Devi's Paradise

DEVIL’S PARADISE

by

ROXANE BEAUFORT

Devil’s Paradise
f

irst published in 2005 by

Chimera Books Ltd

www.chimerabooks.co.uk

Digital edition converted and published by

Andrews UK Limited 2010

www.andrewsuk.com

New Authors Welcome

Copyright © Roxane Beaufort

The right of Roxane Beaufort to be identified as author of this book has been asserted in accordance with section 77 and 78 of the Copyrights Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Chimera - a creation of the imagination, a wild fantasy

This novel is fiction – in real life practice safe sex

This book is sold subject to the condition that it shall not, by way of trade or otherwise, be lent, resold, hired out or otherwise circulated without the publisher’s prior written consent in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published, and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.

The characters and situations in this book are entirely imaginary and bear no relation to any real person or actual happening.

Riku pushed Romilly back till her knees pressed against the great slab. Mahil was dancing round mouthing incantations. The tribe swayed and chanted as they watched. The warriors lifted Romilly onto the altar and bound her, spread-eagled, ropes about her ankles and wrists. She had never believed in God, not seriously, bucking against attending services in the church on her father’s estate or going to those in London, but again she prayed. ‘Dear Jesus, save me. I don’t want to die.’

She could not move, tears running unchecked down her cheeks and dripping onto the stone beneath her head. Then a large black-haired man with fierce eyes leaned over her, blocking out everything. A cloak of vivid feathers fell from his immense shoulders, and he raised his arms to heaven, evoking his gods.

‘I’m bored,’ complained Romilly, rustling her skirts and striking her fiancé on the arm with her closed fan.

‘How can you be bored, dear heart?’ he drawled, a colourful popinjay, leaning an elbow on the edge of the stage box they occupied. He was as much an actor as those who trod the boards, and played to his admirers in the pit who were watching him with almost as much attention as they gave King Charles, theatre-goer par excellence. Romilly would have liked to catch the royal eye, though it was said that his mistresses were hussies.

‘This display obviously pleases you, Jamie – all those trollops flaunting their wares, kicking up their legs in lewd dances, but it don’t appeal to me!’ she pronounced loudly, her lovely mouth pouting, her green eyes sparking with annoyance. She could not confess her true reason – that Nathan Westbury, principle player, was not in this part of the show. She had developed a passion for him, unrequited as yet.

She resented the adulation lavished on the actresses, accustomed as she was to being the centre of attention, Lady Romilly Fielding, the Earl of Stanford’s only daughter, beautiful, gifted, with blood as blue as could be, inherited from a long line of aristocrats.

‘Dearest,’ said Jamie, lifting her hand to his lips and pressing a kiss to the back, the feel of his narrow moustache raising goose bumps on her skin. ‘You know I adore you. They are mere entertainers, helping their superiors – that’s us – to pass an idle hour. You are my existence, my dove. Why won’t you take pity and let me prove to you how much I love you?’

She shot him a straight stare, her face illumined by the candles floating in a trough of water that formed the foot-lights. ‘What you mean is that you want to roger me like any tuppenny whore!’ she hissed indignantly.

‘No, no – not at all. We’re betrothed, aren’t we? Soon to be man and wife. There would be no harm in anticipating the ceremony, surely? You drive me mad, Romilly. I want you so desperately. See the state to which you bring me,’ and he placed her hand over the bulge lifting his breeches. ‘Feel my manhood straining to be united with you. Be merciful and come to Vauxhall Gardens with me before I deliver you home tonight. My coachman will turn a blind eye if I order him to leave us for a while. The seats are wide and will make a capital bridal bed.’

‘Sir! You shock me! What a monstrous suggestion,’ she whispered, but inside she warmed with excitement, virgin she might be and innocent, but she was filled with an overwhelming curiosity about the congress between a man and a woman. That hard bough inside his breeches intrigued her and she longed to see and touch it, but, ‘Even if I agreed, there’s my chaperone, Wade,’ she reminded, and withdrew her fingers, casting a glance over her shoulder to where the duenna sat.

‘A pox on Wade!’ he fumed, and one or two members of the audience looked across angrily and hushed him, though disturbances during the performances were commonplace. ‘We’re never alone.’

‘It is customary to guard a young girl’s virtue,’ she rejoined primly, but wished it wasn’t so. Nathan was more than just talented and she daydreamed of having him make love to her, though ignorant as to what this would entail. ‘Take me round to meet Mr Westbury later,’ she demanded.

‘Oh, very well, my angel,’ Jamie agreed reluctantly.

