The Courtship (Sherbrooke Brides 5)

1

London 1811

May 14

Just before midnight

LORD BEECHAM STOPPED dead in his tracks. He turned around so quickly that he nearly tripped over a huge potted palm.

He couldn’t believe it. He had to be wrong. She couldn’t have said that, could she? He looked for the woman he had just heard speaking.

He parted two huge palm fronds and peered into the Sanderling’s library, a long, narrow, shelf-lined room just off the ballroom. Where the library was filled with dark-bound tomes, cobwebs in gloomy corners, and just one small branch of candles casting shadows, the ballroom was overflowing with lit candles, plants, and at least two hundred guests, all of them laughing, dancing, and drinking too much of the potent champagne punch.

The woman he had heard before spoke again. He took a step closer to the dimly lit library. Her voice was rich, tantalizing, filled with laughter. “Really, Alexandra,” she said, “doesn’t just the simple thought of discipline, just hearing the word, saying it slowly to yourself and letting it caress your tongue as you say it, doesn’t it conjure up all sorts of delicious scenes of dominance? Can’t you just see yourself? You are completely at the mercy of another, that person is in total control, and there is nothing you can do about anything. You know something is going to happen, you’re dreading it, your heart is pounding, you’re afraid, so very afraid, yet it’s a delicious sort of fear you feel. You know, deep down, that you are anticipating what is to come. You can’t wait fo

r it to come, but there is nothing you can do except imagine what will be done to you. Ah, yes, your skin is rippling with the excitement of it.”

There was dead silence. Wait, was that heavy breathing he heard?

Lord Beecham, whose very active imagination had conjured up a vision of himself standing over a beautiful woman, smiling down at her as he tied her hands over her head and her legs, spread, to the posts of his bed, knowing that in just a few minutes, he would remove her clothing, one lovely garment at a time, slowly, ever so slowly, and—

“Oh, goodness, Helen. I have to fan myself. I believe my bosom is palpitating. You are far too good at painting word pictures. What you describe—it sounds terrifying and wonderful. It rather makes my mouth water. It also sounds like a grand production that requires a lot of planning.”

“Oh, yes, but that is part of the ritual. It is very important that it be planned perfectly. You are part of the ritual, the most important part, if you are the one in control. It requires that you be constantly inventive, that you don’t continue to rely on the same old disciplines. Remember, anticipation of something unknown is a very powerful thing. To be effective, discipline must constantly grow and change. In most cases, it is effective to have other people nearby to witness the discipline. This makes the recipient all the more frightened, his senses more heightened, his thoughts more focused. It is an amazing process. You will have to try it. Both sides of it.”

More deep silence.

Try it? He wanted to run into that room this very instant and try everything he could possibly envision or dream about. His fingers were already on his cravat, ready to jerk it off so he could tie the wrists of the woman speaking, together over her head, so she would be helpless, her eyes large and frightened and excited as she stared up at him, her lips parted. Damnation, he had only one cravat, the one he was wearing. He needed at least two. He shuddered, imagining the smooth flesh of her wrists as he lightly wrapped the cravat around and around them, then pulled them bound, over her head—

He heard a deep sigh.

“All of that is well and good, Helen, but what I need are specific disciplines to try. A list of disciplines, if you will. From mild disciplines to the most rigorous.”

He realized suddenly that he knew that voice. Good God, it was Alexandra Sherbrooke. He couldn’t believe it. On second thought, he pictured Douglas Sherbrooke in his mind’s eye, that big, hard man who had reputedly kept his wife happy for eight whole years now. And Alexandra wanted to know about discipline? To try on her husband? What a delightfully wicked idea.

Who was the woman speaking to her, this Helen?

“On the other hand,” Alexandra said after a moment, “I would like to know how you know so very much about discipline.”

“I have read every book, every article, every paper—both scholarly and secular—ever penned on the subject. I have seen every painting, etching, and drawing of disciplines employed throughout the world and throughout the ages. Now, the disciplines in China—goodness, talk about inventive. The drawings show that the Chinese are exceedingly flexible.”

A bit more silence, then Alexandra said, her voice lowered a bit, as if she were leaning closer to this other woman, speaking in confidence, but he could still make out her words. “Helen, you are laughing at me. All right, I accept that you know all about discipline. Now, you must force yourself to come to my level. You have told me how you discipline your servants. You have told me about the ritual, how to build to a climax, how to squeeze out every tantalizing drop of fear and excitement during the discipline to achieve the result you wish.

“Now I want to go directly to the extreme pleasure end of things. I want specifics. I am talking about physical pleasure, Helen. I want to know exactly what you would do to a man to drive him to the brink of madness. Since you have read every tome written about the subject, you must know something that would help me.”

Lord Beecham would not have moved if a beautiful woman had stripped naked in front of him and started kissing him. Now this was a kicker. Alexandra Sherbrooke wanted to know how to drive Douglas to the brink of madness? That made no sense. Driving a man like Douglas to the brink would require very little effort on her part. It would probably require an effort of ten seconds, no more. Actually, any man who was still breathing was a suitable candidate. He himself, for example.

Suddenly it simply became too much. He was eavesdropping on two ladies discussing discipline, for God’s sake. He was lurking there behind a palm, listening to them, sweating, and ready to remove his cravat. It was not to be borne. Lord Beecham couldn’t hold it back. It just burst from his mouth. He laughed—something he didn’t normally do because he was, after all, a man of the world; a lazy nod or a slightly contemptuous snicker was usually more fitting. And so what poured out of his mouth sounded a bit rusty, perhaps a tad hoarse to the casual ear, but it was a laugh, a good strong laugh, and it just kept rolling out of him.