by Laurel McKee
Lily twisted in her saddle to smile at him. He had lost his hat in the wild race, and his hair was tousled over his brow, gleaming in the gray light, and his blue eyes glittered.
Her stomach suddenly twisted with nervousness. He was really so outrageously good-looking. He was handsome in evening dress at the Devil’s Fancy, but here he looked like a Celtic god in the midst of the elements, so free and powerful. Oh, I am in trouble.
She turned away from him to pat her horse’s neck. “I never even got on a horse until I was twelve, and my parents decided we should all learn to ride. I was completely terrified at first; the horse seemed so huge and unpredictable. But as soon as I sat in the saddle, it felt… right.”
“You’re a natural-born rider, then.”
“I do enjoy it. I just don’t get to ride very often, and a sedate walk in the park doesn’t count. But you must have been riding since birth.”
“Very nearly. I think my father gave us ponies for our first birthdays. But my brother is the real equestrian.”
Lily laughed. “If he’s better than you, then he must be a centaur.”
“Up to a rematch, then? I’m sure I’ll beat you this time.”
She tossed him a challenging smile. “Care to make a wager, Lord Aidan?”
“Prepare to lose, Miss St. Claire.”
They took off again, laughing, their horses flying as they leaped over fallen logs and dashed between the stands of trees. Lily suddenly realized something startling—she was having fun. She never had fun, never laughed out of sheer enjoyment, never forgot her family duties, her past, her work. Right now there was only Aidan.
And it was Aidan who gave her that gift.
They drew up at a wrought-iron garden gate just as the first fat, cold raindrop hit Lily’s neck. She tilted back her head to stare up into the slate-gray sky, still laughing.
“I declare that a draw,” Aidan said.
“Only because you don’t want to admit you lost the wager.”
“Perhaps we should go discuss it inside before we get drenched,” he said.
“Dren—” Before Lily could even get the word out, the heavens opened and rain poured down on them.
Aidan caught her horse’s bridle and led her into an empty stable just beyond the trees. Once the horses were settled, he took her hand in his, and they ran laughing through the rain. They stumbled up the stone steps of the country house and through a door into an empty, echoing foyer.
Lily dragged her wet hat from her hair and dropped it to the stone floor as she stared around her. A curving staircase with an elaborately carved balustrade swept up until it vanished beyond the domed ceiling, where a fresco of a blue sky looked down at them. Open doors to either side revealed more half-empty rooms, the few pieces of furniture draped in pale canvas like ghosts.
“What is this place?” she whispered, as if she were afraid to awaken those ghosts.
“A hunting lodge,” Aidan answered. He ran his hands through his hair to slick the damp strands back from his face. His hair was almost black with rain, and without its softening frame, his face looked austere, sculpted.
“At least it used to be a hunting lodge,” he added. “I don’t think it has been used since my grandparents’ time. The woods that housed the game are mostly gone.”
Lily strolled slowly across the cold foyer to study the empty niches on the wall that had once held statues and objets d’art. Her boots clicked on the hard floor. “But you come here?”
“Sometimes,” Aidan said, a wary note in his voice. “It’s close to London but far enough away to be private. My brother sometimes comes here as well. It’s as near to town as he wants to get.”
Lily rested her hand on the curved end of the balustrade and stared into the shadows of the upper floors. Despite the deep silence of the house, the emptiness, she could sense the lingering memories of old parties and merriment. “If I had a house like this, I would never leave it.”
She heard the slow, deliberate tap of Aidan’s footsteps as he crossed the foyer to stand right behind her. The heat of his body made her shiver.
He laid his hand lightly on her waist. “Come see the rest of it,” he said.
Lily nodded, and he led her up the stairs. They passed sitting rooms and small, intimate dining rooms, window nooks enclosed with heavy draperies, small spaces made just for intimate conversation. She could see why this house had been built—for pleasure. But why had it stood empty and silent for so long? Why was it alone except for Aidan’s and his brother’s fleeting visits?
