FeverFantasy

A pat to the lips the color of blush rose.

A scent of jasmine on the pulse.

A Paris creation of shimmering lime silk. A shockingly re-stitched bodice atop a cleverly designed half-corset. A cleavage to die for! And no bust-pads needed.

A pendant of a delicate jade apple, dangling deliciously between full breasts. Come hither, sweet man, dine with me. Rafe smiled at the mental image of she and the Marquis cavorting in the Garden. As she studied her reflection, she felt certain even Eve would have approved. Silk stockings tied with ribbons, satin slippers, and nothing more. No underskirt. No chemise.

He would notice her! She’d been at Land’s End for three days now and had seen the Marquis only one time. The night she’d arrived. His expression had been so forbidding, his countenance so grim, that Rafe had fled immediately to the room allotted her, and listened as the Marquis’ angry voice thundered in the study below.

“What the bloody hell is she doing here!” she’d heard. Trina’s reply had been too soft for Rafe to hear, but she and Trina had rehearsed it well. Rafe had no place to go. Trina felt sorry for her. She didn’t want to leave her at the convent, and had persuaded a very reluctant Rafe to come home with her. And didn’t she, Trina, deserve it after all? He was forcing her to marry, the least he could do is let her have some time with her friends before he pawned her off.

Pragmatic to the end, Rafe didn’t expect Trina to have added that last, although she had tried to bolster Trina’s courage enough. Unfortunately, Trina was not a forceful person, she preferred to avoid conflict whenever possible. Rafe was quite certain Trina’s reply had been sweet and stuttering. But Rafe wasn’t worried, he could hardly send her away now.

What she hadn’t counted on was that he would avoid her like the plague. That her first glimpse of him might be her only glimpse. For the past three days, the Marquis had cleverly evaded any semblance of a normal schedule, taking long rides, and longer solitary sojourns in the East Wing of Land’s End. Well, tonight, if he failed to appear for dinner, she was going to discover what kept him so occupied in the unexplored east wing.

***
In another part of the sprawling brick mansion that was called Land’s End, a man was dressing for dinner. This was his house, damn it! And he was not going to continue skulking around his own home. Land’s End had been so called by the Marquis de Galle because it was his safe haven. No lovers did he bring here, no women friends. None but family. Of late he’d taken to spending more and more time on his own at the estate. Far from London, far from the mistresses who’d fantasies he brought to life, far from his colorful past.

But now she was here. And it chafed him to no end. No matter how occupied he kept himself, there was a constant shadowy reminder floating just below his conscious mind that she was in his house. She was dressing, or undressing, eating, laughing, exploring his territory. He’d come to think of her with capital letters: She. And he hated that.

He would ignore her, he decided, as he discarded another cravat to the increasing pile of rejects. Too garish, where the hell had that one come from anyway? Thoughtfully, he studied his reflection, and on impulse discarded his formal vest and overcoat. He always dined in his shirtsleeves at Land’s End. Comfortably unbuttoned, and that was not going to change. Not a thing was going to change. All he had to do was live through eighteen more days, and everything would return to normal.

“Guilt,” he muttered aloud, as he ran a hand through his thick hair. “You can’t shake her from your thoughts because you feel guilty. Well, stop it. She got what she asked for.” It was with that reminder that the Marquis pulled on his boots and went to dinner.

An hour later, the Marquis was firmly convinced she hadn’t gotten what she’d asked for at all. Matter of fact, he wasn’t even certain he remembered what he thought she’d been asking for. Or what he thought he’d taught her. But it was much too obvious what she was asking for now.

Dinner was interminable, filled with the imp from hell across the table, and she wasn’t wearing bust-pads. He knew that because he could see the crests of her nipples through the sheer lime silk. He was surprised one hadn’t popped out of her lace edged bodice by now. He was also rather disappointed.

The Marquis tossed back another brandy as he watched the girl chatter animatedly with his ward. Protocol be damned, he was having brandy with dinner. And brandy after. Possibly even a brandy when he woke up tomorrow. Shooting a furious look across the table, he realized She was talking to him.

“Don’t you think so?” she asked.

“What?” he snapped, realizing two pairs of eyes were riveted on him and they were awaiting some kind of reply.

“We were talking about what Trina should expect when she gets married,” the imp said innocently. “As you are her guardian, and she has no mother to discuss such matters with her, don’t you think you should prepare her for events to come?”

