Читать книгу Lust - Charlotte Featherstone - Страница 11

BEHIND HIS ENORMOUS ROCOCO DESK, THE DUKE of Lennox pored over the papers that were spread out before him. He had received them that very morning by messenger, from his man of affairs. Scouring the last statement, the duke sat back in his chair and smiled. All seemed to be in order. His wealth had doubled from last year, making him one of the richest landowners in England. Bloody faery magic, he thought, then laughed out loud as he reached for his crystal decanter of fine French brandy. It was illegal, of course—England was at war with France. But there was very little that his money could not secure, smuggled French brandy being one of them.

Pouring the golden liquid into his goblet, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Power, ambition, riches. He had them in spades. At last. And all it had taken was a little pact. A tithe, the faeries called it.

“Your Grace,” his duchess murmured as she swished through the opened library door. “The bills have arrived for the girls’ trousseaux.”

Leaning forward, Lennox waved his duchess into the room, still awed by her dazzling beauty after all these years of marriage. “And what has their trousseaux set me back?”

“An enormous amount,” she said with a smile as he captured her hand in his and brushed his lips along her fingers. She blushed. As pretty still as the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had wanted her so much. Still did. Nothing would have stopped him from possessing her. In fact, nothing had. There had been one particular hurdle to jump, but nothing too serious.

“The modiste has done an extraordinary job of dressing them,” his wife said. “Wait till you see them in their new gowns. Mrs. Hartwell has such a way with color and draping. And the lace,” his wife continued, obviously over the moon with pride, “the lace on their cuffs is at least three inches thick, and so finely spun. I can hardly credit how she is able to design such gowns.”

He did not want this private moment with his wife spoiled by talk of the village modiste. “Why you did not send for a modiste from London for a proper trousseau, I will never understand,” he grumbled, thinking of the woman who ran the only clothing shop in Glastonbury. “You know how I adore my girls, nothing is too good for them. I want them to have the best.”

“I like our modest little modiste,” his wife replied. “And their gowns look as though they were designed and made in Paris, not Glastonbury. Besides, our modiste is rather gifted.”

His brows arched. “In what way?”

“The villagers say she’s been blessed by faeries. They say,” his wife murmured, leaning into him, “that the reason her gowns are so magnificent and her stitches so delicate, and her lace so beautiful, is that the faeries visit her nightly and fill her orders.”

A harrowing thought, indeed.

“They say,” his wife continued, whispering in his ear, “that our little village modiste is happy to repay them in their favored currency.”

“Carnalities?”

“Honeyed milk.”

Patting her rump, Lennox sent his wife a lusty smile. “How little you know of the fey, my dear, for they would much prefer humping to honey.”

She blushed at his vulgarity. “What are you working on?” she asked, flipping through the papers that littered his desk.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he cajoled. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them away from her reach. His investments were listed there, and some of them were dubious to say the least. He had no wish for his wife to discover how he made his coin. Her Grace might be beyond accepting if she were to learn that the jewels around her throat were paid for by his investment in a notorious bawdy house that catered to humans and fey alike.

“Your Grace …” His butler coughed discreetly from the door. “You have a caller.”

“Who is it, Salisbury?” he grumbled, not wanting to be disturbed. His wife was feeling much too fine in his lap, and the thought of the Nymph and the Satyr, the bawdy house and all the erotic, decadent delights to be found there, had him aroused. Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like to have his wife and a little fey concubine addressing his needs. He had heard that the fey, particularly the Dark Fey, could fuck like the devil. Perhaps he would make a trip into the city and watch a female fey with her lover from behind the privacy of a peephole. He could put the theory to a test to see if indeed the fey were sexually insatiable. And maybe he’d even have one, too, a little pixie on his cock.

What a delightfully debauched diversion. Perversity was a healthy thing to maintain a man’s vigor as he neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.

“Your Grace?”

“Who is it?” he growled as his palm skimmed his wife’s rounded rump.

