Burning for the Baron (Lords of Discipline Book 3)

by Alyson Chase

  Plenty of men available to you. Go find one to fuck and tell me how your explorations fare.

  She rolled her shoulders back and straightened her spine. She loved Max, God help her. And he’d told her to fuck another man. He’d been angry and hurt at the time, but he’d said the words just the same. And he hadn’t taken them back, even though hours had passed and emotions had cooled. He’d taken his own advice, found another partner, and it only remained for her to do the same.

  Colleen swallowed. Halliwell wasn’t bad looking. His chin was a little weak, his hair a bit thin across the crown of his head. But his eyes were kind. Rather sad, like a hound dog’s. If she were to let anyone touch her, to try to rid herself of the memory of Max, she could do no better than a gentle man like the earl.

  She slugged back her second glass. The rush of alcohol didn’t change her decision. But the slight spin in her head made the words easier to speak. “Yes. If you still wish it, meet me in the Emerald Room in ten minutes.” Her mouth was as dry as a desert, and she eyed Halliwell’s whiskey enviously. “I can’t promise you’ll get what you want from me. I have no practice in this sort of thing. But I’m willing to try.”

  His eyes lit up. Grabbing her hand, he pressed it to his lips. The man’s obvious delight made her more resolved in her decision. She didn’t know if this would help her get over Max, but at least it would bring one person happiness. There was something satisfying in being the instrument that brought joy.

  “Mrs. Bonner, I am all that is grateful.” He rubbed his hands together and rocked onto his toes. “I can follow you to the room now.”

  “Ten minutes.” It would take that long to gather her nerve. “I assume you have a watch and know how to tell the time?”

  Halliwell nodded, an excited pup.

  Colleen pursed her lips. Telling a man what to do shouldn’t be too difficult. Not if he was as eager to please as the earl. “No earlier. No later. I’ll be waiting.”

  Spinning on her heel, she forced her feet to keep an even pace. No need to flee. She would be in charge. She spoke with the other girls, informing them that Lucy was out for the night and that the Emerald Room was booked. Colleen got more than one raised eyebrow, but it made no matter. The rumor mill would have fresh grain to chew upon, of that Colleen had no illusions.

  Her footsteps were muffled as she trod the hallway to the back room. Blood pounded in her temples and her heart raced. Placing a palm on the wall, she closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The paper-hanging felt rough beneath her skin. She could go to her office and run a price analysis of what it would cost to cover the walls in a nice silk damask. Or even a sumptuous leather. Solid work that didn’t involve disrobing in front of a near stranger. What on earth was she doing? Proving something to herself? Or to Max?

  Pushing in the door to the Emerald Room, she shuffled through and pressed it closed. She rested her shoulder blades against the wood and let her head thud back. She could do this. Just one body part going into another. And once she understood there was nothing sacred to the act, it was nothing but physical sensation, her attachment to that infuriating man would disappear.

  Pushing off the wall, she crossed to a low bureau made of a Brazilian teak. She’d chosen this room because of its normalcy. It looked like the bedroom in a grand house. The walls were covered in a cream paper hand-painted with delicate strands of ivy. The bed was a four-poster mahogany, large and sturdy. The coverlet was a hunter green, matching the thick carpet. The large mirrors on the wall across from the foot of the bed, and on the ceiling above it, were disconcerting. But at least there were no cupboards full of whips or paddles. No hooks along the ceiling or walls. She could pretend she was a normal woman, inviting a lover into her home.

  She slid open the bottom drawer and examined the negligees that lay folded within. None of the frothy concoctions appealed, but she’d have to come out of her clothing eventually, and she didn’t want Halliwell disrobing her. She chose a white silk robe with large red poppies printed across it and quickly changed. Folding her own clothes neatly, she stacked them on an armchair, tucking her boots beneath.

  She curled her toes into the plush carpet. She still had a couple of minutes but didn’t know what to do with them. She drummed her fingers along the top of the bureau. This wasn’t significant. She was among a group of women who slept with a different man every night with no ill consequences. And she was now a widow. Such liberties were more accepted for widows.

