He was a fool. If he wasn’t, he never would’ve found himself in this mess with the girl, would have never offered himself up as a toy for her to cut her teeth upon.A bloody fool!He was one of London’s most notorious rakes, a reputation well earned, one he was proud of. He was not meant for love and would never give away his heart, but that didn’t mean he needed to deny the women of the city the joy of his carnal company. Eleanor Eastwick was an impediment, one he ought to remove from his path as quickly as possible. That was the sensible thing to do.
But first, he needed to have her again. He would die if he didn’t. There was no other way to free his mind from thoughts of her, no way to cool his blood and keep from wanting her. He would send for her, he decided, his blood thrumming at the thought. He would send for her, would have her come here, to Basingtone. He would have her, worship her, pleasure her until his cock was limp and satisfied, his balls drained dry, and his head free of her at last. The Monster’s Ball was in two weeks. Plenty of time to wring her from his consciousness before sending her off to whatever lord she would marry.
The monstrous men in attendance would fight over her, of that head little doubt. Upon reflection, Silas wasn’t sure what Efraim Ellingboe had been thinking, for certainly the earl should have known that a woman such as she — beautiful, well-mannered and graceful, witty and humorous — should have no problem seeking a mate, particularly at an event where the men would most certainly outnumber the women, men who were all eager and desperate to marry, particularly to small, soft, sweet-smelling human women who carried offspring across species with such ease.
Lord Ellingboe had offered Silas a ten percent retainer of her dowry, a dowry he himself was subsidizing, in exchange for his assistance in securing the marriage. Not a fortune, but neither was it a paltry sum. This was a business transaction, he reminded himself, pulling out a fresh quill. He would bring her to Basingstone, he would have her, and then he would be done with the whole messy affair. It was a foolproof course of action, he decided. Dipping his quill in a charger of ink, Silas thought for several long moments, smiling at his own brilliant plan, and began to write.
The High Tea
Society Papers
Dearestreaders,
We’ve previously served up a surprisingly serene cup of reformed behavior regarding one of London’s favorite rakes — reliably wicked, taking wing from bed to bed, leaving many horned husbands in his own horned wake – but as of late, those predawn dalliances have curiously died down.
As previously reported, we’ve spotted his carriage coming and going from an unknown London address, and our keen eyes have taken note of an escorted visitor making her presence known at this lascivious libertine’s lordly London home. None were as surprised as us by this devil’s domestication . . . but it seems we were premature in taking this pot from the heat.
The very same night his escorted visitor left this past week, our stony-hearted rakehell was seen leaving a house of ill repute in a state of dishabille. It seems that reformation is not in the cards for this marquis.
Eleanor
Thenortherncountrysidewasbreathtaking this time of year, as signs of spring blossomed over every hill and dale. Lambs dotted the fields, wildflowers provided a colorful counterpoint to the unbroken greenery, and once they closed in on their destination, golden gorse lit the hills of the Irish countryside.
The noble house of Basingstone was a curiosity. Loyal to the crown, situated on the northern Irish cliffs, with the French designation of their title in use. Silas Stride’s accent wasn’t different from any other posh, London-based lord she’d met over the years, yet the provenance of his nobility seemed quite continental.Who cares? He and his house have no bearing on you.
“It was so good of the marquis to send for you, dearest,” her grandmother sighed, at least the tenth time she’d made the observation since they began their journey. Eleanor wondered if sighing over the Marquis of Basingtone was an action her sister had learned from her grandmother, or her grandmother from sister — or more likely, that they’d trained themselves over the last month on the automatic response to any and all mentions of Silas Stride together. “In his own private carriage, at that! He must surely be planning his marriage proposal.”
“Look there, at the side of the road,” she raised a gloved hand, directing her grandmother’s eye out the carriage window. “Look at how tightly they stay to the side!”
Approaching on the opposite side of the packed dirt road, a shepherd led a flock of at least seventy-five heads, tightly pressed,bahhingtheir disapproval of the lack of greenery on the dusty thorofare. A sheepdog prowled on the outer perimeter, nipping at their feet, keeping the herd in line. It was an adequate metaphor for the way she felt as of late — just an opinionless sheep being led to slaughter. Silas Stride was the shepherd, and the moneylenders and collectors of the outside world nipped at her heels.
