Chapter Sixteen
As his carriage pulled away from Olivia’s Bloomsburg lodgings and the residue from his own pleasure began to dry in his smalls, Lord Montaigne, supreme rakehell, knew that he had been utterly destroyed for life.
The night scenes of London rolled past his window, and he looked out at them unseeing. Usually, he enjoyed watching the people of London revel in the evening. He liked picking out the bright dresses of the ladies and the striped waistcoats of the gentlemen, spotting couples wending themselves through the crowds and away to some private place. The sounds of the fruit and pie-sellers, still hawking their wares despite the late hour, cheered him, and he was pleased by the sight of working people, from the charwoman to the banker, efficiently making their way through the streets towards home. London usually absorbed him and bolstered him. But now he looked out on these familiar sights and absorbed nothing.
Because of her.
In the last few years, convinced he would never see Olivia Watson again, he had begun to tell himself that he had imagined their connection. Or, rather, not that he had imagined it, but that it had come about at so tender an age for him that he would have felt that way with anyone to whom he took more than a common fancy. Before she had reappeared, he had made real progress convincing himself of this. He had been able to look at a few women and feel something more than the most vulgar interest. He had begun to imagine a day, in the somewhat distant future, when he might be able to take a wife. Such a wife, he knew, would not result in the kind of relationship that drove him to distraction or made him beg, as he just had, for anything she would give him. But he had begun to be able to imagine a companionable union, one built on respect and mutual care, that would be sedate and pleasing. A child, he thought, he might enjoy. He had grown up in a large family. He had begun, in a hazy, milquetoast kind of way, to see it.
Now, of course, that was all blasted to hell.
After tasting her, having her back in his arms, he knew that he could never undertake such a union. He would want Olivia and only Olivia until the day he died. With Olivia Watson, with his mouth on her, giving her whatever pleasure he could—that was where he was supposed to be. That was what God had intended him for.
The only problem was that she did not seem as certain about her intended place in the universe.
When he had found that letter, he had felt only terror. Not anger—he could hardly be upset with her for living after she left England. She had made clear that, for reasons he could not fathom, she thought he had wanted nothing to do with her. That he hadn’t taken their relationship seriously. Therefore, he could hardly blame her for, in the thirteen years since, contemplating marrying another man. He was equally sure that she had been with other men, more intimately, than she had been with this Mr. Laurent. He knew it not from anything she had done or said, but just from her nature. She would explore, especially if she had assumed he had cast her off. She wasn’t one to do nothing, to try and dwell on pain. It wasn’t how she had been taught to encounter the world. It didn’t upset him. He understood it.
What ravaged him was the prospect of losing her again. The idea that she might leave England once more and return to France to marry another man. That she saw him only as a dalliance.
That thought kept him up until dawn, long after he had returned to Mayfair. He sat in his chamber, thinking of how he could convince Olivia Watson to marry him and not some faceless man in France. His advantages, in the eyes of most, he knew, would seem vast. What woman wouldn’t want to become a countess? To live in the splendor that he could offer?
But Olivia, he knew, did not care for or want such things.
If anything, he sensed, they counted against him.
He would have to convince her through other means.
And those were of a very singular variety.
He needed time with her and he needed privacy.
He needed to take her to Tremberley’s masquerade.
*
The issue, asfar as Montaigne saw it, was not getting Olivia to the masquerade. Trem’s annual masquerade had evolved over the years from a demimonde event to, sometime around John and Catherine’s marriage, a largely respectable society function. Therefore, when Montaigne dispatched the invitation to the Mappertons, taking the liberty of also including Percy in his wishes for their attendance, he had little reason to think that Olivia and her friends would refuse.
No, the problem would be getting Olivia alone at the masquerade, when Nathanial and Natasha Mapperton had clearly noticed his reputation. Furthermore, he knew he could not just take Olivia to any broom cupboard or small library and ravish her. He needed to make her feel sexual ecstasy as she never had. To make the idea of a life as the wife of a respectable gentleman in the French countryside appear absurd beside the pleasure he could give her. He needed, in short, a plan.
That was how he found himself seated at Trem and Henrietta’s breakfast table, both of them in dishabille, looking cheerful yet tired.
“She looks just like you, Henrietta,” Montaigne said, peering down at the infant whose blue eyes mirrored hers to an uncanny degree.
“Monty, that’s scandalous,” Henrietta protested, biting into a pastry with zeal, “I can only see Trem when I look at her.”
