LORD DECADENT'S OBSESSION (15 page)

However, upon reflection, I have come to understand our disparate consequences. To continue as

we have is impossible, and I must ask that you not attempt to contact me again. I will not be

available to you, as our arrangement is at an end.

I pray you will respect my wishes, but have taken steps to secure my privacy. You will

not be admitted should you call, and any missives will be returned unread.

I thank you sincerely for all you have taught me about myself, and about you.

Respectfully,

Mrs. Desiree Huntington

With hands shaking, Prentice read the words several times before they began to

mean anything to him. The feeling of desolation and hopelessness quickly replaced the

happiness he'd felt just moments before.

He jumped up, the chair skittering across the floor. He began to pace. Through

the haze that infiltrated his mind, he heard, "Prentice, old man, are you quite well?" It

was Lucien.

"No." He handed the paper to his friend.

After a moment, Lucien sighed. "I don't know what to say."

"I believe she has said it all."

"You aren't going to leave it at this, are you?"

"Apparently you
didn't
read it. She doesn't wish to hear from me. I certainly will

not force myself upon someone who wishes otherwise."

"What could have happened? From everything you have said, the situation

couldn't have been better."

"So I thought."

Conflicting emotions battled for prominence as Prentice relived the last few days.

There was nothing. Even when he'd bid her farewell, he'd sensed only sadness, a

reluctance to part.

Fear's tentacles were grabbing at the sanity he had begun to make of his life. He

had no idea where to go from here. He'd begun making plans, which had included

marriage. Lord, he was meeting with his mother later in the day to float the idea of his

marrying an untitled woman. That was enough to set him back in itself.

"I've no clarity of mind. Everything is a jumble."

He looked at Lucien, his friend of many years, the only man who knew all the

secrets, and still loved him. Lucien's black brows arched, reading plainly what Prentice

wanted.

"Come, my friend. We will see if some sense can be made of this."

At times such as these, when Prentice became unable to sort his thoughts, he

relied upon Lucien, not an easy thing to do for a man used to control. However, he'd

learned early in his life that one's thoughts could be temporarily refocused through

pain, a lesson learned at the hand of his tutor many years before.

Mr. Wexler had been an angry man, who felt strict discipline was as much a part

of a boy's education as were mathematics and Greek literature. Regular canings and

birchings became part of the curriculum, encouraged and often witnessed by his

parents, much to Prentice's shame and humiliation.

The one thing the whippings had done for him was enable him to sort through

the unnecessary thoughts and direct his attention to what was most important. By the

time he'd had this epiphany, he'd begun to crave the pain, a secret he'd kept closely

hidden, but for discussing it with Lucien. His friend had a taste for the same.

The men went to the third floor where Lucien and Serenity lived. There was a

hidden passage, located in the library on the first floor, which led directly to the

residence. It ensured their privacy, as Lucien had had the stairways to the top floor

blocked off, lest club members begin to travel about the house and accidently stumble

upon places they shouldn't go.

Lucien had a room outfitted with all that was needed. He used this room for his

afternoon spanking appointments with his wife.

As Lucien prepared the strap, Prentice disrobed. They'd done this many times

since Abigail died, and he would never have been able to live through the grief without

it.

Prentice situated himself on the spanking bench, lying down on his stomach,

arms above his head. He wanted to feel nothing but the pain. It certainly couldn't feel

worse than his broken heart did.

"Lay it on, Lucien."

"As you wish."

Lucien was a master, with years of practice. He'd blistered arses of men and

women with equal aplomb. Prentice was continually amazed at how many in the
ton

offered up their privileged rumps for punishment.

The first strike was light, earning a grumble from Prentice. The next—and all

subsequent blows—rocketed pain through Prentice's body. He gritted his teeth and

squeezed his eyes closed as slap after slap struck his buttocks. When Lucien stopped,

Prentice insisted on more, until he had endured forty lashes.

"Enough?" Lucien asked, to which Prentice simply nodded. "I shall leave you

alone then."

After Lucien left the room, Prentice lay still for long minutes. He finally allowed

the tears to flow, but not from the pain in his hind quarters. No, there was a profound

emptiness in his chest. Desiree's missive had dug a deep hole there. She'd snatched his

hope for the future from him, the cruelest of all gestures. However, clarity had come to

him; he knew what he must now do. He would have Desiree, for at this moment, he

wanted nothing more.

Chapter Fifteen

Desiree hadn't eaten in days. She'd not even felt the urge. She'd locked herself in

her bedchamber, kept the draperies closed and cried until no more tears would flow.

The misery she felt was beyond her bearing.

She'd gotten her revenge, though it didn't feel as sweet as she'd expected. She felt

like she'd slashed her own wrists and was dying a slow, painful death. She'd had no

idea that her revenge would affect her in such a profound way. She'd pictured herself

laughing at his pain, when instead, she found herself mired in her own.

He hadn't said the words, but she knew Prentice Hyde was in love with her.

Without confirmation of it, she knew she'd hurt him, as he had hurt her years before.

However, she had
never
expected to fall in love with
him
. To her shock and dismay,

she'd realized on the morning they'd left the folly, that indeed she had.

Prentice filled a need in her even she never realized she had. He'd immersed her

in his erotic world, one of sexual satiation, and a recognition of her body's wants and

needs. He'd given, making her want to give back in treble.

