The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series (9 page)

Dear Cecile, hearing that he
was out of sorts, had insisted that she would remain at home until he was quite
well, rather than accepting an invitation from their aunt in
Oxfordshire
for a few days’ visit. The railway line from
Paddington was so convenient that she might easily defer her trip to another
week.

MacCaulay
had stroked her cheek fondly and removed himself to
his library. Her affection he welcomed; her continual company less so.

His thoughts were all of his
seductress: a woman so vastly different to his sister. Although their ages were
probably much the same, their tastes could not have been more diverse. Cecile
loved to embroider linens, paint portraits, and take afternoon tea with friends
and family. She chatted endlessly to her little terrier lapdog and her exercise
comprised a twice-weekly turn through Hyde Park upon her mare, in company with
several other ladies of equestrian persuasion.

Mademoiselle
Noire’s
exercise, he imagined, was rarely performed out of
doors.

The only solution, to his
mind, would be to persuade her to become his mistress. Marriage to Mademoiselle
Noire was a ridiculous notion. From what class of people she originated, who
knew? Moreover, her agenda, so ably enacted over recent weeks, hardly marked
her out as a woman in search of a husband.

And yet, knowing all this, he
heard her in every whisper. She occupied the silence and the roar of life.

The next day, after some
hours spent in deep melancholy, closeted in his library, yet reading nothing
beyond the obituaries in The Times (which always cheered him) he accompanied
Cecile, at her request, to the newly reopened
Claridge’s
Hotel, in Mayfair. Desirous of seeing the grandeur of the new décor, and to
sample the sweet pastries so praised by her friends, she eventually coaxed him
into the carriage, so that they entered the grand hall at 3pm. Cecelia
exclaimed on the beautiful marble of the new flooring and the sweep of the
grand staircase, as they walked through to take their table within the elegant
dining room in which afternoon tea was served.
MacCaulay
eyed the finger sandwiches,
eclairs
and cream tarts
with little appetite, although Cecelia was all praise and clearly enjoying
their
outing. He smiled fondly at her - happy at least that
she was so easily contented.
 

Looking about the room, which
was quite full, since his sister was not the only female in aristocratic London
eager to see the hotel in its newly refurbished state, he found himself seeking
out ladies’ hair
colour
. Only two women boasted locks
approximating in shade to those of Mademoiselle Noire, but neither had the same
rich luster, and their skin lacked luminosity. In fact, there was not a woman
there whom he would have called beautiful (apart from his darling Cecile, of
course).
 
Several were pretty, but
simpering; most were decidedly plain in his opinion.
 
Had he always been so choosy?
 
It hardly mattered now.

Their tea drunk, and Cecile
happy at having seen several ladies of note, the brother and sister returned to
their carriage. However, they had hardly reached Grosvenor Square before
MacCaulay’s
attention was caught by an upturned face, seen
in the crowd upon the pavement: someone with auburn hair.
 
He banged immediately on the ceiling, so
that their driver might stop, kissed Cecile lightly upon the brow, offering
profuse apologies, and leapt down onto the pavement, adeptly avoiding the
collected filth of the gutter.

He looked about him, certain
that he had recognized her, but no lady was visible meeting her description. Then,
he saw her again, hair tucked under a cap, but a few locks escaping. She was wearing
the garb of a young working lad: trousers of rough cloth, heavy boots, a
waistcoat, jacket and a wide scarf closely about her neck, so that her face was
barely visible. She was disappearing down
Audley
Street, weaving between pedestrians, so that he was obliged to quicken his
pace.

He was almost upon her when
she turned and saw him, an expression of surprise and some irritation crossing
her face. She began to run, dodging down Mount Street and almost knocking into
some flower sellers, which brought forth a rich host of expletives. He kept her
in sight, although it was all he could do to keep up with her rapid progress.
She turned left into Park Street, ran a few paces more, and then disappeared
into a smaller alleyway.

MacCaulay
was somewhat familiar with the streets hereabouts, as
the Dorchester Hotel was nearby, as was the entrance to Hyde Park, off Park
Lane. He entered the
alley,
carefully avoiding the
curds of vomit left by a night reveler, but was unable to spot her. He wondered
if she had already exited at the other end back onto
Audley
Street. He took a few more steps, drawing level with some barrels of ale stacked
against the wall, and there saw her, his Venus, crouched in hiding among
foul-smelling refuse.
 
Her beauty
was all the more dazzling here – a place so low and dirty, nauseating in
its
odour
and habituated more often by the
beer-bloated and sodden-eyed.

She jumped up at once, making
to flee, but he grabbed her shoulder, holding her fast, so that she soon gave
up her struggle. The material of her jacket was so very coarse that he wondered
it did not make her itch.
 
Her face
she turned from him, refusing to meet his eye, clearly unhappy that he had come
upon her so unexpectedly.

“My dear Mademoiselle,” he
began, only curiosity in his voice, and the softness of one who cares. “Do you
usually take your afternoon air dressed in this way?
 
What can be the reason? And why must you
run from me? I had thought our acquaintance worthy of the exchange of
pleasantries.”

She shook his grip from her
shoulder but made no further attempt to flee. However, her voice was all
annoyance.