  Bile rose in her throat. Was she mad? She didn’t have to lay with another man to move past Max. Her love would lessen in its own time. She’d move out of The Black Rose, hopefully into the apartments above the flower shop, and she’d never see the man again. Her attachment would gradually fade and she’d have her flowers, bursting with colors and fragrances, to gladden her spirit.

  Colleen pressed her palms into her eye sockets, fighting against the tears. The flower shop had started as a beautiful dream. It now seemed sad and hollow.

  When the door swung silently open it was almost a relief. The tumble of thoughts rolled to a stop, and all she was left with was the slippery feeling of dread.

  Halliwell stepped through, two more glasses of champagne in his hands. He kicked the door closed. “In case we get thirsty.” Holding the flutes up, he strode forwards then jolted to a stop, champagne sloshing over the rims. “You changed.”

  She fingered the collar of the robe. “Yes. Something easier to slip out of.”

  “I liked the waistcoat and”—he motioned to his neck—“the high collar.” His eyebrows drew together. “This looks all wrong.”

  Of course. Colleen bunched the silk robe in her fists. He liked the idea of a stern disciplinarian, and she came to him like a mistress. This is why her girls were paid well. Playing a role was harder than it looked.

  She set her shoulders. “My attitude doesn’t change with my clothes. If you want the discipline of your nursemaid, I assure you I can do that just as well in a robe. Just pretend I’ve caught you out of bed after we’d gone to sleep.”

  A smile lit up his face, and it was in that moment Colleen knew she couldn’t go through with it. She gripped the sides of her robe, pulling them more tightly across her body. Halliwell looked so happy, and she was more miserable than the day of her husband’s funeral. There was only one man she wanted touching her. And it would be better to go a lifetime without Max than to try to replace him with a poor substitute.

  Now she only needed to figure out how to get out of this situation without angering one of the club’s most high-spending members. “Lord Halliwell—”

  “Gussie.”

  “Er, yes, Gussie.” She cleared her throat. “I was thinking perhaps to find another girl to join us. Someone a bit more experienced.” And someone who could take over as Colleen quietly slipped from the room.

  He narrowed his eyes. “I want you. You’re not changing your mind now, are you?”

  “Of course not.” She tried for a light laugh. It came out sounding like the honk from an untuned organ. She wiped her palms on her hips. Think. She’d see Molly take charge of men several times. It couldn’t be that difficult. Sometimes … sometimes she never even touched them.

  The edges of Colleen’s lips curved up. That was it. Make Halliwell happy by bossing him around a bit and keep herself happy by never letting him touch her. Her customer would be satisfied and wouldn’t quit the club in anger, and she, well, she’d rather be up in her rooms with a cup of tea, but this alternative was acceptable.

  She blew out a breath. She could do this. “Now,” she said, searching her mind, “you’ve been quite naughty. You need to promise that when I say it is bedtime that you will stay abed.” She cringed. Never had she sounded such a fool.

  Halliwell lowered his head. “Yes, Nanny.”

  The bile rose in her throat again. That sounded all kinds of wrong. This wasn’t going to work if she had to hear him calling her nanny. “I think it best you don’t talk to me.” She needed to end this qu
ickly. Berate him a bit, tell him to find his own pleasure because a nanny would definitely not be a party to that act, and escape. As easy as balancing the ledger.

  Shuffling to the bed, she gripped a post and stared over Halliwell’s head. “Take off your clothes.” What would a toff’s nanny do? Have him say his prayers? Tell him a bedtime story when he was tucked up under the covers?

  “Don’t you want to help me disrobe?” She heard him set the glasses of champagne down. “My nanny used to always help me undress and give me a sponge bath.”

  She kept her eyes fixed on the far wall. “Yes, well, I’m a different sort of nanny. I think the less we look upon each other, the better.”

  “Why don’t you just wear a blindfold and be done with it?” he asked petulantly.