She paused to study a painting hung on the corridor wall. This seemed to be the only picture left in the house, and it was a very pretty one, a scene of a forest picnic party. Judging from the elaborate, lacy clothes and the curled hairstyles, long on both the men and women, it was a Restoration-era party. Shadows and sunlight dappled over the gathering, illuminating their conversations and flirtations.
Lily wondered if Mary St. Claire was one of the painted figures smiling up into a swain’s eyes with no fear of what was to come. Had Mary walked through these very halls, arm in arm with her husband? Lily shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. The riding crop in her hand pressed hard to the corseted curve of her waist.
“You’re cold,” Aidan said. “Come, let’s find you something to wrap up in, and I’ll build a fire.”
“You can build a fire?” Lily teased, trying to push away that disquiet, the feeling that ghosts lingered in the house.
“Like you, I have hidden talents. I’ve learned many things out of necessity.” He led her into one of the bedchambers that opened off the corridor. It wasn’t a big room, but it was comfortable and cozy, with large windows looking down at the overgrown, windswept gardens. An old-fashioned four-poster bed was hung with faded red curtains and spread with an old, embroidered coverlet. It was the only furniture except for a carved clothes chest and two straight-backed chairs by the fireplace, with a pile of wood in between them.
Aidan stripped off his sodden coat and waistcoat and knelt by the grate to arrange the firewood.
Lily watched him, mesmerized. His damp shirt clung to his back and shoulders, outlining every shift of his muscles. He had a beautiful body, so elegant and yet so strong. So talented too; she couldn’t help but remember how that body felt as it moved over hers, driving her mindless with pleasure.
She turned away and laid her crop and gloves on the chest to unfasten the tiny buttons that ran down the front of her riding habit. The soft, fine wool was damp, clinging to the buttons, and her fingers were cold. That, plus the knowledge that Aidan was half dressed only a few feet from her, made her fumble with the fastenings.
“Let me help,” he said, and she spun around to find that he stood right behind her. A fire now crackled and grew in the fireplace, and he had removed his shirt to reveal the taut, glistening expanse of pale gold skin and the width of his shoulders.
How was he not pale and flabby, like most men of his idle station? she wondered vaguely. He looked almost unreal, a god of sensuality who came to Earth to lead mortal women astray.
But then, he was not idle. He rode; he fought in barroom brawls.
Her gaze drifted down to the thin, white scar low on his chest, and then even lower to the hard erection in his trousers, the curve of his backside as he half turned to trace a light touch over her shoulder.
He leaned closer to nuzzle his lips over her temple. “Let me help you,” he said again, his voice low, dark, and so seductive.
Lily let her arms fall to her sides and closed her eyes. She felt his hands at the high collar of her bodice, and his long fingers nimbly slid the rest of the buttons free of their loops. The cold air, tinged with the smoky warmth of the fire, curled over her skin as he peeled away the habit.
She slid her arms out of the tight sleeves and let it drop to her feet. His breath hissed between his teeth, and she opened her eyes to see him staring intently at her bared body, his blue eyes midnight-dark. His long lashes cast shadows on h
is cheeks, and his hair fell over his brow, making him look almost boyish but also so dark, a dramatic contrast.
“You wore the purple,” he said.
Lily smiled. She had thought of him that morning as she chose those underthings out of all the lovely pieces he had sent her, pale lavender silk trimmed with gossamer ivory ribbons, so soft on her skin. “You have superb taste, for a man. Do you like it?”
In answer, he gave a hoarse groan and seized her by the waist to drag her closer. He pressed his open mouth to the side of her neck, his teeth scraping lightly over her skin. He kissed her jaw, her cheek, before he slid his hands up to frame her face as his dark, hooded eyes studied her. His thumbs skimmed over her mouth, and she sucked the tip of one of them between her lips.
His face tightened, drawn taut over his high, sharp cheekbones as his attention focused on her mouth. It made the hard, hot knot of desire inside her tighten until she couldn’t breathe. She felt wild, free—powerful.