“Lord
MacCaulay
,
it may come as a surprise for you to discover that some of us like to wander
London without being recognized by those with whom we have acquaintance. My
costume is surely evidence in itself that I am not taking the air as a genteel
young woman, for which I would require a chaperone. I prefer to walk alone,
being of independent mind, and if you have no further questions of me, I shall
continue.”

At this, he could not help
but laugh, since her demeanor was so earnest, and her exasperation so
child-like. She eyed him with petulance, then looked away again, obviously
irked that her fancy dress provided him with such amusement.

“Of course,” he replied,
steadying his expression now, to avoid causing more offence.
 
“It’s an exceedingly clever idea in
fact: one I may adopt myself.”

“There is no need to mock
me,” she answered. “You are a man: to whit, there are no restrictions placed
upon you. You are free to come and go as you please; nobody will stop you.”

He saw now that there was
more to her irritation than simple annoyance at having been caught.

“How often do you adopt this
boyish identity?” he asked, his voice all seriousness.

She did not answer
immediately, considering how much of her secret to share.
 
At last, she admitted that it had only
been her second outing, and the first had lasted but five minutes before she
had returned to the safety of her residence.

“It is perhaps not the solution
for which I had hoped,” she reflected.

“Nevertheless, the costume
suits you well young
garçon
,” smiled
MacCaulay
.

“I am not of a mood for
jest,” she retorted, moving to walk away.

He reached out again,
detaining her once more, turning her towards him.

She looked up with defiance,
but his face was all softness, eyes smiling not only in amusement
but
with affection.

She raised her lips to his,
taking a kiss.

“Now I must leave you Lord
MacCaulay
. I’m sure you have other calls upon your time than
hob-
nobbing
with lowly street boys.”

She began to walk away but
MacCaulay
spun her about, and wrapped her in a firm
embrace, meeting her lips with sweetness, but also with urgency, as if he might
never lay eyes upon her again.

She made no effort to remove
herself, allowing his tongue to probe her mouth. Her hands moved within his
coat, lifting his shirt so that her fingers might find the bare skin of his
back.

Her touch thrilled him,
sending a jolt to his groin, but he hesitated, remembering of a sudden that
they stood in a public place – though dusk was falling, obscuring them
somewhat from view. Were someone to call an officer of the police, he would
face confinement in a cell, and likely sentencing for indecent
behaviour
– being found with a ‘boy’. Even were he to
bribe his way out of the mess, he might well find the story leaked to the
newspapers.

As if reading his mind, she
threw forth the challenge. “My Lord, I am a woman who likes to be kissed
– and by someone who knows how to do so. You are brave enough to accost a
young lad in a darkened, foul alleyway, but does your courage take you any
further?”

She reached then for the
front of his trousers, stroking his growing erection through the serge wool.
She found the buttons, and soon gained entry within, her hand cool against the
heat of him. Her fingers ringed the base of his member, squeezing, and then
dropped lower, to his testicles.

A haze of lust fell upon him
at her touch. What kind of woman was she to inflame such desire? At every
meeting, he began under the illusion of having the upper hand and, each time,
she so swiftly educated him.

She looked directly into his
eyes now, and saw there the look desired by all women: the look of a man
spellbound, obsessed, hers to command and hers to submit to.

Despite the nearby sounds of
the main street, and the sight of passersby so near, he moved his hands
swiftly, unbuttoning her rough-hewn britches and untying the cotton bloomers
she wore beneath. Pushing aside the confines of the fabric, he found her golden
gate, entering her with his fingers. Her breath was already coming quickly, her
velvet walls eager to receive him.

He raised her from below her
arms, pinning her to the wall then with his chest, so that her cunny was placed
for his entry. Her legs were restricted in their movement, so that she could
not wrap them about him as she desired, but he pushed down her garments to the
extent required and guided his phallus between her legs. Its head nudged at her
labia, and then drove home. His hands he placed beneath her buttocks, so that
her weight was fully supported.

She could move but little.
However, the angle of his penetration proved fortuitous, since his shaft
pressed to the front, fully against her clitoris; each stroke brought an
intense wave of pleasure to her. She groaned so loudly that he feared her noise
would draw the attention of those in busy
Audley
Street.

The danger of the situation
added a great frisson to the act: she reveling in the public nature of being
held fast and speared by his weapon; he fearful of being observed yet incited
by her hunger for him and determined to prove himself a match for her
never-ending challenges. He would show her that he could meet any trial she set
before him.

Her cunny clenched about him
as she climaxed. Such was her noise that he brought his mouth upon hers,
attempting to stifle her cries. His groin awash with her delicious juices, his
own crisis followed close, his rod pulsing to its peak of gratification.

Chapter Twelve

Achilles’ Heel

They had gathered themselves
into a decent state, shared a knowing smile, and exited from opposing ends of
the alley.

MacCaulay
took a short cut through Hyde Park, past the statue
of Achilles, created in likeness to some figure on the Monte
Cavallo
in Rome. It was a sculpture he had always admired,
the musculature of the hero’s body appearing too lifelike to be formed merely
from stone. Shield upheld and sword in hand, he stood in defiance, ready for
war.
MacCaulay
, vain and egotistical as he was, had
never thought to compare himself with the majesty of the demi-god, dipped in
the River Styx to render him invincible, but for the heel by which his mother
held him. Now, he felt some affinity with the noble warrior, whose pride and
courage led him into the thick of danger at Troy.