Dukes of the Demi-Monde

by Felicia Greene

  ‘Don’t make me wait this time.’ Lydia whimpered as Arthur brushed over her bud again and again. ‘Please.’

  ‘I wish I could.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To make it last.’

  ‘Why will it not last?’

  ‘Because you are very beautiful, and I am very weak.’

  ‘I thought I was the weak one.’

  ‘Not here.’ Arthur shifted his hips; his cock pressed to her entrance, hot and wet and inviting beyond measure. ‘Not now.’

  ‘I… ohhh.’ Lydia closed her eyes, a slow shiver running through her body. ‘Oh, please.’

  There was no disobeying her. Not now. Arthur, looking deep into Lydia’s eyes, bit back a savage gasp as he sank inside her.

  God, she was tight. She was perfect. Arthur gripped her hips tightly as he tried to keep control; tried to enter inch by inch, letting her feel him, letting her welcome him. Lydia’s ecstatic gasp, the way she tightened around him immediately, let him know that there was no pain—only pleasure.

  He didn’t have to hold back. He couldn’t hold back, after all he had faced. Arthur, his body moving for him, sank himself to the hilt as Lydia cried out in bliss.

  ‘Yes.’ She rolled her hips; Arthur gritted his teeth, a moan in his throat. ‘Don’t—’

  ‘Don’t hold back. I know.’ Arthur thrust again, his fingers moving back to Lydia’s mound as he stroked her bud. ‘I won’t.’

  He didn’t need to be slow. Lydia didn’t want it, and neither did he. Everything was a delicious, sudden frenzy; his thrusts, her answering cries, the tightness with which she gripped him from root to tip. The way Lydia leaned down, kissing him with a kind of piteous helplessness, her every sigh and moan fuel for him to move faster, move harder.

  ‘You are built for me. I am built for you.’ He thrust; Lydia moaned, gripping the blankets, and Arthur felt an animal triumph mingling with his pleasure. ‘We are built for one another.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia’s fingers gripped his shoulders tight enough to turn the flesh white. The rhythmic sway of her breasts was delicious, intoxicating alchemy. ‘I—oh, God.’ A deep shiver ran through her body; Arthur felt it run through him too, crying out at the pleasure of it. ‘I—I—’

  ‘Let it come.’ Arthur moved his hands to Lydia’s breasts, gently pinching her nipples. The deep tremble that ran through her brought his own peak to the fore. ‘I’m close.’

  ‘This… this when we are meant to stop.’

  ‘I know.’ Arthur gritted his teeth, thrusting harder. Just a few more seconds of this perfection, and he would remember who he was. Remember what was possible, and what was not. ‘We should.’

  ‘But I do not want to stop.’ Lydia kissed him, her lips trembling, her hands gripping his shoulders harder still as she tightened around him. Arthur felt a low, base shiver run through the both of them at the same time. ‘It is too perfect.’

  ‘I warned you.’

  ‘And I do not listen to you.’ Lydia kissed him again. ‘You should not listen to yourself.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘C-come in me.’ Lydia’s hesitation at saying the word only made it more erotic. ‘Please.’

  ‘I cannot.’

  ‘But you—ah!—want to.’

  ‘More than anything.’ Arthur kissed her, hard and merciless, thrusting harder still. He was losing his rhythm; losing everything. ‘More than anything in the world.’

  Why had he ever tried to prevent this? Why had he wasted his energy, when it had been a foregone conclusion all along? Holding Lydia, kissing Lydia, moving deep, deep inside Lydia… claiming Lydia, his seed inside her once, twice, again as her cries fell on him like sunshine. Finishing, giving all of himself to her.

  ‘I love you.’ Arthur murmured the words distractedly, pleasure moving through him too strongly to focus. ‘I love you.’

  Morning slowly filtered through Lydia’s bedroom curtains. Lydia lay next to a sleeping Arthur, arm protectively curled around his chest, more awake than she had ever been before.

  There would be time to relax later. She would sleep when everything had been decided—when she had unravelled her life as it was, and stitched it together in a new pattern. A bright, energetic pattern, that would mean breaking apart everything that had come before.

  She could never have done it alone. Lydia, looking at Arthur’s closed eyes, knew that she would never be alone again.

