Eliza Lloyd

Eliza
Lloyd

A dark past and unrequited love make John’s life difficult
until he is offered the chance to spend one night with sensual, widowed duchess
Lucinda Aversham. Pleasure he can provide, but one night with the woman he
loves won’t be enough. Neither will living a half existence as he watches her
from afar.

Lucy wants to experience a night of exquisite passion. She
doesn’t want to know the man’s name or see his face. She wants to know
pleasure—in any way her mysterious lover can provide.

When an unwelcome note from her one-time lover arrives, Lucy
knows she must have him again. But she could lose everything if she is exposed.

A
Romantica®
Regency historical erotic romance
from Ellora’s Cave

One Last Night

The Duchess of Wallingford waited a year and a day before
she threw off her widow’s weeds, dressed in a simple gray muslin gown with a
humble neckline and arranged for an unmarked carriage, which would take her to
Madame Dupuis’ whorehouse.

She was going for the oldest reason of all.

Preparations for such an affair were more difficult than she
had imagined because one didn’t ask gossipy friends how to arrange such a liaison—one
asked the discreet, worldly friends, but in such a way as to imply shocked
curiosity rather than an unwavering fascination and a determination to partake.

When Madame Dupuis had inquired as to the type of man
Lucinda would like to engage, the Abbess had mistakenly believed she wished to
entertain certain passions with a man similar to her departed husband. While
the Duchess of Wallingford was married, she had been the envy of her friends, a
perfect example of how to marry properly.

Wallingford was handsome, charming and wealthy and there had
been only six years between them, but none of that mattered or changed the fact
he was beyond cruel. She had believed in devotion. Love had never been part of
their arrangement but she had expected something more than disdainful
treatment. She did not want a man with golden-blond hair or piercing blue eyes.
She did not want superficial appeal.

She’d requested a man—any man—who had brown hair and soft
brown eyes. Though she could not risk a liaison with a noble. Other than that,
his station did not matter, only that he was clean and would treat her with
tender fulfillment in the bedchamber for this one night—a guarantee considering
Madame Dupuis’ reputation for providing sensual entertainment. And for what the
duchess was paying…

Winding through the streets, the carriage rattled along,
finally depositing her at the back door of the brothel. Being well prepared did
not remove the anxiety of her endeavor and she nearly required force to exit
the conveyance, but with a deep, steadying breath, she stepped out.

She had never bedded a man other than her husband. His
proclivities bordered on roughness and selfish disregard for any needs she
might have sanctioned by a long succession of entitled dukes who believed women
were property and wives were purchased vessels. Sexual congress was nothing
more than a poke in the dark for the duke. He spent no time employing any care
or enticement. As a result, she feared that love was merely a fairy tale and
pleasure only a hopeful dream.

Somehow she would teach her seven-year-old son more
refinement, to be worthy of the title of duke, and that of
man
.

But only after she had seen to her immediate need to—to feel
alive.

There was a craving low in her belly—a need that was hard to
describe aside from the term want. She wanted some unnamed fulfillment. There
were times, times when the only activity might be sitting in a chair, when she
felt the urge come upon her. An ache. A gnawing throb.

She was not so ignorant as to deny the existence of sexual
need, because when she felt this way, the only answering solution involved
visions of a man over her, inside her, doing things that made her…wanton.

Behind the façade of duchess,
ton
fashion arbiter and
perfect wife, Lucy hungered for something real. That her foreseeable future
would require faultless exhibits of poise and sanguinity frightened her.

There must be something else. What was it that certain women
had discovered with their husbands? Why had she not? Was a lover the answer? Or
would it only frustrate her further?

She must embark on this journey or forever be in this prison
of her body that would remain dead to pleasure.

One last night before she rejoined the ranks of proper and
proud and left behind the titillating dreams of a magnificent lover.

Madame Dupuis greeted her as she held the door wide.

Lucy imagined many of the
ton
’s most upright grand
dames visited the brothel, entering through the back door with the same sort of
secrecy. Did they worry as she did? The fear of discovery was enough to make
her turn back.

Theirs was a lonely life. Everyone expected perfection,
charm and elegance from a duchess, regardless of her age.

