Richard didn’t know whether to be terrified, or excited. Frankly, he felt both—as well as oddly powerful, as if he had conjured up Henrietta Hereford through sheer force of will. He began to rise, ready to greet the middle Hereford sister with all the rakish charm he possessed—and was promptly slammed back onto the bed, face upward this time, as a neat blow to the shoulder sent him spinning.
‘For such a large man, you’re oddly clumsy.’ Henrietta’s voice threaded through the room, slightly louder than before. Richard reflexively kicked out as her hands gripped his ankles, knotting them with twine, but his feet met empty air. ‘I thought sailors were meant to be graceful.’
Was she meant to be in a madhouse? Richard could easily believe it; it made more sense than the whispers about Susan Colborne, who was odd but inherently sensible. He struggled to break free, his curiosity rapidly turning to irritation as his hands and feet remained stubbornly tied.
‘Alright. Enough nonsense.’ He knew he had a commanding growl; it worked on every sailor, however rough and gnarled. ‘What the bloody hell is going on?’
He paused with a reflexive intake of breath as Henrietta leaned over him. Her silhouette gleamed in the moonlight; potent eyes, full lips, a coiled mass of hair so dark it practically reflected the light of the stars.
Alright. She was beautiful, even if she was mad. Very beautiful, much more beautiful than she had been at dinner, hemmed in by candles and cutlery. Richard tried to concentrate on the danger he was in, even as his body warmed him that the real danger lay in getting far too comfortable.
‘Fortunately, my lord, the quandary you find yourself in is easy to escape.’ Henrietta’s dark eyes travelled slowly over his body, and Richard fought a sudden and irrational preference for being bound in front of an angry woman. ‘Your presence here has upset my sister, Lydia. You will remedy this.’
Now this was unexpected. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’
‘Honestly. Men are so impossibly obtuse.’ Henrietta sighed. ‘My sister, marvellous has she is, has clearly formed some sort of romantic attachment to the Earl of Conbarr. The two of them were positively ugly at dinner—sneaking glances at one another, picking at their food, both of them miserable as sin. Anne is far too busy managing the household to notice any of this, and Agnes has some secret that I haven’t managed to winkle out of her—but Lydia’s malady, fortunately, is plain to see. And thanks to your bargain with the Earl of Conbarr, he will be lost to English shores for a significant amount of time.’
‘I—dash it all. It’s hardly my fault if the man has decided to do something as foolish as fall in love.’ Richard rolled his eyes, wondering if the ridiculous entanglement was the reason for Andrew’s ashen appearance at dinner.
‘Believe me—I would have much preferred to find some inventive punishment for the Earl of Conbarr. He is ultimately responsible for all of this.’ Henrietta sighed again, idly toying with her thumbnail, and Richard watched the graceful movement of her fingers. ‘But given how taken Lydia is with him, she would probably sulk. She is truly atrocious when she sulks… and so, my lord, I am left with you.’
The implication was equal parts chilling and arousing. Richard, fighting the impulses of his rebellious body, decided the let the beautiful mad woman have her head.
‘Fine.’ He swore under his breath. ‘What would you have me do?’
‘It’s simple, my lord. If Andrew and Lydia do manage to come to some arrangement regarding their mutual… affection, then you are going to honour said arrangement.’ Henrietta folded her arms. ‘He could ask to delay the voyage. She could ask to come with him. They could ask for a wedding on board ship, complete with parrots holding rings in their charming little beaks. Your only task, Lord Westlake, is to agree to it with a smiling face.’
‘Two of those suggestions are downright impossible, and one of them is flat-out idiocy.’ Richard tutted, then flinched as Henrietta leaned closer. ‘My paymasters will not allow the voyage to be delayed, and no sailor will let a woman aboard ship.’
‘They will, if you make it worth their while. Paymasters and sailors both.’ Henrietta smiled; it was as deeply unsettling as it was pretty. ‘Surely your voyage will be a failure without your artist. And no self-respecting scientific voyage should be mired in ridiculous superstitions about women being bad luck on ships.’
‘You’re asking for the moon. More than that—you’re asking for something based on a hunch. Something enormous, and terribly difficult to plan.’ Richard swallowed, wishing he sounded as authoritarian as he usually did. ‘I hardly see how any of that would be worth my while.’
