“What things?” he asked, which was quite natural.
She couldn’t tell him. She was too embarrassed to say that touching herself had always made her feel better and stronger.
“Come, my mysterious lady. Tell me. Perhaps I can help.”
“You did. I feel better now.”
A grin. “Thank you. I’m pleased to know I helped.” He had pulled on his wizard’s robe. Now he put his pointed hat back on his head.
The servant returned her cloak. Sutcliffe put it around her.
“There.” He nodded. “An exotic bird should hide its plumes when it walks amongst hunters. Now, mysterious beauty, I’ll take you downstairs, acquire a hackney for you, and send you safely away.”
Octavia nodded, but her throat had gone tight. Her one night was over. It had been glorious, thrilling, sensual, and exciting. But it was done.
She had thought she would cling to the memory of pleasure and it would help her. But she found she wanted to look ahead. She didn’t want to just remember pleasure; she wanted to experience more and more of it. She yearned for another night like this.
Many
nights like this.
But there wouldn’t be any. She had to accept it.
A half-hour later, Matthew stood in shadow on a street in Mayfair, fighting a surge of guilt. He had followed his nameless young lady. He had assumed she was someone’s gently bred daughter. He had never dreamed she would be Lord Morton’s bluestocking daughter, Octavia.
He lit a cheroot. Now he knew why that mass of golden hair had been familiar to him. He’d seen it when he had attended her father’s lectures at the Royal Society. He had seen it when he’d been a guest in her father’s home.
He supposed he deserved this for having sex, for thinking of pleasure, when his brother was dead and would never know any pleasures again. This had to be his punishment. He had ruined a respectable woman. Yes, he could argue that she had begged for it.
But he couldn’t say that and believe it. It didn’t relieve him of responsibility.
Hell, he hadn’t known Morton’s daughter was dying. No wonder the old man had been arguing with him so much of late. Normally, they sparred—they both wrote books and lectured about their exotic travels; they were rivals. But her father had been unusually irate lately.
Matthew threw away the cheroot. Now he understood. The poor man thought his daughter was going to die. Morton was suffering all the grief of loss, but before it even happened. Matthew shook his head. His recognition of Morton’s pain hit him like a blow to his heart. Having lost Gregory—and his father and mother long ago when he was a child—he knew exactly how excruciating grief was.
But to have to watch someone you loved fade away before death, and to watch it happen to a child? Hell, that was more than any man should have to endure. And Morton was a good man.
So what did he do now? Decency demanded that he walk up to the house and ask for Lady Octavia’s hand in marriage. Good sense told him that Morton would probably rather shoot him than have him for a son-in-law.
Lady Octavia had insisted this was only to be for one night. Why couldn’t he quell his conscience and just accept what the lady wanted? She’d wanted a man to show her what a fuck was like. He’d done his duty.
She didn’t want anything more from him. The last thing he needed was a bride, certainly not one who did not like him. Anyway, he had no time to engage in a wedding. He had to return to the Carpathians. Right now, he had an appointment with Mr. Sebastien De Wynter, a member of a different Royal Society from the Geographical one—the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. De Wynter had insisted on meeting at this unusual time—in the middle of the night.
Matthew intended to return with De Wynter to the Carpathians and hunt vampires. It was the only way he could get any kind of vengeance for his brother’s death.
He had been the one to unleash a demon. That made it his duty to destroy her.
Octavia stared through her open window at the tree that grew beside it and the thick ivy that shrouded the wall like a shawl. She could not believe she had managed to climb the tree and the ivy to reach her bedroom. Her hands still stung from the tree bark, and her bare palms were stained green.
In truth, she should have been too weak to do such a thing. And, after so much exertion, she should be ready to collapse where she stood.
For weeks, she had been barely able to draw a deep breath. Today, she had done all sorts of energetic, mad, dangerous things; she felt powerful and alive. She felt like twirling on the spot until she fell down dizzy.
She didn’t feel ruined. Or wrong. Or mortified and ashamed.