“He refused to give his name, Your Grace. He said to tell you that the time has come to pay up.”

Lennox lost his grip on his wife. All thoughts of nymphs and pixies rousing him to a sexual peak flew out of his head. Bloody hell, he did not wish for Salisbury to say another word. Thankfully, the butler correctly interpreted his hard stare.

“Probably Arawn,” he murmured as he patted his wife’s thigh. “Always a prankster, that Arawn. He’ll be wanting to take Prue on a ride or some such thing.”

“I shall leave you alone then, as you hammer out the details of Arawn’s courtship of Prudence,” his dutiful wife replied, slipping from his lap and straightening her hooped skirts. “By the by, do inform Lord Arawn that it will not ingratiate him at all to me if I hear of any of my girls being talked of in such a fashion. Paying up refers to commodities, Your Grace. Our daughters are not things to be traded.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, ushering her along with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” And he wouldn’t. By God, he loved his daughters, and only wanted the best for them.

Lennox’s gaze followed his wife out of the room before fixing on his butler. Damn it, he knew it wasn’t Arawn come to pay a call. He had an idea who the intruder was, and needed a second or two to formulate his plan. His girls, he thought, thinking of them upstairs giggling and laughing as they pored over the boxes of new clothes and petticoats, stockings and ribbons. He must protect them at all costs.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “What manner of man is he, Salisbury?”

The butler frowned. “Rather odd, Your Grace. I’ve never seen him before. He’s tall, fair.a most regal, yet intimidating fellow.”

Lennox felt his throat dry up, from relief or apprehension he knew not. “Send him in,” he commanded, “and allow no one to disturb us.”

As if by magic, the stranger appeared behind the butler, startling the retainer. But Salisbury recovered with aplomb. “His Grace will see you now.”

The man breezed in and slammed the library door shut. For long seconds, his penetrating violet eyes stared him down, and Lennox refused to give in to the urge to loosen his jabot.

“George Jasper Buckman, the fifth Duke of Lennox?” the stranger inquired as he took the tapestry chair in front of the wide desk.

“Yes,” Lennox replied as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“Queen Aine has sent me.”

He felt his face drain of blood. The man smiled, then reached for the goblet of brandy that Lennox had just poured. Raising the crystal to his lips, he took a sip, his eyes scrutinizing his discomfort.

“Queen Aine?” Lennox asked vaguely.

“You received a gift from my mother, did you not?”

“Did I?” he asked, feigning boredom. “I’m afraid I don’t recall being introduced to a Queen Aine.”

The man sat forward, his strange eyes darkening. “She found you weeping over the cradle of a deformed, lame little wretch. Your heir, I believe.”

Robert. His son. His heir. Aye, he had sired a twisted little thing. Lame, broken. He had wandered into the nursery one night, the night of his son’s first birthday and wept as he watched him sleep. The queen had appeared then. The lovely faery queen. She had offered him his greatest wish, a whole son. An heir that could take his rightful place as duke once he departed this world. And she had asked for nothing but a tithe to be paid later on.

It had been twenty-five years since that visit. He had never seen or heard from her again. He had produced the four daughters she had spoken of. They were virtuous girls, just as she had said they would be. He had done everything, and the queen had made Robert strong and handsome—and whole.

“Your heir enjoys a rather rich and healthy life, does he not?” the man asked as he settled into the chair. “I hear he has recently married.”

Lennox didn’t care for the tone in the man’s voice. Hackles raised, he met the stranger’s gaze. “State your business.”

“It is time the tithe was paid.”

“How much?” he asked, reaching into his desk drawer for a bank draft.

The man laughed and crossed his long leg over his knee. “The queen has no need of your mortal money. What she desires are your daughters.”

“All of them?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“All four of them.”

