FeverFantasy

The Marquis de Galle grimaced as he tortured his body mercilessly, stretching, shaping, punishing. When Tai Chi failed to bring the needed release, he forced his body through a grueling set of fighting katas, until he was exhausted.

For days now, he had kept to the east wing, the main door to the hall locked. Hours of Tai Chi, hours of reading, hours of brooding, his eyes resting on the pool, recreating an image of the night she’d been here. Exploring a vision of what might have happened. Exploring his all-too colorful past, and what he’d come to view as his exceedingly empty future.

Briefly, he’d considered riding into London, and taking a lover to distract himself, but he couldn’t leave the girls unchaperoned. Although Land’s End housed an impressive staff, with a rigid housemistress, he just didn’t feel safe leaving his soon-to-wed charge alone with Lady Bennington for any length of time.

And he didn’t feel safe seeing her. Through the long hours of rigidly imposed self-discipline, he’d reached a conclusion. He must not have her. He would resist with stoic control, she was nothing to him. And he would show her that. He now believed she had deliberately invaded his wing with the express purpose of provoking him. And if provoking him was what she wanted, she would be sadly disappointed. For Lady Bennington would get no reaction at all from the thirty-year old rakehell and libertine with whom she’d unwisely decided to cross swords.

The Marquis dressed for dinner in his usual breeches and linen, and calmly traversed the house to the main dining hall. He could hear laughter tinkling down the hallway before he even arrived, and somehow the simple fact that she was laughing when he wasn’t around bothered him. How dare she laugh and be gay while he was made miserable in his own house? Reduced to prowling the halls like a wary intruder.

She didn’t say a word when he took his place at the head of the table, and Trina only stuttered a
soft ‘g-g-good evening, m-m-my Lord.’ The Marquis mumbled a reply, and set to eating with a concentrated effort. Clad in a demure dove gray, Lady Bennington was oddly even more erotic, her little girl clothing only emphasizing her ripening womanhood in contrast.

It was a silent dinner, broken only by soft conversation between the girls. The Marquis was busy congratulating himself on his newfound peace, when he made the supreme mistake of glancing at her.

Rafe was in heaven, and at that moment, completely unaware of him. Honeyed tarts, a delicate light pastry filled with a buttery cinnamon center! She hadn’t had them for years, and the chef at Land’s End was incomparably talented. Steaming hot, and fresh from the oven, they were light, delectable, and to be eaten with scalded honey drizzled over them. As she drizzled the sticky sweetness, she prepared to eat with utter absorption in her task. She used her knife and fork at first, but in her haste to devour the pastry, conceded defeat to the clumsy utensils and simply picked up the sticky tart. She sighed softly, and proceeded to make a mess while she ate.

When she had finished three of the succulent delicacies, she realized her finger bowl was as sticky as her linen, so she set to her messy fingers with careful attention, licking the honey off first one, then the next. By the time she was halfway through, she became aware of the uncomfortable sensation of eyes flaying her.

Startled from her single-minded abandon to one of her passions; eating, she raised her eyes to find the Marquis’ resting on her broodingly. Hot and piercing, shielded as ever. It suddenly occurred to her he was finding something very interesting about what she was doing, so she licked the fourth finger with languorous attention. By the time she got to the seventh, she was running the tip of her tongue over her full lower lip to remove every trace of sticky sweetness. By the time she reached the last, it had become a production, and rather than sucking the honey off, she used her tongue, and held his gaze the entire while. He sat implacable as ever, his face remote, his eyes hard, and met her gaze levelly, his eyes dropping occasionally to fix on her mouth with heated intensity.

Rafe spared a quick glance at Trina, who was paying no attention whatsoever to anything but her dessert. She finished the last traces of honey, and flashed the Marquis her most breathtaking smile.

Mockery gleamed in his eyes. “It’s a dangerous game you play, Ella.”

“Eating is a game?” she asked, eyes wide.

“Wh-wh-what are you t-t-talking about?” Tina asked, glancing up.

“Nothing,” Rafe and the Marquis snapped.

Trina’s eyes flashed with hurt then she changed the subject quickly. “My Lord, do you think Rafe and I might r-ride on the m-morrow?”

