Prologue

“Faster, John!” Christopher Lockhart, the seventh Duke of Blackmoore, called, his head poking through the carriage window.

The driver whipped the horses, and the wheels rolled faster while Christopher removed his gold watch from his waistcoat and opened it to look at the time. He was late to the House of Lords, and he detested tardiness.

The carriage suddenly keeled, and the watch slipped from his hand. Christopher was not afforded the chance to understand what was happening before he lurched from his seat, the force causing the door to whip open as he was thrown out.

He was uncertain which part of him hit the ground first, but the pain was enough to momentarily rob him of consciousness.

Pained moans woke him, and as he tried to open his eyes, agony slashed through his skull, causing him to grind his teeth. He waited for a moment before he made another attempt at opening his eyes, registering the moan.

“H-help,” a voice cried, and for an instant, Christopher thought it was his. He was in need of help, too, but he forced his eyes to open, and he took in his surroundings.

The skies were dark with gray clouds obscuring the setting sun, while tiny droplets of rain fell. He could not recall when it started raining. The cry came again, and he discovered that it sounded near and from his left.

Turning his head with great effort, he saw someone in the distance, his driver, John, and he seemed to be underneath Christopher’s carriage. Rolling onto his chest, Christopher began crawling in the mud toward him whilst ignoring the pain in his skull and eye.

He could barely breathe by the time he reached the turned-over carriage, and his vision was darkening. Blinking, Christopher focused and found the man beneath the carriage was not John but someone else, and he did not appear to be breathing.

Suddenly, he gasped and took hold of Christopher’s arm, his eyes opening wide. “F-find…” He was too wounded to speak, and Christopher raised his head against the whooshing wind to seek help, but the stranger attempted to speak again. “Find… Leah… please…”

The man’s grip on his arm slackened, his hand fell, and his eyes closed. Christopher tugged his shoulder, receiving no response. At that same moment, his head throbbed with more ferocity, and his surroundings undulated. Unable to remain on his knees, he slumped to the ground as he lost his vision, and subsequently, his consciousness.

***

The first thing Christopher saw when he opened his eyes was the familiar oak roof of his four-poster bed. His head still ached, although not as severely as before, and his body felt as though he had run for miles.

“Thank goodness!” came a voice, followed by a warm hand touching his. Christopher glanced to his left to see his uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart, looking at him with concerned eyes. “Blackmoore, can you hear me?” he asked, coming to sit beside him on the bed.

“Y-yes,” he responded, his voice strange and hoarse. He recalled the carriage crashing and being thrown out, then the injured man who needed help. “Where is he?”

Wyatt frowned. “Where is who, Blackmoore?”

Christopher tried to sit up but his uncle placed a firm hand on his shoulder. “Not yet. You have struggled to regain consciousness for five days.” He raised his head and gave someone in the room instructions to summon the physician before returning his attention to Christopher. “How do you feel?”

“I thought I had died,” he replied, drawing a smile from Wyatt.

“I am very happy you are awake, Blackmoore. We…” He released a shaky breath. “You gave us quite the fright.”

Christopher felt tightness around his face and curious, he touched it. The entire right side of his face was covered with a bandage, and he realized at that instant that his vision was coming from the left. He cleared his rasped throat and spoke again. “There was a man in the accident. Where is he?”

His uncle frowned again. “I do not recall Duncan mentioning anyone else involved in the accident.” He placed a gentle hand on Christopher’s shoulder, his eyes filled with concern. “I am sorry you are going through this pain, my dear nephew. Please, rest.”

“No!” The man had been beneath a carriage. Christopher had to know where he was, if he was alive. “What about John?”

Wyatt’s face tightened. “A boy saw what happened, and ran to the manor to inform Duncan. You were brought back and the only other person at the scene was John.”

“Are you saying that there was no man under the turned carriage?” Christopher asked, perplexed. He was certain he had seen the man who told him to find someone. There was a name. Leah. Or had he imagined it? Pain tended to bend the mind such that one could see and hear what was not there.

“Not according to Duncan,” Wyatt replied.

If Christopher had truly seen the man, then perhaps he had managed to free himself or someone had rescued him. Duncan was his butler, and he had served Blackmoore for fifteen years; he had never given anyone cause to doubt him in all that time. Christopher had to believe. Nodding, he closed his eye and leaned back, the pain in his head burgeoning.

An hour later, the physician arrived and when he untied the bandage around his head, Christopher demanded to see the extent of his injury. “I would advise against it, Your Grace,” the physician cautioned.

“I have to see it,” he insisted gruffly. The physician and Wyatt exchanged a look before his uncle nodded in encouragement.

A mirror was brought and Christopher’s heart pounded as it was raised to reveal his reflection. The skin on his right cheek had been completely abraded, and his eye was swollen shut. An angry cut that had been stitched ran from his brow bone down to his ear. The whole sight was not only alarming but difficult to look at.

“Your Grace…” the physician began but hesitated.

“What is it?”

“The injury to your eye was severe, and…there is a chance that…you may not regain your vision.”

