Darker Than Love (31 page)

Brinley powered into her, taking quick, hectic strokes. Kitty clenched her sex muscles to his strong solid shaft, indulging in the heavenly feel of him with an uncluttered mind. Her near-orgasm pulsed and swelled, lifting her desire to its dizzy peak. She cried out as the force of it seized her.

‘Greedy little devil,’ gasped Brinley, unable to suppress a boastful grin.

His breath came fast; his thrusts were hot and hard.
Then a grunt turned into a growl and he snatched his cock free. Kitty felt his warm liquid splash on to her thighs and while he knelt over her, panting satisfaction, she secreted his keys into the beaded reticule fastened at her waist.

‘Thirsty work,’ she said, smiling up at him. ‘I reckon you and I deserve a drop of something.’

She tensed as the valet yanked up his trousers, fearing he might notice the missing bunch of keys.

‘I hardly ever come twice,’ she went on, eager to keep his attention. ‘You’ve got a good thrust on you. I like that in a man.’

Brinley visibly swelled with pride, his chest puffing out like a wood pigeon’s in mating season. Oh, men could be so disappointingly easy, thought Kitty.

‘You sly little wench,’ said Brinley, eyeing her fixedly. ‘I’ve spotted your game.’

Kitty’s knees went soft. ‘Oh?’ she replied in a tiny squeak. This was it; she was done for. She was going to be slapped in a cell, tortured and raped.

‘You’re just after a drink, aren’t you?’ he said. ‘You’re only saying I was good. You don’t mean it.’

‘Oh, but I do, I do,’ protested Kitty, her relief giving her words great enthusiasm. She trailed a finger down his torso. ‘I just thought it’d be nice for us to have a bit of wine or something. Then I’ll have to go upstairs for a while, but I could come back later if you like.’ She gave him a coquettish look.

Brinley beamed. ‘Go on then,’ he said, nodding to the dresser. ‘Pour us some Burgundy.’

‘Hark at the gentleman,’ chided Kitty, wiping his seed from her thighs with her petticoat.

She sauntered across the room, hips swaying, looking back at him with alluring smiles. He was riveted. At the dresser, she gently placed her reticule on the pine surface. While her right hand moved glasses and bottles, her left opened the beaded pouch and withdrew one of the four phials. She glugged wine into two goblets,
chattering gaily, then eased the tiny cork stopper from the small glass tube. Into Brinley’s drink, she tipped a generous measure of chloral. She hummed, swirling the liquid, waiting for the crystals to dissolve.

Within minutes, he would be sleeping like a baby.

She returned to him, goblet in either hand.

‘I propose a toast,’ she said. ‘To us, and to a night of endless passion.’

In the silvery, moonlit darkness, Lucy and Sir Julian crept around the rear of Asham House. It was eerily calm, the only sound that of their footsteps crunching lightly on gravel, and the muted rattle of carriages from Piccadilly.

‘This is utterly impossible,’ complained Lucy under her breath.

Julian, several yards ahead, beckoned her over to him.

‘Look,’ he whispered, pointing down to a small window. ‘I’ll bet we can get in there.’ Then, with a stoop and a swinging leap, he jumped softly down into the alleyway which ran alongside the basement.

‘I can’t get down there,’ hissed Lucy. ‘I’ll go and find some steps.’

‘No, you won’t,’ replied Julian, quiet but insistent.

He reached up his hands to her. With a huff of irritation, Lucy sat on the cold ground, legs dangling over the wall, and levered herself into Julian’s awaiting arms. He staggered a little as he caught her, then when her feet touched the floor he clasped her tightly, reassuring and strong.

‘Perfect,’ he said, pressing a congratulatory kiss to her lips.

‘It would have been perfect if Kitty had opened a door for us,’ she retorted, her voice low.

‘Indeed,’ he replied, stroking back a blonde curl that had escaped its pin. ‘But that hasn’t happened. Lucy, my sweet, you are quite delicious tonight.’

They were both dressed in their evening finery: Lucy
in taffeta of aqua blue, sapphires and diamonds at her neck. They had hoped to sneak into Asham, then merge inconspicuously with the guests. So much for that. If things continued in this vein, by the time they reached the party – if they ever did – they would be battered, bruised and outstandingly dishevelled.

‘I should have worn a sack,’ answered Lucy, her skirt hissing softly as she swiped at the creases.

‘And still you would be beautiful,’ murmured Julian, gazing at her with intense blue eyes.

Lucy regarded him steadily, curious and more than a little suspicious. He had changed. Ever since the episode with Octavia, he’d been far more earnest and attentive, less urbane and flippant.