  She arched an eyebrow and considered. Not having to see him as he took care of himself would be a definite bonus. Plugging her ears when the time came also wouldn’t go amiss. “That’s an excellent idea. I’ll do that.” She hurried past him to her folded clothes and removed her handkerchief. She folded it in half as she scuttled back to the bed. “When you’ve undressed, stand in the corner and, uh, think about all the naughty things you’ve done today.” She wrapped the kerchief around her eyes and tied it behind her head. Darkness enveloped her, and she took her first full breath. She could handle this without seeing him.

  She sat on the bed and scooched back until her knees hit the mattress and her feet swung free. “Are your clothes off yet? If there’s water in that pitcher on the bureau, give yourself a quick rubdown. Oh! And say fifty Hail Mary’s. While crossing yourself. You’ve been extra bad today.”

  “Fine,” he muttered.

  She bobbed her feet. This wasn’t so bad. Even a bit diverting, if she did say so herself. She might have a real talent at this sort of thing. The Hail Mary’s were most likely the wrong religion for the earl, but he could have had a French nanny.

  Should she try to fake an accent?

  Her lips silently formed the words ‘Mon Dieu’ and ‘oui oui’. Did she know any other French words? Lucy could probably teach her some good ones. A cool draft brushed her back and she shivered. Fabric rustled, and she wondered if she should yell at him for disrobing so slowly. There was a thump, another, and she figured his boots had hit the floor.

  “Are you putting your things away?” Hmm. That accent came out sounding more Germanic than French. She tried again. “Good boys need to be tidy?” She stretched out her legs, pointing her toes. Much better.

  A strong fist gripped her ankle and pulled her bum to the edge of the mattress. She fell onto her back with a shriek, the mattress bouncing beneath her.

  He slid his palms up her calves and pulled her legs apart.

  “Lord Halliwell!” She pushed up onto one hand and shoved his hard chest. Frowning, she poked him a couple more times. His chest was suspiciously firm. And so were his shoulders, and his biceps …

  She sucked in a breath. She knew these muscles. And those hands on her legs … She knew the calluses on those palms.

  Hope sparked in her heart. The contact was so familiar. It couldn’t be from the milksop earl. Her thoughts jumbled and tears welled behind her eyelids. Somehow, Max had removed the earl from the room. It must have been those two thumps she’d heard.

  She should push him away. Stay true to her resolve that their separation now would be for the best. But she couldn’t. Not when he touched her.

  She trailed her hand up his neck, eager to cup his cheek and bring him in for a kiss. And froze. She rubbed her thumb back and forth over his jaw.

  His smooth, clean-shaven jaw.

  She kicked her legs, hitting something solid, and leapt across the bed to escape Halliwell’s touch. Dragging off the blindfold, she blinked at the brightness. “I’m sorry, but I can’t—”

  “Can’t what?” The man standing next to the bed was shockingly new. A face she’d never seen before, had only imagined. “Tell me, you little fool, what is it exactly that you can’t do?”

  Chapter Twelve

  Colleen could only gape. It was most definitely her baron glaring down at her. He was without a coat or cravat, his white shirt draping loosely around his frame. His broad shoulders heaved with pent-up emotion. His pine-green eyes glittered with anger. But his face …

  “What happened to your beard?”

  He rubbed a palm across his bare jaw. “I shaved. Didn’t want to look like a goat.” A muscle twitched in his cheek. “But I guess I needn’t have bothered. Not if you’re going to spread your legs for any man that strikes your fancy.”

  Her relief was short-lived. Colleen sucked in a breath. “You told me to look for other men!”

  “I didn’t think you were stupid enough to actually do it!” He shook his head. “Halliwell? Truly? I must say that disappointed me.”

  “Lord Halliwell at least is a kind man.” She climbed onto the bed on her knees and shuffled forwards, jabbing at the air with her index finger. “Not like that shrew, Molly, that you tupped. You don’t get to judge me.”

  He crawled onto the bed and prowled towards her on his hands and knees, as sinuous as a leopard. “I’ve never bedded, or played, with that woman.”

  “Oh.” That brought Colleen up short. That shrew had lied.

  Quick as a snake, he grabbed her behind her knees and flipped her to her back. His body covered hers, pinning her down. “Can I judge you now?”