She fidgeted and waited for the final curtain to go down. Thoughts of Nathan were a mere diversion. She had never yet met anyone who filled her with uncontrollable ardour, and was heartily tired of Viscount James Milward, the man to whom her father had given her. They had been promised to one another in childhood, an arrangement made between their fathers with money, land and titles the main consideration. She liked him little better than when he was a bullying boy and a spotty youth whereas he, it seemed, had fallen in love with her, delighted with both her person and the prospects of a generous dowry.

He declared that love repeatedly, but she could not be certain of his sincerity. His well-born companions were dandies, living lavishly, constantly in debt, obsessed by the gaming tables, horseracing, cockfighting, prize fighting – anything and everything that involved betting. Consequently marrying a lady with a substantial dot was essential if they were to continue their profligate lifestyle that was based on the laws of inheritance. Romilly’s eyes had been opened to this early. She had been taught that it was a wife’s place to obey her lord, run his household like clockwork, be modest and diligent and bear him a clutch of heirs.

Of course, like everything else in England since Charles II had been restored to his kingdom, restrictions were relaxed from those dull days when there had been a Puritan dictatorship under Oliver Cromwell. Even so, men still had the upper hand and someone like Romilly, despite her fiery temper and rebelliousness was still compelled to obey her father and, after marriage, her husband.

The orchestra played the finale number. The dancers whirled in a lively jig and then took their bows to thunderous applause. The king rose in the Royal Box and his people cheered. ‘I’m going backstage with the viscount,’ Romilly informed Jessica.

‘Very well, my lady,’ Jessica replied, laying a gauzy scarf round Romilly’s shoulders, her stance telling her without words that she intended to go along too. Romilly was in her charge, and woe betides her if the Earl discovered that she had been neglectful of her duties towards his daughter. She let her views be known however, adding with a sniff, ‘If your ladyship feels it necessary to consort with a collection of mountebanks.’

‘Don’t be so stuffy,’ Romilly retorted, and swept ahead of her, fingertips resting on Jamie’s crooked elbow.

The narrow corridors were packed and, ‘Well met, Jamie and Lady Romilly,’ said a foppishly dressed individual, the long curls of his elaborately curled periwig almost sweeping the floor at her feet as he made a bow.

‘Ah, George, my dear fellow, and did you enjoy the play?’ Jamie replied, clapping him on the shoulder.

‘Capital, capital!’ George enthused. ‘I’m about to offer my congratulations to the players.’

‘So are we. Shall we go together?’ Jamie suggested, and Romilly had the impression that he was more relaxed now that one of his bosom companions was there – Lord George Althrope, heir to an estate in Dorset.

Jamie had a close-knit circle of friends. They were always together, as if joined at the hip, all rich and idle and considering themselves masters of witty repartee. Besides gambling, their main interest was women – whores, actresses, society belles, shop girls and maidservants – though there were a few who preferred their own sex.

Romilly had heard about their exploits through her friend, Lady Alvina Segar, who was more informed than her regarding matters sexual. Even so she did not understand the ramifications. Now several others had come along, all talking loudly and smelling very high of orange flower water. They were handsome young men, untouched by the Civil War that had ripped their grandfathers’ and fathers’ lives apart and executed their King. The aristocracy had gained ground again once his exiled son, Charles, had been returned to his rightful place on the throne. Licentiousness abounded; everyone was out for a good time and none more so than these privileged scions of noble families.

It was fashionable to meet the performers in the dressing rooms, and no beau worth his salt would leave the building before carrying out this ritual. Many were motivated by lust, for the actresses’ morals were notoriously lax. Though a few were genuine in their desire to be serious thespians, the majority were ladies of easy virtue seeking a rich keeper.

Romilly had heard that they had clamoured for auditions once King Charles had issued an edict forbidding men to appear in female roles, as had always been the custom. It had been considered lewd for women to display themselves in public, but he liked the ladies and had seen them on the stage during his years of exile in France. Since men had been forbidden to trail a skirt across the boards, his Majesty had acquired more than one courtesan from theatrical circles, Nell Gwyne being the favourite.

It was not Romilly’s first excursion to the dressing rooms and these were shared by males and females alike, divided by curtains that were usually thrust back casually, the players unconcerned about false modesty, existing with a free and easy camaraderie marred only by flashes of professional jealousy.

It was noisy and lively, with both sexes in a state of undress and Romilly quickly spotted Nathan, slim, dark and elegant, seated at a dressing table, his lean face illumined by candles in sconces each side of the mirror. He was in the process of wiping off make-up. He stood as she approached and bowed when she introduced herself.

‘I’m Lady Romilly Fielding.’

