with the grace and supreme confidence of a
predator. What did it matter to him if he served her a glass of wine or not? He
would still be himself as he did so.
Lucrezia shivered, and held out her hand imperiously to hide
it.
“My lady,” Carlo murmured, and handed her the glass. His
face was unreadable.
Lucrezia tried to calm herself. Her hand would not shake in front of this man. She was
a Grimaldi, and she would remind him of it.
“No,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I don’t
think I will attend.”
Carlo’s arm snaked out so fast she hardly registered the
movement before his hand was around her wrist. His grip was iron. Amberwine spilled
from the glass onto her chest, and she looked down to find that her sheet had
fallen, exposing her round breast. She was mortified to see her nipple hardening.
“No, Lucrezia,” Carlo said softly, “you will go to the Ivy Dance, and I will accompany you, even if you have to go wrapped in this sheet and thrown over
my shoulder. Your brother has asked me to do this. It will be done.”
She was unable to speak, her voice choked by the sudden
rapid beating of her heart and the insistent pressure of the pounding pulse
between her legs. Her skin flared where he touched her, and it was impossible
to think. She looked at him in wide-eyed fascination.
“Lucrezia, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she finally murmured. “Please leave me now.”
Carlo only looked down at her exposed breast and aroused
nipple once, only for a moment. He said nothing. Then he released her wrist and
strode out of the room without a second glance.
Lucrezia’s whole being throbbed.
This was unbearable. She could no longer distinguish between desire,
frustration, rage, and hate. She knew there was only one place where she might
hope to sate all of these things, only one place that might offer her any hope
of release, and it was not at the Ivy
Dance.
She needed the harsh edge of the Severille.
~ ~ ~
“Not that cloak. The burgundy. Yes. There’s no reason a
clandestine adventure can’t still be stylish,” Lucrezia said as she modeled her
carefully chosen ensemble in the full-length mirror. She was wearing, when it
came down to it, artfully arranged scraps of leather. She’d had it especially
designed for the Bacchanal season, and yet she hadn’t found proper occasion to
wear it until tonight. A series of fine straps over her shoulders, back, and
sides held the short skirt and miniscule top to her lush figure, leaving her
belly bare and giving her the general appearance of barely contained sex. The
overall effect was one of a particularly aggressive brand of sexuality. Even
so, it was more than she expected most would be wearing at Severille House.
Lucrezia had never actually been to the Severille Society House.
She was, like all members of the aristocracy, a nominal member, but unlike
most, she had a genuine taste for the Severille style. Her experience had so
far been limited to informal games with various lovers, but she found that she
enjoyed the power of it immensely.
If there were any place she could go to be thoroughly
satisfied in every way imaginable, it would be the Severille House during the
Bacchanal. And it would mean that Carlo Castellan would charge up to her
private rooms only to find her missing, and himself beaten.
She was very much looking forward to her escape.
“Antonia, you’ll remember to swaddle your head? Ideally, I’d
like to fool him for at least a little while before he discovers you,” Lucrezia
said. Then she smiled. “Though do make sure he discovers you.”
“Yes, milady. I remember how the physician showed me the
last time you had one of your headaches.”
Lucrezia turned to examine her maid. She was dutifully
dressed in Lucrezia’s dowdiest nightgown — a
gift from some aging relation somewhere — and preparing to crawl into Lucrezia’s vast bed, only to be buried under every blanket
the women could find.
“You trust this
predator. What did it matter to him if he served her a glass of wine or not? He
would still be himself as he did so.
Lucrezia shivered, and held out her hand imperiously to hide
it.
“My lady,” Carlo murmured, and handed her the glass. His
face was unreadable.
Lucrezia tried to calm herself. Her hand would not shake in front of this man. She was
a Grimaldi, and she would remind him of it.
“No,” she said, raising the glass to her lips. “I don’t
think I will attend.”
Carlo’s arm snaked out so fast she hardly registered the
movement before his hand was around her wrist. His grip was iron. Amberwine spilled
from the glass onto her chest, and she looked down to find that her sheet had
fallen, exposing her round breast. She was mortified to see her nipple hardening.
“No, Lucrezia,” Carlo said softly, “you will go to the Ivy Dance, and I will accompany you, even if you have to go wrapped in this sheet and thrown over
my shoulder. Your brother has asked me to do this. It will be done.”
She was unable to speak, her voice choked by the sudden
rapid beating of her heart and the insistent pressure of the pounding pulse
between her legs. Her skin flared where he touched her, and it was impossible
to think. She looked at him in wide-eyed fascination.
“Lucrezia, do you understand?”
“Yes,” she finally murmured. “Please leave me now.”
Carlo only looked down at her exposed breast and aroused
nipple once, only for a moment. He said nothing. Then he released her wrist and
strode out of the room without a second glance.
Lucrezia’s whole being throbbed.
This was unbearable. She could no longer distinguish between desire,
frustration, rage, and hate. She knew there was only one place where she might
hope to sate all of these things, only one place that might offer her any hope
of release, and it was not at the Ivy
Dance.
She needed the harsh edge of the Severille.
~ ~ ~
“Not that cloak. The burgundy. Yes. There’s no reason a
clandestine adventure can’t still be stylish,” Lucrezia said as she modeled her
carefully chosen ensemble in the full-length mirror. She was wearing, when it
came down to it, artfully arranged scraps of leather. She’d had it especially
designed for the Bacchanal season, and yet she hadn’t found proper occasion to
wear it until tonight. A series of fine straps over her shoulders, back, and
sides held the short skirt and miniscule top to her lush figure, leaving her
belly bare and giving her the general appearance of barely contained sex. The
overall effect was one of a particularly aggressive brand of sexuality. Even
so, it was more than she expected most would be wearing at Severille House.
Lucrezia had never actually been to the Severille Society House.
She was, like all members of the aristocracy, a nominal member, but unlike
most, she had a genuine taste for the Severille style. Her experience had so
far been limited to informal games with various lovers, but she found that she
enjoyed the power of it immensely.
If there were any place she could go to be thoroughly
satisfied in every way imaginable, it would be the Severille House during the
Bacchanal. And it would mean that Carlo Castellan would charge up to her
private rooms only to find her missing, and himself beaten.
She was very much looking forward to her escape.
“Antonia, you’ll remember to swaddle your head? Ideally, I’d
like to fool him for at least a little while before he discovers you,” Lucrezia
said. Then she smiled. “Though do make sure he discovers you.”
“Yes, milady. I remember how the physician showed me the
last time you had one of your headaches.”
Lucrezia turned to examine her maid. She was dutifully
dressed in Lucrezia’s dowdiest nightgown — a
gift from some aging relation somewhere — and preparing to crawl into Lucrezia’s vast bed, only to be buried under every blanket
the women could find.
“You trust this
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