‘Consider it this way.’ Henrietta’s voice was suddenly deeply, coldly serious. ‘As things are now, you are merely in danger of upsetting someone dear to me. If you refuse to alter your arrangements in accordance with my sister’s wishes… you will have upset someone dear to me. Would you really wish to meet me under such circumstances?’
Richard spent a brief moment engaged in intense calculations. After a swift and savage overview of his situation, complete with testing once more the tightness of the twine, he gave the nod of a pure opportunist.
‘Alright.’ He shrugged as best he could, the twine biting into his wrists. ‘Done.’
‘... Really?’ Henrietta sounded doubtful. ‘What a speedy agreement. I can only assume you are lying.’
‘Why on earth would I lie? You have stalked me, trapped me and tied me, and don’t appear to have expended any effort whatsoever doing so.’ Richard wished he could throw up his hands, but the twine prevented him. ‘I can only imagine the horrors you would prepare for me if I told you any sort of falsehood.’
‘... That is most reasonable. I did not expect it of you.’
‘I am reasonable. Unreasonable men don’t stay alive for as long as I have.’ Richard wondered how he could make her understand the intensely practical way in which he had lived his life for as long as he’d been breathing. ‘If I spent my time arguing with people while tied at the wrists, I wouldn’t have survived for this long… would I?’
‘... I suppose not.’ Henrietta’s voice had a touch of disappointment in it. ‘Unless… unless you were merely saying this to humour me.’
‘Absolutely not.’ In truth, Richard was only half-sure of himself. ‘As you said—if this is an almost angered Henrietta Hereford, I would hate to see the alternative.’
‘I understand.’
‘Splendid.’ Richard did indeed feel obscurely relieved. ‘And now that we’ve concluded that particular piece of business… is there anything else you would like to do, with me lying here like this?’
He watched Henrietta hesitate, her brow furrowing. ‘Why? Have you done something that requires punishment?’
Punishment. Now there was a word that sounded uncomfortably erotic on this woman’s lips. Richard squared his shoulders as best he could, deciding that a brutally honest approach carried the best chance of success.
‘Miss Hereford. Perhaps word of me hasn’t yet reached Bath, or the social circles in which you move. But trust me when I say that a large number of woman would consider your current position with the most agonising pangs of envy.’
‘Oh? Why?’ The tiniest hint of a smile hovered at the corner of Henrietta’s mouth. ‘Do they wish to be kept up late writing irritating wrongs, plagued by a large man who thinks rather a lot of himself?’
‘No. But they do think of me bound beneath them, at their mercy.’ Richard smiled. ‘Trust me. I’ve received a fair number of letters requesting such a scenario.’ He shifted his bound wrists, a shudder of pleasurable helplessness running through him. ‘I never considered the idea worthy of exploration until now.’
Henrietta stood still in the moonlight, as if repeating his words to herself. Richard watched her, his heart suddenly in his mouth, wondering if the unseen knife was about to be revealed.
He inwardly sighed with relief as Henrietta leaned closer. There was something new in her face; a carefully concealed curi
osity, which to Richard was a thousand times more exciting than any crude display of lust.
‘I see.’ She spoke slowly. ‘It’s as if… as if I have a caged tiger before me.’
‘A tiger. Fine example.’ Richard knew he was speaking a little more eagerly than he normally would; he cleared his throat, struggling to maintain his composure. ‘Haven’t you ever wondered what it’s like to look a tiger in the eye, Miss Hereford? To stare it down, to stroke its pelt… to ride it?’
Henrietta’s eyes gleamed with shy excitement. ‘A tiger. I… I believe I would be rather good at riding a tiger.’
Lord, I bet you would. Richard felt a lightning-flash of sensation run straight to his cock; he tensed his thighs, biting his lip. ‘One can never really know until one tries.’
He waited, uncomfortably aware of the growing hardness in his breeches, as Henrietta’s eyes lingered on his body. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so unexpectedly aroused; why, if she kissed him now, he would more than likely shatter into fragments…
He bit his lip, restraining himself, as Henrietta’s finger touched the base of his neck. Her touch was soft, but shot-through with fire; Richard held himself still, not daring even to breathe, as her finger travelled slowly down her half-bared chest.