  ‘Wake.’ She gently kissed Arthur’s cheek, running the tip of her nose along his cheekbone. ‘I am growing bored. I am demanding.’

  ‘You are demanding.’ Arthur’s sleepy voice made her jump. ‘I shall have to punish you.’

  ‘The good and proper thing to do.’ Lydia paused. ‘I have reached a conclusion. One of some import.’

  Arthur leaned forward. Lydia felt a thrill run through her as he kissed her forehead; it was as if the man could never tire of kissing her. Never tire of showing her affection. ‘Go on.’

  It had felt so simple in her head. Bringing the words into reality, into the quiet comfort of her bedroom, felt infinitely more difficult. Lydia, steeling herself, hoped that she wasn’t about to ruin everything.

  ‘We were meant to have a brief period of scandal. Yes?’

  Arthur’s moustache moved as he smiled. ‘That we were.’

  ‘And despite setbacks, we have succeeded in being scandalous.’ Lydia thought of the bath-tub with a flush of pleasure. ‘Very scandalous, by my standards. I know that your standards must be higher, of course, given the nature of your work, but—’

  ‘By any man’s standards, we have been scandalous.’ Arthur’s voice was soft. ‘Believe me.’

  ‘Good.’ Lydia nodded. ‘And… and I have had a thought.’

  ‘A thought?’

  ‘Yes. A small thought, and very probably a stupid one, but a thought nonetheless.’ Lydia looked into Arthur’s warm, steady gaze. ‘Would you like to hear it?’

  ‘More than anything.’ Arthur’s large, rough hand reached for hers. Lydia eagerly tangled her fingers with his, needing the reassurance of his grip. ‘Tell me.’

  ‘Well.’ Lydia took a deep breath, speaking as quickly as possible. ‘What would be the ultimate scandal?’

  Arthur’s brow furrowed. ‘I am not quite sure what you—’

  ‘I like doing things properly. In fact, I insist upon it.’ Lydia gripped his hand tightly. ‘And if we are to be properly, thoroughly scandalous, there can be only one conclusion to this now that we have begun it.’

  ‘Which would be—’

  ‘Marriage. Matrimony.’ Lydia swallowed; her throat had suddenly constricted. Saying the words had been more difficult than she thought. ‘Being wed.’

  Arthur was silent. Lydia, not knowing quite what to do, carried on speaking.

  ‘It is the ultimate scandal, no? The final thrill. Ordinary sinners merely sin with one another and vanish, never to see one another again. Or they meet four times a year, or travel together—but really, how pedestrian a course of action! The truly scandalous, well, they would seek to compound their sin. They would seek to make the sinful arrangement permanent, with the breaking of engagements—with banns read, and sweeping measures put in place to—’

  ‘Marry me, Lydia.’

  ‘Yes.’ Lydia nodded, a tear dampening the pillow as Arthur squeezed her hand. He moved closer, his strong arm curling around her as he moved to kiss her. A kiss of passion, but also of completion; a longed-for, satisfying conclusion. ‘Yes, I will. Of course I will.’

  ‘But only if you wish to, truly.’ Arthur pressed his forehead to hers, his voice low and fraught. ‘What I said, earlier—it was nothing but fantasy. A longed-for fantasy, but fantasy. It need not be reality if you do not wish it.’

  ‘But I do wish it. I have been wishing for it ever since we met.’ Lydia blinked away more tears; how foolish she was, to cry when she was so happy! ‘I love you.’

  ‘And I love you.’ Arthur stroked his hand along her cheekbone, wiping away her errant
tears. ‘Believe me. More than you will ever know.’

  For a moment they could do nothing but kiss, and look at one another. Only after many kisses, and many looks, could Lydia steel herself to say what had to come next.

  ‘I never wish to see my father again.’

  ‘Good. As your husband-to-be, I believe I’m allowed to murder him now.’

  ‘Murdering him would leave Lavender and Winifred without a home. Not to mention my mother.’ Lydia paused, biting her lip. ‘I worry that he would pursue you through the courts. I would be breaking my engagement.’

  ‘James Hildebrande and Marcus Bennington would be more than willing to defend your honour. A duke and the richest man in England make a formidable team.’ Arthur stroked her hair. ‘And Lavender and Winifred could come with you when you leave. Your mother too, if she wishes.’