“The events to come,” he clipped tightly, “are that Lord Tuttleridge will give Trina a fine house, a respected name, a generous allowance upon which we’ve agreed, and of course children,” he added. Then he wished he hadn’t, as she burst into sprightly laughter.

“That’s what I‘m talking about. The children part. Trina doesn’t have any idea what goes on between a man and a woman. Since she doesn’t have a mother to tell her, someone needs to advise her. You can’t expect her to go to her marriage bed without an idea of what is to come!”

The Marquis tensed. He was not going to get goaded into this discussion by her. “I’ll leave that to you, Lady Bennington. I’ve no doubt you’ve got it all figured out,” he said brusquely, and refilled his glass.

“But I don’t. I don’t have a mother either. I know,“ she exclaimed, as though struck by sudden inspiration. “You could tell us both."

The Marquis cocked a dark brow and looked at her. Looked at her so hard, and so piercingly that she finally turned her gaze away beneath the stress of his regard.

“Guess not,” she muttered, toying with her pendant.

“No. I guess not,” he gritted, watching the play of the jade apple between her breasts. Lovely breasts. Softy, full, lusciously shaped breasts. Young breasts. Very, very young, bloody hell, as young as his ward’s! Who by the way, came the voice of the rakehell within, is soon going to be doing precisely what you’re trying not to think about doing to her oh-so young friend--so if you, yourself consider Trina old enough, then doesn’t that make Lady Imp old enough, also?

He rose so suddenly that he banged his knee on the table. He cursed, and slammed his chair back into place. “I have accepted the fact that you have to be here, Lady Bennington, but I do not have to accept your childish games. If you have something intelligent to say to me, then by all means, I’ll be happy to listen. But if you intend to continue deliberately provoking me in every possible fashion,” his eyes raked over her bodice, “then I beg of you, stay in your room until you leave. I have no interest in kid play.”

“In that case, I do have something to say,” Rafe retorted. “And it’s perfectly intelligent. Don’t you think it’s a gross injustice that you can choose whomever you wish to spend your life with, while we,” she gestured to herself and Trina, “are no more than pawns? Trinkets to be dispensed to men with no say of our own at all?”

“Why, Lady Bennington, I wasn’t aware you were betrothed. Please give my condolences to the poor bastard.”

Rafe felt her jaw jut. He brought out the worst in her. “I am not betrothed--”

“Just when I was starting to feel the world might be a safer place, you shatter my illusions,” he mocked.

“But Trina is,” she continued, “to someone besides Lord Tuttlesnit.”

“Tuttleridge.”

“And you,” she bludgeoned on, “who indulges his every whim at every turn--”

“Not quite every one, I assure you.”

“--are ruining her life. You’re forcing something on her which you yourself wouldn’t tolerate. You restrict her freedom, you consign her to a lifetime of misery, just so you can get her off your hands.”

“It is not just so I can get her off my hands,” the Marquis thundered, his gaze flickering to his young ward. He wasn’t that callous. But bloody hell, his young ward had chosen the wrong man to marry. He had to intervene.

“Then why are you doing it?” Rafe challenged.

“I will not explain my actions to you,” the Marquis growled. “Further, I don’t need you filling her head with nonsense, so keep your bloody opinions to yourself.”

“How do you justify this?” Rafe exploded. “Forcing her to marry someone she’s never even met. Why, this Lord Tuttledick could be a monster! He could beat her, abuse her, lock her in her room and no one would ever know. Why are there totally different rules for men than there are for women?” That was what really chafed. She hated the restrictions that had forced her from her father’s side. A son could have stayed with him. But not a daughter.

He would not correct her. He wouldn’t. “Tuttleridge,” he snapped. “And it has nothing to do with women. Sometimes we elders have to make choices for the children in our care. Sometimes the children’s choices cannot be trusted. Trina wrote to me saying she was going to wed. Rather than stand idly by while she ruins her life, I arranged for her a fine, upstanding husband who will provide her with a good and comfortable life. Stay out of my business or you‘ll suffer my wrath. If you were my ward, you’d have been over my knee a time or two. As you’re under my roof, and in my care for the time being, you may end up there yet.”

One can always hope, Rafe thought wickedly. At least then she’d get near him. Near enough to prove she was a woman, and then spit in his face. To seduce, then reject him. “Don’t threaten me,” she sneered. “I am not your ward, and my father would call you out.”

