Lust (4 page)

Allowing his gaze to linger, he followed the prim and beckoning Chastity as she sauntered down the path to her home—to safety. But Chastity Lennox was not safe anywhere from him—from the desire that was growing inside him.

Every one hundred years, seven virtues were born in the mortal realm, he reminded himself. Chastity had been born for him, to sate the sin inside him. She had been created exclusively for his sexual appetites, and the power that she was his, intended solely for him, was a feeling more dominant than orgasm.

Christ, he wanted her. And he would have her, too.

With a cheeky little backward glance, the dark-haired Mary smiled at him over her shoulder and he returned it, thinking of how soon it was going to be that he would see Chastity smile at him like that.

“Do not get any ideas about her,” Rinion said as he emerged from the woods and came to stand beside him. “She is mine.”

Thane glanced at the fey who harbored Vanity. He was astoundingly handsome. Women fell at his feet. Thane looked back at the dark and exotic Mary, thinking of her and Rinion together. It was good that the lovely little minx was his virtue. She'd give him a hell of a merry chase and Rinion deserved nothing less.

“I have no interest in your virtue, Rinion. I covet my own.”

Vanity laughed as he fiddled with his already immaculately tied lace jabot. “And she looked at you with as much lust in her eyes as a man does a used-up whore.”

“She's chaste,” he replied, finding himself snarling the word.

“Poor you,” Rinion murmured before nudging his mount forward. “My virtue is humility. Already, I'm eager to see that saucy wench of mine on her knees. She will submit, I have no doubt, but I wish to see that sparkling, mischievous gleam in her dark eyes as she does so. Now then, I'm off. I have a virtue to corrupt.”

Thane pulled the reins of Rinion's horse, bringing the animal up short. “Remember the curse. Seduce them. Corrupt their virtues, but don't force them to follow you to court.”

Vanity's brow rose, making him look even more handsome. “That little minx is practically begging for it. I'll have her at court with her thighs spread before midnight.”

With a gentle nudge, Rinion moved his mount forward, but not in the direction of the women. Instead, he cantered for the open plain that had once been fenland
and headed for the mansion. Rinion was a fool if he thought to go riding into the gates, proclaiming his stake on the eldest Lennox daughter. It wasn't going to be easy to get within reach of the girls. George Buckman, the Duke of Lennox, was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to anyone coming near his daughters for even a dance, let alone with the thought of courting them.

Behind him, Thane heard the woods rustle, then Avery and Kian flanked his sides. “Next move?”

Thane pulled the black satin tie from his queue and allowed his long black hair to blow in the wind. He listened to the woods, to the creak of the tree limbs and the whisper of the shimmering leaves. Glancing at the tor, he imagined his court that lay beneath the mound, and the winding labyrinths that led to the magical other-world where the Unseelie Court lay, amidst a faery forest and enchanted waters. His was a magical world beneath the ground of the mortal realm. A court that resembled something out of the mortals' Arthurian legends. The court that was so richly and lavishly appointed with gold and marble, silks and velvets. The court that was cursed and dying. The court that so desperately needed these virtues.

“For now we wait,” he announced. “And we watch.”
And yearn,
he silently added, feeling the burn in his loins and the hunger in his belly.

As he gathered the reins, he turned his mount just in time to see one of them—a faery galloping across the grassy knolls.

Crom.

Avery and Kian stiffened beside him. What was Niall's twin doing out here, and so close to the Lennox estate?

“Bloody hell,” Kian hissed, the sound full of spite, “the Seelie want them, too.”

BEHIND HIS ENORMOUS ROCOCO DESK, THE DUKE
of Lennox pored over the papers that were spread out before him. He had received them that very morning by messenger, from his man of affairs. Scouring the last statement, the duke sat back in his chair and smiled. All seemed to be in order. His wealth had doubled from last year, making him one of the richest landowners in England.
Bloody faery magic,
he thought, then laughed out loud as he reached for his crystal decanter of fine French brandy. It was illegal, of course—England was at war with France. But there was very little that his money could not secure, smuggled French brandy being one of them.

Pouring the golden liquid into his goblet, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Power, ambition, riches. He had them in spades. At last. And all it had taken was a little pact. A tithe, the faeries called it.

“Your Grace,” his duchess murmured as she swished through the opened library door. “The bills have arrived for the girls' trousseaux.”

Leaning forward, Lennox waved his duchess into the room, still awed by her dazzling beauty after all these years of marriage. “And what has their trousseaux set me back?”

“An enormous amount,” she said with a smile as he captured her hand in his and brushed his lips along her fingers. She blushed. As pretty still as the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had wanted her so much. Still did. Nothing would have stopped him from possessing her. In fact, nothing had. There had been one particular hurdle to jump, but nothing too serious.

“The modiste has done an extraordinary job of dressing them,” his wife said. “Wait till you see them in their new gowns. Mrs. Hartwell has such a way with color and draping. And the lace,” his wife continued, obviously over the moon with pride, “the lace on their cuffs is at least three inches thick, and so finely spun. I can hardly credit how she is able to design such gowns.”

