Just One Taste (34 page)

S
t. George’s Church
, London, Friday, June 13, 1818

N
icholas stood at the altar
, Sheffield as his side, a gleeful, diabolical burr. A dozen days had passed in a blur of despair and legal wrangling. Nicholas had not cared one whit about his future wife’s dowry or her father’s numerous demands concerning any heirs. There would never be grandchildren. There would be no true marriage.

On Monday, Nicholas would turn Catherine over to Anthony Sheffield for his amusement, and Diana would be freed. The ruin of the Harland family would be complete.

Nicholas couldn’t believe it had come to this. He’d tried to storm Sheffield’s house, but Diana and Mrs. Jones were no longer in residence. He had no doubt that Sheffield would arrange for Diana to permanently disappear if Nicholas did not accede to his wishes.

And meanwhile, poor Catherine Kerr was at the middle of this treachery. Nicholas had had precisely one interview with her, when he went to spring his scandalously sudden proposal on her. Sheffield waited outside, of course—it had been impossible to be rid of him so Nicholas could think straight.

A
coup de foudre
, he’d told Mr. Kerr. One dance and he’d lost his head and heart. The words had tumbled out so badly, it was as if Miss Kerr had transferred her speech difficulties to him.

As for Miss Kerr—Catherine—she had nodded in agreement at his clumsy proposal and held still for a chaste kiss upon her forehead.

She wouldn’t have to live with his betrayal—once he was dead, she could resume a normal life.

If Sheffield didn’t do too much harm.

Oh, God. The futility of someone like him praying in church was clear. God had already cursed the Harlands.

Nicholas knew he wasn’t a bad person. Flawed, yes. But he’d never deliberately set out to hurt someone who didn’t ask for it, except for today. Catherine, walking down the aisle on her father’s arms, was about to have all her girlish illusions ripped away.

She wore a pale green silk dress and a matching hat pinned with pink rosebuds. Her cheeks were flushed darker than the hat trimmings. Sheffield nudged him. “You’re fortunate I’m giving you first crack at her. But I must go fetch Diana.”

Wherever she was. Nicholas had done all he could to find out, but Sheffield’s servants, unlike Miss Kerr’s, were unbribeable.

Nicholas didn’t flinch as the vicar intoned in the near-empty church. He repeated his vows, his voice wooden. Catherine trembled beside him, stuttering so badly he wondered if their marriage was legal after all.

There would be no wedding breakfast—Nicholas was desperate to bring her to Harland Hall in Kent as soon as possible. He’d consummate this unholy bargain only because to think of Sheffield doing so was beyond the pale, then arrange for what was to come.

The June day was glorious, their trip out of the city uninterrupted by misadventure. Catherine was preternaturally quiet. After a few half-hearted tries, Nicholas stopped making inane conversation and left her in peace.

If things were different, he’d try to reassure her, help her relax when she struggled so to speak. No wonder she’d had no suitors, and no wonder her father really didn’t object to his lack of fortune. He wondered if she’d ever tried to write her responses.

Then he remembered her talent for drawing. A flush rose from his collar, still not believing this quiet creature could have been the artist behind that pencil sketch.

He had it in his pocket. One of Sheffield’s “wedding gifts” to him on the way into the church. The other gifts were in his trunk, with strict instructions for their use.

“You’ll thank me in the end,” Sheffield had said.

Nicholas’s fists flexed. The man had taken a thirteen year old child and ruined her life. Ruined the lives of Nicholas’s parents. Ruined his. Nicholas might not have sunk so deep into domination if he wasn’t urged on by his so-called friend. Now the darkness had overtaken him.

He’d only be released through death. But Nicholas would make sure Sheffield joined him in hell.

What would become of Diana? He glanced at his new wife, unable to imagine she’d like to be saddled with a drug-addled lascivious lunatic. He would have to arrange to use part of her dowry for Diana’s upkeep. Hire a proper nurse. There was a cottage on his property which would do until Diana was well again.

If
she got well.

He would write all his plans down, and hope that his new wife was compassionate.

The hedgerows closed in, and Nicholas recognized they weren’t far from the Hall. He cleared his throat, warning Catherine he was about to speak.

She turned, her brown eyes wide.

“We’re almost home.”

She blushed furiously, but nodded. What would she be like when they were intimate? She seemed as skittish as a deer.

Nicholas didn’t want to frighten her further. Tie her. Discipline her. Silence her—she was silent enough already. But he hadn’t had sexual congress without such aids in years. His mouth twisted. Would he even be able to perform? His wife was a stranger for whom he had only a modicum of desire. In his mind, she already belonged to Sheffield.

