Bound in Moonlight (16 page)

With a wicked little smile, Lili said, “Await.”

He hesitated.

She whacked him again. “You heard me.”

He bent over, bracing his hands on his knees.

Setting the paddle aside, she retrieved a little green jar from the leather box, opened it, and scooped up a dab of something that looked like cold cream. “Have
you
ever been fucked in the arse?” she inquired as she spread the unguent over the phallus.

“Yes, mistress.”

“Yes? Who was it, some older schoolmate?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“But not since then?”

“No, mistress.”

“Then I should say you're overdue.” She spread the cheeks of his arse with one hand, while positioning the steel rod with the other.

Dunhurst flinched, looking apprehensive.

“Don't clench,” she said. “It will only make it hurt more.” She shoved the phallus in a few inches, making him howl. “You see?”

“Y-y-yes, mistress.”

“At least I've greased it up for you,” she said as she twisted it this way and that. “That's more than you would have done for me, is it not?”

Dunhurst groaned hoarsely, his face contorted in pain.

“Is it not?” Lili grabbed the paddle and brought it down hard on his reddened rear end. “Answer me, dog.”

Through a pained moan he said, “Y-yes, mistress.”

She continued paddling him as she worked the phallus in deeper and deeper, using quick, hard thrusts. “You need this,” she told him. “You should thank me for doing this.”

“Th-thank you, mistress.”

“When I get it all the way in,” she said, “I'm going to strap it onto you so that it stays in, and then I'm going to chain you to that bed and make you lick me till I've come a dozen times. If you do it well, I shall remove the silver truncheon. If not, I shall leave it in until you weep and beg to have it out. Do you understand?”

“Yes, mistress.”

“Am I fucking you hard enough, or do you need it harder?”

“H-harder, mistress.”He groaned as she jammed the rod in forcefully.

“Do you still need the paddling?” she asked.

“Yes, please, mistress. Make it hurt.”

Caroline backed off the balcony and closed the double doors, drawing the curtains over them, which muffled his rhythmic grunts and servile utterings, but didn't silence them entirely.

She turned and regarded the black leather box warily, speculating on its contents with both apprehension and, if she was honest, lurid curiosity. On the lid was a tooled orchid and chain design like that on the cover of the
Floral Compendium
. She flipped open the latch and lifted the lid.

The interior of the big box was lined in gold satin with indentations shaped to accommodate their contents. One niche, a round one, was empty. The others contained a dizzying variety of items. Many were phalluses, with the steel rod, what Lili had called the silver truncheon, being the largest. Three others—crafted of whalebone, wood, and tortoiseshell—resembled erect penises in every particular, including size. Two, one of bronze and the other silver, were much smaller, with wide bases. And then there was a very curious one made of black India rubber with two separate phalluses, one a bit thicker than the other. There was a small rubber ball, a handful of padlocks, a little polished stone egg, a string of onyx beads with a little handle on the end, two steel balls a little larger than marbles, several curious clips and rings, some black silk cravats, the jar of cold cream, and a bottle labeled
olive oil
.

These items were housed in what Caroline realized was a removable tray. When she lifted it out, she found the bottom of the box divided into three sections. One held coils of chain, another a number of leather straps with buckles, and the third a large black velvet pouch with little golden clasps all around the open end. Upon closer inspection, she discovered that there were two slits in the pouch, which were finished all around with gold thread, like oversized buttonholes. One was about three inches long and lined with little hooks and eyes, the other half that length and with no means of closure. Caroline turned the pouch this way and that, stumped as to what prurient use it might be put—until she held it up with the open end on the bottom. The holes were for breathing, she realized, the larger one for the mouth and the smaller for the nose.

Don't think about all this,
Caroline told herself as she stuffed the hood back into its compartment, returned the tray to the box and relatched it.
Wash up, go to bed, and . . .

And await Lord Rexton's return.

