Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (23 page)

His words from last night continued to burn
her ears.
I have no interest in Miss Terrell…her qualities do
not compel me…it would not be Miss Terrell were she the last woman
remaining.
Had he not the courage to speak the truth to her
face? she had wondered in anger as sleep eluded her the better part
of the night. Was it simply her blackness that deterred him? Had
she misunderstood his arousal? Had he responded to her only because
he was the sort of man who found titillation in the degradation of
being with a blackamoor?

Her heart heavy, she had clung to her pillow
in between tossing and turning in bed. She had tried to sustain her
dander toward him because the other emotion tugging at her heart,
sorrow, was not one she stomached well. She did not understand her
sensitivity or the intensity of her feelings. Perhaps she had erred
in seeking his attentions. She ought to have contented herself with
the Worthingtons and Arthurs of the world. They had more of what
she desired in terms of wealth. Did she honestly think she could
entice a man with more worthy qualities? But what could be more
worthy than wealth?

Well, it was his loss if he would not have
her! She could have presented him such rapture. He was a fool not
to even sample what other men paid good coin for!

Yet, why did she feel as if the loss was
hers? Why did that awful sensation continue to wring her heart? Why
did she still desire him after he had said what he had?

The questions had haunted her for hours with
a few bursts of rage relieving the frustration, the helplessness,
the wretchedness, till sleep provided a more lasting respite.

“Sir Arthur was in a merry way,” Madame
Devereux told her when they crossed paths in the hall after Terrell
finally emerged from the room.

“That man has a merry way?” Terrell could
not resist.

“None of your imp, miss,” Devereux
cautioned, though she herself seemed in a good disposition. “He did
tell me that you exceeded all expectation.”

“I am gratified to hear it.”

Devereux nodded. “I think you will make of
him a frequent patron. She has proved rather disappointing. I
thought her extremely pretty, but I think her skills do not compare
to yours.”

Terrell doubted Sophia was pleased to hear
such a thing.

“With a man like Sir Arthur, your efforts
will be well rewarded.”

Madame patted her cheek and went on her way.
Terrell could not dismiss the uneasy feeling that came with
thinking of Sir Arthur, but she dismissed the senseless sensations.
All that mattered was his coin.

She went upstairs to her room and found it
vacant. Yesterday, she had retrieved the book that Master Gallant
had left. Picking up the novel, she sat and turned its pages. Here
was proof once again that she could never fit in the society she
sought or possess the right qualities to attract Gallant. How she
wished she could read! The story, the images that could be conjured
by these plain letters, was extraordinary. Sitting upon her bed,
she reached her hand up her skirts and fondled herself to the
memory of the various passages Miss Katherine and Master Gallant
had read aloud. After several minutes, she achieved her climax.

Yet she could not shake the emptiness within
her. She had woken in the morning with no more clarity than she had
when she fell asleep. Should she assist in Miss Katherine’s
instruction tonight? Master Gallant would undoubtedly dispense with
her services, but would he be persuaded by Wendlesson? The viscount
would favor her presence. Nevertheless, despite being a guinea
richer, she would rather not have to attend to his lordship’s
satisfaction a second time. The seeds of betrayal, planted while
Wendlesson pounded into her, had fully sprouted the following day.
How would Miss Katherine receive the knowledge that her new friend
had lifted her skirts beneath her husband? Terrell doubted
Wendlesson had confided his deed to his wife. Miss Katherine would
be devastated if she knew.

The Wendlessons were not the first married
couple Terrell had had congress with, but the others had possessed
experience, with both parties seeking the threesome. The
Wendlessons were newly wed and Miss Katherine a neophyte and
clearly in love with her husband. Her ladyship had granted Terrell
entry into her instruction, had sought her assistance, and relied
upon her company.
She
, in turn, had repaid her by fucking
her husband for a guinea.

