Darker Than Love (29 page)

He raised her hand and printed a soft kiss there.

‘Until later,’ he said, and with that he left the room.

She watched him depart, hoping for a parting glance. But he gave none, and the door clicked shut.

A slut and a whore Gabriel had said, and he was right.

If further proof were needed, it was there in the sketches he’d made of her. In every line of those drawings, she saw herself as Marldon must see her, as Gabriel must see her: shameless, abandoned, prisoner to an appetite that was corrupt and voracious.

She reached for her chiffon peignoir.

‘
Mais non
,’ said Pascale, wafting away the flimsy gown. ‘We have not finished with your body, mademoiselle. It is in need of some colour,
n’est-ce pas
?’

Clarissa made no demur. She would appear before Alec’s guests as he wanted her to appear. There was no longer any point in resisting. She just hoped that in the crowd tonight there would be no faces from the life which had once been hers. She could cope, just, with the avaricious stares of Marldon’s servants; but attention from those she’d met on the London circuit she did not think she could bear.

At least Gabriel would not be there to watch. He had been released; he was no longer useful to her betrothed.

Pascale, blue silks swishing, brought a pot of rouge from the dressing table and scooped a small amount on to one finger. She hummed gently as she smeared the waxy cream into Clarissa’s nipples.

‘Do you remember that little housemaid of yours?’ asked Pascale with a conversational air. ‘The troublesome one – Kitty Preedy?’

‘Of course I do,’ replied Clarissa, a note of resentment in her voice. Did the Frenchwoman really think she would forget her friends so easily?

‘
Bon
. She has left her position in your household,’ stated Pascale, kneeling and taking more of the red stuff on to her finger.

Delicately she began to rub it over Clarissa’s labia. Clarissa flinched slightly, hating the efficient intimacy of the maid’s touch.

‘I don’t blame her,’ said Clarissa. ‘It seems Ellis is master of the house, and you, when you are there, mistress.’

‘Tish, it is so,’ replied Pascale with feigned regret. ‘We have offended also the housekeeper, the butler, the laundrymaid, the … ah, I forget them all. But Aunt Hester, it is us she likes and so the others, they go. We stay.’

‘Kitty must have been difficult to get rid of,’ said Clarissa sardonically. ‘I fancy she does not shock or scare easily.’

‘We had good fortune,’ answered Pascale, dabbling her fingertips in the water and wiping them on the skirt of her apron. ‘She had to return to care for her family. Her mother is dead.’

She looked up at Clarissa, smiling, her dark eyes sparkling with gleeful expectation. She wanted to hurt her, to see her saddened by Kitty’s loss, appalled by the callous delight she took in it.

Clarissa turned away from the woman’s scrutiny. She could not satisfy Pascale’s malice: Kitty’s mother was already dead. The young maid had lied, for whatever reason. Clarissa shrugged it off, silently wished Kitty luck for the future, and said nothing to Pascale.

The Frenchwoman rose to her feet and lifted Clarissa’s chin.

‘Mademoiselle, do not look so melancholy,’ she whined, reading Clarissa’s aloof gaze as gravity. Her mouth curved in a mocking smile. ‘You have much to be happy about: a party in your honour, a wedding in the autumn, a husband who –’

‘Oh, shut up,’ snapped Clarissa, with a little flare of temper. ‘Leave me alone.’

She had barely thought about the wedding ceremony and the reminder was unwelcome. How proud her
father would be as he escorted her down the aisle, and how sickened he would be if he knew of the sordid pleasures she and Marldon shared.

‘Leave me alone,’ she repeated fiercely, seeing Pascale had made no move to obey.

‘I must dress you and arrange your hair,’ replied the maid, defiant and smug.

‘Do it later,’ ordered Clarissa, snatching up her peignoir. ‘We have ample time before the guests arrive.’

‘Later, I will be gone,’ smiled Pascale. ‘I do not wish to remain here to be used by his lordship’s friends. I am above that. Tonight, I have leave to visit Sebastian. Ah,
mon amour
.’ She coaxed the thin dressing gown from Clarissa’s hand. ‘I shall give Aunt Hester your very good wishes,
non
?’

‘How kind,’ replied Clarissa tartly. ‘And while you’re there, perhaps you could travel a few doors down and give my very good wishes to Mr Ardenzi.’