‘Hmm,’ she said cagily. ‘Shall we attempt to find Clarissa, or stay here exchanging flatteries?’

Sir Julian smiled. The sash window was open a few inches at the bottom, and he hooked his fingers under the wood, heaving it up. It scraped loudly in the silence, and they both held their breath, waiting. But there were no answering sounds.

w‘You first,’ whispered Julian. ‘I’ll keep watch.’

Lucy clambered over the ledge, pulling her trailing skirts around her, and jumped neatly into the room. Its corners were shadowy, the only light coming from the moon. Its opaline tints fell upon washtubs, mangles and presses. Lucy scowled and wove through the clutter to try the door. Julian landed quietly from the windowsill.

‘We appear to be locked in a laundry room,’ she said in a sharp whisper.

‘Lucy,’ he said softly. ‘Will you marry me?’

She swung around, glaring. He was on bended knee.

‘We are locked in a godforsaken laundry room,’ she snapped. ‘This is no time for japes.’

‘I’m serious,’ he persisted. ‘Marry me, Luce. I adore you.’

Lucy, prickling with exasperation, could barely speak.

‘I seem to recall you have other commitments,’ she said eventually. ‘Like a wife in Oxfordshire.’

‘Forgive me,’ replied Sir Julian. He dropped his other knee and clasped his hands together as if praying. ‘It was a lie. I invented her.’

Lucy stared at him, dumbstruck.

‘It started some years ago,’ he continued apologetically. ‘There were so many husband-hunting females around and I … Damn it, I just wanted protection. Forgive me, Luce. Please.’

‘Ha,’ she said, incredulous and piqued. ‘You mean you wanted to play the philanderer without offering a thing in return?’

‘Something like that,’ mumbled Sir Julian.

‘And now what?’ she demanded, struggling to keep her voice low. ‘Time’s moving on? Tired of being a bachelor? Worried you might be out of the market in a few years?’

‘No,’ he answered firmly. ‘I’ve found the woman I want to spend the rest of my life with. Say yes.’

Lucy’s heart leapt. It was everything she wanted: Julian’s love, his undivided attention, his ceaseless ability to pleasure her and, to top it all, he was offering her respectability.

‘Well,’ said Julian, raising one knee again. ‘Will you do me the honour?’

Lucy looked at him, her face showing no sign of her joy, only lingering disbelief.

‘I’ll think about it,’ she said sniffily. ‘Now, how do we get out of here?’

Clarissa writhed on the couch, murmuring eager delight.

Between her thighs Lord Marldon’s expert fingers moved, slow and arousing. His caresses and whispered words cocooned her. She felt alone with him, oblivious to the crowd. She had drunk none of the spiked wine, but her natural lusts transported her. For the moment,
with Alec once again taking her close to a peak, Clarissa’s hunger blocked out everything.

‘Aren’t you ready yet?’ he asked softly, his breath tickling her neck.

Clarissa made a beseeching moan. ‘No,’ she replied in a weak voice. ‘Don’t make me do it. Take me here if you must, my lord, but nothing else, please.’

‘But I do not want to take you here,’ he countered. ‘I want to observe you on stage, legs spread, offering yourself to my guests. Offering, that is, Clarissa. I’m not of a mind to force you. Not yet anyway. Far more satisfying to see you debased of your own volition. Well?’

He pressed his thumb against her clitoris, a sweetly fierce pressure, and chafed harder. His fingers played within her wet opening, stroking the fleshy sensitivity of her inner walls. Clarissa’s orgasm beckoned, and she cried aloud, teetering on the brink. Then Marldon’s fingers stopped.

‘Well?’ he asked. ‘Are you any nearer to agreeing?’

Clarissa was, desperately so, but she shook her head. If she had not seen Kitty earlier, she might have submitted to him. She might have gone on to the stage and pursued her satisfaction, no matter how shaming it was. But the housemaid was here for a reason, and Clarissa, for once, clung to thoughts of the future, not the present.

‘This stubbornness is most surprising,’ said Alec, eyeing her sharply. ‘I fear you have not drunk enough, Clarissa. And I thought you would require but a sip.’

He gestured to Kitty, who stood a few feet from their dais, awaiting orders. People in various states of undress were scattered about the sombre room. They sprawled, squirmed and jerked, limbs entangled, inhibitions gone.

‘Bring the wine,’ ordered Marldon.

Kitty approached with her salver, appearing tense and nervous.

‘Didn’t anyone ever tell you,’ said Alec to the maid, ‘that two drinks should be presented side by side, not one in front of the other? Still, if you’re one of Jane’s girls I suppose your expertise lies elsewhere.’

