Knightley's Tale

by Destiny D'Otare

  With one step onto the terrace, her schemes abandoned her.

  “Oh my,” she breathed.

  This was no ordinary garden, but a fairyland—a fantastical outdoor wonderland of flowered trees and shrubs enclosing a glistening dance floor. Tiny lanterns hung from wires crisscrossing the sky twinkled candlelight onto the occupants below. A white gazebo to the left housed the orchestra, and thick bushes on the right opened into narrow pathways where people were disappearing or reappearing in pairs or groups.

  Even though no music played, the dance floor was crowded as were the chairs and tables scattered around the floor.

  “It’s breathtaking. Whyever do they keep this a secret?” Emma asked Knightley as he led her along the edge of the floor.

  “To protect the innocent.” His sneer matched that of the woman stalking toward them. Knightley tightened his grasp on Emma’s arm, but there was no avoiding the confrontation as the woman glared down at Emma’s clothes.

  Apparently, this ball had room from only one “Red.”

  Emma pasted on a placating smile. Really, the woman’s costume—a crimson gown and matching demi-mask—would have been unremarkable had it not fully exposed her breasts.

  As if no one had ever seen Lady Willingham’s painted nipples before.

  “Why you’ve come as Rose Red. What a clever disguise, Lady W.” Emma chattered. Knightley groaned. Hailing a passing waiter, he grabbed a champagne flute and emptied the contents down his throat.

  “Have we met?” Lady W was trying to be coy but her mouth was set in a hard line. It perfectly matched her tits. Usually they were covered by the sheerest of ball gowns, but Emma had always marveled after them. Could they, as the fables claimed, cut glass?

  “But of course. I am one of your greatest admirers,” Emma said smoothly. “You should wear scarlet more often. It accentuates your finest assets.”

  Knightley choked.

  Emma struggled to maintain a serene smile, as Knightley twisted his head to look anywhere but at Lady Willingham’s rouged tips.

  “My dear, you have me at a loss for I do not know your name.” Lady W was turning up the coyness.

  “Red Riding Hood, to be sure,” Emma answered sweetly, patting her hood more tightly over her head.

  “And she must not talk to strangers along the way,” Knightley broke in, pulling Emma into the throng on the dance floor.

  Well, at least she had gotten more than a grunt out of him. When they were out of Lady W’s clutches, Knightley waved for another glass of champagne. As an afterthought, he reluctantly handed a flute to Emma.

  She smiled into her glass and returned to unmasking other attendees.

  “Look there. I’m sure that’s Sir Osgood Fielding the Third dressed as the Frog King,” Emma whispered to Knightley. “He’s the man wearing green silk and sticking a very long tongue to the neck of that lovely statuesque woman? But why can I not place her? You see, the princess there? It seems I would remember a lady so tall.”

  Knightley wheezed and gulped more from his glass. In a raspy voice, he offered, “That’s because the princess is Lord Dafney.”

  It took Emma a full minute to comprehend. She had always heard of such things. She gazed curiously back at the pair who were enjoying a laugh. Heads together, intimate, happy.

  Knightley interrupted hoarsely, “Don’t stare.”

  “I am not.”

  “Emma?”

  “Really, I am not.” But she could not help herself from sneaking another glance.

  It took the orchestra’s lilting music and organized movement on the dance floor to draw her attention away.

  This was something new.

  Dancers were not just touching fingertips, they were touching everywhere. Wrapped in each other’s arms, couples twirled around the floor in three-quarter time. So scandalously close. So deliciously sensual.

  “What are they dancing?” Emma asked breathlessly.

  “The waltz,” Knightley said from behind her. “From Vienna, I believe. It’s apparently all the rage on the continent.”

  “It’s lovely.” She looked up at him and he must have guessed her wistful thoughts. For the first time this night, his face beneath the mask softened. A slight smile formed at the corners of his mouth.

  “Would you like to try it?”

  She nodded. “You know this dance?”

  “I’ve had a turn or two.”

