Darker Than Love, page 3
Sir Julian Ackroyd glanced back at the crowd. ‘Who is?’ he asked vaguely.
‘Why, Miss Eulalie Crane, the American heiress!’ Lucy tapped his chest with her closed fan. ‘I see your attention is wandering, Julian. Can your Parisian whores truly be so memorable?’
‘Not at all,’ he replied equably. ‘I was simply wondering who the young swell was. The one who deserved such an alluring smile.’
‘Ah, him!’ Lucy adjusted her boa and pulled her black velvet mantle over her arm. For a brief moment she thought he might be jealous but then she remembered this was Sir Julian. He was never anything other than mildly curious.
‘Nothing of present interest,’ she said. ‘I’m afraid he’s now wed. Like you, dear Julian. But, unlike you, he’s a tiresomely faithful husband.’
‘I see. Then that explains the frosty glare you received from his lady friend.’
‘Did I? Oh, how I should like to reassure her. “He is truly devoted to you, Mrs Wife,” I would say. “Why, the last time he bed me was on the eve of your nuptials. After that, nothing!”’
‘What?’ exclaimed Julian in mock horror. ‘Not even a stolen kiss? I can barely believe it.’
‘Well, maybe just a small farewell between the ceremony and the honeymoon. It was of no consequence.’
‘Then I’m sure she’d be much assured. A husband able to resist the charm of Mrs Singleton shows true fidelity indeed.’
‘Precisely! And is not Mrs Singleton quite irresistible tonight?’ Lucy knew she was. With a cluster of blonde ringlets hanging from her flower-entwined topknot, and dressed in her new gown of lilac taffeta, she had caught many an admiring eye. And her daringly low décolletage had not gone unnoticed by Julian.
In the privacy of their box, he’d spent a great deal of Act Three printing kisses on her bare shoulders and neck. In Act Four his hands had strayed beneath her skirts as far as her thighs, and by Act Five his fingers had played deliciously within the crotch of her silk drawers. She hoped no opera glasses had been trained on her face at the time.
‘Quite irresistible,’ agreed Sir Julian, drawing to a halt and turning to face her. Beneath the lurid glare of a street lantern he looked down at her, his china-blue eyes narrow with desire, and pressed her hand to his lips.
‘Then am I to have my cadeau from your bawdy jaunt?’ asked Lucy. ‘I fear the suspense will kill me before long. Won’t you give me just a tiny clue?’
‘Very well. I have it about my person.’
‘Goodness! Do you wish me to search you?’ she gasped, trailing her hand down the front of his cape. ‘Here in the street? That would be most indecent of me.’ A passing drunk jostled her and she seized the opportunity to press herself to Julian’s strong, broad body. She clung to him, gazing up with sparkling green eyes.
‘Decency has never been a strong point of yours,’ he said, offering her his arm.
‘I’ll have another clue, if you please.’
They strolled further along the Haymarket. Beyond the windows of the gin palaces, coffee rooms and oyster shops, chandeliers sparkled in enormous rococo mirrors. Revellers from the smoke-filled establishments stumbled out on to the street and, above their din, flower-sellers and sundry hawkers touted their wares. Sir Julian and Lucy, moving closer together, threaded their way through the bustling crowd.
‘It is long and sturdy,’ he said after a moment’s thought.
‘Pah!’ she scoffed. ‘I’ve had that before.’
‘It has the potential for affording you exquisite delights.’
‘So, you have brought me nothing but your cock? Daubed in all the flavours of France, I shouldn’t wonder.’
‘Au contraire, ma chérie.’ He leant close to whisper in her ear. ‘My cock has a taste for only the finest English honey-pot.’
‘Why, you lie so beautifully.’ She smiled. ‘Then what do you have for me?’
‘What I have, my darling, is something so delightful that you shall have to wait for it.’
Lucy mused on the various options. In the past, Sir Julian had presented her with deliciously lewd books, French chocolates and liqueurs, underclothes from the finest Parisian fashion houses and, best of all, a magnificent kid-leather dildo. ‘That,’ he’d said, ‘is for the times when I cannot be there to satisfy you.’
