LORD DECADENT'S OBSESSION (8 page)

always known his friend had the right of it, but somehow he couldn't allow his wife to

leave his mind.

Last night, he had come close, but when he closed his eyes, he remembered a

night, long ago, when he and Abigail were in the exact position he'd found himself in

with Desiree. Her sweet moan when he entered her that night had stiffened his cock

beyond anything he had ever experienced. The way she moved back toward him,

accepting his length and girth, wanting more and more, until he spent himself with a

fury.

Desiree gave and gave, and he took and took, selfishly, under the guise of

mastering her. She had to want more, surely sexual gratification being the least of it, but

he was incapable of giving beyond what he already had. He could spank her and take

her time and again, but he would always leave her unsatisfied, because his heart was

elsewhere.

In the past, whenever he had taken on a private client, the act had been nothing if

not mechanical. He'd thrash them the way they wished, usually with a leather strap or

even a flogger, and then they'd offer their ass or quim for his use. He'd grown

accustomed to that being their role.

Somehow, things were different with Mrs. Desiree Huntington. She wasn't as

jaded as his past clients, yet there was an edge to her. She was independent, knowing

exactly what she wanted, and he suspected it was more than he was giving.

He sat on the edge of the bed, his feet touching the cold wooden floor. He heard

Byrd in the dressing room, trying to be quiet, yet making a terrible muddle of it. "Come

out, you. You must do something with this." Prentice used his hands to indicate just

how disheveled his was, even though Byrd couldn't see him from the other room.

"A bath has been prepared, my lord."

Byrd scurried about, pulling clothes from the clothespress, laying them out for

his master. Prentice shuffled into the dressing room, divested himself of his nightshirt

and sank into the steaming water.

"I'm getting too old, Byrd."

"Yes, my lord."

Prentice sank deeper into the limited space of the tub, his knees bent. The

steaming water seemed to leech into his bones and his tense muscles, relaxing him at

once. He rested his head on the rolled metal edge, his eyes closed. Once again, he

allowed his mind to drift back to Abigail, and the many times he had served as her

maid, bathing her, then combing out her silky chestnut hair. They'd make love for hours

afterward, kissing each other's bodies, touching every possible inch. He'd taught her

how to take him into her warm, wet mouth, and she'd learned to perform fellatio like a

well-seasoned whore. She could indeed perform magic with her tongue.

This was a dangerous path he was allowing himself to travel. His mental stability

was slipping; he could feel it, making him fit for only his own company.

As a germ of an idea became a plan, he saw his next course of action.

"Byrd!"

The valet came running into the room as though his hair were on fire. "Yes, my

lord," he said, pressing his hand to his chest.

"Have my things packed immediately. I am going to the country."

"The country, my lord?"

"Yes, you know that vast wasteland outside the city? The country. I will leave

forthwith. Do not tell my mother or sister where I am, under penalty of death."

"Yes, my lord. How long will you be gone?"

"As long as it takes." Cryptic, yes, but truthful.

Prentice drew his long frame upright, rivulets of water streaming over his body.

Byrd handed him a hefty Turkish towel. He stepped out, dripping water onto the tiled

floor, and proceeded to complete the drying process.

Within an hour, Byrd had Prentice dressed in traveling clothes, his trunk packed

and on its way to the carriage, which waited at the door.

Much had been accomplished by a great many people in order to fulfill Lord

Wycroft's whim to pass an indeterminate amount of time at Wycroft Park in

Cambridge.

As he boarded the well-sprung black carriage, complete with the Wycroft crest,

he gave one more instruction to Byrd. "Inform Mr. Damrill of my departure, and swear

him to secrecy. Tell him,
no one
is to know of my whereabouts. Is that understood?"

"Yes, my lord."

"Under penalty of death, Byrd."

Chapter Eight

It had been nearly a week since Lord Wycroft's mysterious behavior, and

Desiree's hasty retreat from his home. She'd not heard a word from him, which only

served to convince her that the arrangement she had so carefully thought through, was

over.

She'd gone to the Sapphire Club in the hopes that Serenity Damrill could

enlighten her as to what to do next, only to come away even more confused. When she

found that Lord Wycroft had left London, and no one seemed to know where he'd

gone, she was more than convinced that her suspicion was sadly true. Her plan for

revenge had been aborted. She'd lived with it for so long, she felt bereft and cheated.

More than that though, Desiree's mind seemed to constantly drift to thoughts of

what she was missing, of the spankings she had begun to look forward to, and the

potential of great sexual satisfaction.

She had analyzed the last evening they spent together, and found nothing to

warrant the resulting anger he exhibited. She knew he hadn't found out about her plan,

because she had told no one of her intentions. Serenity had not been of any help, and

neither had Wycroft's odd looking butler. If a hawk, and had parrot had a child, the

man would be that off-spring.

Desiree knew the butler was lying but short of beating the scrawny creature with

her umbrella, she knew extracting information from him would be impossible. Bribing a

maid or footman might do the trick, but upon careful contemplation, she decided she

had no wish to cause problems for innocents.

She felt rather dejected when she returned to the Sapphire Club several days

after her last visit, seeking out Serenity's advice. Over tea, they discussed what was

occupying Desiree's every waking hour.

"I have tried to find him, but no one will tell me where he's gone."

"I can only tell you that he left word that his whereabouts were to be kept secret."

Sensing she wasn't going to make a co-conspirator of Serenity Damrill, Desiree

came to the point about her second reason for calling.

"You know of my arrangement with Lord Wycroft?"

