Just One Taste (32 page)

Daniel locked up, looking mischievous. “Not the most romantic of proposals, I know, but I got rid of him. Do you want me to get down on bended knee?”

Alice wondered if anything would ever make sense again. “I only met you Monday.”

“Technically, I wouldn’t count those first days. I’d start with Thursday.” He traced the curve of her cheek. “You forget. I used to be able to read minds. I know you, Alice, and know I want to spend the rest of my life with you, for however long that is.”

His eyes were lit by silver and gold again. She could feel his relief. And his love. “What am I thinking?”

Daniel shook his head and grinned. “I don’t know. I hope you’re going to say yes.”

So she did.

T
his is a Margaret Rowe novella
. Before she “went into exile,” Margaret wrote two erotic historicals,
Tempting Eden
and
Any Wicked Thing
, as well as a story in the anthology
Agony/Ecstasy
.
Any Wicked Thing
was a 2011 RT Reviewer’s Choice nominee for best erotic fiction.
The Honeymoon
features a very imaginative submissive heroine, a tortured dominant hero and BDSM, and is not for the faint-hearted. If explicit sex is not your thing, don’t proceed!

K
err House
, London, Monday, June 1, 1818

C
atherine Kerr woke
from the same mortifying dream. Though she had been securely bound in it, naked and splayed wide, her own hand was now loose and between her legs in the gray dawn light.

No. She must not mince words, although she had such trouble articulating them to begin with. Her horrible stutter had left her on the shelf for seven long seasons. Her fingers were
inside,
her passage drenched. She was hot and yearning and needy.

She would probably never marry, so she must learn to do for herself. But she couldn’t very well tie her body up and still manage to touch the places that so needed to be touched. She closed her eyes and bit a lip, stroking hard.

It felt so bloody good. Too good. She was an unnatural woman. Proper women didn’t dream of silken ropes and scarves, didn’t dream of submission.

Of punishment.

If her master found her doing this, he wouldn’t be pleased. He’d tie her back up and leave her gasping of want. He might take the lash and—

Oh, God yes. Catherine bit her lip hard enough to draw blood as the spasms wracked her body, her legs so rigid that her thigh muscles ached. One hand jerked towards a peaked nipple, the other continuing the assault on the cunning bundle of flesh above her slit.

She should stop. Cover up. But she couldn’t. Not when the more she rubbed, the higher she flew. Again and again until she tasted the trickle of blood on her lips.

She was doing damage to herself in all ways. Giving in to her fevered imagination, whether she was awake or asleep. Chafing at the restricting clothes as she made her miserable social rounds, wanting to escape to her locked room where she was free of inane conversation she couldn’t manage and the resultant false sympathy she received.

She didn’t need those people. She had
this.
Bliss all on her own, as often as she could.

No. Her maid Minton would be coming in with hot chocolate and a roll soon. Catherine took a strangled breath and reached for her crumpled night rail. Her fingers shook as she attacked each devilish tiny button. Her heart raced beneath the fine lawn fabric. She must compose herself, retreat to being a poor spinster, tongue-tied and dull.

Catherine didn’t have to wait long. Minton bustled in, setting the tray on a table near the bedside and pulling the curtains open.

“It’s going to be a fine day, Miss Catherine. Much too nice for a fire. Unless you’re cold?”

Catherine shook her head. Minton was good at watching for her physical responses, so she could save her bottled-up words for later. She nodded as Minton took a dress and kid slippers from the armoire and unmentionables from the drawers. “You have a quiet day ahead, yes? But then it’s the Calverleigh ball tonight. Have you a gown in mind?”

What difference would it make what Catherine wore? She’d be in a darkened corner with the other awkward wallflowers and chaperones.

“N-n-not yet. Y-you choose. But l-l-later.”

Minton bobbed a curtsey. “Certainly, Miss Catherine. Do you have everything you need?”