I am blind? He looked in the mirror again, seeing for the first time that the eye he thought was swollen shut had actually been operated on. God!

If his wounds were this gruesome, he could not imagine what John was enduring. “What of John?” he asked, his gut tightening painfully.

His uncle’s expression fell. “John has passed on,” he said quietly.

Christopher recalled telling the coachman to drive faster. Dear God! This was all his fault. He had killed a man and disfigured himself! Rage and despair burned in his chest. What had he done. His existence had been altered beyond anything he ever imagined.

How was he to live on with this manner of guilt…

Chapter One

Eight years later

“Please, Amelia, I need you there,” Lucy begged for the sixth time that evening.

Lady Amelia Harrison, daughter of the late Earl of Folkstone, sighed as she watched her cousin, Lucy Harrison, dress for the Blackmoore ball. It was the grandest social event in Society which naturally made its invitations the most coveted.

Lucy had just come out, and attending such an event fluttered her nerves. “You have Aunt Susanna with you, Lucy,” Amelia said softly. “You shan’t miss me. You do not need me.”

“Mama will make me dance with gentlemen I am barely acquainted with,” her cousin grumbled. “Only you can make tonight bearable. We do not want me to cast up my accounts over someone’s feet, do we?”

Amelia chuckled at that. “No, we do not, Lucy.” She was not allowed to attend any society events. Since the death of her parents, her brother’s silence, and her aunt, uncle, and cousin leaving their home in Gloucestershire to live with her in Folkstone Manor nineteen miles from Westminster, she had little to no interaction with the beau monde.

Every day was the same. She stayed in Folkstone Manor and occupied herself with chores, ones given to her by her aunt and uncle. In fact, they had dismissed most of the servants, for they felt there was no need to waste money on them when they had her to earn her keep. In their defense, they fed her, clothed her, and never harmed her physically. She ought to be grateful; bow her head anytime she saw them and speak of what she endured to no one.

Now she raised the dress she was mending to show Lucy. It was Susanna’s and she had demanded to have it finished before morning. “I have much to do.”

“You can mend the dress at a later time. Please dress and come to the ball with us,” Lucy implored, her large blue eyes earnest. Lucy was a good girl but she tended to be oblivious to many things. She assumed Amelia was fond of sewing and helping around the manor because her parents did not have much money. She was entirely unaware of the cruelty Amelia endured.

Despite all of this, Amelia hoped and waited for a letter from her brother, Ralph, who was now the Earl of Folkstone. As a military colonel, he had obligations abroad, but he had promised to return for her, and he had never broken a promise. While she waited, she did all she could to keep her aunt and uncle happy so they would not toss her out on her ear.

The last time she received a missive from him was two years ago, and it had looked like Ralph had written in haste. She worried about him every day, but she pushed all negative thoughts from her mind to be strong for him and herself. She knew how much he loved and cared for her, and it was certainly enough to one day reunite their family.

“I cannot, Lucy,” Amelia sighed. “I do not want to. You know how nervous I am around people,” she added. This was what she had made her cousin believe. Lucy, bless her heart, was eighteen and not very bright, thus, it was easy for Amelia to make her believe anything. The girl was good to her, and she loved her parents more than anything in the world. There was no reason for her to know and have the perfect image she had of Charles and Susanna Harrison ruined.

“Very well. I shall have mother convince you then,” Lucy stood from the seat at her vanity and walked out of the bedchamber. Amelia played the role of a lady’s maid, but her cousin had insisted on dressing herself tonight. This gave Amelia the chance to continue mending her aunt’s dress, which was large and heavy.

Lucy returned after a moment with Susanna. She looked at Amelia and frowned. “What are you still doing here?” she asked. “Go to your bedchamber and dress quickly. We have a ball to attend, and we are already late!”

Amelia blinked at her. Just that morning, the woman had told her that she was not to attend this ball, and now it seemed she had changed her mind. “But your dress—”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake, child!” Susanna rolled her eyes, planting her hand on her plump hips. “My dress is not important. Henry will be in attendance! Go, dress well!”

Amelia put the dress down and walked toward the door. Henry Terrell was a cousin whom Susanna wanted Amelia to marry. He was supposedly wealthy, but she knew he wanted her for her dowry, and he was neither kind nor charming or handsome. She was miserable living with her aunt and uncle, but she would rather remain in such a situation than to marry a man she did not want. 

“We will be waiting in the foyer, Amelia,” Lucy called after her, and Amelia turned to respond with a slight smile.

Lucy was a darling to her parents and got everything she wanted, but Amelia had to admit that she was quite surprised she was permitted to go to the ball tonight upon her request. It had never been granted before. Henry always attended Society events but it, too, had never been a reason for her to be allowed.

“I shan’t have you interfering with my dear Lucy’s prospects,” her aunt had said to her at the start of the season. “You will stay in the manor and pretend you are not fond of people and ton events.

This is a new turning point, Amelia thought with a small smile as she hurried to ready herself. She wore the pale purple velvet dress she had hidden for an occasion such as this; when she got the chance to seek a husband herself. She twisted her curly brown hair into a rough coiffure and picked up her worn beaded leather reticule.