There was no washstand in the room, but there was a door in the corner, and perhaps a bathroom of some sort behind it. Caroline opened the door to discover an elegant, classically inspired room with a round bathtub sunk into the center of the marble floor and satin couches tucked into little alcoves. The walls were lined with painted wall panels depicting naked men and women engaged in all manner of obscene acts, making it seem as if this lavish
salle de bain
had been lifted right out of Pompeii. A sink in a gilt cabinet stood against one wall next to a separate little room that housed a Brahmah water closet, a modern luxury that Caroline had never even seen until her arrival at Grotte Cachée. When she built her new house, she would have Brahmahs installed on every floor, and lovely sinks and bathtubs, with water piped down from rooftop cisterns, as it was here. Why not indulge herself a bit? She would certainly have earned it.

She washed off her face paint and brushed out her hair, then opened the tall wardrobe case to see whether nightclothes had been provided for her. There were hats, bonnets, gloves, slippers, half-boots, fans, parasols, a drawer full of paste jewelry, and several décolleté gowns of salacious design. Noticeably absent was the periwinkle silk frock she'd been given at Lord Rexton's, and in which she'd arrived here. There were quite a number of sheer negligees, a silken wrapper, a riding habit, and all manner of underpinnings. Most of the latter were lasciviously fashioned of transparent netting and lace. There was, however, one surprisingly modest cotton shift that she decided would serve nicely—though whether Lord Rexton would approve remained to be seen.

“Every morning after your bath, every evening before dinner, and every night before retiring,” Mr. Llewellyn had instructed them, “you are to seek your master's instructions as to your manner of dress—or undress, as the case may be—and follow them to the letter.”

As Caroline set about pulling the Inspection gown off over her head, she was impeded by the leash dangling from the front of her collar. She didn't relish the notion of getting into bed with it on, but dare she unclip it herself? The answer really depended on Rexton's intent in purchasing her. His advising her to call him “master” outside of this room, which implied that she needn't do so within it, was no guarantee that he didn't mean to use her as the other slaves would be used. Perhaps he simply considered it silly to be addressed that way by someone with whom he was already acquainted; he appeared, after all, to be a confirmed cynic. He did, however, pledge one hundred thousand guineas for the right to dominate her, sexually and otherwise, for the coming week. Would any man, especially a self-indulgent libertine like Viscount Rexton, part with that kind of money without claiming what he'd paid for?

In the end, Caroline left the leash in place, donned the shift, and blew out the candles. She got into bed, keeping to one edge so as to leave room for Rexton. The sheets were cool and smelled of green grass and clear blue skies. She closed her eyes, trying to imagine herself lying in a field of clover with white linen sheets flapping in the breeze, but her fretful mind couldn't be soothed, and sleep eluded her for some time.

Caroline awoke to the creak of door hinges.

At first, she couldn't recall where she was . . . and then she remembered. She lay on her side, trying not to breathe too loudly as she watched the tall form of a man backlit by moonlight—Viscount Rexton—opening the double glass doors. He was slow and deliberate in his movements, but clumsy nonetheless.

He stepped out onto the balcony rather unsteadily and undressed with his back to her, leaning for support on the stone balustrade and letting his clothes lay where they fell. Nude, his silhouette put her in mind of an engraving she'd seen of Michelangelo's
David
—broad-shouldered, lean-hipped, long-legged.

He turned.

Caroline closed her eyes, but not before catching a glimpse of his privates, which shifted heavily as he moved. She heard the faint squeak of a floorboard beneath the carpet as he approached the bed. He stood still for what seemed like an eternity as Caroline feigned sleep, her heart jittering.

Something nudged her collar very slightly, which was when she realized he'd leaned over and was touching it, manipulating something. She smelled the gin on his breath. It took all her self-control to keep her breathing slow and somnolent as he unclipped the leash and carefully gathered it up.

Caroline sensed him walking away, and slitted her eyes open just enough to follow his movements. She froze inside when he opened the leather box and perused its contents. He lifted the silver truncheon, gave it a bemused look that she could see even in the semidarkness, and replaced it. Coiling the leash around his hand, he tucked that into the box—no doubt into that round compartment that had been empty. He closed the box and set it on the floor, along with Caroline's satchel. Raising the lid of the bench, he withdrew a folded blanket, which he took back onto the balcony, hissing a curse when he stubbed his toe on something.