The laughter of their wild ride was still in her, and she spun away from him with a giggle. She never giggled—it was only another sign of the unreality of this afternoon, with Aidan in this strange, empty house. She was not herself.
Or maybe she was. Maybe she was a part of herself she had denied for too long.
Aidan reached out for her, but she slid away with a laugh. She picked up her crumpled habit and laid it on top of the chest. As she smoothed the damp folds, she saw her riding crop there where she had left it.
She ran her fingers lightly over the smooth ivory handle and felt something seize inside of her, some confused tangle of memory and desire.
“My mother, my real mother, was a whore in a ‘French’ house, where they specialized in flagellation,” she said, her voice strangely calm and steady. She hadn’t said such a thing aloud in many years, not since she first went to live with the St. Claires and told Katherine her whole, sad tale. Her birth mother was only a distant memory now, an image of a beautiful face, a tragic fate.
A memory that suddenly seemed too close. Lily felt like she could shut her eyes and see the red wallpaper, smell the sweet sickness of opium, musky-rose French perfume, and sex. And hear the crack of the whip and the cries of forbidden pleasure.
Aidan had gone very still behind her. She could feel his tense watchfulness, but he didn’t move away. He didn’t recoil from her in disgust. “Was she?” he said quietly.
“Oh, yes. She was the most sought-after woman in Madame Josephine’s house. She was actually French, you see, and very beautiful. She had black hair and such dark eyes, but very pale skin. Like a ghost. And she was a marvel with a whip. She knew exactly where to land the lash, how hard, how long. And she knew what dirty things to say in that lovely French accent.” Lily picked up the crop and ran her hand down its length. “She was perfect at it.”
“And what happened to her?”
“The opium got her in the end. She couldn’t stay away from it.” Lily slashed the crop neatly through the air, and her wrist remembered that little flick at the end. She turned around to look at Aidan, who watched her intently. “Have you ever been to a place like Madame Josephine’s, Aidan?”
His eyes narrowed, and she laughed. “Of course you have,” she said. “You have been everywhere. You know what it’s like, then. What happens there.”
“It’s not entirely to my taste,” he said quietly.
“No? You probably didn’t get the right girl, then. Most of them aren’t as skilled as my mother. Or maybe you liked to be the one wielding the whip? They can do that too. Whatever the customer desires.”
Aidan didn’t answer, and Lily slowly nodded. Yes, he would like to be the one in control, directing the scene, bringing a woman up to that exquisite border between pleasure and pain. It made her shiver to imagine it. But her mother had known the flip side of that power, and she had taught it to Lily. Her one perverted legacy to her daughter.
She reached out and traced the leather tip of the crop over his bare shoulder. She felt the ripple of the powerful muscle under his skin, but otherwise he didn’t move. That feeling of power grew in her, and she realized that she had felt helpless for so very long. Too long.
With Aidan, she felt free.
“After my mother died,” she said, tracing the crop in a light pattern over his chest, “Madame Josephine wanted me to take her place. I was very young, but some men like that, and my mother had been teaching me. I didn’t want my mother’s way of life, her end, and I ran away. But I do remember some things.”
She stepped closer to him, one slow movement after another, until her body leaned into his. She could feel all his coiled, primitive strength, could smell the salt and rain on his hot skin. His nostrils flared as he looked down at her.
She slid her arms around his back and grasped both ends of the crop with her hands as she used it to pull him even closer to her. She pressed it hard to the underside of his buttocks.
“Do you want to see what I remember?” she whispered.
“Lily,” he growled. “You make me crazy.”
He made her crazy, too, made her feel like a different person, made her remember dark, sensual delights, and made her crave them. Made her want to please him, draw him into that world with her. She gave him a smile and let go of the end of the crop. She lightly hit him on the back of his thigh. She was deeply gratified when his erection hardened even more against her and his breath grew harsher.
“I wouldn’t do this with anyone but you, Aidan,” she said.