Fortunately, her grandmother was forgetful and easily redirected, rather like a child. She wouldn’t remember alluding to Eleanor’s fictitious impending nuptials to the Marquis of Basingstone until the next instance of sighing over his handsomeness commenced. Eleanor didn’t bother reminding grandmother thathewas not the lord she was hopefully marrying.Not if he had the last bloody title in England.It wouldn’t make a difference, in the end. She would come home from the Monsters Ball with an engagement, and no one would remember who they’d hoped the lord in question would be.
The summons had come several days afterthatnight. Her heart had been in a tumult the last time she had left the Marquis of Basingstone’s home. The carriage curtains were drawn over the windows, shielding them from the prying eyes of the outside world. She’d sat on the bench beside him, most improper, with his arm tucked around her and her head lolling against his chest. He smelled like an expensive gentleman’s fougère, an herbaceous lavender with a dark, heady core. It was deeply alluring, somehow both feminine and masculine at once, evenerotic, she thought with a blush. It made her weak, and she suspected she’d never smell lavender and rosemary ever again andnotthink of him.
He’d kissed her hand before her door, once she’d fished her key from her chatelaine, the act of having to open her own door in such a way an unbearable embarrassment in front of him, and his carriage had rocked off once the door was closed securely behind her.
There had been no sleeping after that. Her feet had carried her back and forth, back and forth, across the library for hours after she arrived home, meeting the dawn the same way he likely had, the mere thought of him causing her to melt against her pillow, forcing herself to sleep for a few hours; hours that were spent dreaming of him. Her body hummed. She had never before experienced a peak like the one she’d had against his tongue and then again with him inside her. When that fat protuberance at the base of his cock had pushed inside her, she’d seen stars. It had hurt, worse than even his cock had at first, but she had still been pulsing from her peak, and as she squeezed around the thick invasion, her breath had caught, pleasure outrunning the pain, the world going white as he groaned into her hair.
She would be attending the Monster’s Ball in just a few weeks, going off to wed some stranger, but somehow her heart had gone and enamored itself with Silas Stride, the most foppish, philandering gargoyle in all of London.
That nightdidn’t deserve any special designation in her head, not now, not anymore, but when the pristine stationery had arrived adorned with his blue seal, she had been nervous and giddy, butterflies taking up residence in her chest, squeezing out her ability to breathe, the flutter of a million tiny wings brushing her heart. He had thought of everything. His carriage would be arriving to bring her and her grandmother, along with Hettie, to Basingstone, ensuring she had an escort to preserve her reputation. Meanwhile, Lucy and Coraline would be sent north for the next month, private instruction at a finishing school for young ladies, freeing her of the worry of what to do with them when she left for the ball.
I hope you will be amenable to sending your younger sisters to the esteemed ladies at Lunaswell. I can assure you that they will receive a comprehensive education in both academics and etiquette during their time there. My own sister attended several summers at Lunaswell in our youth, and I am certain you will find no fault with their rigorous curriculum in the feminine arts.
He had a long, sloped manner of writing, each stroke of his quill like a ripple on the surface of water, and as she read his words, Eleanor tried to picture them in his drawling, icy voice. The girls would benefit from attending the school, even for just a month. She did her best at home with them, but she was no governess, and she knew their education in the fine art of being proper young ladies was lacking.
“Will we be gone for very long?” Lucy had asked with a stricken expression after Eleanor had relayed the news.
“Not too terribly long, darling,” she had assured her younger sister. “I’ll be completing my own finishing with the marquis, and then leaving for the ball. Arrangements will need to be made for the wedding, and then everything here will need to be packed away. This is foryou, Lucy, both you and Coraline. We talked about this, remember? We’re all going to have to move once I marry. And then you and Coraline will resume your education, and in just a few years, we’ll be introducing you to London society, little sister. We want you to find a good match, do we not?”
“Do you promise?”
“Promise?” Eleanor hadn’t known the nature of the promise she was meant to be making, but she wasn’t prepared for her sister’s tears.
“Do you promise you’re not just sending us away?”
“Lucy! Darling, of course not!” She opened her arms, and her sniffling sibling threw herself into them, hot tears soaking the neckline of Eleanor’s dress.