He took the nearest goblet and handed it to Clarissa. Kitty’s shoulders sagged with a released breath, and she smiled slightly. Clarissa assumed the maid was still controlling the drinks. She half-wished it were not so. She did not know how much longer she could refuse Marldon without arousing his suspicion. If only she knew what Kitty’s intentions were. Perhaps she was keeping back the aphrodisiacs to protect Clarissa’s modesty. Poor innocent.

Lord Marldon took the second goblet. ‘Follow my lead, Clarissa.’ He drained the goblet, flicked out the dregs, then set it back on Kitty’s tray. ‘Not very becoming to a lady, I grant you –’ he smiled ‘– but that’s of little concern to you. Now drink.’

Kitty gave Clarissa a covert, reassuring nod. She sipped once, twice.

‘Drink,’ repeated Marldon. ‘Then I’ll escort you on to the stage. And I vow, after every man has had you, you’ll still be … be begging for mmm … begging …’ His voice faded away, and he looked at Clarissa strangely, his eyes narrowing, squinting, his head swaying back and forth. ‘Begging for me,’ he resumed, his voice thick and slurred.

His lips parted, as slow as a tortoise, and he uttered something incomprehensible. Then his eyelids drooped, lifted heavily again, and shut as his head lolled sideways. He slumped on to the couch, mouth ajar, motionless.

‘Come on,’ urged Kitty, tugging Clarissa to her feet.

A figure hurried on to the dais. It was the clumsy maid, Laura. She hastily draped herself over Marldon and fluffed her skirts high.

Clarissa and Kitty moved calmly down the steps, attracting no one’s attention. Clarissa stole a backward
glance to see Laura squirming against Marldon’s inert body, her fingers twisting in his hair.

‘I haven’t killed him,’ whispered Kitty, guiding her to the nearest door. ‘I couldn’t get enough chloral. Sorry.’

Chapter Thirteen

KITTY, HER HAND
fastened about Clarissa’s wrist, led the way along dimly lit corridors.

‘Please, tell me where we’re going,’ implored Clarissa, struggling to keep pace with the young maid. ‘Why can’t I simply leave?’

‘Because the doors are guarded and you look a mess,’ replied Kitty sternly. ‘And because we’re going to see Gabriel.’

‘But he’s gone,’ wailed Clarissa, frustrated and close to tears.

‘No, he hasn’t,’ snapped Kitty. ‘Now come on, before someone spots us.’

Clarissa pulled up short, refusing to budge. She struggled to wrench her arm from the maid’s fierce grip, but Kitty’s hold on her was implacable.

‘I cannot,’ said Clarissa. ‘He hates me.’

‘Of course he doesn’t,’ retorted the maid. She looked hard at Clarissa, her young elfin face alarmingly severe. ‘I’ve done a lot to get you this far, miss. So stop acting like a spoilt child and do as I say.’

Clarissa gave a whimper of defeat and hurried after Kitty, scurrying past door upon door. Occasional gaslights broke into the gloom with halos of feeble yellow
lambency. Finally Kitty stopped and tapped on a bolted door.

‘Gabriel?’ she hissed. ‘It’s Kitty.’

‘Kitty!’ came the soft response, a voice full of hope and relief, so familiar, and yet hauntingly strange.

Clarissa’s blood pounded as Kitty slammed back the bolt and jangled keys. Six did not fit the lock – six agonising attempts in which Clarissa both willed the door to open and willed it to remain shut. Her mind spun with a confusion of memories, of distant tender pleasures eclipsed by vivid depravities. And she did not know which she preferred. She crossed her arms over her bared, rouged breasts, wishing she were not dressed so lewdly, wishing her skirt was not wine-stained like a slattern’s.

The seventh key slid into the lock and turned. The door swung back and Gabriel, his eyes bright as topaz, stepped forward. He looked wild and unkempt, his jaw darkened with stubble, his chestnut hair curling in an unruly tangle. And still he was heart-stoppingly beautiful. The eagerness faded from his face the moment he recognised Clarissa, and he froze.

Despair plummeted into her stomach and she bowed her head, bitterly ashamed.

‘What’s she doing here?’ he demanded. ‘She’s supposed to be celebrating. Betrothal party, isn’t it?’

Kitty exhaled a sharp, angry breath. ‘You two need to sort things out,’ she said impatiently. ‘And you’re not leaving Asham until you do. Get along that corridor. If you make one whisper of protest, I shall scream the place down and then you’ll both be back where you started. Go on. Move.’

Clarissa and Gabriel exchanged glances of assent. Heeding Kitty’s orders, they walked down the corridor, sullen and shy. They did not speak, and they touched only once, an accidental brush of arms as they turned a corner. Both of them pretended not to have noticed.