She had laughed at those words. Many times she’d made it clear to him that, when he could not be there, she had no shortage of lovers to pleasure her. While Lucy was not averse to lying, her claim was now sadly less accurate than it had been some months ago. At present she had only one other beau, Gabriel Ardenzi, and he’d been somewhat inattentive of late. She would have to find another handsome man, or continue with her teasing half-truths, if she were to keep Sir Julian on his toes. After all, if he could not devote himself to her, then she was certainly not prepared to devote herself to him.
‘Oh, I have news of great import,’ she cried excitedly, suddenly recalling the help Alicia had asked of her. ‘Remember me talking of Clarissa?’
‘Your prim little cousin,’ replied Julian, encouraging her with a raised eyebrow.
‘Well, she’s in London and she’s to be wed. And you’ll never believe who to.’ Lucy paused, eager to create dramatic effect. ‘To Lord Marldon. Isn’t it perfectly dreadful?’
Sir Julian whistled between his teeth. ‘Well, well. I never thought I’d hear those words. Marldon getting wed, eh? Still, I’d heard his coffers were rather low. I assume the dowry is quite substantial.’
‘Oh, but of course,’ said Lucy gravely. ‘And, in return, Clarissa becomes a countess. Apparently her father is as proud as punch.’
‘An excellent match, as they say,’ said Julian. ‘And dear papa? Is he also delighted at the prospect of gaining a son-in-law whose tastes are … how shall I phrase it, a little rare?’
‘Pah!’ said Lucy in a sharp, cross breath. ‘I doubt he’s given much thought to that. Why, the lovelorn fool merely wants Clarissa off his hands, and quickly. Wouldn’t you with a wife like Alicia, eager to mete out punishment at your slightest wrongdoing? A woman always ready to –’
‘Not my taste, I’m afraid,’ interrupted Sir Julian, squeezing her hand and smiling suggestively. ‘You of all people should know that.’
Lucy, for once unable to summon up a breezy, flirtatious quip, sighed despondently. For a moment she fell silent, her thoughts turning bitterly to her own ill-treatment at the hands of Charles Longleigh. He was a selfish browbeater and, worse still, he was a hypocrite. Here was a man who, having once denounced her for all manner of indecencies, was about to marry off his own daughter to the most notorious debauchee in London. Was he completely shameless? Devoid of the merest scrap of conscience?
Why, a woman of the loosest morals would be hard-pressed to keep pace with Lord Marldon, and poor Clarissa was but a sweet young virgin. And, according to Alicia, she was utterly blind to her father’s scheming ways. She had not the faintest notion of what lay ahead of her.
As they turned into Piccadilly Lucy’s spirits rose. ‘But all is not lost,’ she exclaimed, taking a couple of sideways skips. ‘Alicia has hit upon a most wonderful plan. She thinks it prudent to try and make Clarissa somewhat more amenable to Marldon’s demands. And guess who’s been charged with the task of, shall we say, introducing her to a little of what’s to come?’
Julian laughed and shook his head. ‘You haven’t, have you? What on earth for? Marldon’s hardly going to reject the girl, is he? He needs the money. I would have thought he’d take her if she were riddled with the pox and as coarse as a sailor’s drab.’
‘Well unfortunately she isn’t,’ replied Lucy, hooking her arm over Julian’s. ‘So she won’t have the luxury of being cast aside or locked in a broom cupboard. No, apparently – and more’s the pity – the poor girl’s grown into quite a beauty. Alicia, dear Alicia, simply hopes to ease Clarissa’s suffering, reduce the trauma of the conjugal bed.’
‘How very benevolent,’ said Julian, smiling. ‘So, my little Jezebel, what is the plan?’
‘Ah,’ said Lucy enigmatically. ‘First you must show me my gift. Perhaps then I may consider telling you.’
‘I shall hail a cab at once,’ he replied, fingers clicking in the air.
At Chester Square the hansom drew to a halt. To Lucy’s relief, the stucco terraces looked sleepy and the streets were quiet. Nevertheless, she kept her head bowed as Sir Julian reached up to hand the cabman his fare.
Belgravia could be such a gossipy neighbourhood and her reputation was in no need of scandalised embellishments. She’d enlivened quite enough afternoon teas when she’d failed to complete her year of mourning. But Lucy knew that dear old Robert, God rest his soul, would not have wanted it any other way. Black, quite frankly, didn’t suit her, at least not head-to-toe black. Far better, she thought, to pursue all the rich pleasures to which Robert had introduced her. It was a much more sincere and personal tribute to his memory.
