Darius: Lord of Pleasures

Lucy’s expression moderated. “While you, they leave to the likes of me. Clothes off, Darius. You’ll pay for your divided loyalties, and dawdling won’t help.”

Darius shrugged out of his coat, wondering if Lucy realized his loyalty was to her coin. “As tired as I am, any excuse to get into any bed sounds appealing. How is your husband?”

She slapped him for that, which woke him up nicely.

“Been ignoring you, has he?” He saw the next blow coming and seized her wrist in a grasp not quite intended to hurt. “Hold, Lucy. Your puppy has run off, and in his place is a man unwilling to pleasure you for coin. I’m done with your beatings, whippings, and spankings. Take your ire out on Blanche or the footmen or the damned stable boys, but attack me again, and you’ll regret it.”

“I’ll regret it?” She wrenched free and came at him, nails and teeth, fists and feet, until Darius had her pinned beneath him on the bed.

“Enough, damn you.” He bounced her wrists hard against the mattress for good measure. “Be still.”

“Fuck me,” Lucy ordered, arching up against him. “If I can’t have the fun I want, the least you can do is swive me.”

“You know the rules, Lucy.” He did not make the mistake of letting her go. “No one runs the risk of pregnancy, and I don’t have to worry about a glove across my face.”

“As if Templeton would bother.” She tried to wrest free again, but Darius was too big, too strong, and too damned sick of her nonsense. The singed scent of her crimped hair alone was threatening his digestive control.

“I can hold you here all night,” he said through gritted teeth. “Or I could offer you the gratification you pay me for. Rather than do either, I will, for once, do exactly as I please and walk out of here, not to return.”

And, God in heaven, the words felt wonderful.

“Damn you!” She made another futile attempt to regain her freedom, and Darius waited it out as patiently as he could. He perceived a new difficulty all too easily: though she tried to hide it, Lucy enjoyed being overpowered, probably even more than she enjoyed hurting him with her silly games.

“Do I have to bind you, Lucy?” He gritted out the question with a sinking feeling in his gut. He’d thought there was nothing worse than being her plaything, hers to tie up, beat, humiliate, and toy with, but pretending she was his plaything had to rank far beneath that.

“Yes,” she panted. “Bind me hand and foot, and then, by God, you’d better exert yourself, Lindsey, or I’ll ruin that sister of yours, see if I don’t.”

“Ruin her?” Darius whipped off his cravat and used it to secure her right wrist. “And how will you manage that, without being ruined yourself?”

“Oh, no.” Lucy shook her head, and her smile was a thing of evil. “You won’t tell a soul, Darius, not about these little trysts of ours. Do that, and your whole family suffers. Blanche is well informed regarding your sister’s little contretemps five years ago, and we can remind all and sundry of the details.”

Temper and seething frustration turned the edges of his vision red. Leah had been through enough, and yet Lucy would derive savage glee in destroying the remains of Leah’s marital prospects.

He used the sash of Lucy’s night robe to tie her other wrist, and made it a point not to tie her tightly or to yank her wrists uncomfortably as he did. It was petty revenge against a renewed sentence of misery at Lucy’s hands, but all he could manage.

“As if anyone in this town ever forgets a scandal.” He sat back and eyed her, realizing his clothes were on, and his complete lack of sexual interest in this woman was at least his to privately savor.

“Get busy, Darius.”

“No.” He moved off the bed and considered pleasuring himself while she was bound and helpless to do anything but watch. She’d hate that.

He’d hate it more. He tugged off his boots, rolled up his sleeves, and poured himself a drink of fine old brandy from the decanter on the sideboard, knowing Lucy was watching his every move.

Another swallow, while he rolled the alcohol around on his tongue and eyed her on the bed. God above, he needed to be drunk for this.

“I want it to hurt,” Lucy said. “Blood would be good. On the sheets.”

“You’re sick.” Darius set his glass down and approached the bed. “I should pity you.”

“You should fuck me.”

“No.” Never had a single word held so much pleasure for him.

“Shut up.” Lucy closed her eyes and lifted her hips. “Just shut up and get your mouth on me.”

He reversed direction and brought his glass of brandy to the night table.

“You want it to hurt, Lucy?”

She glared at him. “I want it to start.”

“I can make it burn,” he said, taking another swallow of brandy and climbing onto the bed.

She spread her legs and became docile as Darius did, indeed, make her burn, while his own torment involved flames of conscience rather than desire.

* * *

How had his life come to this?

Lucy had paid him with a choker, of all things, of topaz and emeralds. The piece was pretty, and as he’d taken it to the little shop on Ludgate he discreetly patronized, it occurred to him the jewels would go well with Vivian’s coloring.

Where in the hell had that ludicrous notion come from?

Now, more than ever, he needed to put thoughts of Vivian from his mind, and now, more than ever, his imagination returned to her like a lodestone. She was a beacon of pure goodness in his otherwise sordid existence, and as spring advanced to its full glory, Vivian kept invading his mind and pushing darker thoughts aside.

So he squired Leah about, and took Emily for the occasional quiet hack, and popped down to Kent to check on John, and dreaded the next summons from Lucy or Blanche. They’d backed off, and Lucy at least seemed content to be cast in the role of victim, but it wore on Darius like being her abused pet never had.

As if he could enjoy hurting any woman, even her, even for her pleasure.

“Looking for me?” Blanche appeared at his elbow and wrapped her arm around his, pressing her breast to his bicep. He nearly gagged in response.

“Lady Cowell.” He eased back and sensed this was to be his punishment. Lucy and Blanche might allow him to recast his part in their games, but they’d have their revenge for his attempted escape, and accosting him in public was a good place to start.

“I have a few dances free.” Blanche reattached herself to his side. “I’m told you’re grace itself on the dance floor.”

Darius turned to pick up his drink and managed to dislodge her again. “For that, you need to dance with Lord Val Windham.”

“The pianist?”

“The same.” Darius kept his drink in his hand, for Blanche wasn’t about to risk spilling something on that gown of hers. Ye gods, it was barely decent.

“I’d rather dance with you.” She eyed him as if he were a hanging ham and she a starving bitch. “Later tonight, as a matter of fact. On my sheets.”

Vivian. The thought of her circled in his mind like a tired old prayer, a child’s futile wish, a forlorn hope. He opened his mouth to put Blanche off when rescue came from an unlikely quarter. His sister approached, the tallest man in the room at her side. Leah began on introductions, but her escort cut her off.

“We’ve met.” Nick Haddonfield smiled blandly, while his piercing blue eyes assessed Darius closely. “Lindsey, a pleasure to see you in Town. And Lady Cowell, a pleasure as well.”

“Nicky,” the woman clinging to Darius purred, “always a pleasure to see you, but I don’t know as I’ve met your young lady.” She added a particular female emphasis to the word “young,” the slightest, nasty little inflection, so in the way of unkind women, it implied its opposite.

“My sister.” Darius spoke up and shifted to shake Blanche off his arm once and for all. “Lady Leah Lindsey. Leah, Lady Blanche Cowell.” Darius was amused to see Leah did not curtsy but merely inclined her head.

Reston winged out an arm thick with muscles no amount of finery could disguise. “Blanche, perhaps you’d favor me with a few minutes of your time. It has been at least since the holidays since our paths crossed. Lindsey,