  The front of her robe gaped open, and the starch of his linen shirt tickled her skin. Unbidden, she arched into him, her body demanding the contact even as her head yelled at her to stick to her resolve. She’d had good reasons for ending their relationship. Reasons that protected both Max and—

  He took her mouth, stealing her will. All her arguments scattered before his onslaught. Max was kissing her. She knew it was wrong, that it would be better if she moved on from him, but couldn’t find it within herself to care.

  Wrapping her arms around his back, she returned his kiss. Opening her mouth, she tangled her tongue with his. Each slide sent a delicious chill rippling down her back. He nipped at the tip of her tongue, then suckled, and she melted into the mattress. Max lay heavy on her, his weight comforting, delicious. She needed to feel more of him and she slapped at his shoulder until he gave her the space to pull an arm free from her robe. He tore the garment from her body then pressed her back into the bed. Grabbing her wrists, he locked them into the coverlet by her head. He took hold of her bottom lip between his teeth and pulled his head back, abrading the swollen flesh, until her lip released with a pop.

  “You’re a fool.” Max pinned her with a glare.

  “Yes.” She was a fool. She was willing to ignore the knowledge that their future could only end in heartbreak in order to stay in his arms in the present.

  “I don’t own your body.” He nipped at her collarbone. “I can’t forbid you from offering yourself to other men.” His clenched jaw showed just how unhappy he was by that fact. “But I’m damn sure going to make it so you’ll never want to again.”

  “I didn’t want to then,” she admitted. Burying her nose in the hollow where his neck met his shoulder, she breathed Max in. “I’d changed my mind and decided not to go through with it. I was only going to boss him around a bit and then leave.” She cupped his cheek and stared into his eyes. “I couldn’t let him touch me. I only want you.”

  His eyes glittered and his body went still. Only his chest heaved. “Truly?”

  “Truly,” she whispered.

  Dropping his head, he pressed his lips to her collarbone and breathed out a shuddering breath. Then his lips spread in a wide smile against her skin.

  He raised up, bracketing her hips with his knees. “Now that we’ve got that sorted”—he gazed hotly down her body—“whatever shall we do?”

  Her nipples puckered under his examination, and she restlessly rubbed her thighs together. “Well, for what I have in mind, you are wearing altogether too many clothes.”

  “That is somet
hing I can remedy.” He brushed his mouth against hers before rolling off the bed. He shucked his shirt, the light from the gas lamps flickering off the bronze skin of his back. His boots and pants quickly followed.

  Colleen bit her bottom lip. The man was perfection. Every inch of him hard and chiseled. Shadow and light played along the planes of his corded thighs, the rise of his tight behind. She reached out a hand, needing to feel him, but he stepped away, leaving her hand outstretched and empty.

  Striding to the bureau, Max pulled a taper from a three-pronged candelabra. He lifted the glass cover off an oil lamp on the wall and lit the candle from the flame. He turned, and Colleen’s breath caught in her throat.

  Every time she saw him she never failed to have a reaction. His length jutted from the soft nest of dark hairs, semi-hard, but long and thick. Unabashed, he stalked towards her, his cock bobbing. When he reached the bed, she stretched her hand out again and gently cupped him.

  Max let her explore. Wrapping her fingers around him, she fisted him down to his base. Achingly slowly, she slid her hand up and rubbed her palm over his crown. Her hand came away sticky.

  “On your back,” he ordered.

  Colleen rolled and scooted to the middle of the bed. Her fingers tingled with excitement, and her gaze tracked every flicker of the candle’s flame.

  “I don’t have a torch available to bounce the flame off of you, but there is a bottle of brandy on the side table.” Max traced a pattern on her stomach with his index finger, her skin fluttering wherever he touched. “I would love to paint a pattern on your skin with the alcohol. Then see it come to life with flames.”

  She froze. “You want to actually set me alight? Not just touch me with the flame?”

  Max sat next to her, shifting close. “Yes. Brandy burns at a low temperature. It will ignite, the flames streaking across your body along the path I create, warming your skin just until you start to squirm before I smother the flames.” His voice was low and dusky. With the back of his fingers, he caressed the swell of her breast. “It is the purest expression of trust between a man and a woman that I know.”