The Irish Devil

by Diane Whiteside

  “I understood perfectly, sweetheart, and took no offense. Some piano music would be very enjoyable for both of us on an evening like this.”

  Viola smiled at him gratefully. “Why did you obtain a piano? Does Mr. Evans play?”

  “Not to my knowledge. The Oriental’s manager ordered it but found bringing it here too much for his budget. In the end, Lennox refused the bill so Morgan kept the piano in lieu of payment.”

  “It looks magnificent.”

  “And it has a beautiful sound.”

  The meal passed quickly after that. The food was excellent, comparable to that provided in a first-class New York hotel. Donovan’s table manners were excellent, as smooth and polished as any she’d met. Viola suspected the conversation was less successful, since she spent much of her time either eyeing the piano, wiggling as the chair’s brocade scratched her through the thin Chinese silk, or remembering just why her intimate folds were so sensitive.

  Finally, Abraham produced fresh coffee and a plate of ginger cookies before disappearing. Viola reached for the pot but Donovan’s hand closed gently around her wrist. Her eyes flew to his.

  “Go meet your plaything, sweetheart. I can pour my own coffee.”

  “Are you sure?” Viola hesitated, worried she’d be rude if she ignored him in favor of the piano.

  “Go.” He pushed her gently.

  She rose before he could change his mind and sat down before the glorious rosewood instrument like an acolyte before the high altar, her aches forgotten. She’d played the piano only twice, for a total of less than an hour, in the six years since she’d left her parents’ house. Both of those pianos had been small and forgettable, while this instrument looked perfectly suited for a concert hall.

  Viola touched middle C lightly. The answering tone was perfect. Her fingers ran an octave, then two octaves. Equally perfect. She flexed her fingers, praying some of her old skill remained, and struck the opening chords of Chopin’s “Military Polonaise.”

  The heroic dance filled the room, reminding her of Poland’s gallant past. It swept her into that world of great music, where she’d so often found comfort before. The notes flowed out of her bones and she performed them with skill, the one feminine accomplishment she’d gained while growing up.

  The polonaise led to a waltz, again by Chopin, then one of Beethoven’s sonatas. She played “Für Elise,” the song so often performed by young piano students, with a private smile at the memories it evoked.

  Stephen Foster’s “The Voice of Bygone Days” brought back memories of Juliet, flirting as she sang. William sang a snatch of the chorus under his breath in a fine baritone, but fell silent when she returned to the verse.

  Matters were going so well that Viola embarked on Chopin’s Polonaise in A flat major. She’d always loved the brilliant piece and worked for months to master it during the war. Her fingers stumbled on the first chromatic run and the notes stuttered to a halt.

  She rested her hands in her lap. Then she tried again more slowly. But she couldn’t perform it any better this time, even though she was well warmed up. Her hands were simply too stiff, their old dexterity rusted away from years of disuse.

  Viola bowed her head and fought back the lump in her throat. She set her right hand to the keys again and played a beginner’s exercise, designed to increase the performer’s fluidity. She would use every possible minute of her three months with Donovan to rebuild her friendship with the piano.

  “Sweetheart.” She sensed his warmth and clean scent from directly behind her.

  “Mr. Donovan.” She started to turn around but he scooped her up in his arms. “What on earth are you doing?”

  “Settling down.” He did exactly that: sat down in the sitting room’s big armchair with the air of a man making himself at home.

  Viola stared up at him. Would he ever stop surprising her?

  He pressed a kiss to her hair. Viola gradually relaxed against him.

  “Does the piano need to be tuned, sweetheart?”

  “No, it’s perfect right now,” Viola assured him.

  “Good. Still, we’ll have the tuner visit at least weekly. He’s one of the independent miners and can use the extra money.”

  “Thank you.” Viola snuggled contentedly against him and considered pieces she could play, thankful she’d memorized so many. Rio Piedras lacked any sort of music store.