But he needed to take her maidenhead if only to deprive Sheffield of that particular pleasure.

“You understand what is to come when we arrive? Did your father—or anyone instruct you in your wifely duties?”

“N-n-no one t-told me anything. B-but I kn-know.”

“Good.” He reached into his pocket. May as well discover what the significance of this drawing was and if, in fact, she was the artist.

Slowly he unfolded the paper. “Is this yours?”

“Oh God,” she whispered.

“Is it?” He sounded harsh even to himself.

“Y-y-yes.”

“Is this what you want, Catherine?”

She trembled on the carriage seat, her gloved hands working frantically.

“Tell me.”

“I d-don’t kn-know.”

Nicholas lifted her chin, his thumb fitting perfectly into the indentation there. “I believe you do know.”

“I sh-shouldn’t—I c-c-can’t—”

“Don’t tell me what you
should
feel. I don’t care what the rest of the world thinks. This picture excites me, Catherine. If this is what you want, I can provide it.”

The look on her face was so hopeful he had trouble breathing.

Then she shook her head. “Y-you will be d-d-disgusted.”

“I don’t think so. Have you lain with a man before?”

“No!” He’d shocked her into not stuttering.

“Where did you get such an idea?”

“Fr-from a b-book. B-but even b-before—” Her voice trailed away.

“You dreamed of it.”

She nodded, eyes downcast.

Sheffield had been right after all, damn him.

So, what was Nicholas to do with his all-too-willing bride? Somehow this was almost worse that marrying a normal, respectably repressed girl. To come so close to heaven for the rest of his life, only to lose it? Ah, yes, Sheffield had planned Nicholas’s denouement all too well.

H
arland Hall
, Kent

T
he shadows were long
—the sun had dipped behind gentle hills and dusk was fast approaching. A motley crew of servants lined the steps of Harland Hall as the carriage rolled to a stop. Grass grew between the cracks in the courtyard, and scraggly vines seemed too weak to climb the brick walls. Catherine could see they needed pointing in spots, but architectural worries were the least of her concerns.

He knew
. She’d nearly fainted when he’d pulled the page torn from her notebook. How had he gotten it? Minton had abruptly left her service—was that why?

Catherine had not had a chance to hire a new maid before Lord Harland proposed so suddenly, and after that it seemed pointless. She would be in a new house with new servants. She would be a married woman, with at least some possibility of sexual fulfillment.

And now that he’s seen her fantasy—

She was mortified.

She was thrilled.

This picture excites me, Catherine. If this is what you want, I can provide it.

Was he speaking the truth?

For her part, she could barely speak at all. Her tongue was even more troublesome than usual. What would he expect of her? For all her self-abuse, she really knew nothing of what transpired between a man and a woman but the very basics.

What if her own hand proved to be better than her husband’s member? Dreams were meant to stay inside one’s unconscious. Suppose the reality of her dreams coming true turned to ashes?

This picture excites me, Catherine. If this is what you want, I can provide it.

Lord Harland helped her out of the carriage. Nicholas. He had asked her to call him that, and she would try, despite having such difficulty with the letter “n.” He took her elbow and pushed her past the servants with the curtest of greetings, saying something over his shoulder about how anxious he was to begin his honeymoon. There was scattered applause and knowing laughter, and Catherine wanted to sink into the ground.

But then he scooped her up and carried her over the threshold. The house was dim and smelled of neglect. She was not invited to tour the rooms or inspect the family portraits. Nicholas managed to carry her up the center staircase before he set her down on the landing. A large stained glass window missing some of its colored tiles hovered over them.

She was fat. She knew it. But Nicholas cupped her cheeks and stared down at her, not out of breath at all.

“We will walk the rest of the way. You will follow.”

It was not a question but an order. Catherine nodded, quite enjoying the view of her husband’s backside as they mounted the rest of the stairs.

It was beginning
. They were not equals climbing the stairs together. Her heart jumped.

The corridor was dusty. Most of the doors were closed. Nicholas led her all the way down the hall to an open doorway.

“It’s been mine since I was a boy. The viscountess’s room was not made ready on such short notice. You will want to choose the decorations for yourself once we’re…settled.”

From what she had seen so far, Catherine thought the whole house could do with some decoration. But his funds were limited, and her dowry wouldn’t go far enough to fix the visible problems. A good cleaning would be a start.

“Am I t-to sleep in here w-with you?”

He raised a wicked eyebrow. “Very little sleeping will be involved, Catherine.”

