Darker Than Love (9 page)

Clarissa glanced guiltily over her shoulder before returning her gaze to the dumbshow. They would not see her standing there. To them, from their lighted room, she would be as the night.

The man reached over Lucy’s shoulders and laid the length of his thumbs above each plump breast. A diamond glinted on his left hand. His mouth murmured silently as his thumbs slid down the twin, pale slopes to the lift of her beaded nipples. There, he flicked away from the tight crests before repeating the action – a lingering glide, a flick, another glide, flick.

Clarissa stood there mesmerised, of no place, of no time. The lack of sound glazed the scene with unreality. The two people were phantasms, moving in a hushed aqueous world. Floating from far away, came the merry jangle of a polka. It clashed discordantly with the unfolding tableau, enhancing its strangeness.

She watched avidly as the man cupped Lucy’s milk-white bosom and squeezed the flesh into a deep cleavage. He kneaded, massaged, and teased rotations over her erect peaks. There was scorn in his expression and a cold indifference to his caress. But, despite that, Lucy responded. Her eyes dropped shut, her shoulders sagged and she mouthed a gasp. The sight tugged at Clarissa’s loins.

She saw cousin Lucy cry out as her raspberry-pert nipples were crushed between thumb and forefinger. The man twisted and tugged with efficient brutality, ignoring Lucy’s obvious pain. His cruelty shocked Clarissa, but more shocking still was the rush of tingling heat which invaded her sex.

She wondered how it would feel to be touched and treated so harshly. Her pulse quickened. Clarissa knew she ought to look away, but she could not. Something held her there, something more than fascination. It unfurled from deep within her, a sombre desire, winding eerie tendrils about her body.

The man stepped back from Lucy and regarded her
reddened nipples with mild satisfaction. He stalked circles about her, his mouth moving occasionally. There was tension in his legs and buttocks, a suggestion of hard muscularity beneath his black evening trousers. His shirt was collarless, its sleeves rolled back, and under white cotton the broad power of his shoulders and the strong jut of blades were clear.

Clarissa blanched when he leant to touch Lucy’s knees. She saw, for the first time, the violence of a slash mark scarring his face. A shiver crawled across her skin and set the downy hairs at the nape of her neck prickling.

He eased Lucy’s knees apart and his hands slid quickly along her thighs, bunching up her green and white silks. He smiled, spoke, then reached one arm into the midst of frothing lace. Lucy’s back arched and her mouth gaped desire. The man, his face close to Lucy’s, his lips speaking nothing, caressed her. His elbow moved in lazy nudges.

Clarissa swallowed hard, trying to ignore the fluttering in her sex. Lucy was shaking her head, whether in protest or refusal Clarissa did not know. But, whatever her meaning, it was belied by her writhing body and the passion contorting her face. Then Lucy was suddenly nodding her head and her lips shaped ‘Yes, yes’. The man, his arm still softly jogging back and forth, laughed at her. His white teeth flashed; his shoulders shook and the bump in his throat quivered and bobbed.

There was a metallic clank at the gate. Clarissa started. Her head jerked to the dark end of the passageway then back to the scene within. In the library, a flash of military scarlet moved across her view. Her blood surged. How many people were in the room? She turned again. At the far end of the alleyway were shadows and muted giggles. She looked back at the window. The man in uniform was standing astride Lucy’s lap, his fingers fumbling over his swollen crotch. The dark, scarred man was behind her, pushing her head down.

Clarissa gasped, her heart thudding. The shadows and giggles were approaching. She stole a last glance. The man’s hips were pumping and his stiff, fiery penis was thrusting into Lucy’s mouth.

She stepped away from the window and coughed. There was a squeal and a hushing. With her head lowered, her face burning, Clarissa scuttled past a pair of patent-leather lace-ups and a frilled, dragging hemline, then out through the gate.

Oh, cousin Lucy was a disgrace. How could she allow the man to do such things to her when there were eyes watching? It was humiliating, degrading. Clarissa leant against the wall of the house, gulping the night air. A pulse, surly and insistent, beat in her loins, and the image of the man laughing at Lucy was branded in her mind.

Something, something she had a strange budding sense of, had held Lucy there, imprisoned by that man’s contempt. What it was exactly, Clarissa did not know. But she knew she feared it.

‘Miss Longleigh,’ came a deep female voice. ‘What on earth are you doing here in the dark? Your companions have been hunting high and low for you.’

