Cursed: A Spellbound Regency Novel

by Lucy Leroux

  The men, distracted by their own conversation, went out with their cigars and disappeared into the garden.

  Isobel let out a shaky breath, her body slumping against Matteo in exhausted relief. But he was still hard inside her...and he wasn't finished.

  He put his hands on either side of her face and took her mouth again before slipping out of her. Languorous in his hold, she barely registered when he hauled her off the cabinet and turned her away from him.

  For a moment his hands moved over her, stroking her bared breasts and down to the heated core under her skirts while he drew on her neck with his lips. Enervated by his touch she leaned against him until his hand forced her head down, bending her over the cabinet.

  Startled, she clung to the polished wood surface as the head of him circled her heated entrance. One of his feet nudged her legs farther apart and then he was inside, so large he was almost too much for her. Stroking fast, he drove deeply into her, making her cry out. She pressed her cheek against the cabinet’s surface, trying to hold on as her body moved helplessly underneath him. But he wasn’t satisfied with her just holding on. He took hold of her breasts and pinched the tips until she bucked and cried out, blinded by another climax.

  A few moments more and a shudder passed through him, his breath ragged and low when he whispered. “I love you, Isabella.”

  She shuddered too...because it wasn't Matteo speaking to her. It was the demon.

  Chapter 22

  If the cursed has moments of lucidity, moments when he or she goes about their business, their normal life and work, then the possibility of purging the taint remains. If the cursed is overwhelmed by the demon spirit inside them for all or most of the day, then the cursed should be relieved of their burden.

  Isobel clutched the thin volume, pressing it so hard against her body that it dug into her ribs. It wasn't one of the books her grandmother had written. The diary was much older and written in a masculine hand. It had been in the last trunk, a forgotten little leather bound journal that didn't identify its author. It was also in Greek, a language her father had taught her along with Latin, French, and a little Italian.

  The brief passage was the clearest mention of a spell that resembled what was happening to Matteo. She had found others, descriptions of curses that instructed the user on how to afflict others with ailments from a mild rash to sexual dysfunction. Other more pernicious curses made a person insensible, while a few killed.

  What she'd found related to Matteo's condition was vague. She didn't know what the book meant by a purge. Despite translating all of the text in the book, there wasn't more detail on that part. But now that she knew what she was looking for, maybe things would go faster. And she still had more volumes to check.

  She had asked the Conte to acquire several more that had been mentioned in her reading through one of his agents in town. He had sent word that they had been found, and he would drop them off this afternoon. Pleased that the count was finally contributing to his son's recovery, she was actually looking forward to his visit for a change.

  Unfortunately, her assumption that Aldo was going to be helpful proved false. A few hours later he'd burst into the library, tracking mud on the carpet all the way up to the table she'd been sitting at, making notes on her reading. He'd been looking for Matteo, but his son had been asleep...again.

  When she told the count they could no longer attend any of the upcoming balls left in the season—without saying explicitly why—he'd dismissed her concerns and argued with her. Aldo had no idea how close his son had come to losing control on the night of the ball.

  The Conte only saw what he wanted to see. “You're overreacting! Matteo was having a fine time at the ball until you dragged him home early. And it's your behavior you should be concerned with, young lady.”

  Her chin rose. “And just what does that mean?” she asked, close to losing her temper.

  “My friend, Ridgeley, saw the two of you leaving the library. Your very first ball and you can't behave with even the slightest bit of decency and decorum,” he said coldly.

  She looked up, her lips parting in indignation.

  “I knew letting Matteo marry so far beneath him would be a big mistake,” Aldo added with a sneer. “All of my friends were whispering about the two of you and what you had been doing.”

  Isobel's face flamed, but she stood up from her chair. She placed her palms flat on the table and glared. “I did what I had to do to keep your son from killing anyone.”

  The Conte scoffed, and she gritted her teeth.

  “How dare you criticize me,” she hissed. “I did what I had to do to keep him from having another one of his spells right there on the dance floor. As far as I'm concerned, all of your precious friends owe their lives to me. How did you think he was going to react when I danced with other men? Did you think the thing inside him would tolerate their hands on me?”

  Aldo stopped and stared at her, the surprise and dismay clear on his face.

  “It doesn’t work like that,” he said, denial writ large on his face.

  “Well, it works like that now,” she said hoarsely.

  They glared at each other until eventually the count looked away. “I will make your excuses at the Wilmot's tonight,” he said eventually. “And whatever else involves dancing. The little Season is almost over in any case.”

  Isobel sat down, tired. There was silence for a long minute. She knew she had nothing to be ashamed of, but it was difficult to maintain her composure knowing the events in the library were probably public knowledge.

  What did their host think? Had Southmont realized he'd been in the library at the same time?

  “This is for you,” Aldo said, taking an envelope from his breast pocket and sliding it toward her. “It's a letter. From Clarence's ward, Amelia. There is another for Matteo from his cousin Martin.”

  Heartened, Isobel took the envelope and pressed it to her breast.

  It was a timely reminder of why she was doing this. Matteo was as innocent as those children. In the little time she'd had with him, he had demonstrated nothing but a conscientious regard for her and other people.

