate and control that had gratified them. And although Lydia had often longed to escape the dark, confusing intensity of La Nouvelle Vie, she was now sickened by the idea of another woman taking her place there.

  “Has anyone else come to live there?” she asked carefully.

  Gabriel shook his head.

  “Will someone?” Lydia pressed.

  His smile deepened. “Does the thought disturb you so much?”

  “Yes, but I don’t quite understand why.”

  “Because you liked being the focus of our life there.” He reached up to brush a lock of hair from her neck. “You don’t want another woman to have the same level of power that you did. You want to remember that you are unique, singular.”

  “I don’t know that I am, though.”

  “Lydia, Preston would never allow another woman into La Nouvelle Vie, not after you having been there. His obsession with you runs fathoms deep, and all other women pale in comparison. Not even that. They don’t even exist. You are not replaceable.”

  Not to Preston, perhaps, Lydia thought. But…?

  “What about to you?” she whispered, her voice so quiet that she thought he might not hear her.

  He bent to kiss her. “You are everything to me. And that is why I had to let you go.”

  Though Lydia didn’t quite understand the cryptic nature of his statement, a feeling unlike any other filled her heart, a riot of rich, deep colors that made her blood sing.

  After a lingering kiss, Gabriel stood and took her hand, tugging her to her feet. They walked through the cemetery, pausing to look at the engraved headstones and carved sculptures, the forbidding vaults and tombs.

  Walking beside Gabriel, feeling the easy movements of his body, knowing with certainty the depth of his feelings for her, lit a fire in Lydia’s heart. Hope bloomed that perhaps he would take her with him wherever he was going, that maybe she wouldn’t have to return to the stifling confines of her parents’ home…

  But no. When they left the cemetery, Gabriel procured a taxi and opened the door, stepping side to usher Lydia into the interior.

  She grasped the door and stared at him, her heart thumping.

  “Where are you going to go?” she asked.

  “I’ve a cottage on the outskirts of town. I’m staying there for the night.”

  Take me with you! Lydia almost cried out the plea, everything inside her yearning to stay within the warm, comforting solace that only he could provide.

  “Will I see you again?” she asked instead, her voice thin.

  A smile edged his mouth beneath the shadow of his sunglasses. He brushed his fingers reassuringly across her cheek.

  “I hope so.” He glanced to his right, again that quick gesture as if he feared that someone might be following him. “We’re both in a dangerous position, Lydia. If Preston were to discover I sought you out, you would bear the brunt of his anger. I don’t dare put you at that kind of risk.”

  “Then why did you come to me today?”

  He bent to press his lips across hers, a light touch like the brush of a butterfly’s wings. Lydia’s heart filled with a warm, delicious feeling that was utterly foreign in its lack of darkness. She had spent so long trying to reconcile her pleasure with the inevitable shadows and shame that this feeling was a revelation.

  “Because I miss you and wanted to see for myself that you’re all right,” Gabriel murmured. He smoothed her hair back from her forehead and stepped away, gesturing for her to get into the taxi. “Be careful, Lydia. I’ll do what I can to protect you, but Preston’s reach extends beyond mine. And his obsession with you makes him more than an ordinary threat.”

  “Won’t you take me with you?”

  “You’ve no idea how much I wish I could, but…” He shook his head, his mouth tightening with regret. “If Preston found out, or worse, if your father did… No. If I’m able to come to you again without putting you at risk, I will. I promise.”

  Lydia ducked her head and got into the taxi, her breathing choppy. Though part of her appreciated his concern, another larger part of her wanted to take any risk to be with him again. He was the only secure place left in her world, the only place where she felt as if she could take a deep, easy breath. The only place where she still felt safe.

  She gave the driver her parents’ address, not turning to watch Gabriel’s diminishing figure as the taxi drove away. Only when the driver pulled up beside a row of cars in front of the house did Lydia remember her mother’s luncheon.

  With a muttered curse, she paid the fare and hurried inside, hoping she could escape detection and go upstairs to change out of her sundress and into something more appropriate. She reached the bottom of the staircase when a sudden, familiar voice stopped her in her tracks.

  “Of course, Carol,” Preston Severine said in a warm, silky voice that unfurled like a satin ribbon in the air. “I’d be honored to contribute to your husband’s campaign. But only if you grace my little dinner party with your lovely presence on Friday night.”

  “Oh, Preston.” Carol Worthington sounded reproving and indulgent at the same time. “You know that as the wife of a senate candidate, I shouldn’t fraternize with the likes of you.”

  “The likes of me?” Preston managed to sound affronted. “Why, Carol, you wound me. I may have a… colorful past, but even you must admit that I’m quite resourceful, if not downright ingenious.”

  Carol Worthington laughed, a girlish little giggle that raked a chill down Lydia’s spine.

  “I have my family’s reputation to consider, Preston,” Carol continued, “not to mention my own.”

