Eleanor thought surely one of the servants must have lit a fire in the grate, for the room seemed uncomfortably hot. The image of Silas Stride’s head on the body of a butterfly crossed her mind, a butterfly with miniature dragon wings, like his, flitting from bloom to boom, coming to land on her eventually. Only when he did so, the flower seemed to be growing up from between her spread open-legs, his body covering the blossom of her most intimate place. Fire bloomed in her belly, and she was practically able to feel his clawed hands gripping her legs, the heat of his mouth molten against the petals of her sex.
“When he feeds from her nectar, the dip of his tongue is an ecstasy, Miss Eastwick, not an invasion. She’ll open her petals gladly for him and let him have his fill. The finest delicacy a butterfly can enjoy, and with the proper mastery, I assure you, it is extremely pleasurable for the flower.”
She could say nothing in response.It was all she could do to remain in her seat and not climb atop the crowded table, pushing pheasant and neeps aside to plate herself before him, raise her skirts and spread her legs wide, and allow Silas Stride to dip his tongue between her thighs.Why is it so bloody hot in here?!This was no longer innuendo, Eleanor decided fitfully. He had broken his own rules. As she squirmed in her seat, face flaming, the Marquis of Basingstone raised an eyebrow.
“Surely a lovely flower as yourself has experienced such —“
“I have not, my lord,” she answered weakly, wishing it was ladylike to dab at her forehead with her linen napkin. “I’ll remind you again, I am but a late bloomer in my first season.”
“I do confess myself shocked to hear that, Miss Eastwick. One does hear such tales of far-roaming adventures, after all. I suppose I assumed your time away from home added to your education in this arena.”
“Which arena might that be, Lord Stride?” she choked out, the room spinning. “Being a congenial conversation partner? Or tiptoeing around the innuendos of men, holding my tongue one moment and gilding it the next?”
“The arena of actresses, Miss Eastwick.”
That careless little shrug again, a thoughtless movement of his broad shoulders, and her heart sunk. She was never going to get her family out of this sinking morass in which they’d been left.
“Conventional wisdom says,” he went on in that lofty, careless tone, “that a lady of the stage is not much different from a lady of the night, does it not?”
“Conventional wisdom is often wrong, I assure you.” She felt overheated and dizzy, her head ached, and her appetite for both the rich food before her and the gargoyle across the table was gone. “Conventional wisdom would have me believe you to be a gentleman, Lord Stride, and not the unrepentant rake that you are.”It was a mistake coming here. It was a mistake trusting him at all.
“You’re blushing so adorably I’m inclined to believe you,“ he chuckled, his voice a bit incredulous. “Are you a virgin, Miss Eastwick?”
There was no sense in lying, not anymore. She didn’t know how he found her out, but he had, thoroughly, and she wasn’t helping herself any further by continuing to obfuscate the truth any more than she was helping herself by listening to him. Eleanor shook her head.
“No, my Lord.” Silas Stride said nothing, but he raised an icy eyebrow, giving her space to continue for a change. “I was sixteen, about to leave for the conservatory. I was terrified,” she remembered, tears stinging at the corner of her eyes. “Young women are told suchwretchedthings about what will happen to us in our marital bed. I was even more afraid to go off on my own, away from the protection of my family. I just wanted to get it over with, so I wouldn’t have this horrible thing, this fear, hanging over me.”
“And was it an enjoyable experience?”
She choked out a bitter laugh, tears spilling over her lashes. It didn’t make a difference. She was already humiliated, she decided. “It was not. He was also sixteen, one of our stable boys. It hurt. The only thing it had to recommend itself was that it was over very quickly.”
The Marquis of Basingstone leaned forward on his elbows, that searching look back in his eye. “And you’ve not had a lover since then?” His brow furrowed when she shook her head again. “One hears such tales of patrons. If you did not take a lover, then who . . .” His head tipped back, smile splitting as he chuckled again. “Lord Ellingboe.”
“Yes,” she whispered, nodding. “Uncle Efraim gave me patronage for the duration of my study. After I left the conservatory, I performed in some small theaters while I completed finishing school at Sister Winnifred’s.”
