Chapter 15
Dace waited for the knock on his door as midnight approached. He wore his nightshirt round his hips and lay propped on pillows, displaying his naked chest by the light of a solitary candle.
At her quiet knock, he called out in a mild voice, “Come in, Lizzie.”
Lizzie entered and turned to close the door. When she finally looked at him, she gasped for breath. He didn’t move in case she took fright, but she just stared at him aghast. Dace tried an angelic smile, and beckoned her to come to him.
His wife covered her eyes with a gloved hand then peeped at him through her fingers. Could he get to her before she tried to flee? No! There she went, rushing for the door. He raced over to her, to find her struggling to open the door the wrong way. His body touched hers as he trapped her by the wall. He reached over to turn the key in the lock and remove it.
“Your reluctance is not very flattering,” he said in a low voice. “You are trembling, my dear Lizzie. Did you take a chill when you fell in the lake? Perhaps you should have consulted Dr. Marshall.”
She dared to glance at him and showed relief that he was not entirely naked, but her body trembled from head to foot. He didn’t want to believe she feared him, even though he had threatened to make love to her until she agreed to go to London. He stroked her cheek.
“Dear heart, do you still shake over Sarah’s fate?” He backed away from her, and threw the key into the fire. “Get into bed, dearest Lizzie, don’t stand there shivering. Take off your dressing gown, you may keep your nightdress.”
His Lizzie fled to the fire to warm herself. “I shall not go willingly to your bed, Felmont. You want only to be cruel to me so I must agree to go to London.”
“I’d never be cruel to the lovely lady who shares my life. I am not a fool, Lizzie, I don’t want you to hate me.” Dace retreated to enjoy the view of her lit by the glow from the hearth. Her thin muslin nightclothes revealed as much as they concealed. He waited for her to calm down, as he slowly pulled the silk cover from his bed. She turned to see what he was doing.
He spread the turquoise and cream cloth in front of the hearth. “To stop you from breaking our pact,” he explained gently, “the bed has come to you.”
She shook her head until her hair tumbled down.
“Come, Lizzie.” He pulled her down to sit nestled against his side. “We can talk about my need to go to London to take your mind off my other needs, or do you prefer to break our pact?”
He knew she was not such a witless creature. She held her head away from his naked chest, trying to maintain her dignity, but allowed him to unfasten the bow holding her dressing gown closed.
Flames from the fire warmed her as he bared her to the waist. He held her in a tender embrace with her body molded to his. Her small, perfect breasts delighted and inflamed him. She closed her eyes and flinched when he stroked them with a gentle hand.
He murmured, “You are beautiful.” He kissed the side of her neck, where her pulse teased his lips. His hand glided over her delicate flesh. She sighed, and at last, allowed him to place her limbs where he wished. One of her legs slid over his thigh of its own accord. He rewarded her with a kiss. How responsive she was! How easily she was swept into the dance of love. She swayed and sighed, seduced by his touch.
Unable to control his need, wanting to know if she wanted him too, he gently invaded her body with a stroking finger. His Lizzie let her head fall onto his good shoulder. He knew she could not help the twitching of her hips, nor her moans, and he adored her for it. When he made love to her, she didn’t hate him or loathe him, and if at last she learned to love him for the pleasure he gave her, he’d count himself a lucky man.
He was glad he wore no nightshirt that she could bite to still her sounds, nothing she could clutch but himself.
With his mouth at her breast, he moved her to lay on the cloth. She arched her back as he loomed over her. Her hands fluttered over his back until they reached the nightshirt tied around his hips. At her touch it slid free. With a cry, poor Lizzie closed her eyes and brought the cloth up to cover her face. Even if she didn’t want to see him naked, he felt her body’s invitation.
He whispered, “Now?” then he muttered, “Forgive me, my dear wife, forgive me.” He entered her with a single thrust. He should have waited, but he could not resist her.
She lifted an edge of his nightshirt, which she had managed to wrap about her head, and peeped at him as he kissed her breasts. She went wild beneath him. Only her hands retained some modesty as they pulled the cloth down to cover her face, to hide from him, as he pleasured her. Poor Lizzie cried out in panic for him to stop. She didn’t want pleasure from him, but she was his to make love to at midnight. He took her higher and higher, until she clutched his shoulders.
He hissed at the sudden, searing pain, unable to move.
She stilled with him, and whispered, “I am sorry, forgive me.”
What could he say but, “You are forgiven, my Lizzie. Forgive me, I cannot resist making love to you.” He turned them onto their sides, with her back to the fire to keep her warm and to protect his shoulder. The gentle motion of her hips drove him mad for more, but he made love carefully because before this night ended, he had to have her agreement to go to London. He wanted pleasure to be the goad, not pain, never pain. Enough pleasure to make her agree to anything he wanted, enough trust to make her not hate him for it.
