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.