“Shall I attach one of those thumbscrews to your clit?” He rolled the slick little bud between his thumb and forefinger, noting with satisfaction how it engorged and reddened in response to his ministrations. “Nay,” he said, “I’ve a better idea.”
Bending over her, he took the little pearl between his teeth, biting just hard enough to make her tremble with uncertainty, wondering how far he would go. He kept her in suspense for a bit, working his teeth back and forth so that she could feel their sharp edges. Presently he moved on to the delicate little folds of her inner labia, then the outer, which he nibbled and nipped and finally—enticed by the silkiness of her denuded mons—lightly tongued. She was warm, soft, luscious. Little wonder her lovers preferred her hairless when it came to gamahuching.
Darius thrust his middle finger, then two more, into Charlotte’s dripping quim as he twisted the knob of the pear, all the while gamming her with featherlight strokes of his tongue. She was quivering, lungs pumping like a bellows, head thrown back.
A vivid fancy of the imagination—Charlotte’s, of course—bombarded him like cannon fire: two handsome lovers writhing against her, filling her, pummeling her from within, groaning as their arousal peaked along with hers. It was a pleasure she’d never experienced, given the discomfort she associated with Greek lovemaking, but it was one she’d often dreamt of—a pleasure that Darius, like it or not, was now obligated to provide for her. Would it satisfy her at last? Would it end this maddening travesty?
It mattered not. She wanted it; Darius, her master and her slave, must make it happen.
She was close now, so close, hovering on the breathless verge of climax.
“No.” He pushed away from her, shaking his head. Was he mad? Was this how he would pay her back for lying to him? By giving her pleasure, by letting her come? Fucking bitch, she always managed to get to him, to get him turned around from what he’d intended. So lost was he in her thoughts and feelings that he couldn’t keep his own straight anymore. He couldn’t command himself, much less her.
Charlotte, her eyes wild with frustration and outrage, strained against her bindings as she watched him rummage in his pocket for the key to the door.
“I told you the lesson would sting,” he said.
She shook her head frantically, desperately, until the makeshift gag loosened and she could spit it out. “Don’t leave! Oh, God, Darius, please. You can’t leave me like—”
He slapped her face so hard her head whipped to the side. “Don’t tell me what I can’t do!”
She stared at him, her cheek reddening.
A distant, diminishing part of him, the part that was still the Darius of old, was appalled that he’d struck a woman in anger—but the new Darius, Charlotte’s pet monster, reveled in her shock and her pain. God, how he loathed what he’d become, what she’d made him, but most of all he loathed her for doing this to him.
“Darius,” she said. “Don’t go. Darius, please…”
He turned and left.
Six
TO THE powers of darkness,” Francis Dashwood toasted as he raised his horn-shaped glass of brandy.
“To the powers of darkness,” echoed Lili, along with the others who’d gathered in the great hall for the traditional post-mass banquet: the superior Hellfires in their white silk monks’ robes, the rank-and-file members in their ordinary garb, and the women, all now identically attired, local virgins and imported adventuresses alike, in black nuns’ habits.
All save Lili, who stood next to Dashwood with her hair still loose, and wearing the voluminous veil she’d worn during the mass, sans cape and body ornaments. The Bona Dea always retained the veil during the banquet, but rather than draping it over her entire body head to foot, as was customary, Lili had chosen to wrap it about herself, knotting it on one shoulder like the lubushu of her homeland. This way, although her body was still visible through the gossamer folds to those who stared hard enough—which seemed to be every man in the room, and some of the women—there would be something left to the imagination. And imagination, in Lili’s view, fueled the passions ever so much more effectively than crude displays of flesh.
“Archer, old chap!” Dashwood called out. “You’ve joined us after all.”
All eyes turned toward the main doorway, which framed the earnest young Lord Henry, their mysterious hostess’s major-domo.