She wanted to live for a moment—a moment in time just for
her when she did not have to think of position, title, heritage or reputation.

“Your Grace,” the madam said. Lucy lifted her nose to
examine the woman, a round, jolly creature who might have been Lucy’s
grandmother. They’d last met at a small church. She had knelt behind the madam
to explain her need.

Lucy had nothing to be proud of, slinking through back
alleys to reach her destination.

And then to bed a complete stranger.

A blush spread over her face. Airs had no place at a
whorehouse. She forced a smile to her lips. “Madame Dupuis.”

“Everything is ready. Would you care for some wine
beforehand?”

“No, I think it would be best just to begin.”

“You are nervous. Come, sit with me for a moment.”

Before she could say no, Lucy was sitting on a comfortable
brocade chair with a glass of alcohol, which she did not want. There was no
reason to dull her senses now that the decision had been made. If there was to
be pleasure, she wanted to remember every moment of it.

She could drink afterward, if the evening was a failure.

“I promise you will not be disappointed. The young man is of
the best character. And kind.”

“But can he…? Will he be able to…?”

“Please you? Lady Wallingford, for what you are paying me, I
can guarantee that you will be astounded.”

A blush heated her face. The familiar but seemingly
unsatisfied rush of pleasure welled up in her as if she had been caressed
between her legs. She scooted forward in the chair, trying to curb the
unexpected arousal and stop the unintended consequences of wetness. Suddenly
the drink seemed like a good idea.

She sipped at the sweet-tasting liqueur. Already, her breath
came hard. Lucy had debated for weeks about coming, but once she had decided,
she was certain it was the right thing for her at this time in her life.

Today was the last day of her past. Tonight would be the
first day of her future.

Once this episode was over, she would go back to being a
widow and a mother, but not one who was always yearning for the unknown.

Her son wouldn’t be of age for many more years. She would
give up the best of her life to see him properly raised. During that time, she
could
live a life of loose morals and unashamed affairs, but she would not take the
risk of exposing her son or embarrassing his heritage. Too many people
interfered in her son’s life as it was—to have one of them expose her desires
could jeopardize her ability to raise him. She could live without many things,
but not without Vincent.

But for now…

For now she wanted something for her that involved complete
abandon and intense pleasure.

Would she be able to find whatever it was that she wanted in
one night?

Madame Dupuis gazed at her with a half-smile twitching at
her lips. “You are lovely, Your Grace. I am sure that you need not worry about
the outcome. It will be private and for your memory only.”

“Perhaps we should get started then. I won’t know who he is,
will I?”

“No, he will wear a mask as you requested. Are you sure you
wouldn’t prefer to remain anonymous?”

“I am unrecognizable, Madame Dupuis.” In many ways. Who
would expect a young widow with a purportedly virile husband, albeit dead, so
quickly to look for entertainments?

Braids adorned her hair, two tight rows at the sides of her
head that were twisted into a bun at the back. She wore no rouge, no color on
her lips, no perfume, no jewelry. She doubted even her son would recognize her
country simplicity. Only a milk pail or a distaff would have made her ensemble
complete.

Any man of Madame Dupuis’ acquaintance certainly would not
recognize her. He would be paid to arouse her, not marvel that he bedded the
Duchess of Wallingford. Her appearance might be confused with that of a vicar’s
daughter. She was quite safe.

By the time they’d reached the top of the stairs, Lucy’s
lips were dry and the one very small glass of encouragement seemed to have made
her a bit dizzy.

The hallway was empty but she could hear the soft sounds of
coupling—subdued voices and light laughter. It wasn’t difficult to imagine
other activities.

Nearing the end of the hall, Madame Dupuis opened a wooden
door. “It is our most private room.”

Inside the room was lit—a candelabra with eight lights
flamed and spurted in the corner. Another was by the bedside. A fragrant scent
filled the air. Lucy noticed a smoking stick that seemed to be the source of
the aroma. She had never been to the Orient, but this is how she imagined it
would smell. She sniffed again, thinking it was rose and sage and something
else that was both pleasant and mysterious.

