Page 2 of To Ensnare a Duke

But I'm not a romantic person. At my core, I'm pragmatic, a man who lives by facts and figures, only allowing myself to drift in these rare vulnerable moments. To drift is to allow the monster out to play. Only at The Rose and Thorne can I do that. Perhaps if I'm lucky enough to find a wife as eager to swallow the shadows as she is my cum, then I can truly be happy.

The virginal brides Madame Douleur passes my way may claim to have all that I need, but one look into their soul and I know they'll break even before I set my knife to their skin. I need someone like me—a girl who can put on a proper face for the Ton, yet eventually revel in the devilment I require at the snap of a finger.

The misses here are either so innocent that I would cause them mental harm or they're too jaded to do me any good. For other poor saps, they might be able to spin their tales of innocence, but I know better. They lure them in with creams to snatch up their cunts, pretending to bleed as they're penetrated by minuscule cocks of betas, only to put on such a performance all over again the very next day.

Granted, Madame Douleur does her best to keep the girls from spinning falsehoods. Not like the other brothels in town. It still does nothing to quell my dark appetites. Unfortunately for me, I am without at the moment.

The ones who can give me what I need must recover from our previous sessions, putting them out of commission for the next chap. Not that I care. I only care that I cannot have their canvases blanked for my purpose more than once a month… and I’ve already burned through the lot.

Adjusting my stance, I slow my fingers down into a far different tone. This one speaks to my longing and loneliness, the part of me I rarely allow to see the light of day. I cannot settle. I will not settle. But soon, I may have no choice.

Around me, naked women drape themselves over the piano, doing their best to entice me with their bodies. But I do not see them. Even when a bold raven-haired harlot climbs atop and spreads her thighs, planting a heel on either side of the keys.

Her cunt clenches as she rolls her hips around, showing me her beautiful wares. To be sure, it's a lovely pussy indeed, but not one that I want to indulge in. As it is, my mind is transfixed, captivated by the one person I cannot indulge in. It’s an ephemeral thing, a lust so exquisite I dare not put a name on it lest it become a reality and prove far more lackluster than my dreams.

Every time I close my eyes, my phantom is there. Her hair changes, as do her eyes and scent, but the core of her stays the same—submissive, enchanting, captivating. I want Lady Venus in human form, a tender ingénue ripe for my plucking and defilement. Nothing like these women surrounding me.

And certainly nothing like the timid church mice Madame Douleur sends my way in hopes of enticing me. No doubt the good lady Alpha misses my coin. Not that I’m reticent in parting with it. I simply grow tired of the same visuals, the same false sighs, and the same jaded women vying for my attentions.

It’s a madness creeping over me, one without a name or tangible outlet. It leaves me breathless and ragged with the desire that lies on the tip of my tongue. It’s as if I can create my goddess out of the ether if only I could apply pen to paper or spill the words out into the void.

Yet, they never come.

CHAPTER 2

BENEDICT

My gut knows I’ll find my willing sacrifice. I only have to wait. Though, I do grow tired and impatient undertaking this seemingly Sisyphean task.

It’s my own personal boulder I roll up the hill of Tartarus, only to have it crash down on me again. Something in me squirms about, painting my very breath with a desperation I’ve never known before. I know deep down, my turn will eventually come, but I wish for it to be far sooner rather than later.

Damn Birchleigh and his good fortune. If not for his conquest, I might never think to have both a debutant and a deviant, a sinner enclosed in the robes of a saint, all within a house of ill repute. But now that I know it’s possible, seeing as he, Foxford, and Blackport have all found women to satisfy their darker urges within their marriage bed, it makes me long to be shackled all the more.

Bet be damned. Money be damned. I’ll give all the coin in my possession to capture what they have. A thousand pounds is paltry compared to a lifetime of wedded bliss and fucking. Unfortunately, they didn’t know of their wife's predilections until after becoming yoked.

It’s a certainly a gamble. Granted, It’s not one I’m not sure I can take a chance on. Not when I am duty-bound to carry on the Portswell title. Damn sons and heirs and their lack of freedom.

A heavy sigh pulls at my lips. Again, my fingers trail over the keys of their own accord, making marriages with notes that have no business forming an alliance. Yet, in my current mood, they pair perfectly, a strident discordance to my own off-kilter thoughts.

Perhaps I should away to the country like the rest of my friends, leaving behind the madness of London. No good can come from me staying here. No good at all. Turning my face from the dripping slick of the omega's snatch, I continue to play.

Around me, the sounds of sex dull until all I hear is the music. It cascades from me, pouring from my fingertips as I send out my plea to the heavens. There has to be such a one for me. How could there not be?

"Now, now, Your Grace," Madame Douleur laughs, sliding near to me. "Such a melancholy tune. Do not tell me I've caught you in a fit of ennui. And with so many beautiful girls to attend to you."

I gaze up into her smart eyes, noting the calculating gleam in their depths. She wishes to deprive me of my coin. It's plain as day.

"I play as the fingers dictate," I growl out, irritation sliding up my spine.

"That may be, Your Grace," she continues, dragging over a poor girl who looks barely old enough to experience her first heat, let alone be a whore within the madam’s house. "But surely I can entice you to let out your frustrations in a far different direction? An outlet far more appealing than a pianoforte?"

I ignore the nervous chuckles around me as I swivel in the chair and pull the trembling girl between my thighs. She looks delectable enough, and yet my cock barely stirs as she glances at me with eyes too wide for her face.

"Your name."

"E- Emily," she stammers out, a flush painting her face from chin to tip.

A plain name to accompany a plain girl. Fitting. Usually Madame Douleur sends me women of unparalleled beauty. Perhaps she hopes that I break this new ladybird in for her?