  “I assure you I will do nothing to ruin your reputation,” Preston said to her, and then a sly note of amusement infused his voice. “Unless, that is, you want me to.”

  Carol giggled again.

  Lydia fought a brief but strong internal battle before she steeled herself. She turned, her fists clenching as she followed the sound of their voices to the annex just outside the parlor.


  Both her mother and Preston looked up at the sound of her shoes against the marble floor. Carol’s eyebrows rose in faint surprise, while Preston merely smiled his cold, beautiful smile. As if he had been expecting her.

  “Hello, Miss Worthington,” he said smoothly. “Your mother was just wondering where you were. I almost offered to run out and try to find you.”

  “That won’t be necessary, Mr. Severine,” Lydia replied, her voice cold. “What are you doing here, if I may ask?”

  “I was paying a call upon your mother,” he said. “I haven’t seen her in years, and since renewing my acquaintance with you I thought it would be nice to see the rest of your family. But it appears I’ve interrupted her luncheon, and we all know I’m not the type of respectable person who would be invited to stay.”

  “Oh, Preston, don’t sulk like a schoolboy.” Carol gave him a little swat on the shoulder, her eyes twinkling in a manner Lydia had never seen before. “If you wish to be invited to my luncheons, perhaps you ought to work on restoring your rather sordid reputation.”

  Preston gave her an engaging smile. “Some people enjoy my sordid reputation, Carol. Especially those who have firsthand knowledge of it.”

  A hot flush began to crawl up Lydia’s neck. “Mr. Severine, perhaps you should leave.”

  “Of course.” Though his smile remained in place, Preston’s blue eyes became chips of ice as he continued gazing at Lydia’s mother. “You’ll reconsider my invitation, won’t you, Carol? It would go a long way toward restoring my reputation if I were able to fraternize with a woman of your status and beauty.”

  “Oh, Preston.” Carol shook her head at him, but her smile indicated that his ridiculous flattery was having its desired effect. “You are shameless. Now be off with you. I need to return to my guests.”

  “I shall do your bidding, then. But we’ll see each other at Mr. Bennington’s fund-raising dinner on Saturday night. Oh yes.” He nodded when Carol lifted an eyebrow. “I’ve been invited. I look forward to seeing you again.”

  Preston’s smile widened before he leaned in to brush his lips across Carol’s powdered cheek. He whispered something in her ear that Lydia didn’t catch, but Carol’s giggle again caused a chill to ripple through her.

  Carol stepped away from Preston, sweeping her cool gaze over Lydia. “You’d best change out of that quickly and make yourself presentable, Jane. Lunch will be served in fifteen minutes.”

  She swept back into the parlor, closing the door behind her.

  Lydia’s breathing grew shallow. She forced herself to meet Preston’s glacial eyes.

  “What… what are you doing?” she asked, even though the sick feeling in her stomach told her she already knew.

  “I told you. Paying a call upon your lovely mother. You should hope you are as well-preserved as she is when you reach a certain age. She also appears to still be quite… receptive, shall we say?”

  He smiled, sliding his hands into his pockets as he strolled toward the door.

  Lydia hurried to grab his sleeve, pulling him to a halt. Her hand trembled.

  “Leave my mother alone,” she hissed, anger and fear flooding her veins.

  “I told you I’d leave you alone,” Preston reminded her, detaching her fingers from his sleeve one by one. “I said nothing of your mother. Or your sister, for that matter.”

  Nausea swirled in Lydia’s gut. Though she had never been close to either her mother or sister, the idea of Preston Severine forcing either of them into his dark, depraved world made her sick.

  She clenched her fists again, fighting the urge to slap that smug expression off Preston’s face.

  “What?” she hissed, shaking with suppressed rage. “What do you want from me?”

  “Oh, Lydia.” He shook his head with disappointment. “Really? After all this time, you need to ask that question?”

  She inhaled a hard breath, trying to suppress the horrible fear and helplessness rising inside her, the sense that this was not only her past and present, but also her future. As frantically as thoughts raced through her mind, none of them provided her with an answer, a solution. A way to escape.

  She would be bound to Preston Severine forever.

  “All right,” she whispered, resignation settling over her like the darkest, most poisonous of clouds. “When?”

  Mr. Harold Bennington was from an old Louisiana family that had made its fortune in shipping and was known for its conservative political views. Lydia was a bit baffled as to how Preston had made Mr. Bennington’s acquaintance, but she also knew that Preston’s reach knew no bounds. He drew important people to La Nouvelle Vie with promises of both secrecy and debauchery, though Lydia had a difficult time imagining the portly, bespectacled Mr. Bennington engaging in anything untoward.

  Then again, she thought, nothing should surprise her now.

