Darker Than Love (13 page)

She looked towards the distant panorama of lights and scanned the shadowy figures wandering about the trimmed lawns. There was nobody familiar moving in this direction. She would wait a while longer, then she would go in search of him. But she would wait further down one of the avenues. Loitering on the edge of the trees was doing little for her dignity.

To the right a gloomy pathway, flanked with bushes and overhung with leafy branches, faded to a menacing blackness. Berating herself for being nervous, she took a few stealthy steps into the darkness. Underfoot was well-trodden grass with patches of hardened earth. She moved cautiously, reluctant to alert any hiding lovers to her presence. At the third tree she paused. She would count to sixty then tiptoe back to see if Gabriel were approaching.

As she reached twenty-nine a rustle in the foliage startled her. She held her breath, listening. But there was nothing. It was a bird, or perhaps a courting couple. Thirty, thirty-one …

‘Clarissa!’ came an urgent voice.

Her heart lifted. He was here. Gabriel was here. ‘Where are you?’ she hissed, looking about her and advancing towards the sound.

‘This way,’ he whispered from bushes deeper along the track.

Clarissa giggled and moved swiftly. So he’d found a place that was truly secluded. She halted where she thought the source of his voice was.

‘Gabriel?’ she said in a soft, eager tone.

There was a loud crackling and quick springing footsteps behind her. Before she could turn, his hand closed over her eyes. Her pulse jumped.

‘Stop it,’ she laughed. ‘Stop playing games.’

But the hand pressed more firmly, drawing her back. Then something thumped across her belly. Clarissa doubled over, winded, her breath gone. Panic seized her; her mind raged. The ground spun and she saw two pairs of feet, a flash of Oxford brogues, a flash of sturdy boots. This was not Gabriel. She was going to die.

She wheezed, struggling for air. A hand clamped the lower part of her face then something was forced between her teeth. It was fabric, thick and dry, filling her mouth and stretching her lips into a rictus of muffled protest. She caught a glimpse of a grizzled beard before a blindfold plunged her into a black void. It was too tight. Hazy purple spots dilated in the darkness. She jerked and writhed as an iron grip hooked back her elbows, pinning them inflexibly.

‘Keep still, bitch,’ someone growled in her ear.

The man smelt of horses and tobacco, and his stale, sour breath was hot on her face. His coarse whiskers scoured her cheek and she squirmed to be free of him, squealing dully into her gag, hardly able to breathe. A punishing hand caught her wrist; her arm twisted and searing agony tore through one shoulder. It was useless, useless. Her body heaved with muted dry sobs. She was
too young. She did not deserve it. She prayed only that her end would be painless.

‘You’re going on a little trip, Miss Longleigh,’ sneered a second voice. ‘Your presence has been requested. And, if you want my advice, don’t bother struggling. You’ll need your energy to do that later.’

Chapter Six

CLARISSA’S HEELS CLATTERED
across a hard floor – tiled, she thought: it had that clean sound, that slippery feel. Behind her a door creaked and closed with the dull thump of heavy wood. She heard the grating rasp of bolts being drawn and the stuttering clicks of keys in locks. Feminine footsteps clipped away. Every noise rose high and came back to her as a harsh echo.

She knew she was still in London, although she did not know which part. The carriage she’d been bundled into had driven along the King’s Road – it was the only route out of Cremorne – and her sense of direction told her she was now somewhere north of that. But where exactly – and more to the point, why? – she did not know.

‘Welcome to Asham House,’ said the voice to her right.

Clarissa’s heart lurched. Asham House, Asham House. The name danced and swirled in her brain, repeating itself senselessly in the turmoil of her panic. It was Lord Marldon’s town residence. He knew who she was. He had sent for her. She was in Piccadilly, in his mansion.

It was confirmation of what she feared the most. A rush of terror made her writhe violently against her
captors. She made urgent noises of protest but the gag kept the sound trapped within her mouth.

Hollow, condescending laughter greeted her futile struggles.

‘Hold still, bitch,’ came the other gravelly voice. Then a cold, metallic edge rested against her neck. ‘Or I’ll slice you from ear to ear.’

It was a knife; she had a knife at her throat. An overwhelming urge to swallow tormented her. The more she thought about it, the more her cheeks seemed to fill with saliva. Desperately she fought against the impulse, fearing even to breathe lest the movement should cause the blade to pierce her skin.

