Sacrifice (Fashionably Impure Book 3) (23 page)

“Yes,
you-you-you…
coxcomb
!”

He
regarded her seriously. “I don’t think I should let you go. At least not quite
yet.”

She
swallowed hard, trying to think of what to do or say.

“What
are you about here, Sunny?”

He
spoke in that same calm, serious tone he always did. Yet, now there was a hard
edge beneath the calm.

Her
mouth went even drier and she swallowed once more, delaying her response. Her
racing heart was slowing.

Well,
what the devil had just happened? Dizziness overcame her as she frowned,
confused.

She’d
come here to do what?

Seduce
him.

Right.

She
hadn’t expected his resistance. She certainly hadn’t expected his aggressive
response. She had become frightened.

No,
she had become frightened of
her feelings
toward him.

Just
as when she’d been a girl. She ought not to have run away from him that night
in the garden, so long ago. She ought to have allowed James to seduce her. They
would have had to get married then, wouldn’t they? It wouldn’t have been her fault?

No, Freddy needed me.

And you let him down.

She
frowned. That was the past and the past was set in stone. All her sins and
failures were set in stone.

But the lesson is don’t be a ninny! Don’t
run, seduce him!

How
did women tempt gentlemen? Surely gentlemen had more refined tastes than
commoners did.

Certainly
kissing him and thrusting her hand down his trews and stroking his manly parts
hadn’t worked. Yes, it had given him an erection—and what an erection! But it
hadn’t placed her any closer to attaining her goal, either.

What
else should she do? How did one seduce a Rock of Gibraltar?

“You’re
drunk,” he said.

“No,
no, I am not.”

“Just
how much did you have to drink?”

Again,
she heard the incredulousness in his voice.

She
reached up with her free hand, intending to stroke the side of his face. To
make an appeal.

He
seized her wrist. “There’ll be no more of that.”

Hurt
blossomed in her chest. Did he not trust her? “No, do no’ deny me. Take me.
Make me yours.”

He
was giving her the oddest look. “I think you said you’d like me to
take
you?” His frown deepened. “
Bed
you?”

She
nodded avidly. “Yes, yes…oh, please, yes.”

He
stared at her. Oh, his expression! As though she’d suddenly sprouted horns. Did
she repulse him
that
much?

She
wriggled against the coverlet, the contact making her aware of the lingering
sting on her buttocks.

He
had actually
spanked
her!

Why
had he been so intent on detaining her if he hadn’t wanted what she had offered
him?

He
laughed softly

.

“You
think it is amusing?” she asked. Shame burnt into her.

He
brushed the hair off the side of her neck then and traced a fingertip along the
cord down to her collarbone. “I didn’t think I needed to lock my door against
you, Sunny.”

How
cruel and mocking he was! She had never known this cruel side to him.

He
leaned forward and pressed his lips to her neck. The soft-firm touch of his
mouth sent shivers through her. Making her nipples tighten.

Making
her more confused than ever.

“You
don’t really want this,” he said.

His
assured tone puzzled her. Hadn’t she come here naked to his bed? What man would
ask himself aught beyond that? “I do,
I
do
,” she said.

“Much
as I’d love to oblige you, my lady, you’re too foxed to know what you are
doing.” He kissed her nape again, this time opening his mouth. Heated breath
blew on her flesh, and then the slight bite of teeth.

Wild
shivers of pleasure chased down to her belly, tightening her nipples all the
more and sending gooseflesh all over her body.

Despite
the kindness in his voice, he had been teasing her. Mocking her. How foolish of
her to have come here.

To
have thought he might still want her.

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The Delicate Matter
of Lady Blayne
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Also From Natasha
Blackthorne

HER MYSTERY
DUKE

Erotica Romance ~
Light BDSM ~ Rubenesque / BBW ~ Regency
Historical ~ May-Dec ~ Non-virginal Heroine ~ Kept Woman / Courtesan ~ Novel
Length, approx. 85,000 words.
Is he insane? Or is he the answer to all her naughty dreams?