  Donovan kissed her hair again, and her forehead. His breath was warm and soft against her skin. She stirred and tilted her head to provide him more access. He rumbled something deep in his throat and nuzzled her. She purred and enjoyed his gentle attentions.

  “Mr. Donovan,” she sighed when he kissed her cheek.

  “William.” He nuzzled her again.

  Viola blinked. “William? Do you want me to call you by your first name, sir?”

  “When we are alone, sweetheart.” He kissed her mouth.

  She stared at him when he lifted his head, then surrendered at the quiet determination in his eyes. “William,” she agreed.

  “Good girl.”

  He returned to enticing her. He explored her ear delicately until he’d worked his way to her lobe. He licked it and the warm pulse points behind it until she shivered and sighed his name.

  He sucked her earlobe in a regular rhythm that made her womb clench and release. A slow fire built inside her, bringing dew between her legs. His hand stroked the inside of her thighs, as hot against her skin as if the silk trousers weren’t present. “Open your legs, sweetheart.”

  She obeyed without thinking, more interested in the effect his kisses had on the curve of her neck. Then his fingers found her through a slit in the silk and she dripped for him.

  “That’s my sweetheart,” he encouraged her, stroking her folds as he nipped her neck.

  “Oh, William,” she gasped as the harsher sensation quickened her senses. Her entire being focused on his touch, on the ravishing effect he had on her woman’s body. She was hot, flushed, unable to stay still. She twisted on his lap, uncaring of how his trousers’ wool rubbed her behind. Her skin was so sensitive, she thought it might burst asunder.

  “Oh dear heavens, what are you doing to me? Oh my goodness,” she groaned as his finger probed her entrance.

  He worked another finger into her, then began to pump her in rhythm with his mouth’s workings on her neck. The two sensations combined to stretch her like a bowstring, rhythmic contractions wracking her in time with his movements. Viola sobbed and writhed on his fingers, eager to move closer.

  His hand thrust deep as he bit her neck just hard enough to draw blood. She shattered with a cry of rapture.

  Viola recovered consciousness to find herself sitting astride him. The Chinese silk trousers were nowhere to be seen. She blinked, trying to decipher the meaning of her situation.

  “Ah, William,” she ventured. “What are we doing now?”

  Laughter rumbled in his chest but his voice was perfectly decorous when he answered. “Where is my cock, sweetheart?”

  Viola blushed scarlet and hid her face against his chest, her arms lightly resting on his.

  “Answer me, Viola.”

  “Inside me,” she managed before she hid her face again. In fact, he was in her to the hilt. She knew exactly where his cock’s head and shaft rested and how her folds greeted his warm, furry pouch.

  “To be precise, it’s inside your grotto, sweetheart. But I doubt you’ve heard that term before.”

  Viola shook her head without looking at him.

  “Now it’s time for you to learn a new exercise.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You’re an excellent pianist, sweetheart. How long did you practice to achieve such prowess?”

  “Years,” she admitted honestly.

  “Carnal skills also need diligent practice, sweetheart.”

  “Mrs. Smith said as much,” Viola observed, tilting her head back to look at him.

  “She was correct. As your fingers needed training
to become a better musician, so do your internal muscles.”

  “What good will that do, William?”

  “Increase your stamina, for one thing. You can also use them to caress me when I’m inside you.”

  “Caress you?” She could feel an occasional pulse from his cock, setting off an answering flutter in her channel.

  “Precisely. Tighten yourself around me now.”

  “What? How?”

  “As if you needed to relieve yourself but couldn’t do so yet. Do it, Viola.”

  Viola obeyed him, certain her face was scarlet. The action intensified her awareness of the different shapes of him: the fatter head, the long shaft, his balls. Her pearl throbbed. She desisted with a gasp, startled at how eagerly she’d grown wet again.

  “Now do that again but hold it for a count of three.”

  “Must I?”

  “Obey me, sweetheart.”

  She did as commanded. Her body ached for him, from her deepest cavern to her folds resting against his crisp private hairs. Now that she knew what joy could be found in his arms, she wanted an orgasm, not this waiting game.