Instead, her heart danced happily when she thought of what she had done. . . .
There was so much to remember, and it was all so wonderful. How could she ever forget the soft-as-silk feel of the beautiful skin of Sutcliffe’s back? The way his smile had widened when she had grasped his shoulders in her pleasure. The hitch of his breath as she wrapped her legs tightly around his hips.
He had liked it. Octavia felt thrilled to have given him something he liked.
She felt full of laughter and joy. She felt . . . strong.
She wanted more. Another night. If she felt this strong, perhaps it meant she wasn’t going to die right away. Maybe she did have more time. Time for more nights with Sutcliffe . . .
Could she do that? Savor as many nights with him as she could before she finally got too weak to do anything?
Or, by tomorrow, would she feel sick once more?
She didn’t know. She didn’t know what the morning would bring. Right now, she must brush her hair and braid it for bed. She would pretend to have slept in her bed all night. There were still a few hours until dawn. If she still felt this wonderful when she awoke, she would get out of bed and dress. She was tired of being sick and spending all her time in bed.
Her brush lay on her vanity. Foolishly, Octavia stretched her hand toward it, though it was across the room. She would have to go and fetch it—
The silver brush rattled on the vanity.
It must have been her imagination. There had been nothing that had made such a vibration.
She took a step toward the vanity, but the brush suddenly spun around so the handle faced her.
That . . . that was impossible. Brushes could not move by themselves. Was this something new from her illness? Was she now hallucinating?
“Well, if I am, what if I envision the brush flying across the room to me?”
She held out her hand. Was she going out of her mind? Perhaps she had an awful fever—she had hallucinated terribly once before when she’d had a high temperature.
The brush spun madly as though it was trying to fly but was bound to the marble top of the vanity.
Then it broke free. It rose up in the air and swooped toward her. It came so fast, Octavia ducked. A loud crack and a clatter told her the brush had gone over her head and tumbled across the floor.
Of course it hadn’t. She was seeing things that couldn’t really happen.
She blinked and looked at the vanity. The brush would be there, just as it should be—
It wasn’t.
Octavia whirled, not ready to believe the impossible. Yet there was the brush. It had skidded across the varnished floor and had come to a rest against the fireplace.
She pressed her hand to her forehead. It wasn’t hot, and if she had a fever that could make her see flying brushes, she should be burning up.
She didn’t care about her hair anymore. Wearing only her shift, not bothering to change into her nightgown, she leapt into her bed and pulled up the covers. The strength she’d thought she had must be an illusion.
She shut her eyes, but she knew she wouldn’t sleep. What she didn’t know was if she would live through the night.
Men were such weak creatures, utterly enslaved to their cocks, Esmeralda decided.
She lifted her riding crop and brought it down hard on the bare buttocks of the young man tied up in front of her. The smack of leather upon his bottom sang through the room. Writhing against the metal chains that held him, he moaned in agony and submissive pleasure.
She had been spanking him, carefully, for almost half an hour. She did not want to break the tender skin of his firm arse yet and make blood flow.
She stopped whipping. The young man half turned. “Have I displeased you, mistress?”
How beautiful he was. Five-and-twenty, with lean muscles, narrow hips, and the most delectable bottom. “No, you have pleased me well. As a reward, I will give you some pleasure. But you must not come until I give you permission.”
She grasped an ivory wand intended to go deeply inside her young slave’s arse. She did not apply the oils she used on such a device for herself. No, she wanted him to feel some pain along with his pleasure.
He was ready, arching back so she could shove the wand inside.
Then a searing pain filled her head. The wand fell to the floor. She almost collapsed. She, who was one of the strongest vampires in the world, had to clutch a table for support.
A silvery haze covered her eyes. And she had a vision—of a young woman with blond hair. The girl was carefully making her way up a tree. Even in the vision, Esmeralda knew the young woman had recently had sex.
Power emanated from the woman. Power and strength.
This woman had just taken a piece of a man’s soul, and she glowed with it.