“Yes,” Rafe joined in quickly, to atone for the way she had snapped at Trina. “There’s a fine stud in the stable I’ve quite had my eye on.” Only two days ago, she’d watched from her window as the head groom led the prancing, snorting stallion through his gaits in a seemingly hopeless attempt to work off the animal’s boundless and frustrated energy. As Rafe had no small measure of boundless, frustrated energy herself, she had decided that to ride him would be an incomparable experience, nearly as challenging as some of the adventures she used to have with her father.

“A stud can be a dangerous mount,” the Marquis said softly.

“Oh, I’m sure I can handle him,” Rafe replied nonchalantly.

“Little girls usually think they can handle anything. A woman would know better.”

“Perhaps this little girl is a woman, and fully aware of the dangers of choosing a wild mount. Perhaps you underestimate how well I ride.” She’d ridden bareback in Australia, had learned at a tender age, had been taught to feel the horse as an extension of her body and control it as such. Rafe was confident she could handle the beautiful ebon brute she’d seen snorting at the crisp air and begging to be taken for a run.

“Don’t think for a moment I underestimate how well you’d ride, dear Ella,” the Marquis purred.

Rafe cocked her head, mentally kicking herself. As with eating, there were two meanings here. A double-entendre. A stud! Of course!

Trina said, “M-may we ride then, please? I’ve promised to t-t-take R-R-Rafe t-t-to--”

“--the village of Sussex,’ Rafe finished impatiently, missing hurt look in Trina’s eyes. Of all the girls at Sacred Heart, Rafe had never evidenced the same impatience as her friends. While many finished sentences for Trina, Rafe had always patiently allowed her to find the words.

“Yes,” was all Trina said.

The Marquis eyes never wavered from Rafe’s face. “I don’t think you know what you’re asking for.”

Rafe smiled. She did now. “I think I do. I think perhaps the stud may be overrated. He may not be so feisty and wild at all, simply in need of an understanding rider.”

“And you think you could understand the brute?”

“Yes,” she said simply.

“The stud at Land’s End is a dangerous animal. He bears no love, no mercy for the overconfident amateur,” the Marquis warned.

“I don’t seek mercy,” Rafe replied.

“Good. You won’t find any.”

“Good. Then we understand each other.”

“I don’t think we do. I don’t think you grasp just how difficult to handle this stud is. I don’t think you have any idea what he has suffered that has made him so…challenging. No, I don’t think you’d have the patience to try to tame the animal.”

“And if I did?” Rafe said.

His eyes were steel again, cold and hard. He studied her a long moment, his mind envisioning the delectable mouth licking and sucking the honey.

“You might not like what you find,” he said finally. “You might be disappointed. For although the stud is rumored to be an enviable mount, perhaps what he is rumored to be is just that: A rumor. Perhaps the fine ride he gives has nothing to do with himself and everything to do with the expectations of the rider. Perhaps the stud has never found true satisfaction in the experience.”

“Perhaps the stud fails to demand what he really wants. Is it then the rider’s fault for not giving him his desire?” Rafe chided.

In the lengthy silence that followed something twisted inside the Marquis, wrenched, and wanted to hope. But it was just another game, he reminded himself. It had nothing to do with him and everything to do with the allure of a notorious rake to a young girl.

“What are you t-two t-t-”

“--talking about,” Rafe said absently.

“Don’t you have wedding things to do?” The Marquis shot a sharp glance in Trina’s direction. He wanted to kick himself the moment he said it. But par for the course, ever since she’d entered his life, he was saying and doing things which were completely out of character with his customary stoic, implacable demeanor.

“Oh!” Trina rose, spluttering. “I hate you! I don’t know why you agreed to t-t-take me! You don’t even l-l-like me!”

“I agreed to take you because I promised your father, Trina,” the Marquis said absently. “As I promised him, I have tried to provide the best for you. The best schools, the best life, the best husband. And I do like you—“

“You don’t even know me!” she cried.

The Marquis frowned. She had a point. He’d shuffled her about to keep his life simple, to facilitate his rake’s life. Suddenly he wondered if he’d missed out on something by doing so. “I’m sorry, Trina. I loved your father, deeply. But in truth, I may not have been the person best-suited to take on a ward of tender years. I had the best of intentions.”