“If your father had any care for what you are becoming, he’d thank me,” the Marquis retorted flatly. “Stay out of my affairs, Lady Bennington. Stay away from me as well. I will not tolerate your meddlesome ways.” Grabbing his brandy, he tossed it back in one gulp, slammed it down on the table and stalked from the room.

Rafe raised a brow at Trina, after he’d left the room. “Is he always so irascible?”

Trina shook her head. “Rafe, you astound me. I have never seen anyone fight with the Marquis before. I think you have more courage than sense. But thank you for t-t-trying to stand up for me. It means a lot to me.“ Trina shrugged her slight shoulders sadly. “But it’s not going to help. You see how resolute he is. He’s not going to budge.”

“Then it’s on to Plan B,” Rafe said firmly. And Plan B for herself and the implacable Marquis as well.

***

Plan B involved a discreet study of the Marquis’ habits over the next few days. Rather than avoiding her, he was now ignoring her. If they chanced upon one another, he would nod, and continue. Any attempts at conversation by Rafe were simply ignored. In truth, there were few attempts for Rafe was too busy forming her next plan to bother. The Marquis had resumed his customary schedule, and was surprisingly prompt about it. He rode at eight in the morning--God, Rafe hated getting up that early! But she watched him each morning. He usually didn’t return until lunch. He ensconced himself in his study each afternoon, taking a meal in private. At six precisely, he went to the East Wing, and she concluded eventually that he must bathe there. Although the maids brought bath water to hers and Trina’s room, she’d never seen bath water being brought to his. But upon his return from the East Wing, his hair was damp and his clothing different.

Several days passed before she worked up the courage to explore the East Wing, and when she did, she was sorry she hadn’t before. Land’s End was immense, Trina had told her there were sixty guest rooms. All of them were accounted for in three wings of the house. Trina had also told her that no one, absolutely no one but two elderly cleaning women, were permitted in the East Wing, and strict orders had been given that if the Marquis was there, he was to be disturbed under no circumstances.

All of which piqued Rafe’s curiosity relentlessly. Having observed him carefully for days now, she felt safe exploring shortly after he’d ridden out in the morning. She crept down the hall to the ornate door that sealed the wing, and tested it, fully expecting it to be locked. It wasn’t, and Rafe snorted. Obviously the arrogant man couldn’t conceive of his orders being disobeyed, so locking it didn’t even occur to him. She stepped inside, and gasped.

While the rest of the house was an elegant, luxurious country estate, the interior of this wing was ascetic. Simple elegance. Few furnishings, unusual portraits of pagan gods, titled Siva, Vishnu and Brahma. He had quite a library here, several Spartan guest rooms in oriental design, and the piece de resistance--the baths.

They were magnificent, laid of Italian marble in ivory and gold. Here, no expense had been spared. Almost as if the rest of the Wing was vastly understated to excuse the luxuriousness of the great room that housed such a wonder. She’d discovered the room at the very end of the Wing, and upon closing the door behind her, walked to the balcony and stared down. The two floors of the house were one now, with the room opening to a fifty foot ceiling from the balcony out. One had to descend the steps to get to the baths. There was a large open area directly beneath the balcony, as though for some activity, and beyond were the marble stairs that sloped down into the pools.

It was breathtaking. In the center from a lavish pedestal, a multi-tiered fountain showered the pools. The main pool was as large as at the public bathhouses in Venice she’d once seen in the books of Sacred Heart’s Library. Around that were three smaller ones, as she soon discovered, of varying degrees of warmth. How decadent!

As she explored the room, she found she’d been right in guessing he bathed here, for the room also housed several closets built in beneath the balcony, with – of all things – mirrors for doors! The entire wall beneath the balcony was mirrors.

Quickly, Rafe rifled through the closets. One contained formal dinner wear, one contained casual breeches and linens, and a third one contained an odd assortment of white robes that belted loosely, with matching white trousers. She’d never seen the likes before, and concluded that they must be Eastern in origin. There were no windows on the walls of the room, but at the ceiling, there were windows. Rafe was astounded. The clear panels alternated with sturdier materials, but at least a third of the ceiling allowed the bright sunshine, or conversely at night, the soft glow of the moon, to fall on the water.