Her cheeks heated. A trio of elderly servants delivered their trunks and Nicholas spoke to them briefly in the hallway. Catherine had seen no female servants save for the older woman who was most likely the cook-housekeeper. He came back into the room, shut the door and locked it.

“We won’t be disturbed. I asked for a supper tray to be sent up later.”

Catherine was hungry now, but said nothing. A husband’s rights were preeminent even without a wife’s desire to submit. He was looking at her with those piercing blue eyes, and it was the easiest thing in the world to sink to her knees.

She was taking a terrible chance, risking humiliation to bare her soul before him. Nicholas might so easily spurn her, or even laugh.

This picture excites me, Catherine. If this is what you want, I can provide it.

She raised her arms over her head. The sleeves of her new dress pulled.

He inhaled—a sharp hiss which made her think she’d made a grave mistake. But then he untied her bonnet and tossed it onto the bed, plucked the pins out of her unmanageable hair.

“You are sure?”

Catherine nodded.

“It may not be as you imagined.”

She knew that too. “I w-want t-to try. I w-w-I’ll d-do wh-what you w-want.”

“You can’t possibly know. Poor Cat.” His voice was filled with regret.

Fingers were at the buttons on her back. He drew her up off her knees and the dress puddled to the floor. The room was chilled and damp despite the pleasant June evening outside, and her nipples peaked beneath her shift. She stood immobile as he dealt with her stays and stockings, his hands sweeping over her in possession.

Catherine watched his face carefully. It was obvious he liked what he saw once she was naked. A thread of worry snapped as he pushed her to her knees again, arranging her arms over her head, then changing his mind. Tying them behind her with her own stockings. Tugging on her nipples as her breasts jutted forward. Tracing the curve of her belly to her mons.

Catherine was shaking with lust. Her thighs clenched, her walls flooded. He dipped a finger in, his smile wry.

“You like this, do you?”

Wordless, Catherine nodded. He stepped back from his handiwork, appraising. He rummaged in a trunk and brought a crop to her lips. Catherine kissed it with gratitude.

“My God. I almost don’t believe it,” Nicholas muttered. Only teasing her with it at first, he stroked her body so lightly she leaned into the touch. He was tickling her, sweetly tormenting her. She wanted to beg for relief, but it wasn’t her place.

And she didn’t want to have to speak at all. Somehow understanding, Nicholas found another treasure in his trunk and fitted the gag into her mouth, buckling the strap tightly behind her head.

“It seems a shame not to kiss you. But we have time. I’m going to strike you now, Cat. Do you still want me to?”

Oh so much. But it didn’t really matter what she wanted. She was there for Nicholas’s use. She looked up at him and tried to smile around the odd object in her mouth.

“So beautiful. And all mine. For a time.”

Till death do us part, Catherine thought. Years and years of this. She could die right now and be happy.

The blow, when it came, was not quite hard enough, but she jumped anyway. A pink welt quickly formed on her pale thigh. He hit the other, his face shadowed in concentration. Then he walked around her. She missed being able to see him, but she soon felt the blows to her bottom. She arched up on her knees higher to give him more access, and he took advantage of her cooperation.

The whipping did not last long. She heard him curse, then felt his hand in her hair.

“Up.”

She scrambled to obey. He led her to the bed, then stripped himself of his wedding clothes. She lay on her back, her arms still trussed behind her.

“You’re not comfortable.”

She shook her head. He turned her and tore the stocking off, then stretched her arms up over her head, trying her wrists securely.

“Spread your legs.”

Catherine closed her eyes. Something hard was at the juncture of her thighs.

The smooth leather crop, still warm from Nicholas’s hand. He twisted it, pushing it inside her slowly. A pinch of pain, and her insides stretched to accommodate it. He slid it back and forth until it glided in effortlessly. Catherine groaned and shivered, moaning behind the gag.

She felt his breath on her belly, then his tongue licking her folds. His hold on the crop quickened, his mouth suckling harder. Catherine imagined what this scene would look like if anyone came in—she was helpless, muted, split open by leather and her husband’s lips. Her orgasm was ferocious.

He bit her as she thrashed just as he’d promised, tiny love bites up her body to her throat. Tears and drool were wiped away, and she could smell her arousal on his fingertips.

Nicholas removed the gag, then thrust his cock in her mouth. His knees were squeezing her shoulders, his hands holding her head still. Plunging and withdrawing, Catherine frantic to keep him in. Tasting sin and salvation. Instinctively she knew what to do, relaxing and letting him go deliciously deeper at each entry.

She pulsed around the crop as he spilled himself inside her mouth, swallowing without any thought of doing otherwise. She was a vessel for his needs, no matter what they were.