“And I wouldn’t let anyone but you do it, Lily. I’m completely insane when I’m with you.” He eased back from her and watched her as he reached down for the fastenings of his trousers. His eyes never left her as he kicked off his boots and clothing until he stood before her completely, gloriously naked.
Lily studied him greedily, every inch of his body, the gleaming, muscled chest with its light arrow of curling brown hair, the lean hips, and long, powerful legs. His erect penis.
He really was the beauty of a classical statue come to hot, hard life. She ached to touch him, taste him.
Aidan grinned at her as if he could read her thoughts, the arrogant man. Then slowly, deliberately, he turned to face the bed. He braced his palms flat on the edge of the mattress and leaned over, baring the hard length of his back and his tight buttocks to her. The firelight glinted on his skin.
“You have done this before,” Lily murmured.
He gave her a smoldering glance over his shoulder. “I told you I’m a curious man.”
“And one with many talents.” Still wearing her boots and her beautiful new underthings, Lily moved closer to him. She studied every tempting inch of him and couldn’t believe he was here with her now. Offering himself to her like that.
But she half feared that she would be the one truly possessed. The one who fell into madness when this was over.
She reached out and laid her hand on the back of his neck. His hair, the strands curling damply, brushed over her fingers like a soft caress. He stayed very still under her touch, and she slid slowly down his back and over the sharp angle of his hip, reveling in the leashed power of him. She slid one fingertip over the curve of his backside and smiled as he growled curses.
“Show me, Lily,” he demanded. “Now. Show me what you learned so well.”
She stepped away from him and drew back her arm. She let all the old instincts, the old memories come back, and flicked out with her wrist. The crop landed low, just at the top of his thigh, with the lightest of kisses. His buttocks tightened, and she moved again and again, harder and harder, the strokes carefully, artfully placed.
“Lily!” he shouted, and a shudder coursed through his body. But then he braced his hands more firmly against the bed and went very still. “Again.”
She lowered the crop again, the faint whistling sound of it through the air soft and deafening at the same time. His very stillness was powerful, the harsh sound of his breath making her want him. She was so wet now beneath her fine underclo
thes, shaking with the force of desire, and she wondered what would happen when his power was unleashed.
Faint welts appeared on his glistening, sweat-damp skin, and she could smell the musk of his arousal and her own, blending in the warm air like the rarest of perfumes. She tossed the crop aside and wrapped her arms around his waist as she kissed the marks on his skin.
Her tongue slid along them, one after another, as she tasted him. She slid her fingertips over his hard abdomen and down the length of his erection. It jerked against her touch, and Aidan gave a raw groan as she stroked him. The skin there was tight and hot, and so, so hard. She gathered the drop of moisture at its tip with her fingers and touched him again, a long, slow slide.
“Oh, God, Lily, yes. Just like that,” he said, and she hardly recognized his rough voice. His body arched up, and she sensed he was on the edge of losing control.
And she had done that to him. No one else.
She could feel her own control slipping away, could feel herself falling down into the dark abyss of passionate need. He rolled onto his back on the bed, and his hands closed roughly on her arms to pull her down on top of him as his mouth claimed hers. His kiss was so deep, so hot, his tongue thrusting against hers to take her. His hands skimmed over her shoulders, her back, rough through the thin silk.
She melted into him. All she could do was brace her hands against his shoulders and hold on as he kissed her, his tongue stroking deep.
Suddenly he pushed her away. He rose up and held her by the waist until he sat on the edge of the bed with her standing between his legs. Dazed, she watched as he jerked at the lacings of her corset. His hands were so deft and sure as he worked, and she remembered how many women he must have done this to before.
His eyes burned with that raw blue fire as he looked up at her, the fire she had come to know meant he wanted her. Her corset fell away, and she sucked in a deep breath.
“Take off the rest of your clothes,” he said, and lay back on the bed to watch her. He lounged against the piled-up pillows, his arms behind his head, so lazy, so in control. He had taken the power from her just like that, with no effort at all.