Finally, after hundreds of years, it had happened again. One of the most powerful succubi had been awakened by finally having sex.
It meant they were all ready. She, the vampire, was finally free of her prison. Now the succubus had been awakened from her dormant state. All she needed to do was find this girl. Then she would bring all six of them together: the female wolf, dragon, and hawk-shifters; the most powerful witch; the young succubus; and herself.
Together they would destroy most of the male preternatural beings and enslave the rest. They would subjugate humankind.
Together, they would rule the world.
“Please, mistress?”
The young man’s begging broke into her thoughts. Esmeralda straightened and stared at the tight, naked rump of her slave. “Not yet,” she said impatiently. “You will have to wait for your pleasure, and you will do so obediently.”
4
Sexual Healing
Vauxhall Pleasure Gardens, London
One week later . . .
A
ttending an orgy to hunt Lord Sutcliffe had been daring. Going alone to Vauxhall Gardens was madness.
Gathering her courage, Octavia stepped down from her hackney, paid the driver, and joined the large, boisterous crowd outside the pleasure garden’s gates. She held her hood forward to shadow her face. There were no masquerades at Vauxhall anymore, so she had not worn a mask. Instead, she’d secretly bought face paint. She’d darkened her brows, rimmed her eyes with kohl, and reddened her lips. She looked like a different woman.
Octavia paid her admittance fee and followed the laughing groups down the main walk. Lights sparkled in the tree branches. They wavered and bobbed in soft breezes, twinkling like a sea of diamonds. Stars glittered above, and moonlight splashed down.
Musicians played in a central building, like a rotunda, and the strains of a European waltz danced through the air.
She was alive when she had expected to die. And being alive made her appreciate
everything.
It was as if she had never truly seen lights and greenery, heard music, or smelled the scents of flame and food before this night.
Ahead, she saw the area of supper booths. Curtains were tied open, and the diners sat at raised tables. Octavia recognized many of the people in the booths—all nobility, peers of her father’s. She strolled along the row, furtively glancing at the people inside.
Father had mentioned that he had seen Sutcliffe with men who belonged to the Royal Society for the Investigation of Mysterious Phenomena. Most people did not even know the society existed. Father had said they investigated things such as vampires, werewolves, and witches.
Father had told her such things existed. He had written notes about all sorts of strange and remarkable creatures he had found on his travels. About the unexplained things he had witnessed.
Father never made any of those notes and findings public. He kept those under lock and key. She had recopied his rough sketches into fine ink renderings of the monsters. If Father accepted them as real and true, she had no reason to doubt him. Father was a scientist and a scholar, and she took him at his word. Ever since her health had improved, Father had been much happier and stronger. And she had been well ever since her forbidden night with Sutcliffe.
The day after, she had felt so strong she’d gotten out of bed. She went outdoors and did sketching for Father’s latest book. She had even gone shopping on Bond Street. Instead of being pale, she had color in her cheeks. She could draw deep breaths without pain. She could make a fist without her arm’s becoming instantly weak. She even had an appetite.
She’d thought that one night with the Earl of Sutcliffe might have been her last. But since she’d made love to him, she’d felt so alive and healthy.
It was like . . . magic.
But she had an enormous problem. Since she was not going to die, she was now ruined.
She’d tried not to care. She wasn’t going to marry anyway, since she didn’t know if she would get sick again. So it didn’t matter that she could no longer marry because she was no longer a virgin.
If she was not going to become a wife, there was nothing stopping her from having another night of passion with Sutcliffe.
First she had to find him.
Two women in low-cut gowns passed her, large bosoms wobbling well ahead of them. Garish feathers danced on their turbans. They wore as much facepaint as she did, but she didn’t think theirs was for disguise. They hoped to look attractive. They sipped punch from large cups. One pointed ahead. “Look, it is the Earl of Sutcliffe.”
“Ooh, ’e’s a ’andsome one! Let’s see if ’e wants to ‘walk’ on the Dark Walk with us.”
