Darling Beast

by Elizabeth Hoyt

  The damnable thing was, he knew he wasn’t the only one. Everyone in the audience wanted a small part of Robin Goodfellow for their very own. As a friend to confide in. As a lover to shower with affection. He was half hard simply watching her swirl about the stage, flinging quips at the male actor who was supposed to be her rival. How was it possible that he’d been inside her only that morning and now he felt as if he knew her not at all?

  He watched as she leaned a little closer to the actor, flirting with her mischievous green eyes, and he was half admiring, half outraged that she would look at any other man that way.

  Every man in the room must have an erection.

  Apollo swallowed, trying to lean back, trying to break from her spell, only to find that he couldn’t.

  He wasn’t the only one.

  He watched as his elderly uncle blushed when she bit her lip and glanced over her shoulder at the audience.

  Dear God, but she was dangerous.

  He was a great ugly lump, he knew this. He’d always been, ever since the day when he’d been but fifteen and he’d topped his own father’s height. How could such a mercurial fairylike creature want anything to do with him? And yet she had. She’d let him touch her intimately. Had let him claim her.

  In that moment Apollo resolved that no matter how ridiculous their mating might be, he wasn’t going to let her change her mind. She was his now—and if he had any say in the matter, she’d be his always.

  THE PLAY HAD gone well, Lily thought later as she sat before a looking glass and washed the paint from her face. True, Stanford had managed to forget an entire speech in the third act, and the boy playing the overly handsome valet was much too prone to trying to upstage the other actors playing with him, but Moll had delivered her lines with graceful humor touched with ribaldry and John had been so handsome and chivalrous she’d nearly fallen in love with him herself. Yes, overall a great success.

  “About done, dear?” Moll called, turning in front of her own little looking glass to try to see her hair from behind. “I’ve a mind to dance with that pretty duke tonight—and have a glass or two of Mr. Greaves’s wine. I hope it’s good.” She winked at Lily. “Not that it’ll stop me if it’s not.”

  Lily laughed. “Go ahead. I still have to re-pin my hair.”

  Moll twirled one last time and left.

  Lily smiled into her mirror. It made no sense, but she wanted to look her best for Apollo. He’d never seen her perform before and she was a bit nervous about his reaction. Had he liked the play? Had he recognized the lines that she’d written in the garden with his help?

  She wrinkled her nose at herself. Silly. If she didn’t hurry, she’d miss the ball and then her primping would have been for naught.

  In the silence of the little chamber off the drawing room she heard footsteps approaching. Hurriedly she pushed a last pin into her coiffure and stood, smiling as the door opened.

  Her smile froze on her face when she saw who entered.

  Lord Ross hadn’t changed much in seven and a half years. He still had a stiff, nearly military bearing. He still wore a properly curled and powdered white wig. He still had a flat stomach and big shoulders. And he still had one blue eye and one green.

  But the lines around his mouth and eyes had deepened and multiplied and his mouth seemed permanently turned down now.

  Perhaps cruelty could stamp itself upon a man’s face.

  “Lily Stump,” he drawled, his voice smooth and light. Apollo’s voice would never sound like that, she knew. His voice would always grate, no matter how much his throat healed.

  And she was glad.

  “Richard,” she replied evenly.

  “Lord Ross, if you please,” he snapped, and although his voice didn’t rise, her gaze darted to his hands.

  They had half-fisted.

  She nodded. “My lord, then. How may I help you?”

  “You,” he said, prowling into the room, “can help me by staying out of my way and remaining quiet.”

  She pivoted so that he wouldn’t back her into the corner. The little room held only two tiny tables and a single chair, her box of paints, and the costumes. But there was the looking glass. If she had to, she could break it. The edges would be sharp.

  “Very well,” she said quietly.

  “Swear it,” he said, advancing.

  She ducked and darted around him. There was a pull and a tearing sound and then she was out of his grasp and out the door, running with her skirts bunched in her fists.