‘Ah, the artist,’ said Pascale airily, bundling up the chiffon. ‘Such a pity his lordship permitted him to go. Charlotte, she was so, so disappointed. She said to me he was very good, a very good fuck. So hard and rough, she said. And always he was so angry and passionate. Myself, I did not try him.
Quel dommage
! Perhaps, as you say, I must call on him when I go to Chelsea.’

Sudden tears scorched Clarissa’s eyes. Had Gabriel really been with that brassy little whore? With that incestuous piece who would not know a hairpin if she saw one? She thought of them coupling, of him tangling his fingers in the girl’s abundant curls, kissing her, thrusting.

‘How dare you speak of him in such a way,’ she fumed.

Pascale gave her a steady, challenging smirk. Without thought, Clarissa landed the flat of her hand across the impudent maid’s cheek. Pascale, recovering quickly from the slap, fixed Clarissa with the same infuriating gaze.

‘
Bon
,’ she said. ‘It is what his lordship requested: a little fire in you. He grows bored of your compliance. You have become too easy, mademoiselle. It is not to his taste.
Alors
, shall we dress?’

Carriages had been arriving all afternoon. Gabriel had listened to them clattering across the forecourt, most of them passing by his high, narrow window then on, he assumed, to the stables or the kitchens.

So it was true: she had accepted his hand in marriage. And tonight was to be their betrothal party – the one the servants had teased him about, the one where Clarissa would submit to every degradation. Well, long may she suffer for it. She deserved to be Marldon’s wife.

Gabriel stalked over to the door, fists balled, and battered furiously on the wood.

‘Let me out,’ he raged. ‘You bastards. Let me out.’

Sometimes, his anger, his hurt, his frustrations reached such a pitch he thought his body would explode, or the room blast apart. The more his emotion swelled, the more the walls seemed to close in on him, until he felt he would choke from want of air.

His hammering on the door was rewarded. Footsteps clicked and tramped down the corridor.

‘What is it?’ came a voice. ‘What’s the fuss this time?’

It was the randy little bitch, Charlotte. Apart from pacing this room and an occasional handcuffed walk outside, fucking her was the only exercise he got.

‘My prick’s hard,’ he lied, pressing his ear to the wood. He heard only mutterings. ‘Jake with you?’ he enquired.

‘Of course,’ said Charlotte, and there was a grunt of affirmation.

Gabriel huffed impatiently. He wished he were a boxer instead of an artist. He would fight his way out, flooring all those who stood in his path. But Jake was a gorilla and there could be few men capable of overpowering him.

The key turned, the bolt grated, and the door opened, just enough for Charlotte to sidle in before it was banged shut and locked again. The woman, brunette hair tumbling wantonly about her shoulders, put a hand to his crotch.

‘It’s not hard,’ she said, smiling.

‘Then make it,’ returned Gabriel. ‘I’m bored. Why don’t you give me some books to read or something?’

‘Haven’t been told to,’ she shrugged, efficiently flicking open the buttons at his groin. Her thin fingers reached in to weigh his phallus. She teased and rolled, capping and uncapping him until he was pulsingly erect. ‘Anyway, you’re leaving tomorrow. This could be our last encounter.’

‘How tragic,’ replied Gabriel, propelling her backward to the wall and leaning against her body. His stiffened cock jerked against her skirt, pushing between her spread thighs. ‘Then let us make it memorable.’

He tucked his fingers into the neckline of her bodice and, with a backward step, tore open the muslin. Charlotte gave a shocked, delighted laugh and he scooped her breasts free of her corset. He squeezed the taut half-globes, bending to bite and suck on the firm pale flesh.

‘Yes,’ she gasped. ‘Yes. Harder.’

‘You want it harder?’ spat Gabriel. He grasped a fistful of her lush brown curls and tugged her head to one side. The girl liked it to hurt, and he was just in the mood for obliging her.

‘Yes,’ she said challengingly. ‘Be rough.’

Gabriel clawed at her skirts, hitching up her petticoats until they were bunched about her waist. His rigid cock nudged beyond the slit of her drawers to find the deeper slit of her sex, then he drove himself into her hungry, easy passage. He slid himself up and down, his strong legs powering his fast, high thrusts.

Charlotte wailed and groaned. Her vagina rippled about his shaft. She was just like Clarissa, always wanting it, always ready. He hammered into her, jerking her
up against the wall, making her insolent little tits bounce and shudder. He crushed her nipples and pounded her breasts, leaving red marks and promises of bruises. He bit her neck, gnawed her lips. He pulled her hair and dug fingers into her sinewy upper arms.

