Where Destiny Plays, page 2
Chapter One
London, November 1879
Devoid of her cloak, Lavinia shivered, her skin prickling to gooseflesh. November’s chilly air only heightened the overt seductiveness of her chiffon odalisque costume. The sheer panels of her baggy pantaloons and overdress barely obscured her feminine charms. Her nipples peaked against her tight bodice, her flesh tingling without the benefit of arousal.
Yet.
She stood on the landing of Countess Winthrop’s dramatic entryway overlooking the grand lobby and surveyed the guests at the masquerade. Most of the other women had the forethought to wear something in fur or velvet. The men, of course, were generally fully dressed, their attire perhaps a bit more form-fitting than usual. A few hid their overdeveloped girths with capes. Her costume, or lack thereof, was already drawing flirtatious attention from men and women, the latter of which she barely acknowledged, as Sapphic affairs had not tempted her for decades. Besides, she was there to forget men—two in particular—and only another man could make her forget.
Or maybe she was there to remember what it felt like to have a man between her legs.
She danced a few dances to warm her blood with men whose stature matched her height and whose honed physiques matched her own vanity in maintaining her slender figure. She was not there to fuck just any man—certainly not a man who had decided middle age was an excuse to let charisma and his bank account be his only attractions. She wanted a man with as much experience as she, plus the willingness to maintain his health and improve his temperament to perpetuate the fiction of youth. She wasn’t old yet. Her last lover had been seventeen years her junior.
After dancing, she wandered through the sprawling mansion. Every room was accessible to all guests—no doors were to be locked. Such openness was the reason masks were not a perfunctory afterthought but a necessity, and remained secured to heads and faces. Her own of molded leather covered her eyes and nose, a head scarf concealed her hair—dyed a darker shade for the occasion—and wrapped around the lower part of her face. In the dark, she’d want use of her mouth, for lips and cocks were meant to be savored.
All around her, party-goers flirted and joined, gender unimportant given the anonymity of the ball, men free to embrace men, women to grasp women. Some guests preferred the spectacle, their masks purposefully askew, challenging observers to make accusations, and by doing so revealing their own sexual proclivities.
Lavinia smirked as she passed through the smaller drawing room, for there in the corner, unabashedly unmasked, was Sophia Phillips dressed as Marie Antoinette, and her husband Joseph dressed as…George Washington? Or some other American revolutionary war hero. The couple had given up their lifestyle of extramarital affairs but still savored the lascivious pursuits the sexual underground had to offer. They fornicated publicly against a piano to the delight of appreciative onlookers and passing voyeurs, the joining of their bodies obscured by Sophia’s voluminous skirts.
Sophia had suggested Lavinia attend Countess Winthrop’s affair, had suggested the odalisque costume, and had marveled it was “exquisitely sublime” when Lavinia modeled it for her. Sophia had said if any man was overly assertive with unwanted attentions, to tell her and she would have Joseph dispatch the brute without question.
Lavinia’s friendship with Sophia was one of the few pleasant aftereffects of an otherwise wrenchingly emotional Season. She had finally ended her affair with Nicholas Atherley. Her vulnerability had allowed her old flame Julius Christopher to swoop in and seduce her cruelly. He’d been driven by his animosity toward Nicholas—his estranged protégé. In the space of a few months, she had been stripped of the attentions of two extraordinarily skilled lovers. Their absence was weighty.
She had to stop thinking about both of them. Nicholas was desperately in love now. And Julius, well Julius was simply dangerous. Their on-again off-again affair had proven so, time after time.
She stared at Sophia and Joseph, each engaged in post-coital chatting with other guests. A sultan, his costume a richly decorated Venetian-red robe, complete with jeweled turban, conversed with Joseph. But it wasn’t mere conversation. Their familiarity went beyond typical male rapport, their touches lingering, sensual, the sultan shooting furtive glances toward Sophia. When Sophia took her husband’s arm with a smile, the sultan stepped back.
