The Duke of Pain, page 2
part #4 of The Rakes of St. Regent's Park Series
“My Lord Craven, Ready for your tour?”
Pan was well aware that Gideon was the Duke of Watford. For privacy purposes, it would not be used. Besides, having everyone “Your Grace”-ing him annoyed him to the extreme.
“Yes, I am ready. No names or titles, not even the coded one, if you please.”
“As you wish. Shall we begin?”
Pan gave him an admiring gaze, taking in his form and formal evening dress. Gideon removed his kid-leather gloves, then his hat. He passed his hat and gloves along with the walking stick to Pan. He decided to keep his cloak on.
Pan momentarily ducked into the coatroom, then rejoined him. The host then led him into a large room across the way. The interior was set up as a photographer studio, with the walls adorned with framed prints showing the attractions available within the brothel. It allowed the customer to compare the goods and services offered before choosing.
“Along this wall is the lovely ladies available for various assignations,” Pan related. “Next to that are the few men I have available. All my employees are clean; treated by a physician, and the rule of the house is sheaths are to be used for whatever act. They are included in the price and are obtainable in abundance throughout the brothel.”
Gideon nodded his approval. Using protection was a strict and non-negotiable rule among The Rakes of St. Regent’s Park. He’d witnessed the effects on others of various diseases and poxes from indiscriminate sex. He was never without protection.
Rumors abounded that the Earl of Oakby recently succumbed to syphilis. Not an outcome Gideon wished for himself.
The debaucheries were all part of the quest, reaching for the next thrill, and he was willing to try anything in order to have a reaction, a stutter of emotion, a hitch in his heartbeat.
Alas, he’d been stymied for years.
He glanced at the photos. The women were generally attractive and posing in provocative undergarments. All different sizes, ages, and races. Quite the varied selection indeed.
“We also offer photographic services for any and all your erotic needs. By appointment, of course.”
Although fascinated by photography, this type of thrill was not to Gideon’s taste, but he would inform Viscount Shinwell, a new prospect member of the group.
“I believe I will start with the third floor,” Gideon answered. He had been given a layout and general description of the club in advance of his visit.
“A good choice. Our voyeur area is quite popular. Please, follow me.”
Pan led him through the narrow, darkened halls. The hiss of gas from the wall sconces intermingled with groans of ecstasy emitting from the many closed doors.
From what he’d been told, the third floor consisted of small rooms with secret alcoves. The voyeur floor also gave any potential customers a clear idea of what was offered at the club. Each door leading into a private niche had a sign. The red side indicated the alcove was occupied, and the blue side meant it was vacant. The first door showed blue. Gideon had received a full accounting of the services and rules of the club before his appointment.
“Do call on me when you are ready to proceed.” Pan bowed elegantly and disappeared into the shadows.
Gideon opened the door and slipped in. A small shelf held numerous pieces of flannel and a basket underneath. A porcelain bowl of water sat nearby. Gideon dipped his fingers in, finding it pleasantly warm. He would give The Velvet Vine and Tackle their due; the den of sin was well equipped, clean, and discreet.
Various peepholes were drilled into the wall next to the shelf at varying heights. Curious, Gideon peered through one of the highest holes. Two men sat on a padded bench. They were young, well built, and quite beautiful.
Gideon watched as the two naked men roved their hands over each other. Exploring muscled biceps and tightly packed pectorals, the two young men moaned with desire. This particular activity did not appeal to him personally. But to each his own. Once the men started to kiss, he exited and slipped into the adjacent vacant recess.
He glanced through the peephole and was shocked to see the Duke of Glenholme and his pretty auburn-haired wife. Gideon shook his head in disbelief.
Now he had seen everything.
Of course, dissipation ran rampant through the aristocracy. How many orgies had Gideon attended at various manors and country estates through his early years? Gideon also had a few short-term affairs with the wives of earls and viscounts—with the men’s knowledge—since they were usually off pursuing their own carnal delights.
This situation was surreal, as he had just attended a ball at the duke’s London townhouse not one month past where everything was in strict propriety and decent society.
What manner of perversity would the duke and the duchess perform?
He watched as Glenholme deliberately and reverently disrobed his wife, laying affectionate kisses on her bared shoulders. Layers were removed and tossed aside. The duchess was attractive; Gideon had always thought so. The duke was surprisingly fit.
The couple lay on the wide settee, and Glenholme proceeded to make love to his wife. Nothing untoward or sinister in the act. The duke was skilled and thorough as he left no part of his wife’s skin untouched by his hands or lips. The duchess arched her back in ecstasy as Glenholme’s head disappeared between her thighs.
Gideon was riveted by the scene.
Clearly, the couple’s deviant thrill was performing for an audience. Gideon never guessed it of the very proper duke and his duchess. Weren’t they concerned about the gossip? Though there was an unspoken rule of privacy to some degree. The aristos had a pact of not revealing each other’s secrets, although they managed to slip out in certain circles.
How strange.
Gideon had never performed oral sex on a woman. He never saw to their needs, touching, embracing, and kissing. Far too intimate and negated his own pleasure. He did not make love.
