A Touch of Autumn (4 page)

But the evening’s entertainment was only beginning.  The costumes had arrived. Hermione must have raided every hire shop in Paris. outfits hung on rails with panniers, hoops and wigs.  She had even organized a make-up artist to demonstrate the best way to apply beauty spots or rouge their cheeks.

Sinead selected a pale gold dress in printed silk.  With the powdered wig, she would be almost unrecognizable. A matching gold mask completed her outfit. Across the room she spotted Andy laughing at Niall’s bewildered expression.  He picked up a pair of pale breeches and held them against him. He would be lucky to get anything to fit him. The breeches were usually worn skin tight, but on Niall’s large frame they would be indecent.

While the attendant was distracted with Niall, Andy picked up a couple of identical costumes and left the room.  They would need them if he was going to switch places with
Killy later.

“Haven’t you got your costume yet?” she asked Niall.

“There’s a small problem. I’ll tell you about it later.” He glanced at his watch. “Come on, we have an hour before the reception starts.”

The glint in his eyes told her exactly how he planned to spend it.

They hurried upstairs. Niall opened the door and pushed her into their bedroom.  Pressing her against the wall, he took her mouth in a lingering kiss.  His hands roved the length of her torso, before coming to rest on her hips. “Did I mention my riding clothes fantasy?”

“Mmmm, but we don’t have time if we want to watch the other guests arriving.” Her costume was already laid out on the bed and it would probably take her at least an hour to put on. “But I have an idea.  Why don’t you dress me?”

His mouth twitched in a wicked grin.  “Okay, but only so I’ll know how to get you out of that outfit later.”

Sinead stripped quickly and hurried into the shower.  When she returned he was fingering the soft linen shift beside the dress. “My grandmother must have worn something like this. Okay, where are the undies?”

“You’re holding them.” Sinead laughed.  “Eighteenth century women didn’t wear any.”

“You’re joking!”

“Nope, just a shift and stockings. Knickers came later and only women with loose morals wore them.”

Sinead sat on the edge of the bed and allowed him to slide the sheer stockings onto her legs. He took his time, smoothing them slowly upwards.  “I think you would have made a very bad lady’s maid. You’re far too distracting.”

“What’s next?”

“The shift first and then petticoats.”

Feeling like a doll, she allowed him to dress her, taking pleasure in the way his fingers lingered on her skin.  This was turning into a very bad idea. A rough, passionate Niall was one thing, but the tender giant was something she hadn’t encountered before.

The look of concentration on his face changed when he encountered the corset. “Now this, I like.”

“You would,” she teased. She stood still as he laced her into it, pulling on the cords until it was tight, but not uncomfortable and her breasts were plump and high – something that he took full advantage of, until she slapped his hand away.

He was bewildered by the hoops.  “Why would you want to wear something like that? You’ll look like a ship in full sail.”

Sinead laughed, he was right.  The 18th century fashions were impractical and over-elaborate. Lastly, he helped her into the gown and stood back to admire his handiwork.

“I don’t know how they got a woman into bed.  It must have taken an army to get her out of her clothes.”

Just then, a tap came on the door. “Monsieur,
c’est George. I have come to help you dress.”

“Fuck,” Niall muttered as he opened the door.

“What’s wrong?” Sinead asked as a slight, grey haired man entered the room.

“They didn’t have breeches to fit me.”

Niall couldn’t believe it. The little man had a full sewing kit in his lap, and intended to sew Niall into his breeches. He already had pins in his mouth as he motioned to Niall to stand in front of him.

“Are you out of your mind? You can’t sew me into them,” he said.

The little man took three pins out of his mouth and gave Niall an indignant look. “But monsieur, it is the only way you can appear in public. As you are not, er, a standard size, we must make accommodations. I assure you, I will not prick you.”

Sinead giggled shamelessly. “I don’t think that’s the prick he’s worried about.”

Niall glared at her, but stood still obediently as the little tailor got busy.  He did not consider himself prudish in the least, but there was something very unsettling about having a strange man’s hands so close to his thighs.