  “William, please, can’t you just take me?” she begged. The tunic’s silk rubbed her peaked nipples until she wanted to scream.

  “No, you do better when you clench around a hard object. And this way, I know when you’re exercising correctly. Now clench and hold again.”

  “William,” Viola groaned as she tightened herself around him again. Dear heavens, she wanted more of him than this. Anticipation built. She shivered when a breath of air danced across her flushed cheek.

  The worst part was that they were both fully clothed from the waist up, her naked loins clasping his waist. It was improper, scandalous and unbearably arousing. She slid her arms around his neck, enjoying how his wool jacket brushed her skin through the silk. She quivered again.

  “What if someone sees us?” Viola whispered.

  “No one will come into the sitting room, bedroom, or bathroom if the door is closed, unless they’re invited. Clench and hold again, Viola. You’ve done three and must do it seven times more.”

  “Seven?” Viola wailed. “Seven? I cannot possibly wait that long.”

  William swatted her rump. She gasped, jerked, then did as she was told.

  “Again.” His voice was implacable. “And count them.”

  “That was four,” Viola gasped, her head falling back. “And five.”

  His cock pulsed inside her. How could she wait a moment longer for the climax?

  “You’re torturing me, William, do you hear? Torturing me, you devil!”

  “The sooner you finish, the sooner you’ll get what you deserve, sweetheart.”

  Viola cursed but obeyed. She was burning up, consumed by need for him and the pleasure only he could provide. Waves, but not the longed-for crest of sensation, rocked through her muscles and veins. Even her breasts ached for him.

  “Six.” His cock pulsed inside her but his hips didn’t move.

  “Damn you, seven,” Viola snarled. “What did I ever do to deserve this torment?”

  “Again, sweetheart. Three times more.” His voice was implacable, although she could feel the tremors running through him where they were joined. She knew he would do exactly as he said, no matter what his body wanted.

  “Torture,” she muttered. “Eight. Oh, my heavens,” she sobbed. Her pearl throbbed. “Nine. Ten, dammit!”

  William grabbed her hips and slammed her down upon him as he surged up into her. Viola gasped as the waves now moved faster and faster through her.

  “More, please, William!” She bit his jacket’s lapel to muffle her cries.

  His fingers bit into her as he set the pace, hard and demanding like the blood roaring through her veins. Then he froze, shuddered and roared as he spent himself inside her, blasting her into rapture like a miner touching off dynamite.

  “You’ll have to practice those exercises regularly, sweetheart,” William remarked a few minutes later while unbuttoning her silk tunic.

  “Yes, William.” Viola nodded, but paid more attention to the contrast between his tanned fingers and her white breast.

  “Ten times in a set, three sets a day. Without me inside you.” He stroked his thumb along one vein. Viola sighed happily before she caught his meaning.

  “Without you? But that won’t be enjoyable at all.”

  “Was practicing the piano always fun?”

  “No, of course not.” Her nipple budded under his hand and Viola moaned.

  “You’ll start tomorrow, sweetheart.”

  “Yes, William. But you must have had either a wicked teacher or natural-born talent to think of such torments.”

  William laughed.

  Chapter Eight

  William led the pony around the ring one more time, watching for any sign of injury as he cracked his long whip behind her encouragingly. Like every other horse at Lyonsgate, Daisy was well fed and usually more than pleased with her lot.

  But two of Lyonsgate’s female students had raced their pony carts back from the village yesterday and overturned one cart. So far, the ponies were doing better than their drivers: Lady Irene had immediately dismissed one silly female for disobeying the rules and confined the other to her room for a week. If this pony had suffered, then that student would also be sent home.

  William smiled at Daisy’s smooth gait. He, too, had prospered during his year at Lyonsgate. He’d grown and filled out so he was no longer a gangly boy but hopefully a young man. His savings had also increased, to the point where he now had more than enough for a boat ticket.