He did not want this private moment with his wife spoiled by talk of the village modiste. “Why you did not send for a modiste from London for a proper trousseau, I will never understand,” he grumbled, thinking of the woman who ran the only clothing shop in Glastonbury. “You know how I adore my girls, nothing is too good for them. I want them to have the best.”

“I like our modest little modiste,” his wife replied. “And their gowns look as though they were designed and
made in Paris, not Glastonbury. Besides, our modiste is rather gifted.”

His brows arched. “In what way?”

“The villagers say she's been blessed by faeries. They say,” his wife murmured, leaning into him, “that the reason her gowns are so magnificent and her stitches so delicate, and her lace so beautiful, is that the faeries visit her nightly and fill her orders.”

A harrowing thought, indeed.

“They say,” his wife continued, whispering in his ear, “that our little village modiste is happy to repay them in their favored currency.”

“Carnalities?”

“Honeyed milk.”

Patting her rump, Lennox sent his wife a lusty smile. “How little you know of the fey, my dear, for they would much prefer humping to honey.”

She blushed at his vulgarity. “What are you working on?” she asked, flipping through the papers that littered his desk.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he cajoled. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them away from her reach. His investments were listed there, and some of them were dubious to say the least. He had no wish for his wife to discover how he made his coin. Her Grace might be beyond accepting if she were to learn that the jewels around her throat were paid for by his investment in a notorious bawdy house that catered to humans and fey alike.

“Your Grace…” His butler coughed discreetly from the door. “You have a caller.”

“Who is it, Salisbury?” he grumbled, not wanting to be disturbed. His wife was feeling much too fine in his lap, and the thought of the Nymph and the Satyr, the bawdy house and all the erotic, decadent delights to be found there, had him aroused. Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like to have his wife and a little fey concubine addressing his needs. He had heard that the fey, particularly the Dark Fey, could fuck like the devil. Perhaps he would make a trip into the city and watch a female fey with her lover from behind the privacy of a peephole. He could put the theory to a test to see if indeed the fey were sexually insatiable. And maybe he'd even have one, too, a little pixie on his cock.

What a delightfully debauched diversion. Perversity was a healthy thing to maintain a man's vigor as he neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.

“Your Grace?”

“Who is it?” he growled as his palm skimmed his wife's rounded rump.

“He refused to give his name, Your Grace. He said to tell you that the time has come to pay up.”

Lennox lost his grip on his wife. All thoughts of nymphs and pixies rousing him to a sexual peak flew out of his head. Bloody hell, he did not wish for Salisbury to say another word. Thankfully, the butler correctly interpreted his hard stare.

“Probably Arawn,” he murmured as he patted his
wife's thigh. “Always a prankster, that Arawn. He'll be wanting to take Prue on a ride or some such thing.”

“I shall leave you alone then, as you hammer out the details of Arawn's courtship of Prudence,” his dutiful wife replied, slipping from his lap and straightening her hooped skirts. “By the by, do inform Lord Arawn that it will not ingratiate him at all to me if I hear of any of my girls being talked of in such a fashion. Paying up refers to commodities, Your Grace. Our daughters are not things to be traded.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, ushering her along with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn't dream of such a thing.” And he wouldn't. By God, he loved his daughters, and only wanted the best for them.

Lennox's gaze followed his wife out of the room before fixing on his butler. Damn it, he knew it wasn't Arawn come to pay a call. He had an idea who the intruder was, and needed a second or two to formulate his plan. His girls, he thought, thinking of them upstairs giggling and laughing as they pored over the boxes of new clothes and petticoats, stockings and ribbons. He must protect them at all costs.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “What manner of man is he, Salisbury?”

The butler frowned. “Rather odd, Your Grace. I've never seen him before. He's tall, fair…a most regal, yet intimidating fellow.”

Lennox felt his throat dry up, from relief or apprehension he knew not. “Send him in,” he commanded, “and allow no one to disturb us.”

As if by magic, the stranger appeared behind the butler, startling the retainer. But Salisbury recovered with aplomb. “His Grace will see you now.”

The man breezed in and slammed the library door shut. For long seconds, his penetrating violet eyes stared him down, and Lennox refused to give in to the urge to loosen his jabot.

“George Jasper Buckman, the fifth Duke of Lennox?” the stranger inquired as he took the tapestry chair in front of the wide desk.

“Yes,” Lennox replied as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“Queen Aine has sent me.”

He felt his face drain of blood. The man smiled, then reached for the goblet of brandy that Lennox had just poured. Raising the crystal to his lips, he took a sip, his eyes scrutinizing his discomfort.

“Queen Aine?” Lennox asked vaguely.

“You received a gift from my mother, did you not?”

“Did I?” he asked, feigning boredom. “I'm afraid I don't recall being introduced to a Queen Aine.”

The man sat forward, his strange eyes darkening. “She found you weeping over the cradle of a deformed, lame little wretch. Your heir, I believe.”