‘Your ladyship does me too much honour,’ he replied, and their eyes met in the fly-spotted glass and interest sparked in his, although a big-busted, mature woman was observing him.

Romilly recognised her as Lady Barbara Leyton, subject of much gossip because it was rumoured that she had used her money and influence to help Nathan advance his career. She shot Romilly a venomous glance, which she ignored.

‘I so much enjoyed your performance tonight, Mr Westbury,’ she continued, aware that Jamie’s attention was elsewhere as he and George flirted with a couple of scantily clad dancers. Never in her life had Romilly seen such a blatant display of breasts, rounded buttocks and hairy pudendum.

‘You are too kind,’ Nathan replied, hand on heart. ‘Please be seated so that I may continue removing the greasepaint while we talk.’

‘I shall leave you now, Nathan,’ Lady Barbara interrupted rudely. ‘My husband and I are invited to a masque at the palace. Such a nuisance, but unavoidable. Be good and I’ll see you tomorrow.’

She reached down and squeezed the prominent bulge between his legs, and he smiled up into her face. But when she had left in a flurry of silk and expensive French perfume he grimaced and said, ‘She’s kindness itself, but possessive. It’s rather like being married. Are you married, my dear young lady?’

‘Oh, no,’ she responded quickly, glad that she wasn’t, then added, blushing a little, ‘but I am betrothed.’

‘To that young man you came in with?’ he asked.

His striking features were even more fine without the layer of greasepaint. His hair was long, curling to his shoulders, every strand his own, not a peruke like those adopted by the leaders of the bon ton, including the king. Their hair was cropped short, the theory being that it was easier to keep a wig clear of lice than one’s own head. Romilly wanted to run her fingers through his lovelocks and draw his face towards her breasts. These were pushed high by a short, tight busk worn beneath an equally tight, low-cut bodice. Her shoulders were bare, the large puffed sleeves of her pastel pink gown slipping down as if dragged by their own weight. A cascade of pearls circled her slender throat and reached her cleavage. There were more pearls on her wrists and adorning her hair, which was piled into a coronet at the crown, with ringlets falling over each ear where the lobes were adorned by pearl drops.

She looked wonderful and she knew it, sure that every man thereabouts would find her irresistible. It was not conceit but habit that made her think thus. She had been pampered and spoiled from infancy, never knowing her mother who had died shortly after her birth, and her grief-stricken father had not married again, devoting himself to his daughter, sole heir and beneficiary. It was small wonder that she was sought after.

Tish! she thought impatiently. I’m tired of fops and want to be in the company of a real man, someone who has known life’s discomforts, like Nathan. Being an actor can’t be easy. I wonder what it is like to be poor, reliant on one’s talent to turn a coin. She wanted to be alone with him, to ask him pertinent questions and, maybe, have him kiss her. He had a beautiful mouth, the upper lip firm and commanding, the lower full and sensual. The thought of him capturing hers in an ever deepening kiss made her wet between the legs. Jamie didn’t affect her like this. She had known him so long that he was like a brother.

How was this naughty ambition to be fulfilled? she wondered. Wade was standing in the background, arms folded on her breasts and a sour expression on her face, and then there was Jamie. Even if she managed to give her duenna the slip, he would be lurking around. But something had to be done.

‘I’m mighty interested in those clever tricks that make the scenery so convincing,’ she said, on a wave of inspiration. ‘I’d love to see them, and the costumes, too. Are the swords real or fake?’

They had seen a comedy that night, a bawdy romp that was far removed from the works of Shakespeare or Christopher Marlow, but even so she was providing herself with a splendid excuse for having him conduct her away from the dressing rooms on the pretence of a tour round the theatre’s illusionary secrets.

She hit on another scheme, calling across to the chaperone, ‘I’m thirsty, Wade. Fetch me a drink. Refreshments are still on sale. Wine for me and ale for yourself.’ She knew that she had a penchant for small beer, becoming almost human under the influence of a pint or two.

‘I say, bring a couple of bottles of sherry sac for me. You’d like a drink, wouldn’t you, ladies? And you, too, gentlemen?’ put in Jamie, too occupied in impressing the girls and his friends to notice what Romilly was doing.

Nathan stood up and together they slipped away, down a dimly lit passage and into a further room. It was deserted, but piled high with dress baskets from which costumes spilled, while others hung on crowded rails and bulged from cupboards. There was the glint of mock gold and paste gems from crowns and armour and sword hilts, racks of boots and shoes, and shelves containing hats and stands supporting grey, black and blond wigs for every possible character. Chairs, couches and rugs, thrones and beds gave it the appearance of a second-hand shop.