Catherine nodded in the affirmative. Once the door was shut again, she took a bite of the dry roll. Her father’s cook should be sacked, but Catherine was incapable of doing it. Mr. Kerr was indifferent to food anyway—the only thing that interested him were the moldering pile of books in his library. He fancied himself a gentleman scholar, and had avoided his wife before she died and now barely knew Catherine existed outside the walls of his haven.

He thought her stupid, and perhaps she was. But he wanted her finally off his hands, so he’d hired ancient Mrs. Gunnison to chaperone Catherine through the various amusements this seventh Season had to offer.

They would all be over soon. Parliament would shut for the summer and Catherine would be left in peace.

No, not peace. She’d be in frenzied privacy, her fantasies and fingers driving her to orgasm.

A year ago, she had found one of her father’s books. It had been very informative. There had been illustrations in lurid colors. Women bound. Vulnerable. Gagged. Hanging from hooks on a beam. Cane marks on their thighs. Naked men with their cocks engorged and gorgeous raising whips to helpless females. The images had excited her so much, Catherine had forgotten to breathe. But the book had disappeared when she went back for it, and she’d had to make do with her own imprecise fantasies.

She remembered the title, however, and after months of agony, detective work and saving every bit of her pin money, discovered where such a book might be purchased. But she’d lost her nerve at the last minute and had bolted from the shop just days ago.

An unmarried young woman couldn’t ask anyone about sexual congress, not even the ordinary kind. Catherine’s mother had died when she was a little girl, and a series of indifferent governesses had never included such information in her lessons. Doddering Mrs. Gunnison would drop dead if Catherine could even have formed the words to discuss the machinations between a man and a woman.

The chocolate was too bitter. Catherine pushed the tray away. It would hardly harm her to go without breakfast—she was too fat as it was, her breasts overly full, even when she wasn’t tormenting them with self-pleasure. The fashion for slender elegant young ladies had certainly passed her by. Her skin might be creamy, but there was far too much of it everywhere.

No man would marry a plump, stuttering woman whose inner waywardness might spill out at any moment. Catherine
wanted
.
Burned
. Needed something a normal man would be horrified by.

Not that she had any suitors despite Mrs. Gunnison’s numerous introductions. The woman might be a bit dotty, but she was related to half the ton and knew the other half intimately. There had been a parade of eligible gentlemen led before Catherine who had neither been impressed with her voluptuous figure, modest dowry or her inability to string three words together without stumbling.

Catherine reached under her mattress for her sketch book. Her one ladylike accomplishment, and she’d never be able to show it to anyone. Pages and pages of self-portraits.

Catherine in chains, on her knees.

Catherine bent over, her bottom hatchmarked.

Catherine in a thick leather collar, led about on a leash by a faceless man.

She shivered with the yearning of it—to be owned and used. To give up all control. To not have to think or talk. To simply be someone’s object of forbidden desire.

She would do everything that was asked.

And more.

T
he Calverleigh ball
was not a usual sort of haunt for Viscount Nicholas Harland. He was far more apt to be found in a seedy gambling den trying in vain to recoup his family fortune.

Or at his private club—not to be confused with Brooks’s or White’s—where men like him—and women too—indulged their deepest, most depraved impulses.

He wasn’t at all sure why Sheffield wanted to meet him here—they may as well be at Almack’s for all the divertissement they’d find within these gilded rooms. Simpering virgins in white were not Nicholas’s style at all.

He’d long ago given up the idea of a society marriage. His needs were peculiar and prone to scandalize a properly brought up girl. Best to get his pleasure anonymously, or within the agreed-upon rules of his club. He couldn’t afford to have his conquests running off to a magistrate now, could he? He was close enough to debtor’s prison as it was.

Harlands had not fared well financially for three generations. Nicholas couldn’t blame his father for using up the last of the Harland money to search for his youngest child. Diana had simply disappeared on a walk with her governess, breaking his parents’ hearts and leading them to an early grave. Each time a report brought false hope that was quickly dashed, Lady Harland had faded before his eyes.