When she reached the foyer, Lucy had a wide grin on her face. “You look splendid, Cousin!”

Amelia smiled at her, ignoring the glares she received from her aunt and uncle. Lucy looped her arm through hers, predictably oblivious to the animosity around her. They climbed the carriage and made their way to Harleston Hall, which was only nine miles away.

“Do you think the Duke will make an appearance tonight?” Lucy threw the question into the silence of the carriage.

The Duke of Blackmoore’s ball was an annual event, but each year, Society made merry without a host. It had been that way for as long as Amelia could remember. People spoke of the Duke with great interest, yet no one had seen him in more than seven years. She first heard about him two years ago when she debuted.

“Blackmoore has not shown his face in Society in years. I doubt that will change tonight, my dear,” Charles answered. “But I am certain he will wish he had when he lays his eyes on my handsome daughter,” he added with a satiating grin.

“A beast in the shadows will never set foot into the light, Lucy,” Susanna supported with a haughty flick of her pale blue satin fan.

The rumor carried about by the ton was that the Duke was a deformed beast. A fire had nearly consumed him in his home in Cumberland, which resulted in his becoming reclusive. Many believed that he was still in Cumberland but hosted the ball every season to maintain his relevance in Society. It was plausible.

“But you should not worry about the Duke. This night is for you,” Charles said to his daughter. “I want you to have a grand time and capture the attention of good gentlemen.”

Amelia sucked in her lips and turned to look out the window, suddenly afraid she would betray her thoughts if she looked at her aunt or uncle. She was going to do what Charles was advising Lucy to do, and she hoped to find a good man willing to marry her. Heavens knew what they would do to her if they discovered her plan.

“You!” Susanna tugged at Amelia’s skirt while Lucy and her father conversed, her voice low enough for only Amelia to hear. “You best stay away from her. Mind your business and manners and do good to not make yourself known. Or it will be the last time I make such a concession.”

“Yes, Auntie,” she replied respectfully.

They arrived an hour later, and Amelia’s breath was stolen from her lungs the instant she alighted the carriage and beheld the grand manor before her. It was a splendid edifice that stood proudly and welcomed people of all manner of consequence. The walls were lined with sconces that shone brightly. The well-tended lawn stretched around them and beyond with torches illuminating pathways that led down several courses.

She held her breath when they entered the foyer, immediately finding that what she had seen outside was nothing when compared to what lay within. The hexagonal foyer had four Roman-style arches, each a way to a different part of the manor, and a fountain stood at the center with a marble Cupid taking flight. It was one of the most beautiful sculptures she had ever seen.

“Do come on!” Susanna pulled her arm, and Amelia was forced to follow her through the leftmost archway. They walked down a short hallway to a resplendent ballroom. Folkstone Manor had fallen into disrepair after her parent’s death nine years ago, and even if it had not, it could never stand beside Harleston Hall.

Amelia grew more curious about the Duke as they waded through the crowd. The ballroom was full with barely any room to move freely, and still the guests continued to arrive; they spilled into gardens and balconies through open glass doors. Susanna immediately found gentlemen for Lucy to dance with, and her card was filled. With her family’s attention away from her, she slipped away and found a refreshment table near one of the garden doors. She could breathe better there and also quench her thirst.

As she picked up a glass of punch and raised it to her lips, she heard a group of ladies talking two feet away from her. When she heard the name Blackmoore, she turned her head very slightly and listened.

“We do not even know what our host looks like,” a matron complained, moving her fan quickly to cool herself. It was early spring but the ballroom felt like a hot summer day. “If that is not grave disrespect, I do not know what is. He has left us alone like some animals,” she continued.

“Even animals are checked upon once in a while,” someone agreed.

“Do you think Blackmoore would ever marry?” another smaller voice asked, her voice shrilly with anticipation. “I should like to give him my dear Pamela. How she would love to marry a duke!”

“If your daughter would not mind being married to a shadow, do not let us dissuade you,” the first matron snickered to giggles from the other ladies gathered about them.

“Do you know what they say?” The ladies all leaned closer to the speaker, and Amelia discovered herself doing the same from where she stood. She was more curious about the Duke than before. “They say that there is no Duke at all. That the Blackmoore ball is all a sick spectacle to play on Society’s fancy; make us all believe that the Duke exists.”

Amelia frowned, perplexed about what she had just heard. She had read in Debrett’s Peerage that the Duke’s uncle, Lord Wyatt Lockhart was next in line for the duchy should the present duke pass on without an heir. Should Lord Wyatt not be the duke now if the other did not exist?

“A phantom Duke? That is ridiculous!” someone challenged. “The Blackmoore title is still with the Lockharts, and Lord Wyatt maintains his rank as the second son of a duke.”

“I heard the accident left him so deformed, he is wasting away in bed,” another lady put in forebodingly.

“What accident? I heard it was a fire in Cumberland.”

“I heard he has no face. A devil. His eyes were burned away, and he is crippled.” Gasps sounded at that, and Amelia’s frown deepened.

