The room fell into silence as Francis Dashwood pushed back his chair and stood. Charlotte arranged her gown’s flowing train, her rouged lips pinching into a bright crimson sphincter of a smile.
“The lady I’m about to name,” said Dashwood, “has never before served as our altar, though there have been many who’ve wished it so. ’Tis an honor that’s bloody well overdue, I think we can all agree. She is a flower of rare scent and beauty whose presence in our little secret garden has been a source of immeasurable delight since she first graced us with her company some two months past.”
Charlotte, who had been glancing about the room in self-satisfied anticipation, grew deathly still, her smile fading—for of course, she’d been keeping company with the Hellfires much longer than two months.
Dashwood said, “’Tis my pleasure to inform you that our goddess for this evening is to be our lovely and enchanting Lili.”
Two
AROAR of approval filled the room. Lili blinked.
Charlotte’s mouth fell open. She gaped at Lili, who seemed at a loss for words.
“You bitch,” Charlotte rasped.
“Lady Somerhurst, I—”
“You conniving little gutter-slut. You’ve been scheming against me from the first, campaigning behind my back.”
“I’ve done no such thing. I never even wanted—”
“Liar!” Charlotte flung the contents of her wineglass at Lili.
A hush enveloped the room as all eyes turned toward Lili, who stood perfectly still in her ivory gown with its bloodlike stain, regarding Charlotte with remarkable calm. With a sad little shake of her head, she said, “I’d have stepped aside if you’d only asked.”
The silence was punctuated by a snicker from across the room, and the observation that “Charlotte Somerhurst doesn’t ask—she decrees.”
“She’s cooked her goose now,” someone muttered.
“By my word, I shall lie upon that altar before she ever does,” remarked the pudding-gutted Bubb Doddington, to gales of laughter.
“Charlotte—” Dashwood began, but the mortified Lady Somerhurst was already stalking out of the room, her train billowing behind her.
“Oh, Charlotte,” murmured Lili, shaking her head at the retreating woman. “Why must you do these things to yourself?”
“You almost sound sorry for her,” Elle said.
“There is a real person underneath all that paint and hauteur,” Lili said, “and a fairly interesting one, at that.”
It was a testament to Lili’s character, Darius thought, that she was praising the woman who’d just called her a scheming bitch and doused her with wine in front of a roomful of people. She struck him as warmhearted and insightful. What on earth, he wondered, was a woman of such sterling qualities doing with a bunch of randy reprobates like the Hellfires?
Lili said, “Charlotte was educated at one of the finest seminary schools in London—brought up there, actually, from about the age of seven, after her mother died. She’s the only female in this circle who’s got more than a smattering of Greek and Latin. Well, apart from myself, but don’t tell any of these horny goats. They wouldn’t look twice at me if they knew I had a functioning brain. Most of them don’t know B from a bull’s foot, and they prefer their women as muddleheaded as they are.”
With a conspiratorial little smile, Elle said, “I daresay my stockings are as blue as yours, so your secret is safe with me.”
The awkward interval that followed Charlotte’s departure was lightened when Dashwood turned to one of his companions at the table and said, “Whitehead, you scurvy old bastard. Why don’t you haul that withered arse of yours off that chair and lead us in that new song of yours.”
The song in question turned out to be a stately English hymn called “Lo! He Comes,” its lyrics replaced with an outrageously bawdy tale of a man on a quest to cure his impotence through ever more inventive sexual escapades. Those who knew the words sang them with gusto, while those who didn’t howled with laughter.
Dashwood, sitting at the table with a glass full of some sort of clear swizzle that was probably gin, had entered into a deep tête-á-tête with Lord Sandwich. With all the raucous singing, Darius could barely make out their conversation, which had to do with Charlotte Somerhurst.
“She’s always off the hook about something or other,” grumbled the earl. “Bloody shrew.”
Dashwood shook his head. “This time it’s my fault. I should’ve warned her it was to be Lili. I’d meant to, but then came all that bothersome shit with the chapel, and it slipped my mind. I’ll talk to her tomorrow, bring her to her bearings.”
