Seduced in the Dungeon (Dark Kingdom Book 1)

by Claire Conrad

  “Yes. Our Ella needs a scrubbing so she can go to the ball.”

  The cook squealed with delight, her eyes dancing. “I’ll go start the bath water to heating.”

  She took off for the kitchens at a run and I looked from face to face at my family, my dear, true friends. “Thank you.”

  Persephone motioned for the other maid to take the dress and shoes. “Don’t thank us, Ella. Just cooperate. We will make you so beautiful, the prince will marry you on the spot.”

  I smiled at their enthusiasm, but my heart hesitated. I was going to save the prince but that was all. The man I wanted with all my heart—merely a servant—made love to me and kissed me until I forgot my own name. And I had no idea who he was.

  None of that mattered now. I would warn the prince, and then I would run as far and as fast as possible, taking my broken heart with me.

  CHAPTER 11

  DORIAN

  T he evening wore on my nerves, every false smile and polite repartee felt like swallowing sand without water. In the shadowed corners of the room, dozens of couples engaged in sexual play as others danced and circled, a romp of predator and prey.

  And I wandered, cold and unfeeling, a statue in motion, I hovered with an unexplainable detachment. Boredom. Disinterest. A glance at the clock showed an hour until midnight. Sixty minutes until my departure, my escape from the chaos of sex and lies, my retreat to the relative isolation of my bedchamber and the pillow I’d stolen from Markus’s bed, the pillow that smelled of her.

  Ella.

  At the door, the royal herald, quiet for long minutes—the last of the fashionably late arrivals having been announced an hour past—was getting ready to pack his horn.

  Thank the heavens. The annoying blare of the trumpet prior to each guest’s exalted entry made my ears ache.

  All of it, worthless. Empty.

  Even the wine tasted like pigswill.

  The night lingered, empty without Ella. Her beauty had awakened my soul, lifting me from an empty life, saving me from a cold march through time dictated by a bard weaving a barren narration.

  I finished my wine in one long draught, hoping the numbing effects would help me survive the next fifty-nine minutes. As I set the empty glass aside, I turned toward the door just as the trumpet hailed a new arrival.

  The herald’s voice boomed through the stunned silence of the room as all eyes turned to the vision at the top of the curved staircase.

  “Lady Penelope.”

  No one used their family names, not at the masquerade. But I knew every noble lady in the land, their house and title, their father’s penchant for drink or gambling, or how they changed under a full moon. I’d never heard the name Penelope. Ever.

  Under normal circumstances, the crowd immediately resumed its play, be that sex or dance, but now the silence reigned, even after the string quartet and pianoforte resumed their serenade. Tonight, as the beauty entered, one slow, careful step at a time, all eyes followed her procession toward the dance floor.

  Her golden hair shone atop her head in an elaborate style that begged to be undone. Her exposed, swan-like neck and ample breasts crowned the top of her gown and shimmered as smooth as silk. Pale pink lips and her jaw glistened, smooth and elegant. The white mask covering her face befit the event but her dress, a stunning creation of the palest blue that sparkled like a thousand stars, exceeded the beauty of every other gown. There stood before me the most beautiful creature I had ever laid eyes on, and still my feet remained planted firm.

  Until I saw the exposed skin of her left shoulder.

  The birthmark I’d kissed a dozen times or more.

  She lifted her head as she neared the bottom step, her gaze drifting to the throne where my father sat and I now lingered. I stood next to it, my shoulders straight, my gaze never leaving her as the bluest eyes in the kingdom sought me out.

  Ella. My Ella.

  My feet carried me to her before my head could argue and in moments I stood below her regal form. I stared at her with my heart in my eyes. She stood two stairs above me, for once able to look down on me like a goddess.

  My hand reached for her and I prayed she’d say yes. I needed to hold her, touch her. I needed her in my arms. And I needed to stake my claim now. The lords were circling, if she turned me away, she’d be in another’s arms within moments.

  “My Lady Penelope, may I have this dance?”