A charge remained between the two men, seemingly arcing over Sophia standing between them. The sultan matched Joseph in height but not in brawn. His casual confidence suggested he was not a young man, although his face was obscured by a mask and a dark beard of the imperial style, shaved and trimmed around his mouth. The same manner in which Julius wore his beard.
Lavinia shook her head. She had to stop seeing Julius everywhere, especially in the countenance of a masked and costumed stranger. A stranger who suddenly caught her staring at him, his gaze spearing her core, enlivening her sex, his sensual magnetism bridging the span of the drawing room to ensnare her. Lavinia’s face grew hot under her mask.
She pulled away from the intensity. She did not want to meet anyone she knew or might know. She’d eventually find a lover, for tonight was a night to indulge, to give her the impetus to move out of the past and into the future.
* * * * *
A night at Countess Winthrop’s was a first step in reminding Arthur Harwell, the Earl of Petersham, that there was a wondrous assortment of women in England. A gorgeous banquet of sensuality set before him for the taking, including the harem girl he had just locked gazes with in the most carnally intense connection of his life, before she turned away.
He had been trying to distract himself from the scene he had happened upon quite by accident. The last thing he had wanted was to watch his sister Sophia fucking her husband. So he had removed himself while she and Joseph finished their spectacle against the piano in the countess’s lesser drawing room, wishing Joseph was fornicating with any other woman so he could watch. Afterward, a relaxed—and pleasantly drunk—Joseph had pawed at him, a dangerous intimation of their affair begun almost twenty years prior. Had Sophia not been present, Arthur would have dragged Joseph into the butler’s pantry to tear off his colonial garb and appreciate the robust athleticism that never ceased to stir his senses.
Then Sophia had joined them, and Joseph had turned his tipsy attention to his wife’s low-cut neckline barely covering her areolas. As Sophia basked in her husband’s ogling, she had gently scolded Arthur that he needed to keep his distance if he was to engage a lover. No woman would ever approach a man while he was with his own sister. It was “too terribly Byronesque”.
He had smiled at that. As if a guest would draw the conclusion that Marie Antoinette was the sister of a masked sultan.
She was right, though. He needed to intermix and socialize. Sophia and Joseph’s ardent fervency only reminded Arthur he lacked such intimacy. After his niece Helena’s wedding, he had lamented to Sophia and Joseph that he wanted to fall in love again, wanted to find that rare woman with an independent attitude who would thrive on conversation, a woman of experience who would crave his touch, a woman of means who might buy him the occasional gift. He was tired of vapid mistresses who gossiped rather than read, who climaxed in rote fashion, who cared only for his money and not his heart.
He wanted a woman of like mind. A woman who had thought to dress as an odalisque at a masquerade, the perfect accompaniment to his sultan attire. A woman whose fabulous proportions stretched her costume in all the right places, who did not balk at wearing fabric so filmy it might reveal her feminine attributes not just to her lover, but to everyone.
Of course, he’d have to get a closer look.
He followed her to the conservatory, the sounds of fornication and vapid conversation wafting from behind potted plants up to the slender iron girders spanning the space. The odalisque seemed to skim along the floor, her embroidered slippers sounding softly, her chiffon costume billowing and fluttering as she walked. Her costume was profoundly provocative. Sheer green pantaloons tightly cinched at the waist and ankles, the gathered fabric only slightly concealing her buttocks and the hair of her mons. Over this she wore a dress of the same fabric but blue, the skirt sliced to flare and ripple as she walked, the bodice perfectly fitted to her abundant bosom and secured by a row of buttons up the front.
To unfasten those buttons suddenly became his goal.
She walked with confidence, no stranger to such scenes of overt sexuality, no shy miss to bold advances. She deflected a pirate, a musketeer, a priest…each with a nod and a wave, probably knowing full well their leers followed her backside as she continued unfailingly in her path.
And then she walked into the library. Arthur smiled. He knew about the alcove where the countess shelved her special collection of erotic books. One couldn’t readily discern it upon first entering the room, one had to know about it. For a woman of almost sixty, Countess Winthrop had a very open mind when it came to matters sexual and, he had to admit, great skill in bed. They had been lovers briefly—all her affairs were brief—about ten or so years before, and she had shown him the alcove then.