  ‘Where on earth would we live?’

  ‘I certainly haven’t been spending my wages from the Club. Who would I have spent them on?’ Arthur smiled. ‘Furnished rooms near Hyde Park for all of us are more than attainable.’

  ‘I cannot ask you to—’

  ‘To spend my money on my wife?’ Arthur raised an eyebrow. ‘I rather believe you can.’

  Lydia blinked, slightly stunned. ‘That… that would certainly make things much easier.’

  ‘Other people tend to make things easier.’ Arthur stroked her hair. ‘If you ask them.’

  ‘I didn’t think asking you would make anything easier.’

  ‘Why?’ Arthur smiled. ‘Because a brothel-keeper has no power?’

  ‘No. Because if I confided in you, I would have had to face the fact that I was in love with you. I believe that was the cause of my reticence.’ Lydia nodded primly. ‘You do think the most dastardly things about me.’

  ‘Because I know what you are capable of.’

  ‘Wait until sunrise. Stay with me a day, ignoring Martha’s glares, and wait until my family returns.’ Lydia smiled, excitement growing in her. ‘You shall see exactly what we are capable of, together.’

  Sir Reginald Holt was rather enjoying his breakfast. It was normally difficult, drinking coffee and eating rolls in the company of prattling women, but his wife and daughters seemed to have become appropriately subdued. Martha, who annoyed him merely by existing, had hidden herself in the kitchen since sunrise—all the better, and a habit to be maintained.

  With a robust smack of his lips, he reached for another roll. For a moment he thought he saw a flash of something disturbing in his wife’s eyes, a kind of rage, before she bent her head back to her plate.

  Better that she avert her gaze. Reginald preferred a woman with her eyes downcast—the room was much more pleasant without female stares, and female silliness. Female rebellion, something he regarded with shuddering horror, was best bricked up and left to wither.

  Speaking of bricking up, and withering… something more definite would need to be done about Lydia. As restful as his breakfast was without his most recalcitrant daughter, she could not be left languishing idly in her room forever.

  A respectable marriage was, of course, forever lost to her. Winchester would understand. The marriage had always been viewed as a sort of gentleman’s agreement—and with Lydia having been so very disagreeable, he could no longer offer her to his friend in all good conscience.

  Some sort of punishment would need to be arranged. A marriage to a poorer man, a lesser man, who would teach his daughter some of life’s harsher lessons.

  He paused his intriguing line of thought, scowling fiercely at his youngest daughter Winifred as she dropped her piece of bread onto the tablecloth. The scowl became a snarl when Winifred, her gaze unmistakeably mutinous, crumbled the piece of bread into smaller fragments.

  He had failed with Lydia. That much was evident. With his younger daughters, particularly Winifred, he would have to take a firmer hand.

  ‘Respect.’ Reginald kept his voice as low as possible as he rose, watching his wife flinch with a touch of satisfaction. ‘Respect is the foundation of this household. The bedrock of our lives. These snivelling displays of discomfort, or displeasure, are something I will not tolerate—’

  He stopped, irritated, as his wife cried out. Only when Lavender and Winifred cried out too, their faces white, did Reginald turn to see the source of the commotion.

  Lydia. Lydia, dressed in an audaciously bright gown, her head held high. Behind her, looming like a figure from a Gothic novel, stood a man with arms like tree-trunks.

  Everything happened very quickly indeed. Before Reginald could react in a manner becoming of a gentleman, his throat had been seized by the man who had invaded his home. Squirming, trying to breathe while glaring daggers at his wife and daughters, Reginald tried to bat away the man in the manner of a kitten playing with a ball of wool.

  ‘Stop.’ The man squeezed tighter. ‘This conduct is unbecoming for you, and embarrassing for me.’

  Shame filling him, Reginald let his hands drop to his sides.

  ‘I wish to make something clear.’ Despite the vicious force of his grip, the man’s voice was as quiet and patient as that of a priest. ‘The only reason I’m not throttling the life out of you is because there are ladies present.’

  Winifred’s strident voice filled the room. ‘Does that mean that if we leave, you can throttle him?’

  Lavender’s eyes widened. ‘Winifred!’