  “How? When?”

  “Would you rather pepper me with questions or dance?

  “Dance.” She raised her arms to him.

  When he entered into her personal circle, she tingled with delight. Here was her diversion. He was going to hold her again and she was positively giddy with anticipation. It was perfect.

  He did not make eye contact as he ensured the correct placement of their hands and feet. With his large hand splayed across the small of her back, she felt deliciously feminine and delicate. When his other hand possessed hers, her heart beat wildly in her chest and she couldn’t catch her breath. Apparently, he was oblivious to the effect.

  Slowly, he began to rock her back and forth, asking, “Do you feel the rhythm?”

  “Rhythm? Uh-huh.” she croaked.

  He gazed down at her then and actually chuckled.

  “Relax, Emma. Enjoy this.”

  Slowly he turned them, while continuing to rock. Compelled to glance at their feet, Emma stumbled. She offered an apology, but he only drew her closer into the embrace.

  “There’s no use looking down. I’ve got you,” he said quietly.

  He truly had possessed her. As he whisked her around the floor, her feet barely grazed the ground.

  By the second overture, she had forgotten everything except the heat of his body and the sharp jaunt of his profile as he surveyed their progress around the dance floor. How well she knew the sharp edges of his nose, his cheekbones, his chin.

  She had the inexplicable urge to run her tongue along the length of his jawbone.

  “What I wouldn’t give to have Sir Osgood’s tongue.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  Had she made that last wish aloud? Quickly, she thought, change the subject.

  “Have you had many partners?” She blurted out, quickly adding, “for dancing.”

  His head snapped forward. He gave her a hard, quizzical look before answering.

  “A few. I’ve stood up with you innumerable times, too.”

  “Would you say I am passably fair…as a dance partner?”

  “Fishing for compliments, Emma?” He tried to tease her, but she wouldn’t allow him to avoid the question.

  “I don’t prize myself as a skilled dancer,” he said, measuring his words. “I select my partners very carefully. You and I…we fit. We’re neither overly graceful nor terribly clumsy. We laugh at our embarrassing missteps. And our heights are perfectly suited.” He smiled at her. Really smiled.

  It was these moments with Knightley that she cherished most. More, the little voice inside her begged. More.

  “So, if two people were perfectly matched for dancing, the same would be said for other activities too. Perhaps…kissing?”

  He missed a step.

  Encouraged, she proceeded.

  “I’ve read that kissing can be very…energetic.” Oh, she hoped she didn’t regret going down this path.

  “You’ve read?” His voice was wary. “What books have you been reading, Emma?”

  “Well,” she prolonged the single word as long as she dared. “In Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure…”

  “What?” He accused. “You read Fannie Hill?”

  “Well, yes. And The Way of a Man with a Maid, The Heptameron and The Lustful Turk, which, I have to say, was quite…er…energetic.”

  Knightley abruptly halted their dance, just as the violins struck the last note. His face was but inches from hers, and her chest rose and fell in even breaths, anticipating his next move. For a long moment he held her in this intimate embrace and simply looked at he
r. The mask hid the darkest of his emotions, but she could feel the heat—mixed with anger—rolling off him.

  Wrong path.

  Without ceremony, he released every part but her hand and stormed off the dance floor.

  She followed at first but then started tugging to free his hold on her.

  “Really, of all the high-handed, pig-headed…” she actually tripped into a man wearing a snout and pink ears. He was bent over a woman’s open dress. They weren’t alone. Three women dressed in white gossamer robes were stroking the couple up and down. They seemed to be quite enjoying themselves.

  “Excuse me,” Emma called out, but it didn’t seem to penetrate the small group.

  It did, however, cause Knightley to tighten his grip on her. She was sure he was taking her to her carriage and sending her home. Instead, he turned right and headed beyond the trees into the maze of shrubs.

  “Where are you taking me?”

  He didn’t answer, instead focusing his energies on maneuvering through the pathways and around the dozens of partially clad bodies.