He distracted himself by watching Sinead. She looked gorgeous. The outfit might have been made for her, and showed off her curves to advantage. Every time she moved, her creamy breasts quivered. His mouth watered. He wanted to bite them first, and then lick them better.

Unaware of the effect she was having in him, Sinead wandered around the room, trying to get the hang of moving in the old-fashioned clothes.  She spun around in a quick dance step, her skirts swirling out around her and revealing her ankles in a way that made him dizzy with desire.

His cock swelled.  The tailor
tutted but wisely said nothing. Niall sweated.

How could she do it, reduce him to a state of permanent arousal? His cock was at constant half-mast around her and she seemed unaware of it.

She was a puzzle. The Sinead O’Sullivan he knew, the studious museum curator who spent her evenings reading old books about the history of jewels, should have been totally out of her depth at a fetish party.

She had flinched the first time he had brushed her thigh, as if she wasn’t used to the touch of a man. But she had no trouble being semi-naked during the scene they had performed the previous night, and now she was dancing around the room, positively humming with anticipation of the masked ball this evening.

Sinead was like two different women. For a moment, Niall wondered if her tale of a missing twin was actually masking a psychological condition. Could she have a split personality? It almost made sense. Evil Sinead, who stole the Fire of Autumn, and Good Sinead, who got blamed? But no, if she had a condition like that, her family would know.

But the hairs on the back of his head knew she was lying about something. He wasn’t called ‘The Interrogator’ for nothing. He could tell when he was being lied to. And he knew, deep in his bones, that Sinead O’Sullivan was lying about something.

His cock didn’t care. Sinead leaned over to check her reflection in the antique mirror, and her breasts threatened to burst free from her corset.

The tailor
tutted again.

Niall fought the urge to apologize, which would only make Sinead look around to see what the problem was.

The tailor worked faster, and with audible relief stood up. “You are finished now.”

Niall looked down at himself. There was a double flap at the front which was secured with three brass buttons on either side, but the breeches themselves were ridiculously tight. “How can I move in these things?”

The tailor shrugged. “That is your problem, monsieur.”

Sinead giggled. “Does that mean I can do wicked things to you and you can’t catch me?”

He narrowed his eyes at her. “Not if you value your dignity. In this company, no one would be surprised if I put you over my knee and spanked you.”

She gasped. “You can’t. This is a
FemDom party. You’re supposed to be my slave.”

“There will be other guests at the ball tonight will have a variety of fetishes, and you’ll be masked. No one will know who is spanking your delectable backside.”

He shrugged his way into the velvet frock coat, which was heavy with gold embroidery.  His white neck-cloth was tight around his neck and he tugged it a little to loosen it.

Sinead took his arm as they headed for dinner. Her fingers tightened on his forearm as they went down the stairs. “I had no idea how tricky stairs were if you’re wearing heels, a corset and big hooped skirts.”

The dinner table was laid with crystal, delicate porcelain and silver cutlery. Most of the guests were all dressed in costumes from the 18th century, but they were astonishing in their variety. Servants stood around to help serve them from the authentic silver dishes.

Niall helped Sinead to sit down, and looked around to see who he knew.

Hermione was dressed as Marie Antoinette. No surprise there.  Mimi was close, and Killy winked at him from beside her. He was wearing a distinctive scarlet coat, exactly like the one that Andy had hidden in his room. Princess Samara was wearing an Eastern outfit with diaphanous silk flowing over her ample figure, glittering jewels on her headdress and pointed slippers.

Vadim
Gorev was at the table, his bruises only partially concealed by beeswax make-up and powder. He wore a pirate’s flowing shirt and tight breeches but, Niall noted enviously, he was able to move in his. Just sitting down had caused the seams of breeches to strain.

There were a lot of strangers at the party, and Niall amused himself by trying to work out who was Dom and who was sub. It was something to do with the body language, he decided. The
Doms were more relaxed, more confident as they chatted to their companions. The submissives were lively and intelligent, but there was a subtle deference in the way they spoke to the Doms or Dommes.

Niall made a conscious effort to sit more stiffly. He could do nothing about his size, but he could disguise his natural confidence.