“Intentions smentions!” Trina cried. “All you care about is getting rid of me! I’ll have you know if want me to m-m-marry, you’ll have to p-p-p-p-p-”

“plan,” Rafe supplied.

“the b-b-b-”

“bloody,” Rafe helped.

“wedding yourself!” Trina stormed from the dining hall.

Rafe sighed heavily. She’d watched the exchange between the Marquis and Trina, struggling to remain impartial. Trina was voicing many of Rafe’s own fears, fears she, Rafe Bennington would never, oh but never! let anyone know she suffered. Although her father wrote regularly, she’d never stopped wondering why he’d so unceremoniously dumped her off at Sacred Heart four years ago when, in her mind, they’d been having the time of their lives. Trina and the Marquis’ conversation had struck a chord too close to home, fanned the flames of her own heartache.

Did her father even want to know her anymore? What would he be like when she finally saw him again? Why had he never visited? Why had he left her? Had she failed him somehow? Kicking herself mentally for dredging up questions which she’d conceded long ago she had no answers, Rafe glanced at the Marquis. He was resting his jaw on his fist pensively, gaze dark. She felt an odd wrenching in her stomach as she watched him stare into space. What was he thinking? As the silence lengthened, Rafe concluded he was so lost in his personal musing that he was no longer even aware of her. She rose to leave, and started sharply when he barked, “No.”

She glanced back at him, “What?”

“Stay,” he commanded.

“Why?”

“I’ve decided to let you ride.” He pushed back in his chair, dark gaze locking with hers.

Rafe almost gasped at the intensity in his eyes. She forced herself to remain unruffled by it. “Really?” she exclaimed innocently. “Oh, I can’t wait to tell Trina!” she cried. “Thank you!”

A half smile lit his face, but didn’t reach his eyes. Distantly, she wondered if anything did.

“Come here, little girl.”

Rafe suddenly felt wary, and not at all triumphant. He had admitted in so many words that he wanted her. But for some reason it didn’t give her the feeling of triumphant revenge she had expected. It seemed almost as if he was trying to communicate something important to her, and she wasn’t sure what to make of it. As though a quiet pain lurked beneath the casual rakes’ exterior. As though perhaps the rake wasn’t a happy man at all. Could she handle him? Dare she try?

“I said, come here,” he repeated, in that silky, soft voice, and in spite of herself she found her feet moving closer. Closer. He sat in his high-backed chair, arms resting casually on the sides, the duke he would one day be, awaiting his liege. “Come,” he commanded, and she stopped at his feet.

As if in a dream, Rafe stood staring down into his smoldering eyes. His face was chiseled perfection, and she could understand why the ladies of the ton fell pell-mell over themselves trying to catch the Marquis’ attentions. The sculpted beauty begged her to reach out and caress the line of his jaw, touch the full lower lip, trace it with her finger, tangle the thick black hair. She wondered crazily what it would be like to have him suck the honey off her fingers. She was unable to move when he took her hands in his and pulled her between his legs. His hands were strong, powerful.

Her slippers pressed against the side of his boots, and she could feel the heat of his thighs through the thin material of her gown. Their eyes locked as he drew her inexorably toward him. Scant inches from his mouth, she could feel his breath warm on her lips. Her heart was beating so loud she was certain he must hear it. Drowning, she thought, in those eyes. And his mouth, so perfect, the lower lip so full, yet so capable of cruelty. Cruelty like telling her she wasn’t much of a woman. Cruelty like forcing her friend to marry someone she’d never met and didn’t love, when she was already in love with someone else.

“Please don’t make Trina marry,” she said.

He froze, then laughed, a hollow sound.

“Is that your price, Ella?”

She hesitated a long moment. He was fire and she a mad moth to the flame. If she could free Trina by doing what she wanted anyway then, why not? Suffer the consequences later, her motto seemed to be of late.

She nodded.

The Marquis dropped her hands. His fisted. A game. It was all a game to her.

He rose, sliding his body up hers, not even a breath between them. Torturing himself with the press of her young, lush breasts against his chest. “Good night, Ella.”

Before she could speak, before she could even decide whether she wanted to open her mouth and take back her words, he had stalked from the dining hall.

