by Eliza Lloyd
Her body, so used to the quick, unskilled hands and bodies of her previous lovers, seemed disobedient to her thoughts. She did not like to be out of control, or worse, under someone else’s. She hadn’t imagined this.
But she couldn’t stop her thoughts from following along with his suggestions, imaging him doing those delightful things and her being the willing vessel to his desire.
Chapter Two
Dorian sounded harsh and demanding and not a little deranged, describing any number of scenes in which he’d like to fuck her. That wasn’t his purpose. His purpose was to find something she wanted, not something she had to give because someone paid for and demanded her cooperation in the act.
His best and most intense pleasures had come from mutual and active participation—not that he had been able to find that sort of long-term arrangement amongst the women of the ton.
He ceased his teasing and turned her properly into his lap again, covering her. His heart raced a bit too fast and his cock was a bit too anxious to claim what was his. He wasn’t going to be the brute who fucked her without a thought. There would come a time for animal fucking, but it would be when they were both desperate for that kind of taking.
Isabelle couldn’t be like a normal mistress—a widow who just wanted company or a dissatisfied wife with a dissolute husband. Her only purpose involved pleasuring men for money. What had she endured to please men who did not care about her, only wanted her for her body?
Hell, what was he thinking? He only wanted Isabelle for her body. Even more than that, he supposed, he wanted to know her secrets. Why did men want her? Why did he and countless others pay over a year’s worth of income to be with her?
“I didn’t mean to displease you,” she said, looking contrite and lovely and stunningly sexual. The dark hair accentuated the paleness of her skin. If she rode horses, she must wear a bonnet to keep the complexion of her skin so even and unblemished. Her lips were full, the bottom one pouty and plump in the middle.
“In thirty days, I will tell you if you’ve displeased me. But you must tell me immediately, if I displease you.”
He gazed into her eyes—first green, snapping with fire and warmth and sensuality. Then blue, calculating with ice and determination and challenge. Two women, he thought. One who’d weighed and balanced her decision to whore for a living—the other who could deliver the goods.
It seemed incumbent upon him not to kiss her just yet. If his suspicions were true, she’d been mauled by all of her other lovers without a thought or concern that inside dwelt a woman who would want the niceties of care and solicitude.
Something for which he was noted. It wasn’t just his prodigious cock women wanted. He did have a flair for satisfying women, if the tears at his departures were an indication.
Perhaps at the end of the thirty days, she’d be in love with him. His lips turned upward at his rambling, idiotic thoughts.
“Would you be so good as to do me a small favor?” he asked, his lips just inches from her own.
“As it pleases you,” she said, breathy and sensual.
“I’m going to lie down in my bed and take a nap. Would you mind sending up a cup of warm milk and not bother me for the next few hours?”
“Milk?” She blinked in surprise, but with perfect manners asked, “How do you like it?”
“Two teaspoons of sugar. Oh and leave the cream of skin over the top. I so enjoy that, don’t you?”
More blinks. A slight frown marred her otherwise perfect brow. She stood, smiled and turned toward the adjoining area that connected their bedrooms. The swoosh of her seductive gown and the billowing robe made her look like a ghostly apparition as she departed.
“And, Isabelle, if you would.” He pointed toward the door leading to the hallway. “Would you be so good to use this door? All the coming and going between bedrooms, doors banging and whatnot. Gives me a frightful headache.”
“Of course,” she said.
He barely heard the click of the door as she pulled it softly shut behind her.
Dorian exhaled a long, steady breath. He palmed his aching cock, rearranging it to a more comfortable position. Was there something immoral about purchasing a mistress and then not taking full advantage of that fact? Immoral, no. Idiotic, yes. Why, she’d been ready to kneel in front of him and set those perfect lips to his cock without a word of encouragement, well earning her first one thousand pounds.
The next several days posed a dilemma. Naturally, he had his manly reputation to uphold. Isabelle didn’t necessarily have such a reputation, but her repute had been founded on her prowess in bed. He decided to spoil the long-held tradition of escorting her out the first night of his conquest. He’d let the world think they were both living up to their reputations in grand fashion.
They’d go out eventually, and when they did, he’d wanted to make absolutely certain the Marquess of Dane knew he’d been outbid by a Montgomery—a Scottish dog as the Marquess had referred to him outside Isabelle’s door this past week. Dane had a nasty reputation. Isabelle had done well to avoid him. And Dorian would get a bit of personal satisfaction to boot.
A knock on the door startled him to attention. He stood, slipping the knot of his cravat so that it hung in loose folds around his neck. He removed his jacket and placed it with gentle care around the horns of a chair.
“Come,” he said.
Isabelle entered, carrying the requested milk in two pewter mugs. Her steady smile sought his approval. His pleasure.
He reached for a cup, gulped it down and set the mug on the oval tabletop next to the fireplace chair. The hot milk burned his throat on the way down. He snatched up the second cup, leaving her in the middle of the room holding an empty tray. “Two cups. You were very thoughtful,” he said.
Dorian turned away, walked toward the bed and plucked up The Nobel Science before returning to his chair.