“Do I wait?”

“Please, this is your room while you are with us. All is
prepared for your comfort.” Madame Dupuis waved her hand around the room.
“Food. Drink. Amusements.”

Lucy glanced toward the sideboard. On it were several
implements, of which she recognized only a riding crop.

Madame Dupuis touched her arm. “Remember, it will be as you
asked. You will not be harmed. You will be pleasured thoroughly though it may
seem uncomfortable and strange to begin with.”

Lucy walked in, cautiously glancing around at the elaborate
drapes, plush chairs and massive bed. When she heard the door snap shut behind
her, she pressed a hand to her chest and took a deep breath. This was her
moment.

Bedding wasn’t an unusual occurrence for her. True, it had
only been a little over a year since she’d last been with her husband but the
strange idea of a new lover—secret, illicit and decidedly erotic—was one she
could only hope to bring to fruition.

She didn’t want to play the prude since she had sought out
this form of intimacy. Curiosity, hope and desire was a strange brew of
emotions that propelled her toward this single affair.

Since she was alone, she slipped the ties that held her cape
in place and tossed it over the back of a chair. She had no expectations—other
than the thought it could be no worse than the time spent with her husband.

She strolled to the side of the room, touching first the
riding crop then leather bindings left in a heap. There were three…

She stopped. Looked again. Yes, there were three
accoutrements shaped like a man. A man’s privates. A cock, she said, forming
the word in her mind. Lud, she was a prude. She stroked along the cool glass,
noting the flanged edge, a nearly perfect recreation though wider and longer
than the only erection she had ever seen.

Anxious with emotion, she tried to calm her racing heart and
wildly rampant thoughts.

Was she to undress? Would they talk first?

Beneath her clothes, her body already ached, especially
between her legs. Wetness gathered as if there were a storm brewing. Maybe
there was. Maybe it had been building and she was finally going to feel the
quenching rains.

The bodice of her dress constricted, making her breasts feel
bound and tortured. Wasn’t that why she was here? Because she had been bound up
for so long? She yearned for freedom. To throw aside convention and propriety
just once, knowing that she could land again on both feet, on solid ground and
with her reputation intact.

She kicked off her shoes.

When the door opened across the room, Lucy experienced the
first moment of doubt. She could still leave. She hadn’t yet committed.

“Good evening, milady,” he said.

His low voice sent shivers down her spine. Not cultured but
not uneducated. He wore a ruby-red brocade robe that shimmered with gold
threads and with a tie about the waist that was loose, exposing much of his
bare chest. There was a fine patch of hair that peeked out at her, not black
but dark, she thought.

He was not as wide as her husband, maybe as tall.

Of course, he wore the mask. Would she be able see the color
of his eyes?

“I’m John,” he said.

Her anxiety calmed into something else—a heightened
awareness of her body and the sense of destiny. She was meant to be here.

“John.” She had not thought about revealing her name. “I’m…
I’m—”

He had come near her. He set his fingers to her lips, the
first touch startling and breath stealing. Through the mask, he stared at her
for a moment while he brushed the tip of his finger over her bottom lip. “You
are whoever you wish to be. Now get on the bed and spread your legs.”

Lucy didn’t take orders well. She straightened her
shoulders. No, she had not come here to be commanded to do anything. She’d had
a husband for that.

He moved his hand to the middle of her chest and gently
pushed her. She stepped back to keep her balance. He leered, his grin
one-sided.

She could not deny the gasping rush of pleasure that shot
through her. She wondered how she appeared to him. Did she look as though she
wanted to be tossed upon the bed? To have him fall upon her and ravish her to
the point of mad delirium?

His hands clutched her waist and he forced her toward the
waiting mattress. The back of her knees bumped the edge of the bed and with one
gentle nudge of his hand, she was falling into the soft downy comfort where she
bounced.

His hands were at her skirts, pushing them over her knees
and then tossing them carelessly aside and out of his way. “No,” she said, but
even to her ears, she sounded desperate and needy. Perhaps it was the word,
spoken with such breathlessness and honeyed by her arousal. Her denial must
have sounded as though she were screaming yes.