From where Caroline lay, she could see the top half of the wicker chaise, which was backless, with a scroll arm on either end. Rexton rearranged the cushions, tossing some onto the stone floor, wrapped the blanket around himself, and lay down. It took him some time to accommodate his long body to the too-short chaise, the wicker griping squeakily as he tried out different positions. He finally settled down reclining on his side, facing away from her. Caroline knew he must be uncomfortable, but she just couldn't bring herself to invite him into bed with her.

She closed her eyes and tried to return to sleep, but she couldn't stop wondering what matter of libertinage she would encounter tomorrow, the first official day of Slave Week. Some of the veteran slaves had spoken of a veritable festival of ribaldry, with acts of unspeakable lechery conducted right out in the open, but Caroline suspected they were merely having a bit of fun at the novices' expense.

She
hoped
they were.

They weren't, as she discovered the next morning.

Six

S
IR ALBERT NICKERSON, sitting to the left of Caroline at the long, damask-draped table in Grotte Cachée's oak-paneled dining room, tore off a shred of his brioche and slathered it with butter and Auvergnat fruit paste. He clicked his tongue at the naked Holly, sitting next to him on the Savonnerie rug, hands dutifully clasped behind her.

She looked up and opened her mouth, whereupon Sir Albert fed her the little morsel.

“Get it all,” he said, smiling in approval as the veteran slave licked and sucked the butter and fruit paste off his fingers with sensual relish.

Reaching down, he pulled her onto his lap so that she was sitting astride him face-to-face. He unbuttoned his breeches flap, prompting Caroline to concentrate fixedly on her plate of shirred eggs, but she could still see him as he scooped a dollop of butter out of the pot and reached between them, his hand working busily.

“Take your time,” he told her as she lowered herself onto his rigid, greased organ. “Aye, that's it. That's it.” He let out a deep, luxuriant sigh.

With the exception of Lord Rexton, sitting in glum silence to Caroline's right, the gentlemen at their end of the table watched this performance with open interest. Two or three of the slaveless Unattached Gentlemen—identifiable by their lack of the Black Heart pendant—reached under the table to stroke themselves.

Monsieur Pomerleau, sitting across from Caroline, spoke softly to the dark-haired Poppy, standing next to him. She wore a pink-checked dimity frock that would have looked innocently pastoral but for the two lace-trimmed cutouts on the bosom, framing a pair of creamy breasts with crimson-rouged nipples. She unclasped her hands from behind her and crawled under the table as her master leaned back in his chair, his languorous gaze on Sir Albert and Holly.

Of the half-dozen slaves in the dining room, Caroline was the only one who had been permitted to fill a plate at the sumptuously laden, marble-topped buffet and take a seat at the table. Three had been made to sit on the floor so as to be fed like dogs, the other two to stand in attendance and apparently not be fed at all. They were either entirely unclothed but for their shackles, or lewdly attired in accordance with their masters'wishes—except for Caroline. After bathing this morning, refreshing her sponge, and applying her creams and powders, she'd asked Lord Rexton what he would have her wear, only to be told he didn't give a damn and would rather not be pestered about such things.

She'd chosen a gown of filmy white lawn worn over layers of petticoats so as to render it opaque. Laughable though such an attempt at modesty was after her de facto nudity in front of everyone the night before, it gave her some comfort. Of course, her attire contrasted absurdly with her golden shackles and the leash Rexton had been obliged to clip onto her collar before bringing her down to breakfast.

Rexton's breakfast consisted of a cup of coffee spiked with brandy from his flask—the hair of the dog, of course. He'd slept past ten out on the balcony and awakened sallow and forbiddingly dour. Caroline was surprised at how well turned out he looked after washing up, shaving the morning stubble off his jaw, and getting dressed. In lieu of knee breeches, he wore trousers, as did most of the younger men. However, he was the only one aside from Mr. Brummel, whom Caroline had spied leaving the dining room as they were entering it, who had forsaken the cutaway for one of the new military-inspired coats that buttoned all the way down the front.

“Dunhurst! You look like hell,” greeted Lord Gatleigh as the puffy-eyed marquess trudged over to the table—the end opposite Caroline's, thank the saints—with a plate of eggs and ham in one hand and his walking stick in the other. He set the plate on the table, dragged out a chair next to Gatleigh's, and eased himself into it, wincing.