Sandwich gave a skeptical grunt. “So you think she can be coaxed off the high ropes, do you? I wish you luck, my friend.”
Gazing off at the silken couch in the corner, Lili said, “It looks as if Granby and Walpole have finished up with Emily Lawrence. I’d best go find out what’s expected of me during the mass.”
Her pensive expression was not lost on Elle, who asked, “Are you nervous?”
Lili looked as if she was going to deny it, but presently she smiled a little sheepishly and said, “A bit. I’ve no idea what’s to be done to me with all these lechers looking on, only that no one ever speaks of it. I’m no blushing maiden, God knows, but to make such a spectacle of it, and in such an irreverent way…”
“Are you Catholic?” Elle asked.
“No, but I am not without spiritual inclinations, and I do harbor some deference for places of worship. A débauchée I may be, but there are some things even one such as I am loath to do in God’s house.”
“Grotte Cachée’s chapel has never even been consecrated, you know,” Elle said. “No mass has ever been celebrated there. It may look like a chapel, but I doubt very much that God takes any special interest in it.”
“Thank you for telling me.” Clasping Elle’s hand, Lili said, “How refreshing to meet someone like you in the midst of all this loose baggage. Will I see you at the banquet later?”
“I regret that you will not.” A half-truth, more or less, since Elic would be there.
Leaning close, Lili said with a smile, “You shan’t regret it on the morrow, when you’re the only lady in this place who can walk without wincing. I hope we can spend some time together tomorrow, then, before my departure.”
“As do I.”
After Lili left, Elle, still cradling Darius, negotiated her way through the revelers toward Dashwood. He noticed her and turned to look, giving her a thorough but admirably discreet appraisal. She held his gaze, something no lady of refinement would ordinarily do—but then the protocol of polite society hardly seemed to apply to this particular gathering.
Sandwich looked from Dashwood to Elle. With a knowing smile, he patted his friend on the shoulder, got up from the table, and left.
Dashwood rose from his seat and bowed when she came up to him. “You must be Elic’s sister. Elle, is it?”
“It is indeed, sir.” She curtseyed, her gaze still locked with his. “I’ve been looking forward to meeting you.”
Dashwood reached out to pet Darius, prompting her to clutch him to her chest. “He’s shy.”
“Aye, but you’re not.” The smile turned intimate, knowing.
“If I were, I would hardly be here,” she said.
Gesturing her into the adjacent chair, he retook his seat, set a glass in front of her, and reached for a carafe of wine. “No, thank you,” she said, covering the glass with her hand.
Too close now to Dashwood for comfort, Darius leapt from Elle’s lap and sat at her feet.
“Are you enjoying our gay little saturnalia?” Dashwood asked.
“To be sure. But in truth, all this noise and activity is beginning to wear a bit. I thought I might seek out some quieter, more private place. I don’t suppose you would care to join me.”
He chuckled as he sipped his gin. “Most ladies would flirt and tease for a bit, make it seem like the chap’s idea—even at such a gathering as this.
Not one for the chase, are you?”
“The chase is so much pretense and posturing,” Elle said. “I much prefer the thrill of capture.”
“With capture comes possession,” he said softly, his dark gaze trained on hers.
“One would certainly hope so.” Lowering her voice, she said, “Come with me, Sir Francis. I know a place where we can be alone.”
Dashwood leaned toward her to trail his fingertips down her throat and over the soft swell of her bosom. “You’re assuming we must be alone for this…possession to occur.”
“I do not perform for the amusement of an audience, monsieur.”
“The presence of others can be most stimulating to the passions,” he said. “Have you never enjoyed the sport of Venus in a room full of people?”
“Never with such people as these. The notion of all these Lotharios watching and fondling themselves…” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine I would take pleasure in it.”
“They needn’t know what we’re doing, if we’re discreet about it.”
She cast him a dubious look.
Smiling, he scooted his chair back and patted his lap. “Come.”