The conversation was lively, and Sinead took part without effort. She crossed swords with Princess Samara about her political views. “Of course, the French knew how to deal with revolutionaries,” she declared. “Send them to the guillotine.”

“Surely you forgot that it was the revolutionaries who sent the Royal family to the guillotine?” Sinead asked, her calm voice a contrast to the fire in her eyes.

“Besides,” Niall said, “The UN takes a dim view of that sort of thing. I believe your kingdom has already felt their displeasure about your human rights record?”

The princess spluttered, and her bodyguard, the only one wearing modern clothes, went on the alert.  She glared at Sinead. “Control your sub, or someone else will.”

Hermione, ever the perfect hostess, was there to smooth over the dispute, and mentioned a new fashion line that was being launched. Samara lost interest in Sinead, though her glance lingered on Niall in a way that made his skin crawl.

She didn’t have to look in his direction to know that Niall was staring at her. The Viking hadn’t stopped sulking since his argument with the princess over dinner.  And how was she to know that he couldn’t dance?  It was a ball, wasn’t it?  What did he think was going to happen?

Now, he was glaring at every man she spoke to, and she had spoken to plenty this evening.  Niall might be tied up with Killy’s problems, but that wasn’t the reason they had come to the chateau in the first place.  She had to find her sister and get the jewel back and if he wouldn’t help her, she would have to do it herself.

But none of the guests she had spoken to so far had encountered La Petite Rouge
Anglaise recently.  It was as if her sister had vanished.

And that damned corset.  Niall had laced her too tightly and her muscles ached from the strain.  The elaborately coiffed wig, piled high with curls and tiny glass beads weighed a ton. How on earth had fashionably dressed women survived in the 18th century? Just wearing the clothes constituted a workout.

A rotund Italian she had danced with earlier approached her and she declined gracefully.  Her shoes were pinching. She hadn’t done this type of dancing for a long time but she had barely sat down all night - cotillions, country dancing and minutes. Some of her partners really knew their stuff.

Sinead accepted a glass of sparkling water from a passing waiter and drained it before finding a seat at the edge of a group.

“Enjoying yourself, Red?”  The American accent startled her and she turned her head to find a middle-aged man in a silver mask and matching frock-coat smiling at her.

Sinead switched to English.  “Hi, how are you?

His eyes barely met hers before drifting south to admire her bosom.  She hated men who spoke to her breasts, but he was the first person she had met all evening who knew her sister. Sinead forced a smile onto her face and pulled out her fan. If he started drooling, she would slap him with it.

“Great.  In fact, I’ve just been transferred to our European office.”

“Wonderful,” she agreed.  It didn’t sound like he had met her sister recently. She was just about to excuse herself when he spoke again.

“Have you been back to New York recently?”

New York?  Sinead’s heart fell. If her sister travelled that much, she was never going to be able to track her down.

“Here, let me give you my card.  Ring me and we’ll organize a date.”  He gave her a look that was almost a leer. “I’ve been a very bad boy.”

Sinead took the card from him and stood up and smiled.  She’d had enough of his company. “I bet you have.”

She tucked his card into her dress and scanned the room to find that a tight-lipped Niall was staring at her.  She was in big trouble.  As she crossed the ballroom the music changed and she felt a tap on her shoulder.

“Chérie, I believe this is our dance,” Vadim said.

The strains of a waltz echoed around the room.  In the 18th century the dance had been considered scandalous because of the unseemly body contact between the couple.

Sinead nodded politely.  Niall had told her to stay away from Vadim, but she couldn’t walk away from him without causing a scene. She placed one hand on his shoulder and allowed him to take her other hand into his. Vadim pulled her close against him and led her into the dance.

He was good, she conceded, as he whirled her around the dance floor, but she didn’t like how closely he was holding her.  Since she had met Niall, she had developed an aversion to other men touching her. She glanced around the crowded room but couldn’t see him.

“Looking for your pet, chérie?”  Vadim asked. “He’s a bit of a brute. Not your usual style.”

“And what is my usual style?” She kept her tone light and flirtatious.