“Long night, eh?” asked Sir Edmund Byrde, the silver-haired gentleman who had examined Caroline so clinically, teeth and all, but who had failed to purchase a slave the night before.

“Bloody right,” the marquess grunted as he cut off a chunk of ham and pierced it with his fork.

Caroline wondered if he actually remembered any of it, given his mesmerized state.

“Let's feel you come,” urged Sir Albert as Holly writhed atop him with increasing urgency. “Tell us when you're ready.”

“Yes, master.”

Caroline stole a glance at them, amazed that Holly, veteran or no, could be so abandoned before all these leering strangers. It didn't appear to be a performance. Her movements were hectic, her face and breasts darkly flushed.

“Are you close?” inquired her master, as breathless as she.

“Yes, master,” she rasped.

Caroline didn't want this shameless ribaldry to arouse her, but it did. What would it be like, she wondered, to perform a sexual act in front of others? It would be mortifying—to Caroline. Rose, on the other hand, might very well relish the experience.

Lord Gatleigh elbowed Dunhurst. “Gave that luscious little heathen a taste of the old dilly-whacker, what?”

“In every hole. I might've made some new ones.”

“Did you bend her to your will? Did you make her grovel?”

“Had her begging for mercy, even as she was begging for another good, hard boning.” Dunhurst shoved a forkful of ham into his mouth, chewing it with a cocky sneer—until a particularly dramatic groan from Holly drew his attention to Caroline's end of the table. His jaw ceased its grinding as those hard little black eyes lit on her; hot color stained his cheeks.

He abruptly looked away and lifted his teacup, its contents sloshing over the rim to stain the tablecloth. “God's bones!”

He did remember, Caroline realized—all of it, including her having witnessed his debasement at Lili's hands. Dunhurst knew that she knew it was he, not Lili, who had begged and groveled—and, worse, that he was incapable of having penetrated Lili even the once, never mind “in every hole.”

Remembering Dunhurst's impotence made Caroline wonder about Rexton's having slept outside on the balcony rather than in bed with her, where she would have had no choice but to grant him the sexual privileges he'd purchased fair and square. She thought back to the night they'd met, and his having rejected her grudging offer to sleep with him in return for his having saved her from the madhouse. Was it possible that Rexton was impotent, too? She'd heard that could happen from overindulgence in drink.

“I'm coming, master,” Holly gasped, her body taut and quivering. She let out a series of little gasps as Sir Albert arched beneath her, a low, strangled sound rising from his chest.

“Dunhurst, old man,” Sir Edmund said conversationally, as if this lewd scene were not playing out just down the table from him. “Where's your Black Heart? We're to wear them at all times. If that little fop Llewellyn sees you, he'll report you to Riddell, and there will be a black mark next to your name.”

Glowering at his plate, the marquess said,“Little twat wasn't worth a shilling,much less what I would have ended up paying for her. I'd rather be unattached than be saddled with the likes of her.”

Oh, bloody hell,
Rexton thought. What had made him think he could nurse his blinding morning head in peace?

He lowered his coffee cup and leaned forward so as to have a clear view of Dunhurst. “What have you done to her?”

Dunhurst snickered bitterly. “Your concern is quite moving, Rexton, but that one's not the type of chit that warrants fretting over.”

“Where is she, then?”

“How the hell should I know? She was gone this morning when I woke up. Left a note saying she was done being my slave.”

“Una donna astuta,”
murmured the unattached Conte Montesano, sitting to Rexton's right. Catching Rexton's eye, he said, “A smart one, eh?”

“È molto astuta,”
Rexton replied.

“I think I saw her heading toward the bathhouse a little while ago,” offered Lord Madderly, also sans slave. “She was with Cutbridge and that slave of his, the magnificent blonde.”

Pointing his knife at Rexton, Dunhurst said, “I expect you to tear up my note of indebtedness. I don't owe her a bloody penny now.
And
I expect you to send the wench packing. Ship her back to Turkey, or Egypt, or wherever the bloody hell she came from. She's got to go.”