Jeanne Darling
spent her adolescence coping with her father's increasing illness and insanity.
Left alone by his death and plunged into poverty, she did what she had to do to
survive. Now still reeling from the overwhelming physical and emotional demands
her father's care required, she values her peace above all. She doesn't need
anyone or anything except her writing and the safety of her rented garret
chamber. She's about to rise above her past and create financial
independence for herself. What she absolutely does not need is the mysterious
and possibly insane stranger who walks into the coffee shop and into her life.

David Somerville,
the Duke of Hartley, has known pain and betrayal from the people closest to
him. Born to privilege, power and wealth, and filled with idealistic vision for
humane change, he gives all of himself to his political career. He keeps his
life circumspectly under control. But one day, all the carefully arranged threads
of his life unravel and his life intersects with Jeanne's in a way that
challenges his view of everything he thinks he knows.
Leagues apart in society, they can have only one possible future,
that of protector and mistress. And neither wants to risk deeper connection.
However, their overwhelming attraction and resulting sexual games provide them
with pleasures neither of them has ever known. Will their sensual journey lead
them to discover a more emotionally profound side to domination and submission?
Or will their seemingly insurmountable differences and passionate personal
goals drive them apart?

HER MYSTERY DUKE
is a work of historical erotic romance. Though it contains elements of light
BDSM, it is not meant to be a guide to or an accurate portrayal of modern BDSM
lifestyles or practices. This story contains graphic descriptions of sexual
acts and frank sexual language. It also contains light bondage, anal play,
sexual toys, cunnilingus, fellatio, masturbation, voyeurism and spanking.

“Tender moments,
HOT BONDAGE, feisty heroine...Everything a good erotic historical novel should
have.” A review for HER MYSTERY DUKE ~ An Amazon Review

 
“Smokin' Hot Regency...Seriously Erotic...I
want a man like that for my own!” ~ An Amazon Review

 
“Classy, very well written tale brings you
back in time...sexy, sensual and erotic...light BDSM that makes you
burn...you'll be fanning yourself while you melt in your seat.” ~ Five Stars
From Let's Get Romantical

“The erotic
elements in this book are off the charts! I cannot give you the words of how
sexy and hot it was. There are light BDSM tones to the scenes and let me tell
you, mmmmm...mmmmm! I read a couple of scenes twice....Her Mystery Duke is a
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Excerpt from
HER
MYSTERY DUKE

©Copyright 2013
Natasha
Blackthorne

Chapter One

London, England

January 1813

Indecent. The tall gentleman’s stare was the
most blatantly indecent assault Jeanne had ever encountered. Deeper than
intense. Intimate, as though he knew everything thing about her.

That penetrating gaze set her palms sweating
and made her mouth dry. It was a direct threat. No one could possibly know her.
She kept herself too well protected, hidden beneath layers of aloof
disinterest. Yet she found herself unable to look away. She just sat there and
let that gaze burn her. Burn through the wall she kept between herself and the
world. It even seeped under her skin and melted her blood into warmed honey.

A single pane of rain-splattered glass
separated them. The thudding of her heart in her ears blocked out the sounds
from the common room of the coffee shop and created a sense of isolation.

He wore no hat and his hair lay plastered like
spilt black ink streaked across his high, broad forehead. Rain dripped over
hard, chiseled cheekbones, down an aquiline nose and square jaw, over shoulders
that were made even more impossibly broad by a dark blue greatcoat.

He was like something from a dream. A harlot’s
very naughty dream.

Oh, really. A handsome, mysterious stranger,
one who was intensely interested in her and seemed to know all about her? Her
imagination was running away with her, taking on a life of its own. She closed
her eyes and shook her head slightly. The wine hadn’t been that strong as to
make her conjure carnal fantasies in mid-afternoon. In public. She dared to
look again.

The tall gentleman was gone.