  “Yes.” She placed a gloved hand in mine and I ached to rip the offending fabric away and touch her bare skin.

  Content for the moment to hold her, I escorted her to the dance floor and pulled her into my arms. As a slow, slumbering waltz played, I twirled her around and around, awake once more. Alive. We danced for long minutes, everyone around us faded into mere shadows for in my mind, I saw only Ella, the only person who mattered.

  “You are so beautiful. I can’t believe you are here.”

  “Neither can I.” She smiled up at me, the tilt of her lips shy, unsure, and I wondered at the courage she must have summoned to present herself here. Even as that thought chased itself in circles in my mind, I wondered. Was I wrong about her? I had gone to the dungeon in disguise. Perhaps she did as well. Might she be of noble blood, as noble as the rest of these ladies? Perhaps she too sought meaning beyond the shallow lies of the royal court.

  “Is Penelope your real name?” I only knew her as Ella. She knew me as Dorian, not my noble name, as my father so often reminded me.

  “Yes, I’m afraid so, Your Highness.” She smiled, but it did not reach her eyes.

  “That is not my name.”

  She looked away and in that moment, I lost her, right there, in the middle of a crowded ballroom, as though she floated from my arms. “Yes, I know.”

  I pulled her closer, not caring what my father or any onlooker thought, desperate to reconnect, to see longing and perhaps even love shining from her eyes. “I’m glad you came.”

  As I waited for her to say she, too, was glad, the words did not come. Instead, she bit her lower lip. She behaved nervously. Scared. Unsure. Her lack of trust hit me like a gut punch. I would do anything for her. How could she not understand?

  I leaned down and claimed her mouth, pressing my lips to hers, expecting her usual response. Instead, she stiffened and pulled away. “Sorry. I can’t—that’s not why I’m here.”

  I pulled her to the edge of the dance floor, stepping between a tall potted plant and a giant marble column. “Then why are you here, Ella?”

  Her hand flew to her throat and her eyes widened in shock as she studied me. “Dorian?”

  “Yes, love.” Had she not recognized me? “Ella, what’s wrong?”

  “Oh, my God. You’re—I can’t—this can’t be happening.”

  Her pulse raced like a hummingbird’s wing at the base of her throat and she swayed on her feet.

  “Ella? Talk to me. What’s going on?”

  “You’re the prince?”

  “Yes. I thought that is why you came here tonight.”

  She paled, her lips turning a dark shade of blue. My lovely Ella appeared ready to faint.

  Before she fell, I lifted her into my arms and strode toward the doors of my mother’s private garden. My mother allowed no one inside but her favorite gardener, myself, and sometimes my father. Enclosed in glass, the garden stayed warm all winter.

  I signaled a member of the royal guard to block an eager mother and daughter who followed us.

  I did not need an ambush in the gardens. Not when the only woman I wanted lay helpless in my arms.

  At my summons, the guard came closer, and I inspected him. Dressed head to toe in royal red, with shining black boots and bright gold buttons, his sword gained my interest, as well as the intense, serious look in his eyes.

  “Yes, Your Highness?” He bowed from the waist before standing straight to look me in the eye.

  I liked him.

  “I wish to have a few moments alone in the gardens. Would you mind standing guard at the door?”


  “Of course, sir.” With a brisk nod, he moved himself between us and the pursuit, a stern look of warning on his face.

  Relieved, I entered the gardens with my prize.

  With Ella cradled close to my chest, I sought my mother’s secret place in the gardens, where a rose vine soared two stories high. The climbing bush grew wild and tangled, reaching the upper floor balcony where mother once carried on with friends. The ladies’ laughter had once echoed throughout the garden, trapped beneath the glass just like the exotic birds and flowers my father imported to please her.

  A serpentine pathway meandered through the exquisite gardens bordered by flowers and vines, trees and benches. But no gardener would tend my mother’s roses, for upon her death, the flowers had changed color from the palest pink to a deep, blood red.

  Magic, they whispered. Witch.

  I did not care about the reason. I considered the change a personal message, my mother’s way of telling me she watched over me still.