She looked around the room, as if to buy time while she thought it over. Presently, she rose and smoothed down her dress. Glancing about to make sure they weren’t being watched, Dashwood gathered up her skirts in back as she lowered herself onto his lap. He turned her so that she was facing away from him.
“Rest your elbows on the table,” he said quietly.
Leaning forward, she did as he asked.
“Relax,” he murmured, lightly stroking her back. “Listen to the singing. A damned sorry effort, that!” he called out as the song ended. “Like pigs farting in mud. Let’s have another one, and do try to carry the tune this time.”
Dashwood slid his right hand beneath the great silken blossom of Elle’s skirts, whispering, “Rise up a bit so I can get to these buttons.” He shifted slightly, smiled. “You’re wet.”
Smiling at him over her shoulder, she said, “You’re inspiring, monsieur.”
Dashwood gripped her waist and pressed her back down with a little grunt of effort. She drew in a breath. “Mon Dieu.”
Dashwood sat back in his chair with a sigh, his right hand still buried beneath her skirts. “You’re wonderfully tight, mademoiselle.”
Darius moved aside to avoid Dashwood’s foot as he hooked it around a chair leg beneath the table. Elle’s silk skirts rustled languidly as he caressed her.
“Oh…,” she breathed. “Yes…”
For some time, they sat joined but unmoving, or nearly so. Dashwood’s foot flexed slightly against the chair leg and released, and again, and again, in a leisurely, steady rhythm. Elle widened her legs, bracing her feet on the carpeted floor.
Darius could hear them breathing as the tension mounted. Elle stretched out her legs, her feet trembling. The chair leg creaked in an ever-quickening cadence.
Dashwood’s gaze grew unfocused. He sat forward, grimacing. Elle closed her eyes, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other fisted around her empty wineglass.
He shuddered, a guttural little sound rising from his throat. The stem of the wineglass snapped in Elle’s hand. Prince Fitz glanced idly in their direction, then looked away. For a long moment, they sat rigid and flushed, sharing a crisis of pleasure while their oblivious companions sang and caroused.
Dashwood slumped against her, his lungs emptying in a lingering sigh. Elle chuckled breathlessly.
He planted a tender little kiss on the back of her neck. “Merci, mademoiselle.”
“De rien, monsieur.”
The song concluded to rousing applause, whereupon Whitehead launched into yet another. Having had quite enough of that, Darius got up, stretched, and strolled from the room. Seeking his favorite refuge within the chateau, he padded down the hall to the southwest tower, and pawed open the door. He sprinted down the winding stairwell and through a torchlit passage to the slightly ajar door at the very end, which he slipped through.
It was blessedly quiet in the long disused chambre de punition, and dark, but with his sharp feline vision, Darius had no trouble locating his little pile of straw in the corner beneath the whipping stool. With his forepaws, he scooped out a nice, comfortable hollow and settled in. Twitching his nose at the smell of rose oil on his fur, he gave himself a thorough licking, finishing with his face, which he cleaned by rubbing it with his dampened paws.
Curling up in the straw, his head pillowed on his paws, he closed his eyes and surrendered to the darkness.
Don’t you dare cry, Charlotte Somerhurst commanded herself as she roamed the halls of the chateau, trying vainly to shake off the rage and humiliation seething inside her. Don’t give those worthless curs the pleasure.
They had no real breeding, no taste, no refinement. She’d given herself to them for two years, let them use her like a Drury Lane vestal, and what did she have to show for it? Jeers and laughter. And Dashwood, that scurvy Captain Grand, had just stood there and let it happen. Like a fool, she’d believed that she would finally, after all this time, have the privilege of lying upon the altar as an object of veneration and desire.
The exquisite little gift she’d brought Dashwood as a gesture of thanks for the honor only underscored her mortification. Thank God she hadn’t yet given it to him. The moment she got back to her guest chamber, she’d have Bridget build a fire and burn the bloody thing to ashes.
No, first things first. She must arrange with Lord Henry to hire a private coach and driver for tomorrow. The notion of sharing accommodations with the Hellfires, in light of what had just occurred, was unthinkable. She would return to London alone and be quit once and for all of those insolent beau-nasties with their fine silk coats and beer-garden manners.