Surely, not all of what they were saying was true. Whatever it was, this was the most entertainment she’d had in a while.

Her eyes drifted across the room and up, past the resplendent chandelier to what looked like an opera theater box. Black curtains concealed what was within, and her heart beat in wonder. What a splendid view of the entire ballroom it could hold. Yet it seemed unoccupied and she wondered as to what its true purpose was. She saw three more such boxes, two on each of the largest ballroom walls, all with dark curtains, and she wondered if there was a way for her to reach them. She remembered exploring caves with Ralph by the sea in Dorset…

The excitement that was growing in Amelia’s chest vanished the instant she lowered her gaze and met Henry’s. He half smiled and half sneered, coming toward her, his dark eyes gleaming with lechery and ill intentions.

Her stomach clenched with disgust and she turned, moving along the wall, aware of his eyes on her. She found a way out of the ballroom and as soon as she was in the hallway, she began hastening without knowing or caring where she was going.

Chapter Two

Amelia heard Henry running behind her, and every part of her body screamed for her to move faster, flee from him. Being found alone with him could mean ruin that would certainly trap her in marriage.

She knew this because he had once found her in the drawing room of Folkstone Manor and attempted to kiss her. That was not what had been harmful, however, it was the manner in which he held her. His hands had gripped her wrists tightly, and he would have done more had Lucy not walked into the room and asked what was happening.

Of course, Henry had lied that Amelia was injured and he was inspecting the wound. Unfortunately, Lucy believed him as she was wont to trust and believe those who lied to her.

She turned a corner and ran down a dimly lit hallway, hoping there would be a place for her to find some respite and possibly escape her pursuer. Amelia’s alarm grew when she saw him quickly closing the distance between them, and realized it would have been safer had she just stayed and conversed with him in the ballroom in front of people. She opened the first door she found, running inside and pushing it.

He pushed on the other side, and feeling he would overpower her soon, she released the door and he stumbled in, falling. Not waiting to see him regain his feet, she moved further into the room, her eyes searching the dark. A fear of the darkness she had bred over the last few years reignited but she pressed it down with the fear of what would happen if Henry got a hold of her.

“Now, now, is that a way to treat your soon-to-be betrothed, darling Amelia?” a voice breached the darkness.

An archway across from her caught her attention, and feeling a burst of energy, she ran forward. Still, Henry followed, calling behind her, “Why prolong the inevitable? Your aunt and uncle have already agreed to the terms!”

The archway led into a very narrow hall, then stairs that spiraled up. Amelia paused at the foot and briefly contemplated climbing the stairs. She could be trapped, but she could also find a door to close. Bunching her skirts in her hands, she ascended, glancing once behind her to see Henry pause to catch his breath. He was very slender, and she suspected that he rarely engaged in activities that strained his body.

She reached the top of the stairs and heard music from the ballroom, and to her dismay, there was no door to keep Henry away from her. Then Amelia understood where she was. This room led to one of the boxes she had seen earlier, and the dark curtains and furnishings confirmed it. Fire burned in a small hearth, and the smell of cheroot and liquor filled the room.

“Did you truly think you could run away from me?” Henry groaned, sending chills through her. There was no other place to run to, except through the curtains, which would expose her to the guests. “I believe my betrothed owes me a dance,” he panted, taking a careful step in her direction. She backed into the wall on her left, wishing it could magically open and reveal a door to her.

“We are not betrothed, Mr. Terrell,” she ground out through the fear coiling its dark tentacles around her.

“Why must you fight it, Amelia? You will be mine either way.” He took another slow step, which she further retreated from, her gaze seeking something with which to deter his advance.

“Never!” she countered, but she did not feel very confident.

“How about this, Amelia. Why don’t we simply abandon the ball and have our own merry moment right here?” he laughed. “There are no prying eyes, and I promise to treat you well.” His dark eyes glinted on the last sentence.

He was not going to treat her well, for he was determined to ruin her. When her back touched the wall, she darted sideways, but he jumped in front of her, blocking her path with his body. “Perhaps you continue to reject me because I ask you politely.” He grasped her wrists, sending her into a familiar horror she had escaped before but with little hope of recurrence now. “You will be mine, Amelia. Even if I must resort to scandal to make that happen,” he swore, hitting her across the face. Her head whipped to the side and her cheeks stung.

Rage fueled her will to fight, and she kicked and screamed with every cell in her body. Yelling would expose her to scandal, but something far worse could happen if she remained quiet.

“Let go of me, Henry!” she said in a shaky voice. He struck her again before pinning her to the wall. He was surprisingly strong for someone this slender. Panic wrung the air from her lungs, and her eyes burned with tears.

The door crashed open suddenly, and she kicked Henry’s shin harder to show everyone that she was not at fault, that he was the villain here. Instead of finding the ball guests, Amelia heard a man’s angry growl and a curse before Henry was forcibly pulled away from her. She dashed away and hid behind a chair, trembling. 

Then she saw a dark-haired man wearing a black mask with a firm hand fixed on the neck of Henry. She gasped. The Phantom Duke?

