The woman didn’t even look at him. James, his heart beating slightly faster, saw her fingers trembling as she stitched.
What sort of a discipline mistress was she? There was some sort of mystery at work. Still, his rigid cock demanded more of him at this exact moment than his reason did. James, trying to place the woman’s singular face within the wider context of his social existence, began to remove his breeches with a frisson of pure mischief.
Removing his clothes had never felt quite so forbidden. Perhaps this was the singular talent of this particular discipline mistress; making normal brothel-based acts seem wickedly sinful all over again. As James relaxed back onto the chaise-longue, the velvet caressing his skin, he watched the woman stare into the fire as he began to stroke his shaft.
‘If you turn your head, you’ll find me doing something forbidden in many other establishments.’ He paused. ‘I rather believe your purpose is to punish me for it.’
‘As I said--what you do makes very little difference to me.’
‘Forgive me, madam, but I think it will.’ James idly stroked the base of his cock, revelling in the warmth of the room. Of the way the woman sat staring at the fire, treating him as if he were little more than a nuisance. Oh, he had needed this. ‘What can I do, to convince you to turn your head?’
‘I doubt you are capable of making me turn so much as a hair.’
The cool challenge in her voice was intoxicating. James stroked his hardening cock from root to tip, thoroughly enjoying himself. ‘Madam, you tempt me.’
‘Tempt you to tease, and play, and be as insufferably arrogant as you--as you seem to be?’ The woman paused; James thought he detected a slight reddening of her cheeks. How could she have ascended to the heights of the Cappadene Club if the thought of a misbehaving man still made her blush? ‘I find myself caught in a distinct lack of temptation.’
‘And what must I do to arouse your interest? What feat of strength or flexibility?’ James put one hand behind his head, the warmth of the fire moving over every inch of his body. He had been naked in a tremendous variety of places, but this disordered study was already one of his favourites. ‘I am well-known from Dover to the Docklands for being surprising in either arena.’
‘Ask.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
The woman paused, as if considering whether to continue speaking. With a small sigh, she continued. ‘Ask. In a polite and respectful manner.’
Polite? Respectful? Where did she think they were--in the middle of a ballroom? James, irritated, became more irritated still when he realised he was growing even more erect than before. The woman really had no right to barely greet him, refuse to flatter him in the least, stare into the fire rather than stare at his unadorned magnificence--and after all that, have him more ready to tumble into bed than he had ever been before in his life.
‘Please.’ He said it before he could think better of it. ‘I would like it very much if you look at me.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I wish it.’
‘That is not a good enough reason to make me do anything at all.’ The woman reached up, idly adjusting her neatly pinned hair; James bit back a sigh of longing as he stroked his cock with renewed urgency. ‘Think harder.’
‘I am as hard as can possibly be.’
‘Not--not when it comes to your reason.’ There is was again; that slight break in her composure. The signal that James, for all the annoyance he had caused her, was getting somewhere. ‘Be more articulate, and more descriptive.’
‘You asked for it.’ James furrowed his brow, arranging his phrasing as precisely as he could. ‘Please turn around, and look at me. I am without a stitch of clothing, hard as the proverbial rock, and ten minutes of you speaking to me in that bewitchingly uninterested tone will have me finishing all over your furniture. Please.’
Perhaps he had been too honest. Too vulnerable in his exact description of his needs. For a moment James held his breath, fighting an unusual sense of importance in his words and deeds. Then, with a rush of relief, the woman turned.
She slowly rose from her chair. James watched her eyes widen, her hands tense in her skirts, and wondered for a moment what he had done wrong.
‘You’re awfully good at this.’ He smiled. ‘Why, you would almost believe that you had never seen a naked man before. Or that you see them so often, they have begun to irritate you.’
When the woman finally spoke, with tightly pursed lips, her voice was as cool and disdainful as ever. ‘I am looking at you. You are not permitted to judge my looks--I am permitted, however, to judge yours.’
‘I see. And if I am found wanting?’
‘I return to my pattern-work.’
