by EM BROWN
“Such love must be a precious and blessed gift.”
“Aye, but you do not appear to me, sir, as one who places much stock in Providence.”
It was his turn to study her. “My lady?”
“You would say that you are a man who makes his own destiny?”
“Without doubt.”
“Love is not something that falls from the sky. It is there for the taking.”
This was an odd turn in their tete-a-tete, but he felt comfortable enough in her presence to speak his mind.
“Love has not been a pursuit of mine. A man has other concerns to occupy his mind.”
“You think love be reserved only for the puerile romantic or the weaker sex?”
“I mean only to convey that it has not been a priority of mine.”
“What a pity.”
Her response startled him. Was she not the proprietress of debauchery, the provider of indulgence and wantonness?
They descended the stairs down to the assembly floor.
“My husband discovered this building,” she went on. “We would meet with another couple of like mind every week and easily found more who shared our ‘spirit of adventure.’ We wanted a place to indulge our desires away from prying eyes.”
“You have sustained quite the institution.”
“I take great pride in what I do. Tell me, are you of a certain persuasion? I can assist you in finding your place.”
He scanned the entire assembly to see what drew his interest most. His gaze settled upon a woman wearing a black corset, layers of black petticoats, and black lace gloves. Her burgundy mask, shaped like a butterfly and edged with black lace, covered most of her face, including her cheeks, but left open the area from nose to chin. Her chin, with its slight protrusion noticeable only in profile, was familiar to him. She stood in one of the alcoves, a riding crop tucked in her underarm, and retrieved from her pockets a snuffbox. She attempted to open it, but the lid would not oblige. Resigning, she returned the box to its place amidst her petticoats. Montague would have wagered the box to be made of pearl with a scarlet phoenix upon its cover.
“What persuasion is she?” he asked with little attempt at nonchalance.
Madame Botreaux followed his stare. “At present she is a Mistress, but that is not her true persuasion. In all her years here when she came with her hus...she prefers to play the submissive.”
“She is a longtime member of yours?”
Madame Botreaux eschewed the question by asking, “You have an interest in her?”
He considered taking the proprietress into his confidence and decided there was no harm in acknowledging her observation. “I should like to make her acquaintance.”
“At present she seems to have dedicated herself to one submissive. If you wish to take his place or join him, you must first offer yourself up first at the Presenting. It is a little custom we have for new members.”
“And if I wish to play the dominant role?”
“The submissives present themselves first for the veteran members to select from. Then the dominants present themselves. Veteran members may offer themselves first for selection.”
He wanted to know whom the Baroness had chosen as her submissive and decided to stall for time.
“Are there rules that I should be aware of?”
“How familiar are you to the ways of the dominant?”
Montague thought back to his many different lovers. He had on one occasion spanked a woman, but nothing he had done was on the order of what was practiced at the Cavern.
“My experience is limited,” he admitted, “but I am a quick study.”
Especially with the right woman, he thought to himself as he kept his eye on the Baroness. At that moment, a masked man with dark hair ran into the alcove and promptly kneeled before her. He wore only breeches. But from his height and size, Montague suspected the man might be the Viscount Tremayne. He felt a twinge of jealousy. Why was the Baroness squandering her time with Tremayne? Surely among the many patrons of the Cavern she could another willing to take his place.
“And I could be a good mentor.”
Montague looked down at Madame Botreaux. She was older and a little more corpulent than any lover he had been with but not entirely unattractive if she did not paint herself with quite so much rouge, which lent her the appearance of an aged cherub with her rounded face.
“Dare I merit such an honor?” he returned before glancing back in the direction of the Baroness.
He watched the Viscount kissing the laces of her boots before rising to his feet. Lady Debarlow said something to Tremayne, who proceeded to shed his breeches without hesitation. Without doubt she could do better, he considered as he assessed the unimpressive size of the cock jutting from the Viscount. He returned his attention to the Baroness. Her provocative ensemble displayed her bare shoulders, as lovely as he suspected they would be would from what he had seen at the Bennington ball. Her petticoats reached to the middle of her shins, leaving a glimpse of her legs above her ankle-length boots. The Baroness lashed her crop against Tremayne’s buttocks. He winced but his erection grew harder. Montague found himself equally aroused.
“You are agreeable to me,” Madame Botreaux said.
Lady Debarlow placed her hand about the Viscount’s erection and rubbed the shaft. Montague wondered at the sensation of lace against skin there. The Viscount appeared to moan. The Baroness stepped away and landed three more blows against his arse. Then ground her hand once more against his cock.
“I thought the proprietress did not engage with her patrons?” Montague inquired. Had Jonathan tied his cravat tighter than usual today?
As Madame Botreaux considered his question, he watched the Baroness alternate between lashing at the Viscount and fondling his cock. At one point, she stood with her bosom against his chest and licked his earlobe. The sight of her pink tongue darting from between her lips had Montague cursing the sweltering mask he wore. He needed a breath of cool air.
“I can always make an exception,” Madame Botreaux replied.
Montague smiled at her. To gain admittance – and access to the Baroness – he would consider laying with the plump and shameless proprietress.