Octavia moved towards her, slow and Junoesque. Clarissa greeted her with a feeble smile. ‘I needed air,’ she said quietly.

The woman looked at her for a silent moment, her face full of sympathy. ‘Your cousin had to leave some time ago,’ she said. ‘Dreadful bloody headache, I’m afraid. Poor thing. Too much champagne.’ She brushed a long dark curl away from Clarissa’s shoulder. ‘Perhaps you should do the same. You don’t look at all well. I could arrange a carriage.’

Clarissa nodded meekly. ‘Yes,’ she whispered. ‘I think that would be wise.’

Kitty dawdled into Clarissa’s bedroom. With a sigh she set down her bucket and, hands on hips, flexed her
spine. At least she wouldn’t have to do Hester’s room today, not with the old maid still abed. And long may she stay there, she thought, ambling over to the cheval glass.

Kitty hitched up her skirts and shuffled half-circles before the mirror. Yes, the scarlet stockings from Mrs Longleigh were well worth getting into trouble for. She really ought to save them for Sundays but they were so difficult to resist. She wished it could be Sunday for ever, except without church.

Better still, she’d be rich. She’d have petticoats of lace, a gown of poppy-red silk and a matching ostrich feather in her hair. And the men who chased her wouldn’t be lowly farmhands; they’d be proper gentlemen who’d buy her diamonds and furs.

Her eyes scoured the room, searching for inspiration to perfect her vision of grandeur. Draped over a chair back was a gown of slate-grey silk. Kitty couldn’t help but take a closer look. She fingered it lightly, delighting in the smooth fragility of the material. That hem needed laundering though, she thought, an impish grin playing on her lips.

The silk crackled as gingerly she lifted up the dress and held it against her body. The yoke was richly braided and ribbons streamed from the skirt. It was better than anything she possessed. Kitty swayed gently. Then, with a twirl and a swish, she was sweeping across the room, gliding in the arms of an imaginary suitor at the finest imaginary ball. There was a blur of dark grey as she whisked past the mirror and Kitty felt a pang of regret that it wasn’t poppy red. She wondered if the young miss had any colours more to her taste.

At the bedroom door, Kitty paused and listened. Silence. No one would know if she took a peek at Clarissa’s gowns. Throwing the grey silks on to the bed, she crept to the sturdy oak wardrobe. The hinges squeaked slightly. A rainbow of lustrous fabrics opened up. Amidst all the colours there were soft reds, deep
reds, corals and crimsons, but nothing quite so bright as poppy red. Nonetheless, those reds weren’t grey.

Hurriedly, Kitty slipped out of her uniform. Well, she reckoned, there was no point in just wondering. With Clarissa in town, Aunt Hester fatigued, and the servants all busy below stairs, she may as well find out. Standing in her flannel petticoat and shift, she mulled over the problem of whether to try on the rust with black buttons or the dark pink with an enormous bow on its skirt.

A noise from beyond the bedroom door wiped the dilemma clean from her mind. Her stomach lurched; her heart thundered. There were quick, light footsteps on the stairs, growing louder, nearer. Oh, if someone caught her she’d be well and truly done for.

In two swift steps she snatched up her bucket, her discarded clothes, and bundled them into the wardrobe. Then she stepped in herself, crushing the hanging gowns into a space, and crouched low. Her fingers curled around the door in a bid to pull it shut, but a stubborn strip of light remained.

She heard a muted giggle and cursed silently when she saw Pascale, dark eyes flicking shiftily, slink into the room. What was she up to, the haughty little piece? The Frenchwoman smiled furtively and whispered at the door. Then the new footman sidled in, shrugging off his blue and silver frock coat as he did so.

Pascale closed the door softly and leant against it, her head back, her bosom thrust provocatively forth. At once Ellis embraced her. They scattered feverish kisses over necks and faces, murmuring of love and lust. Their hands, urgent and searching, roved over each other’s contours, tugging frantically at clothes.

From the semi-darkness, Kitty peered through the gap, transfixed by disbelief. So Pascale wasn’t such a starchy piece after all. And, lordy, she was a quick worker, getting her claws into the poor fellow like that. He hadn’t been here a week. Hardly daring to breathe, Kitty watched with bewildered attention.

Ellis massaged and squeezed his lover’s breasts while Pascale, gasping and groaning, fumbled with the buttons on his breeches. Her head lolled from side to side then gently she moved him away. The footman’s cock, erect and uncapped, sprang from his flies.