Lucy unlocked the door and was satisfied to find the house in hushed semi-darkness. Her servants had long since learnt when to be discreet and when to tend to her. There was no one standing by to take their cloaks and nothing but an oil lamp awaiting her return. Lucy clasped its heavy gilt base and crept up two flights of stairs, forging a path through the gloom with the lamp’s bleary incandescence.
In the bedroom, shadows leapt and Julian’s stretched silhouette momentarily reared up to the high coved ceiling. Either side of the fireplace mirror, gaslights burnt within frosted half-cups, suffusing the room with a honeyed glow and gilding the brass bedstead. Lucy stood the oil lamp on a pier table and turned its wick low.
Oh, how inviting that bed looks, she thought. But she knew she would have to wait. If Julian had a gift, then she was in no position to make demands.
‘And so?’ she said, draping her mantle across the ottoman. ‘Am I to receive my present now?’
Julian, setting down his beaver hat, ignored her. The silence lengthened as, without hurry, he removed his gloves, his bow tie, and finally the high, starched collar of his shirt.
‘Indulge my prurience,’ he said, seating himself in a velvet-cut armchair. Slowly he folded one leg over the other and laid his walking cane across his lap. ‘Tell me, in lurid detail, how you intend to educate this country cousin of yours.’ He smoothed a finger over his pencil-fine moustache, calmly awaiting her reply.
Lucy stood by the dressing table, her mouth curving in a challenging smile. She recognised Julian’s disdainful manner as the prelude to a game in which she could do no right. He would conjure up whatever misdemeanours he could and then, oh how deliciously, she would be punished for them. Her stomach fluttered with apprehension and her groin thrilled with lust.
‘I shall reveal nothing until I receive my present,’ she said, deliberately antagonistic.
‘Do you think you deserve it?’ asked Julian, his stern blue eyes raking her body. ‘I wonder, how did you conduct yourself during my absence?’
Lucy opened her mouth to speak but Julian stopped her with a raised hand.
‘No. Let me guess. Impeccably?’ he asked in a voice heavy with sarcasm. ‘Or perhaps imperfectly? But no. Only a generous soul could say such a thing. Come here.’
He indicated with a tap of his ebony cane where she should stand. Wordlessly, Lucy complied.
‘Or …’ Julian pointed the jewelled tip of his walking stick at the tiers of lace hanging below Lucy’s ruched overskirt. ‘Immorally?’ He lifted her petticoats. Her shoes were lilac satin, a matching rosette adorning each square toe. Her openwork stockings were of the palest blue.
‘Such dainty feet,’ he mused. ‘I should dearly like to know how many times they’ve been up in the air of late.’ He touched the cane to an ankle then trailed the slender staff along the inside of her calf, lifting the weight of the fabrics.
Lucy shuddered as, with agonising slowness, he reached the frilled knee of her drawers.
‘For I am quite sure,’ he continued, raising her layers higher and higher, ‘this is not the only stick you have felt in recent days.’
The cane slid over her silk-clad legs then lightly nudged at the juncture of her thighs. Arousal, warm and dewy, moistened her sex, and her labia twitched with gathering hunger.
‘How many cocks have you had in here?’ he asked, pressing the ebony shaft into the split of her drawers. He slotted its cold, hard length into the damp cleft of her pouting vulva and moved it back and forth.
Lucy, murmuring pleasure, widened her stance.
‘Ah, but still hungry I see. How many?’ Julian tapped the cane against her. ‘How many?’ he repeated fiercely.
‘Why, you do me an injustice,’ replied Lucy, adopting the air of one offended. ‘Or do you pay me a compliment? You’ve been away only nine days.’
‘Tell me about Clarissa.’
Lucy shrugged. ‘I haven’t seen her for some three years, though I’m told she’s a beauty. A beauty, of course, whose naivety is unlikely to appeal to Marldon.’
‘And?’ urged Julian. ‘Your role in solving this slight problem is …?’
‘Is divulged when I receive my cadeau?’ she said imperiously.
Julian teased her pulsing sex with a soft, skimming caress of the cane. ‘Has Gabriel had you during my absence?’ he enquired, his face devoid of all expression.
‘But of course,’ said Lucy airily, wondering if perhaps this time she might provoke him to jealousy.
‘Then your cadeau, my sweet, is between your legs.’