Lizzie suddenly knew what had enslaved her mother. Endless pleasure. Her mother had not feared indulging herself with her husband. Lizzie felt the pleasure all Felmonts used to enslave women. The Beast kept her relentlessly, hopelessly pleasured, unable to stop him. Unable to stop herself.
She lay twitching in his arms, not sated, not wanting to stop, burning with need. Just like her mother. Would she die the same way, enslaved by passion for a Felmont? A whimper escaped her at the thought of it.
“Hush, Lizzie. Did I hurt you?” The Beast stopped moving, though his guilty part lay deep within her.
Her body clenched at it, refusing to relinquish lust.
“Lizzie, I can’t let you go. With my body I thee worship.” He lifted the nightshirt to uncover her lips, to kiss her passionately, but it reminded her of awful things. Of her mother and stepfather kissing passionately.
He pleaded, “Stay the night with me, dear heart.”
“Finish, so I can go,” Lizzie answered. She needed to go before her traitorous body responded to him without her consent.
Still deep inside her, he rolled over onto his back. “Talk to me.”
His nightshirt almost fell off her head. Lizzie clutched at it. Strong arms held her on top of him. He wanted her to have a conversation while they were joined together! Her mind was completely empty.
Lizzie squirmed and the nightshirt shifted to give her a glimpse of the Beast. He moaned softly and studied the ceiling as if he could actually see it. A silver gleam of moonlight seeped through the window to trace his silhouette. His high Felmont cheekbones looked rather handsome. She had to admit even his nose looked dignified, unlike his depraved conduct and her undignified response to it, which must never happen again. Not now that she knew the trap it laid.
If she let him win and persuade her to go to London, there’d be no end to him persuading her every midnight. All she had to do was survive this one night, to prove to him that he could not force her to obey him.
“What did the doctor recommend for your shoulder?” she asked, with the hope he’d let her talk of easy topics.
“He offered to cut it, to bleed me deeply, to relieve the pressure. I declined. Marshall did say, when I could stand the pain, that a gentle massage might help stimulate recovery.”
“I don’t want to see it,” she blurted out. Lizzie had seen enough nasty things to last a lifetime. She pulled his nightshirt close about her head as she lay on his chest. “I can’t stand the sight of wounds.”
“Nor do I want to show it,” he replied dryly.
The Beast kissed the top of her head
through layers of cloth. “You are going to suffocate under there.” He tried to remove his nightshirt from her head.
“Don’t.” Lizzie pushed his hands away and sat up, hoping he’d not be able to reach the cloth. “I like it this way.”
“Do you?” he drawled with honeyed tones as he stroked her thighs. “Ride me, dearest Lizzie.”
She clasped his nightshirt to adjust it so she could breathe through her mouth. How could he ask her to do so sinful an act? The thought of other sinful acts he might ask her to do made her hesitate to cross him. But she shook her head.
“Give me the nightshirt, Lizzie,” he commanded. “You can keep your eyes closed if you can’t bear to look at me.”
She peeked at him and nearly lost her grip on the cloth. He growled a low laugh. His belly tightened beneath her.
He whispered, “Do you suppose a kiss might distract you? Lizzie, you have sworn to please me. It is little I ask at the moment, just a kiss.”
She lifted the nightshirt slightly and inched close enough to touch his mouth with hers. His lips were cool, the hand rubbing her back was warm. Not so very awful. But inside her, the pressure grew into a fierce need.
“Take off your nightrail.” His hands lifted the material tangled about her waist. “Raise your arms for me.”
Lizzie had to obey him to keep the pact they’d agreed on. She raised her arms. He removed his nightshirt from her head at the same time. She grabbed it back but got her own nightdress by mistake. She sniffed it, then dropped it to reach for his. He flung it away.
Instead of making love to her, he clasped her by the shoulders to look intently into her eyes. “We must talk, Lizzie. I am somewhat under an obligation to the duke.”
He groaned and seemed to be forcing himself to wait. He gently positioned her to lean back against his knees. His hands covered her breasts, as if hiding them from his gaze. He took a deep breath. “There is something I must tell you.”
The Beast began his confession, “Sarah’s mother was my father’s mistress.”
“I know.” Lizzie began with her uppermost thought. “A man who debauches his father’s mistress, who uses her while she is living with ... is too disgusting for words.”She raced on before she lost her courage. “I think no less of the child, for it is not her fault. It is yours. How could you force yourself on her mother?”