“My wife is addlepated,” Trem broke in, “The girl is my only living relative and she is all Breminster, no Tremberley. It’s a shame, really.” The smile on Trem’s face and the besotted look he shot his wife announced, however, that he hardly regarded the matter as a tragedy. “But come now, Monty. As flattered as we are in your interest in our offspring, that can hardly be why you are here this morning. How can we help you? With Olivia?”
“We’ll do anything,” Henrietta offered. She took a hearty sip of her tea and fixed him with a penetrating gaze. “You must really love her. I never thought I’d see it.”
Love. There it was. The word in Henrietta’s mouth, like it was nothing. It made him feel uncomfortable to hear it, to see his desire put in those terms. He wasn’t sure why.
“I need your help,” he said, pushing down his mounting terror, “It concerns the masquerade.”
Trem and Henrietta groaned in tandem.
“The blasted masquerade,” Trem swore.
“When is it?” Henrietta asked her husband, squinting.
“Tomorrow,” Montaigne supplied, horrified that the hosts of the event on which his hopes hinged seemed so disconnected from it.
“Yes, of course,” Henrietta said, quickly, “Mr. and Mrs. Foxcroft have been superintending all of the arrangements. We’ve just been so distracted. With the baby.”
“We shouldn’t have had it this year. That’s what my wife is being too diplomatic to say.”
Henrietta was hardly being delicate, but it was no matter.
“Then why are you?” Montaigne asked, bewildered.
Trem shrugged. “Tradition, I suppose. It didn’t occur to me to cancel it. And now I can think of nothing worse than having all the ton in this house, when I just want to be with my wife and child.”
“We’ve been dreading it,” Henrietta said, brightly, “But perhaps you can give us a reason, Monty, to see some purpose in it. If it helps you, then it will make the blasted thing palatable.”
“Yes, capital,” Trem said. “What can we do?”
“This event will really happen? You’re not going to cancel it?” Montaigne felt badly that his friends had to go forward with a party that they did not particularly care to hold. Nor did he want to root his plans around an event that was likely to be scuppered.
“Mr. and Mrs. Foxcroft would murder us,” Henrietta said, shaking her head, “It’s all in motion. Do not worry about that.”
He nodded.
“Well, if you want to give purpose to this event in the name of aiding a friend,” he began, “then I do need your help. Rather desperately.”
His friends nodded, listened, squealed in glee, and then assented to his plan.
John and Catherine might not quite approve. Leith would be aghast.
But somehow Montaigne had known that Trem and Henrietta would understand.
*
She wasn’t dressedas Aphrodite.
She was Aphrodite.
That was all he could think when he saw Olivia Watson, crossing Henrietta and Trem’s ballroom, attired in a white gown. A wreath of myrtle in her hair announced—as if her opulent, voluptuous beauty did not already—her costume. Her white mask, made of some flimsy, gossamer substance, splashed across her eyes and cheeks, doing nothing to obscure her identity.
Cut a dash or two lower than the typical evening style, her bodice revealed so much delectable bosom that he hardened at the sight. How could her skin look so tantalizing? In the candlelight, it looked as smooth as the custard of a crème brulé and just as sweet. Her hair was piled into a coiffure of brown curls that appeared, at any moment, likely to topple. It kept a man on the precipice of discovering what she looked like in the bedroom, her hair coming loose, her elegance mussing.
Of course, he knew what she looked like in such a state, and it only drove him to greater distraction.
Especially when he knew what he had planned for tonight.
He lurched towards her, willing himself to keep his composure until they were in private.
She was flanked, of course, by the Mappertons. Thankfully, as he approached, his brother appeared from thin air and waylaid the mother and daughter. Such was his relief that he felt that he had never adequately valued Percy until this moment.
That left the problem of Nathanial. His only hope was losing the young man in the crowd.
“Lord Montaigne,” Olivia said, curtseying as he approached.
He bowed in response. “Miss Watson. Count Mapperton. May I have this dance, Miss Watson?”
“My lord,” she said, putting her gloved hand in his own.
“I will be watching, Lord Montaigne,” Nathanial said, although his tone was cheerful. Montaigne nodded and smiled, but he felt his teeth grind as he did so.
He swept Olivia into the waltz. She looked up at him, her eyes dark honey in the candlelight.
“Please don’t be cross with Nathanial.”
“Of course, I understand,” he choked out, finding words even harder now that he was pressed against her softness. “You are beautiful.”
She laughed. “I am sure only you think so. I didn’t want to wear any costume, but Natasha insisted—and she picked Aphrodite because she is so easy to execute.”
“I couldn’t imagine a goddess more fitting.”