  “Lily Stump!” he roared behind her, but she’d be a fool to stop.

  And she was no fool.

  She skidded around a corner, nearly barreling into a wide-eyed footman.

  “Miss?” he asked, clearly surprised.

  “I do beg your pardon,” she gasped, smoothing her skirts. One wasn’t supposed to apologize to servants, she knew, but to hell with that. She smiled at the man—really just a very tall boy. “Where is the ball being held?”

  He pointed to the stairs. “Ground floor, ma’am. Shall I show you?”

  She beamed at him. “That would be lovely.”

  Lily followed the strapping footman down the staircase, never looking back, and now that she was no longer running with her heart beating in her ears, she could hear the music playing.

  He bowed at the entrance of the ballroom and she gave him a quick grin in thanks before entering.

  The room was lit with dozens of beeswax candles. They, together with the vases of hothouse roses placed around the room, perfumed the air with a sweet stink that was nearly unbearable. It was terribly hot and she wished she had a fan. A glance around showed that Mr. Greaves must have invited quite a few of his neighbors as well as the house party guests, for the ballroom was crowded. She’d hardly taken a step before Mr. Warner appeared before her, asking for a dance.

  She was put out—she’d hoped to find Apollo—but she made sure not to let that show on her face. This was part of her job, after all, to entertain the guests.

  So she danced a country dance with Mr. Warner, and then another with Mr. MacLeish. By that time she had caught a glimpse of Richard, glowering by the ballroom doors, and decided to head in the opposite direction—toward the wall of French doors that led out to the garden. She was glancing over her shoulder to make sure Richard wasn’t following her when she felt a hand on her wrist.

  She was hauled rather unceremoniously onto the slate steps that ran along the back of the house and led into the darkened garden itself.

  Lily squeaked and looked up.

  Into Apollo’s shadowed face.

  “Oh” was, unfortunately, all she could think of to say.

  “You look frightened,” he murmured. “Why?”

  She smoothed her skirts. “You did just yank me out of the ballroom. Practically a kidnap.”

  In the light from the ballroom she thought she saw his lips twitch. “If I’d wanted to kidnap you, I’d’ve thrown you over my shoulder.”

  She drew herself up. “What makes you think I’d let you?”

  He moved his fingers to her hand and clasped it. “Oh, you would.”

  “You’re quite sure of yourself.” She sniffed.

  “Mmm.” He pulled gently, leading her down the steps. “I liked your play.”

  “Oh.” She could feel herself blushing like a green girl. “Thank you.”

  She caught the flash of his teeth as he grinned back at her.

  Although the French doors had been open, the party wasn’t meant to spill into the garden, so there were no lanterns. There was a moment beyond the light coming from the windows of the house, in the dark of the garden itself, when she felt quite blind.

  “Where are we going?”

  “I discovered something this afternoon.” His voice floated back to her on the night breeze. “I wanted to show you.”

  It was rather cool and if she hadn’t just been running and then dancing, it might’ve been too cold, but as it was, the night chill was rather nice on her
overheated skin.

  “Careful,” he whispered as her slippered feet trod on grass. “We’ve left the pavement behind.”

  She closed her eyes a moment and when she opened them again, she looked up. “Oh, the stars.”

  She could see him now—or at least his silhouette.

  He tilted his head back. “They’re rather nice tonight.”

  They walked in silence for a bit, the music wafting behind them, and then a sort of wall seemed to loom ahead.

  “What is it?” she asked.

  He paused for a moment and she knew—she wasn’t sure how, but she knew—he was smiling. “A maze.”

  PERHAPS APOLLO WAS mad to bring a girl to see a maze at night, but somehow it’d seemed exactly the right thing to do.

  “Come on,” he said to her, pulling her hand.

  Lily followed easily enough, but her voice was uncertain as they made the first turn. “We’ll get lost.”

  “No,” he said easily. “I found it this afternoon and explored it then. It’s simple enough.”

  “Even in the dark.”