‘This will be your home for some time,’ continued the clearer voice. ‘Although I doubt you’ll be allowed to treat it as such.’

No, Clarissa told herself. He could not keep her here against her will. She would be missed. She had not kept her assignation with Gabriel and, even now, he would be combing the Pleasure Gardens in search of her.

The knife moved away from her throat and she swallowed; there was no moisture. Viciously strong fingers forced her arms behind her back. Others looped twine about her wrists and tugged a series of knots, each pull of the rope making the rough bondage cut deeper into her flesh. Her body wriggled: a gesture of resistance. She knew it was hopeless.

Then someone fumbled with the blindfold and whipped it from her eyes.

‘If you behave, my lady, we might do the same to your mouth.’

Clarissa blinked rapidly. She was in a lofty white entrance hall and, although the lights in the girandoles burnt low, the room came as a glare after her enforced darkness. Enormous, heavily framed paintings adorned the walls, and a grandfather clock said it was a quarter past midnight. Before her a broad marble staircase with a gilt and glass balustrade swept up to a columned
gallery. Above was a second gallery and higher still was a domed ceiling patterned with golden-edged honeycombs.

Clarissa craned her neck, expecting to see Marldon sneering down from one of the balconies. But he was not there.

‘Brinley Jefferson,’ said the man to her right. ‘Lord Alec Marldon’s loyal valet. I expect we’ll be seeing quite a lot of each other. Forgive me if I don’t kiss your hand.’

Clarissa whirled her head around to the man. He was a willowy creature with a crop of short dark curls, and strange green-grey eyes. She glared at him, her heated look conveying the anger her bound mouth could not. He merely smiled, his lips thin and sensual, and nodded towards her other abductor.

‘Jake Grimshaw, stablemaster,’ said Brinley. ‘I hope he hasn’t been too rough with you.’

Jake Grimshaw leered at her. A brown-toothed smile gaped within his mass of grizzled whiskers and a lecherous snigger gurgled deep in his throat. He stretched his callused hand to Clarissa’s face. She shrank back on the instant.

‘Easy, Jake,’ warned the valet, stopping the other man’s hand with his own. ‘When we remove this gag, Miss Longleigh, if you so much as squeak it goes back on. And I won’t be quite so gallant in controlling Jake’s eagerness. He likes a pretty girl, don’t you, Jake?’

The burly stablemaster grunted agreement and the valet untied the knot at the nape of her neck. Clarissa drew deep, free breaths and ran her tongue around the inside of her dry mouth. She did not cry out, nor did she rail against those who had brought her there. She merely whispered, when she could, a hoarse ‘thank you’.

But it was not the men’s threats which made her compliant, for their danger, although it was real, was also crude. It was her dread of Lord Marldon which stilled her. She felt the subtlety of his menace as an aura within the house, oppressive and all-pervading.

Her heart thundering, she allowed herself to be escorted up the shallow slabs of the staircase. She feared Marldon might be covertly watching her, trying to gauge her reaction, and her face was as stone. The men led her from the gallery landing down a long red corridor lined with portraits and Chinese urns, then into an anteroom hung with striped yellow silks. Before double doors of oak and studded leather, they stopped.

‘You ought to look your best for Lord Alec, don’t you think?’ said Brinley with a sneer.

In one swift movement, he grasped the low neckline of her gown and jerked the purple silks from her shoulders. The fabric tore a little and he jammed the lacy froth around her arms, trapping them at her sides. She gave a shocked gasp and the valet, laughing quietly, shoved a hand into her underclothes. His cold thin fingers spanned the swell of her right breast, then he heaved out the pale globe.

A burning anger pounded through her veins. Breathless with outrage, she backed away, stumbling against the great bulk of the stablemaster. His brawny forearms circled her waist, squashing the air from her. She shouted and kicked but her struggles had no impact. With the same cruel enjoyment, Brinley dug his fingers beneath her chemise and scooped free the fullness of her other breast.

She could scarce believe what was happening.

Jake released her and Brinley stepped back. His covetous gaze hovered on her soft white orbs, swooping over their curves, darting from nipple to nipple.

‘How dare you?’ fumed Clarissa, petulantly stamping her foot.

The valet grinned, his eyes flicking from her juddering bosom to her face.

‘Orders are orders,’ he said with an ironic lift of his brows. ‘You wouldn’t want us to defy his lordship, would you now?’