“I thought I might sit with you awhile and drink…” She stumbled over her words. She held the empty tray with a rigid pose. Dorian thought he saw the first signs of real displeasure.
“Oh no. I’ll be drowsy soon and I’m sure you have numerous things to attend to,” he replied. He waved negligently to send her away.
“What time would you like to go out for the evening?” Her voice caught. In the past, the victor had always shown off his prize. Did she want to be shown off?
“I’ve had a trying week, what with the stress of acquiring a mistress and all. I think we’ll stay in. Perhaps you can read to me later on, after dinner.”
“Dinner?”
“Yes, seven courses preferably. I have chicken on Thursdays, but you probably knew that.”
She stammered. “Yes.”
“Well, until later then.” Dismissing her, he opened his book and perused without seeing a word. He heard Isabelle move across the room.
“Sweet?” Dorian stared through the barely there robe, seeing an enticing view of her departing backside and the outline of her body. Was the back of her robe more thinly designed than the front? He’d give himself twenty-four hours before he threw her on the bed and enjoyed his mistress as she should be enjoyed. First, he’d let her know who was master.
He’d done his own study of Isabelle St. Hillaire. Her strength came from her complete subservience out of bed and her total dominance in it. Dorian couldn’t tolerate either.
“Yes?” she questioned. Her pretty brows arched, her smile serene.
“The other door.”
* * * * *
Dorian Montgomery was inside her home.
And he’d all but refused her.
She fought the dual emotions of rage and worry.
Anger she couldn’t vent verbally found another outlet. Tears streamed down her face by the time she reached the door to her room. Isabelle hadn’t realized how much she’d wanted Dorian, but his rejection made it plain she was more involved emotionally than she ever allowed. For too long, she had planned to have him for her last lover.
The aft
ernoon was not progressing as she had planned.
Trant Barlow stood guard. “Is everything a’ight, miss?”
“Indeed.” She forced a smile, marched into her room and closed the door. Softly, so as not to give Dorian a headache. She leaned against the back and then slid down, settling on her bottom. She folded her hands around her knees and dropped her head while the surprising tears dotted the clear white of her outer garment. Tears of anger did not produce racking sobs. They produced firm resolve.
The entire evening ruined. She had planned every detail, down to the number of ejaculations he would have this evening if they copulated in the drawing room. Three otherwise. All of them outside her body. All of them while begging for just a taste of her.
Her secret involved denial. While summoning her most subservient demeanor out of bed, she took command in it. She denied them every sexual request until she was ready, until they were nigh bursting with want.
It didn’t always work that way, as some brutes seemed to enjoy rape more than the rush of consuming rapture.
She swiped at her tears, breathing in firm determination not to let him upset her with his plans.
Never had she wanted one of her other lovers. Perhaps she had miscalculated.
Maybe his success with women stemmed from his desire to master them. Isabelle could barely tolerate the idea of letting him dominate her. She wouldn’t be vulnerable—financially, sexually or emotionally. No. Dorian Montgomery would sing to her tune before she was through with him.
The ting-a-ling of the servant’s bell roused her. “What now?” she asked through gritted teeth, already feeling peevish with her new lover. She returned to Dorian’s room, plastering on a warm smile just for him.
His shirt hung outside his trousers, completely unbuttoned. His boots still lay by the fireplace where she’d removed them, the cravat tossed carelessly on the floor.
He leaned over the ornate maple desk in the room, sanding a piece of paper, folding it with a determined swipe across the last crease.
“I wish you to call me Dorian,” he ordered without looking up at her. He stood, one hand on his hip, the other holding the note.
“If it pleases you,” she said. Something she wished fervently to do. During the last thirty days, she had allowed her imagination to supply the details of Dorian’s prowess, something lacking in her previous suitors. Calling his name in passion seemed a natural extension of her dreams.
She berated herself again for allowing, and wanting, such an intimacy.
“Now, would you be so good as to turn down my bed and see to it that this note is delivered.”
He strolled to her side. She took the note. He patted her bottom. “Now be a good girl, sweet. Off you go.” He nudged her in the direction of his bed.
She heard the sound of his shirt being whisked from his body.
With a quick turn, she caught a glimpse of his back while his hands stretched in the air. She clutched the note to her breast. None of her other lovers looked like him. Not even a paunch from the pampered lifestyle he enjoyed as one of the wealthy, privileged merchant class. He had a broad, muscled back and smooth, sleek arms that bulged and rippled as he moved. English dandies didn’t look like him, nor did they work to earn their wealth like Dorian Montgomery.
He couldn’t see her stare. He mustn’t have the upper hand.
She reached for the covers, pulling them back. Jasmine floated up to tease her.
Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as he worked at the placket of his trousers. He bent. The trousers eased over his smallclothes.
Standing at the head of the bed behaving like a ninny, she gazed at his approach. He reached around her then crawled into the bed and pulled a light sheet upward, turning on his side away from her.
When Isabelle didn’t move, he turned his indolent gaze toward her.
“The letter, sweet. It needs to be delivered this afternoon. I need my valet in time for dinner.”
