Just One Taste (33 page)

W
hat an odd night
! Catherine dismissed Minton and sank into her bed. She could still feel the heat of Lord Harland’s gloved hands on her body and his breath at her ear.

His words…what did they mean? She shivered as she imagined his white teeth at her throat.

She had been mute in his arms, struggling not to expose her verbal tics. Lord Harland must think her a ninny. Rude, too. But she was tired of pretending to enjoy herself. And it was clear Harland had been forced to ask her to dance. Sheffield, his gray-haired friend, had left him no alternative.

Mrs. Gunnison had been delighted to bump into her relative, although their relationship was distant at best. Sheffield was at least two decades younger than the chaperone, and their paths seldom crossed. Like Harland, he was not a habitué of ton parties. Catherine wondered what had spurred them to come this evening.

She was restless as usual, waiting for all the nighttime noises to dissipate in the house. Keeping her hands steady, waiting. Anticipating. It was sweeter when she denied herself, delayed her gratification. In a few moments she’d blow out her candle and lift her nightdress. Drop it to the floor. Reach for the bottle of oil in her bedside drawer and slick it over her tender flesh.

Catherine shut her eyes. If only she’d been brave enough about the book. Like a fool, she’d run off when the clerk gave her such an appraising look. His expression had been so shrewd she couldn’t bear it. He still held the card in his hand as she’d dashed out the door—she should have snatched it away.

She had written the title down so she wouldn’t have to try to say it. The best intentions paved the road to hell. Now the greasy fellow had her calling card. What if he decided to tell her father what she had tried to buy?

Her father might lock her up. Or send her to an asylum where she’d really be bound, and not for her pleasure. Oh, God. There was something wrong with her, and she didn’t know how to fix it. Didn’t know if it
could
be fixed.

Catherine lay still, listening to the click of her mantel clock. Her breathing slowed, and she raised her hips to shimmy out of her nightgown. The touch of linen sheet set her bare body on edge. The candle was extinguished, the vial found, its perfumed liquid poured and signaling her senses.

She knew there were toys one could use to fill oneself, but like the book, she would never be able to ask for them. She would make do with the emptiness, as long as her fingers swirled above. A frisson shook her as she imagined the scarf at her mouth blocking her cries. Ropes at her wrists and ankles. A dark-haired gentlemen who nipped her neck and arranged her body for his delectation.

Her faceless master turned into Lord Harland tonight. He gazed at her with his bright blue eyes, searching deep into her soul. A knot of worry unraveled—she was completely safe with him. He’d know what she was thinking, what she wanted. What she needed, and she wouldn’t have to say a single word.

Her hands became his, nails skittering across exposed skin. A few rough strokes and she was at the brink without the usual effort. Catherine felt the collar tighten at her throat, bonds stretch, gag hold her mouth open though she would be ever silent. When he was done amusing himself, he’d remove the gag and thrust his cock deep into her throat, so deep that—

Catherine convulsed helplessly, her fingers scrambling to pitch each wave higher. She tasted something dark and forbidden, knowing it was only her overactive imagination.

How she
wished
she could swallow Lord Harland’s seed. Wouldn’t he be shocked to learn that the awkward woman he danced with wanted to experience sin first-hand?

On her knees. Over a chair. Her body pressed up against a wall. There were so many possible varieties, they might never get to them all.

Catherine stifled a sob and withdrew her hand. What a fool she was. She’d never do any of it, certainly not with a man as handsome as Nicholas Harland. Her father was apt to marry her off to some widowed old fossil who didn’t care what she wanted as long as she raised his children or lay quietly in the dark, a receptacle of a quick and loveless coupling.

If she belonged to Nicholas Harland, she would sink to her knees and kiss his boot. Beg to submit to whatever struck his fancy.

Catherine rose on shaking legs from her bed and opened a drawer. A tangle of ribbons lay within. She unspooled one and tied it around her throat, imagining Lord Harland’s broad hands circling. It wasn’t tight enough. Frustrated, she pulled it until the ribbon cut into her skin.

Much better. Her room was dark, but she knew where to look next. She had removed the bark of the stick herself, polishing it until it was smooth. It was not often she allowed herself this agonizing pleasure, but tonight was different. Catherine’s skin tingled with a confusing combination of hope and despair. Swiftly, she brought the stick down on her bare breasts and wept with the stinging joy of it.

