LORD DECADENT'S OBSESSION (5 page)

Desiree struggled with confusion and arousal beyond comprehension. Dazed,

she turned away.

Just as she was about to walk out the door, Prentice called after her. "Don't

alleviate the tension you feel. If you do, I will know."

* * * * *

He waited a few minutes just to be sure she was gone before he let himself out of

the room. His prick was like stone, and though he knew he could have slaked his need,

he hadn't felt inclined. He rather liked the idea of her begging for his cock . . . and she

would.

He could join in any of the sexual games that were going on at the club, and he

set out to find just the person to help him with his need.

The club was not a brothel, although Lucien saw to it there were high-priced

whores on the premises to care for those gentlemen who came alone. Lucien had

reasoned that if he didn't, the men would go elsewhere to find what they needed. This

way, there was no reason to leave the club. The gaming rooms did a brisk business,

while the ladies draped themselves over any and all available laps, teasing and enticing

until the poor fellows had pricks ready to crumble they were so hard.

Prentice found his quarry in the large drawing room just off the entrance hall.

She wore a gown made of the sheerest ivory silk and was plunking away at the

pianoforte when Prentice walked in with an erection that could kill.

"Fortune, darling."

"Well, if it isn't the marquess. Been spanking a new arse, I hear. Pretty young

thing. Saw her leavin' a few minutes ago, nursing a real red one, I suppose."

"You busy?" He walked up behind her and she swiveled around to face him.

The woman's gaze lowered to his crotch. "Oh, I see you need some help, poor

man." She brushed her hand across his trousers. "What'll it be, my lord? Hands, mouth

or, ah . . . ."

"Or ah." He grabbed her hand and led her back to the room where he'd spanked

Desiree.

Once there, Fortune removed her gown, then undressed Prentice. He wanted to

fuck with abandon, and Fortune had always been a willing partner.

She bent over the footboard and spread her legs wide. He retrieved a bottle of oil

from the bedside table drawer, lubricated his prick and her anus, and entered her with

little warning.

He pumped her, releasing his pent-up frustration with loud grunts. His pace

increased, she moaned, and then it was over. He'd spent himself inside her with violent

thrusts, as he'd done more times than he could remember. Fortune had been the

constant in his life since his wife died, although not for more than a good fuck several

times a week. Grief didn't prevent a man from satisfying his needs.

"My God, woman, you have a tight ass."

"So you say every time you stretch it, my lord."

"Cheeky wench." He swatted her rear-end hard, evoking a giggle.

She stood, and reached for her discarded gown. "I'd let you spank me if it would

help. I haven't had a good thrashin' in days."

"I just gave a good one, and it didn't help, but I appreciate the offer."

"It's gettin' to be that time, isn't it?"

"Yes, tomorrow. Thanks, love, time to go." He tossed her a coin and watched as

she sashayed out the door, exaggerating the wag of her tail.

He could be himself with her. He'd been known as 'Lord Decadent' for so long,

and he wasn't about to make apologies for his sexual proclivities now. He enjoyed

bringing a woman to sexual fulfillment through pain and pleasure. Fortune understood

this, just as Abigail had.

Chapter Five

Desiree wasn't sure if her expectations had been fulfilled or if she was left

wanting. Certainly, his lordship had left her frustrated and mad as a wet peahen, but

when she thought about the spanking he had doled out, she couldn't have been more

pleased.

His final words to her—
"Don't alleviate the tension"—
were ludicrous
.
She was

wound tighter than a ten-day clock, and saw no relief in sight. Heaven only knew when

he would deign to summon her again.

She stomped around her bedchamber. After her husband died, she'd moved here

and had the entire house redone, making it a feminine bastion, complete with chintz

coverings for the furniture and fresh flowers every day. She'd grown quite comfortable

living alone, but for a few servants. They'd come with the house, and since everyone got

on well, she'd never seen a reason to turn them out.

Desiree had never had any particular friends, given that her ruination and

subsequent marriage had alienated her from all decent society. She hadn't cared, until

this moment, when she really needed to rant and have someone confirm to her what a

horse's arse Prentice Hyde was. Getting second opinions was always the best course.

"To hell with him." Her determination to defy Lord Wycroft's edict burned hot

inside her. She'd become quite adept at personal satisfaction, and if there was ever a

time when she needed those skills, it was now.

She undressed and took her favorite toy from her bedside table. A couple of

years ago, she'd been friendly with a Frenchman who'd referred her to the maker of

exquisitely carved wooden phalluses. She'd never been sorry for the acquaintance or the

advice, for she had been able to please herself as often as she liked, and Prentice Hyde

be damned, tonight was one of those nights.

* * * * *

Days passed before Prentice sobered up enough to even spell his name. After

he'd left the Sapphire Club, he'd gone to his St. James Square home and barred anyone

from entering his bedchamber. There, with a supply of brandy, scotch, and Irish

whiskey, he'd gotten putrid drunk and stayed that way for seventy-two hours.

His yearly mourning time had started out as usual, with him walking around the

room, playing over and over again the scene during which, having just given birth, his

Abigail bled to death before the doctor could help her. The baby lived but a few hours

before he too died, all in this room.

As the brandy had dulled his senses, but not his memories, he'd begun to curse

himself for getting his young wife with child in the first place.
God damn my mother for

her constant nagging about filling the nursery.
He'd screamed it until he was hoarse, but he

was angrier at himself than he could ever have been at his mother. He was the one

foolish enough to believe her and her incessant harping on his obligation to produce

children. Though he'd never held his mother in particularly high esteem, that

relationship had fallen even deeper into the abyss since the deaths of his wife and child.