She'd felt his warmth toward her at the folly. Consciously, she knew he had

changed in his feelings toward her. However, in the end, her need for revenge trumped

the joy he had given her. While at the folly, she was willing to forego what he had done

to her, how he had ruined her life. It is petty revenge, she'd told herself. He's a different

man now
.
Yet, when she awoke the first morning back in her house, she'd momentarily

felt differently. Now, she had no idea why, and regretted writing the quickly dashed off

missive. She lamented having sent it.
I would have been better to have used it as a catharsis,

then chucked it into the grate.

Nonetheless, it was over now. He'd never wish to see her again, even if she

prostrated herself at his feet. Prentice was not the type of man to forgive.

She'd not heard from him since she'd sent the note. She kept telling herself that

was what she wanted, but then anger rose anew at the thought that he hadn't attempted

to kick her door in and carry her off to a glorious future. She'd even pictured the scene

where he
did
kick the door in, stormed the stairs, stripped her naked and spanked her

raw for acting so foolishly.

Her bottom tingled, remembering the glorious spankings he so adeptly

administered, and how there would never be another. She'd almost convinced herself

she could live on the memories but now she knew she'd deluded herself in the worst

possible way. He'd ruined her again, this time for anyone else.

She stared at the floral canopy above her head and imagined Prentice in this

room. He'd lain on the pillow that was now clutched in her arms. He'd taken her under

these bed linens, touching her body and her soul. The memories were too vivid, too

sweet, the loss too agonizing. She didn't think she could bear it, yet she knew not what

to do.

Pride would keep her from retracting what she'd done, even if he'd accept an

apology. She could always offer up her bottom to his strap, but he could as well laugh

at her as apply it. A man can tolerate just so much foolishness.

Oh, if she could just turn back time. If only life could be as simple as it was at the

folly. She'd been happy there, and he was too. She began to laugh at the thought of him

trying to cook bacon in the nude. Then, she cried at the thought of all he had done to

her, the unmitigated joy he had shown her. How her body responded to his slightest

touch, as it now did in the remembering.

She reached into the drawer in the bedside table and retrieved a familiar object.

She threw the covers to the side, drew her nightrail to her waist and raised her knees.

Her fingers danced over her moist folds until they found the most sensitive spot. Short

of a spanking, this was all she knew to do to make her feel alive again. With fingers

pressing and circling over her clitoris, she plunged her phallus deep within and began

simulating the act she so wished Prentice were committing upon her body at that

moment.

Her orgasm came, but it left her bereft. Again, she dissolved into tears, feeling

empty and alone. Revenge was a bitter bed partner, but it was hers, for she had chosen

the course, and there was no turning back now.

* * * * *

Several days later, Prentice took the brandy his mother's butler offered as he

waited for the Grande Dame to make her appearance. He needed the fortification of the

burning amber liquid to see him through this meeting, for he would run up against

opposition from the start.

Thirty minutes after his arrival, the dowager Marchioness of Wycroft, Dorothea

to her closest friends, entered the parlor of her home in Grosvenor Square. She entered

in a flurry of swishing satin, a toothy smile upon her face, which totally belied the

woman's usual miserable disposition.

On her best days, she was cranky; on the worst, she was to be avoided. Prentice

couldn't tell quite yet what he was facing but the brandy helped.

"Good afternoon, my darling son. Please do sit down, and tell me all you have

been up to."

"I'd prefer to stand, Mother, but please, you sit."

She did so, spending an inordinate amount of time straightening her skirts. She

perched primly upon the edge of the chair, lest her aristocratic torso touch the back. She

folded her hands in her lap and looked up at him with an enigmatic smile.

"I haven't much time, dear. I am expected for tea at the home of Duchess

Hackberry, but I am ever so happy to see you."

"Thank you, Mother, as I am you."

"Do you have anything specific of which you wish to speak, or is this simply a

social call."

"I wish to inform you of my impending marriage."

The dowager marchioness clapped her hands, and Prentice could envision what

was going on inside her empty head.

"Oh, my darling, I knew the duke's daughter would accept your suit. She isn't the

loveliest thing I've ever seen, but she comes from a fine family—"

"Mother, please. There is no duke's daughter. My soon-to-be wife is Mrs. Desiree

Huntington. I am sure you don't know her."

His mother raised her haughty nose, and her smile disappeared. "No, I most

certainly do not. Who is the person? Please, don't tell me you are marrying your

mistress. Good lord, Wycroft, one doesn't marry one's mistress."

"She is not my mistress. She is the person I love." His temper never failed to

shorten in his mother's presence. She was a most provoking woman.

"Who are her people? Is she a widow or something else?"

"Mother, have a care. I have no idea about her
people
. She is a widow of several

years." His tone was curt, but it didn't deter his mother from further interrogation.

"She must be after your money, and you are too blinded by lust to see it. Oh, dear

lord, you are the Marquess of Wycroft. You are meant to marry well and fill the nursery

with children with noble blood from both their parents running through their veins. I

forbid it, Wycroft, I say, I forbid it."

She'd extracted a fan from her sleeve and began to pump it rapidly before her

face, the lace of her cap lifting and falling with the breeze. He had neither time nor

patience for melodrama, an affectation his mother employed as often as those around

her allowed. He rarely did.

"I came here to inform you, madam, not seek your permission. I trust you will be

civil when I bring her 'round."

"I shall be dead, yes indeed, I shall be dead. You will be the death of me. Thank

the good lord your father isn't here to witness this. You would kill him as well."

"It has been a pleasure as always, Mother." Prentice strode out of the room, his

mother still blustering about death and such. He'd gotten no more or less than he'd

expected, but then he never did.

He settled somewhat uncomfortably on the seat of his carriage, more determined