‘And if I am deemed satisfactory?’ James idly played with his cock, watching the woman’s eyes dart away from his display before returning. ‘What then?’
‘You are persistent.’ The woman slowly moved closer, as if James were a tiger capable of pouncing. The shyness of her movement, combined with the studied carelessness of her voice, was an intoxicating combination. ‘An irritating quality.’
She came closer still, one small hand resting against the top of the chaise-longue as she studied him. James, uniquely excited by the power of her gaze, her ferocious attention as she studied him from head to foot, bit his lip as he studied her face in turn.
He had never looked into a woman’s eyes for this long. Certainly not a woman who worked in a pleasure-house. The more they looked at one another, the more certain he became that he had seen her somewhere before.
‘Well?’ He deliberately stared, unblinking, as he stroked his cock. He watched her eyes move to his hand; it was as if she were fascinated, but determined not to show it. ‘Do I please you?’
The woman swallowed. ‘N-not in the least.’
James’ doubts about the woman coalesced into a singular, very pressing problem.
She couldn’t possibly be a discipline mistress. Not if she began stuttering whenever she looked at a man’s private parts. As exercised as he was, James couldn’t help but conclude that her garb and manner simply didn’t make sense.
Someone in the Cappadene Club had made a mistake. A grave one. But looking into the woman’s eyes, lust flowering so forcefully in his chest that breathing seemed optional, James decided he didn’t much care.
‘Do you wish for me to leave?’ As much as he wished to stay, he couldn’t bear the thought of forcing a terrified servant--even if if the woman didn’t look like a servant--to stay in the room purely because he was in it. Dukes were expected to plunder wherever they wished, but James had always prized himself on only having willing partners. ‘Have I been too displeasing?’
‘No.’ The word came quickly and decisively; James audibly sighed with relief as the woman leaned closer. Not close enough to touch, but closer. ‘I do not wish you to leave.’
That, at least, was clear. James, stroking his cock with a little more urgency, found the woman’s blue gaze and held it.
‘Then tell me how displeasing I am.’
The woman raised an eyebrow. ‘Was it not enough, to be told that you were irritatingly persistent?’
‘No. Not at all.’ James smiled; the woman’s mouth twitched a little at the corner. That small sign of warm was enough to send another bolt of lust through him. ‘Be detailed.’
‘And what will you do, while I give a litany of your flaws?’
James gripped his cock, biting his lip as pleasure shot through him. ‘What do you think?’
‘I think you are quite the most arrogant man in Christendom.’ The woman leaned closer still. ‘But… but I…’
‘But what?’
‘But… I like looking at you. Like this.’ The woman sounded as if her own words surprised her. ‘I like it very much.’
All James waned to do was kiss her. Reach up his free hand, stroke the stark, sculptural line of the woman’s face, and pull her mouth to his. But he didn’t wish to frighten her--didn’t wish to sh
atter the strange, crystallised perfection of this moment.
‘Please keep talking to me.’ He stroked harder, pleasure building at his core to a point of near-unbearable intensity. The woman’s eyes were everything; so penetrating, so severe and tender in equal measure. ‘Even if all you do is tell me what an arrogant--ah!--bastard I am.’
‘That is not all I wish to say.’ The woman bit her lip, her eyes travelling down to James’ cock before moving back to his face. ‘Believe me.’
‘Then speak. I beg you.’ James bit his lip, wishing he could place that face. That sweet, utterly singular face. ‘I do not believe I have ever wanted anything quite as much.’
‘You are indeed arrogant.’ The woman looked at his cock with rapt, pleasing fascination. ‘But… but you are diverting. You are charming, and witty, and of an interest that is practically infinite.’ She paused, her voice gaining a hint of scandalous bravery. ‘And… and you are very pleasing to the eye.’
Brothel-workers had told James things a thousand times more craven. The mysterious woman’s words, with only a little alteration, could have been said in any drawing-room. Still, thanks to the peculiar magic of her manner, James felt the beginnings of fireworks.