Abigail had been perfect for him. She wanted to participate in the activities at the

club and was curious about spanking and its erotic qualities. He'd been attracted to her

from the moment he'd spied her at the Hargraves' Ball. The courtship lasted but a few

weeks, and they were married by special license in the drawing room downstairs.

Though their private conversations had taken a sexual turn early on, they had never so

much as kissed before the wedding, at her insistence.

The day of the wedding had been torturous, as all he could think of was

stripping her bare and fucking her until neither of them could stand up. She'd pranced

around, acting the role of marchioness, until he could take no more. He'd shooed

everyone out just before dinnertime. As Byrd, his hawkish butler, shut the door behind

the last guest, Prentice carried Abigail up the stairs, barely making it into the

bedchamber before ripping the dress from her body. He'd taken her, that first time,

right on the floor.

He'd never been so aroused in his life. By the time they finally made it to the bed,

she'd been deflowered and ravished several times. Sometime that night, or during the

following erotic and blissful days, his seed had taken hold, and the countdown to her

death began. Now, two years later, he still couldn't face this day without the

reinforcement of liquor-induced oblivion.

Since his home was a bachelor's establishment, where he rarely, if ever, received

guests, Byrd also filled the post of valet.

On the fourth morning, Byrd, a man who greatly resembled a hawk, let himself

into Prentice's bedchamber with his own key. Byrd had strict orders, and understood

Prentice wished to wallow no more than three days and nights, subsisting on nothing

more than liquor. Behind Byrd were two footmen carrying the hip bath. It would be

full, and steaming by the time the butler/valet stripped Prentice out of his rank clothes.

It took a full complement of Cook's food, and Byrd's ministrations, but by noon,

Prentice Hyde was once again sober, and dressed as the Marquess of Wycroft should

be. He certainly smelled like a man of means rather than a Cheapside tavern, and he

didn't look nearly as haggard as he had with three days growth of beard and no food in

him for nearly as many days. Looking in the pier glass over the mantel in the library, he

felt rather satisfied with himself, as though he had accomplished the transformation on

his own.

"Upton's been around, I see, "he commented to Byrd and nodded toward a neat

stack of papers and periodicals sitting on the desk.

"Yes, of course, my lord, every morning."

"Show me what I need to sign; I need to be somewhere."

Byrd raised an eyebrow that conveyed his obvious disbelief.

"Don't look at me like that, you scrawny parrot. Just show me what Upton thinks

is urgent, and I'll be gone."

A quarter hour later, the Marquess of Wycroft was headed toward St. John's

Wood, whatever Byrd gave him to clear his head having worked miracles.

Thoughts of Mrs. Huntington seeped into his brain. He'd left her in quite a state,

and worse, he hadn't cared that he'd done so, though he had a reputation of being

considerate of a lady's needs. He chuckled at the admonition he'd given her as she left

him, and he suspected she had satisfied herself as soon as was physically possible.

His impression of her was favorable, though she seemed to have an edge he

wished to soften. He had seen something akin to heartache written on her face, and he'd

not pay for someone else's transgression. He recognized it plainly, for he carried the

same type of pain—that of loss—and the hurt that naturally follows. She'd come to him,

her mind being submissive, and that was what she would be.

Hampton received him, taking his hat and walking stick. Prentice was at home

here, the only place he felt as such. He was an unabashed sexual being, a true creature

of the flesh, needing the release more than the closeness. He'd never allow his heart to

engage again—not ever.

He strode toward the library, where he'd surely find Lucien at this time of day.

The list of private clients had grown, thanks to his and Lucien's business acumen. And

in the years since Serenity had been back by Lucien's side, the membership had

increased as well. Serenity had become a no-nonsense woman, who'd learned firsthand

how to master the implements needed to provide the clients with the punishment they

desired.

"There you are." Lucien looked annoyed.

"What, can't a man grieve in private without you becoming discomfited by it?"

"Staying foxed for three days is not grieving. Prentice, old man, facing it and

moving on would be more to your benefit."

"Duly noted, now what has happened in my absence?"

Lucien smiled in a way Prentice didn't trust. "You've been much sought after, my

old friend."

"Really? Whose ass needs thrashing, and why, pray, is there no one available to

do so?"

"It would seem Mrs. Huntington has attempted to run you to ground. That

scarecrow you call a butler informed her any number of times that you were not at

home, so she has all but taken up residence here waiting for you to magically appear."

"I don't recall summoning her."

"She apparently doesn't understand how the 'I am your Lord and Master' thing

works."

Prentice felt a dangerous degree of ire rise within. "When was she last here?"

"She's here now, visiting with Serenity. I fear we will have to let a room to her if

you don't set her straight soon."

He'd not been pursued in this fashion since he first inherited at the age of twenty.

He'd always set the restrictions on his associations with clients, and the rules therein.

The first rule was that he set the rules. Once he took on a client, they agreed to abide by

that dictate. Mrs. Huntington had agreed and had summarily broken that agreement.

"Where is she?"

"In Serenity's drawing room."

Prentice turned and walked out of the room, his lips pursed. His stride was long

and determined. He found Marjorie and gave her instructions, which the maid set out

at once to perform. Then he made his way to his usual room. This unexpected session

set his fingers to itching. He'd not planned to summon the lady for several days yet.

However, once this session was over, there would be no doubt as to who was in charge.

* * * * *

"Mrs. Huntington, excuse me, but I am to prepare you for Lord Wycroft, and you

must hurry."

Desiree looked at Serenity, her heart pounding. She hadn't expected to see Lord

Wycroft, though she'd been spending an inordinate amount of time at the club in the