Kitty moistened her lips, feeling a stab of hot need. That was a strong, randy stalk, she thought bitterly. Given the chance, she wouldn’t say no. With slow stealth, she moved the heel of her hand to her groin, and pressed at the rumpled fabric. Her face screwed into a resentful pout when Pascale, with a flurry of white lace, hitched up her skirts. Her stockings, like her high-heeled boots, were black, gloriously, wickedly black. Scarlet, decided Kitty, was not the best colour.

Pascale clasped the footman about the neck and, with a nimble leap, circled her legs about his hips. He pinned her to the door, his knees bent, and fumbled beneath her petticoats. Then with a jerk of his pelvis, he thrust upwards.

The woman grunted as Ellis began pounding vigorously, his plush-clad buttocks tensing and flexing. She scrabbled with the buttons of her dress and lifted free her nipple-hard breasts. Muttering in French, she caressed herself with wide-spread fingers and pummelling hands.

Kitty chewed her lower lip. Her sex was swollen and wet, throbbingly hot. Inching back her petticoat, she opened the split crotch of her drawers and eased two fingers into her juicy warm orifice. Slowly at first, then with an urgency to match Ellis’s, she pistoned back and forth, fighting desperately against the impulse to gasp.

The sight of the impatient, grinding lovers urged on her lust. She fretted the nub of her clitoris and deftly brought herself to a small but satisfactory climax. As she peaked, she allowed herself a soft whimper, safe in the knowledge that the rising clamour of Pascale’s passion would drown it.

Oh, how she envied that woman. Ellis, with his
slicked-back hair and fancy clothes, wasn’t exactly her cup of tea. But he’d got a fine thrust on him and a lovely looking prick, and those things mattered. It wasn’t fair. For Kitty, the Longleigh town house was as good as a nunnery.

She scowled as Pascale, with a thin reedy whine, spent her pleasure. Ellis thundered on then, moments later, snatched himself away. His creamy seed spurted to the ground in diminishing arcs. He smiled and with a buckled shoe rubbed the viscid white puddle into the carpet.

Kitty clenched her fists. How dare he, the grease-haired dandy? Didn’t he realise that some poor skivvy had to take care of this place? She’d make damn sure she took some hot suds to that patch later on. He wasn’t going to leave his mark like that, not in Miss Clarissa’s bedroom.

Pascale slid down the door and sat, her legs wide, her knees bent. ‘Ah, Sebastian, it is so good you are here at last,’ she breathed. ‘For those many days when you did not come, I missed you terribly. It was an agony to me.’

Kitty strained to listen. So these two had known each other before they arrived. Well, they’d certainly kept that one quiet, the sly old devils.

‘God, I hated it too,’ returned Ellis. ‘But, as I said, blame his lordship. He was the one who detained me.’

‘Hmmm,’ said Pascale. ‘Then your agony, ah, it was nothing compared with mine.’

‘Console yourself,’ replied Ellis, buttoning his breeches and smoothing back his dark oiled hair. ‘My agony’s about to get much worse in this place.’

‘Ah,
oui, mon pauvre petit
. This Hester is no beauty,’ said Pascale, pushing her breasts back into her corset. ‘Do you think it will be possible? Because, if you cannot keep her diverted, my task will be so very difficult. I cannot do it if she is watching all the time.’

‘I’ll make it possible, my love,’ he said, grinning. ‘Anyway, I suspect that, deep down, the old spinster has
the makings of a whore. Once I’ve fucked away the cobwebs there’ll be no stopping her, more’s the pity. Tell me about yours. Will she make a suitable wife?’

‘Pough,’ scoffed Pascale. ‘Clarissa has much distance to travel. She is too stubborn, too – too independent. She will need to be broken first. But … ‘ Her mouth turned down and she shrugged heavily. ‘It can be done. I think the girl, she is like this Hester. She has the makings of a whore.’

Ellis grinned and reached out his hand. ‘Then perhaps Alicia’s money will be the easiest we’ve ever earned.’

Pascale clasped his hand and allowed herself to be pulled to her feet. ‘I doubt that,’ she said, buttoning her gown to the neck. ‘Very much, I doubt that.’

Kitty remained in the wardrobe long after they’d gone. She wanted to follow them to see what they did next but she didn’t quite have the pluck. It didn’t make sense at all. The new footman was after bedding Aunt Hester? What to goodness for? And the French bit talking about Miss Clarissa in that way. They were trouble those two, that was for sure.

Kitty was going to keep a sharp eye on them. And, right now, she was going to give the carpet a darn good soaping.