  “Even in the dark,” he assured her. “But it’s not quite dark, is it?” He pointed up at the stars and the crescent moon.

  “Humph.” She didn’t sound entirely reassured, but she followed him nonetheless, and that made him glad.

  The maze was an old one with a fully matured hedge over eight feet tall. In places the hedge threatened to grow into the path and he had to lead her single file, but she never protested. He could hear the rustle of her skirts, the sound of her breathing right behind him, and once in a while her scent came to him, orange and clove, tantalizing and sweet.

  He tightened his grip on her hand.

  By the time he turned the final corner he was heavy and hard.

  “Where are we?” she whispered, as if she knew the import of this place. Of where he’d brought her and why.

  Before them was a shallow stone pool, rimmed with stone benches, a statue standing at the center. It had probably once been a fountain, but time and neglect had stopped it running, and now it was dry save for a few rotting leaves blown against the edges.

  “We’re at the heart,” he replied, his throat thick.

  She tugged his hand as she stepped closer to the stone pool. She stared at the statue and then back at him. “The heart of the maze?”

  He looked into her eyes, reflecting the starlight, the entire universe, really, and nodded. “The heart.”

  She stood still a moment, watching him, and he had no idea at all what she was thinking.

  Finally she laughed quietly, gesturing with her free hand at the marble figure. “It’s a minotaur. I suppose that’s appropriate.”

  He looked at the figure, all horns and massive shoulders. “The monster in the maze?”

  “Yes.” She turned in the dark to face him, and all he could see was the limned starlight on her cheek, the glimmer of the reflected moon in her eyes. “Indio thought you were a monster at first. Did I ever tell you?”

  He shook his head slowly. “Am I still a monster to you?”

  “No.” She reached up to trace his eyebrow. “You’re not… that. You never were, really.”

  And she pulled his head down to meet her mouth. She kissed him with a woman’s passion, a woman’s want, frank and sweet. He fought to keep from grasping, from holding too tight, lest the very harshness of his grip drive her from him.

  He let her lead, opening his mouth when her tender tongue ran across his lips. Let her explore and seek. She thrust her hands into his hair, pulling the tie out, framing his face with his coarse locks.

  “Apollo,” she breathed against him, her hands restless on his waistcoat. “Apollo, make love to me.”

  It was all he was waiting for. He pressed her against him, angling his head to deepen the kiss. He placed his palm over her upper chest, feeling the delicate collarbone beneath his fingers, the gentle swell of her breast. Even this little amount of flesh was like wine in the desert. He traced the edge of her bodice, dipping his little finger into the hot, shadowed recess between her breasts. It was moist there and suddenly he had to taste. He bent her back, ducking his head to slide his tongue between her sweet breasts and taste her salt.

  “Apollo,” she moaned, grasping his hair. “Please.”

  He licked up over her breasts, finding the rise of her shoulder and biting there.

  Her fingers moved in a shaking flurry between them and he realized she was scrabbling at his falls, but before he could help her, she had them open.

  Had them open and had him in her hand.

  He froze, groaning, trembling at her touch. Her cool fingers circled him confidently, stroking up once before caressing his head, exploring where he wept liquid tears.

  She pulled one hand away and he saw, in the moonlight, as she drew a single wet finger to her lips and sucked.

  That was too much.

  He had her turned before she could make another move. He ripped off his coat and threw it down before one of the benches edging the pool.

  “Kneel,” he said, and his voice was a guttural rasp that made him wince.

  She obeyed, though, as if sacrificing herself to some ancient monster. “Like this?” And the look she gave him over her shoulder was enough to make him swallow hard.

  “Exactly like that,” he said, kneeling behind her. He pulled up her skirts reverently, as though he unveiled a work of art, seeing first the gleam of her white stockings in the moonlight, then the silver of her thighs.

  Then the rounded mounds of her arse. Her delightfully carnal arse, curved and sweet, that secret darkness between. If he died right now, he’d dream for all eternity of Lily’s arse and be happy.