Reaching for the brandy, Lennox swallowed the contents of the goblet in one swig. Bloody hell, this was going from bad to worse. Never had he thought the queen would demand his daughters. Damn it. He’d already bargained with another of their kind for one of his daughters. That was where his wealth had come from. He wanted the best for his daughters, and before the fey had come, his purse was light, the debts heavy. So, he had made another bargain—one for gold, and his daughter’s happiness and comfort.

Christ, he was a man who had been visited by the fey not once, but twice in his lifetime. And both times the blasted creatures had known what he had wanted.

“The queen demands that you take the girls to London. They are not safe here.”

“Now, see here,” Lennox roared, “I take very good care of my daughters and there is nothing on this green earth that I would allow to harm them.”

“You, Your Grace, will have no power to stop the ones who are coming for them.”

“Bah,” he grumbled, waving off the concern. “There is nothing that wealth and influence cannot buy. My girls are safe here under my protection.”

“Others are coming for them. I assure you, they will not be bought off. Your wealth and influence will mean nothing to them. You must take your daughters and leave. At once. Your son and his wife are hosting a ball tonight, are they not?”

Lennox narrowed his eyes, unnerved that this stranger—this … creature could know something so mundane, yet personal, about his son and the masked ball he was giving.

“I am correct, am I not? Your son is having a grand party.”

“Now, see here. I’m not packing up the house and leaving for London today. Besides, we won’t make it to the ball in time.”

“Do you know who I am?” the stranger asked. He appeared bored, but his voice was sharp, full of warning.

“One of them,” Lennox found himself grumbling as he searched for a way out of this tangle. “Like her.”

The stranger smiled. “Indeed. I am Crom, the queen’s son.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you. Salisbury will see you out.”

Two large palms slammed down atop the shiny rosewood, making Lennox nearly jump out of his skin. “Your Grace, you do not amuse me. I am at the length of my patience. You will take your daughters, and you will leave Glastonbury. Today.”

“We won’t make it in time for the ball,” he repeated, “and I am not having my family on the roads in the dark of night. Thieves come out when the moon rises in the night sky. Infidels, sir. Highwaymen with whom I do not wish to cross paths. Imagine what the bastards will do if they discover my daughters and wife in the carriage.”

“You would risk my temper and my considerable powers to a weak roadside thief?”

Lennox bristled at the dangerous tone. “It cannot be done. Not today.”

“I have many powers, and getting you to London before the ball will be no great trial.”

“And what do you expect me to tell my wife?”

“Tell her whatever you need to. I don’t care. Just take the girls away from here. The others have discovered the presence of your daughters. They will stop at nothing to possess them. They are ruthless. Embittered. Dangerous.”

“The others, you say? “ he asked, looking once more upon the golden faery that loomed over his desk.

“The Dark Fey.”

Lennox felt his face drain of blood for the second time in minutes. Christ, what had he done?

“Pack your things and leave the rest to me. The queen will meet with you four mornings from now in the woods of Richmond Park. Do not fail to arrive, or her gift to your son shall be broken.”

“Wait,” he called as Crom prepared to leave. “What does she want with my girls?”

“It is none of your concern now. You accepted the gift and now it is time to pay the tithe.”

“I … I won’t have them hurt, you blackguard. They’re innocent young women. Good girls.”

“Allow me to allay your fears, Your Grace. They shall be treated like queens. One in particular. Chastity,” he said with a sly smile. “She is to be my bride.”

“And all my daughters? Are they to be wed?”

“Yes.”

“To your kind?”

“Of course.”

Lennox swallowed hard. Bloody hell! “All of them?” he asked in a choked voice. His wife would castrate him if she ever discovered that her daughters were wed to the fey as part of a bargain he had made. There had to be a way out.

Crom’s eyes took on a cruel expression as if he could read Lennox’s mind. “Yes. All of them are to wed and to reside in the Seelie Court. So you had better find a way to break the vow you gave to my mother’s enemy. For no daughter of yours shall be wed to anyone but the men of my court.”

“And these Dark Fey, they’re coming?” he asked in a strangled whisper.