After her death, Nicholas’s father simply gave up and had a ‘hunting accident.’ Nicholas had hushed up the suicide, so his father lay beside his mother and Diana’s empty plot in the churchyard.

Suffering so much loss he couldn’t control made him seek ways to always prevail. He’d discovered the binding power of the rope and the whip, the blindfold and the gag. There was an emptiness in him that could only be filled by a woman’s subjugation. He wasn’t proud of himself, but at least he never took advantage of innocents. Those with whom he sported knew the risks and the rewards.

Glancing around, he saw none of his playmates tonight. A few women attempted to catch his eye, but he studiously avoided them and held up his pillar. Where in hell was Sheffield? Any longer waiting and he might be forced to ask some mindless little nitwit to dance.

Nicholas knew he was still popular despite his lack of money. He had a title; he was handsome—no point in denying that his black hair and blue eyes had made females swoon since he was in short pants. The Harland viscountcy was as old as England itself. Yes, Nicholas was a good catch if one didn’t know his very substantial faults.

He startled at the tap on his shoulder. “What kept you?” he asked, turning to Anthony Sheffield.

“I had a few loose ends to tie up, if you know what I mean.” The older man gave him a boyish grin, quite at odds with his silver hair. Nicholas and Sheffield were friends of a sort. Mentor and mentee. It was Sheffield who had introduced Nicholas to those dark pleasures that he could no longer do without.

“Anyone I’d be interested in?”

“Oh, yes. I believe you’d be
very
interested. Later, my boy. The night is young, and I thought I’d bring another young lady to your attention.”

“
Here
?”

“Do not doubt me. What do you think of that fat little redhead in the wallflower corner?”

Nicholas squinted through the candle smoke. “Am I to expire with lust at your description?”

“I know you prefer fleshy women. Don’t deny it. She’s Kerr’s only daughter. You know, the town bookworm. Dull as dirt, but he does have a valuable collection of oddities that will be hers someday. The girl has had seven seasons and not an offer. I imagine she’d snap you up in a heartbeat.”

“I’m not marrying anyone, Tony,” Nicholas said firmly. How could he bring some gently-reared girl into his darkness?

“She’s not a great heiress, I grant you. But I think she would be suitable.” Sheffield gave him a knowing look.

Nicholas’s throat dried. The likelihood of that was remote. “Suitable? How could you know such a thing?”

“You know the special bookshop I fancy? She’s been seen there. Without her maid. Darted in like a little rabbit, flushed scarlet and left.”

“There. You see? She made a mistake and turned into the wrong door.”

“I failed to mention she asked for a particular book. Had the title written down on her calling card. Careless of her to have left it behind.” Sheffield extracted the card from his breast pocket. “The proprietor thought I might be interested in some fresh blood, but I immediately thought of you. A few coins, and Miss Kerr’s missing maid was found and very informative. She thinks there’s something a little odd about her mistress.”

Nicholas was disgusted. “Bribing servants? Beneath you, Tony.”

His friend rubbed his chin. “Perhaps. But Miss Kerr keeps a sketch book filled with entirely shocking drawings. I persuaded the maid to filch one for me. I’ll show it to you later, and it might help persuade you. A marriage portion might go a little way to settling your debts.”

Nicholas shook his head. “If she’s not an heiress, as you say, there’s hardly any point.”

“But surely there are other perks? If you are to saddle yourself for life to a woman, it is preferable that she share your tastes. Unless, of course, it is she who wants to wield the whip.”

“I am
not
getting married,” Nicholas repeated.

“It won’t hurt to ask her to dance. I know her chaperone. Let’s go have a word.”

Sheffield propelled Nicholas through the crowded ballroom. An elderly woman with a mass of quivering bird feathers on her turban looked up at them through a lorgnette.

“As I live and breathe! Cousin Anthony! How delightful to see you here this evening.”

Sheffield reached for her gloved hand and laid a kiss across her knuckles. “Winnie. You haven’t changed a bit.”