Clarissa tried to stem the tide of her fury. He had
ordered this, actually ordered his servants to expose her. Well, if he was determined to humiliate her, then she could be equally determined not to respond. She assumed an air of glassy composure, and looked steadily at the valet. Lord Marldon would not get the better of her. She would meet him defiantly, not cowering in shame and terror.

‘Lovely,’ growled Jake. His clawed heavy hand reached for her bared mounds, and Brinley at once slapped it away.

‘She’s not yours to touch,’ he admonished.

‘Just a lil’ squeeze,’ argued the man gruffly, batting away Brinley’s arm. ‘They’re so darn lovely.’

With a lunge, his coarse stubby fingers fastened on to one breast. He pummelled vigorously, chuckling mildly, clutching and tugging as if he were trying to wrest the flesh from her.

Clarissa screamed, her cool veneer forgotten.

Brinley barged into the stablemaster’s hulking frame and the brute lurched back, his arm flopping to his side.

‘Damnation,’ hissed the valet. ‘I’ve seen dogs with more finesse. Now look what you’ve done, you cursed oaf.’

‘Bitch made me,’ mumbled Jake, looking contritely at the ground.

Clarissa’s white flesh was streaked with red. Sapphire chips blazed in her eyes and her face was dark with rage.

‘You’ll answer for this, Grimshaw,’ said Brinley, turning the gilded ring of the door handle. ‘I’m taking none of the blame.’

He ushered Clarissa forward. Her boiling blood simmered down, swamped by fear as she stepped into an immense salon, softly lit and stretching either side of the entrance. Three vast chandeliers swept a line down the room, cascading crystal, dripping beads of ice blue. Clarissa scanned sharply from left to right, hunting for Lord Marldon. She could see no one, yet she felt the presence of many.

The salon was irregular, full of places to hide. There were no walls as such, but rows of archways, divided by gilded pilasters, and decorated in rich mosaics of turquoise and gold. Above a frieze inscribed with Arabic lettering, the ceiling too was set with tiny tiles, forming geometric patterns which glinted in the light. Tall, fringed palms stood here and there, and divans and ottomans, upholstered in figured crimson silk, were scattered about the room alongside fragile lacquered tables. Everything was exotic and palatial, and the furniture seemed almost to languish.

Brinley guided her deeper into the salon. The thick red and gold carpet, as soft as a bed of moss, soaked up the sound of their footsteps. Candles flickered in ornate sconces, each one a mirror of her own fluttering pulse.

Then, slowly, figures stepped into view. They emerged from the arches’ shadows or rose from couches which had until now concealed them. There were women, clearly naked beneath gauzy wrappers and peignoirs, and men in livery, lounge suits and high-buttoned frock coats. They drifted silently towards her, snaking among the furniture and smiling lasciviously.

Clarissa could not quell her embarrassment. She coloured hotly, the flush creeping up from her bared breasts to stain her face. Frightened, she edged backward and felt the valet rest a gentle, stilling hand against her back. His touch was not coercive; it was merely a reminder that she was utterly powerless, and it worked on her all the more forcefully for that. She gave a little whimper of defeat, and was rendered motionless, mesmerised, petrified.

The valet dropped away, leaving her in isolation as the people – perhaps twenty or so – formed a wide, uneven circle about her. They ogled her with unabashed lechery. She caught the eye of a swarthy fellow with a great drooping moustache. He smiled and licked his lips, his tongue slow and salacious. A brunette in transparent green rolled her hips suggestively.

Their hungry stares burned into Clarissa’s naked bosom, infecting her with a flare of sensuality. The response of her body appalled her. It was sordid, wicked, beyond comprehension. Dropping her eyelids, she stared at a fleur-de-lys on the carpet, willing the moment to pass. There was a stirring within the group. For as long as she could, Clarissa ignored it. But the compulsion to look was overwhelming.

Lord Marldon strode forward. His face was stern, devoid of the sneer she remembered him having, and beneath his shock of sable hair his ebony eyes were fierce. Candle flames from above cast shadows on his harsh, cynical features, and his scar, after the rectangle of one sideburn, was silvery white. It lay across his strong, solid jaw, gleaming like a tiny sliver of moonlight.

He moved towards her with intimidating indolence. His arms, corded with muscle, were bared to the elbow and his shirt gaped to reveal a triangle of his hard chest.