Octavia’s heart sank. Was she going to be too late? She followed the two light-skirts. They scurried ahead, giggling madly, and she moved through the crowd as best as she could.
Then Octavia saw the courtesans’s destination. It was one of the supper booths. It had walls adorned with elaborate paintings and an ornate railing ran across the open front. Behind it, inside the booth, a long table gleamed with silver, crystal, and bright white china. Sutcliffe sat at the end, with a beautiful dark-haired lady seated across from him.
Jealousy panged, but then a blond gentleman who sat beside the lady leaned forward and conversed with Sutcliffe. It was hard to see the party in the booth, for the courtesans stood on tiptoe to gaze at Sutcliffe, but Octavia recognized the blond man. He had come to several of Father’s lectures. He was Mr. Sebastien De Wynter, brother to the Earl of Brookshire. The dark-haired lady was Lady Brookshire.
One of the light-skirts sashayed up to the booth. She curtsied to the party, then spoke quietly to Sutcliffe. Then the courtesan retreated, linked arms with her friend, and they both crooked their fingers at him.
Mr. De Wynter laughed, and his brow rose. Octavia moved close enough to overhear.
“If you would like to leave to take a stroll on the Dark Walk, feel free,” De Wynter said to Sutcliffe. Then he winked.
Lady Brookshire giggled softly. “My husband has promised to take me for a walk on the famed Dark Walk.”
“Indeed,” Mr. Sebastien De Wynter said. “I feel like stretching my legs myself.”
Octavia was startled as both the earl and his brother gave seductive smiles to Lady Brookshire. The beautiful countess blushed, but rose quickly. “Then let us go.”
Unfortunately, Sutcliffe left too. He helped Lady Brookshire down the steps, then her husband and brother-in-law joined her, the two men walking on each side of her. The flashy courtesans quickly claimed Sutcliffe, and he strolled through the crowd with a bosomy woman hanging off each arm. One woman gave his buttocks a pinch.
Octavia wanted to scream in frustration. She should go home, but she had worked so hard to get here. It would break her heart to simply give in, trudge back to the gate, and hire a hackney to take her home.
But she would be an utter twit to believe she could tempt Sutcliffe away from the large-breasted courtesans.
She trailed after them. She could hear how curtly he answered them, how distracted he appeared to be. Was he really going to make love to the two of them?
She wasn’t naïve—there had been illustrations in that erotic book of all the various ways human beings had sexual relations. From it, she’d discovered people liked to copulate in groups. One picture had been unforgettable—an entire dinner party had been depicted having an orgy on the dining table. Plates had been flying everywhere, crystal goblets strewn on snowy tablecloth and floor. Some gentlemen were feasting while making love, and women were swallowing wine straight from the bottles. They had all been having sex.
Now, watching Sutcliffe walk with two women, Octavia felt the air fairly crackled with their intent.
The Dark Walk certainly lived up to its name. There were no fairy lights here, and masses of bushes and trees blocked moonlight, creating vast seas of black shadow. Rustling sounds came from thick bushes. Soft moans and heavy panting could be heard everywhere.
Three more lovers would be going in the bushes, too. If her heart sank any lower, she would tread on it.
She should
leave
. Admit defeat. She had said she was only going to have one night with Sutcliffe. But for some mad reason, she was obsessed with the idea of doing it again.
She was so obsessed that she stepped forward. “Lord Sutcliffe?”
He stopped and turned. The two women weren’t just clinging to his arms now; they were sagging against him. Apparently they’d indulged in a few cups of punch. They glared at her, and Octavia could tell they were furious at the interruption.
Even with her hooded cloak and her facepaint, he recognized her as his one-night lover. The way his eyes widened in shock and he stepped back proved it. As he jerked back, the drunken courtesans swayed, and one almost fell over.
He righted them both. “I’m afraid our stroll is over, ladies. Go now, and find a gentleman who will be better company.”
“There’s two of us,” one protested, fluffing her henna curls. “Only one of her. You can’t mean, my lord, that you prefer
her.