Without waiting for her, Gabriel climaxed. It was honest; it was satisfying. There was no emotion wasted between them, and if she wanted to come then she could do it herself. Neither of them engaged in this to please the other. It was utterly selfish and blissfully simple.

He quickly withdrew and, moving away, covered himself. Charlotte swore and her hand delved beneath her skirts to quest within the crotch of her drawers. With a frantic action, she rubbed and plunged, panting and moaning.

Gabriel turned from her and stepped up on to the chair beneath the window. He peered through the oblong of glass, scanning the meagre view. Nothing but evening sunlight on the stretch of gravel.

He sighed restlessly. So tomorrow, at last, he would be out of here. He would put it all behind him, forget Marldon, forget Clarissa. They were not even worth his vengeance. He listened to Charlotte’s wail of fulfilment then stepped down from the chair.

‘Why can’t I leave now?’ he demanded. ‘Am I expected to attend tonight’s celebrations? Did my invitation get lost?’

Charlotte shrugged. ‘Don’t ask me,’ she said, disconsolately arranging her torn bodice. ‘As far as I know, Clarissa thinks you’re gone. I don’t see the point of you staying.’

‘Let me go then,’ he ventured, knowing it was a futile proposition.

Charlotte laughed. ‘More than my life’s worth,’ she said. ‘Anyway, perhaps his lordship wants you as security, to threaten you if Clarissa refuses him something.’

She rapped on the door for Jake to release her.

‘I can’t imagine that,’ replied Gabriel.

‘No,’ murmured Charlotte as a gap widened for her. ‘Neither can I.’

The leather-padded doors swung open at the footman’s knock. Clarissa, her heart pounding, gazed down the length of the shadowy room.

It was heavy and churchly, panelled in dark wood with richly carved archways and niches. Hazy spots of light seemed to come from a hundred different points: there were octagonal lanterns, flaming torchères, candles everywhere, and from the ceiling hung a gloomy, medieval-style gasolier. On couches of silk and faded damask, on vast cushions of embroidery and tapestry, lounged people in twos and threes.

All eyes were on Clarissa as she took a few hesitant steps forward. The violins melted away. Whispers rushed. Then a fascinated calm stilled the chamber.

At the far end, raised on a dais, was Lord Marldon. He was sprawled indolently across a couch – a great couch draped in tiger skins – and he looked like an Eastern prince. His chest was bare beneath a jewelled waistcoat; his legs were swathed in dark silk pantaloons, and he wore no shoes.

A pair of twisted iron cressets, full of dancing fire, lit the small stage, dappling him in coppery light. He smiled and motioned for Clarissa to enter.

She could not move. She was to be honoured as the future Countess of Marldon, yet she looked like a whore from some exotic, bygone age. Her black hair was heaped in an elaborate mass of curls, of red scarves and golden ribbons. Her lips and cheeks were rouged; and in her ears she wore great gold loops, almost as large as the bangles at her wrists.

A vermilion corselet, laced tightly at the back, was cut low to display the whole of her bosom. Her nipples, artificially reddened, were brazen and lewd. Her long, flowing skirt was gossamer fine: ivory and gold threads interwoven with nothing. Through it, her shaved,
rouged sex could clearly be seen. She had no secrets from this crowd.

Lord Marldon rose sinuously from his couch. Silently, he sauntered towards her, smiling. His glinting waistcoat showed a broad, pale stripe of his torso, and his pantaloons, slung low on his hips, exposed almost the whole of his muscled stomach. He lifted her fingertips to his lips. Her bangles clanked down her forearm.

‘My betrothed,’ announced Marldon, holding Clarissa’s hand aloft and stepping aside.

There was a whistle, followed by an outbreak of cheering, laughter and riotous applause. People stood to welcome her.

Clarissa flushed, wanting to throw herself into Alec’s embrace, to beg for his protection, but she did not. She had resolved to be compliant throughout, knowing how he wanted fire. It was a small gesture of defiance, but one she thought would serve her well tonight. She would not give Marldon the chance to flaunt how he could defeat her, not before these ogling guests.

Clarissa held her head high as Lord Alec escorted her across the room. The musicians began to play again, a low swooping tune. Censers burnt, puffing up cloudlets, and the air was languid with scents of jasmine and musk. As they meandered through the crowds, Marldon paused occasionally to introduce various people: the Marquis de Chouard, Viscount Quigley, a Prussian count with eyes so lecherous that his name did not register. Clarissa nodded graciously to them all.