He laughed then, a slip of satin against her back, making her shudder. “I was wracking my brain to think of how I knew you, Miss Eastwick, for several days. And then I remembered. Your voice is exquisite, as lovely as your face.” He sat back in his chair, giving her an appraising look. “An actress, nearly as pure as a rose. Who would’ve believed it? All things considered, my dear, you are quite skilled in verbal seduction. No doubt learned at the stage door, attempting to put off your would-be suitors.”
“Quite right,” she bit out, deciding she’d had enough. He’d been toying with her from the start and had no idea if his offer of assistance would even still stand now that the truth was out. “You are right that verbal seduction is an art form, but so too, my lord, is flattery. It’s not proper to employ in civilized settings, for example, at Lady Farthington’s Ball, but well used in a one-on-one situation. Isn’t that what all you men want? Butterflies flitting from flower to flower, eager to be told how handsome you are, how witty you are, what a fine hunter and horseman and banker you are? You’re quite right that I became extremely skilled at wordplay and flattery, extricating myself from situations and conversations with men like you. Lords and dandies who only want to ruin women, ruin our reputations and our virtue. Flattery, I discovered, was the best way to put those men off, and I can’t imagine it wouldn’t work on you as well, Lord Stride. You now have the power to ruin me for London society. Is that enough? How long am I expected to stroke your ego before I’ve sufficiently mollified your colossal vanity, my lord?”
Silas Stride was positively beaming at her across the small, intimate table, and she realized that, too, had likely been a design of his making. “And a show of temper for the finish,” he crowed. “Miss Eastwick, you didn’t even allow me to give the instruction for that! A bit of flirtation, some carefully applied innuendo, a spat to whet the appetite, and then enjoying each other for dessert. If you do at the ball exactly as you’ve done tonight, my dear, you’ll have your pick of suitors. I don’t know about my ego, but it’s not the only thing that could do with a good bit of stroking right about now.”
She gasped, nearly choking on her shock, clapping her hand over her mouth, shoulders shaking. “Does-does this mean you still intend to help me, my Lord?”
His wings rustled behind him, huge leathery things, the same ebony black of his skin, shot through with white veining. They were tipped in curved horns, exactly like a dragon, and she thought again of him flitting across the field of flowers, alighting on her, and using his tongue in the most sinful way she could imagine.
“Of course, Miss Eastwick, I gave you my word. And aside from that, the Ellingboes are family friends, and I would not disrespect the earl by turning down his request. Thisdoeschange things, though.”
Despite her flush, Eleanor shivered. “Does it?”
“It does,” he intoned flatly. “I was operating on the assumption you had some experience in the carnal arts. I myself have no use for virgins, and in practical application, Miss Eastwick, that is essentially what you are.” He held up a hand to stave off her sputter of outrage. “Yes, I am well aware that is the expectation of well-bred young ladies. I daresay most of your rivals at the ball will come boasting the same inexperience. That doesn’t helpyou, though.”
He pursed his lips in consideration, tipping his head back in thought, providing her the perfect vantage to admire his sharp bone structure. His face was a series of extreme angles — high, jutting cheekbones, a sharp jaw, and a straight nose. His eyebrows, too, were acutely arched, and as she ogled him, he tapped a shaped claw to his wide mouth.
“You’re certainly beautiful, Miss Eastwick. Despite the fact that you dress like a matron of eighty years, you’re quite lovely to behold.”
She sputtered again, the unexpected criticism coming wrapped in a compliment, like a refreshing glass of lemonade that squirts unceremoniously in the eye.
“You have impeccable manners,” he went on, unconcerned over her offense, “and you’re a charming, if not a bit audacious, conversation partner. I’ve sat witness to your talent, and your determination to make a good eventual match for your sisters speaks to a generous heart and sacrificial nature. But it takes more than pretty songs and words to find a man willing to call himself your husband, Miss Eastwick. And these aren’t mere men, after all. Theirappetiteswill need satisfying.”