He followed his odalisque into the library and closed the door quietly. Anyone who knew the rules of the masquerade would know they could simply open the door, but he wanted to keep the novices out. The countess, knowing a library was the most sensual of rooms, had lit it with the soft glow of candles shrouded in cut-glass shades, the dim atmosphere lending itself to seduction both physical and intellectual.
The odalisque moved to the bay window, the shadow of trees outside visible with the dull light inside. She gazed for a moment beyond the glass then moved to the bookshelf to the right.
Perfect.
* * * * *
Lavinia tried to ignore the presence behind her in the library as she reached for a book, its leather spine intricately gilded with a design of flowering vines spiraling and interlocking. The cover would be engaging even if the text was not. She needed a respite before she dived back into the fray of the masquerade.
“My Lady Odalisque, I see we enjoy similar diversions.”
His slightly accented, husky baritone resonated to a spot deep within. She turned to find the sultan standing behind her, his voluminous, embroidered red robe utterly obscuring what lay beneath, his mask, beard, and turban shielding his face. Yet somehow, despite the encumbrances, his very presence attracted, enshrouding her in a cocoon of sensuality. She had sworn she would not be done in by charisma and charm yet suddenly she could not resist.
“My Lord Sultan, is a thirst for knowledge such an amusement that you forgo carnal pursuits?” She too effected an accent that was not her own and addressed the man according to Countess Winthrop’s rules.
“Ah, but Lady Odalisque, I have just begun my carnal pursuit.”
He stepped forward. His warmth penetrated through the sheer fabric of her costume. His spicy scent imbued her senses with the mysteries of exotic lands. She did not flinch as he took the book from her hand and glanced at the cover. “The Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam.” He smiled. “‘Ah, Moon of my Delight who know’st no wane’.”
He leaned over her and slid the book back into its space on the shelf.
She stifled a gasp. She was trapped between him and the bookcase. She looked up, meeting his gaze, his brown eyes boring into her, sweeping from her face to her bosom, a smile playing on his lips as soon as he spied the latter. His ragged breaths matched the rhythm of her thudding heart. The world slipped away, the space between them suddenly too distant. He leaned forward even more; she flexed in invitation. He pulled the scarf from her face and hair then traced a finger around her lips as he licked his own.
And then his mouth covered hers.
They melded perfectly, as if it were not their first kiss but their hundredth. He dared dip his tongue and she opened for him, sucking and tangling, humming her delight, wrapping her arms around his neck. He was good, so very good. Her thoughts were consumed by what thrills lay ahead.
His arms draped in loose sleeves enveloped her. His hands traced the curves of her back, holding her steady as she undulated against him. One hand cupped her buttocks, lifting her until her toes just barely reached the ground. He walked them behind the bookcase, she dancing on air, then set her down, releasing her from his embrace and his kiss.
“I think you may find this intimate space more conducive for indulging your darkest desires,” said the sultan as he opened a folding screen to cut them off from the rest of the library.
They were in an alcove made up of bookcases completely filled with books. In the center of the nook was a red velvet divan, upon which a reader might relax—or a lover might seduce.
He strolled along the shelves, running his finger over the spines. “In these volumes you will find a description of every lewd act known to man.” He flashed a smile her way. “And woman.” He walked around the divan, unfastening the robe’s corded frog closure at his shoulder. “But I’m not in the mood for reading at the moment.” The robe hung undone yet stubbornly continued to conceal that which was underneath.
Lavinia wanted to rip the garment off him.
He took hold of the edges of his robe. Lavinia sucked in her lower lip, watching his slender, masculine fingers stroke the fabric up and down. He chuckled.
“Your costume leaves almost nothing to the imagination, my Lady Odalisque, whereas mine shields all. What lies beneath my robe, you wonder? Will it please you?”
“It will have to, my Lord Sultan, or I am at liberty to leave.”