"Yes, of course." Serenity smiled. "Your arrangement is much like mine was with

my husband when I first returned. Is there a problem?"

"The problem is, nothing is happening, at least right now."

"And you want to be spanked, is that what this is about?"

Desiree blushed tellingly. "He has such a way of making it sting, and feel so

wonderful all at the same time. It truly heightens the sexual experience afterward. What

will I do if he refuses to see me ever again?"

"Well, I can take care of the spankings for you, if you wish. I have several clients,

and I haven't received a complaint yet. We can always find you a sexual partner,

Desiree, if that is what you wish."

After several moments of thought, Desiree said, "I appreciate your offer, and at

some future date I may consider it, but for now I believe I will wait for Lord Wycroft to

return, if you don't mind."

"Not at all."

The ladies finished their tea, after which Serenity escorted Desiree to the door. As

they passed the library, Desiree heard male voices.

"He is in Cambridge, at Wycroft Park. His missive says he will be there 'til the

end of the month."

The other voice was too low for her to hear, but she had all the information she

needed. Serenity looked at her with admonishment in her eyes. "Don't go to him,

Desiree. He will be angry."

"I understand." Her quim pulsed with excitement as did her bottom. With her

mind reeling, she set out, Serenity trailing behind, chattering about "hell to pay" and

"heads will roll."

"No one told me, Serenity. The information was not meant for my ears. It was

overheard."

"Please, do not do this. It will not turn out well for you or your derriere."

Desiree lightly touched Serenity's cheek. "My dear, that is what I am counting

on."

* * * * *

Almost a fortnight in the country was having a cathartic effect upon him. He

hadn't imbibed spirits of any kind, not liking the wasted days following the
in his cups

nights. He had come to the country for the purpose of clearing his head, sorting through

thoughts and feelings, the need long overdue. He'd come to say goodbye.

Abigail was buried here, and before he could make his way back to London, he

had to manage to put his marriage behind him. When she died, he'd buried her in the

family plot on the estate. Then he'd left for London had never visited her grave, which

also contained the body of their child. Even during this visit, he'd not yet worked up the

courage to do so.

The long days had entailed hell to leather rides on Pegasus, his long-neglected

steed. Black as coal, and of fine bloodlines, the Arabian was his proudest acquisition,

but of little use in London. The grooms took care of him at the Park, helping to justify

Prentice's long absences.

Prentice also spent an inordinate amount of time reading in his well-stocked

library, and ate good country cooking, provided by Mrs. Polton, one of his tenant's

wives. Davies served as the butler and valet, as Byrd didn't travel well, and thought the

fresh air in Cambridge would surely kill him after so many years in London.

The house ran well with a skeleton staff, making the stay all the better given that

there weren't so many servants running about. Though the place was sprawling, he

used few rooms, the others closed off and untended.

He'd spent the last few days, when not riding or reading, thinking of how to go

about putting a period to his life with Abigail. He was ashamed at his behavior toward

Mrs. Huntington on his last night in London, and would have to make amends upon his

return. Since his departure, he'd realized what the problem was, and how to once again

claim his life.

It was the most difficult thing he'd ever had to do, other than burying Abigail

and their child in the first place, but he was a shell of the man he'd been before their

deaths. Mourning for her and their child had destroyed the ready smile and lightheartedness for which he was known.

As sexual a person as he was, he had been merely going through the motions,

reaching climax without gratification. The only thing that distracted him from his grief

was when he was administering a spanking. The all consuming thrill, the sound of

leather on bare ass, the mewling sounds or the howls as the lashes struck, were all a

part what made him who he was. People needed water and air to survive, but Prentice

Hyde need that and so much more, for without a willing spanking partner, he'd just as

soon join Abigail in the cold, dark ground.

He'd never become so lost in the act that he forgot what he was about, and

injured the other person. However, he'd begun to feel anger and deep-seated loss

during his last session with Mrs. Huntington, and instead of spanking his way through

it, he'd fucked her with no concern for her pleasure then further acted the rotter by

demanding she leave without explanation.

When he had looked at her, bent over the daybed, he'd pictured Abigail, and

from there he been lost. It was then he knew he'd have to exorcise the past if he was

ever to have a future.

Since his arrival at the Park, he'd begun to feel healthier, more able to handle the

ultimate task. He'd cried rivers of tears. With every bout, he'd felt cleansed a bit more.

Oh, he would never forget his wife, but what he wanted to be able to do was to

remember her with fondness, and not with all-consuming grief. He wanted to one day

find someone else to love, and not compare, always finding his new partner lacking in

one respect or another. He wanted to be able to give himself permission to go on and

live.

Prentice set a date for the final task at hand. He'd not cried for several days, and

was anxious to return to his life in London. He must make amends, and accept that his

erratic behavior may have well caused Mrs. Huntington to seek other means of

satisfying her needs. However, he would apologize, and attempt to make up for his

rudeness, and self-absorption.

His visit to Abigail's grave would be on the morrow he determined. He would go

early in the morning, and by mid-day, he would be on his way back to London.

* * * * *

Desiree's journey involved an overnight stop at an inn, though the trip could

have been accomplished in one long day, had it not been for a broken axle and weather

that wasn't fit for man or beast.

The Buck and Doe Inn was comfortable, if not luxurious, with sufficient food and

an adequate bed. Desiree had entered the establishment, sans maid and drenched to the

bone. What a miserable turn of events! After the axle broke, nearly toppling the

carriage, and injuring the coachman, she'd had to ride astride, in the rain, the mile back

to the inn.

With the nerves she was experiencing at the thought of presenting herself at