  Red had always been her favorite color.

  Her sacred place in the gardens became my sacred place, the one place Ella and I didn’t risk being overheard.

  She lay stiff in my arms, so I settled her on a smooth, marble bench and knelt at her feet. I removed my mask, her eyes never leaving my face as I revealed myself to her.

  “It is you,” she whispered.

  “Ella, it’s me.”

  Tears gathered in her pale blue eyes as she stared at me. “How could you?”

  “How could I what?”

  She swung at me with a fist, her small hand striking my shoulder. “Lie to me.”

  “Did you not lie as well, Penelope?”

  She shook her head. “No. I never lied to you, Dorian. I fell in love with you.”

  Kneeling, I moved between her thighs and lifted my hands to her face. “And I with you, Ella.”

  Her tears broke my heart wide open, squeezing the helpless organ into a shriveled, black pit in my chest. “But we can never be together.”

  “I know.”

  She shook her head, reached into her dress and pulled a small envelope from a secret hiding place. I wondered if the paper would carry the sweet scent of her skin. “I came to give you this. You must read it as soon as I leave. Promise me.”

  “You aren’t leaving me, Ella. Not yet.”

  She leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine. “Promise me, Dorian. Promise me.”

  I could deny her nothing. “I promise.”

  ELLA

  His warm, firm lips whispered his promise.

  I pressed forward, claiming those lips one last time. My Dorian. A prince? His revelation shocked me to my core. I wanted him to hold me, never let me go, yet I needed to flee, never to return. I wanted to cry but I refused. The crown prince of Syrenne would never be mine. Could never be mine. My heart ached, the solid pain familiar, for I had already grieved his loss.

  Deep down, where my soul screamed in agony, I locked the hurt away and focused on this moment. As we kissed, surrounded by roses—bright, stunning red blooms as large as both my hands—their sweet scent filled the air. Moonlight shone through the glass ceiling, making my dress sparkle like a thousand stars in a bright blue sky. And before me knelt the man I loved, the man I’d unknowingly risked all to protect.

  Coming tonight for a stranger, a royal stranger, seemed a bit insane. But for Dorian? For Dorian, I would sacrifice anything.

  He groaned, pulling me closer, and I allowed his touch one last time. Soon, I would leave, run from this place like a frightened rabbit hunted by a fox. But for a few more moments, I would love him.

  No. My tears were proof of that lie. I would love him forever, until the day I died.

  Our mouths fused as I slid off the bench onto my knees before him. His arms held me, solid and real, behind my back, iron bars, unbreakable.

  If only…

  I feared losing myself in his kiss and pulled back. “I must go.”

  “No.”

  “I must. We cannot be together. You know this.”

  “No.”

  I struggled to free myself, pushing at his chest. “Read the letter, Dorian. You must read the letter.”

  He held me tight as he reached behind me to lift the envelope from its resting place on the marble seat. Unable to relax his grip, I acquiesced, rested my head on his shoulder and waited as he pulled the stationary from the envelope.

  Dorian held me still as he read aloud,

  “Your Royal Highness, Prince Augustus,

  I am writing to warn you of a threat to your life. The Grand Duke conspires to take your life this very night. The wine in your bedchamber has been poisoned with necroberry juice. Please do not drink it. And do not trust the Grand Duke. He is a murderer and a liar. Always has been.

  Your loyal subject - E”

  Dorian raised his eyes from the letter. “How do you come by such information? Did you write this?”

  I lifted my head and nodded, unsure what more to say. I had delivered my warning. He had read it. And now, I needed to go. “Don’t drink the wine, Dorian. And don’t trust the Duke. Ever. Promise me.”

  “How. Do. You. Know. This?” Each word a demand all its own. I bit my lip, unable to condemn my family. I believed that, despite all the evil and hatred in my stepmother’s heart, she would never be so bold as to conspire to such evil without the Duke’s malicious influence. And I understood all too well the king’s idea of justice.