To him, it was fucking. Nothing else.
I am a selfish bastard.
The duchess cried out, her head back, her long reddish-brown hair touching the wood floor. The duke then proceeded to make a meal out of her breasts. A low, simmering flame grew and slowly spread through Gideon.
This scene was exquisitely erotic and damned desirable to observe.
There was no frantic rutting. The duke made passionate love to his duchess. The look on the duke’s face as he thrust deeply was akin to awe and what Gideon supposed could be love. He felt ashamed for observing such an intimate act. Stepping away from the wall, he was surprised to feel heat flushing his cheeks.
Good God, an emotional response.
Not just arousal, for he experienced that as well, but a rush of emotions he could not name. A sense of loss that perhaps he was missing out on something quite profound.
What utter bollocks.
Gideon exited the small room and stepped into the next alcove. His hand shook as he reached for the door handle. Taking a deep breath and exhaling, he walked in.
The stark contrast from the tender lovemaking he had observed to this torture chamber scene was hard to fathom.
Sir Anthony Tollingham, Knight of the Realm and a respected judge at Chancery, was completely naked and restrained by chains hanging from the ceiling. His arms elevated slightly; the older man glanced toward the door. Mixed with his look of trepidation was also expectation. The man no doubt waited to be birched or flogged.
The door swung open, and a woman strode confidently into the room.
Gideon’s breath caught in his throat.
She was exquisite.
Her golden-honey hair hung in thick waves down her back. Lush and shapely, she wore a black lace bodice with knee-high boots a pirate might wear. Along with black leather gloves, she held a riding crop, which she tapped absently in her palm as she walked around the judge as a lion would stalk its prey. Her light blue eyes were hard and cold. The look on her beautiful face was furious and determined, and Gideon felt the blood rush to his head and to his cock simultaneously.
“Do you wish me to commence?” she asked the judge in a tone of voice that she might use to ask him if he wanted sugar in his tea.
The judge closed his eyes and smiled. “Oh, yes, please.”
“Yes, please—what?”
“Yes, please, Mistress Birch.”
Gideon choked back a snort of derision. These types of games were fascinating to him, and he indulged a few times to be certain. Gideon had once used a cat-o-nine-tails but hardly made a mark on anyone. He just reveled in the role of master in complete control.
Come to think of it, he was the authoritarian in all his salacious sex play.
Could he submit to this beautiful woman and her riding crop?
Not bloody likely.
An almighty thwack filled the air as Mistress Birch laid the riding crop across the judge’s back. The man howled, but the cry ended in joyous laughter. She slid the crop along the man’s back, and he moaned in ecstasy.
“One more, where do you want it? Chest? Back? Your buttocks?” she demanded.
He had seen enough. Gideon stepped into the hall, buttoning his long coat to hide his stiff-as-a-pike cock.
Pan bowed slightly. “Did it meet your expectations?”
“Depends. Just how depraved is this place?”
Pan’s long lashes fluttered coquettishly. “The light birching is as far as we go. No violent acts result in bloodletting or worse. We also do not deal in the abhorrent acquisition of virgins. No children. All here, male or female, are age eighteen or higher and have specific duties. My employees are to be treated with respect, and they will act in kind. They also are clean, inside and out. As I stated previously, I have a physician on retainer.”
“Orgies?”
“They can be arranged for private groups that I approve of.”
Gideon nodded. “I will return at a later date with a few of my select friends. I will ensure that they follow your rules to the letter.”
“Do you wish to know of the price?” Pan asked.
“Price? It is no object. You will find that my friends and I are generous if satisfied.”
“Forgive me, but I did ask about your group, and The Rakes of Regent’s Park come highly recommended. I do hope I have not offended you with the non de plume you are known within these circles.”
“No, I am not offended. I’ll send word when we are ready to make an appointment.”
After heading downstairs, Gideon collected his hat, gloves, and stick. About to depart, he hesitated and turned to face Pan.
“I want—her.”
“Mistress Olivia? With the riding crop, you mean?” Pan asked innocently.
“Yes. Make the mistress available tomorrow night. For me alone.”
Pan bowed. “I will do what I can to arrange it. Where shall I send word of the appointment?”
Gideon reached in his pocket and gave Pan his card. “Send the information there.”
“Good evening.”
Satisfied, Gideon exited the building. There was his carriage, waiting. On-time as usual.
He tried to think of anything else, but he was still hard as oak. His thoughts were filled with Mistress Birch—Olivia.
Gideon never experienced such a swift reaction to a woman, one so vivid it caused his heart to stutter in his chest.
It was beyond her beauty; it was the look in her eyes.
They were as lifeless and cold as his own.
What possessed him to request her?
Guess he would soon find out.
Chapter 2
Olivia Durham stepped out the side door into the private passageway. With the riding crop tucked under her arm, she peeled off the leather gloves and handed them to Pan, who stood nearby.
“The judge is unconscious. He will have to be attended to,” she said without emotion.
Pan’s eyebrows rose. “My dear Olivia, did you beat him into submission once again?”