Lucy could not understand him. Did he mean to chastise her with a common walking cane? Surely not. He knew her passions were roused by only the finest implements. Then maybe he was jealous – actually jealous! And he was to torment her by offering a mere stick with which to satisfy her needs.
‘Are … are you to deny me?’ she asked.
‘What do you feel here?’ He pushed the tip into the vent of silk and rubbed it over her tender flesh. ‘Concentrate. What do you feel?’
Lucy felt the smooth glassy end rubbing against her folds and nudging at her engorged clitoris. She felt her plump lips separating, and then the object gliding along her slick, wet crease. She felt it hard and round, poised at the aching mouth of her openness. It felt as if it would slide into her far too easily and she said as much.
‘Like this?’ he suggested. Swiftly, he drove the cane into her moist depths.
Lucy gasped. Though the shaft was slim the head pushing before it was large and bulbous. Julian moved the rod in small rotations, stirring it against the walls of her vagina, teasing her with its strange, shifting pressures. Glorious tremors rushed within her and her desire liquefied with heavy slowness.
‘Does it feel like a cock?’ asked Julian.
‘A little,’ she replied hoarsely.
‘A little cock you mean? Perhaps like Gabriel’s?’
Lucy smiled inwardly. ‘Not at all,’ she breathed. ‘Gabriel has a most handsome cock.’ He was jealous, she thought exultantly. Measurements had never concerned him before.
‘Of course,’ he said smoothly. ‘How foolish of me to think you would accept anything less. Then does it feel like a cane, an ordinary cane?’
‘I’ve never –’
‘Close your eyes,’ he clipped. He withdrew the ebony rod and Lucy’s skirts rustled to the ground. ‘Kneel before me.’
Lucy, her eyes shut, her sex burning, allowed herself to be manoeuvred into place. She felt his open thighs snug against her arms and heard him fumbling with the buttons of his fly. Then his hand cupped her head, bringing her mouth down to touch something rounded and smooth.
It was the cane, salt-sweet and hot from her own body. At Julian’s command she sucked her wetness from the hard knob and explored its contours with her tongue.
‘And now this,’ he said, clutching a handful of her curls. He guided her into a new position.
This time the touch was familiar: it was the satinsmooth head of Julian’s stiffened prick. With an eager mouth, Lucy sheathed his warm length, closing her lips firmly about the thick root. His coarse hair brushed against her nose as she nuzzled deeply, breathing in his musky closeness. Heeding Julian’s words, she sucked back and forth, then played her fluttering tongue over the lines and folds of his swollen glans. Ah, now she understood.
Julian tugged at her hair, forcing her to pull back. Before her eyes was his tumescent flesh, potent and glistening. Next to him was the cane, its purple glass tip moulded and scored to represent the unfurled head of a phallus.
‘Why, it’s stupendous,’ breathed Lucy. ‘What a delicious idea.’
‘And even better,’ said Julian, unscrewing the tip, ‘is this.’ From a hollowed-out shaft slid a short ebony handle followed by six thin leather thongs. ‘An exquisite little martinet,’ he said, curling his fingers to the sculpted haft. ‘As yet, unused.’
Lucy cooed in delight. She watched him draw the strands lovingly across his palm, her skin tingling with anticipation. Oh yes, this was a fine instrument indeed. Sir Julian had chosen well.
She reached out to touch the whip but was sharply rebuked. This might be a gift for her, said Julian, but he was the one bestowing it. He draped the thongs over one of her shoulders then trailed them behind her neck. Lucy shivered. The leather swept lightly across her skin, its soft caress a mockery of the pain it could inflict. Ah, she would have no hesitation in baring her flesh to its stinging kisses.
‘Take off your frippery,’ ordered Julian.
Lucy obeyed. Layers of silk and taffeta pooled to the ground. She unclasped her stays, cast them aside, then slipped off her beribboned chemise. Standing in her drawers, stockings and shoes, she paused and fixed Julian with a lascivious smile. She cupped her hands to her breasts and kneaded the heavy, orbed flesh. She scuffed her thumbs over her nipples, bringing the coral tips to tight points of pleasure. Her body thrilled to her indulgent touches and she murmured with unabashed arousal.
Julian, the trace of a sneer on his lips, drew the thongs of the martinet through his loosely curled fist. When the ends disappeared beneath his fingers, he opened his palm, lashed the air softly, and once more trailed the leather through his large hand.