‘How I would love it if you touch me.’ He spoke with pained urgency now, all pretence stripped away as ecstasy built within him. He gripped the chaise longue tightly, his other hand quickly, frantically stroking the head of his cock as his shaft grew too sensitive to touch. ‘If you touched me, and kissed me, and sat astride me. I could feel you, and kiss you, and--’
‘And I would feel the same pleasure you are feeling.’ The woman’s voice was hushed, breathless; there was a hungry, sensual tone to it that James coveted. ‘The same bliss.’
‘Oh, yes. I promise you that.’ James tried to keep her gaze, but leaned his head back as his climax tore through him. Savage, immediate; he moaned harshly, spurting twice into his palm, the woman’s soft gasp only fuelling the power of it. ‘Again, again and--ah!--again.’
His hips bucked as he lost himself in it; the sheer pleasure of the moment, crashing over him like a waterfall. For a moment it was never-ending--this bliss, this newness, this discovery of just how good it felt… and oh, even as it ebbed away, he was left with a satisfied languor that felt leagues away from shame.
He sighed with pure contentment, the crackling of the fire moving through him as his muscles relaxed. Raising his head a little, catching a hint of the woman’s flower-water scent, he murmured with a smile.
‘I will clean myself up. I will smoke a cigar, if you have one. ‘And then, nameless temptress, we shall change roles.’
The woman sighed softly, biting her lip. ‘I do not know how--I mean, of course I know--oh, no.’
‘I rather thought you didn’t. You are no discipline mistress, and certainly no jade.’ James smiled wider, triumphant at having removed at least one layer of whatever deception held sway. ‘Reveal your true identity, if you please. I know full well that I have seen you somewhere before… and I believe we are both rather past the point of needing discipline.’
The woman opened her mouth, only to shut it again. James prepared to rise, ready to clean himself and begin anew--before stopping, hands flying to his exposed cock, as the door suddenly opened.
‘Your Grace, forgive me. There has been an unfortunate--oh!’ The woman who had directed him to the room before stood outlined in the doorway, her face the perfect picture of horror. ‘I--oh Lord, I--’
‘No mistake.’ James smiled as winningly as he could, risking a glance back at the mysterious woman. She was pressed against the opposite wall of the room, her face carefully blank. ‘And nothing hostile, either--if anything, this is all a--’
‘Mr. Weeks!’ The woman’s shriek was undeniably piercing. ‘Mr. Weeks, you must come at once!’
Over his shoulder, James heard the nameless woman’s words.
‘This is all the most terrible misunderstanding.’
I must have died. Catherine sat silently by her bedroom window, watching the silent street, the sounds of the servants finishing the last of their tasks filling the room with a muffled series of thumps. I must have died, somewhere before arriving at the Cappadene Club, and everything that happened afterwards was but a dream.
If only. Dreams could be forgotten in daylight; one laughingly dismissed them over one’s rolls and milk. This… this was reality, in tooth and claw, and she would never forget it as long as she lived.
James Hildebrande. James Hildebrande, the most rakish duke in England, lying naked before her. So stunningly, completely naked, so unavoidably naked, that Catherine couldn’t help but recall the image whenever she closed her eyes. The tall, broad-shouldered, muscular man, with that irrepressible smile… that golden trail of hair that led down to his--
Stop. She lifted her thumb to her mouth, beginning to bite her nail. If she began to linger on the duke’s conduct, not to mention her own, the night would become very long indeed.
Why had she felt so unencumbered? So free? As if the walls of the pleasure-house concealed her from her own life, her own troubles… as if it were a dream. A dream, where she could behave exactly as she wished without restraint.
Still, she had held back. She hadn’t touched him. Even though she had wanted to touch him; wanted to run her fingers through his hair, trace his lips… run her fingers along that wicked line that led from hip to--
‘Dearest?’ Her mother’s voice; a sure antidote to even the most intoxicating recollection. ‘Are you awake?’
For a brief moment, Catherine considered feigning sleep. Then, with a guilty jolt, she remembered the money in her reticule.