‘How strange it is, to touch a tiger.’ Henrietta’s gaze met Richard’s own; the effect was astonishing. Her finger wandered lower, and Richard couldn’t prevent a small, pained sigh. ‘All of that power, so very visible—and yet, you can use none of it.’ Her finger drifted over his hip, and Richard gritted his teeth as the urge to swear rose up in him. ‘I imagine it’s deeply frustrating.’
‘Break my bonds, Miss Hereford, and you’ll feel all of my frustration.’ Richard stared at her, making his meaning as clear as possible. ‘Every inch of it.’
‘Oh?’ It was hard to tell in the moonlight, but Richard could almost swear Henrietta’s cheeks had reddened slightly. For all her bluster, he was having an effect on her; his body glowed with a swift, savage rush of pride. ‘Is this really that difficult to bear?’
‘As I said… cut my bonds.’ Richard swallowed, trembling as Henrietta’s single finger became three. ‘I’ll show you.’
‘No. Absolutely not.’ Henrietta’s exploratory hand moved lower still, and Richard strained against his bonds until his wrists were raw. ‘A caged tiger requires much less work than a wild one… even thought, I must confess, I am at a loss as to where to begin.’ She leaned even closer, her insolent lips mere inches from Richard’s own. ‘A little instruction would help.’
‘Kiss me.’ Richard was more than done with pleasantries. ‘Disrobe. Move your hand an inch lower. All of those would be a fine start.’
‘Hmm. All of those?’ Henrietta smiled. ‘Tigers aren’t normally so difficult to please, are they?’ She reached up, languidly removing a shining silver pin from her hair; Richard watched, hypnotised, as a waterfall of black fell to her waist. ‘Riding one must be quite demanding.’
‘Break my bloody bonds, you teasing creature, and you’ll ride me until sun-up.’ Richard spoke hoarsely, his rigid cock dictating his words. ‘That’s a promise.’
He stopped, bursting with want, as Henrietta’s hair brushed against his skin. Her hand paused just above his cock, lingering there, as if she knew exactly how much frustration it would cause.
‘There are books in the Longwater library that discuss… strange practices.’ Henrietta’s voice shook a little; from fear or excitement, Richard couldn’t tell. ‘People are tied there, too… people punish and pleasure one another all at once, with a passion almost akin to anger.’ Her eyes were deliciously bright. ‘Is that what tigers do?’
Richard took a deep breath, trying to fight the urge to finish at the mere sound of her voice. ‘It’s what we do best.’
‘I see. So if I were to cut your bonds, Lord Westlake… would you punish me?’ Henrietta leaned closer still; Richard gasped, tugging at his bonds, as she whispered in his ear. ‘Would you tie me, and punish me?’
‘Yes!’ Richard fought the urge to shout, his brow beaded with sweat. ‘Christ Almighty, yes.’
‘That’s what I assumed.’ Henrietta’s lips brushed briefly, tentatively against his earlobe, and Richard let out a growl that would have brought any sailor to alarmed attention. ‘Well… goodnight.’
‘I—what?’ Richard half-rose from the bed, struggling ineffectually with the twine at his wrists as Henrietta retreated to the doorway. ‘You cannot be bloody serious!’
‘Of course I am serious. I am a deeply serious person.’ Henrietta slowly pinned her hair back up, her shy stare making Richard’s heart beat powerfully in his chest. ‘Serious people do not ride tigers unprepared, Lord Westlake. Even tied ones.’
‘But I—oh, damn you.’ Richard wrenched himself upright, his cock painfully tight in his breeches. ‘At least cut my bonds!’
‘Goodness me. Do you really think I am carrying a knife? Where on earth would I keep it?’ Henrietta shrugged, her expression all at once nonchalant and indescribably smug. ‘The knots aren’t even very tight, my lord. I imagine they’ll break in… hmm, perhaps fifteen minutes?’ She smiled sweetly. ‘Less, if you really try.’
‘I swear to all that’s holy, you damned wench, that this does not finish here.’ Richard angrily flexed his wrists, feeling the knots loosen slightly. ‘Believe me. As soon as your sister and her paramour set foot on English soil in six months’ time, I will find you.’ He kept his voice low, measured, his eyes fixed on hers. ‘You have denied me a night’s pleasure. I will come to claim it.’
