The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series (13 page)

Her cry brought
a tightness
to
MacCaulay’s
throat.
His envy burned within him, knowing that others had taken her to such a place
of arousal and contentment.

The three lay breathless, one
upon the other, bodies glistening with perspiration. At last, they parted, Zeus
and the African taking their place at either side of the room. Mademoiselle lay
reclined upon the couch still, her chest rising yet with rapid breaths.

MacCaulay
knew that he must seize the moment, showing her that
his feelings of jealousy could be harnessed to other ends: that her enjoyment
of other men did not lessen his own desire. In fact, that her performance only
heightened his hunger to please her.

He first pulled the ribbon
about her waist, so that it unraveled, and slithered from between her thighs.
Next, he bent his mouth to her breasts, removing the pastilles with his teeth,
so that her rosy nipples were unveiled. Her mask he left in place. She lay for
him, fully naked, languorous and displayed. Her thighs were parted, one knee
raised: her labia on show, plump and glistening with his dark rival’s semen.

Knowing that he was watched,
and caring not, he
lay
his own bare body against hers.
She turned her face towards his and their lips met in a kiss so deep and tender
that
MacCaulay
felt an ocean wash over him, entering
a world in which only she existed for him.

Her nipples brushed his
chest, and she pulled herself closer to him, enjoying the hairiness of his
torso against her soft skin. Her belly pushed against his, and her hands snaked
around his back, at last finding his buttocks, which she drew towards her,
wrapping a leg about him, so that his thick rod pressed at her groin.

The moment was exquisite; they
lay clasped,
body to body
, knowing that pleasure was
to come and
savouring
this quiet pause before they
surrendered themselves to the throb of lust growing between them.

She wriggled a little against
him, altering the angle of her pelvis, and his manhood found its entry as
naturally as a fox seeking shelter in its den. He held himself within her, not
yet moving, drinking in the sensation of being embraced by her.

At last, imprisoning her in
his steadfast gaze, and cradling her as the most precious jewel, he began to
rock against her. He sensed some impatience on her side but exerted all his
self-control to keep his rhythm steady, refusing to rush forward. In this one
thing he was able to defy her, forcing her to submit to his pace, to allow him
to woo her with sweet whisperings of endearment and admiration, and gentle
kisses at her neck and along her shoulder. Her hands clutched at his buttocks
and she ground herself against him, eager to urge him on, to quicken his
thrusts and take her with more force, but he refused to rise to her
provocation.

At last, she relinquished her
struggle, allowing him to dominate her. His hands firmly cupped the underside
of her bottom, so that he held her fast, thrusting at his own leisure, yet with
focused deliberation. Her eyes, usually so piercing, inquisitive and taunting,
grew wide and dark, glazed with feverish desire. Her body finally became limp
in surrender, permitting him to take her as he wished. He held her under his
spell now: she capitulating to his will.

MacCaulay’s
lips travelled down to embrace her breasts, pushing
her upper body slightly away from him to do so. She dropped her head back to
expose her throat and torso to him, yielding to his resolve. His kisses upon
her ivory skin were devoutly tender, bestowed as if upon an
angel,
yet still he gripped her haunches, so that little movement was possible on her
part. He continued thrusting, ensuring that each stroke was slow, long and
deep.

She had never looked more
captivating to him: a goddess he was
honoured
to
worship. Her superiority to him in intellect and wit was as unquestionable as her
beauty and desirability, yet she was his, conceding to him, responding only to
his commands.

As her breathing became
ragged, and her velvet passage gripped him tenaciously, she wrapped her legs
about his all the more tightly and arched her spine. He took her breast
entirely in his mouth then, sucking hard at the flesh around her nipple, and
drove into her. His fingers clutched into the cheeks of her buttocks, forcing
her resolutely upon his groin, so that his penetration was all and everything.
They gasped and groaned together, enjoying the ultimate satisfaction of mutual
pleasure: sharing that exquisite moment when flesh becomes one and naught else
exists.

When all was done, they lay still,
like dreamers in half-slumber, yet to awake to the dawn. Eventually, it was he
who rose, dressing silently, and departing the room. Her eyes watched his every
movement, until the door closed behind him.

Chapter Fifteen

At the Mercy of Love

Lord
MacCaulay
knew now that he was shipwrecked, without hope of rescue and, indeed, no desire
for deliverance.
 
His love could not
be denied. Whatever might happen, he knew that his adoration would endure a
lifetime. No other woman would supplant Mademoiselle Noire in this respect. His
hunger for her was all consuming.

Her feelings remained, as
ever, mysterious to him; he knew not even if she were capable of returning his esteem.
Yet, this mattered not; his devotion was set in stone, regardless of how she
responded. She might cast him aside and refuse ever to see him again, yet the
flame of his love would remain. Even her death would not extinguish his thirst
for her.
 

He must fall on her mercy
and, despite his hunger to possess her, would accept whatever terms she
appointed. He could only now assure her of his love and genuine regard: his
appreciation of her independent spirit. In this, he was her devoted servant,
sworn to uphold her comfort, safety and
well-being
. If
she would allow him to do so, he would become her protector, her companion,
her
lover and fellow adventurer.

Taking his quill, he wrote a
simple note, which he sent with all speed, accompanied by a bouquet of fifty hothouse
orchids:

‘The rivers, deserts,
forests, ocean, sun, moon and stars encircle you.