  She accompanied her parents into the great hall of the Bennington family estate, where a butler took their wraps and ushered them into the parlor. The scents of perfume and cologne rose above the chatter of conversation. Though the dinner was intimate, with only a dozen people invited, Mr. Bennington conducted everything with the utmost formality. Men in tuxedos and women in glittering gowns moved about the room like beautiful sailing ships, their hands clasped around the thin stems of wineglasses and champagne flutes.

  Lydia made the rounds at her parents’ sides, greeting family friends and acquaintances with warm smiles, handshakes, and air kisses. She accepted a flute of bubbly champagne and, when her mother wasn’t looking, nibbled on tiny red peppers stuffed with goat cheese, mini Asian crab cakes, and blini topped with caviar and paper-thin slices of smoked salmon.

  Even with the people crowding the room, the glimmering lights from the chandelier, and the music from the string quartet, Lydia knew the moment Preston Severine entered the room.

  Dressed in a classic tuxedo, with his smile sharp and gleaming, his blond hair brushed away from his high forehead, Preston looked like a wicked prince from a fairy tale. He circled the room with elegant poise, greeting the women with compliments that elicited their smiles and giggles, gripping men’s hands with firm shakes and an air of faint condescension.

  When his gaze landed on Lydia, her anxiety suddenly kicked into gear. Though they were in a public place, surely he wouldn’t—

  “Hello, my dear.” He took her hands, his blue gaze sweeping over her appreciatively. “Don’t you look exquisite?”

  “Thank you.” Lydia glanced down at her cocktail dress, chosen by her mother, a modest but attractive black lace sheath that fell to her knees with a scalloped hem.

  Preston leaned closer, his breath stirring the tendrils of hair at her nape. “It’s hideous. Covers you far too thoroughly. I so look forward to seeing you naked and spread out on my bed again.”

  A bolt of heat rushed through Lydia so quickly that she was caught off-guard.

  Preston smiled at her again before strolling away, reaching out to pluck a glass of champagne from the tray of a passing server.

  Lydia downed the rest of her own champagne in one swallow, hoping to cool the sudden heat. Oh, how she hated her own body’s reaction to Preston’s crudeness, hated that his words could inflame her to such a degree.

  She tried to shake off the thought as she circled the room again, pausing to speak to people about her father’s campaign and sneaking more bites of the delectable hors d’oeuvres. She thought surely she wouldn’t be hungry for dinner, but when the butler called them all into the dining room, her belly rumbled with anticipation.

  A long table was set with china and silver, its floral centerpiece dominating the polished wood. A crystal chandelier shed a soft light over the room. Lydia moved around the table to find her place card, assuming she was seated beside her father’s comrades whom she could charm and flatter to ensure their political support.

  Instead, her heart plummeted when she found herself seated beside the elderly Mrs. Broussard and… Preston Severine.

  Natu
rally. The bastard had likely arranged this beforehand.

  Lydia shot him a fulminating glare as he approached and reached out to pull her chair away from the table.

  “I could not imagine a more delightful and charming dinner companion,” he remarked, gesturing for her to take her seat.

  “Of course you could,” Lydia replied, her smile sharp as a sickle. “Yourself.”

  Preston laughed, his eyes twinkling with amusement. “Quick as ever, I see. Yet another reason why I so enjoy your company. You’ve made quite a list for yourself.”

  Lydia turned her back on him as best she could and engaged old Mrs. Broussard in conversation about her garden and bridge club. Though the conversation was stultifyingly boring, Lydia took great pleasure in the food as the various dishes were served—spicy shrimp cocktail followed by a creamy carrot-and-leek soup, then pan-roasted sea scallops flavored with truffle. By the time they were served the meat course of juicy beef tenderloin with morel mushrooms and bordelaise sauce, Lydia was light-headed from the delicious food and slightly tipsy from all the wine.

  She was shocked to her senses, however, when Preston settled his hand on her thigh. She shot him an annoyed look and pushed his hand away. Before she turned back to Mrs. Broussard, she saw the unmistakable frostiness descend over Preston’s expression.

  She tossed her hair and nodded politely while Mrs. Broussard went on about her tulips. Lydia didn’t care if Preston was angry with her. She may have agreed to reinstate their little arrangement, but he didn’t have the right to touch her at a dinner party where anyone could—

  His hand clamped onto her knee again, harder this time. Lydia’s heart stuttered.

  Yes, he does have the right, whispered an irritating little voice inside her head. You gave him the right.

  I did not, not this time. He’s blackmailing me.

  He wouldn’t have blackmailed you if you hadn’t committed a felony and sought him out in the first place.

  He’s depraved.

  So, apparently, are you.

  Lydia winced when Preston began inching up the folds of her skirt. His fingers brushed her stocking-covered thigh. She shifted, trying to keep her focus on Mrs. Broussard, aware of her mother in the seat across from her, the flow of conversation around the table. The floral centerpiece had been removed to facilitate easier conversation, so both Lydia and Preston were visible to everyone. Surely he wouldn’t put himself at risk to—