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“I burn without you, Deana. I need to have you for my own. I cannot bear the thought of you with another man. I cannot bear the thought of never seeing you again.”
“It has been a long three months,” she said almost to herself. “But...Lady Isabella?”
“Why do you insist on speaking of her?”
He truly seemed confused.
“I thought you...”
“Thought I felt affection for her?”
“You seemed quite taken with her at Chateau Follet, and she would have made you a most suitable wife.”
He sighed. “We would have suited one another horribly. I regret the attention I had to spend upon her. You know not what I would have given to have had that final night with you.”
He took both her hands and brought them to his lips, his eyes shining with anticipation. As the full realization of what he asked, of his feelings for her, sank in, she could barely contain her euphoria. She choked on the intensity of emotions.
“Lord Rockwell, yours is an unfair proposition,” she said, her voice unsteady and cracking. “The jewelry is magnificent, you see...”
He paled.
“But I accept you, of course.”
He grasped her face in both his hands and smothered her mouth with his. She submitted willingly, deliciously to the kiss and returned it with her own fervor. They wrapped their arms about each other as if letting go meant parting forever. She wanted to laugh. She wanted to cry. But most of all she wanted to show him the depths to which she would love him.
“Deana,” he murmured against her lips. “My Deana.”
She would be forever grateful that she had lost that fateful hand at vingt-et-un to Lord Rockwell. She wrapped her arms possessively about him, feeling the full smile of Lady Luck upon her.
THE END
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Master vs. Mistress: The Challenge Continues
An Excerpt
SHE HAD LOST. The devastation of it was tempered only by the agitation of desire swirling in her loins, the wetness between her thighs palpable. Greta looked to the bed where Miss Lily lay, her willowy body relaxed and satiated, her fair and youthful countenance bathed in serenity and bliss. With her long, flaxen hair spread over the pillows, Miss Lily looked a lovely nymph and had all the form and manners of the woman who had stolen away Master Damien. Greta was certain she would never again come across a woman who bore such a striking resemblance to her former nemesis. Envy stabbed at her. She resented that Miss Lily had achieved her release while the tension of lust still coiled within her and would require some time to dissipate. But most of all, she lamented that she had lost the perfect submissive prospect.
To Master Gallant.
A man she had never seen before—or noticed, rather. According to Madame Devereux, the proprietress of the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, where members engaged in forbidden wantonness and indulged the darkest desires of their flesh, Master Gallant had been a longtime member and simply taken a leave of absence in recent years. If he had not chosen to make an appearance this fateful night, she, Mistress Scarlet, with the greater seniority of the members present, would have been able to claim Miss Lily for her own without interference.
Instead, Madame Devereux had to acknowledge that she had no precedent for how she was to award Miss Lily when two members of arguably equal standing wished to claim the same. To resolve the quandary for her, Master Gallant had proposed a duel, of sorts, to determine who could claim the maiden of their choice. Madame Devereux’s agreement had rankled Greta, and she could not help but feel a little betrayed and suspected that the Madame, often partial to handsome men, had been swayed by Master Gallant’s golden locks, rugged form, and charming smile. Greta would have declined the proposal; but she had been without a submissive one for some time, and none of the other members interested her. Nor did she wish to concede to Master Gallant.
Squaring her shoulders, Greta turned to the man. By his fine attire, which he had not changed prior to arriving at the Red Chrysanthemum, she had determined him to be a gentleman of means. His trousers encased long, lean legs, and his coat fit over his square shoulders in tight embrace. Lest his appearance proved a façade, he had wealth and countenance in his favor, and, Greta admitted begrudgingly, skill. Though she had brought Miss Lily to spend first, the cries of the latter at his hands had been louder, more desperate, her spasm more violent. They had agreed that Miss Lily would select the winner at the end of the challenge, but Greta knew the victor before Miss Lily, still recovering from her orgasm, spoke.
“Congratulations, Master Gallant,” Greta said.