“I, er, shan’t be lingering,” Archer said. “Just dropped by to, you know, make certain you’ve got what you need, see that the hall has been readied per your instructions.” He surveyed the majestic hall with its lofty, oak-trussed ceiling, polished wainscoting, and tall windows, blinking as he took in the various playthings set up among the settees and fainting couches: a spanking horse, a whipping frame in the shape of a St. Andrew’s cross, a set of stocks, a pyramidal ladder fitted out with restraints, a rack of assorted shackles and ropes, and of course the rampant black swan that served more or less as the Hellfires’ mascot. He stared at Lili’s translucent attire for a fleeting moment, met her eyes, and quickly looked away.
Lili followed his gaze to an easel near a window open to the night sky, where Mr. Hogarth sat painting a canvas based upon one of his earlier sketches, his oils, brushes, and solvents arranged on a table beside him. Hanging on the wall nearby was the slate on which the Hellfires’ steward, Paul Whitehead, would keep score of the members’ amorous accomplishments during the festivities to come.
On the dais at the far end of the hall, servants put the finishing touches on a row of candlelit, damask-draped banquet tables laden with a quintessential Hellfire Club feast. Most of the victuals had been chosen for their stimulating qualities and flavored with such aphrodisiacal spices as gingerroot, saffron, aniseed, and chili peppers. Platters of silver and cut glass were heaped with exotic game, roast beef carved to resemble female buttocks, breastlike pairs of squabs adorned with cherries, deer penises Suédois, snails, sardines, hard-boiled eggs, avocado pears, pomegranates, asparagus, artichokes, leeks, truffles, chestnuts, orchid bulbs, a dozen varieties of oysters, gallons of wine, gin, and treacherously potent “Hellfire Punch,” and most seductive of all, from Lili’s viewpoint, a cluster of little copper pots on braziers filled with luscious, fragrant chocolate.
Dashwood was assuring Lord Henry that they had everything they needed and telling him how reluctant they would be to leave on the morrow. “Most sporting of Madame des Ombres to have invited us, sight unseen,” he said. “Must be a damned fine lady—damned fine.”
“Er, yes, I daresay she is,” Archer said as he backed out through the door, stealing another furtive glance at Lili as he did so. “Good. Jolly good. Well, then. I shan’t detain you any longer.”
Once Archer had closed the door behind him, Dashwood announced that, in keeping with Hellfire tradition, the Abbot of the Day would have first choice of the ladies, after which the others could pair up as they saw fit. He waved a hand, whereupon the “nuns” formed a line to either side of Lili.
“Right, then.” Dashwood made a come-forward gesture to Elic, who looked remarkably like his charming sister. They had the same radiant gaze beneath those dark, slashing eyebrows, the same fine bones and burnished gold hair, which Elic wore in a ribbon-tied queue that trailed halfway down his back. He was lean and rangy, with squared-off shoulders and the kind of controlled grace that Lili found irresistible in a man. Something else she found irresistible was compassion, a quality sadly lacking in many of his sex. But the heartening little smile Elic had graced her with at the beginning of the mass, the way he’d flinched when Dashwood had entered her so roughly, the way he’d looked at her, touched her…
His touch had both thrilled and comforted her, a heady combination, and a novel one. The life Lili led, the life she was forced to lead, afforded her ample opportunity to ease her relentless lust, but none to ease her sense of isolation. The Hellfires and their ilk—for they weren’t the only such voluptuaries with whom Lili had thrown in her lot over the years—seemed fixated on sexual gratifica
tion to the virtual exclusion of other forms of personal communion. When they conversed, it was about sex; when they touched, it was to fuck or suck, or to ready themselves for such sport. And it was always sport with them, never, ever lovemaking.
For the most part, Lili was content enough with this state of affairs. After all, it would only complicate matters to have to cultivate an actual relationship every time she felt the need for sexual release, which was almost constantly. Yet there were times, even when she was surrounded by others, as now, that she felt utterly, crushingly alone.
“Well, Elic?” Dashwood said. “Which of these delectable creatures will favor you with her company this evening?”
Elic looked directly at Lili, didn’t even pretend to consider the others.
She might have looked away coyly, but instead she held his gaze, wordlessly acknowledging the invisible ribbon binding the two of them together.
He walked up to her and bowed. “Mademoiselle.”