Releasing Soon on the 29th of March!

Chapter One

 

“I wish you would stay for a drink, if not for dinner,” Elliot protested.

Wilson shook his head, swiftly downing the last of his brandy and standing, picking up his hat from the table beside his chair. Elliot stood, a look of consternation on his round, blue-eyed face. Around them, the room bore a discreet hushed hubbub of quiet conversation. The fire crackled and the air hung heavy with cigar smoke. A number of gray-haired and be-whiskered gentlemen enjoyed one of the quieter rooms of the Shilling Club, one of London’s most exclusive gentlemen’s clubs.

“I have business to attend to,” Wilson replied with typical brusqueness.

“I just don’t think that, at this time of year, it’s wise for a man to be alone. Why not enjoy the company of friends in the Shilling Club until the light at the end of the tunnel is reached?” Elliot said with typical loquaciousness.

Wilson pushed a mane of jet-black hair back from his eyes. It fell to his shoulders in an unruly mass. A trimmed beard of the same color gave Wilson Fitzroy a distinctive appearance. Strangers often mistook him for an Eastern prince, possibly of Russian or Bulgarian descent. High, slanted cheekbones completed the appearance of an exotic foreigner. Cold, blue eyes meanwhile, hinted at the Danish blood present deep in his ancestry. He put the top hat on his head and buttoned his overcoat.

“There is no light at the end of this tunnel, Elliot. The past cannot be changed. And my business cannot wait on my…mood,” Wilson replied.

Elliot threw up his hands. “Will no-one aid me in persuading our erstwhile colleague not to stray from the warm bosom of the Shilling, particularly on such a night?”

The beginnings of a huzzah went up around the room, Elliot was a past master as a rabble-rouser of the gentlemen of the Shilling. As Wilson glared about the room, the abortive revelry died away. Wilson Fitzroy’s temper was feared more than the desire to be roused into rounds of drinks. The assembled gentlemen returned to their conversations about stocks or their perusal of the Times. Elliot’s shoulders slumped.

“You have them too cowed to raise a cheer, it seems.”

“They respect a man’s desire to keep his troubles to himself,” Wilson replied.

“Well, I tried. In my sister’s memory.”

Only those who knew Wilson Fitzroy well would have known that the slight twitch in his face at that point was a reflection of a storm of emotion held in check beneath the surface. And there had never been many of them in the world. Five years ago that number had reduced by one. Elliot was not among that number, trusted friend though he was. He put out his hand, slinging back the last of his brandy with the other as he did.

“Well, if I cannot persuade you to join me in broaching a rather splendid cask of port I had donated from my own cellars, I will say good night to you. I will be here should you change your mind.”

Wilson took the offered hand and shook it firmly.

You will be here in body but your spirit will be addled past the point of comprehension. For the best, today is not a day to be reminded of Amelia and, I’m afraid, you are just that, old friend—a reminder. Best that I am alone. I am fit for no company tonight.

He took his leave, striding through the rooms of the Shilling Club and out onto the street. A cab was waiting, the Shilling staff ensuring a cab was hailed in time for his stepping out of the door. Rain pelted him but he was barely aware of it. He stepped into the cab and gave his destination in a clipped tone. There was another reason for his aversion to company this evening. While it was true that he had business to conclude, that could be done at any time. He had arranged the meeting for this time and date to ensure his mind was fully occupied.

But, there was another appointment to be concluded. One that had to be completed alone. The city passed by unseen. The rain was washing the streets clean of people, only the most desperate remained out, lacking anywhere else to go. Warm, golden light spilled through the curtain of water from windows. Then, as they left the old city walls behind and headed north, the lighted windows became further apart. The country began to peek out between buildings until the city finally relinquished its hold and they were passing along a road lined with trees. The fields beyond were black absences.

A modest church loomed out of the night. Wilson knew that he was in the vicinity of Finsbury Fields, the city a dark presence in the night to the south, the naked countryside an even darker presence to the north. A priest stood on the porch of the church, shivering, and holding a lantern. Wilson swallowed, licking his lips as the carriage drew to a halt by the gate leading to the path through the church yard.

Four times I have been here. Four anniversaries and never have I gotten beyond the church to the graveside.

He opened the door and stepped down, gritting his teeth as he strode along the path toward the church. The priest, accustomed after four years to his duty, turned and began to lead the way around the building and into the churchyard. Wilson followed and memories rose, unbidden. A heart-shaped face with laughing eyes. A voice made for song and joy. A spirit beloved by all who met her. Amelia.

Wilson saw the bobbing lantern carried by the priest disappear as the path ran beneath the bows of two ash trees. Gravel crunched beneath Wilson’s feet as he neared the trees, beyond which lay Amelia, in a resting place he had never set eyes on. His heart raced and his jaw tightened against the outpouring of despairing grief that squeezed his soul. His step faltered and then stopped before he came within the reach of the ash boughs. Rain dripped from the brim of his hat. His cheeks were wet, but not from the rain.