“Certainly,” Isabelle said.
She took a few steps. His words sank in with dreadful clarity. “Your valet? No. I do not want your valet in my home.”
“Whyever not?” he asked. Commanded was more like it, she thought.
She hated other people to see her work—what happened in her home was for the benefit of paying customers. The shame of being the most coveted whore was a far cry from having an actual witness to those events causing her notoriety.
This was between Dorian and her. Only her loyal servants served her and the household. Having the valet see her in Dorian’s arms in the morning, weary from a night of loving—it was beyond tolerable. And all of her other lovers had heeded her demands. Dorian’s care out of bed was her responsibility. It was all part of her seduction. She controlled the relationship and having it interrupted by a third party in any form was unacceptable.
She shook her head in earnest. “No.”
“Isabelle, sweet. My valet is expected. I like a bath before dinner. Wake me an hour ahead of time.” He rolled over, his leg splayed upward, another arm pulling two pillows close.
The decision made—just like that.
Watching his every move, she yearned to feel those arms around her. She yearned for just the possibility that he was the lover gossip claimed.
A weight settled on her chest. Dorian, the legendary lover, was to be a gift to herself. A gift to make her feel like a woman instead of the whore she’d become. Splendor and passion, satisfaction and completeness—she’d hope for those things with him. The money tainted her hopes, of course.
So far, Dorian won the prize for strangest lover. He hadn’t even intimated he wished for sex, other than describing the act, instead directing her as if she were a common house servant. Men could be lewd and indiscriminate in their tastes—rich or poor, noble or not—she’d experienced every degree of depravity along with some surprising kindness. Was this some game he enjoyed playing? She prayed Dorian had refined sensibilities. Isabelle wanted a man to treat her like a woman. A woman he cherished.
But she would never know if she couldn’t persuade him she was more entertaining than an afternoon nap.
* * * * *
Isabelle would be worn ragged before the night ended, and she’d not get to spend one minute in bed with him. Dorian hoped his ploy worked.
She had backbone. He wanted to see it. If he had to live through thirty days of “if it pleases you,” he’d go batty. Once she believed she didn’t need to subject herself to a man’s whims, once he could bring out her fire, then he would take her.
He’d just be damned uncomfortable until then.
Napping in the middle of the afternoon. Since he had turned five, he hadn’t napped in the afternoon. Bed in the middle of the afternoon involved naked bodies and exquisite pleasure, followed by a refreshing doze wrapped in nothing but his lover’s arms. Not a nap with a blanket and a pillow.
He rolled to his back and pushed away the sheet. Propping one hand behind his head, he tried to collect his thoughts about Isabelle St. Hillaire. Very little information circulated about her, other than the obvious. That she rode and had a brother doubled his knowledge of her.
The first time he’d seen her, his father still lived. When he’d heard the story of the Westminster Whore ten years ago, it titillated his imagination. “Father, I’d like to purchase a whore for a month. Would you be so good as to increase my quarterly?” Father would have disowned him for such a request.
At that time, Edgar Kingston, a mere baron, had purchased her favors for two hundred pounds. Dorian’s curiosity led him directly to Kingston to inquire. Kingston nudged him and with a wink said, “She was worth every pence.”
Some men dream of estates and titles, others of horses and wars. Dorian, however, set his sights on Isabelle. Her price got higher in ludicrous increments, every baron outbid by an earl, earls trumped by marquesses. He pondered that. She hadn’t been with a duke, but most of the dukes he knew were lumbering, aged, sanctimonious peers who’d only be caught de
ad with a whore. All other women, of course, were eligible.
Dorian Montgomery’s only claim to peerage involved a great uncle whose title passed from a Scottish clan chieftain to a small holding in Northumberland, where the Montgomerys still ruled the Fife.
Dorian’s grandfather, brother of said great uncle, invested an inheritance wisely in a local shipping company. Father expanded it and Dorian would get to squander the part he’d earned for a taste of heavenly elixir. There was plenty, he wasn’t worried.
He set himself up for disappointment, he knew. She couldn’t be that good. He reminded himself of those words again in anticipation of potential dissatisfaction.
His reputation didn’t involve his wealth. He had a loyal following of women admirers who would lie down in the street for a chance in his bed. In truth, it disgusted him. Whatever satisfaction could be had from Isabelle, he wanted to sample it—in soul-drenching, body-melting carnal pleasure. He wanted a full participant in lovemaking, not a woman who lay underneath while he labored for her satisfaction.
He wanted an equal. His mother would have swooned had she known he had purchased such a notorious woman. Her prudish mien had shaped his early childhood, but somewhere along the way he’d become his own man. He’d watched Isabelle, studied her, had known of her for years, but she had remained a complete mystery. And Isabelle St. Hillaire had become his grail.
But maybe now that he was in her presence, he would find himself unworthy to tip the chalice to his lips.
* * * * *
Dorian must have dozed, but he came quickly awake when two men carried in a large brass tub, which they set near the fire, and then returned carrying pails of steaming hot water. With practiced efficiency, the servants filled the tub while another two pails were placed over the flames.