Crom smiled, a show of cruel mirth. “Even now one approaches. I’ll leave you to settle your business with him. I suggest you put an end to your dealings with him. After that, you will depart for London.”

Nodding, Lennox fell back against the leather squabs of his chair. His bloody greed was catching up with him now. He had no alternative but to tuck in his tail and run. Perhaps the faery queen would protect his daughters from the damnable bargain he had made three years ago.

Crom vanished, his figure only to be replaced by that of Salisbury. “Your Grace, a Prince Rinion is here. He claims to be well-known to you.”

Indeed he was. “Send him in, Salisbury.”

The tall, imposing Dark Fey sauntered into the study. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, and his long dark brown hair was worn loose, down to his impressive shoulders. With a smug smile he looked about the room. “How very nicely appointed this library is, Lennox. Much more comfortable than the last time I saw it. I am so glad to see you are enjoying my little gift.”

He couldn’t speak. God help him, his normally calculating mind was blank. What if this Dark Fey discovered his deceit?

“Do you recall that night we struck our bargain? Riches beyond belief, all in return for the hand of your firstborn daughter.”

Lennox swallowed thickly. “Aye. I remember.” Three years ago the wretch had presented himself in the back garden, appearing like a fabled magus as he rose from a vapor of fog. His daughters had been dining alfresco beneath a tree, and the beast had not been able to take his eyes off Mary. Darling Mary.

They had been approaching that tender age, when a come-out season and balls were most important. They were already well past the age that most young ladies made their debut, but he hadn’t the blunt to provide a season for them. He had wanted to, but he was so heavily in debt. And to give all four of them a season at once was beyond what his pocketbook could allow.

The wretched faery had known his weak spot. His daughters. And coin.

“'Tis Beltane, Lennox. Your daughter is now three and twenty. I want my bride.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he murmured as he tried to put aside the memory of their meeting, and the fact that despite his love, he had given one of his daughters away for coin. Of course, he hadn’t known what Rinion was then. He’d thought him one of those kind, benevolent faeries, not a member of the Unseelie Court. He’d never have made the bargain if he’d known the bastard was a Dark Fey.

“Tonight. At the end of the Great Hunt. I will claim her then. She is to wear this,” he said, waving his hand toward the settee beneath the window. Magically, a sheer gown made of white faery silk and trimmed in silver appeared. Atop it, a silver and crystal mask glittered in the sunlight. “Make certain she is ready to become my bride.”

Lennox found himself nodding like a fool. Thankfully the arrogant bastard took no notice of his agitated state before leaving the room.

“Midnight, Lennox,” the fey reminded him as he departed, “or I will be forced to come after you.”

The library door shut, and Lennox dropped his head into his hands. Christ, what a mess he was in. But there was nothing to be changed now. He’d been crafty in his dealing with the fey, and once the bastard discovered the truth of their bargain, there would be hell to pay.

His mind, which had been blank, suddenly began calculating and figuring. He thought of a way out of this debacle, and knew it would work, for at least as long as it would take him to remove his family to the capital.

“Salisbury!” he roared as he slammed shut a drawer in his desk. “We’re leaving for London.”

“London, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Within half an hour. Inform my daughters’ maids that the girls are to be ready. And take this.” He thrust a folded missive into the butler’s white gloves. “Have a footman bring this and the clothing on the settee to the seamstress in the village.”

God help him, he thought as he gazed out the window, if he and his girls were not long departed before the Dark Fey discovered his deceit.

“I don’t know why Papa was in such a hurry to leave Glastonbury,” Prue muttered, her mouth pursed with distaste. “It’s most unseemly. People will talk. And poor Mama—” she sighed “—she was fit to be tied.”

“Hmm, he did act as though the devil were on his heels, didn’t he?” Mary said as she looked around the crowded ballroom, watching the masked dancers glide through a minuet. “But Mama is a forgiving soul, she has doubtless forgotten all about it by now. Look …” Mary nodded to the corner where her mother was busily chatting with friends. “She seems rather happy, don’t you think?”