I can’t do it. I can’t look upon her grave. I can’t face it. I’m sorry, my love. It is my fault you are here and I do not have the courage to face you.

The priest had reappeared, realizing that the man who paid handsomely every year for the churchyard to be opened for him late at night, was not following. The man stood beneath the trees, holding the lantern aloft. Wilson turned and all but ran back to the carriage.

“Queen Square,” he barked at the driver, then slammed the blind shut on the window of the door.

The carriage clattered away, returning to the city. Wilson bared his teeth in a silent snarl against the pain that tore at him. By the time his second destination was reached, he had regained control. The rain had worsened as Wilson stepped out onto Guildford Street. He looked across a terrace of tall buildings which faced south into the square and cursed. The rain rendered visibility poor and he could not clearly see the numbers on each building’s front door. His objective was number eleven, but it was unclear which way along the street that particular house lay, east or west.

I’ll be damned if I’m going to wander up and down this benighted street like a lost soul peering at front doors. I will knock at the nearest and obtain precise directions.

Feeling aggrieved by his own earlier weakness, he took the steps of the nearest house two at a time. There was no number on the front door, which was badly in need of a fresh coat of paint. Growling with impatience, he lifted the tarnished brass door knocker and rapped sharply.

Chapter Two

 

Vanessa’s hand shook as she drained the brandy from her glass. She coughed as the searing liquid coursed down her throat. Strong liquor was not something she was used to, but tonight she sought courage.

What am I doing? This is sheer madness. This is not how decent people behave!

She put the glass down but, her senses momentarily dizzied by the drink, she missed the edge and the glass hit the floor. It missed the room’s single rug and shattered on the hard wooden boards beyond it. Vanessa cried out and jumped back, then stopped and laughed aloud. Perhaps the previous swallow of brandy that she had imbibed was starting to work on her but her predicament suddenly seemed ridiculous.

I am a grown woman and here I am behaving like a nervous debutante. Five years a Londoner, fending for myself and paying my own way. And rendered as nervous as a kitten by something as simple as a man. And not just any man but one whose sole talent is for…

She flushed at the thought. Madame Harriet had promised that the young man would be strong, handsome, experienced, and skillful.

It is a perfectly natural act and having my company arranged for me is not so different from the arranged marriages that still take place between royals.

But rational thoughts such as those couldn’t take the flush from her cheeks, nor from her chest, exposed down to the slopes of her breasts by the low-cut dress. It clung to her hips and thighs, as sheer as a negligee. It excited her in its blatant sensuality as much as it frightened her. Whenever she caught sight of herself in the mirror, it was a reminder of what she had tonight decided to do.

Vanessa Gale was about to turn thirty. She was unmarried, never having ever come close to achieving that state. And, to use the parlance of the romantic novels of Walter Scott that she so loved, was still a maiden. Turning away from the broken glass, she left the room, closing the door behind her and crossing the hallway to the smaller sitting room. It was dark and cold, the drawing room having been made cozy for her night of pleasure. The night when she would lose her maidenhead. But, with broken glass across the floor, she could not bring her gentleman caller into that room.

I will answer the door and we will simply retire to…my…bedchamber.

She brushed wayward locks of brown hair away from her temple with straightened fingers, accompanied by a brief shake of the head. It was an unconscious gesture that emerged when she was nervous. Sitting on the edge of an armchair, her fingers nervously beat a tattoo on her knee. In the drawing room, the ticking of the clock on the mantel was muffled by the door but still audible. So too would the chimes be.

It is perhaps well that he enters the house in the dark and we go upstairs directly. The drawing room is modestly appointed but my furniture is past its best and it would surely be obvious to a gentleman employed by Madame Harriet.

Harriet had rooms overlooking Hyde Park, gloriously appointed. She herself had the most extraordinary gold hair which she wore high above her head, revealing a swan-like neck. The dress she wore was expensive and covered her to the chin, but Vanessa had detected the lascivious glint in the woman’s eye as she had boldly asked questions that had made Vanessa’s cheeks turn scarlet. All done in order to provide Vanessa with a young man who was perfectly suited to her wants and needs.

Leaving Madame Harriet’s rooms, Vanessa had felt excited and ashamed in equal parts. She had been assured that this was common for gentlefolk and should occasion no embarrassment. To know that there were many women of rank making use of the services provided by Madame Harriet did nothing to reassure Vanessa. She felt she was entering a world that was far from her safe existence of libraries and museums.

I may have no choice but to face my thirtieth year as a lonely old spinster. But I will know the touch of a man at least. I will experience the joy of being made love to. I will be content with that.

She shot to her feet at the sharp rap at the door. So lost in thought had she been that no sound of footsteps upon the stone steps leading to the front door had reached her. For a moment she stood there in the darkness, heart hammering and breath coming quick and shallow. The rap came again, forceful and impatient. Hands trembling, Vanessa moved into the hallway, facing the front door. Reaching for the bolt at the top of the door, she slid it aside, then undid the chain and finally turned the key and grasped the door handle.