  Breasts, buttocks, full nakedness—they were in full bloom next to the spring flowers. In pairs, in groups.

  Why, they had walked into a full orgy.

  Curious—and titillated—Emma craned her neck to see what these people were doing and, more importantly, how they were doing it. But Knightley had increased his speed. Regrettably, he was in no mood to stop and watch.

  Deep into the center of maze he dragged her until they reached a small private copse. He swung her around to face him. For a moment they huffed to catch their breath. A thin cloud passed over the moon, casting a hazy glow around them. Soft grass tickled her ankles. Everything was suddenly still, except her heartbeat in her chest, wanting.

  “Why?” Knightley gritted out the single word.

  “Why?” She tossed back. “Whatever do you mean: Why?”

  He breathed deeply.

  “Why are you doing this to me?” He stepped forward, almost intimidating her with his height. Almost.

  “Doing what?”

  He changed tactics.

  “You were in my library.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “You were reading about…things—things that a properly bred girl should not have knowledge of. Emma, you are practically my sister.”

  “Precisely my point. I am not your sister. Your brother married my sister. That gives us familiarity, not familial relations. Furthermore, I am not that neighbor girl in pigtails you once petted on the head,” she paused. Her breasts heaved.

  This was her moment of truth. In for a penny… “I want to be petted, but not on my head.”

  There was a long pause. Damn, but she could not read his expression. He was so near, he sucked all of the air from her.

  “Emma, you do not know the game you are playing at.”

  “I think I do.”

  “You are stretching my limits.” His hands gripped her upper arms, bringing their faces nearer.

  “They need stretching,” she shot back.

  “You are practically begging me to…” His voice was tight, as if he were fighting his last resolve.

  “Begging you to kiss me?” She meant the question to come out archly. In reality, it sounded like a longing whisper.

  Yes.

  Kiss me.

  And more.

  Nearer and nearer he drew; she dared not blink for fear she’d miss it. She could smell the mix of his man’s soap and brandy and heat. It was intoxicating, threatening to drown her.

  She would not close her eyes. Even as his mouth lowered to hers and brushed softly along her lower lip, she stared at him. She didn’t want to miss one moment of this kiss.

  It was really, finally happening.

  Their mouths connected and her toes curled. Tasting, his lips gently pulled and rubbed along her lips’ lower plump edge.

  A loud moan escaped. It must have come from her mouth. Taking advantage of the opening, his tongue explored the depth, teasing her tongue and inviting her to play.

  Desire surged, it seemed, directly to her nipples; they hardened and ached for something more.

  When his hands roved over her backside, liquid heat poured between her legs.

  Simultaneously limp and restless, her knees gave way and she flung her arms about his neck. She didn’t know if she melted into him or if he engulfed her. She didn’t care.

  Finally, her body gave in. She closed her eyes and let the tingling sensation tantalize every inch of her.

  Never had anything felt so good.

  “As you’re pretty so be wise;

  Wolves may lurk in every guise.”

  He must be delusional.

  Reason, indeed any functioning thought process, had abandoned him. Pure physical being had taken over.

  So unlike him. In the throes of passion, he would never truly let go of his conscious self.

  Therefore, this must be a fantasy.

  Adding to the erotic vision was Emma—opening for him, kissing him with the intense, honest enthusiasm only Emma was capable of. She was exploring real passion for the first time with him…only him.

  It all felt so real.

  His dick, for one, would testify something was different, as it reached out for her soft folds. His hands skimmed over her body, craving more of her softness.

  Instead, he met only silk and lace. He was suddenly consumed with an overwhelming need to rip through the clothes to get to this fantasy Emma.

  But something was still bothering him, holding him back.

  In truth, if this were a dream, a dream of having Emma all to himself, why were other women laughing?

  An inner voice, one driven to protect Emma, commanded him to break the kiss and turn around. Reality washed over him as he reclaimed his bearings.

  They were in the pleasure gardens and someone was coming.

