A Shimmer of Silk (2 page)

"Felton, she is mine. Make sure no one else approaches
her. I will abide by the rules but try for her I must."

Felton, Lord Dalrey nodded. "I know how the 'must'
works. Do you wish me to reserve a room?"

Oliver smirked. "If your lady hears you speak so, I
daresay your life would be made miserable for a sennight. I cannot believe my
lady Araminta lets you away with such sentiments. No I use my own, it has all I
need."

Felton shook his head. "It's true, I would not even try.
Never, unless I reserve the room for us could I say such things. But relay that
and not only will I be bollock-less, so will you. Ara would never let me forget
the hearsay of stating such. We are a partnership, but sometimes one needs to
take charge. I will instruct the staff to prepare your room for you from this
instant.
Your usual accompaniments?"

Oliver nodded. Felton was perhaps the only person who truly
understood his darkness and need for things not considered by most to be
normal. For himself, he truly wondered what normal was. In the house on

"I have a desire to stretch her as far as I can,
Felton. Why her I do not know, but, Mademoiselle Jeanne–Louise as she calls
herself, will be mine.
As I desire."

Felton looked at him, and he saw both curiosity and sympathy
in his eyes.

"And if she declines?"

That did not bear thinking about.

"Then I acquiesce with, I hope, good grace. But I
admit, I pray she will not, gad, she can not. After her second act, she will be
mine. I take precedence over any others."

"I will make sure of that, but if she refuses you, I am
pleased you say you abide by that
. 'Tis the rules of the
house.
I would hate to lose such an old friend and valid customer."

Oliver raised an eyebrow. "Do you think that
likely?"

Felton laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. "There
is always a first time, my friend. I will not condone any entertainer being
harassed by a member or guest. She intimated no associations, as did her
partner. Nevertheless I informed her all requests would be passed to them, for
them to accept or decline as they chose. That is sacrosanct. As it is you, and
I trust you, I will relay your request to the lady, and attach my pledge of
openness honestly and truth. However, you are on your honor here. Ara would
withhold my delights for a sennight or more if she knew." His eyes
twinkled and Oliver smirked. He was perhaps one of the few who knew how Ara and
Felton came together and meshed so perfectly.

"I trust you will not be bereft of your conjugal
rights,
or
delights. I will be all
that is necessary."

"Then my money is on you. Shall we drink or dice?"

"Dice, I need a clear head."

He had one. An hour later he once more stood in the theatre,
several hundred pounds better off. Neither he nor Felton had any need to scrimp
and their dicing was always for high stakes, and with side bets. Felton would
admit those to Ara, his wife, and suffer the consequences of that, Oliver had
no doubt. The couple loved to the highest degree, and both enjoyed a lifestyle
Oliver envied. If only he could find someone to complete him in that way.

The orchestra, specially chosen for their ability to create
exceptional music and to keep to a gagging order, began to play softly, and his
body tightened. Something was about to happen. Up until that moment, Oliver
would have scoffed at the idea he was spiritual or fanciful, but now he was not
so sure. His body was tight, his skin tingled, and his nerves throbbed. The
lights seemed sharper, his senses heightened to such a degree he thought he
could hear the blood coursing through his veins. For the first time ever, he
could not dismiss his thoughts as fanciful. He knew, tonight would be the
turning point of his life.
The definitive moment of his life
so far, the start of his life to follow.

The music came to a crescendo with a flourish. The candles
were doused except for those around the stage. The air stood still. He didn't
even laugh at his fanciful notions.

The curtains opened. What he saw made him more aware of anyone,
ever in his life. It took his breath away, made his muscles clench, and his
cock seep pre cum as if there was no tomorrow.

Chapter Two

Deborah checked her props one last time and touched Luc on
the shoulder. "All is fine. Let's do it, get it over, and leave. I'm weary
and ready to rest for a while. Before…" She hesitated. "Well, just
before."

Luc's lips curved into a facsimile of a smile.
"As you say.
I have places to go and people to…well I
cannot say see, but perhaps regard."

Her pulse jumped. "You mean?"

He shook his head. "I mean no more than that. Don't get
your hopes up, love; it is a thin lead at best and probably not even that. I
wish to scrutinize some people, check their movements, and understand their
lives. Then, perhaps, I'll have a better idea how to proceed.
But now."
He held his hand high, and she did the same,
to hit his palm. "Let's show them."

Deborah nodded. She would not question him; he would tell
her all in his own time. They had searched too long to jeopardize anything.
 
The music swelled, slowed, and stopped.
Her cue.
She walked slowly onto the stage and gave the sign
for the curtains to rise. Her stomach churned and her skin crawled. The next
twenty minutes would tax her to the extreme, make her sweat, shake, and
ultimately be sick. It had to be the last time; she would listen to Luc and his
voice of reason. They had amassed enough money, it was time to stop. She could
no longer cope.

The drapes parted, and she switched into entertainer mode.
Even though she didn't look at Luc, she knew he would be the same. It was their
job, no more
no
less.

"Now," she said, so softly only Luc would hear.
Her mouth hardly moved—it would be no aid to a lip reader—and took the vial onto
the end of her tongue. Luc lit a spill from one of the candles. She opened her mouth,
let him slowly move the spill ever closer to her mouth, until the heat seared
her lip, and then with a whoosh, the vial ignited and a sheet of flame spilled
out and shot forwards. In a smooth well-rehearsed movement, Luc held a candle
in the inferno, until it lit. Then he set it in the candelabrum placed on the
stage for that purpose.

