by Darcy Burke
She shuddered delicately. “Such a brutal sport. I admit I don’t see the appeal.”
“Women rarely do. Which is not to denigrate your sex. I only mean that men seem to derive pleasure from watching others physically triumph over others.”
“While women—some women—enjoy emotional victory over others,” she murmured. She shook her head then shot him a deeply curious look. “Why do you watch?”
He shrugged, his memory traveling back to his youth when his father had started taking him to fights when he was maybe nine years old. They had been wonderful evenings, the only times he’d felt truly close with his father. He’d take Jason to eat at a pub and then they’d watch the fight. Jason had felt like such a man next to his father. But then he’d drop Jason at Lockwood House and continue on to his mistress’s, ruining what had been a perfect night. Still, Jason had longed for the next time. In fact, he’d lived for it.
Until Father had started bringing Ethan along. Then those special nights had turned into torture. Eventually, Jason had stopped going with them. But he’d still gone to fights. It was a torment of which he couldn’t seem to deprive himself. He’d wanted to recall and relive the only blissful memories he had of his father.
“Jason?”
Her softly spoken use of his name jarred him—pleasantly—back to the present. He liked watching her lips say his name. Almost as much as he liked tasting them.
“I heard you got into fights when you were young, that you broke someone’s arm at Eton and were sent down for it.” There was a gentle inquisition in her voice. She didn’t sound like the scandalmonger she was purported to be. She sounded like someone who genuinely cared.
He’d almost forgotten there was a host of stories and rumors she’d likely heard about him. Yet, she was here anyway. Was it because she didn’t believe he was the mad, violent, promiscuous lord he was painted as?
“Not to sound defensive, but the other boy started it and was also sent down. I think he hit me because he thought I’d tripped him. But it was really just his own clumsiness. We were young and foolish and got quite carried away.” He grimaced. “I’m sure the characterization you heard was far worse than the reality.”
She looked at him unflinchingly. “I knew there was an explanation for it. Regardless of what I’ve heard, you’ve yet to display a violent nature to me. But you were going to tell me why you liked watching fights.”
“I was?” He wasn’t, but now he wanted to tell her. “I used to attend fights with my father. They’re good memories.”
She nodded, then looked away. “I understand.”
He thought she just might. He wasn’t certain, but he knew her father was still alive and somehow inexplicably absent from her life. And since she lived with Margaret, he’d deduced her mother was no longer with her. “Your mother died long ago, didn’t she?”
“She passed when I was nine.”
So young to lose her mother, but presumably she’d had a strong feminine presence in her life—even if it wasn’t a very good one. “And did your aunt raise you?”
She seemed weary, sad. “I’m sure it seems that way, but no. I went to live with her for my first Season and since I’m still unmarried, my father allows me to remain with her.”
Her father was Lord Prewitt. Jason suddenly recalled that he spent most of his time at his country seat. “Your father is in Northumberland?”
“Yes.” Clear lines of distaste fanned from her pursed mouth. “He loves it there.”
“You don’t?”
“It’s the middle of nowhere,” she said matter-of-factly. “There’s nothing for an unmarried lady to do save milk cows or embroider. Visiting the nearest neighbor requires an overnight stay.”
He thought of her dressed as a milkmaid sitting on a stool in the barn and couldn’t reconcile the elegant Society miss at his side with such a provincial image. “Surely you didn’t milk cows?”
“I did.” She surprised him with a smile. “I liked doing it when I was a girl. My mother taught me, actually.”
He glimpsed the pure young girl she’d been and sensed her aunt had changed her, perhaps in ways she didn’t like. But maybe he was projecting his own opinions on her. “Have you been happy with your aunt?”
She removed her hand from his arm and walked to the billiards table, keeping her gaze averted from his. “Happy enough. What other games will you offer at the party besides billiards?”
He wanted to press her for a truer answer, but her abrupt change in topic told him she was done discussing it. And since he didn’t enjoy talking about his father, he understood.
He followed her toward the billiards table, but stopped short, giving her space. “The usual card games. And hazard. However, I won’t allow the wagering to go as deeply as at my other parties.”
She turned from the table. “We don’t want anyone losing a fortune.”
And then, because he wanted to see the vivacious young woman he’d come to like—and he liked her even more after today—he held out his arm again. “Come, I’ll take you upstairs.”
Her eyes widened. “You will?”
“If you wish.”
She hesitated the briefest moment and Jason held his breath. Then she nodded once and took his arm. He led her from the billiards room and back the way they’d come. In the foyer, he guided her up the wide staircase.
She peered up at him in blatant curiosity. “Where are we going first?”
He chuckled at her blatant interest. “You swear you’re not here to collect information for nefarious purposes?” He didn’t really believe she was, but wanted to hear her say it one more time.
“I swear.” She paused on the stairs, and he turned to look down at her. “Once upon a time, I would have, but not any longer. I truly only want to help you succeed.”
He saw the honesty in her eyes and knew she was different from her aunt, that spending years in that harpy’s company hadn’t forever marred her sensibilities. He turned and continued up the stairs. “I’m afraid it’s not all that exciting. The rooms are really just a series of bedchambers.”
