is the sender?”
“Lord Hastings, mum,” said the courier.
Good gracious. As satisfying as it had been to knock him off his perch, had she somehow given him permission to send her items from his no doubt vast collection of smut?
She returned to her desk and tossed the package in a corner. But five minutes later, she found herself opening it, out of a frankly prurient curiosity. And he certainly knew how to keep her in suspense—the package was like aRussian babushka doll, one layer of wrapping after another.
A fabric outer cover, a pasteboard box, an oilcloth, and at last, a large envelope. She tilted the contents of the envelope onto her desk: a stack of papers wrapped with twine, with a handwritten note on top.
My Dear Miss Fitzhugh,
What a delightful chat we enjoyed last night at the Queensberrys’. I am gratified by your overwhelming interest in reading my novel—or memoir, as it may be—on the human condition in its most sensual manifestations.
Your servant in all things, particularly those of the flesh,
Hastings
She snorted. Degenerates would be degenerates.
However, Hastings degeneracy didn’t affect only himself. He had a natural daughter who lived with him in the country. He’d already inflicted the stigma of illegitimacy upon the poor child, and now he’d further shame her by becoming a pornographer?
Beneath the letter, the first page of the manuscript gave its title,
The Bride of Larkspear
, and Hastings’s pseudonym, A Gentleman of Indiscretion—at least he had that correct. The dedication on the next page was to “The pleasure seekers of the world, for they shall inherit the earth.”
The man’s cheekiness knew no bounds.
She turned the page.
Chapter 1
I shall begin with a description of my bed, for one must make the setting of a book clear from the first line. It is a bed with a pedigree. Kings have slept on it, noblemen have gone to their deaths, and brides beyond count have learned, at last, why their mothers ask them to “Think of England.”
The bedstead is of oak, heavy, stout, almost indestructible. Pillars rise from the four corners to support a frame on which hang heavy curtains in winter. But it is not winter; the heavy beddings remain in their cedar chests. Upon the feather mattresses are spread only sheets of French linen, as decadent as Baudelaire’s verses.
But fine French linen is not so difficult to come by these days. And beds with pedigrees are still only furniture. What distinguishes this bed is the woman attached to it—her wrists tied behind her to one of the excessively sturdy bedposts.
And this being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked.
My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night.
I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and young. I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember.
“Why are my hands tied?” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of them?”
“Of course,” I reply. “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.”
On the next page was a charcoal illustration of a nude woman, her body lanky rather than lush, her breasts thrust high thanks to the position of her arms. Her face was turned to the side and hidden by her long, loose hair, but there was nothing retiring or fearful in her stance. The way she stood, it was as if she
wanted
to be seen precisely so, her charms displayed to taunt the man who beheld them.
Helena was breathing fast—and it irked her. So Hastings could string a few words together and draw an obscene picture. That he put his talents to such ignoble purposes was no cause to revise any of her prior opinions and certainly no cause for her to feel…
Naked herself.
She slammed the pages she’d moved aside back on top of the manuscript and shoved the entire thing back into its envelope. The envelope she pushed deep into a drawer and locked
“Lord Hastings, mum,” said the courier.
Good gracious. As satisfying as it had been to knock him off his perch, had she somehow given him permission to send her items from his no doubt vast collection of smut?
She returned to her desk and tossed the package in a corner. But five minutes later, she found herself opening it, out of a frankly prurient curiosity. And he certainly knew how to keep her in suspense—the package was like aRussian babushka doll, one layer of wrapping after another.
A fabric outer cover, a pasteboard box, an oilcloth, and at last, a large envelope. She tilted the contents of the envelope onto her desk: a stack of papers wrapped with twine, with a handwritten note on top.
My Dear Miss Fitzhugh,
What a delightful chat we enjoyed last night at the Queensberrys’. I am gratified by your overwhelming interest in reading my novel—or memoir, as it may be—on the human condition in its most sensual manifestations.
Your servant in all things, particularly those of the flesh,
Hastings
She snorted. Degenerates would be degenerates.
However, Hastings degeneracy didn’t affect only himself. He had a natural daughter who lived with him in the country. He’d already inflicted the stigma of illegitimacy upon the poor child, and now he’d further shame her by becoming a pornographer?
Beneath the letter, the first page of the manuscript gave its title,
The Bride of Larkspear
, and Hastings’s pseudonym, A Gentleman of Indiscretion—at least he had that correct. The dedication on the next page was to “The pleasure seekers of the world, for they shall inherit the earth.”
The man’s cheekiness knew no bounds.
She turned the page.
Chapter 1
I shall begin with a description of my bed, for one must make the setting of a book clear from the first line. It is a bed with a pedigree. Kings have slept on it, noblemen have gone to their deaths, and brides beyond count have learned, at last, why their mothers ask them to “Think of England.”
The bedstead is of oak, heavy, stout, almost indestructible. Pillars rise from the four corners to support a frame on which hang heavy curtains in winter. But it is not winter; the heavy beddings remain in their cedar chests. Upon the feather mattresses are spread only sheets of French linen, as decadent as Baudelaire’s verses.
But fine French linen is not so difficult to come by these days. And beds with pedigrees are still only furniture. What distinguishes this bed is the woman attached to it—her wrists tied behind her to one of the excessively sturdy bedposts.
And this being a work of Eros, she is, of course, naked.
My bride does not look at me. She is determined, as ever, to shunt me to the periphery of her existence, even on this, our wedding night.
I touch her. Her skin is as cool as marble, the flesh beneath firm and young. I turn her face to look into her eyes, haughty eyes that have scorned me for as long as I remember.
“Why are my hands tied?” she murmurs. “Are you afraid of them?”
“Of course,” I reply. “A man who stalks a lioness should ever be wary.”
On the next page was a charcoal illustration of a nude woman, her body lanky rather than lush, her breasts thrust high thanks to the position of her arms. Her face was turned to the side and hidden by her long, loose hair, but there was nothing retiring or fearful in her stance. The way she stood, it was as if she
wanted
to be seen precisely so, her charms displayed to taunt the man who beheld them.
Helena was breathing fast—and it irked her. So Hastings could string a few words together and draw an obscene picture. That he put his talents to such ignoble purposes was no cause to revise any of her prior opinions and certainly no cause for her to feel…
Naked herself.
She slammed the pages she’d moved aside back on top of the manuscript and shoved the entire thing back into its envelope. The envelope she pushed deep into a drawer and locked
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