Rafe whirled about on the smooth marble floor, spinning before the mirrors. This room evoked a strange exhilaration in her. To indulge oneself. Oh, she wanted a room like this; to bring her books and candles and read beneath the starry sky, to soak in the soothing hot waters, to stretch out beneath the fountain. To swim with a lover here.

No. Not to swim with a lover. But perhaps to torture a bastard of a man who had called her childish. Suddenly Rafe knew exactly what Plan B was. For while her feet had been whirling, an image unbidden had sprung into her mind. The image of the Marquis swimming naked in the waters while Rafe watched from the balcony. The balcony contained the only entrance to the baths, she could slip in and out unnoticed. But watching him would do nothing to further her plans for revenge. However, him coming upon her unexpectedly might just prove to him what she wanted to prove.

That she wasn’t a child. That she was a woman. A woman worthy of desire.

And if he likes what he sees? a small inner voice warned.

Oh, but that was where Trina came in. She would tell Trina that she wanted desperately to try the baths. Would ask her to bring her towels by, and to be prompt. And that was all she’d tell Trina. If Trina suspected what she was planning, she’d never help her. All this would take place with perfect timing shortly before and after the hour of six o’clock. With any luck, the vision of her naked would accomplish what she had been unable to accomplish with more subtle measures. It would make him want her. And when he did, she would reject him, cut him to the quick. Make him feel as terrible as he’d made her feel.

Rafe laughed aloud at the sheer beauty of it. After comparing her own figure to those idealized by the ton, she felt certain of her allure. Now, to talk to Trina.

***

The Marquis de Galle sighed heavily as he closed his ledgers. Not that they required scrutiny. His wealth was so diversified that no single investment needed oversight. He could afford to lose money for the rest of his life on Land’s End without making so much as a dent on his sizable inheritance. But each day, he’d been sequestering himself in his study, going through papers unseen for years in an attempt to occupy his mind. To free it from the awareness that she was out there.

Even his familiar, cherished discipline, an ancient eastern art, had been proving worthless of late. Normally he took great pleasure in the grace and control his practice instilled. But lately, that sense of inner balance and control that others so often misconstrued as ego and coldness had eluded him. This evening, he would reclaim it. He would focus until nothing existed but his body as a weapon, his mind lethal as a blade.

Resolved, the Marquis made for the East Wing as the mantle chimes rang the hour. Once through the door he began undressing as he crossed to the stairs at the balcony. As always, he stripped to his breeches, then paused a moment, preparing to savor his first sight of the room that gave him such pleasure. Although his closest friends, the Lords of Lussex, had all been to the East Wing, and had teased him mercilessly about his pleasure palace, in truth he had never brought a woman here. This was his place, and only his. No taint of the fashionable ton would ever mar its serenity.

Far below, Rafe was stretched on the fountain’s pedestal. Water sprayed up in the air and spilled in a glistening fall across her naked body. Her hair was unbound, curling wetly, and she was in heaven. She’d all but forgotten the Marquis, absorbed in the immediacy of the moment. She’d swum in Japanese bath houses. Her father had loved the custom, and had taught her a love of it as well. But she’d never swum nude before, and the feel of the water against her skin was bliss. As she lay lost in easy thoughts, she wondered why she hadn’t heard the chimes ring the hour yet, then immediately realized what was missing in this wing--there were no clocks.

She raised her head slightly, tossing her hair so it veiled her face, and glanced subtly at the balcony.

He was there!

Bent over, tugging off his boots. He hadn’t seen her yet, of that she was certain.

She stretched languidly on the pedestal, wildly thrilled by the thought of his eyes caressing her. Her heart was pounding, and she felt a smooth, liquid fire in her stomach, like the time she’d snitched some of her father’s whisky. She was shaking. Alive. On fire with life. Look at me, she thought, want me! Want me so much you can’t think beyond the wanting.

The Marquis straightened and tossed his boots aside. He felt his soul breathe and stretch, as it always did in this place. He was certain tonight he would be able to empty himself of troubling thoughts, and regain control through his arts. He moved to the balcony and cast his eyes lovingly across his domain.

And froze.

No! his mind hissed.

Yes! his body snarled. You’ve been waiting for this. You want it. Take it. She wants to give it. Look at her.

He stared.

She was on her back, fully nude and spread, waiting for a lover, her flawless young body glistening with a sheen of water droplets. She was perfection. Youth at it’s ripest blush.

