by Sahara Kelly
But it went deeper than a need to sink into her and explode there. He wanted to make her explode.
To bring an assortment of expressions to those eyes of hers. To light a few fires inside her and make her scream and writhe as he plunged deep within her body. To make her feel.
As the fair ended, he got his chance.
Quietly and unobtrusively, the Dowager Duchess left the field, heading for the trees and a small path that presumably led to her home.
Glancing around him, Gyorgy saw the villagers busy with their chores, and in an instant he’d followed her, silently letting the shadows hide his passage.
The path led into the forest, past a tumble of undergrowth, the occasional stalk of foxglove and a mass of ferns. It was quiet after the noise of the afternoon, and the flattened grass beneath his feet hushed Gyorgy’s steps.
It was no hardship for him to pursue her, since he’d been trailing far more dangerous people through forests similar to this one for years. Blending in with his surroundings was second nature to him.
But this time, his prey was of a different nature, and he saw no need to conceal himself.
It seemed that she too had her own set of senses on alert. She stopped in a small clearing, and turned slowly.
Gyorgy stood still. There was no point in trying to hide. He wasn’t there to hurt her or frighten her.
“You are following me.” It was a statement only. There was no fear or interrogation in her voice, no query as to why. A simple arrangement of words served up like a meal on a cold white plate.
“I wished to ensure you reach your home in safety.”
She stared at him, unblinking for a moment. “There is no danger to me here. I appreciate your thoughtfulness, but it is unnecessary.”
“And I disagree.” Gyorgy watched her, still unable to read her eyes, and cursing inwardly.
She merely nodded. A tip of her bonnet. Then she turned away.
“One moment.” Gyorgy’s voice rang out and she halted at the tone of command.
He’d reached for the whip without thinking about it, and it rested in his hand like a long lost friend. “We have not quite finished our demonstration of my…tricks.”
The Duchess remained motionless. “I believe the exhibition is at an end, Sir.” Her back was to him, and her voice calm.
“Not…quite…yet…” Gyorgy flicked his whip
With delicate and yet perfect accuracy, Gyorgy sliced through the laces at the top of her gown.
It sagged a little, and yet she did not move. “Another of your tricks, Sir?”
The whip flicked again, severing the middle laces. The gown was now perilously near to falling off her shoulders.
“I have more. Would you care to see them?”
Slowly, very slowly, the Duchess turned to face him. She allowed one hand to steady her gown, which clung loosely to the curves of her breasts. Gyorgy walked towards her, coiling the whip back on itself and tucking it away.
Her face was shadowed now as the light faded, and again Gyorgy felt he caught a glimpse of something…something heated in her gaze.
“Who are you?” The question fell from her lips with more than a casual sound.
“Gyorgy Vargas. Gypsy violinist. Traveler.”
“And skilled with a whip.”
“Among other things.”
“I have heard of six Gypsies taking London by storm.” She tilted her head to one side. “You?”
“And my friends, yes. We have temporarily separated, to meet again soon in London.”
“So you are simply journeying through the countryside? For amusement?” One eyebrow rose delicately.
“For peace, Your Grace. To find a measure of relaxation impossible elsewhere. To see a land prosper for once. To see children that do not starve, and families that thrive without the shadow of war over their homes.”
She nodded. “I understand.”
Oddly, Gyorgy believed she did.
“And do women figure into your adventures, Sir?”
“Undoubtedly.”
She raised her chin and met his eyes squarely. “Then I have a proposition for you, Mr. Gyorgy Vargas, Gypsy musician.”
Even holding her dress to her breasts, she was every inch the queen. Gyorgy drew in a breath. “I am yours to command.”
“One night.”
Gyorgy blinked. “I beg your pardon?”
*~~*~~*
She fought an inner battle with herself and lost.
“My name is Marie-Claire Devereaux, Dowager Duchess of Kirkwood. I am twenty-five years old. I have lived a strange life which has brought me here…” She waved her hand idly at the forest that surrounded them.
“For the past couple of years, I have been without…male companionship. In truth I have desired none.”
His eyes had darkened at her words, and he’d neared her. Not too close. Not yet.
“And now?” The words were a caress in themselves, and Marie-Claire fought yet another battle against the sensation.
“Now I see before me a man who might fulfill my…needs. A man with whom I believe I could find some pleasure.”
He raised his hand and gently eased her gown back up to her shoulders. “Only for one night?”
“Only for one night.” On this she would be adamant.
“And your needs?”
Her teeth bit down on the soft skin inside her mouth. Now was the moment that would reveal if he was truly the man she thought she’d seen.
“You may—bring your whip.”
He didn’t betray surprise by so much as the flicker of an eyelash. “Very well. Anything else?”
Damn, he was as cool and collected as she herself. Truly this man was a good choice. “I have everything else we may need.”
The forest was quiet, and for a moment Marie-Claire thought she could hear the pounding of his heart.
She did hear the rustle of his clothing as he offered her his arm. “One night, Your Grace. One night of pleasure—my whip—and me.”
“You may call me Marie-Claire.” She placed her fingertips onto the sleeve of his jacket and allowed him to escort her up the darkening path to her home.