The door opened onto a raging night. An errant gust of wind plastered her dress against her, revealing shapely legs and tugging the neck an inch lower to the tops of her ample breasts. A man stood there as expected. Protected from the rain by the stone porch that jutted above the front door, he had removed his hat. A flowing mane of dark hair framed a hard, angular face with pale, penetrating eyes.

He looks like a foreign prince. Exotic, dangerous, and proud. Oh, Madame Harriet, you really have found the man of my most scandalous dreams!

The man’s eyes widened and tracked down Vanessa’s body. She resisted the urge to cover her exposed chest with her hands. One hand remained on the door. The other reached for her man, taking his hand. She stepped back, her semi-nakedness covered by the shadows within the house. The man stepped towards her. Vanessa pushed the door closed and didn’t wait to hear it click shut. She closed her eyes and moved forward, head raised and lips poised for a kiss.

First she felt his lips against hers. Hard and unyielding, pressing her lips back harshly. She gasped as strong arms went about her, pulling her against a body as rigid as a statue. She held her hands away from him, unsure what to do. Then, driven by a deep instinct, she let them fall to his shoulders, then down his arms. Vanessa let out a moan as she felt the corded muscles beneath the fabric of his clothes. They felt strong enough to rip through, the cloth too thin a barrier to contain such power.

A questing hand found her buttocks and squeezed, making her gasp. A darting tongue tasted her mouth and she boldly followed its example. Lust gave her confidence. She wound her fingers into that magnificent fall of dark hair, pulling his head against hers as she relished the taste of him. His teeth pulled at her bottom lip, biting down and making her squirm. But she fought back, breaking away from the kiss to bite at his neck.

The dress that Madame Harriet had helped her to pick out was inspired by the image of the seductive, female vampire. A creature of insatiable hunger who enslaved male victims with her sensuous powers. Now, she embraced the fantasized role that Harriet’s probing questioning had revealed to her.

I am a seductress. Men are powerless to resist me. But, I can be conquered. Must be dominated and forced to yield even as I enslave my lover with the delights of my flesh. Oh my!

Vanessa felt the terrifying pressure against her loins. It frightened her with its size and hardness even as it sent shockwaves of pleasure around her body. Reason was fleeing her. All that remained was passion and desire and pleasure. The wall thudded into her. Both the man’s hands were about her buttocks now, lifting her off her feet. Vanessa was deposited on a table and her skirts pulled upward to her knees. She felt a moment of blinding clarity, breaking through the desire the stranger had engendered in her.

“What am I doing?” she whispered.

She pushed hard against him and he stepped away from her, hands raised in front of him. There was a look of shock on his face. Vanessa gasped, breathing hard. She wore neither stockings nor petticoat beneath the outrageous dress. The skirt had been lifted to reveal her milky skin and the first hint of her inner thigh. Now she pulled it down hastily.

“I’m sorry,” he stammered.

“No. I am. I think I have made a mistake. Forgive me,” Vanessa said.

The man frowned, looking confused.

“I do not know what came over me. This is not something I would normally do.”

Vanessa wanted to pull him back up against her. But, she was having second thoughts. A war was being fought between her desire and her common sense. And while she hesitated, the man who had been paid to make love to her looked more confused and backed towards the door.

“Wait!” Vanessa said.

But he was shaking his head and opening the door. Vanessa had a brief moment to cover herself before the door was opened to the street. Then he was gone.

What a fool I have been. To give money that I cannot afford for a man to take my virginity and then to hesitate and drive him away.

She raced for the stairs, stumbled, and fell heavily to her hands and knees before recovering her balance and scrambling to her bedroom. Throwing herself onto her bed, she dissolved into a fit of sobbing. Outside, the rain hammered down. Vanessa heard the second knock at her door but did not move. It was repeated twice and then no more.

 

Chapter Three

 

Once again, the brandy burned its way down Vanessa’s throat. She sat on the edge of her bed. The room was warm, the fire stoked in preparation for her visitor and the time she had expected to spend with him. She laughed, the drink soothing some of the hurt and shame she had felt earlier.

Oh, what a mess. A man comes to my door and puts his hands on my body. I have paid for him to do it. And I have felt the body of a man and he has felt me. I have tasted him!

Her feet were cold against the bare boards of the floor. In front of the fire, she had dragged the large tin bathtub from the adjoining room and filled it with water heated on the kitchen stove. Now, she put the glass aside and walked towards it. The dress was easily discarded, slipping from her to the floor with a whisper. Looking to the side, she saw herself in the full-length dressing mirror.

I think my body is not unattractive. I am not plump but neither am I thin. The curves that a woman should have are present. Ample breasts and a well-proportioned rump. Men value such things, do they not?

She laughed again. The truth was that her knowledge of what a man would consider attractive came from the romantic fiction that she read to warm herself when her supply of firewood ran out. The steaming bath was a luxury she could ill afford but she felt the need to comfort herself. The evening had been a disaster.

But I have now experienced the touch of a man.

That thought made her breath catch. She ran her hands over her stomach and then out over the curve of her hips. He had touched her there. There were tender spots where his fingers had gripped her like iron.