“Sarah is not my daughter, she is my sister.” He reached out to take her gloved hands in his. “I stole her just before I joined my regiment. My father had invited me to dinner, to flaunt his latest mistress.” He drew a shaky breath.
Lizzie knew why the awful father had taken an interest in his son. “That sounds like him. He invited you because you had always thought her beautiful, and he wanted to hurt you.”
“Yes, you understand his character perfectly, my Lizzie. His mistress was big with child, and gave birth that night. My father boasted he sent all his bastards to the Foundling Hospital in London, so I waited outside for the midwife to leave with the baby.” He rubbed a hand over his face and shuddered.
“At dawn, I was wandering the streets with a baby in my arms, too far away from you to beg for your help.” He smiled at her. “I know you’d have helped me, because you have a warm heart. I dared not try to send the baby to Ma in case my father discovered it. By chance, I met Saint Sirin going home. His daughter had just been born. He loves children.” Not that Dace expected Lizzie to believe him.
“No sooner had I stammered my dilemma than he took Sarah into his arms and swore to look after her as if she were his own. I was so relieved that I wept. He is the best of men!”
He stopped speaking to compose himself. Lizzie stroked his chest, almost tempted to remove her gloves. “Away I went to war, to kill or be killed, and I knew that if I died Sirrie would take care of Sarah forever.”
Silently, he caressed her. At last, he said lightly, “Jim told me you loved to torment my father.”
“Not all the time,” Lizzie disclaimed. “He simply goaded me into annoying him whenever possible. When he looted the Folly, because I wouldn’t let him live there, I hoped he’d die from an apoplexy as he staggered out carrying my mother’s golden elephant. It was very heavy.”
“Didn’t he know it was lead covered with gold leaf?”
She laughed at his question. “Everyone knew that! Though it would have been just like my mother to tell everyone it was lead, when it was really gold. Your father tripped on the stairs carrying it. The large diamond on its forehead broke, revealing it was paste. He was so furious, I thought I’d be able to order his coffin, but no.” She shook her head sadly. “I was extremely disappointed!”
The viscount laughed with her.
He kissed her suddenly, still laughing, soft kisses that teased and tickled. She kissed him back to take his mind off his father. The kiss ignited her. His Felmont magic lured her into its spell, until she burned and ached.
“I want it back,” she cried, pointing to his nightshirt. He inched them towards it, until his arm could snake out to retrieve it for her.
“Thank you,” she said as she wrapped it about her head. Some of the nightshirt dangled over her breasts, his hand stroked it over her shoulder.
The scent of soap from the Priory, with its jasmine and low note of musk, mixed with the scent of him, and made her feel safer in the darkness, as they sinned.
Dace moved his hips beneath her.
“Ride me,” he urged. He held her waist, encouraging her, making her delight herself with him. She ignored the strange sounds he made and rode him to pleasure, her hands clutching his wrists to stop him from reclaiming his nightshirt.
He was still hard within her when her body went mad. Aided by his thrusts, without her consent, it soared into a joyous oblivion of frenzied passion. She cried out for him to help her, afraid the intense pleasure might be fatal. It felt like dying of heavenly sensations. She cried out for him to stop, and wept in his arms when he obeyed her.
She lay exhausted on his chest and lifted the cloth to rub her cheek against him. A wanton female clinging to the last ripples of pleasure.
“Dearest Lizzie, I can never let you go.” He kissed her in a soothing way, though his breath came in gasps and he held himself rigid beneath her. “Forgive me, my dear, but I must go to London.”
To kill himself there with whores, to kill her every midnight!
He regained control of himself and began a long, slow caress down her back. “Sirrie has been caring for Sarah,” he murmured into the cloth over her ear. “And I committed my wounded friend to his tender mercy. Now you see why I must go to London. I am indebted to Saint Sirin and I must not trespass on his kindness now that I am home. I have duties, just as you had to your mother and stepfather.”
“Your friend is welcome to stay here,” Lizzie offered, meaning every word and understanding his need to go. “If you wish, I shall accompany you to London to bring him here.”
“Alas, the journey would kill him. You wouldn’t want him to die alone? Not when you were so kind to your mother and stepfather. I must do for poor Angel what you did for them. Can you bear it, Lizzie? I swear you will not have to meet him or nurse him. Just come with me to London.”
“I do not fear your friend,” Lizzie protested. “I fear dying from a disease caught from you.” She tried to hide the sadness overwhelming her. “If you must go, and I agree that you should, then go. Go to London alone. It will provide a good reason for me to leave you.”
He surged within her. “Tell me when you change your mind, my dear wife.” He turned her onto her back to kiss her breathless. “I could no more go to London without you, than I could go without my heart.”