Olivia shook her head. “You shouldn’t flatter me so shamelessly.”
“It’s not flattery.” He put his mouth to her ear as they turned with the music. “Don’t you know how badly I want you, Olivia? That I would die for just one more moment with you?”
He felt her shiver in his arms. She wanted him, too. He was sure.
“It hardly seems fair,” she whispered, “How you won’t let me—how you won’t let me please you.”
“You know you please me.”
“Yes, but—”
“No,” he broke in, needing her to understand. “You have no idea, Olivia, what I have in store for you. What I will do to you once I get you alone again. I want nothing more than you crying out under me, completely in my power, so spent from pleasure that the only name you can remember in this universe will be mine. That is what gives me pleasure. That is what would please me.”
As he said these words, working to keep his tone low and soft so that no one else could hear, their eyes met. He saw her eyes widen at the intimate threat in his voice and now, really, he went hard against her leg. In the low light of the ballroom, thankfully no one else would see. But he didn’t mind her knowing. It only proved his point.
He brushed against her lightly, as they moved in time.
“Already, just being with you like this, I am dying for you.”
“Augustus—” she said, breathlessly, a faint whine in her voice. “You know, I want—how could I possibly—but we are here—”
“Don’t worry, my love. I have a plan. You won’t have to wait long.”
Dear lord, he hoped he was right. They stayed silent for the remainder of the dance, pressed as close to one another as propriety would allow, and he focused on her breathing, which seemed to mimic his in how bated and shallow it was. He felt delirious with her nearness, but he still had no idea how to deal with the young Count Mapperton.
Finally, the strains of the waltz slowed, and they made their way back to the side of the ballroom. As they began to do so, however, Montaigne saw a miracle. The back of Nathanial Mapperton’s head.
The young man was talking intently to a young woman in a white costume not unlike Olivia’s. Montaigne peered to see who the young lady was—and realized it was one of the Miss Wallises. The Miss Wallises were identical twins and, thus, a bit difficult to tell apart. Montaigne believed that Nathanial was speaking to Althea. When the young man turned, his eyes not leaving Althea Wallis’s, Montaigne couldn’t miss the expression there. The young man was captivated. He was looking at Althea Wallis as if she were the only young lady in the place.
He needed to seize his chance.
Montaigne reached for Olivia’s hand and pulled her in the other direction through the crowd.
She laughed at the strength of his touch.
“Where are we going?” she whispered to him.
“Trust me.”
They had to move quickly, but not to the extent that they attracted suspicion. Luckily, the place was an absolute riot—he hardly recognized half the people in the place. They exited the ballroom and he followed the directions Trem had given him for the servant’s stairs. Quickly, he found the narrow passageway and pulled Olivia inside behind him.
Just as quickly, he closed the door. He was sure that, in the scramble, and with their masks on, no one had seen or noticed them. He had done it.
Standing in the dim, narrow stairway, Olivia was pressed against him.
“I hope Nathanial does not become anxious.”
“Forget young Mapperton. He looked rather busy.”
“He did, didn’t he?” Olivia laughed, her full lips parting in mirth.
He kissed her then. He couldn’t help it. He pressed her into the door behind them, drinking from her, crushing his mouth to hers. He needed her closer to him, enveloping him, so he pressed his hand to her arse and held her against his hardened length. She gasped in his mouth as he did so, giving out a moan of contentment. For a moment, he was blinded by the thought that he could take her right there. They could hike up her skirts and then he could thrust inside of her, feeling her clenching around him—
Montaigne pulled away, from her kiss and from this drugged train of thought. He had not come here to fuck her against a door. The whole point of getting her away from the crowds was that he had had a plan.
“Augustus,” Olivia said, when he pulled away. “I want you—” He saw pleading in her eyes. She had had the same thought.
But no.
He wouldn’t.
Not yet.
He shook his head and took her hand.
“Come.”
He turned and headed up the stairs, half dragging her with him. Trem told him to go to the third floor and then exit into the corridor and he followed those instructions. When he gained the corridor, he recognized where he had been just earlier that afternoon. With ease, he found the right door and led her inside.
As they entered, she gasped behind him.
Earlier that day, he set up the room, although the servants had come not long ago and put on the finishing touches. He had wanted to create an atmosphere of worship, to show her how much he wanted her, how he would devote himself to her if she would consent to be his. Therefore, the room was lit with many candles. The sheets on the bed were silk—the same type on which the Prince Regent bedded his mistresses. They cost more than he could ever admit aloud. Champagne and fruit waited near the bedside. And the best secret of all sat on the bed itself in a demure little box. But that would have to wait.