The silence that fell between them lasted until he followed her over the threshold of Kirkwood House.
“Welcome to my home, Mr. Vargas. I shall have a meal prepared for us.”
He smiled. Dear God, such a smile. “I doubt that the hunger I feel will be assuaged by food…Marie-Claire…” He leaned towards her as he spoke her name softly, and she breathed in, scenting wood smoke, leather and a musky hint of man. “And my name is Gyorgy.”
She licked her lips, noting how his eyes followed the movement of her tongue. She swallowed down the flood of desire that cascaded over her. “In that case, I have some brandy in my suite. If you would follow me?”
The staircase was elegant, the house quiet, and her servants unobtrusive. All this was as she liked it, and yet tonight she was aware of none of it. Her senses were focused on the man slightly behind her.
They’d been focused on him from the moment she’d seen him.
A head taller than the villagers, he’d stood out from the crowd, his black hair shining, his near-black eyes alight with laughter, and his body lithe and well-muscled. He was clearly a stranger, and yet had managed to blend in with his fellows, not an easy task with village folk.
And when he’d picked up that whip…Marie-Claire had felt a shiver all the way down to her toes. Her instincts had screamed at her that here was a man who could chip away some of the ice that had formed around her soul. A man who might be able to ease her body and warm her heart.
For once, here might be a man who could understand the relationship between pleasure and pain.
She was about to find out.
*~~*~~*
While Marie-Claire excused herself and slipped into her bedroom, Gyorgy poured brandy into two crystal snifters and strolled around the adjoining sitting room.
A large vase of flowers stood in
the empty fireplace, and long windows had been opened to admit the summer breezes. It was a charming room, with all the right pieces of furniture. A small table and two chairs next to the hearth, an elegant writing desk, and a long chaise for when her Grace required a rest.
And yet—it was amazingly impersonal. The few paintings on the walls were of landscapes, there were no miniatures or family portraits. No pile of unanswered letters rested untidily on the desk and no books lay half-read next to the couch.
All the hallmarks of an elegant lady’s rooms were present, but there was nothing of the lady herself. Perhaps she saved those things for the privacy of her bedroom. Gyorgy couldn’t wait to find out.
A slight sound behind him made him turn.
She stood quietly, dressed now in a simple white robe. She’d loosened her hair, and it fell in soft waves of warm brown across her shoulders and over her breasts. It made her look more vulnerable and younger, until he looked into her eyes.
Those blue depths studied him, assessing him perhaps, and still not betraying a single flicker of her true thoughts.
“Does the brandy meet with your approval?” Her voice was gentle and correct, but for the first time Gyorgy detected a slight touch of an accent.
“Indeed. A very fine vintage. I poured you a little…” He extended his arm and offered her the second glass.
She accepted it and their hands brushed lightly, surprising Gyorgy as warm fingers touched his flesh. For some reason he’d expected her to be chilled.
“May we sit for a moment and enjoy our brandy?” He needed to pull himself together. To sound out this intriguing woman. To arouse her, perhaps, push her a little. To see exactly where this night would lead. Besides her bed, of course. Gyorgy knew without a doubt they’d end up in there.
“Of course.” Marie-Claire moved to the couch. She seemed a little taken aback when Gyorgy took one of the chairs instead of sitting beside her.
Good. It was beginning.
“I detect a slight accent, Marie-Claire. Along with your name, I might deduce you are originally from France?”
She dropped her gaze to her glass. “You would be correct in that deduction. I was born in France.”
“Ah.” Gyorgy did some rapid mental calculations. Given her age, that would have put her in the middle of some pretty nasty goings-on. “You were fortunate to escape.”
Her eyes flashed to his. “I was indeed.”
“How old were you?” Damn. She was giving him nothing. Just polite responses.
“A child. Just a child.” She sipped the brandy. “I was lucky that relatives here in England were willing to take me in.”
“Yes. That was lucky.” He too sipped politely. “And so you married?”
“If you can call it that.”
Aha. A flicker of some emotion had crossed her serene face. It was gone in an instant, but Gyorgy had caught it. “It was not a happy union?”
She raised one eyebrow as if to rebuke his personal question.
“Forgive my prying, Marie-Claire. But if we are to enjoy our night together, it will help me to know the extent of your…experience. Your likes, your dislikes…something of your past perhaps.”
She exhaled slowly, a little less than a sigh, but more than a breath. “Very well.” She placed her glass down on a small table and folded her hands together. “I was married at seventeen to the Duke of Kirkwood. He was sixty-seven. It was, I need not add, an arranged match with the sole aim of producing a direct heir. In that, it failed. Within the year he’d passed away from a lingering illness. Since then, I have been relegated to the position of Dowager Duchess, I have been granted possession of Kirkwood House by the present Duke, and I have taken several lovers.”
Gyorgy blinked. “And yet you remain here without a man?”
“It is my choice.” She allowed a small smile to curve her lips. “The lovers I took were, by and large, uninteresting. They satisfied my curiosity, but little else. Only one…fired my enthusiasm for his company.”
