Read Online The Gentlemen's Club: Volume One in the 'Noire' series by Emmanuelle de Maupassant - Free Book Online
Authors: Emmanuelle de Maupassant
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hot and a feeling of uncomfortable constriction about his chest.
He was strong of constitution, but he felt quite out of sorts and, on ringing
for his valet, George, asked if he might recommend any preparation for the
easing of such symptoms.
A detoxifying solution of
Epsom Salts was placed before him, and a pot of
peppermint tea – for its soothing properties. George also requested a
tray from the kitchen, of sparsely buttered white bread toast, and two lightly
boiled eggs. His Lordship would surely feel more himself after some breakfast,
and might then take a turn in Kensington Gardens, since fresh air, albeit
accompanied by a mist of drizzle, was known for its restorative powers.
MacCaulay felt somewhat revived by mid afternoon, although his
head continued to plague him. He wondered if his discomfort was no more than
the confluence of a great many conflicting ideas battling one another for
supremacy.
His thoughts centred entirely upon the night previous. Such images
assailed him as brought a rush of blood not only to his head, which made it
throb, but to his groin – which behaved likewise.
After so much waiting,
allowing him to watch her, drink her in with his eyes, even wield the crop
against her, but never to touch her, his Queen of the Night had opened herself
to him. She had given him the
essence of herself: her heart of pure passion. She had clasped him to her as if
he were the only man alive. His rod she had claimed as her own plaything,
having taken such care to shear it (as he recalled on reaching for a scratch
beneath the bedcovers).
She had made efforts to
discover his name, although to what purpose he could not be sure. Her own
remained a mystery to him.
He endeavoured to understand his feelings for her, beyond his desire to consume her carnally.
She continued to fascinate him, perhaps because she continued to elude him. He
might possess her body, but her mind and spirit flew free.
He had no sense that she
sought to entrap him. Her carefree, casual nature was obvious. She lived
intensely, taking her own pleasure, without seeking anything in return. She desired no promises or declarations
of love. They were unnecessary.
Nevertheless, his feelings
were such that he now wished to heap adoration upon her. She swam in his blood
and in his bones. Her breath was in his pulse and her touch imprinted on the naked
meat of his flesh.
He had little doubt that
professions of devotion would repulse her. She might only scorn him with
laughter, but she might also revile him, denouncing his romantic
conventions. He had long held the
state of marriage to be undesirable, since it placed irrevocable constraints upon
a man, forcing him into the company of a wife chosen to fit his place in
society. He had never met any woman
whose company he sought for longer than a few hours. Even his sister, of whom
he was inordinately fond, tried his patience at times.
Dear Cecile, hearing that he
was out of sorts, had insisted that she would remain at home until he was quite
well, rather than accepting an invitation from their aunt in Oxfordshire for a few days’ visit. The railway line from
Paddington was so convenient that she might easily defer her trip to another
week.
MacCaulay had stroked her cheek fondly and removed himself to
his library. Her affection he welcomed; her continual company less so.
His thoughts were all of his
seductress: a woman so vastly different to his sister. Although their ages were
probably much the same, their tastes could not have been more diverse. Cecile
loved to embroider linens, paint portraits, and take afternoon tea with friends
and family. She chatted endlessly to her little terrier lapdog and her exercise
comprised a twice-weekly turn through Hyde Park upon her mare, in company with
several other ladies of equestrian persuasion.
Mademoiselle Noire’s exercise, he imagined, was rarely performed out of
doors.
He was strong of constitution, but he felt quite out of sorts and, on ringing
for his valet, George, asked if he might recommend any preparation for the
easing of such symptoms.
A detoxifying solution of
Epsom Salts was placed before him, and a pot of
peppermint tea – for its soothing properties. George also requested a
tray from the kitchen, of sparsely buttered white bread toast, and two lightly
boiled eggs. His Lordship would surely feel more himself after some breakfast,
and might then take a turn in Kensington Gardens, since fresh air, albeit
accompanied by a mist of drizzle, was known for its restorative powers.
MacCaulay felt somewhat revived by mid afternoon, although his
head continued to plague him. He wondered if his discomfort was no more than
the confluence of a great many conflicting ideas battling one another for
supremacy.
His thoughts centred entirely upon the night previous. Such images
assailed him as brought a rush of blood not only to his head, which made it
throb, but to his groin – which behaved likewise.
After so much waiting,
allowing him to watch her, drink her in with his eyes, even wield the crop
against her, but never to touch her, his Queen of the Night had opened herself
to him. She had given him the
essence of herself: her heart of pure passion. She had clasped him to her as if
he were the only man alive. His rod she had claimed as her own plaything,
having taken such care to shear it (as he recalled on reaching for a scratch
beneath the bedcovers).
She had made efforts to
discover his name, although to what purpose he could not be sure. Her own
remained a mystery to him.
He endeavoured to understand his feelings for her, beyond his desire to consume her carnally.
She continued to fascinate him, perhaps because she continued to elude him. He
might possess her body, but her mind and spirit flew free.
He had no sense that she
sought to entrap him. Her carefree, casual nature was obvious. She lived
intensely, taking her own pleasure, without seeking anything in return. She desired no promises or declarations
of love. They were unnecessary.
Nevertheless, his feelings
were such that he now wished to heap adoration upon her. She swam in his blood
and in his bones. Her breath was in his pulse and her touch imprinted on the naked
meat of his flesh.
He had little doubt that
professions of devotion would repulse her. She might only scorn him with
laughter, but she might also revile him, denouncing his romantic
conventions. He had long held the
state of marriage to be undesirable, since it placed irrevocable constraints upon
a man, forcing him into the company of a wife chosen to fit his place in
society. He had never met any woman
whose company he sought for longer than a few hours. Even his sister, of whom
he was inordinately fond, tried his patience at times.
Dear Cecile, hearing that he
was out of sorts, had insisted that she would remain at home until he was quite
well, rather than accepting an invitation from their aunt in Oxfordshire for a few days’ visit. The railway line from
Paddington was so convenient that she might easily defer her trip to another
week.
MacCaulay had stroked her cheek fondly and removed himself to
his library. Her affection he welcomed; her continual company less so.
His thoughts were all of his
seductress: a woman so vastly different to his sister. Although their ages were
probably much the same, their tastes could not have been more diverse. Cecile
loved to embroider linens, paint portraits, and take afternoon tea with friends
and family. She chatted endlessly to her little terrier lapdog and her exercise
comprised a twice-weekly turn through Hyde Park upon her mare, in company with
several other ladies of equestrian persuasion.
Mademoiselle Noire’s exercise, he imagined, was rarely performed out of
doors.
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