  ‘What?’ Winifred’s eyes blazed. Reginald felt a stab of fear as he watched his daughter’s face. ‘I’ll leave. I’ll put my fingers in my ears and face the wall, if I have to. Anything to be rid of him.’ She looked piteously at Reginald’s wife, still sitting like a statue at the breakfast table. ‘Well, Mother? Will you come?’

  Lady Holt’s coffee cup trembled in her hand. Reginald watched her in terrified silence, his cheeks and forehead growing hotter by degrees as the man’s grip stayed horribly, patiently firm.

  There was a crack. Reginald stared, transfixed, as the coffee cup in Lady Holt’s hand broke in half.

  ‘I am going to marry your daughter. I am going to keep her in a finer style to which she will most certainly become accustomed—namely, I am going to love her. You are going to break Lydia’s engagement, you are going to cease all contact with her, and you are going to avoid us completely.’ The man glared. ‘And if you attempt to make her life difficult, through the courts or otherwise, I will be forced to thrash you both legally and literally. Do you understand?’

  Reginald let out a desperate croak.

  ‘Not clear enough, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Y—yes.’ Reginald tried to nod, impeded by the man’s fingers on his neck.

  ‘Good.’ The man’s grip suddenly loosened; Reginald collapsed to the floor, wheezing. ‘Then we shall be taking our leave.’

  ‘Lydia.’ Winifred ran to Lydia’s side; Reginald watched her, his vision beginning to swim. ‘Can I come with you now?’

  ‘Of course, dear. Lavender too.’ Lydia turned to her mother, a catch in her voice. ‘Mother?’

  Reginald glared at his wife. Any remaining vigour left his body as the woman slowly rose, the pieces of her coffee cup falling onto the table.

  Slumped against the wall, unable to catch his breath, Reginald watched the women leave the room, followed by the vicious intruder. Soon only Lydia remained, leaning down to stare at him with a bright, unsettling gaze.

  ‘You…’ Reginald forced the word out. ‘You will regret this.’

  ‘No, father. I do not think I will.’ Lydia slowly rose, queenly in her posture. ‘I believe I will live happily ever after.’

  THE END

  A Courtesan’s Comfort

  The second-smallest bedroom in the Cappadene Club shone with a warm, secretive glow. Elsie Harcourt sat in her usual chair, hugging her knees, watching Sir Marcus Bennington read from the book that lay resting in his lap.

  Normally she listened intently. The books he brought with him were always wonderful; stories of far-off places and astonishing feats of brave
ry. Today, however, Elsie was troubled.

  She should have been troubled from the first. She had been troubled the first time she and Marcus had met, on the night he and James Hildebrande had come to the Club in search of consequence-free pleasure. More than troubled—she had been terrified, trembling on the bed, not ready in the slightest for her first appointment as a courtesan. Too new, too frightened, all bluster and sharpness as a way of concealing the terror deep within…

  Marcus Bennington had known. Looked into her eyes and known immediately. When Elsie had reflexively covered her stomach, inadvertently revealing her biggest secret, he had known that too.

  ‘Are you well?’

  ‘Yes.’ Elsie answered automatically, self-recriminating thoughts still whispering in her head. You must be the only courtesan in the country who realises she is with child before her first appointment has even begun. ‘Quite well.’

  ‘Do you wish to eat something else? Drink another cup of tea?’

  A hamper sat by the fire, full of delicacies that Elsie had never imagined eating as a child. Growing up in a country cottage meant you ate what you were given; here in London anything could be procured, for prices she could barely contemplate. Staring at the food, the discarded fruit-peels and half-drunk cups of tea, she wondered how much it had cost Marcus—and how much it would have cost her, if she had been able to work at the Cappadene Club in the manner she had originally planned.

  ‘Miss Harcourt?’

  ‘I have eaten enough, I think.’ Elsie smiled gratefully at Marcus. The Club provided bread and milk for the girls as a sort of breakfast, but they were expected to find the rest of their own meals. ‘Thank you.’

  ‘And yet you frown, when you think I am not looking.’

  He was horribly perceptive. Perceptive enough to have understood her fear, her relative youth, and her condition—but also perceptive enough to understand that independence, even of this immoral sort, was important to her. He was perceptive, well-mannered, rich… handsome…