  He laid her skirts over her back and ran his fingertips over her buttocks, watching as she shivered.

  “Spread your legs for me,” he ordered.

  She shifted, revealing more of herself, though the darkness kept her tantalizingly modest.

  He ran his finger down the dip between her cheeks, slowly, until he encountered her moisture.

  “Apollo,” she whispered, wiggling just a little.

  “Do you like that?” His words were nearly slurred as if he were drunk on her feminine scent.

  “You know I do,” she said, bending farther. She put her head in her arms on the stone bench, jutting out her hips farther, as if she were presenting herself, a mare to be mounted.

  God, he wanted her.

  He took his cock in hand and crawled closer, close enough that he could run his cockhead through her weeping slit.

  She moaned and arched her back, forcing herself against him.

  He couldn’t think. Could only feel—and want. He shoved his prick into position, placing his palm on the small of her back to hold her still. He didn’t want to hurt her—and if he moved too fast he was liable to spill.

  He eased into her tight, hot passage, throwing his head back, staring blindly at the starlit cosmos. She was so wet for him, so slick and beautiful, that tears gathered at the corners of his eyes even as he thrust and thrust again. He pushed into that sweet tunnel, uniting them, making them one, until his flesh and her flesh merged.

  And then he separated them again, drawing entirely out, just so he could feel again the wonderful pleasure of joining.

  She whimpered, her face against her arms, and he bent over her, his woman, his Lily, surrounding, protecting, claiming her as his. “What do you want, love?”

  “Th… that.”

  He licked the bared nape of her neck. “Tell me.”

  “I want you,” she whispered. “I want your cock in me. I want you to fill me and stuff me full until I can’t talk or remember my own name.”

  He lost all control at her words. He reared, withdrawing and slamming back into her, the man entirely subsumed in the animal. All he was, all he could feel was his cock conquering her pussy, making her his mate for now, forever.

  He bowed over her and bit into the back of her neck, holding her hips still so that
he could plow into her over and over again until he felt her shudder under him, contracting around him. She moaned, low and lost, as she came, and he knelt up then, never stopping, never slowing, pounding as she trembled beneath him until he threw back his head and roared his own release into the night.

  The stars whirled above them as he slowly sank back over her, panting, wondering if he’d ever again regain his humanity.

  Or if he’d lost it forever to this woman.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Now, though a bull’s visage may be wild and beastly, its eyes are quite beautiful. Ariadne saw a soft brown eye, large and liquid, surrounded by thick lashes and filled with pain. In that moment she forgot fear of the monster and felt only pity. Instead of fleeing, she knelt by his side and began to bind his wounds, and as she did, she wondered what had become of Theseus, for surely it was he who had hurt the monster…

  —From The Minotaur

  Lily woke late the next morning with a feeling of both elation and dread. Elation because she would see Apollo again. She knew now that their liaison would by necessity be short. Soon she’d have to go back to her own life and he to his—wherever that was. Aristocrats and average persons could not permanently join—at least not happily. Their worlds were too different, the imbalance of power between highborn and low simply too great. Even if he cared for her in some way, Apollo would have to wed a lady of his own rank one day. Lily hadn’t the heart to be a mistress. But knowing that their time together was finite made it all the sweeter. She vowed to enjoy every minute left to her.

  But her anticipation at seeing Apollo again was tempered by a feeling of dread. At a house party there was no way she could avoid Richard forever.

  She pushed the second thought aside, however, and made sure to walk down to luncheon with Moll.

  All the guests were gathered there, it seemed, for it was quite late—nearly one of the clock—and well past the time a working person might break his fast. Of course working people didn’t stay awake dancing past dawn, either.

  Three large tables had been set up to accommodate so many at once and footmen were moving swiftly, bringing coffeepots and plates of cold meats, coddled eggs, and rolls. Lily saw Apollo almost at once and shared a secret smile with him. Then she glanced around and found Richard, sitting next to a pleasant-looking woman who had to be his wife.