Will I bruise? Oh my, will I look into a mirror and see the marks that he has left upon my body? Like a mark of ownership.

She stepped into the bath and slid slowly beneath the water. It occurred to her to wonder who this man had actually been. His looks had been so distinctive, she knew he was no-one she had ever met. There had been nobility in his features and money in his fine clothes. A rough strength had been evidenced by a steely look in his eyes.

He seemed unprepared for my rejection of him. Understandable really. A man like that cannot be accustomed to being pushed away.

Her eyes closed as the hot water undid the knots of tension in her muscles. Knots that had tied themselves tightly after the drama earlier in the evening. The steam dampened her face and the warmth of the fire enveloped the parts of her not covered by the water. Sleep gently swept over her.

 

***

 

She awoke with a start to the knock at the door. Sitting up in her bed, blankets falling away from her naked body, she wondered if the sound had come to her in a dream. The knock came again, harsh and insistent. Then the sound of splintering wood. Of a door crashing back against the wall and heavy, booted footsteps. Vanessa clutched the bedclothes about herself as she heard those footsteps climbing the stairs. Her breath came in rapid gasps and her heart beat a mark against her chest.

The door to her room opened, pushed inwards to bang against the wall. A man strode in. He had a mane of dark hair, framing an angular face with a dark beard. His eyes were bright blue, pale, and icy.

“I should not have left. I will take now what was offered earlier,” he said.

His voice was thick with the accent of a distant, foreign land. Vanessa did not recognize it but even without words, his intent was clear. He discarded a heavy overcoat. Beneath he wore a shirt, already unlaced to reveal dark hair across a broad chest.

“Remove the bedclothes,” he commanded.

Vanessa smiled as her eyes moved down his body, seeing the sign of his desire in the bulge pressing against the fabric of his breeches. She wondered if he would remove them along with his boots, or whether his lust would demand she be taken before he had even finished undressing. The idea made her body tingle and her cheeks flame. She let the bedclothes fall away from her breasts but held them around her waist.

“Does this please you?” she whispered.

His pale eyes had widened and he stepped closer, tugging his shirt out of his breeches, and pulling it over his head. The shirt was tossed aside, pulling his long hair over his face as he removed it. It was flung back with a toss of his head, majestic as a lion.

“I would see all of you,” he said, slowly undoing the buttons of his breeches.

Vanessa slipped her legs from beneath the bedclothes, placing her feet on the floor. Now the blankets showed the full length of her shapely legs while still covering her loins. She tentatively reached out and placed one hand against the mound of hard pressure that was now level with her eyes. She whimpered as it twitched beneath her touch and smiled, licking her lips, and rubbing her hand up and down. The reward was a barely suppressed moan of pleasure from her prince. For surely, he was a prince. Heir to the throne of a distant kingdom, far from England and the conventions of polite English society. A barbarian accustomed to taking what he wanted at the point of a sword.

With one swift movement, he grabbed the blanket and pulled it away, revealing the last concealed part of Vanessa’s body. She gasped but kept her free hand on the bed, refusing to cover herself. Increasing the pressure with her other hand, she looked up at her lover, excited by the growing desire on his face. And the evidence of that desire she could feel under her hand. He lowered his head to hers and kissed her fiercely. Moments later, his full weight was upon her, pushing her down onto the bed.

His lips were a ferocious pressure against her mouth, demanding and intense. His tongue darted into her mouth, tasting her. His hands squeezed and caressed, gentle and hard at the same time. Everywhere they touched became the absolute center of her being until that touch moved on. Vanessa gasped for air as his lips broke away from hers and his head dipped. She felt his mouth move over her chin, then her throat, before engulfing one of her breasts.

The pleasure to that point had been intense. It now became almost unbearable and she squirmed beneath him. His hands roamed over her, possessing her entire body. She clutched at him but he was continually moving down, removing his body from her reach but maintaining the contact of his mouth. She could not imagine what he intended as he kissed down her stomach, past her navel. Thought dissolved in a torrent of ecstasy as his questing lips reached their prize and Vanessa understood what he had planned. Such a thing was beyond her wildest imaginings. She had not known a man could do that to a woman.

But she was glad that it was possible. That this barbarian prince knew of the act. Because the ecstasy that gripped her was beyond description.

 

***

 

Vanessa sat up in the now tepid water. The fire had burned down and the air was growing cold. Deep down within her was a heat, a remnant of the dream. She gripped the sides of the bath, anchoring herself to reality.

How did I even conceive of such an act. It is surely not mentioned in any romantic fiction I have read. Is it even done? Or am I the most wicked, most wanton woman in Christendom! Oh my, what fevered imaginings!

She sat back, feeling as though she was sweaty, as though the dream had been real. She slid back until her head was submerged, washing the dream from her mind. When she emerged, it was fading to the back of her mind, the immediacy of it gone. Vanessa climbed from the bath and began to dry herself, shivering as she did so. The evening had brought her the touch of a man and the kind of dream normally reserved for a high fever. But it was over now. Life would return to its normal routine. The vivid colors would fade back to gray.