  Reluctantly, he let her go and placed her securely against the interior hedge. Emma, he noticed, was caught up in the previous moment—her eyes still closed and lips parted as if waiting for her lover’s return.

  Lover.

  Better to think on that after he dispensed with whatever trouble was rounding the bend.

  Granted, after that kiss, he would never be able to land an effective facer, let alone muster the strength to swing his arm. He stepped forward, nonetheless, hoping to appear menacing.

  The voices, chanting now, sounded closer.

  Hand-in-hand, three women appeared. Like goddesses, they were dressed in translucent white robes. When they glided into the copse they exclaimed their delight and skipped to Knightley, circling him in a strange ritual.

  The leader, a redhead, halted a foot away and smiled invitingly.

  “We have been looking for you,” she said in a low seductive voice. “You were the lone wolf on the hunt for his mate. We watched you as you circled the dance floor again and again until you disappeared.

  “We have come to see that all your appetites are satisfied this evening.”

  Upon her nod, six hands reached out and began caressing him, simultaneously stroking his back, his hair, his chest, his arms, his thighs, his calves.

  Paralyzed, Knightley did what any man would do—he acquiesced.

  “We are the Three Passions.” The leader waved her arms at her companions and indicated first the blonde to his right.

  “This fair maid is Love.” The blonde nuzzled Knightley’s neck, hooked a leg around his waist, and slid along his side and down his right leg, finally dropping in a pool at his feet.

  “The second, this pale-cheeked lass, is Ambition.”

  The raven-haired beauty poked her head under his arm, grinned impishly and then returned to running her entire body along the length of his backside.

  “And I am…” she began, but Knightley interrupted.

  “My demon, Poesy.”

  “Ah, you know Keats. Excellent, milord. We love the intellectual sort.” The others giggled in agreement, causing Knightley to tense.
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br />   Conscious thought was slowly returning. He was forgetting something. But his judgment was clouded, and when the redhead slid a long graceful hand down his chest, lower and lower, he was temporarily lost.

  “Yes, I am Poesy, or Poetry—maiden most unmeek. The Passions have come to tempt you, to offer you pleasures beyond your imaginings. Tell me, milord, you do desire passion?”

  As she emphasized the last word, her fingers trailed over his hard-on and up again.

  Befuddled, his body contradicting his brain, Knightley croaked the first answer he could muster: “Yes.”

  An audible gasp behind Poetry wakened him. He broke the trance and answered the question again.

  “No,” he said sturdily. “I desire passion only with her.”

  They ignored him and turned their attention to Emma.

  “Ah, here she is. The mate.” The redhead glided away, and the others quickly followed.

  Knightley spun around, his body suddenly cold—whether bereft of the Passions’ attentions or fear for Emma’s virtue, he didn’t know for sure.

  They had surrounded Emma, studying her as if she were marble.

  “Why, sir, she is a beauty.” Poetry raised her hands to Emma’s head and gently rolled back the cowl of her cloak. Another nod from the leader and all six hands immediately went to Emma’s hair, freeing it strand by strand from the cloak.

  A protest was on the tip of his lips, but Knightley never vocalized it.

  Emma stood as straight as a soldier in ranks, hands at her side. But her head was tilted slightly and her lips partly opened. She gazed at him briefly and, even though the mask hid most of her features, he knew she was neither afraid nor repulsed. She seemed rather engaged, even intrigued.

  Internally, he warred over his need to protect her and his increasing sense of excitement. His body held still, but vibrated with awareness he had never known.

  Once her hair was primped, the six hands moved downward pushing back the folds of her cloak and smoothing over the silk and lace of her cream gown.

  The leader commanded Emma’s attention.

  “Your wolf is full in his longings,” she announced in a deep throaty voice. “Come and see what you have wrought.”

  Cradling Emma’s hand as if it were a delicate dove, Poetry coaxed Emma to stand before him. Entranced, they all watched as Poetry guided Emma’s hand over Knightley’s burgeoning crotch.