Lying back upon the bed, Terrell let out a
deep sigh. She had merely acted as she always had at the Red
Chrysanthemum. She availed herself of every opportunity because she
could not trust to luck or benevolence. The world was cruel and
merciless. As a slave, she had been granted little quarter. Could
she spare quarter for anyone else? Those at the bottom of society
had litte choice if they wanted to survive. They could not afford
more virtuous qualities. If she had acted in the vein of a selfish
creature, it was out of necessity and she ought not feel
shamefaced.

But she did.

“I must make amends,” she muttered to
herself. Her guilty conscience would not find relief till she had
improved the situation for Miss Katherine. She had to participate
in at least one more lesson. She was certain she could guide
Wendlesson’s arousal toward Katherine, and if she succeeded, he
would no longer require anyone but his wife.

But what if Master Gallant would not permit
it? A part of her, in stubborn defiance, wanted not to care. She
could inveigle her way into the lesson. But then she would have to
face Gallant once more. Perhaps, now that she better understood
what he truly thought of her, she would see the aversion she must
have overlooked in him before. And that would pain her. As much as
she liked to think that no man could affect her in that way, it
would not be the case with Gallant.

The revelation surprised and troubled her.
She was a fool to give a damn what his opinions were if he
disdained her, yet still she could not help being drawn to him. How
could she have misjudged him so?

No. It could not be. His cock did not lie.
And she could not have imagined the look of lust in his eyes. If he
did not desire her seduction, as he had professed, he could have
made far worse statements to repel her. Though she did not fully
comprehend the incongruence in what he had told Wendlesson with his
actions and responses to her, she perked with hope. She was done
with despair. She wanted a return to her prior confidence. She
would know once and for all how Gallant truly found her. If her
qualities did not compel him, then what sort of qualities did?
Those of Mistress Scarlet? Did he prefer a more domineering woman?
She could be such a woman for him.

Resolved, Terrell went downstairs to the
dressing room but did not find Miss Katherine. She went to inquire
of the doorman, Mr. Baxter, if the viscountess had arrived.

“Miss Katherine is not to come tonight,” Mr.
Baxter informed her. “This note came from her, and I am to present
it to Master Gallant.”

“Not to come?” Terrell echoed. “But
why?”

“The note provides the explanation.”

“And?”

Mr. Baxter hesitated but he opened the note.
“It says the Countess is ill, and that she must remain by her
ladyship’s bedside tonight.”

Terrell took the note. “I will give it to
Master Gallant, as I mean to ask after Miss Katherine with
him.”

She did not elucidate further but went in
search of Jones, a tall and imposing blackamoor. Madame employed
him to assure the order of the Red Chrysanthemum.

“Miss Terrell,” he greeted with obvious
pleasure.

Madame would allow no consorting amongst her
employees or Terrell might have entertained his attentions from
time to time. He was nearly as strapping as some of the slaves
whose bodies had been made brawny through hard labor.

“I’ve a task for you,” she said, amazed at
how quickly her mind conjured a plan, fixing the details as she
spoke. Thinking on her intentions made her heart race. She had a
surprise for Master Gallant.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

C
harles was rarely tardy.
It was not a matter of concern to a dominant. A submissive had to
wait as long as needed. But he had Lord Wendlesson to contend with
and a small window of time to work with Miss Katherine. He had
rushed to the Red Chrysanthemum after returning home to first shed
his dust-covered clothes and change into fresh attire. He had
stayed long at Ashlington House, for there was much to discuss in
the way of the election. His mother had written to a cousin of hers
who was acquainted with the Marchioness of Hertford, whose London
home was a sort of center for Tory electioneering. Together, they
called upon their neighbor, Mr. Stephenson, who had also pledged
his support for Charles.

Then, while riding back to his townhouse in
London, he had come across a carriage that had lost a wheel. One of
the occupants, an elderly lady, did not fare well out in the
elements. He had offered his horse to take her to the nearest
posting inn. The events resulted in his arriving twenty minutes
late to his appointment at the Red Chrysanthemum.

“Did Miss Katherine arrive with Lord
Wendlesson?” he asked of Mr. Baxter as he gave the man his hat and
gloves.