“The old reprobate wished for me to flay his skin. His request was tempting. However, the mere threat was enough to send him into a swoon. As usual. I’m going to my room to rest.”
Pan reached out and laid a hand on her arm. The contact made her flinch.
“Lord Craven has made a request, specifically for you tomorrow night. I believe the gold room will suffice for the assignation.”
Lord Craven?
She knew he was a duke. Olivia had heard the idle gossip, for he was known far and wide in the trade. “Oh Lord, how he craves!” the women had tittered. The ladies also claimed he was very tall, imposing, dark, and dangerous. His glare could cause ice to form around one’s extremities.
Of course, the same could be said about herself. The ice part, at least.
Olivia frowned. She had also heard he was a beast in bed, not that she planned to fornicate with the depraved duke. None of her encounters had anything to do with sexual gratification. Not for her, at any rate.
“He will pay a great deal of money to be in your company,” Pan urged.
“From what I hear, Lord Craven does not strike me as the type to surrender to anything.”
“Agreed. The duke observed you with the judge, so he is well aware of what you offer. I am surprised he would subject himself to be in a submissive position, but there it is.”
“His real name?” Olivia asked.
“Gideon Broyles, Duke of Watford. You might have heard of his stepfather, Sanford Ellingford, Duke of Whinstone. His reputation eclipses his stepson’s. Cruel bastard. I won’t have him here.”
Olivia was secretly grateful Pan ensured a safe environment for his workers. She had been with him for years at other establishments.
“I haven’t heard of Whinstone, but then I don’t pay close attention to most of the gossip. In fact, I find dukes to be too superior to deal with. I’m not interested.”
Olivia turned to head to her room, but Pan reached for her arm again but then pulled back as if remembering she loathed to be touched. It was not so much as she abhorred being touched, she would just prefer no contact.
“All the safeguards will be in place. The room is completely private, but the hidden bells are in working order should you require assistance. Colin will be down the hall in case you need him.”
Olivia exhaled. “A lot of money, you say?”
“Yes, your share will be quite substantial, I assure you. More than you made all of last month.”
The offer was too good to pass up. Olivia needed and wanted the money. Poverty and the ever-lurking specter of living in the streets caused her to consider the arrangement.
Why not, indeed?
“I will agree to a thirty-minute block. No more.”
Pan handed her the gloves, then bowed slightly. “As you wish, my dear.”
Olivia took the back stairs to the enclosed walkway linked to the house directly behind The Velvet Vine and Tackle. This space was exclusive to the sex workers as they had their own private rooms. Pan made certain the area was neat, clean, and entirely livable and insisted that the staff kept it that way. Her room was her home.
In truth, she had no place else to go.
Once Olivia entered, she turned the gas on the wall sconce, and with a decided hiss and pop, luminance filled the space. Pan had electric lights installed in the brothel’s main entranceway and parlor. But the rest of the establishment, including the living quarters, still had gas illumination.
Her room was cozy, consisting of a single bed with lots of warm blankets and feather pillows. In the other corner stood a plush chair that she used for reading. Further along, was a small fireplace for warmth and for heating water for a cup of tea when the mood struck.
Olivia stripped off her clothes and slipped on her flannel nightdress. She then pulled open the top drawer of the bureau.
What to wear for Lord Craven?
Something to titillate but nothing more. Olivia held up a sheer coral peignoir with a matching coral and gold corset. Might as well give the duke his money’s worth, for he would be looking, and nothing else.
As Olivia did her ablutions, she pondered her fate and what led her to the life she led. If Pan hadn’t found her that night—she shuddered. Pan had become her dear friend and confidant. His real name was James Sidle, and contrary to tittle-tattle, he was not a eunuch. He played up his role around customers.
James had confided to her one night over a bottle of port that his gate swung both ways, as he put it.
“In this cold world, it behooves one to discover warmth and affection where one can find it,” he had explained.
The observation made sense to Olivia, even though she never would find warmth and affection with anyone, regardless of gender.
James was a hopeless romantic who found a profit could be made in the vices of others. There was more to his past, no doubt, but that could be said of everyone working and living at The Velvet Vine and Tackle.
James knew some of her past. He was the only one she had confided in. Her long-term plan consisted of making enough money to live quietly in an isolated cottage either far north or south of London.
It would take a few years yet to have enough money to live on, but she planned to live frugally, planting herbs and vegetables in a garden. Perhaps doing sewing on the side for the extra coin or a little baking.
As long she was alone—and left alone.
After lighting the fire, Olivia curled up in the chair and wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. At thirty-two years of age, there was no reason not to achieve her goal in five years. Then Olivia could have that quiet and solitary life that she hungered for.
If it meant servicing a decadent duke, all the better.
Money is all that matters.
* * *
“Your Grace, your mother awaits you in the parlor. Her Grace is alone.”
Gideon handed his cloak to Hobson, his butler. “We are not to be disturbed.”
“Of course, Your Grace. I have brought a tea tray already.”
Gideon stood in front of the parlor door, trying to regulate his breathing. Why had she come here this morning? They were not close. Gideon held a vast amount of resentment toward her for her marriage to Whinstone—and more.