“Augustus—did you—is this for—?”
He turned to face Olivia.
“Yes,” he said simply.
He pulled off his mask and let it drop to the floor.
Then he kissed her again. He let his tongue play over hers, indulging in her sweet taste. When he withdrew, her eyes were languid in the candlelight.
“Please,” she panted.
And it was all she needed to utter.
Quickly, he set about undressing her. His fingers skimmed over her buttons, but he tried not to tug or pull. He wanted to be controlled. At last, when he had unwrapped her from her chemise, she stood only in her stockings and her thin white mask.
He loved every part of her, even as she moved with a slight self-consciousness in the candle light, not quite covering herself, but not quite owning her naked beauty either.
“You are the most beautiful thing I have ever seen.”
He couldn’t help himself from saying the words.
She gave a little scoff of surprise, but he wouldn’t broker that kind of protest. He captured her mouth in his own and then broke off again. Lightly, slowly, he placed a hand on her breast and she gasped. Her breasts were large, much larger than fashion he knew, but he was pretty sure that if the tastemakers of the ton could see Olivia unclothed, fashions would change. In the park and in the carriage, he had been unable to think about her breasts. He had known that, if he really took them in, he would lose his mind, he would be unable to concentrate on her pleasure. But now he couldn’t help himself.
He traced the outline of one and then the other, glorying in her gasps.
“Perfect,” he said, as he did so, unable to help the praise.
She gave a little gasp at this statement. She didn’t protest his descriptor and, yet, he saw it in her face. He remembered what she had said about her legs, how she hadn’t believed him.
In response, he leaned down and put his mouth to her nipple, letting his tongue find the hardened peak and then sucking. She cried out and he repeated the motion. By instinct, he reached down to the curls between her legs and touched her, finding her wet and open to his touch. He continued to suckle at her, teasing her nipples with his tongue, as he probed her gently, lazily, with his fingers. In minutes, she was writhing and twisting against him.
“Augustus, I am going to—”
“Do it, my love. Take it.”
She might as well have her first orgasm now. She might as well get the first out of the way because it would be far from the last.
He kept playing her with his fingers, feeling her clench around him, his hands slippery with her desire. She came on a cry, her knees buckling, but he kept her standing.
Slowly, he moved her to the bed, laying her down. He removed her mask and she wriggled against the silk sheets as he did so. He put his arms around her, letting her relax into him and luxuriating in the feeling of all barriers, all masks, removed between them.
He was raging hard after hearing her come like that. The rub of her against him was torture—but he wanted her to take her time, to recover fully before what would come next.
“I can’t believe you did this,” she finally said.
“It’s nothing, Oliva. I would do anything for you.”
She looked at him, her eyes wide again.
“How long do we have?”
“Two hours, at least. Trem and Henrietta helped me. They have promised to demur for us if anyone tries to find us. Not that anyone can expect to find anyone else in that crush downstairs.”
She nodded.
“We don’t have to stay, if you do not want it,” he said, dread dawning on him that she might not necessarily find, especially after finding her pleasure once, a need to stay above the crowd with him. She might prefer the delights of drinking and dancing.
“Augustus,” she said, laughing, “Of course I’d rather be here with you.”
“I’ll make it worth it.” He tried to beat down the eagerness in his voice and suspected he was failing. “I want to worship you.”
She smiled at these words. “You’ve already done plenty of that.”
“No,” he said, drawing her into another kiss, “Not enough.”
He rolled on top of her.
“I have other plans for you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.”
He began by kissing her, behind her ear and then on her lips and then around her breasts again until she was panting once more. He savored the taste of her nipples, lavishing each with the attention it deserved. And then he made his way down her body, kissing the round of her stomach and finding his way to the curls between her legs.
“Oh god,” she moaned, when he had his mouth pressed against her core again, “You’re—Augustus—you’re too good—”
“Shh,” he said and then touched his tongue lightly to her clit. She jumped a bit at the contact, so he returned more gently this time, barely moving, just letting her feel his tongue there. Then, he moved downwards, probing her core with his tongue and his mouth, letting her feel him there too. When he did that, she moved against him, clearly enjoying the feel of his tongue in her channel. He groaned as she did so, feeling himself swell to full mast again in his trousers. He felt a small amount of seed leak into his smalls. It threatened the mind-splitting release that he knew, sooner or later, would come for him.