‘Not yet.’ She fitfully arranged herself in her chair, picking up her pattern-work with a shiver of recognition. Now every stitch seemed somehow significant. ‘Come.’
With a soft, graceful rustle of skirts, her mother entered. Still a great beauty despite the hardening of the face that inevitably came with age, she smiled at Catherine with a faint, wistful gaze. ‘Did you enjoy the fish?’
‘Very much.’ Catherine remembered what a mess the fishmonger’s accounts had been, and attempted to smile. ‘A success.’
‘I thought so.’ Her mother paused, her smile fading a little. ‘Are you tired? Do not tell me that you are sickening for something.’
‘I am quite well.’ Catherine, smiling pleasantly back at her mother, was assailed by a horrible thought.
Are you concerned for my welfare as a mother? Or are you simply worried that if I am sick, I cannot work?
The thought sent a chill through her. Looking down at her pattern work, the colours briefly swimming in front of her eyes, Catherine made a strong, deliberate stitch.
‘You must sleep, dear, if you are ailing.’ Her mother’s voice wavered a little, as if she were unsure of her own advice. ‘Rest, and drink the rosemary tea that Abigail makes you.’
‘I will, Mother.’
‘And I shall tell Cook that you enjoyed the fish. We shall have it again in the same fashion, next week.’
Catherine nodded, turning to face the window. ‘I am glad of it.’
This had become a small, shameful ritual. Her mother would enter Catherine’s bedroom on some pretext, speaking of the weather, of an upcoming dance, of the Cook’s stubbornness--and leave some time afterward, the notes and coins from Catherine’s reticule clutched in her fists, as Catherine looked out of the window.
It was humiliating. It was enraging. Catherine, watching her mother walk away, decided that for tonight, at least, there was simply not enough space in her head to treat the two pieces of misery with the same importance.
It would have to be His Grace, tonight. The failings of her parents could wait. Where had her thoughts been, before her mother had interrupted her?
That golden trail of hair. Her cheeks reddened at the thought. Perhaps we can gloss over that part.
Once the maid had begun screaming, everything had happened very suddenly indeed. For a horrible
few moments, Catherine had feared Mr. Weeks would set upon His Grace. The man had entered the room, looked at James Hildebrande without a stitch of clothing, looked at Catherine, and had begun to roll up his sleeves--until Catherine raising her hands, had started speaking.
Lord knows what she had said. She couldn’t remember a single fully-formed phrase; the word misunderstanding had featured heavily. She appeared to have made clear the two most important points--James Hildebrande had not forced himself upon her, and neither had she beckoned the man into the room for an illicit encounter.
Well. She hadn’t beckoned him. But she hadn’t stopped him, either… and it certainly hadn’t been because she was too afraid to ask.
Thank goodness the encounter had happened in a pleasure-house. Discretion was their watchword. Once Arthur Weeks had been convinced that James Hildebrande had done nothing to force his attentions upon her, the matter had been resolved with silent, swift efficiency.
Catherine’s work had been reviewed. She had been paid her money--paid more money than she had been expecting. When she had attempted to question the disparity, Arthur Weeks had simply bowed with a grave look.
‘Forgive us.’ He had spoken quietly. ‘We beg of you. That man will never darken our door again.’
‘No. Please. As I have said--it was not his fault. It was no-one’s fault.’ Catherine had paused. ‘And from what I have seen in the last three months of outgoings, you are in grave need of important clients.’
She had been audacious. Arthur Weeks had said nothing, beyond a slightly grim nod. And that, it appeared, was that.
She wished she could feel as if anything was finished. Catherine, studying the moon, sighed.
She would have to consider the matter logically. Logic was her friend. It had indeed been the most dreadful misunderstanding. James Hildebrande was debauched, yes--but he was, at heart, decent. He had never spread rumours about the many women he favoured; she did not feel apprehension on that score. If they saw one another in public, well--she could simply pretend not to recognise him, and he her.
Dukes of the Demi-Monde Page 2