  He was everything Aldo was not. If she had to suffer a few scandalized whispers to preserve that, it did not signify.

  “Thank you,” she replied quietly before going to wake her husband for lunch.

  ****

  A few days later, Isobel was working in the conservatory. She was tending to the seedlings that had managed to sprout in their little pots as well as checking her store of powders and chemicals she'd acquired from local London apothecaries.

  She checked the same drawer repeatedly, as if the contents would suddenly reappear out of thin air. But she couldn't magically regenerate the dried leola root she used in her morning infusion to prevent pregnancy. The cutting she had planted had failed to sprout, and discreet inquiries to the local apothecary confirmed that the root wasn't commonly used here in London.

  The apothecary sent her a substitute, one he assured her would work the same way. She had little choice but to believe him.

  “Cara, are you in here?”

  With a guilty start, Isobel turned to face Matteo. He'd been out riding with Nino and Ottavio that morning. The older servant trailed him inside, looking closely at the rows and rows of pots covering the nearby tables while Ottavio loitered near the door.

  She was relieved to see Matteo up and active. These days he slept long into the morning. He only roused when she woke him, coaxing him out of bed with effort. Once he was up he seemed fine, but there had been a few mornings when she'd doubted he would wake at all. It frightened her, and she worried that the curse was working itself deeper into him.

  “Did you enjoy your ride?” she asked, picking up a seedling pot as Matteo reached her.

  “Yes. Did you enjoy your flowers?” he asked quietly.

  Puzzled, she looked up. “What flowers?”

  “The ones in the foyer. Gide
on sent them. He's back in town...and he's sending flowers to my wife.”

  Too late, Isobel noticed the extra vibration in Matteo's deceptively soft voice. She put down the pot on her worktable.

  “Is he? I hadn't seen them,” she said lightly.

  “Have you seen him?” he asked, leaning on the nearest table.

  She laughed. “No, of course not. A young blood of the ton is out at races and boxing matches. He doesn't bother paying calls—even to his relations. He sends flowers instead, a simple courtesy.”

  By the end of her speech, she was struggling to keep her tone even.

  Matteo’s cold fingers wrapped around the back of her neck, his fingers drifting into the hair at the base of her skull. “And you would never lie to me, would you, Isabella?”

  “No,” she whispered, her throat tight.

  His expression softened incrementally. “I know that,” he said, his intense gaze taking in every inch of her face before he kissed her.

  The coolness of his lips was startling in the warmth of the conservatory. She shivered despite the sudden rush of heat that coursed through her body. When his mouth moved down to her neck he began to undo the ties in the front of her bodice. He pulled her closer, yanking the front of her dress down so hard a seam popped.

  Startled, she opened her eyes briefly, peeking over his shoulder.

  “My lord, wait,” she said urgently, trying to hold the top of her gown up.

  Matteo hadn't waited to dismiss the guards.

  But he wasn’t listening to her. He moved down her body to kneel in front her, pushing her skirts out of his way as he went. Trying to hold up her bodice with one hand, she urged him away with the other. But he took hold of her wrist in an iron grip before backing her against the glass wall of the conservatory.

  She gasped as the bare skin of her back made contact with the cold slick wall, and Matteo responding in kind, growling as he hooked one of her legs over his shoulder, exposing her to his mouth—–and the eyes of the men.

  Blood pumping loudly in her ears, she looked up to see Nino making a rapid exit, but Ottavio was standing there…watching from behind the hydrangea bushes.

  Matteo’s bulk concealed her most intimate place, but the servant could likely see her bare legs and what skin was exposed by the torn bodice.

  “Matteo!” she cried, but he paid her no attention.

  He was too intent on his task. His tongue and fingers were exploring her intimate flesh, opening and softening her for his inevitable claiming.

  Frantically she waved at Ottavio, trying to signal him to go away. If Matteo came to his senses long enough to look behind him, he would lose control.

  But the asinine servant wouldn’t move. His avaricious stare was taking in everything, then one hand thrust into his trousers to rub himself through his clothing.

  She couldn't shout at him to leave. If she did, it would sign the fool’s death warrant. Lips clamped firmly shut, she tried to shift her skirts out of Matteo’s grip enough to throw them over him. She was only partially successful, but it had to be enough. Her focus and strength were waning as her soft wet channel was alternately filled by his fingers and tongue in a rhythmic, coordinated invasion. Working in a second finger into her sheath, he grazed the pearl of her sex with his teeth before biting down gently.

  Isobel was no match for the sensual onslaught. Her bodice fell forward as she put one hand on Matteo’s head and clutched at the glass behind her for support. Her nipples peaked in contact with the air, but she couldn't cover herself. A sharp pulsing pleasure robbed her of strength. Nearly falling forward only deepened Matteo’s penetration as he consumed her with abandon.

  Throughout the encounter, she could feel Ottavio’s eyes on her. She tried not to look directly at him, but when the orgasm crashed through her, her eyes flew open. Her gaze locked with his as the spasms racked her body, an involuntary cry escaping her lips.