There, see? An author of fairy stories couldn’t
be fooled by a waking dream. And yet cold, heaviness sank through her insides,
a feeling of loss. How utterly ridiculous. Irritated with herself, Jeanne bent
over her mug, inhaling the fruity, spicy scent of mulled wine, and listened to
the low rumble of conversations around her. Mrs. Roberts had a new blue bonnet
and she was preening like a peacock. Mr. Taylor announced to his friends that
he’d just become engaged to Miss Smith and his companions were alternately
ribbing and toasting him.

Once a week, she ventured from her garret to
this coffee shop to be among people, as an observer. A customer, keeping a
protective distance.

“Miss Darling.” The slightly nervous, boyish
voice broke into her peace. “You usually come here on Saturday.”

She forced the irritation from her expression
and looked up to meet his freckled face. “Yes, Paul, this week I decided on a
change.”

She kept her tone cool and polite, as always.

Mr. Ratherford, her publisher, had sent a note,
informing her that she should present herself at his offices in two weeks and
bring the fairy tales he’d requested. As an author of children’s stories, she’d
been working for months on the stories but she still had one more story to
write, the grand finale in what she hoped would be a published leather-bound
volume of the stories. However, she’d been unable to write for several weeks.
The harder she tried to create a story, the less she liked anything she wrote.
Today, that note had put her into a state of desperation. She’d come here to
try and stimulate her mind. It had worked a little too well judging from the
daydream of the handsome, mysterious stranger.

“A special occasion?” Paul’s words cut into her
thoughts again.

Oh bother!
She took a deep breath and
struggled to find more patience. Once Paul Cook started, he never let up. But
he was just a boy, and a kind one at that. She bit back an impatient response.

Her concentration, her peace, however: they
were gone. Never mind. The wind was howling with more intensity outside, and
the winter’s day was growing dark far too early. It was time to leave.

As she reached down to retrieve her reticule,
the odor of wet wool intruded on her senses, mingled with the citrus-soapy
scent of a gentleman’s shaving lotion. A body close to hers. Too close. She
jerked her head up and faced her waking dream.

His greatcoat was opened to reveal a fine,
silk, embroidered waistcoat that encompassed a broad chest, which narrowed into
a flat-as-boards stomach. Water dripped from his hair, leaving wet spots on his
hopelessly crushed cravat. He didn’t seem to be aware of his dishevelment.

She met his eyes. His gaze intensified, turning
to brilliant, intimidating greenish fire, like an emerald catching the sunlight.
Thick, dark lashes and heavy black brows made the color appear even richer.

“Thérèse.”

His voice was deep yet hushed and utterly
masculine. It sent another curl of heat through her, stronger, penetrating all
the way down from her chest to her navel and into her womb. However, it was the
note of despair that made her catch her breath.

Pressure swelled in her throat, a pang of
sympathy. Sympathy for others was the most dangerous emotion of all. It could
lead one to make painful, unwise sacrifices.

She’d never had such an immediate reaction like
this to any man. Tingles raced from her midsection to her toes, not arousal
this time but an urge to run. He was dangerous.

And Thérèse? Clearly he was grossly mistaken.
Or foxed.

She stood, then took a deep breath, released
it, and raised her brows in a haughty mask. “Pardon me, sir?”

His expression sharpened. He took her arm,
harshly. “Don’t toy with me.”

She pulled back and he tightened his grip. His
hand was large. His hold stronger than any gentleman she’d known.

He leaned so close she could have brushed her
lips against his. “Don’t pretend that you don’t know me!”

His deep, hushed voice sent pleasurable shivers
through her but Jeanne pushed the sensation aside. As his hot breath wafted
over her, she inhaled deeply but couldn’t detect any odor of spirits. Nor were
the pupils of his eyes dilated, as they might be if he were under the influence
of some strong drug. Prickles raced over her scalp like a thousand needles.

Perhaps the gentleman wasn’t in full control over
his mental faculties.
Dear God.
Just like Papa. She’d spent her youth
caring for her father in his varying stages of insanity. Life with him had
become a prison. Since his death, she had lived in fear of the unbalanced.
Another series of prickles raced over her scalp.