  And yet he still lingered here. He’d been curious from the beginning about the curriculum. Now that he had a better idea what it entailed, he wanted desperately to be a student, which was impossible.

  Europe’s finest families sent their young men and women here for grooming. Some of the longtime servants here had assisted in that training, but always as animated props. They collected silks as they were cut from a student’s evening dress, hoisted a bound and giggling female till she swayed from the ceiling, or presented a collection of paddles for a gentleman to choose from.

  William wanted more than that. He wanted to cut the dress, bind the woman, paddle her behind until she climaxed. He was now rated as accomplished with a whip for a groom, but he wanted to be expert at using one to invoke pleasure from a woman. And other things, too, matters that he heard whispered and moaned from behind closed doors while he stood at attention just outside. The activities that he wondered about late at night, while his hand worked his cock until he came.

  Oh, he’d enjoyed women here, too, for the first time in his life. He’d always been very wary of the whores found in Cobh’s back alleys, with their avarice and diseases. But Lyonsgate’s atmosphere encouraged sensual pleasures and he’d taken full advantage, once he’d had access to condoms.

  The servants were welcome to enjoy each other as they chose, provided the men always used the condoms which Lady Irene generously provided. He’d explored the maid’s pleasures and his own, but it hadn’t been nearly enough.

  He didn’t want to leave until he, too, knew how to take a woman to the edge of her femininity and convince her, in a torrent of pleasure and pain, that she was a goddess.

  He just hadn’t figured out yet how to persuade Lady Irene to provide him with that training.

  “Donovan.”

  William turned and bowed. “Yes, my lady?”

  “Do you know where O’Connell is?” Lady Irene was wearing a walking dress so she’d probably just returned from an excursion to the waterfall, one of her favorite retreats.

  “He’s down at the pavilion, my lady, with Lord Philip and Lady Aurelia.” William didn’t add that Lord Philip was a nervous fool, barely tolerated by the horses. Or that the ponies always turned good-natured around Lady Aurelia.

  Lady Irene pursed her lips and considered William closely before speaking again. “Run down and send him here to me immediately. You
can remain at the pavilion in his stead.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “One more item, Donovan.”

  “My lady?”

  “Do you think little Daisy here will recover?”

  “Yes, my lady. She took a bit of a fright yesterday, nothing more.”

  “Good. Well, hurry up then, Donovan.”

  William bowed. He handed Daisy to one of the other grooms and headed off at a run down the hill. Lady Irene tolerated no slackness from anyone carrying out her orders.

  The pavilion was a gaudy place, the size of a very large gazebo and intended to imitate a Turkish pasha’s tent. It had been designed and built decades earlier by the same architect who created the Prince of Wales’s pleasure palace at Brighton. Its comforts included steam heat from a coal-fired boiler until the occupants could fancy themselves in an Arabian desert, rather than the Irish countryside. William had never seen its interior.

  William found O’Connell pacing well within earshot of the pavilion. Lyonsgate protocol dictated that one servant had to be available at all times for the guests’ comfort and safety. They exchanged a few words, then O’Connell ran toward the main house while William took his place.

  Lord Philip and Lady Aurelia must be well into their dalliance, given the very loud slurping sounds coming from within the pavilion. William’s pulse quickened as he imagined the possible causes, and he stood close to the front door.

  “Uh, what do you call me, you obstinate slave girl?” Lord Philip’s voice came from inside the pavilion, sounding uncertain.

  “Sahib, if it pleases you,” Lady Aurelia replied confidently.

  The wet noises redoubled and Lord Philip moaned. “Deeper, woman. Take me farther into your throat.”

  William’s trousers seemed a prison for his aching cock. He clasped his hands behind his back to avoid fondling himself.

  “Ah, ah…” Lord Philip was gasping faster now, matching the rhythm of Lady Aurelia’s sucking. “Hell and damnation,” he cried, his voice breaking on the last syllable.

  William fought back the need to climax at the same time.

  “What have I done?” Lord Philip wailed a long minute later. “She’s striped and bruised, and may even bleed.”