Again. And again. It was not enough, but Minton might notice—she was a noticing sort of maid. There were times when she looked at Catherine with a smirk, as if she knew the tumbled thoughts of her mistress.

But that was impossible—no one could possibly fathom her depravity.

Catherine stumbled back to bed. Perhaps if her fantasies came to actual life, they wouldn’t be so pleasant. After all, pain was not something one usually sought, nor was confinement. People were after freedom—wars had been fought over it.

But for Catherine, freedom meant something altogether different. She wanted her limbs tethered, her mouth shut. She wanted to feel the certainty of being possessed. Only then would she be protected.

She sighed. It made no sense, and she couldn’t very well ask anyone to make sense of it. She chose not to remove the ribbon, wishing it could be even tighter, and clutched the smooth stick. It would perform additional duty tonight as she inched it carefully into her wet channel. A happy sigh escaped, and she left it lodged within. The end of it poked against her thigh, a delicious reminder. Sleep came almost instantly.

M
inton shook her head
. Pitiful, that’s what Miss Catherine was. The morning light showed her mistress naked in her bed, a thin branch sticking out of her privates. Her breasts sported faint red lines, and a scarlet ribbon was tangled around her neck—like people wore when they were in sympathy to those aristocrats murdered in the French Revolution in the last century.

Minton was too old for this sort of thing. Miss Catherine was mad. A Bedlamite. What would Mr. Kerr think if he saw her now? Perhaps Minton had been wrong to speak to that Mr. Sheffield. He seemed a shifty bloke, but she was tired of covering up for her mistress. The girl needed a keeper—she should be hidden away from God-fearing folk.

Then there were those horrible sketches under the mattress—hair-raising they were. Minton had shut her eyes as she tore out a sheet from the book to prove to Mr. Sheffield everything she said was true. His eyes had lit—mayhap he was just as crazy as the mistress and good luck to the both of them.

The man had given her a letter of reference and a substantial sum, enough that she could find new employment. And that’s exactly what she would do today—leave this wickedness behind.

Minton set the tray down quietly and left the room. Let someone else pick clothes out for the mumbling little fool. The devil had already cursed Miss Catherine’s mouth and looked to be doing his worst with the rest of her body. Scandalous it was to be so shameless, lying there for all the world to see. Why, that stick must have taken care of her virginity! Miss Catherine was nothing but a common whore, even if she had no man to take her in hand.

Minton ran up to her attic room and packed her few possessions. Not much comfort there to miss in the sparse alcove. Mr. Kerr wasn’t overgenerous, up to his eyebrows in books with nary a care for anyone else in his household. Perhaps if Miss Catherine had had more parental guidance, she might have turned out normal. Too late. The girl was four and twenty, bad habits firmly established. What decent man would have her now?

N
icholas’s hand shook
.

Impossible
.

The subject was clearly Miss Kerr, all curly hair and dreamy dark eyes. She was in a classic submissive position on her knees, legs spread, hands tied over her head, a strip of fabric against her lips. Twists of wire surrounded her swollen nipples, and glistening liquid seeped from her slit down her thigh. She appeared to be in a high state of excitement, a man’s fingers threaded through her hair.

Sheffield chuckled. “Still don’t believe me?”

“Where did you get this?” His words were raspy.

“I told you. Her maid. But not for long—the woman has had quite enough. She’s quitting. Apparently Miss Kerr is not as secretive about her private inclinations as she should be.”

The paper had been folded, and Nicholas returned it to its original state. He was inflamed with desire, not something Sheffield needed to see.

“She’s a fetching thing, you must admit. Quite surprising.” Tony poured them both a brandy.

Miss Kerr’s expression had been unmistakable. If the picture depicted the truth of her, she was the purest submissive Nicholas had ever encountered. He was used to women playing at being naughty, and he had no objection to using them to quell his needs. But pretense was different from real abdication of one’s will.

“Even if you don’t marry her, I think she’d be amenable to a good hard fuck. Maybe we can share her.”

Nicholas frowned. An unaccustomed streak of possessiveness overtook him. If he decided to bed Catherine Kerr, he’d do it alone.

“Speaking of sharing, you said there was someone here who’d interest me,” Nicholas reminded him, changing the subject. The possibilities of Catherine Kerr were too perfect to discuss here.