  Her vision blurred as she slumped against the wall. The sight of her—breasts exposed, skin damp and hot from climax—proved too much for the lustful servant. He tore open his breeches, exposing his large engorged member and pumping it hard. Repelled, Isobel squeezed her eyes shut and dug her fingers into her demon husband's back.

  Matteo took it as a signal to move. His hands cupped her bottom, pulling her up until she was suspended in his arms, her legs wrapped around his waist.

  It was as if she weighed nothing. Overwhelmed by the power the smooth controlled motion betrayed, she held what little breath she had left for an endless moment before he plunged inside her.

  She moaned loudly, throwing her head back. Her body was no longer under her control. She moved up and down helplessly as it willed, an eager recipient for every thrust, bite, and hot sucking kiss.

  It was the same as the incident in the library. She was simply carried along, her pleasure the demon's only goal. Like a true incubus, all it wanted was her surrender.

  So she gave it to him.

  His hands were busy, one roughly moving up over her breasts and down her waist. Meanwhile, the fingers of the one supporting her stroked the smooth skin of her bottom until one worked into the forbidden little nether hole, making her scream aloud at the unexpected invasion.

  She clutched hard at Matteo's hair as a dark wave of pleasure rose and crashed over her, but his tempo didn't waver. He continued to piston in and out, her spasming channel gripping him tightly as he rocked her against the cold glass.

  Her scream of completion was still ringing in her ears when Matteo turned his head enough to take one of her hands into his mouth. He nipped at her fingers before he began to suck them. His tongue caressed each in turn before drawing on them hard, sending a streak of fire straight into her sex. Trembling violently, Isobel pulled her hand away and tugged his head down to her neck.

  He obliged her by sucking and biting at the tender skin there, the pain mingling with pleasure to create an alien state of euphoria that was probably another climax, a long slow burning that took as much as it gave. This one stole her vision, as if she'd been staring at the sun too long.

  Lost in abandon, her head lolled weakly until it came to rest on Matteo’s shoulder. Barely able to see, she glanced past him, too weak to react when she saw Ottavio. She had forgotten about him. He was still there…looking spent.

  Isabel shut her eyes tightly, burying her face in the crease of Matteo’s neck. Distantly, she heard him shout. His cock jerked inside her and his seed coated her womb in hot bursts.

  Time was unimportant in the dark. She felt movement, warm skin against hers, things hard and soft—but the ability to distinguish between them was gone. Everything—every object, every texture—blended into the next.

  She didn’t open her eyes for a long time. When she did, she was cradled in Matteo’s lap, his concerned brown eyes looking down at her in surprise. Listless, she reached up to touch his cheek, dropping it when the now warm bristled surface proved too much for her hypersensitive skin.

  Turning her head, she looked at the empty room around them. They were alone.

  Chapter 23

  Matteo’s memories of what happened in the conservatory were confused, to say the least.

  Isobel had been surprised that he recalled anything at all. His memory of their wedding night was clear enough, but she attributed that to his being normal at the start. However, he hadn’t mentioned what had happened in the library at the Southmont’s ball at all.

  But now he remembered his anger and jealousy over Gideon's flowers, how they had overwhelmed him until they were catalyzed into lust. The rest was in bits and pieces…which was more than enough.

  He was racked by guilt. He kept apologizing and casting her tormented glances whenever they happened to be alone together. It was decidedly inconvenient, considering all she wanted was to forget the incident.

  Isobel didn’t blame herself for succumbing to his demands. What she didn’t want to think about was how much she enjoyed it. Not t
hat her body let her forget. She would be working in the library when a snippet of memory would intrude into her thoughts, overwhelming her with heat and sending a pulse of forbidden pleasure through her. The unexpected arousal was uncomfortable and embarrassing.

  She could barely look Niko in the eye and avoided Ottavio at all costs. Luckily, he spent most of his time with Matteo, who at this moment was mostly avoiding her too.

  The thought of making an excuse to dismiss the younger servant crossed her mind more than once. However, there was nothing she could think of that was sufficient grounds for dismissal, yet benign enough to avoid sending Matteo into another fit.

  Torn, she decided the only thing she could do was keep her silence.

  Avoiding the issue had at least one important benefit. By throwing herself into her research, she made real progress in formulating a ritual to purge the curse.

  In the end, Isobel had decided to combine aspects of several spells and rituals found in the books. There wasn’t actually much of a choice. No one account matched exactly what she had seen or was living with. Which was why the possibility she might be dealing with two distinct realities occurred to her.

  The books included a number of references to possession. While each was different, they all shared some similarities. The subject rarely remembered what they did when under the influence and often their bodies would either be very cold or very hot.

  Their actions varied widely, but as far as she could tell once that action had been carried out—be it murder, theft, or sex—then the cursed person would recover themselves…for a time.

  Eventually, the cursed would degenerate in some way and usually grow weak or mad. Then they would die, if they hadn’t been killed already. The process could take months or even years.

  Some of the stories attributed the possession to a specific spirit or demon, giving it a name. She didn’t disagree with the practice. What she’d experienced made her believe there was an intelligence behind what was happening. She had seen it herself, felt it watching her. But it wasn’t a real demon.