“I was worried the coachman was going to kill the horses,” Mercy added. “I don’t think we’ve ever made it to London so quickly.”

“It all seems very indecorous,” Prue admonished. “Poor Robert and his wife were astonished to find the entire family standing on their doorstep, hours before their ball. It sent the whole house into a flurry.”

“Robert didn’t mind,” Mercy murmured. “He loves us and was quite happy to see us in the threshold, rumpled from our hasty journey.”

With one ear to the conversation, Chastity listened to her sisters chatter on as they stood beside the table housing the punch bowl and champagne. She caught Mary smiling at a masked stranger who had caught her eye. A delicate pink blush painted Mary’s already lovely cheeks.

Quizzically, Chastity wondered what it was that caused such a reaction in her sister. Certainly the stranger was handsome, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make her blush.

“What do you think? “ Mary whispered to her. “He’s fascinating, isn’t he?”

With a delicate shrug, Chastity studied the man who had started to make his way most diligently to where she and her sisters stood. “How can you tell? His face is covered with a mask. In fact,” she said, looking around at the opulent setting of the ballroom, “everyone is masked.”

“Yes,” Mary said, her voice breathy. “It makes it that much more exciting, does it not? Can you not feel it, Chastity, the excitement heating your blood when your gaze locks on a man?”

Chastity studied the pearl trim on the lace cuff of her sleeve. “No, I cannot.”

Her voice was intended to be firm, censoring, but instead Chastity detected a note of bitterness. No, she felt nothing when her gaze skated over the numerous gentlemen who were at the ball. She did not feel warm, or excited, or—

“Look for someone,” Mary instructed, “when you find a man that is pleasing to your eye, let your gaze linger. Imagine pulling the mask from his face, slowly revealing his identity. Imagine that you are the only two in the room. Two strangers, eyes locked, skin burning to be touched, lips aching to be kissed.”

Mary’s voice had dropped to a seductive purr, clearly entranced by the provocative words she used to paint her sensual image. Yet, Chastity had not fallen victim to any warmth or feeling, most especially the awakening of anything amorous.

“Imagine, sister, what it would be like to sample a forbidden taste of sin.”

Frowning, Chastity had always believed that sin would taste rather bitter, not the sweet delight Mary made it out to be.

“My lady, will you do me the honor?”

The stranger was reaching for Mary’s hand. In her other hand, Mary slowly waved her fan, allowing the lace edge to whisper over her exposed skin, making her heavy perfume rise up and linger between them. The man inhaled delicately, his dark eyes closing behind his mask for the briefest second.

“I would be delighted,” Mary said in a sultry voice before snapping her fan closed, allowing the masked gentleman to lead her to the floor.

Prue and Mercy had retreated to the wall, where they were talking with Ruth, their new sister-in-law. Chastity chose to stay where she was, unable to take her eyes off her sister and the man she was dancing with.

Mary’s color was high, her lips parted in a coy little smile that Chastity had never perfected—had never bothered to try. The mask she wore gave her some measure of privacy, and she used it to study the couples dancing before her. The wine and champagne was flowing freely, and the hour had grown late. There was a certain lack of inhibition growing amongst the crowd. She could feel it now, like a seductive fog hovering low on the floor before slowly rising and wrapping around them.

She smelled it, the desire in the air. It was thick, drugging in its mixture of sweetness and spice. It clouded her head, drew her in, made her feel languid and sleepy and immensely relaxed.

Through the eye slits of her mask, she looked around the room, waving her lace fan delicately back and forth, stirring the air in an attempt to clear her head of the luscious scent that seemed to be floating through the air. Straight ahead, the French doors were inched open, and Chastity made her way to them. She needed the air, which would be fresh and mind clearing.

Checking over her shoulder before she slipped through the doors, she saw that no one had noticed her, nor would they notice her exit. It would only be a short reprieve from the dance, but a most welcome one.