Seducing the Master (An Erotic Historical in the Red Chrysanthemum Series) (8 page)

“Ravage me.”

She had never before spoken those words with
such sincerity or intensity. She spoke true when she said she would
suffer anything he wished to do to her. And yet, he had not
accepted her offer. She wondered at the reason. He clearly had more
forbearance than expected, but that could not explain all. She
suspected he had tender feelings for Mistress Scarlet. Perhaps he
still nursed the wound left by her absence.

Perhaps he feared Sir Arthur, though he did
not appear to be a man who would tolerate intimidation. How had he
even known Terrell was spoken for? Did he truly wish not to
infringe upon Sir Arthur’s interests or upset Madame Devereux? What
could be more compelling than the charms of Miss Terrell?

She would know the answer. Only his complete
surrender would satisfy.

Her arms were growing sore, and she tried
the bonds once more. She could scream, but it would require all her
might to be heard through the closed door if no one was near. At
the Inn of the Red Chrysanthemum, her cries would be commonplace
and not taken for a genuine plea for help.

She yanked at the ropes, her aggravation
returned. Master Gallant was not coming back. What if no one came?
Would she hang here the entire night? She had not thought Master
Gallant capable of such cruelty. Perhaps she had misjudged him? She
shook her head. Her intuition had drawn her to him, not merely for
his skills with domination, but because he differed from all the
other men of his kind. She could not state why she believed this.
Perhaps it was the gentleness she beheld in his eyes of grey and
blue. She marveled that they could hold both hues or alternate
between one and the other.

“Miss Terrell,” Tippy gasped from the
doorway. One of the newer maids, she must not have stumbled upon a
great many strangeness. She gaped to find Terrell stretched to the
rafters, the top of her corset undone.

“Some assistance, if you please,” Terrell
said.

Tippy nodded and looked about. Seeing a
chair, she pulled it before Terrell and climbed atop.

“Oh, hm,” she grunted as she studied the
rope binding the wrists. “These not be knots I’ve seen before.”

“Is Master Gallant still here?” Terrell
asked.

“He left half an hour before.”

“If you cannot untie the ropes, then cut
them.”

“Perhaps if I loop this under…”

The ropes came away with ease. Her arms fell
and the blood rushed back to her fingers. Not bothering to lace up
her corset, she stood rubbing her wrists. A part of her seethed,
mostly because he had not come to free her himself. Instead, she
had to be discovered, tied to the rafters, her corset partially
undone, by one the maids. But if Master Gallant thought to
discourage her advances by this scheme, he was woefully wrong.
Instead, her pursuit would find a whole new fervor.

“Did Master Gallant tie you thus?” Tippy
asked, puzzled, as she picked up the ropes.

“He was merely demonstrating a tethering
trick,” Terrell answered, not wanting Tippy to inform Madame
Devereux of what had transpired. She laced her corset.

“A lovely gentleman he be,” sighed Tippy. “I
wouldn’t mind him trussin’ me up a bit.”

The maid’s eyes glimmered at the daydream.
Terrell, still undecided between being cross with or admiring what
Master Gallant had done, gave a wry smile. She may have lost the
battle with Master Gallant this evening, but she would yet win the
war.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I
n the dark quiet of his
bedchamber, seated in an armchair far more comfortable than the
wooden ladder-back he had bent Miss Terrell over, Charles stroked
his cock. Dressed in his nightshirt, he ought to have gone straight
to bed for he had a full day tomorrow, but he needed to release the
stress of the evening’s events, from Miss Katherine to Lord
Wendlesson to Sir Arthur to Miss Terrell.

Miss Terrell. He did not even know her given
name. Was she truly drawn to him or merely promiscuous? With Sir
Arthur’s interest, she had no need to seek the attentions of any
other man. Sir Arthur was not uncomely and possessed advantages
that Charles did not. Most women would have been satisfied to
receive the favors of such a man. But Miss Terrell was not. Because
she had witnessed, and participated in, his disciplining of Miss
Greta. Recalling the scene, he had to admit he had put on quite the
performance with Miss Greta, the true foci.

Before an audience of the members of the Red
Chrysanthemum, he had had Miss Terrell and another woman, Miss
Isabella, undress Miss Greta, caressing the parts revealed, one
garment at a time. For her insubordination, he had made her walk
the length of the stage with a rope between her legs, her cunnie
rubbing against the twine. Afterwards, he had placed a blindfold
about her while Miss Terrell tied her to a table. Members were then
invited to touch and fondle her.

The memory of it all turned his cock hard as
flint and set his cods boiling. Just as the pressure was about to
jettison from him, his thoughts drifted to Miss Terrell, and he
wondered what would it be like to ravage her as she wished? He
imagined her lithe body writhing beneath his as he ground his cock
into her. What was it she had said about taking cockmeat?