He grabbed her wrist and yanked her to him. She fell against his chest. Their mouths poised a hair’s breadth apart, her free hand sliding under the opening to discover hair-covered flesh hot under her palm. Her hand trailed lower. She bit her lip as she smiled.
He was utterly nude beneath his costume.
He released his hold, allowing her to slip the robe over his shoulders, down his arms, until it crumpled to the floor. She gasped at the sight of him, his body perfect in its athleticism, muscles sculpted and honed, and on a man her own age, his years betrayed by a gray hair or two amidst the brown at his chest and groin.
Every inch of her flesh tingled with anticipation. It had been months since she had been with a man and here was a glorious exemplar of maleness before her for the taking. She trailed her fingers down his rippled abdomen, following the tantalizing path of hair—
He pulled her against him and took her in a violent kiss, preventing her hand from finding its aim. Did he not want her to give him pleasure? She struggled but he held firm, putting his strength to its intended use. One hand wrapped around both her wrists, holding them behind her back, depriving her of the feel of his body. He pulled down, forcing her to bend into him, his face dipping to her neck, his teeth and tongue nipping and licking until he reached her breasts, a growl escaping his throat. His free hand quickly loosed the buttons of her bodice and parted the diaphanous dress, freeing her to his gaze.
The growl became a sigh. “The beauty of my harem is revealed to me.”
He pulled her wrists harder, intensifying her arch. His hot breath fanned excitedly over a nipple for only a moment before he drew it into his mouth.
She melted, his singular attention to her sensitive tip shooting tingling chills to curl her toes. He knew how to please a woman. How to please her. God, she wanted more, so much more, but she could be happy with just this. She moaned with an encouraging nudge. His chuckle reverberated in her chest to mingle with the thrumming of her heart. He ground his hips against her, his rock-hard cock digging into her thigh. His free hand cupped and caressed and pinched, his beard tickled and scratched, his tongue swirled and teased, keeping her on the edge, somehow knowing if he sucked harder, she would come.
She wanted to come. She needed to come.
“Please,” she begged, flushing in shame.
He stopped his torment and drew his tongue from her chest to her chin, pausing at her mouth. “Ah, my desert rose, do you crave release?” His palm hovered over her breast, cruelly not touching, the heat taunting her piqued nipple. “Have I inflamed you?” He left her breast bereft as he skated his hand over her waist to cup her buttocks and squeeze the flesh. “So delicious.” He skimmed over her hip, pausing to stroke her thigh before cupping her mons.
The breath hitched in her throat. She tucked her hips to better fit the curve of his palm.
One corner of his mouth lifted smugly. He reached between her legs and discovered the slit of her pantaloons, inserting a finger through the opening, then slowly through the swollen folds of her sex.
She sighed an oath.
His smug smile widened to a lascivious grin. “So deliciously wet, so utterly ready.” He explored her depths, dipping a finger in and out, while another dallied near her clit, toying with her, taking her only so far before retreating, then starting the torment again.
She tried to capture the pleasure, to hold on to it, to bring herself to climax. She was desperate for the release he refused to allow.
Two could play that game.
She shoved against him, startling him, breaking free of his hold. She fell to her knees, gripping his hips with her nails, his cock jutting before her, potent and erect. She drew the tip into her mouth, circling her tongue around the cowled prepuce, and sucked.
He grunted a curse and rolled his hips.
She pushed back, preventing his length from entering farther. He would know what it was like to be held captive to another’s wicked desires. She sucked mercilessly on the smooth glans, lauding herself when she tasted a droplet of his emission, salty and sour.
He grabbed her head, impelling her forward as he rammed his hips. She grabbed his shaft and tore her mouth from him, laughing. “My sultan, do you desire release?”
He lifted her from the floor and tossed her on the divan, extending over her a moment before crushing her. He cradled her cheek, his gaze falling to her mouth. And then a grin spread over his lips.
“We shall see who is the true master of our mutual desire.”
He urged her legs open with his thighs, spread the slit of her pantaloons, and positioned himself at her entrance, playing in her wetness. He paused, searching her eyes, his own holding a glimmer of a memory.