Rafe sat for a long time, feeling as though she had just lost a chance, missed something of immense importance. Again, the duality descended, and one half of her heart hurt so awfully that she wanted to run after him, fling herself after him and touch him. To penetrate the Great Wall. To believe that there was a Great Wall protecting something wholly unexpected within. But the child wanted only to go play with Trina, to say tomorrow was another day, and maybe one day she’d be ready.

I don’t think you have the patience to try to tame the animal, he’d said. “Oh God, Abbey, what am I doing?” she groaned.

Miles away, Abbey was praying. “Please, God, I don’t ask for myself, but for Rafe. Watch over her. Keep her from harm.” She had no idea why she had a sudden terrible feeling about Rafe, but it had wakened her, and filled her heart with dread. As though her dearest Rafe was soon to be confronted with a choice, and she would need all the help she could get to face that choice, and choose well. “Be wise, Rafe. Be strong, and for once, please God, let her be truthful!”

___

Rafe was feeling anything but truthful the next morning. It was the day before Christmas Eve, and she hadn’t slept a wink all night. Trina had wakened her at eight o’clock, and Rafe had her work cut out for her. The Marquis had left for the stables a half hour before, and Rafe was to explore his chambers. She and Trina had searched in vain for his seal last night, but with no success. They had reasoned that it must be in his study which occupied a portion of the vast library, yet a thorough search had yielded nothing. Jokingly, Rafe suggested that perhaps the most correspondence the Marquis was wont to send would come from his bedroom. Scarcely had she said the words, that she cynically concluded she was probably right. Rafe had already drawn up the letter, the only thing they lacked was the Marquis’ official stamp.

She slipped silently into his chambers, peering cautiously about. She winked back at Trina who stood in the hallway to sound the alarm should anyone come. She nodded her safety and closed the door behind her. She listened a moment as Trina pattered off down the hall to stand guard at the stairs.

Like the East Wing, this chamber was ascetic, yet tasteful, with thick rugs strewn about the floor. Vast, arched windows draped with velvet trimmings occupied one entire wall, and Rafe was delighted by how light and airy the room seemed, while still retaining an overwhelmingly masculine air. The massive bed that occupied the center of the room was carved from mahogany with a gracefully curved headboard. It was easily as wide as long, and covered with soft throws. A mound of pillows rested at the head, and Rafe noted with amusement that his bed wasn’t made.

She crossed to the bed, and feeling wicked, dropped down on it, sinking into the soft down, inhaling the spicy scent of him that clung to the linens. Come here, little girl, he’d said, and oh God, how she’d wanted to!

Shaking herself brusquely, she rose, and continued to peruse the room. A marble fireplace filled one wall, faced by a leather settee nestled between small tables topped by a snifter and etched crystal glasses. Books were piled on another table, and she eagerly shuffled through the volumes. What did a man like the Marquis choose to read in his sleepless hours? She found the answer astounding, and concluded they must be in his room for appearances only. Sun Tzu; The Art of War, Moliere, Shakespeare, The Way of the Samurai; a liberal mix of eastern philosophy and the finest of western literature. A book on the most recent Egyptian artifacts uncovered, a book on the Greeks as ancient engineers. Socrates, Plato, travelogues on remote areas in Peru, Brazil, Africa. Fascinating books! Things she herself would have curled up in front of his fire with and lost herself for hours on end. Rafe shook her head, struggling to equate intelligent, ethical, and philosophical, with her image of the Marquis as a rakehell of the first water, an unethical, bullying brute whose sole motivation was empty seduction and conquest.

“He probably hasn’t read them,” she muttered to herself, rejecting the possibility that they might have things in common.

Irritated with him for no good reason, she spun and surveyed the room intently. Find the seal and get out, she reminded herself. Quickly, she rifled the content of his bed tables, (candles, more books which she refused to acknowledge, and some rubbery bladder-like things in a small box for which she could imagine no possible use, yet stuffed one in her pocket out of curiosity for further examination). A tall armoire yielded nothing of interest. In his dressing room, she found a miniature of him on a high shelf, and added that to her pocket collection.