“Foolish boy. You always were a prevaricator. I haven’t seen you this age. How have you been keeping?”

“Well, Winnie. Very well. I’m a little overgrown for the Season and its Marriage Mart, but my young friend here is not. May I present Viscount Nicholas Harland? My second cousin, Mrs. Winifred Gunnison.”

The woman’s eyes had glittered at the word “marriage,” and Nicholas felt his heart sink. What was Sheffield up to?

“Delighted. And this is Miss Catherine Kerr. Cat, dear, you may greet Lord Harland and Mr. Sheffield.”

Sheffield had been wrong. The girl’s hair wasn’t red, but a mix of gold and copper. It appeared to be very curly, but was pulled into a tight knot at the top of her head. Her face was round, freckled, her chin gently dimpled as if someone had brushed a thumb over it.

She looked trapped, her brown eyes darting away. She nodded once in their direction.

“Nicholas, don’t just stand there. The orchestra is starting up. Surely Miss Kerr would like to dance?”

What the devil? Miss Kerr didn’t look like she wanted to do anything but hide beneath her chair.

Nicholas managed an innocuous smile. “Forgive me, Miss Kerr. I’m unused to polite society lately. I confess this is my first ball of the Season, and here it is, nearly over. Summer will be upon us soon. Would you do me the honor of dancing and putting me at my ease?”

She cast a desperate look at her chaperone, but Mrs. Gunnison was patting the empty chair beside her so Tony could sit.

“Go along, Cat. Anthony and I will catch up on family affairs.”

Nicholas heard Miss Kerr’s long-suffering sigh. Could she have something against good-looking peers of the realm? Perhaps she’d been disappointed after seven seasons. Surely she was pretty enough, in a plump, kittenish sort of way. A marmalade Cat. Except they were always male, were they not?

Miss Kerr stood. She was neither short nor tall. The modestly-cut bodice of her cream-colored dress revealed an above-average bosom. She seemed to be focused on his left ear as he led her out to the dance floor.

It
would
be a waltz. He bowed and took her in his arms.

She hadn’t uttered a word, and soon he spun her so thoroughly she didn’t have any breath left. Nicholas gazed down at her, noting flushed cheeks and dropped eyelids. Her long lashes were pale but numerous.

“It’s quite a crush, isn’t it?” he remarked as he maneuvered them around the busy ballroom. “I suppose that’s a mark of success.”

“Mm.”

“Have you enjoyed your Season, Miss Kerr?”

“Mm.”

For the life of him, this tongue-tied creature could not possibly be the kind of woman who read naughty books or drew naughty pictures. She was beyond shy. Nicholas tried to imagine her naked and failed.

“I understand your father is known for his library. A learned man, is he? And don’t say ‘Mm.’”

She flashed him a dark look and said
nothing
.

“Now I’ve offended you. Do forgive me. As I said, I’m unused to civilized company.”

Miss Kerr said nothing to that either. The dance was endless and Nicholas was growing more impatient by the minute. He was beginning to wonder if old Tony had a maggot in his brain for introducing him to this silent and sober little madam.

At last they took the final turn, and Nicholas took the opportunity to whisper in her ear. “I don’t bite, you know. Unless you’d like me to.”

Miss Kerr’s pink lips dropped open. Whether she was shocked, surprised or intrigued was impossible to tell. He returned her to Mrs. Gunnison and persuaded Tony to leave.

They waited on the darkened street for Sheffield’s carriage. “You said there was someone I’d be interested in? I hope she’s more responsive than Miss Kerr. You’re mistaken about her, old boy. Couldn’t get a word out of her. Not the type to leave the straight and narrow, I’d wager.”

Sheffield shrugged. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Nick. Did I not mention her little speech impediment? Perhaps you flustered her. Made her nervous. She looked to be a delicious armful.”

Nicholas supposed she had been, untamed curves and orderly curls. But he was not interested.