You swim in my veins,

My soul’s blood stirs for
you.

You are my beginning and my
end.’

Chapter Sixteen

Breakfast Surprise

Several weeks passed, in
which Lord
MacCaulay
heard nothing from Mademoiselle
Noire. Each day, he sent fifty of the same exotic orchids
but,
exerting all powers of control, he kept himself from visiting the Club and
refrained from correspondence.

Once, in a moment of
weakness, he lingered nearby, hoping to catch a glance of her, either arriving
or leaving. He saw nothing.

By day, he promenaded Hyde
Park and the streets through which he had chased her, wrapped now warmly
against the wind. Melancholy thoughts assailed him and brought to mind macabre
events which had unfolded in the Park: Sir Robert Peel’s demise on being thrown
from his horse some five decades previously; and the near fatality of the cruelly
puritanical Oliver Cromwell, whose own pistol shot had missed him by a hair’s
breadth, fired unexpectedly during a carriage accident. Ironically, the cold
hand of death, which had, with time, guided his mortal remains to repose in
Westminster Abbey, led Cromwell’s exhumed body to a posthumous trial and
hanging at
Tyburn
gallows, not far from the Park. The
silent grave then closed once more about his corpse, although his head remained
on display for many years. Perhaps there was something in the notion of reaping
as we sow.

Winter’s icy fingers had
entered the city, bringing freezing fog and a damp chill to the air. Those with
sense made for Italy or the French Riviera. He felt strongly the urge to leave:
to put behind him all torment and find some ease under a warmer sun.
 
He might take a young, carefree local
girl as his lover, or find release in the arms of a professional courtesan, but
he knew such distractions would not suffice. His thoughts would be always with
‘her’.

Each evening, Cecile implored
him to be merry: to play cards, chess or backgammon. She lured him twice to the
theatre and once to the opera: a relatively new performance by Puccini,
entitled La
Boh
è
me
, which he found desolately
miserable.
He really had no taste for
dramatic fantasy, his mind being too greatly burdened, and dinner parties he
detested. Nevertheless, he agreed to accompany his sister to a pre-Christmas
masked ball at the Crystal Palace. A strange notion gripped him that he might
see Mademoiselle there, knowing her penchant for concealment. He was rewarded
only with disappointment, having unmasked three young ladies with auburn hair
to no avail.

The festive season passed
with little pleasure. He purchased the necessary gifts, and made calls upon
those relatives who must be appeased. His smiles he reserved for Cecile, though
sparingly, knowing that his unhappiness would otherwise become hers. After much
pleading, he agreed to accompany her to the Barnum and Bailey Circus, for the
2pm assembly on 26
^th
December. Touted as ‘the greatest show on
Earth’ he wished very much that the entire company might fall off the globe at
the soonest opportunity.

Cecile remained perplexed,
knowing that a disappointed love affair must be at the heart of his torture.
She recalled only once the conversation they had shared in her boudoir; he
asked immediately that they refrain from pursuing the subject and, being always
his to command, she conceded.

He continued to send orchids,
altering his request of the florist only twice: to send fifty red roses on
Christmas Day, and fifty white roses on New Year’s Day. Still, he heard
nothing.

His custom was now to drink
through the late hours, since oblivion was found only there, and to rise late
– usually after Cecile had taken her morning ride in the Park. He would
then lounge at the breakfast table until past midday, scanning the paper
(ridiculously, reading the small advertisements to see if some coded message
might appear there for him). The newspaper held little to revive him to any
interest in the world at large: the ascension of Queen Wilhelmina to the throne
of Holland; the closing of the Spanish-American war; the German Emperor’s visit
to Palestine; the assassination of the Empress of Bavaria; some trifles on the
British War in the Soudan; Cuba’s liberation from Spain; and a snippet on the
United States’ annexation of Hawaii.

It was often early afternoon
before he bathed, shaved and dressed and thus it was that he entered the
morning room on the fourth day of the new year in his flannel robe, to find
there seated, beside his dear Cecile, a woman of familiar beauty and elegant
bearing, her golden auburn hair pinned in the fashion newly arrived from Paris
and wearing a suit of coral taffeta. The unexpectedness of the event rendered
him quite speechless, so that he failed to greet either his sister or their
guest, rather standing near the doorway in a state of shock and perturbation.

Setting down her cup, Cecile
reached to shield her guest’s eyes, laughing as she did so.

“My darling Henry is the best
of brothers. I only hope that you can forgive his disheveled appearance Maud.
He really smartens up quite nicely when he makes an effort.”

She continued, removing her
hand and placing it instead upon her friend’s arm. “Lady
Franchingham
is a very old school friend: she and I were great confidants but were parted
some eight years ago when Maud was sent to continue her education in Florence.
However, as you know, I’ve taken lunch with her many times in the past few
months and we have, to my utmost delight, renewed the friendship we enjoyed as
girls. In fact, Maud took me to a meeting of the National Union of Women’s
Suffrage Societies yesterday. She is determined to improve my mind, although I
cannot think that she will have much success. She knows the president, the
tireless Millicent Garrett, would you believe, and is keen for me to take up
the suffragist cause.”

Maud, none other than
Mademoiselle Noire herself, raised her eyes to his. He presented an ignominious
sight in his dressing gown, showing legs bare into slipper-shod feet; his hair
was shaggy, his stubble unkempt and his eyes bloodshot.