No, not London; it would be impossible to avoid the Hellfires there. She’d go to her country house in Cambridgeshire. She’d take a handsome young lover, several of them. She’d host her own outré little house parties, weeklong bacchanals of sensual indulgence that would have all of London society abuzz. She would render the Hellfire Club passé, ridiculous. People who mattered would laugh at their childish rituals just as the Hellfires had laughed at her.
Charlotte drew up short when she heard muffled singing and realized she must have wandered back in the vicinity of the chapel withdrawing room, where the Hellfires were gathered—but how? She could have sworn she’d been headed in a clockwise direction around the castle, but if so, she couldn’t possibly have come back to where she’d started without encountering the gatehouse. Had she turned around and retraced her steps without realizing it? It was possible, she supposed. She’d felt a bit queer ever since her arrival here, almost as if she’d been breathing in a haze of opium smoke the entire time.
A surge of wooziness overtook her as she gazed around at the near-black stone walls, identical to all the rest of the walls in this place. She closed her eyes, but that only made everything whirl drunkenly, so she opened them and drew in a deep breath. Get yourself in hand, Charlotte.
No more wandering these halls feeling sorry for herself, Charlotte decided. She must find her chamber on the second floor of the northwest tower, but she couldn’t begin to guess which direction she was facing at this point. There was a corner tower directly ahead of her, at the end of the hall; unfortunately, they all looked alike. If this wasn’t the right one, she thought as she entered it and climbed the winding stairwell, she would simply try the next one, and the next.
It was, in fact, the wrong tower, as she discovered when she opened the door on the second-floor landing to a sitting room decked out à la Chinois with sumptuous, Oriental-inspired furnishings and objets d’art—the latest rage in London and Paris. In the center of the room stood an exotic lacquer-and-gilt table on which pretty little Millicent Holmes lay naked and panting, her legs draped over the shoulders of a curly-haired fellow who knelt on the floor, licking her notch as he thrust something in and out of it.
> The young man, clad in nothing but his long, ruffled shirt, looked up and smiled at Charlotte while continuing to frig Millie with what appeared to be an ivory statuette. “What a delightful surprise! Come to join our little private party, have you?” He spoke like an English aristocrat, but Charlotte knew he hadn’t come there with the Hellfires.
“I…no, actually, I’m just looking for my own chamber,” Charlotte said as she backed up onto the landing.
“Oh, do stay, Charlotte,” Millie breathlessly implored. “He’s got more than enough pikestaff for both of us, believe me.”
“Perhaps later.” Charlotte shut the door and headed back downstairs, thinking as she did so that perhaps she’d been too hasty in rejecting the invitation. That “enhanced” wine she’d drunk earlier had begun to take effect, provoking a tingling warmth between her legs that would only grow hotter and more insistent as the evening wore on. Of course, she could simply retire to her room and bring herself off by hand, but experience had taught her that she could come a dozen times under the influence of cantharides and still be aching for more.
Charlotte thought about that handsome young buck upstairs, with his wild black ringlets and boyish smile. That shirt hid most of his body, but she could see that he had well-muscled legs and…
She paused on the stairs, frowning at the memory of something peeking out from the hem of his shirt in back, something curiously…tail-like. Not a tail, of course—it couldn’t have been—but then, what…?
She shook her head, wondering if her wine had been spiked with more than just an aphrodisiac. Or perhaps there was something in the water here, or in the air, that made people’s minds play tricks on them.
At the bottom of the stairwell, Charlotte paused and looked around, baffled to find herself in a narrow, unfamiliar hallway lit by a single torch. The walls and floor were of the same near-black stone as the rest of the castle, but more rough-hewn. In the floor of beaten earth was a stone-lined well, on the lip of which sat a bucket tied to a rope. Preoccupied with her thoughts, she’d evidently bypassed the first-floor landing and ended up in the cellar.
House of Dark Delights Page 6