Gyorgy allowed his expression to ask the question. This was an oddly civilized conversation to be having about a very uncivilized topic.
“He was shot and killed in a duel over my favors. Ironically I would not have accepted the other man as a lover, but he seemed to think otherwise. From that point on, it seemed better to remove myself from London. It was a decision I have not regretted.”
“And yet you have invited me here for tonight…”
“Yes. I have. A whim, perhaps? A chance notion that you might be interested?”
“I wouldn’t be here if I wasn’t.” Gyorgy fought to keep the growl out of his voice. To sit across from this incredible woman and discuss her sexual history was both bizarre and arousing.
She reached for her brandy glass once more, and sniffed the fragrance, allowing her small smile to creep back across her lips. “Good.”
“And your likes and dislikes, Marie-Claire. Tell me. Tell me how that one lover of yours ‘fired your enthusiasm’…”
It was her turn to blink, and Gyorgy watched the skin of her throat move as she swallowed her brandy. Blue eyes rose to meet his, calm as ever.
“I find I respond well to a man who takes what he wants.”
Gyorgy’s cock stirred at the images her words produced in his mind.
“I respond to a man who is unafraid to make a woman obey his bidding. A man who demands that a woman feel…” She hesitated.
“Feel what, Marie-Claire?”
For a moment, a look of uncertainty crossed her face. “Feel…”
Gyorgy sensed she was seeking the right words.
“Feel her emotions intensely.”
Gyorgy leaned back. “So…let me see if I have this right.” His fingers played with the bowl of the crystal snifter in his hands.
“It would be acceptable for me to demand that you submit to my instructions?”
She nodded.
“And you would find pleasure in, say, my hands on your body?”
She nodded again.
“And if I were to insist on using my mouth on your body?”
She swallowed and nodded once more.
Gyorgy put down his glass and rose, strolling casually to the windows. It was time to start his games. His cock hardened, but for now he ignored it.
“I find that such pleasures can often be heightened when one party is restrained, Marie-Claire.” He turned to see her profile. “Might that be to your liking?”
Perhaps it was the candlelight, but he could have sworn a slight flush rose in her cheeks at his words.
That little dip of her head came again.
Gyorgy strolled on, stopping behind her. “And if such pleasures were combined with a mild punishment…might that be to your liking?”
He could see her nipples harden beneath her robe. She didn’t need to nod for him to know she was getting aroused by his words.
He delicately ran one finger along her shoulder and eased her hair from the silk. “Were I to bare your doubtless beautiful buttocks, Marie-Claire, and perhaps administer a spanking…warm them to a pink glow beneath the palms of my hands…would that be to your liking?”
A very slight tremor disturbed her breathing. “Yesss…”
“Or perhaps flick them, and other pink and glowing parts of your body…” He let his hand slide down over her robe to rest on the soft swell of her breast. “Just a touch with my whip…would that be to your liking?”
“I might…find that pleasurable.” Her voice was lower now, and a slight trace of hoarseness lay beneath it.
“Shall we try, Marie-Claire? Shall we see if we can find some games that will be mutually pleasurable?”
She stood.
Gyorgy waited, heart thumping, as she glided around the couch and moved to face him. She was so close he could smell the light fragrance surrounding her, yet her eyes told him there was still a barrier between them.
“I would like to play such games with you, Gyorgy.”
Gyorgy made himself
a promise at that moment. He was going to arouse this woman to fever pitch. He was going to make her writhe and squirm as she welcomed each and every thing he planned on doing to her. He was going to make her scream with pleasure. He was going to watch her eyes as they finally told him of her ecstasy.
And above all, he was going to make her feel.
Chapter Three
This man surprises me.
The thought flashed across Marie-Claire’s mind like summer lightning as he dipped his head and brushed the lightest of kisses across her lips.
No thrusting tongue or hands pulling her tight against him…just a light caress. It made her thirst for more.
But he moved back. “Shall we adjourn to your bedchamber? Or would you rather play here?”
She suppressed a little shiver of excitement. “Perhaps my chamber would be more suited to our needs.” He’d never know how she trembled inside, or how her pussy was already moistening from his words. No one needed to know that, but her.
She led him into the semi-darkness of her room.
Several candles were lit, sending drifting shadows across the walls and the large bed in the center. She had set out a selection of lengths of silk across the spread, and she watched as he took it all in with one comprehensive glance.
“Shall I…” Her hands went to the tie on her robe.
“No.”
Again, he surprised her. She waited, tamping down her roiling emotions as he strolled around, slipping off his jacket as he went and folding it neatly onto a chair. His loose cravat came next, and the whip was placed on the spread next to the silks.
He was telling her he’d seen them. He understood.
Silently he picked up two of the pieces of fabric and moved to the foot of the bed. He beckoned her. A simple gesture, just a crook of the finger, and she was almost unbearably aroused.
Obediently she moved at his command, standing with her back to the bed, facing him.
She swallowed down her excitement as he began to attach the silk to her wrists. Within moments, each was secured to one of the posts at the foot of her bed. She was spread-eagled before him.
“Good.” He nodded complacently. Then, once again, he did something unexpected. He knelt to each of her ankles and secured them too.