When he couldn’t take it anymore and she seemed ready, he returned to her clit and licked gently. This time, she relaxed into the contact and he began to lick her there with gentle, slow strokes. The other times, in the carriage and the park, he had been unable to take his time. He had been so frenzied for her, so desperate to feel her break apart on his tongue, that he had been unable to take too much care.
But now he could. He sucked and licked as gently as he could. Soon she was mewing and writhing beneath him.
“I need to come. Please, Augustus, let me.”
He didn’t answer, just kept up his teasing, and she let out a moan of frustration and agony and pleasure.
Finally, when he knew she was ready, he stopped.
Her eyes flew open. “What?”
“Don’t worry. I have a surprise for you.”
“I don’t—what—”
He reached for the box on the side of the bed. He was not a Rank Rake for nothing, after all. He knew where to procure certain things. Things that could enhance a bedroom session and—elevate it. And he knew that this particular tool was special. And he wanted to give her everything.
“Lie back. Spread your legs.”
“What are you doing?”
His eyes met her brown ones, which were poised somewhere between confusion and extreme arousal.
“Do you trust me?”
When he said the words, he realized their more dire implications. He hadn’t meant to ask the question like that. He had just meant in sexual matters. He just wanted to know if she trusted him in this way.
But before he could drag back the question, she was nodding. And she lay back and spread her legs.
“Good girl,” he said, with a chuckle. Then, he pulled the little, curved jade phallus out of the box. With his other hand, he placed his hand back at her curls to make sure that she was still wet and, indeed, she was. Very much so. Slowly, he placed the tip of the jade phallus at her entrance and eased it inside of her.
At the contact, Olivia startled slightly, but then the sensation seemed to hit her.
“What is that?” she said, her breath coming in pants, her voice high.
“Something to make you feel good,” he said, and, gently, he fucked her with the phallus, moving it in and out. She moaned as he did so.
“How does it do that? Why does it feel so good?”
“It is made to do this to you. The makers designed it to give just this pleasure.”
The phallus was curved so that, when inserted, it directly hit the internal spot of pleasure within her core. Unlike most cocks, which only grazed this area, this jade phallus was made to stimulate it.
He continued to pleasure her with it, loving the sounds that she made. He could feel more seed spilling into his smalls and he knew that, soon, he would be totally without reason. Perhaps it was that knowledge that pushed him over the edge and made him bold.
“Olivia, I love seeing you like this.”
“I don’t know how you make me feel so good. It’s so—ah,” she gasped at another stroke from the jade, “so full and yet the pleasure just lasts. I want to come so badly and yet I—my god, Augustus—I don’t.”
“I’ll let you come…when the pleasure is unbearable.”
She nodded and gasped again and he loved how she had completely submitted to him. Gone was any protest. She trusted him with her pleasure—that he would make her feel ecstasy.
“I would do anything for you, Olivia,” he said, knowing she was close now, and so dipping down to suck on her clit once more. He angled the phallus to the point that seemed to make her writhe the most and fucked her with it. At the same time, he pressed his mouth to her core, licking and sucking her clit until he could feel the little bud swell in his mouth. He knew she was more than on the edge. He had teased her into a kind of oblivion. And it delighted him. He wouldn’t have been able to stop for anything. Not now.
She cried out and he kept speaking to her between sucks, each one sending her closer to the edge. He felt himself getting there, too, and it was perhaps his own distraction that made him so reckless. At some point, his considered stream of teasing words became something altogether more dangerous: the truth.
“I want you, so badly. You can’t know how much. I’d do anything for you. Give you anything you want,” he moaned into her core. “Just never leave me again, Olivia,”
“I—never left you,” she said, sounding nearly incoherent yourself. “Oh, Augustus—ah—”
He kept pleasuring her with the phallus and his mouth, even as the words sent a prickly dissonance through his brain.
“You did,” he said, “But not again.”
“No,” she protested, writhing against him, “I didn’t leave. You sent me away.”
When she said these words, several things happened at once. She came, loudly and rapturously, and he followed, unable to stop the physical reaction that had been mounting in him since he had first seen her from across the ballroom. He had wanted to come so badly, and for so long, that he felt the orgasm in the base of his spine. It shook his whole body. She convulsed under him, too, her pleasure tangling and twisting his name on her lips.
Ecstasy as he had never known it before collided with the words that she had just spoken. A strange, terrified feeling rushed through his body.
He had the eerie sensation that he had not quite known the truth of his existence before this moment. That something crucial had escaped his notice and he was now only realizing it.
“Olivia,” he panted, once he was able, “what in the hell do you mean?”