“I'm not so sure about that,” Rexton said.

“What?”

“It's not as if she violated the terms of her contract.”

“Of course she did. She . . . she . . .” The marquess glanced around at his breakfast companions. “She . . .”

“To hear you tell it,”Rexton said, “she allowed you to ‘bend her to your will,' which would indicate that she lived up to her end of the arrangement. However, it would appear that she has chosen to voluntarily sever it and sacrifice the money simply to get away from you.”

There were snickers from some of the gentlemen at Rexton's end of the table. Even Dunhurst's two old chums, Gatleigh and Sir Edmund, appeared to be trying not to laugh.

Dunhurst stared daggers at Rexton. “Voluntary or not, it amounts to the same thing.”

Rexton shook his head. “Not according to the terms of the contract. Since she terminated it, I
will
tear up your note, Dunhurst, but I've got no legal right to expel her if she wishes to stay.”

“To stay?” Dunhurst exclaimed. “As what? She won't be a slave anymore.”

“Re-auction her!” cried Sir Edmund, a sentiment echoed by his fellow Unattached Gentlemen.

“Only if she desires it,” Rexton said. “Otherwise, I must permit her to remain here as a . . . well, I suppose she'll be an Unattached Lady.”

“There
is
no such thing,” Dunhurst said.

“There is now,” Rexton replied. “If the lady wishes it.”

“You son of a bitch,” snarled Dunhurst, his big hands curling into fists as he glared at Rexton down the length of the table. “You've had it in for me ever since last summer, when that fucking Dahlia started maligning my good name. You took the part of a slave against her master. Oh, yes, I know all about it. I know you were the one who made them search my chamber for that imaginary stick of hers, as if I were some common—”

“This conversation is becoming tedious,” said Rexton as he pushed his chair back and rose.

“I know you sent her home with sixteen thousand guineas she hadn't earned and didn't deserve,”Dunhurst spat out.

“Come along, Rose,” said Rexton, pulling her chair out.

“Don't want to hear it, do you?” Dunhurst sneered as he hauled himself to his feet. “Don't want to remember what a dupe you were, handing over sixteen thousand guineas of your own money to a lying little baggage like that.”

Gripping Caroline by the arm, Rexton strode toward the open doorway to the rose garden on the west side of the castle.

“And I know you tried to have me banned from Slave Week,” shouted the enraged marquess, spittle flying. “But Sir Charles and Oliver Riddell knew what I could afford to pay for a slave, and they wanted their cut of it. Not you, though, eh, Rexton? You don't need my money, you've got enough of your own—enough to part with a hundred thousand guineas for that one”—he stabbed his walking stick in Caroline's direction—“just to keep me from having her. Why else would you have done it? It's not like she's anything special, just another greedy little jade like all the rest of them. . . .”

He continued raving as Rexton led Caroline along a brick path lined with cast-iron benches, one of which was occupied by Beau Brummel and his slave, the gamine Jessamine, locked in carnal union. Jessamine, wearing nothing but a man's shirt, knelt on the bench facing the backrest, her hands and feet chained to the cast-iron scrollwork. She winced with every thrust of the dashingly attired Brummel, who stood behind her with one hand clutching her boyishly short hair and the other holding her shirt bunched up so that he could observe the juncture of their bodies.

They were coupling in the Greek manner, Rexton observed. So, evidently, did Caroline, who blanched and looked away as they passed the couple.

She started struggling against his grip as he ushered her down the path to the bathhouse.

“My lord, I beg you,” she implored. “You're hurting me.”

He stopped walking and released her arm, grimacing at the livid marks his hand had left. He pulled his flask from inside his coat and took a drink.

“Is . . . is it true?” she asked as she rubbed her arm. “About you giving Dahlia the sixteen thousand—”

“You are forbidden to speak except to answer a question or acknowledge an order, remember?” He capped the flask and tucked it away.

“But . . .” She looked around them in every direction. “There's no one within earshot, and I thought you didn't care about . . . you know. The rules.”

“Except for the one about you keeping your mouth shut. I'm rather partial to that one.”

Caroline looked up at Rexton with those big, quiet eyes for a moment that felt interminable to him.