Robert. His son. His heir. Aye, he had sired a twisted little thing. Lame, broken. He had wandered into the nursery one night, the night of his son's first birthday and wept as he watched him sleep. The queen had appeared then. The lovely faery queen. She had offered him his greatest wish, a whole son. An heir that could take his
rightful place as duke once he departed this world. And she had asked for nothing but a tithe to be paid later on.

It had been twenty-five years since that visit. He had never seen or heard from her again. He had produced the four daughters she had spoken of. They were virtuous girls, just as she had said they would be. He had done everything, and the queen had made Robert strong and handsome—and whole.

“Your heir enjoys a rather rich and healthy life, does he not?” the man asked as he settled into the chair. “I hear he has recently married.”

Lennox didn't care for the tone in the man's voice. Hackles raised, he met the stranger's gaze. “State your business.”

“It is time the tithe was paid.”

“How much?” he asked, reaching into his desk drawer for a bank draft.

The man laughed and crossed his long leg over his knee. “The queen has no need of your mortal money. What she desires are your daughters.”

“All of them?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“All four of them.”

Reaching for the brandy, Lennox swallowed the contents of the goblet in one swig. Bloody hell, this was going from bad to worse. Never had he thought the queen would demand his daughters. Damn it. He'd already bargained with another of their kind for one of his daughters. That was where his wealth had come from. He wanted the best for his daughters, and before the fey
had come, his purse was light, the debts heavy. So, he had made another bargain—one for gold, and his daughter's happiness and comfort.

Christ, he was a man who had been visited by the fey not once, but twice in his lifetime. And both times the blasted creatures had known what he had wanted.

“The queen demands that you take the girls to London. They are not safe here.”

“Now, see here,” Lennox roared, “I take very good care of my daughters and there is nothing on this green earth that I would allow to harm them.”

“You, Your Grace, will have no power to stop the ones who are coming for them.”

“Bah,” he grumbled, waving off the concern. “There is nothing that wealth and influence cannot buy. My girls are safe here under my protection.”

“Others are coming for them. I assure you, they will not be bought off. Your wealth and influence will mean nothing to them. You must take your daughters and leave. At once. Your son and his wife are hosting a ball tonight, are they not?”

Lennox narrowed his eyes, unnerved that this stranger—this…creature could know something so mundane, yet personal, about his son and the masked ball he was giving.

“I am correct, am I not? Your son is having a grand party.”

“Now, see here. I'm not packing up the house and leaving for London today. Besides, we won't make it to the ball in time.”

“Do you know who I am?” the stranger asked. He appeared bored, but his voice was sharp, full of warning.

“One of
them,
” Lennox found himself grumbling as he searched for a way out of this tangle. “Like her.”

The stranger smiled. “Indeed. I am Crom, the queen's son.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you. Salisbury will see you out.”

Two large palms slammed down atop the shiny rosewood, making Lennox nearly jump out of his skin. “Your Grace, you do not amuse me. I am at the length of my patience. You will take your daughters, and you will leave Glastonbury.
Today
.”

“We won't make it in time for the ball,” he repeated, “and I am not having my family on the roads in the dark of night. Thieves come out when the moon rises in the night sky. Infidels, sir. Highwaymen with whom I do not wish to cross paths. Imagine what the bastards will do if they discover my daughters and wife in the carriage.”

“You would risk my temper and my considerable powers to a weak roadside thief?”

Lennox bristled at the dangerous tone. “It cannot be done. Not today.”

“I have many powers, and getting you to London before the ball will be no great trial.”

“And what do you expect me to tell my wife?”

“Tell her whatever you need to. I don't care. Just take the girls away from here. The others have discovered the presence of your daughters. They will stop at
nothing to possess them. They are ruthless. Embittered. Dangerous.”

“The others, you say?” he asked, looking once more upon the golden faery that loomed over his desk.

“The Dark Fey.”

Lennox felt his face drain of blood for the second time in minutes. Christ, what had he done?

“Pack your things and leave the rest to me. The queen will meet with you four mornings from now in the woods of Richmond Park. Do not fail to arrive, or her gift to your son shall be broken.”

“Wait,” he called as Crom prepared to leave. “What does she want with my girls?”

“It is none of your concern now. You accepted the gift and now it is time to pay the tithe.”

“I…I won't have them hurt, you blackguard. They're innocent young women. Good girls.”

“Allow me to allay your fears, Your Grace. They shall be treated like queens. One in particular. Chastity,” he said with a sly smile. “She is to be my bride.”

“And all my daughters? Are they to be wed?”

“Yes.”

“To your kind?”

“Of course.”

Lennox swallowed hard. Bloody hell! “All of them?” he asked in a choked voice. His wife would castrate him if she ever discovered that her daughters were wed to the fey as part of a bargain he had made. There had to be a way out.

Crom's eyes took on a cruel expression as if he could
read Lennox's mind. “Yes. All of them are to wed and to reside in the Seelie Court. So you had better find a way to break the vow you gave to my mother's enemy. For no daughter of yours shall be wed to anyone but the men of my court.”