At that moment the Viscount roared as the ministrations of the Baroness brought him to climax. The seed shot from his cock as his body convulsed. The Baroness whipped him a few more times. He fell to his knees.
“Perhaps we must need begin your lessons at present?” Madame Botreaux said with a pointed glance at the bulge in his breeches.
Montague said nothing but he felt he could fuck a hole in the wall if it would relieve the pressure he felt. There was no question that he would have to make the Baroness his. And not because of his agreement with the Earl. He wanted her attentions upon his body. He wanted her naked and writhing against him. He wanted her more than he could remember wanting any other woman. The thought unnerved him.
Chapter Six
A FORTNIGHT HAD PASSED since the Bennington ball and still Abigail could not rid her thoughts of Montague Edwards even as she rode her mare at full gallop through the fields of Lord Bennington’s estate in Berkshire. Perhaps in her quest to conquer the affections of Charles she had forgotten what it felt like to be touched by a man such as Montague. Or perhaps her menses were upon her, making her acutely aware of the desires of her body. She had fondled herself a number of times in memory of what had transpired in that library, but the resulting satisfaction did not diminish the deeper longing.
She slowed her mare upon reaching the top of a small hill. The wind had blown her coiffure loose and tipped her bonnet awry, but the run had reminded her there were other ways to thrill her body. She had relished the wind pressing against her face and streaming through her hair. The pumping of horse flesh beneath her, the rhythmic pounding of the hoofs made the blood course vibrantly through her body.
Taking in several breaths of air, she contemplated the hills before her.
“Are you preparing to ma
ke a run at Ascot?” Constance asked, trotting her horse up to Abigail.
The open hills beckoned, but a light mist had begun descending from the clouds and Abigail knew that Constance would wish to head back before nightfall. The rose of dusk had begun blooming across the grey skies.
“Methinks that someone may be in need of a decent tumble in the sack to calm her nerves?”
Abigail glanced at her friend, whose bonnet sat perfectly in place atop her dark brown curls. “And people think me the scandalous one.”
The two women turned their horses around and rode back at a leisurely place.
“A good tumble can be as sublime as a glass of wine, and in truth, I think I should always prefer the former to the latter.”
Abigail shook her head. “My dear, have you no other thoughts?
“You do not fool me, Baroness. Your eros is as strong as mine. The Viscount cannot satisfy you even if you afforded the pup an opportunity.”
“He may yet surprise me.”
Constance snorted. “If you believed that, why have you not invited him into your bed ere now?”
“I had every intention—at your brother’s ball. My plans were disrupted.”
“By a true man. Do you not yearn for the touch of a man?”
Abigail thought of Montague Edwards and then of the Marquess of Dunnesford. The mere thought of these two men made her body tingle with warmth.
“I have not taken myself to a nunnery,” she responded. “I simply have no wish to disrupt my efforts with Charles. If he should become jealous and withdraw, all my pains would be for naught.”
“He need not know...” Constance pressed.
“If I promise to fuck a man when I am done with Charles, will you consider the matter at rest?”
“I merely have your well-being in mind. Admittedly, I have not your fortitude. I cannot conceive of being with the Viscount in any manner given what he had done. I should think that not lifting your skirts to him would be more of a punishment.”
“Aye, but such deprivation does not leave a lasting mark with men. I have only to recall the situation of poor Libby to reinforce my patience. But I have not the fortitude you think or I should still sleep in my old bedchamber.”
Libby was a young maid who had come upon the Debarlow house seeking employment. Though heavy with child, she had managed to disguise her small abdomen from all but the most discerning eye. The Debarlow housekeeper had turned her out for she came with no references, and Abigail had discovered the young woman upon the steps weeping.
With dark circles beneath her eyes, hollow cheeks, and pale countenance, Libby had appeared quite sickly. Abigail had invited the maidservant into the house and offered her tea and bread. Libby nearly swallowed the bread whole and, upon finishing, begged for more. Abigail had more bread brought with ham and meatpie, all of which Libby finished as if she had not eaten in days, and perhaps she had not. Once she had eaten her fill, she thanked Abigail and promptly burst into tears.
“My dear, pray do not trouble yourself,” Abigail had said. “I shall have Cook wrap some ham and cheese for you to take when you leave.”
Her words made Libby cry harder. “You are Kindness itself, m’lady.”
Abigail gave Libby a handkerchief from her reticule and brushed away a tendril of the maid’s ebony hair. Despite her red swollen eyes, Libby was a lovely creature.
“I am lost!” Libby sobbed into the handkerchief. “Surely there is not a more wretched being than I!”
“Come, it cannot be as dismal as you say.”
Libby shook her head and hid her face in the handkerchief.
Abigail took a seat by the young woman on the settee. Her appointment with the seamstress in Mayfair would have to wait.
“I will not render judgment, so you may speak plain,” she said. “But what has caused such grief for you?”
Libby hesitated. She glanced at Abigail before hanging her head and replying, “I h-have been seeking—seeking employment for a fortnight. I-I’ve no place to—to...”
The cries overcame her.
Abigail tried a simpler question. “Where were you employed previously and in what capacity?”