She smiled up at him. “Your servant, monsieur.”
No sooner had Lili put her hand in Elic’s than the rest of their company launched into the debaucheries that were the highlight of most Hellfire gatherings. In groups of two, three, and four, they laid claim to the various furnishings and devices scattered throughout the hall, stripped off their clothes, and had at it.
“Let me take you to my chamber.” Elic had a deep, raspy, Gallic-seasoned voice that sent a giddy little tickle up and down Lili’s spine.
She shook her head. “We must remain here, among the others—at least in the beginning, while those who matter among the Hellfires are still sober enough to notice our presence.”
“Those who matter?” Elic looked around, shaking his head. “They’re bad actors in silly costumes. None of them matter.”
Lowering her voice as she glanced about, Lili said, “Perhaps not, but they have their way of doing things, and if I don’t comply, I shall find myself dismissed from their company in short order.”
“If they don’t matter,” he asked, “why should that trouble you?”
She turned to watch Winnie Aldridge being gamahuched by George Walpole whilst the Duke of Kingston lashed her to the ladder. A few yards away, several bodies writhed in unison on two pushed-together couches, a fleshy tangle of torsos and limbs.
“There are few venues where a lady with certain appetites may satisfy them without restraint,” she said. “The Hellfire Club may be absurd in many respects, but it is a godsend for one such as I.”
Elic looked around, his gaze lighting on the minstrels’ gallery over the screens passage. “I don’t think anyone’s up there. We’d still be in the hall, more or less.”
Bemused but gratified by Elic’s desire to be alone with her, or as alone as could be managed, Lili allowed him to guide her toward a narrow stairwell. Just before she ducked into it, she turned and saw Anton Turek standing still as death in the midst of all that carnal bedlam, watching her with an intensity that made her shiver. Had Archer not prevailed upon Dashwood, at Madame des Ombres’ request, to name Elic Abbot of the Day, it would be Turek escorting her to a trysting place right now instead of Elic. Thank God for meddling hostesses.
The gallery was small, with a single curtainless window and no comfortable furnishings—just a semicircle of hard-backed chairs paired with music stands. Elic’s hopeless expression as he looked around touched something in Lili’s chest that made her smile.
“Come,” she said, drawing him by the hand to a dark corner as far as possible from the railing overlooking the hall proper. With her back to the wall, she tugged him closer. Mamitu, but he was tall; the top of her head didn’t even reach his shoulders. “Here,” she said as she set about unhooking his robe. “Take me here.”
Bracing his hands against the wall, Elic bent his head to touch his lips to Lili’s, an unexpected gesture that drew a little huff of surprise from her. The Hellfires rarely kissed during their orgies; when they did, it was with much mashing of lips and thrashing of tongue. Elic’s kiss was warm, lingering…filled with sensual promise, but with an underlying tenderness.
Perfect.
“I know you’re not permitted to refuse the Abbot of the Day,” he whispered as their mouths parted. “But if this isn’t what you want—”
“If you hadn’t chosen me, I’d have wept,” she said, astounded that she meant it. Parting his robe, she stroked her hands downward over his sinewy chest and abdomen to the straining shaft between his legs.
Elic groaned as she caressed him. He yanked her lubushu up to her waist and lifted her against the wall. But as she guided him to the mouth of her sex, or tried to, the flesh that had felt like a rod of steel just moments ago grew limp in her hand.
He looked not just surprised, but astounded. Muttering something in a language that sounded vaguely Nordic, he rubbed against her, his fingers digging into her hips as he ground her against the wall.
“Elic,” she said, but he just thrust harder, almost violently, though to little effect. “Stop,” she said gently. “Elic, please. It’s all right.”
“No, it’s not.” He set her down, looking truly confounded. “I can’t…I…It makes no sense.”
“It happens,” she said as she pulled her lubushu back down.
“Not to me.”
Reaching up to stroke his face, she said, “’Tis the azulla, I think.”
“The what?”