”
“The lady is a friend, and it is my duty to offer company.” He bowed to the courtesans. “I bid you good night, and thank you for sharing a pleasant stroll.”
Octavia squared her shoulders as one of the harlots flashed a glare so filled with hot anger, it should have set fire to the trees around her. The courtesans stalked off with chins in the air.
Octavia could not quite believe Sutcliffe had sent away two courtesans for her. She took a step toward him, ready to do something mad—like wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him.
But icy cold exuded from him, and she stopped in her tracks.
“What are you doing here?” he growled.
It wasn’t the greeting she had hoped for. She had come here for him, but suddenly that was the last thing she wanted to reveal. But what else made sense? “I—I wanted to see you again.”
A breeze rustled leaves, sounding like ghostly whispers. The night was warm, but shivers tumbled down her back. She wanted to move closer to him. Seeing him, his strong body, and his broad chest made her yearn to press against him. She wanted to feel his warmth. She wanted his arms around her.
Shadows clung to his face, making it look stark and hard. “I thought we were supposed to have one night together,” he said icily. “I thought you were dying. You played on my sympathies, my dear, and had me behaving like a scoundrel.”
His accusatory tone startled her. “Well, I am sorry, but I thought I was. But I got better.”
He looked frustrated.
The irritation he displayed hurt. She lashed out with words. “I apologize for having caused you such grief with my fear.”
“You didn’t need to bother with the hood and the facepaint. I know who you are, Lady Octavia.”
“H—How did you know?”
“I followed your hackney to your home, the house of the Earl of Morton.” Displeasure glared from his eyes. “You lied to me, Lady O. You tried to hide the fact you are—were—an innocent maiden. Worse, you are the daughter of a good friend.”
“Friend? You and my father argue and fight all the time.”
“We debate, and I would never intentionally do him harm. Taking his daughter’s virginity is the biggest and most painful insult I could have inflicted on him.”
“He doesn’t know.”
“So I assumed. Otherwise I expect I would have had to meet him over pistols at Chalk Farm.”
Branches clattered together, the sound eerie and forlorn. Her cloak blew around her legs. Fear gripped her heart. “You wouldn’t have dueled with my father.”
“What do you think your father would do, if he finds out?” He raked his hand through his hair. “I ruined you—and I can’t understand why a proper, unmarried young lady was so determined to throw away her virginity.”
“I was dying, and preserving my maidenhead hardly seemed to matter. It would rot in a grave along with the rest of me.”
“What do you want from me, Lady Octavia? I can offer you nothing. Certainly not marriage.”
She recoiled. What she had wanted was another night. Even after this argument, her body still ached and throbbed with desire for him. Even when his talk of a duel had frightened her, she still yearned for him. Her desire was worse now that she was so close to him. His scent seemed to lure her, drugging her, making her giddier than if she’d drunk wine.
How could she still desire him when she wanted to smack him across the head, then storm away?
“I wanted pleasure, but at this moment, I would rather die than touch you,” she spat. Then she whirled around, ready to stalk away. But she actually paused, hoping . . .
“Go then,” he snapped behind her. “Leave me the hell alone. I don’t need you pestering me. I don’t need you on my conscience.”
The next night . . .
Matthew groaned and rubbed his temple. Since his confrontation with Lady Octavia last night, he’d had a pounding headache. Now he had to look through books about vampires.
It was almost dawn and his host, Yannick De Wynter, the Earl of Brookshire and a vampire slayer, set a lamp down on the long table in the center of his library.
After Lady Octavia had walked away from him, Matthew had returned to Brookshire’s supper booth. There he’d waited, drinking Vauxhall’s watered-down punch, until the earl, his brother, and his wife had returned from their stroll.
He had been so happy to see Lady Octavia was alive, so happy he had forgotten the voluptuous women clinging to his arms. With relief, he’d noted how much healthier she looked since their night together. Her eyes had sparkled; her cheeks were pink. Even her breasts had looked fuller.
The instant he’d noticed that, lust had slammed into him like a runaway carriage.