“Ah, yes.” Sheffield swirled the brandy before taking a sip. “I have a live-in slave I’ve trained to my taste, you know.”

Nicholas had not. Before tonight, he’d never been to Sheffield’s house. He raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear more.

“It was quite an arduous process. Took me years. But she’s entirely in my thrall now. The most exquisite slut you could imagine. The word ‘no’ is simply not in her vocabulary. Would you like to meet her? She has orders to suck you off.” He smiled at Nicholas smugly.

Sheffield had a penchant for very young girls, and Nicholas hoped he was not about to encounter some child. “How old is she?”

“Old enough. Eighteen or thereabouts.” Sheffield reached for the bellpull. A harsh-faced woman who was decidedly not eighteen entered the room and curtseyed.

“Is the young lady ready for us, Mrs. Jones?”

“Yes, sir. Ready and willing. She’s most anxious to perform for your guest.”

“Did you tell her who he is?”

“Of course not, sir. I know when to keep my mouth shut.”

“Good woman. We’ll be up in a minute.”

Sheffield was in no hurry to move from his chair. Nicholas felt a stir of impatience, and something else. He would not turn down being serviced by Sheffield’s whore—seeing that drawing of Catherine Kerr had whet his appetite for carnal pleasures.

Sheffield raised the brandy decanter but Nicholas shook his head. He splashed another inch into his snifter. “Nick, you probably don’t know this, but I fancied your mother once. Alas, she was misguided and chose your father instead. To think, you could have been my son. I like to think I’ve done some good keeping your spirits up these past few years. Teaching you the ways of our world. Men like us need to stick together, what?” He clucked. “Terrible tragedies you and your family have suffered, but it’s all over now.”

Nicholas stiffened. He didn’t want to relive the past at this moment. “I’m grateful for your friendship and advice.”

“Oh, I do hope so, my boy. Because I am strongly advising you to marry Miss Kerr. She’s perfect for you.”

“Enough, Tony.” Nicholas tried to laugh off the suggestion. He wasn’t fit to marry anyone.

Sheffield set the glass down. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind once you meet my little slave. Having someone at hand at all times is such a blessing. You could have what I have. It’s bliss, sheer bliss. Come—I know you are curious. Let’s go up.”

Nicholas followed Sheffield up the carpeted staircase. The townhouse was very well-appointed, evidence of his friend’s financial success. But the carpet stopped as they turned a narrow corridor.

Nicholas heard the whip smack across flesh before Sheffield opened the door. Mrs. Jones’s back was to them as she methodically brought a light leather whip down on the girl’s buttocks. Tied to the bed, the girl made no noise into the pillow as she was struck. Judging from the bruising on her snow-white skin, she was well-used to this form of play. Her head had been shaved, and its delicate form touched something in Nicholas he didn’t know he still possessed.

Pity? Compassion? But what business of his was it? The girl was slender yet well-nourished, a diamond collar around her neck. Her prison was pretty enough, furnishings adequate.

“That’s enough, Mrs. Jones. Thank you for preparing her.” Sheffield patted the girl’s rump and stuck three fingers into her cunt. “Wet. She loves a good whipping. Would you like to seek for yourself?”

Nichols shook his head.

Sheffield removed his hand and wiped it on the girl’s arse. “Well, pet, we’re here. What do you have to say?”

“Thank you for my instruction, sir. Thank you, Mrs. Jones.” Her words were muffled by the pillow. And slow. Nicholas suspected she was drugged.

“Get your face out of the pillow and speak up properly. Now, what are you going to do with my honored guest?”

“Suck his cock, sir.” The girl turned, licking her lips obscenely, and Nicholas’s heart stopped beating.

Sheffield’s hand held Nicholas’s shoulder. “She will, too, even if you are her brother. Isn’t that right, Diana?”

The girl nodded, her eyes vacant. She didn’t recognize him—or wouldn’t. The mind often did odd things to survive, as Nicholas well knew.

“But perhaps we need to discuss a few things first. Mrs. Jones, I don’t think the gun you’re holding on Lord Harland is absolutely necessary. I believe we have him just where we want him without any violence. You don’t want to make a fuss, do you, Nick?”

The gun was now trained on his sister. “No,” Nicholas croaked.

So
this
was his punishment for his unnatural urge to punish others.

He would kill himself, and Sheffield too. But first, he would free Diana somehow.