The water reflected the evening sky above, and her skin glistened silver and gold. Her long black hair was a wet glory of a tangle around her face, and she was completely abandoned.

He recognized the look on her face. It was the same look he wore when he came here. But, bloody hell, it wasn’t her place, it was his, and everything in this place belonged to him. The math was simple: His place, she was in it. ergo, she was his. For the taking. For the doing of any damned thing he wanted to do. And there were a lot of damned things he wanted to do to her. A list longer than his arm.

She rolled over onto his stomach and his knees actually buckled from the intensity of the lust that slammed through him. He grabbed the banister and sucked in a harsh breath.

Her ass was a dream. A base, erotic, carnal fucking dream.

Lush and generously rounded, he could all too easily picture it in his hands, as she--on her hands and knees, head flung back, breasts swaying as his balls slapped against her curves--took him inside her. Took the punishing ride, took his need.

Her back was sweetly curved, her waist trim, her shoulders and arms toned. Her legs were unbelievably long and shapely with enough muscle to wrap around his ass and squeeze hard when she came. Violently and many times, as he would make sure she would. Her skin was honey and cream. When she pushed to her feet, he jerked and choked on a breath.

He wet his lips, tracing his tongue slowly over his lower one, tasting those perfect breasts, sucking the nipples, dragging his tongue over the dusky curls, shoving her legs wide to thrust it inside her, to taste where she would taste like no other.

Blood thundered through his veins, drained his head, crammed his cock ramrod straight, up against his stomach.

Dimly, he realized he was shaking. Not with nervousness, but lust like he’d never felt before, a raw, almost angry hunger that made all his past sexual experiences seem mere shadows of the act. As though he’d been going through the motions, but never felt the fuck. As though until now he’d been a voyeur, hovering over the bed, watching himself give another woman what she wanted, but getting nothing in return but the conquest of another faceless name he wouldn’t even remember come the dawn.

With this woman, he would take back. With her, there would be an even exchange. No, the hell with an even exchange--he would take until she was drained, until she lay unable to move. She was young, strong, but more, there was a will inside her most women didn’t have. There was the steel of a man inside her. She could handle him, she could take his worst.

He descended the stairs silently, unfastening his breeches and shedding them at the bottom. Nude, he’d sluiced into the water before her head surfaced.

When the Marquis’ head crested the water a few feet from her, Rafe opened her mouth, her first thought to scream. She shut it again and just stared at him. Her breasts ached, her body strained in the water. She battled the urge to swim to him, to cling to him, to beg for whatever it was his dark, searing gaze promised.

What was this--this hot, angry fire in his eyes? What in God’s name had she awakened?

His eyes were so hungry, so…wild. Panic exploded in her brain. What had she been thinking? She couldn’t handle this man! Want me, take me, make me what I don’t understand but want desperately to be. Teach me all you know. Make me fly, set me free. She turned, turned to swim away, to flee. Where was Trina? Had she forgotten? How would save herself if Trina didn’t come?

He was on her, one hand closing around her waist, the other on her buttocks and yanking her to him. He was hard and huge against her thigh.

“Rafe, Rafe are you here?” Trina called.

Rafe shuddered with relief.

The Marquis went very, very still.

“I brought t-towels, as you asked.” Trina’s voice floated down over the balcony as the door clicked softly shut behind her.

The Marquis wrapped one hand around Rafe’s throat and smiled slowly, and it was the most terrible smile she had ever seen, ice cold, dangerous--and at complete odds with the white-hot fury of lust in his eyes. “You’ll pay for this, Ella,” he hissed against her ear, Then he clamped her head between both hands and ground his mouth against hers, hard and punishing.

He shoved her away with such force that she plunged beneath the water and sank to the bottom of the pool. By the time she’d clawed her way back to the surface, he was no longer in the pool. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw one of the mirrored doors silently closing.

It was a very subdued Rafe that climbed from the bath and gratefully accepted Trina’s towel. Briefly, she considered exposing the Marquis, but for a change, reason took place of impulse.
It would accomplish nothing.

She’d wanted to make the Marquis de Galle want her and there was no doubt that she’d achieved that end.

Unfortunately she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for.

There was fire between them. The fire in his eyes was in her blood now. It exhilarated her. It terrified her. That damned duality.

He didn’t come to dinner that night. Or the next or the next.

In fact it was just three days to Christmas before she saw him again.