“Miss Katherine?” Mr. Baxter inquired. “Ah,
if you find Miss Terrell, she means to speak with you regarding
Miss Katherine.”

Charles frowned. No doubt the viscount had
sent for the minx already. He would have preferred to do without
Miss Terrell, but he was too fatigued from his travels to reach a
strategy for what to do with her.

After handing Baxter his cloak, he took the
stairs three steps at a time. He reached the third floor as quickly
as he could. He heard no voice from inside the room and wondered if
the Wendlessons had tired of waiting. He opened the door.

Upon entering, the world was rendered
pitch-black.

A bag or sack had been thrown over his head
and tightened about his neck. He tried to tear away the casing
blinding him, but he was knocked to the ground. A hefty knee kept
him down, and his hands were pinioned behind him, his wrists bound
with a familiar rope. He struggled, but his assailant moved with
surprising quickness and strength, yanking him to his feet by one
hand.

Charles did not think Lord Wendlesson
possessed the muscle to manhandle him as if he were no more than a
child. Thrown into a chair, his arms were lifted and pulled behind
its back. More rope wrapped his torso to the chair, his ankles were
bound to the wooden legs, and even his thighs were secured to the
seat of the chair.

But if not Viscount Wendlesson, then who
would assail him in such fashion? Was this some manner of jest? Had
he offended his lordship? Charles heard the heavy footsteps of his
assailant retreat toward the threshold. The door closed. Hearing
nothing but the crackle of moderate flames from the fireplace, he
wondered if he had been left alone. The air inside the hood had
grown warm with his breath. He could not discern what fabric
encased him, but he hoped to be relieved from its confines
soon.

He was not alone. His body tensed at the
sound of footsteps advancing toward him. The tread was softer,
lighter than that of his assailant. He tried his bonds, but they
held. She stood near him. He could sense her presence, discernible,
too, by the fragrance she wore. He could not place the perfume with
any man or woman he had come across at the Red Chrysanthemum. Could
this be a scheme of Joan’s, part of his indenture to her?

“Who goes there?” he asked, though he did
not expect a reply.

He strained against the ropes and heard a
sharp cracking sound against the side of the chair. A crop. Did she
mean to warn him against struggling? To answer his own question, he
did his best to loosen the bonds and received the slap of the crop
upon his upper arm. Despite the layer of his coat and shirt, he
felt the sting. She had struck him hard as a message. He ceased any
visible efforts to escape his bindings. He was fairly certain she
stood in front of him and could not see him testing the bonds
behind him.

Something touched his cheek. The crop again.
Would she strike his face? But the crop only caressed his cheek,
its end brushing against his chin, then down his neck. It traveled
from his collar to his chest, then his midsection, past waist and
pelvis, and along the inside of one thigh. After reaching the knee,
it reversed course back along the thigh till it grazed his cods.
The crop tapped his thigh playfully before, without warning, it
slapped him—painfully close to his cock. He knew not if the woman
missed her target intentionally or not.

“Mistress,” he appealed. “I am engaged for
the evening. I am expected by Viscount Wendlesson and Miss
Katherine.”

This time it was her hand that slapped
him—across the face. It was a firm slap and not from a weakling.
She did not mean to let him go.

“Madame would not be pleased if I fail to
make the appointment this evening.”

She slapped him again.
What the
devil—

“If you intend to keep me indisposed,” he
said, his cheek smarting and the warmth inside his hood making
speech uncomfortable, “I only ask that you send word to the
Wendlesson, that they may not be kept waiting.”

Instead of leaving, she rained the crop down
upon him. On his thighs. His arms. His chest. But he was more vexed
than hurt. He did not want to keep the viscount and viscountess
waiting, though they should have been in the room first. He
considered the possibility that his female assailant might be Miss
Katherine, but the woman moved with too much confidence, her blows
too strong. Like him, the Wendlessons must have been delayed. He
doubted they currently occupied the same room.