“As a m-maidservant for the Earl of Frotham.”
Abigail felt her back stiffen. “And what prompted your departure?”
Again, Libby shook her head and saturated the handkerchief with her tears. “I am too—too ashamed to speak of it, m’lady. Only—only I am forsaken!”
“I cannot promise that I can be of assistance, but you’ve naught to fear from me no matter how grave the truth.”
When the sobs had turned into sniffles, Libby ventured to tell a little of her story. She had fallen for the young and handsome Viscount Tremayne. His attentions had overwhelmed her and she thought herself to be in love. She had lain with him and was now with child. When she had revealed her state to him, he became a different person: the warm, gay demeanor replaced with cold aloofness. He recommended she see a doctor who could put an end to her condition. It was evident he wanted nothing more to do with her. When the housekeep discovered the state of affairs—the woman had harbored suspicions for some time—she dismissed the maid.
Upon hearing that Libby had no family, Abigail had decided to find a post for the maid within the Debarlow household. Three months later Libby gave birth to a boy who had every appearance of being a Frotham despite its infancy. Some weeks after the birth, Libby had, against the advice of Abigail, sought out Charles to recognize his son. Abigail knew not what had transpired, but Libby had returned home sobbing. Later that night, Abigail had discovered the maid swinging from the chandelier of her bedchamber. After two sleepless nights in which she would sit in her bed and stare at the chandelier, Abigail decided to move into one of the smaller bedchambers down the hall. On occasion, she thought she could still hear the echoes of Libby sobbing.
Abigail had been able to locate Libby’s grandmother, who lived in a small village near Wales. The woman was grieved to hear of Libby’s fate and had agreed to care for the baby boy. As the woman was of modest means, Abigail had promised to provide funds to help care for the boy until he reached maturity.
Libby had named her son Charles.
AS SHE REMOVED HER riding gloves and entered the charming country house of Lord Bennington, Abigail determined that for the next few days she should put aside all thoughts of Charles, or any other man for that matter, and enjoy the races and the scenery. But her resolution was shortlived for in the drawing room stood two gentlemen. One she did not recognize immediately. The other was Montague Edwards.
“Mr. Holmes, Mr. Edwards,” Constance greeted. “What a pleasant surprise. My brother is still out hunting roe. He would be at it ad infinitum if the sun did not set. I pray you will make yourselves comfortable.”
Abigail looked at her friend with suspicion. Was the presence of these two men indeed a ‘surprise?’ She now recognized Latimer Holmes, but she did not think either of the two were well acquainted with the Benningtons. The two men bowed to Constance and then to her in turn. It seemed to her that Montague’s gaze lingered upon her longer. She felt a flurry up her spine.
“I think you know the Baroness Debarlow?”
“Your servant, my lady,” Latimer bowed after removing his hat.
Edwards repeated the genuflection, but the intensity of his stare instantly brought to mind the intimacy they had shared.
“Pray take a seat, and I shall have tea brought in,” gestured Constance cheerfully as she rang for the tea.
The two men sat down upon the sofa. Leaning back, Edwards crossed one leg over the other, displaying a chiseled leg. He was no less dapper in his traveling clothes.
Abigail chose to sit in a chair facing away from the window and setting sun.
“Your brother is most generous to have extended us an invitation to stay,” Latimer remarked.
Abigail glanced sharply at Constance, who had refused to look in her direction thus far. She found it hard to believe that her fr
iend would not have known about the guests.
“Do you know Lord Bennington well then?” Abigail asked.
“You know my brother’s fondness for the hunt,” Constance replied. “Mr. Holmes is quite the experienced hunter.”
“Indeed? And is your preferred prey of choice the same as Lord Bennington’s?” Abigail pressed.
“Er – yes,” Mr. Holmes responded, ending with a wide smile, the sort that he hoped would put to rest any concerns.
“The fox are quite plentiful in these parts.”
“Yes, there is nothing like a good foxhunt, being as they are such wily creatures.”
“And the roe are plentiful as well – the primary reason Lord Bennington chose to purchase property here.”
Ignoring the glower from Constance, Abigail turned Edwards. She now had no doubts as to who had initiated the invitation to Holmes and Edwards. Constance had always had her bother wrapped about her finger.
“And you, sir,” Abigail continued. “Are you partial to the sport as well?”
“It is not my primary interest in coming,” Edwards replied smoothly.
“Then what, pray, compels you here?”
He stared at her as if to say: You.
Abigail forced a swallow. If he was going to stare at her with such penetration the entire time, she was unsure if she could sit still.
“I hear the races here are as good as one might find at the Royal Ascot,” Edwards said.
“Are you a fan of horse racing then, Mr. Edwards?”
Not to be caught in the same false step as his friend, Edwards replied, “I may not be considered a devotee, but that has not hindered my interest in attending the activity now and then.”
“Abbey is an exceptional judge of horseflesh,” Constance provided. “I have many times attempted to convince her to bet on the races for sure she would see much success.”
“I take it you will be attending the races then?” Edwards asked of Abigail.
“She never misses them! Will you as well, Mr. Edwards?”
“Indeed.”