She frowned. “But I thought there was a special room upstairs.”
He knew precisely to what she referred, but was again a bit shocked at how much she already knew. “Some call it the ‘dress-up room,’ others call it the ‘watching room,’ and still others call it the ‘prop room.’”
Her eyes were wide as she tried to puzzle what each of those descriptions could mean—apparently there were still things he could reveal. She turned to him as they reached the top of the stairs. “And which do you call it?”
He smiled. “The fantasy room.”
Her intake of breath stirred his imagination. “How many fantasies have you realized there?”
“None.” But he had plenty sparking in his mind at the present.
Her brown eyes were curious, beautiful. “Why?”
“Because I’ve never used that room.” He turned to the left and gently pulled her along. “It’s this way.”
He led her down the corridor and turned left along the western wing. The corridor terminated in a curved alcove. Two chaises were set against the walls. “This is where people wait their turn for the room. It’s quite popular. In most cases, people put their names in as soon as they arrive.”
She looked from one chaise to the other and turned her head to look up at him. “You said it was also called the watching room. How does that work?”
He wasn’t at all sure he should be explaining this to her, but why not? She was a grown woman well past the blush of her first Season. “If the people using the room agree to it, others may watch what they’re doing. There’s another room next door with little holes to look through.”
Just telling her about this was incredibly arousing. His skin felt hot. Maybe it would be better if they weren’t touching. He moved away from her, withdrawing his arm from her fingers, and opened the door.
He stepped to the side and allowed Lydia to move in past him. She
sucked in her breath again. “It’s beautiful.”
Her gaze was fixed on the bed. There went his cock again. It was a spectacular bed, if he did say so himself, but that was the point of it being in this room. It was a massive four-poster, plenty large enough for several people, and covered in opulent purple silk.
“It’s so big,” she breathed. “Did you have it custom made?”
“Ironically, no. It was my father’s bed, just as this was his bedchamber.” He’d never told anyone that. He was apparently unable to censor himself with her today.
She turned toward him. “If this is the viscount’s room, where do you sleep?”
He’d never wanted to sleep in his father’s bed and since it was too large to be moved, he’d had a new viscount’s chamber designed in the east wing. But it was sacrosanct—to him—and he’d never taken anyone there or allowed anyone to use it. “I made some renovations when I inherited.”
“I see.” She walked toward an armoire against the wall. Jason had a moment’s panic. There was one with clothing and another with objects designed to enhance pleasure. Since he never used this room—and rarely even went inside—he wasn’t sure which was which. He dearly hoped it was the former but suddenly recalled it was the latter. He rushed to step in front of her, placing his back against the armoire.
He smiled down at her. “You don’t want to open this one.”
She looked at him expectantly, her mouth forming a moue. “I thought you were going to show me the room?”
“I think I’m corrupting you quite enough, and this armoire is for people of a certain experience.”
She didn’t look convinced. In fact, she looked determined. “What’s in there?”
He exhaled. He could tell her. It didn’t mean he had to show her. “Objects used in amplifying desire and satisfaction. If you were familiar with sexual acts, I could explain them more fully, but I’m guessing you’re not.”
She blushed again, this time a far darker shade of pink. “I know enough.”
He pivoted and opened the armoire a sliver. He reached inside and grabbed the first thing his hand found. “Enough to know what this is?” He wasn’t even sure what he’d grabbed, but now saw that it was a slender leather thong. It could actually be used for a variety of things, but he vowed not to share them all with her. Even his perversion had its limits.
Her gaze fell on the thong for a moment before rising back up to meet his. “No, I don’t know what that is for.” Her lips pursed, and he could see that lack of knowledge frustrated her.
“So inquisitive,” he said, fingering the soft leather. “This is used to secure someone to the bed. Or I suppose a chair, or any other piece of furniture. Or perhaps it’s just used to lash someone’s hands together.”
Her eyes widened and her nostrils flared. “Why?” she whispered hotly, stirring his desire. It was impossible to have this conversation without envisioning her tied to his bed, her lush body splayed for his appreciation and enjoyment—and hers.
“Some people find pleasure in being restrained during sexual acts. They have to trust their partner—or partners,” he really ought to stop trying to shock her, “and completely give themselves over to their care.”
She glanced at the thong again. “Do you enjoy . . . that?”
The heat in the room spiked. He was finding it very hard not to touch her, kiss her, tear her clothes from her. “I have—once or twice—but it depends on the partner. And before you ask, I typically stick to just one, regardless of what you may have heard.”
“Typically?” she asked, her voice climbing.
“Lydia, do you really want to know every detail?” He leaned forward, hoping for another waft of her spicy hyacinth scent. There. He nearly closed his eyes in lust. “I find a little mystery goes a long way.”
She reached out and touched the leather, her fingers brushing against his. “It’s very soft.”
“You wouldn’t want it chafing your skin, would you?” His cock was now fully erect. How much time did they have until she had to leave? No. He couldn’t even consider it.
“No.” Her dark eyes were luminous and still so full of curiosity. And he wanted to appease every last inch of it. “May I have it?” she asked.