  I never wished my father’s fate on another human being. My stepsisters still had a chance at a happy life. Soon, they would marry and escape their mother’s machinations—unless the king discovered my family’s role in the plot. He’d likely kill us all in a fit of rage.

  “Dorian, please.” I shoved at his chest again, unable to give him what he wanted.

  He lifted my mask from my face and I let him, unwilling to deny him anything else. Part of me broke inside at denying him. I needed to be what he wanted. I needed to give him everything. Trust him with everything.

  But this one secret, I must not reveal for, innocent or not, it might cost my stepsisters their lives.

  “Tell me, Ella. Or I shall throw you over this bench and spank the truth from you.” He lifted his hand, using his thumb to stroke my bottom lip. “I’ll spank you. And then I’ll fuck you until you scream my name over and over, until my name is the only name you can remember.”

  CHAPTER 12

  ELLA

  M y pussy clenched at his warning and my head whirled, falling back on my shoulders as the image of him carrying out his threat filled my mind. Dorian behind me, my dress gathered around me like a pool of sparkling light as he spanked me, played with my pussy, fucked me… a soft whimper of need escaped my throat. I closed my eyes and bared my neck to him, offering him everything but the truth.

  “Damn it, woman.” Dorian’s rough, ragged voice cursed as he flipped me over onto my knees and shoved my chest and head over the bench. He towered behind me, his breathing as hard and shallow as my own as I spread my arms wide and submitted to his will. I waited, knowing that soon I would have his firm hand on my bottom and his thick length buried deep one last time.

  “Do it,” I said. “Take me. Make me yours.”

  “You are mine.”

  Just for tonight. The thought made me sad, so I closed my eyes and waited for his decision. We both understood the situation, what would happen if he lifted my skirt.

  He dropped to his knees on the spongy moss beside me. I won. My heart staggered in my chest as he gathered the long folds of my gown and underthings, lifting them to my hips and tucking them beneath me so they were out of his way. Strong fingers traced the edges of the delicate glass slippers still on my feet.

  “So beautiful.”

  I chose not to respond, taking his words and letting them settle within my heart, holding on to them to warm me in the long, empty nights ahead. My bare bottom bristled, chilled by the night air, but that faded like a distant memory the moment his ha
nds touched my flesh. He stroked me for long minutes, as if relearning the curves of my hips and thighs, the round weight of my bottom in his palm. I ached under his tender touch, wanting more, needing release.

  “Tell me how you got your information, Ella. The Grand Duke is my father’s most trusted advisor. He has served us for years. How can I believe you?”

  “He is a wolf in sheep’s clothing. I swear it. He plots to kill you tonight and replace you with Lord Bernard.”

  Dorian’s hand stilled on my rear, and I squirmed to entice him to move. “The Duke would put Bernard on the throne? Why?” he asked.

  To reveal this would not endanger my family. I opened my mouth to speak as Dorian slid two fingers deep into my wet pussy.

  “Why, Ella? Do you know?”

  He finger fucked me with slow and forceful thrusts. I struggled to find the words to respond. “Bernard’s wife is—” Dorian’s thumb brushed my clit, and I moaned, unable to finish the sentence.

  “His wife is the Grand Duke’s cousin, and expecting her second child.”

  I gasped. “The Grand Duke is the father—”

  Dorian twisted his hand, three fingers inside me, spreading me wide. “Ah, so the Duke would put his own son on the throne.”

  I didn’t reply. I couldn’t reply. And thank goodness I didn’t need to. Dorian had figured it out.

  He moved his hand in and out. Right and left. Stretching me. Filling me. Making me cry out.

  “I wonder how long poor Bernard might have lived for?” Dorian mused, his free hand once again stroking my bottom as if he had all the time in the world.

  “Four months. Your father would have been killed before summer next.” Yes, I’d overheard everything, lingered at the door and risked my life to garner the information. With Bernard dead, the Grand Duke planned to marry Bernard’s widow, the Duke’s own cousin, becoming regent until his young son, now a boy of two, grew to assume the throne. And my stepmother? He had promised her wealth and advantageous marriages for her two daughters. She only needed to get the poison.