Frustrated, she turned her attention to a trunk, practically buried at the foot of his bed under a pile of linens and pillows. She cleared it off, opened the lid and dropped to her knees to dig through it. Ha, Finally! Personal papers. Full to overflowing. It must be here! She shuffled through documents without even glancing, until her eyes fell on a formal looking document, bearing the Marquis’ official seal. It was signed in a strong hand, his full name, and Rafe gasped, then promptly burst into laughter. Dion de Galle. Or more precisely, Dionysus de Galle! How fitting. Dionysus. The Greek god of the Bacchae. The god of wine and orgy, the god of passion. No wonder he was the way he was. What a name to have to live up to.

As she rifled the trunk, she found what she sought--his seal. Elated, she pulled it out. Just then, something soft and silky caressed her ankle. Rafe jerked, startled, then smiled at the tiny intruder: a kitten, silvery, tiger-striped, with a delicate face. It purred loudly, and rubbed against her, fluffy tail twitching with playful pleasure.

She couldn’t resist petting it. “Whose are you, little one?” she wondered, unable to grasp the possibility of her belonging to the Marquis. Books and kittens?

She was so lost in her thoughts, that she only distantly heard Trina’s voice come from not so far down the hall saying much too loudly, “But My Lord, p-please c-c-come to the s-stables with m-m-me! I n-n-need to ask you about the horses. Please!”

“This afternoon, Trina,” his reply dimly penetrated Rafe’s mind. “For now, go play with your little friend.”

The Marquis continued down the hall without a backward glance. The morning had not been a good one. He’d tried to ride, but gotten only as far as the first gates when his body demanded he turn back. Riding in a fully aroused state was a far from pleasurable experience. And lately, his cock was always hard. He returned to the house, knowing she was there, no doubt still asleep, sprawled in a bed he owned, in his house, wrecking his peace of mind and by God, if he felt like going back to bed and taking care of things himself, it was his house, not hers and she’d be wise to never forget it. He’d stopped for a flask of brandy on the way back up to his bed chamber. By the time he’d reached the top of the stairs, where Trina appeared to be loitering aimlessly, he’d already tossed back half the flask.

Dismissing his ward, he flung open the door to his chambers, slammed it, and proceeded to strip. His balls were tight with need. He wrapped a hand around himself and dropped his head back, with a deep groan of pleasure.

From within the closet, Rafe found a tiny peephole, a crack in the wood slats. Through it she could see the Marquis’ legs. She watched as various pieces of clothing hit the floor, then the legs crossed the room. Oh no! He couldn’t possibly be going back to bed! she thought frantically, stuffing the seal in her boot, since her pocket had begun to overflow.

The legs paused for a moment, and she admired them. Powerful, dusted with fine silky hair. She could see up to his mid-thighs. Muscle flexed as he moved. She suspected he was completely nude and the thought gave rise to a flock of birds fluttering in her stomach. He groaned again—a raw, strange sound—and something about it made her mouth suddenly dry. Then the bed creaked beneath his weight, and Rafe realized she was stuck in his closet until whenever he decided to get up again. And God only knew when that might be!

As she fretted over the predicament, she absently stroked the kitten that had playfully accompanied her on the mad dash into the closet. At least she had company. Oh no! Her eyes flared as the kitten started to purr. Louder than her tell-tale heart, louder than the chapel bells. Loud enough to wake the dead.

The Marquis groaned again, then said, “Sexpot?”

Sexpot! What a thing to name a kitten! She clamped her hand over the kitten’s head and shook it, but the kitten decided it was time to play and dug its tiny claws into her hand, wrestling.

And purring. Louder.

Rafe stifled an oath, and smacked it gently on the rump. Still, it purred.

“Sexpot, where are you?”

It was going to give her away!

In desperation, Rafe squashed the kitten’s head down into the pile of clothing they were sitting on. Still, it purred. She pinched it.

“MerrOOOOW!”

Rafe slumped as the legs swung over the edge of the bed and headed for her sanctuary. She shrank back into the linens.

The closet door swung open. Rafe squeezed her eyes shut.

“Sexpot, how the bloody hell did you--” The Marquis broke off.

Eyes squeezed tightly shut, Rafe waited for him to explode. But he didn’t. And the silence stretched, lengthened.

Finally Rafe couldn’t stand it anymore. She opened her eyes. And gulped. Just where did he think he was going to put that?