She met the stranger’s gaze levelly. “What’s
your game?”

“Thérèse, don‘t be this way.” His whisper,
laced with steel, was so low, that she unwittingly leaned closer. “We needn’t
make any dramatics here. We’re going home.”

This near to him, Jeanne noted the glassiness
of his eyes. Again, she sniffed. No hint of alcohol. But then again, having
experienced all of Papa’s variances of sanity, she had an instinct for spotting
others who were likewise afflicted. This man was definitely afflicted in his
mind.

This was the exact situation she always
dreaded. Since her girlhood, she always watched others, seeking any sign of
madness. She’d had to cope with Papa, that had been her duty, but she was
always careful to keep others who showed any inkling of mental instability at a
safe distance. How stupid of her to have let herself be distracted by this
man’s masculine beauty.

Angry at herself, she jerked her arm, trying
once again to free herself. His grip remained relentless.

“Thérèse!” Again, the low steely whisper.
“Behave yourself.”

How unwise of her. An insane person could react
unpredictably. She ought not to provoke him. Yet she knew it was important to
present a strong, confident front.

“Sir, I am not your
Thérèse
and have no
wish to be. So please unhand me.” Her heart was hammering at her chest wall so
violently, she had trouble keeping her voice even. She lifted her chin and
stared at him steadily. “Now.”

“You are deliberately pushing me, Thérèse. I
don’t appreciate it.”

Boots sounded on the floorboards. The sound
drew her attention to how quiet the public room had become. She glanced around.
The other patrons were staring.

“Miss Darling, is everything all right?”

The tall gentleman turned to Paul and regarded
him with an icy, haughty stare. “The lady is a friend. Please go back to your
counter and mind your business.”

At the velvet over iron tone, the young man’s
eyes grew round. He took one step backward and then another, then stood looking
uneasy.

“Are you having a spot of trouble here, Miss
Darling?”

Jeanne turned to face the shop owner, a large,
barrel-chested man.

The stranger exhaled long and loud. A sound of
complete exasperation. “As I told the boy, the lady is a rather close friend. I
would appreciate a little privacy.”

The shop owner turned to her. “Miss Darling?”

Her heart froze and her chest constricted. She
placed a hand to her throat. She didn’t know what to say.

“The gent don’t look right to me.” The owner’s
wife squinted at the stranger.

Jeanne glanced at the gentleman’s handsome profile
and the proud jut of his jaw. He gazed at her sideways and she caught her
breath. There was something about that brief gaze. A lost, disorientated air.
Just like Papa when he had been in one of his worst spells and he was trying to
hide it by acting arrogantly assertive.

But she had seen. The stranger was truly not in
his right mind.

He swayed then braced his large hands on the
back of the chair and caught himself. Arrogance fell over his face like a mask.

Jeanne’s throat ached. He was so vulnerable. So
alone.

Mrs. Cook motioned to the chair Jeanne had
vacated. “Sir, you better sit.”

The gentleman stared at the matron—well, rather
he
glowered
down his nose at her. “If you please, the lady and I have
some personal business to attend to.”

His eyes jerked from side to side. At the
alarming motion, Jeanne started. He seemed to lurch forward. She looked down
and saw his hands gripping the chair back. The knuckles were white. The ache in
her throat increased.

“Paul.”

Jeanne glanced back at Mrs. Cook. The woman
wrinkled her forehead. “Go fetch Dr. Miller.”

Paul walked to the door.

“Quickly now.” Mrs. Cook’s voice carried
urgency and she made a shooing motion.

A doctor.

Memories rose in Jeanne’s mind. Her father
screaming, his face contorted in torment as the doctor painted yet another
mustard plaster on his skin in an attempt to draw the poisonous humors out. The
endless purges and emetics. The excruciating blisters on his skin and the
agonizing dry heaves. None of it did anything to cure Papa’s mad fits and mental
lapses. And then finally, the insane asylum.