‘Good. Bring rope.’ Henrietta turned to close the door, her half-smile the last that Richard saw of her. ‘I will wait.’
As the door clicked firmly, decisively shut, Richard threw himself bodily onto the bed. With a half-crazed, self-pitying growl that half-woke Henry and Anne Colborne, slumbering on the other side of the house, he threw himself into the difficult work of snapping the bonds at his wrists and ankles. With five minutes of angry, focused exertion, the twine lay in shreds on the bedroom floor.
His first instinct was to throw open the door, catch the Hereford girl, and drag her back to his bed. She’d soon know first-hand what riding a tiger was like, as well as being ridden by one. God, he’d pull that long black hair until she moaned, leave her blushing and used and begging for more of him—
No. He was, to his immense frustration, a guest in someone else’s house. A guest who, now more than ever, needed to bring both Andrew Balfour and Lydia Hereford safely home from half a year’s plant hunting… because if he didn’t, he wouldn’t get his night with Henrietta.
The woman was a genius. A decidedly frightening genius, not to mention one with a wicked eye for mischief. And Richard, even if he had to wait six months, was going to slake his lust on every last inch of her.
Closing his eyes, reaching for his cock, he desperately summoned up his last look at Henrietta Hereford. Stroking his shaft, shocked at the level of his own arousal, he made a fierce promise to the woman who had left him in this state.
I will come for you. Then you will come for me—again, and again, and again.
Somewhat predictably, Lydia had not managed to sleep with any great tranquillity. When morning finally came, grey and full of drizzle, she looked out of the window with a bleak sigh before attending to her dress.
What would be the perfect gown for such a meeting? Did such a garment exist? Black seemed too gloomy, pink too ridiculously gay… but when did she ever wear white, or grey, or brown; colours for women who preferred to live in the shadows?
She had never allowed herself to live in shadow. When her eyes fell on a yellow LeClerc—bright, bold, a little too much for many women—Lydia knew that she would feel protected if she wore it.
Dressed and coiffeured, alert to the sounds of the servants as they busied themselves with the work of the early morning, she padded through the house. On a morning as grey as this one, Andrew would not be painting outside… h
e would be in the small study that functioned as his wet-weather studio, cluttered with brushes and blooms withering in jars.
The door to the studio was half-open. Lydia peered through, her heart in her mouth as she saw the familiar figure… Andrew, at his easel, painting as if nothing had happened.
No. That wasn’t true; there was a fierceness to his brush-strokes, a misery that made Lydia’s core curl. When Andrew turned, almost dropping his paint-brush as he saw her, Lydia’s overwhelming desire was to make things seem… normal.
What was normal, to them? Teasing; battles of wits, full of a tension that had sustained them both. Lydia, looking into Andrew’s deeply shadowed eyes, felt the old urge to spar rising despite her sadness.
‘Oh, dear.’ She laughed softly, sadly. ‘What a disappointment you will be to the ladies of the demi-monde, wherever you are going. No respectable gentleman rises this late.’
Andrew’s half-smile showed her that he appreciated the insult, however foolish. ‘You have always known a suspicious amount concerning the opinions of—of the demi-monde.’ He turned back to the flower; Lydia approached, grateful. ‘Perhaps they would appreciate the blooms I paint.’
‘It depends on the bloom.’ Lydia peered at the canvas. ‘Why… this one is only sweet briar.’
‘Rosa rubiginosa.’ Andrew’s slightly smug use of the Latin seemed designed to irritate her. ‘If you must give it a common name, call it eglantine.’
‘I will call it whatever I choose to call it, you high-handed—’ Lydia paused, forcing herself to bite her tongue. ‘I see. A very prickly plant. Difficult to grasp.’
‘I quite agree.’ Andrew leaned in, paintbrush held aloft, delicately adding a flush of pink to the tip of a drawn petal. ‘But it also happens to be absolutely ravishing.’ He paused; Lydia saw the hint of a blush beneath his shirt collar. ‘Whenever I see it growing, I find myself fascinated by it. Its prickliness merely adds to its beauty.’
Unspoken words hummed beneath the surface of the conversation. Lydia leaned closer, telling herself that it was to examine the painting more closely—but really, if she were honest, to examine Andrew’s face.
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