Nothing could have shocked him more. That wasn’t precisely true, but it was close enough. “Lydia, what in God’s name are you doing to me?”
Her look turned apologetic. “Sorry, that was overbold of me.” She let go of the thong. “Show me what else there is to do in here.”
He’d already told her about the watching, and he’d showed her a prop. That left the dress-up. He took her hand and led her to the other armoire in the corner, dropping the thong on the edge of the bed as they passed it. He opened the armoire doors wide, exposing an array of clothing, mostly gowns in vivid colors with daring cuts that no respectable lady would be seen wearing.
“Oh,” she breathed, her fingers reaching out to stroke a rich, crimson velvet. “These are beautiful.”
“Guests may wear them, though I daresay they scarcely last long on one’s frame.”
She let go of his hand and looked through them, pausing at a maid’s uniform. “Why is this here?”
“Some like to play different roles. There are military-style uniforms.” He gestured to a bright lobster red coat. “For women who always fancied shagging an officer.”
Her nostrils flared at his use of crude language. “I see. And I also begin to see why you call this the fantasy room.” She turned toward him. “There’s something for everyone here. But I want to know what’s in here for you.”
“Nothing. Until now.” He gazed down at her upturned face, recalled the imprint of her soft lips under his, the feel of her warm hands cradling the back of his head.
Her hand came up and splayed against his chest. “I want you to do it. I want you to have your fantasy. Right now.”
Though they’d been flirting for quite some time, he was still surprised by her words. But, God, how he wanted it, too. “I don’t think that’s wise.”
Her eyes narrowed. She tugged her glove from her hand and tossed it on the bed behind him. As she worked the second glove off, she pinned him with a hot stare. “If you don’t, I’ll have mine. And that involves me using that leather thing to tie you to the bedpost.” She speared him with a bold stare and laid her palm against his scarred cheek.
He flinched.
“What is it?” she asked, her eyes wide with concern.
The touch of her hand burned his flesh, but in the best possible way. “How can you touch my scar so easily? And you don’t stare at it anymore. Why?”
“Because I don’t see it any longer. It’s simply part of you. It’s no different than any other part of you—that of which I’ve seen.” She let her gaze travel over his body in slow deliberation. “I find you beyond attractive, Jason. This scar,” she traced her thumb along its base, “is simply one of your many splendid parts, and without a single one of them you wouldn’t be Jason Lock—”
He devoured the rest of his name from her lips. Lust raged through him with the power of any madness that had ever darkened his soul. But this wasn’t dark, it was light. Blinding, beautiful, soul-wrenching light.
Her hands clutched at his cravat and worked their way to the back of his neck, pulling him down into her embrace. Her mouth opened to his with a ferocity that matched his own, her tongue sliding against his with hungry strokes.
He encircled her waist and hauled her up so that her breasts were pressed against his chest. A hundred fantasies, all with her as the focal point, swirled in his mind. She was clothed, she was naked, she was bound, she was free, she was masked, she stared at him with beckoning eyes.
He lifted her completely from the ground and carried her to a chaise positioned in front of the fireplace. Gently, he set her down on the chaise, but she pulled back from his kiss. “What’s wrong with the bed?” Her mouth was red and wet.
He leaned forward and licked her lower lip, then nibbled at
the supple flesh with his teeth. “This is my fantasy, isn’t it?”
“I beg your pardon,” she said softly, with a smile in her voice. “I don’t know if your fantasy involves this, but I hope you don’t mind if I encourage you to touch my breast. You’ve come frightfully close on two occasions now, and I’m afraid I can’t let a third opportunity pass me by.”
She lifted her fingers to the green bodice of her gown and released some hidden fasteners. The bodice gapped open, revealing the pale ivory of her chemise. The tops of her breasts swelled over the edge of the undergarment.
He stared at the tempting curve of her bosom and was nearly engulfed in a dizzying whirlwind of desire. He squeezed his eyes shut. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He needed to put an end to this right now.
But when he opened his eyes, met hers, and saw the wondrous curiosity in their depths, he was lost. “I wouldn’t want to disappoint you.” It was more than that—he couldn’t bear to. Without breaking eye contact with her, he brought his palm to one of her breasts and cupped her through the chemise. The nipple instantly hardened, and her flesh heated against him. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly, but he registered the shared lust rushing between them.
“Lydia, we need to stop this.”
Her gaze was steady and didn’t carry a hint of trepidation or remorse. “I know.” She palmed the back of his head and drew him down to kiss her.
Just one more, he told himself, as he took her mouth. He took his time exploring her lips and tasting her mouth. She tipped her head back with the softest of moans, her hands clutching him as if she might fall without him to secure her.
She pushed her breast into his hand and he teased the nipple with first his thumb and then added his forefinger, pulling on the nub. He pivoted her and laid her back against the arched curve of the chaise. He settled one knee between her legs and left her mouth to drop kisses along her jawline. She arched up, but he wanted her to lie still and pliant against the chaise. He kept his hand at her breast, but splayed the other softly against her neck and held her down. Her eyes opened, but there was no alarm, just hot desire burning in their chestnut depths.