“The incense they burn during the mass. My people called it—call it azulla. You probably know it by its Arabic name, hashish. It makes the mind spin. Be patient, khababu. Give the azulla time to wear off, and soon you will be—”
“No,” he said as he refastened his robe. “You don’t understand. This doesn’t happen to me. It can’t happen to me, azulla or no azulla.”
“Forsooth,” she said with a gently mocking smile. “Are you so very different, then, from other men?”
“I’m not—” He bit off his words and looked away, his jaw rigid.
“You’re not what?” she asked, scalp prickling.
With a flurry of laughter, the Marquis of Granby burst forth from the stairwell with one hand wrapped around a bottle of wine and the other around the naked waist of Emily Lawrence. “Bugger me, someone’s beat us up here,” Granby slurred. “Say, you don’t mind if we join you?” he asked as he tripped over a music stand and tumbled to the floor, along with a merrily shrieking Emily.
Bowing to Lili, Elic said, “Forgive me, mademoiselle, for having taken so much of your time,” and left.
Seven
LILI STOOD in the entrance of the bathhouse watching Elic float facedown in the pool. The skylight overhead framed a mere sliver of moon, not enough to alleviate the darkness—unless, like Lili, one had eyes that could capture any faint hint of illumination, however thin, and magnify it several times over.
Had she not been blessed with this gift, she wouldn’t even have known Elic was here. After he left the musician’s gallery, she’d looked through the window and seen him striding away from the chateau toward the bathhouse. Anyone else would have seen little more than the blackness of night.
She’d gone downstairs and sipped a cup of chocolate while contemplating what had just transpired, meanwhile fending off carnal invitations from any number of half-naked, whip-wielding men—but not from Turek. The gloomy Bohemian sat leaning on his elbows in a darkened corner, a pair of steel wrist cuffs dangling absently from one hand, legs irons from the other, both prettily embossed and of dainty proportions. Lili recognized them as one of half a dozen sets commissioned by Dashwood for the express purpose of restraining females.
Turek’s hood was pushed down, and he’d removed his wig for the mass, as required, exposing an unruly thatch of straw-colored hair. He glanced up and, upon spying Lili looking his way, his hang-gallows look gave way to a glint of interest. He rose and started toward her.
She gulped down the rest of her chocolate and slipped away through the crowd. Twice, as she’d traced Elic’s path to the bathhous
e, she’d paused and turned, probing the night with her keen eyes to make sure Turek hadn’t followed her; there’d been no sign of him.
Lili approached the bathhouse with guarded, silent steps, the only sound a faint gurgling from the cave stream that fed the pool. Mist rose like smoke from the surface of the water; viewed with her nighttime vision, it looked like a sheet of that black volcanic glass that covered the altar in the chapel. Elic’s prone, naked body might have been carved from alabaster, with every muscle painstakingly sculpted and polished. His hair, now unbound, flowed like streams of honey over the surface of the water.
Lili watched Elic’s inert form float slowly in her direction on a current from the stream, until his feet touched the edge nearest her. When they did, he lazily stretched out his arms and scooped the water, pushing himself forward until his head nearly touched the far end. It took several long minutes for him to drift back down to her end of the pool, which was about fifteen feet square. Again, as soon as his feet brushed marble, he propelled himself back to his starting position.
At no time did he lift his face from the water.
Slowly, warily—for Lili had bathed in this pool and knew of its conductive powers—she crouched down and dipped a hand into the balmy water. A terrible yearning swept over her—not just a sexual yearning, though that was part of it. She felt, in her very soul, a sudden, excruciating loneliness.
Elic bolted to his feet and whipped around to face her, water sluicing off him as he stood hip-deep in the pool; he was fully erect, every muscle tensed in readiness. “Que se produit?” he demanded, clawing strands of wet hair out of his eyes. “Qui est là?”
“C’est moi—Lili.”
Elic searched the mist until his gaze met Lili’s. He lowered himself onto the benchlike top step with a weighty sigh.
“Shall I leave?” she asked.
“No, stay.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “Please.”
She untied her lubushu, dropped it on the marble floor, and stepped down into the water.
“My God, you’re beautiful,” he said in a low, earnest voice. “Perfect.” She was about to thank him when he asked, “What are you?”
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