With one corner of her mind she registered the shouts, the
applause, and the acclaim. With another she forced her agony down with a
ruthless determination. Fire, hellfire filled her thoughts with no sense of
where it came from. Images of flames, screams, dancing figures, shouts of exultation
vied with each other and pounded her brain. She shuddered and closed her mind. There
were more tricks to suffer. A second candle followed the third and another,
until seven flickering flames highlighted the stage, and a brazier of coals
glowed brightly.

Deborah knew she was good at fire play. As a fire-eater she
excelled but she hated it. So much of what she did brought back her past, that
mist-shrouded scary childhood, running from she knew not what, entertaining
those who she feared. She abhorred that. The sounds and smells of the liquid
used to create the fire, the scent of scorched flesh, the tainted sweat of
those who crowded close to look and hope for injury. The soldiers who looked
on, staring at the young child, those groping hands…
 
She shook and her world spun.

"Deb!" Luc's voice was harsh. She blinked and
re-focused. It was over.

"I'm fine." She turned and accepted the applause.
"Now, sirs."
She spoke above the roar. "We
need an aide. You, sir…" Ah why had she chosen him? Indeed why change
their routine and ask for help, it was not their usual way.

The gentleman in question had a gleam in his eye she
mistrusted. He seemed to be sizing her up for dinner.
Or sex.
Where did that sentiment come from? It was too late to
change her mind. He came forward and bowed.

"Oliver Craster at your service,
mademoiselle."

She might have known. His reputation went before him. Deborah
pushed away the thoughts of the politely couched demands presented to her
earlier. It seemed her attempt to show she could not be coerced was thwarted by
her subconscious, else why decide to ask for help and then chose him?

He bent his head so only she heard, and spoke in rapid,
colloquial French.

"In every way, I am your servant. To fill you, fuck you,
and stretch you to a degree you knew not possible. To hear you sigh, cry, and
experience le petite mort by my hands, mouth, and cock. To listen to sweet
words from your mouth only I will hear in such a way. When you submit and agree
by saying yes My Lord."

If she hadn't been so fluent she would be flummoxed.
So much of that tongue she had trained herself to forget.
As
it was she was pushed to her limits. How dare he?

"Oh I dare. No, you did not speak. I saw it in your
eyes. You need a man, my dear. One who tests you, pushes you, and dominates
you. One who shows you what you are capable
of.
Now
smile, your audience
awaits
."

Smile? She wanted to scream and shout. Nevertheless she did
as he asked.
No he does
not ask,
he commands.
Why,
when normally she would cower at such a tone, was her body diffused with heat
and her quim wet and throbbing?

Across the stage she saw Luc watching them, his eyes wary,
his
body alert for any trouble. She smiled at him. She hoped
it was good enough to reassure him, and turned to the now quiet audience.
Show time.

"My lords, may I introduce to you my new assistant? Lord
Callender has agreed to let me show him the ropes." It was only the
laughter in his eyes that alerted her to her poor choice of words.

"The other way round, my dear, I assure you," She didn't
need his softly spoken riposte to know she reddened. Deborah hoped anyone
watching would see it as heat from the candles. She nodded to Luc, who moved
forward and took Lord Callender with him to divest him of his coat, and no
doubt give him very strict guidelines to adhere to. It seemed Luc was happy
with the replies he was given, because, with a theatrical flourish, he tied a
red cloak around his companion's shoulders.

On a lesser man it could look effeminate; on him it looked
menacing. Once more Deborah questioned her sanity in allowing impulse to take
over from common sense and calling Oliver forward. It was usual for any person
called to help to have a minimal role. So, why this time, had she changed her
habits, and indicated to Luc to give Oliver a larger part to play?

Strange, how I can think of
him as Oliver and not Craster or Callender.
She would think about that later, once
the evening was over.

Deborah switched her mind off and let her subconscious take
over. Indeed it was the only way to endure the next ten minutes. For endure was
the only way to describe it. It gave her no pleasure and no pain. It was
necessary, numbing, and, she had long realized, her way of thumbing her nose at
those who had deprived her of so much she held dear.

Her costume this time was different. No lost ties or
floating skirts that could catch in the flames and burn. Instead she wore a
feminine version of male attire. Form-fitting pantaloons, chopped off above the
knee. A shirt, albeit without ruffles and cut tight over her breasts—allowing
the soft swell of her bosom to be revealed above each nipple—and glossy boots.
Her hair, which had earlier flowed down her back in a waterfall of blue-black
curls, was tied close to her nape. Deborah knew some may consider her
reckless,
however, both she and Luc were safety conscious to
the utmost degree. Illusion and trompe l'oiel worked in their favor every time.

With a flourish, she lifted one long tapering candle from
its place in the candelabrum, and let the wax trickle slowly down the sides.

She handed it to Oliver who took it with a flourish. He
would have been well coached on his duties by a watchful Luc who stood close
by. As the first drop slid lower inch by inch, to be followed by more, her
breath quickened. Images of those globules beaded on her flesh, of the delicate
cobweb tracery they could create, made her breathing choppy and her pulse jump.

To her amazement, the usual sick feeling in her stomach
wasn't there. By now it would be normal for her head to pound, and her skin to
be clammy. Instead her body prickled with something akin to excitement, and the
muscles in her quim pulsed. Her juices gathered in the apex of her thighs, and
she forced herself not to push them together to try and relieve the delicious
tension inside.

Oliver's grin showed her he had noticed, and Deborah gritted
her teeth.
Damn him, he is too
all-seeing.