The sight of it did something unfathomable to her, filled her with a hungry, achy, shaky feeling. Long, hard, thick and beautiful. What did it feel like?

She wanted very much to reach out and wrap her hand about it.

So she did.

The groan that escaped his throat was primitive, raw. It made her feel powerful, womanly. He was remarkably silky feeling, for all that marble hardness. It bucked in her hand.

Unaware of the vision she presented, freshly wakened, disheveled, kneeling at his feet, her hand wrapped around him, she glanced up at him and wet her lip. Unaware of what she was doing was doing to him.

Unaware of what he was going to do to her.

“Move your hand,” he said roughly.

Instantly she removed it.

“No. On me. Move it on me,” he growled.

Curious, she closed her fingers around it again. Made a circlet of them. Slid lightly up and down.

Then he was on his knees, shoving her back in the closet, breathing hard, eyes glittering. Rafe stared wide-eyed at him.

He lowered his head, slowly, inexorably and when she did not turn away, he laughed softly, then closed his mouth over hers. He kissed gently at first, coaxing, seducing, but the moment she responded—in spite of herself!—she knew better she really did, he deepened the kiss so forcefully she forgot to breathe, or couldn’t. He slanted his mouth over hers, tongue hot silk, tangling with hers. His hands fisted in her curls, angling her head back, arching her neck, deftly forcing her body to melt back, supine. She was going to stop him, any minute now. She couldn’t stop him, needed more of this forbidden delight. He kissed, he nipped, he sucked her full lower lip; she’d never known kissing could be so incredible!

A moan slid up her throat, and was answered by his hoarse groan. Then his hands slipped from her hair, down her shoulders, caressing, sliding lower, until they cupped her breasts beneath her thin morning gown. Rafe arched her back in an instinct as old as the earth itself, to bring her body closer to his touch. What was this crazy heart-hammering? This liquid fire running through her veins? This shaky, incredible, exciting, hungry feeling? She wanted more. Needed more!

And the Marquis was going to give her more. Much, much more. All of it in fact.

To hell with restraint.

It was her fault he hadn’t been able to ride this morning. Her fault for stretching out nude on his pedestal and burning the image of her perfect ass into his mind. Her fault he’d started drinking brandy at an obscene hour. Her fault she was in his closet, and by God, it was most certainly and undeniably—no court in the land would dispute it—her fault she’d wrapped her hand around his cock!

And why the bloody hell did she have so many clothes on? He undid the buttons of her gown with flawless precision, melting it off her, sliding it open and down over her creamy shoulders baring her ripe breasts. He buried his face in them, kissed and licked, captured a nipple between his teeth and tugged. She was on fire, responding with an abandon that made him doubt her inexperience.

A horrified gasp came from behind him, and the Marquis froze, face in her breasts, mouth on her nipple.

“Wh-wh-wh-wh--“ The soft stutter faded into silence.

Feet pattered away. A door closed.

“Bloody hell!” His ward, the one he had been insisting was far too young to have anything to do with any man that hadn’t been meticulously chosen by him—because he was so level-headed and such a fine voice of reason; hadn’t he just demonstrated that amply?—had just caught him, sprawled in his own closet, on top of her best friend. Who, incidentally, was precisely as young as his ward.

“Bloody hell,” he said again.

He lunged up, dragging Ella with him, and pushed her toward the door. “Get out!” he thundered

Clutching her gown to her breasts, Rafe ran, furious with herself. Furious at Trina for worrying, and coming to check. Furious that she hadn’t come sooner. Furious that she’d come at all. Furious that he was furious at her. But most of all, furious because fury seemed a better substitute for the many confusing things she was really feeling.

“D-did you g-g-get the seal?” Trina gasped, as they raced down the hall. Rafe nodded. Leave it to Trina to simply ignore what she had seen happening. For once, Rafe was grateful for her friend’s innocence and inability to confront difficult issues. Frankly, Rafe didn’t want to talk about it. Ever.

She went back to her room and undressed, secreting the miniature of the Marquis she’d stolen from his room in the backmost corner of her wardrobe. She threw herself on her bed, and after an eternity, embraced the clutches of sleep. She dreamed.

Dreamed she wasn’t so ambivalent of heart, that she was a woman of singularity, of decisive action. A woman unafraid.

The Marquis’ woman.