His load burst forth, coating his hand and
soiling the rug below. Shuddering, he lightened his strokes till,
gradually, his cock began to soften. He leaned his head back
against the armchair and stared into the darkness. That was as far
as he would allow Miss Terrell to affect him. His charge was Miss
Katherine, and the sooner he completed that assignment, the sooner
he could turn his entire attention to the election. He would take
another leave of absence from the Red Chrysanthemum. Or forsake it
altogether lest Miss Greta returned.

He awoke in the middle of the night to find
himself still in the chair. His seed had dried into a tacky
consistency upon him. Grabbing linen, he cleaned himself and wiped
the carpet. He lit a candle and found the papers he had wanted to
review for Sir Canning. They consisted of reports on the Convention
of Sintra. After completing the work, he finally climbed into his
bed and slept a few hours before the dawn.

After breakfast and consuming an additional
cup of coffee, dressed in buff-colored trousers and a
double-breasted coat with cutaway tails, he made for the apothecary
of Mr. Barlow. To his surprise, a young man greeted him from behind
the counter.

“Are you assisting Mr. Barlow?” Charles
asked upon approaching.

“Yes. Joseph Turner at your service, sir,”
replied the young man of twenty or so. “Do you require Mr.
Barlow?”

At that moment, Mr. Barlow emerged from the
back of the shop. “Ah, Mr. Gallant. Good morning to you. I
recommended the root you provided me, the ginseng, to a Mrs.
Penswick, who, like myself, is prone to influenza. She says it has
improved her health, especially her lethargy.”

“That is good to hear,” Charles
acknowledged. He glanced at Joseph. “It must be a relief to have
another pair of hands in the shop.”

“Indeed.”

An awkward pause ensued. Charles was about
to ask the man how long he expected to employ the young Mr. Turner
when Mr. Barlow provided the information he sought.

“My daughter is not expected back for some
time. My sister has given birth to her eighth child, and Greta
wrote me that she will stay in Liverpool for as long as her aunt
requires her assistance.”

Charles said nothing at first. The news felt
like the final seal upon his hopes that Miss Greta would return to
his waiting arms.

“Felicitations to your family,” Charles said
at last.

“Do you seek a specific tonic or
treatment?”

Charles thought of Miss Katherine. “Perhaps
an ointment to soothe the skin.”

Mr. Barlow presented him an array of
choices. Charles purchased the most expensive one, thanked the man,
and went on his way to Whitehall. It was still possible that Greta
might change her mind and return to London, but if she was the only
source of help for her aunt, she might not feel free to leave even
if she desired it. He suspected, alas, that Greta did not desire to
return. She was hiding from him or from Damien, though the latter
was not always to be found residing in town.

For certain she was hiding from her
feelings. After Damien had left her brokenhearted, she had sought
refuge in the guise of Mistress Scarlet. Now she sought refuge in
distance. He only wished he knew what she was so afraid of.

“Ah, Charles,” Sir Canning greeted when
Charles arrived in the office of the Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
Sir George Canning was the senior by ten years. He was possessed of
thick straight brows, a tall slender nose, and eyes that reminded
Charles of a basset hound’s. Prior to his current position, he had
served as Paymaster of the Forces and Treasurer of the Navy under
Pitt the Younger.

“I have reviewed the letters and they are
not as critical of Sir Wellesley as the report from Sir Dalrymple,”
Charles said, taking a seat before Sir Canning.

“Before we discuss your assessments, which I
am certain are all sound, let us address your election. I
understand that Mr. Henry Laurel has submitted himself for the open
burgess of Porter’s Hill.”

“I had heard rumors that he might. His time
at Eton overlapped mine by a year. He is an intelligent and capable
fellow.”

“You may know him then to be a protégé of
Fox. I have been informed that he has secured quite the base of
support. As it stands, he is the only Whig in the race. As such, he
is all but guaranteed a good segment of the electorate.”

A footman opened the door and announced the
arrival of Sir Arthur. Charles sat upright.

“Sir Arthur,” Sir Canning greeted. “I had
hoped you could join us.”

Sir Arthur, his walking stick in hand, took
a seat. “We are past formalities, are we not, George?”

“That we are, Reginald. I am certain Charles
here will not mind the familiar address.”

Sir Arthur turned to Charles. “Yes, I think
not. Charles and I have recently discovered a common interest.”

“Not gardening? I had thought Sir Barnsworth
would be in town before the Season, but he remains in the country
while the flowers in his garden are still in bloom.”

“Nothing on the order of interest as
gardening,” replied Sir Arthur as he took out his snuffbox of
tortoise shell and inhaled a pinch of snuff.

“The burgess for Porter’s Hill,” Charles
supplied.

“Of course,” Sir Canning said. “We, all
three of us, share that interest, and it is for that reason I asked
Sir Arthur to meet with us. Sir Arthur was instrumental in securing
the election of Sir Winslow, the other burgess for Porter’s Hill.
You are familiar with Sir Winslow.”

“I was more familiar with Sir Winslow when
he resided in Porter’s Hill. He has not lived in Porter’s Hill for
some time now, and I rarely saw him in attendance at Parliament.
The few times I did, he was always asleep and snoring soundly.”

Sir Canning cleared his throat. “Yes, well,
Sir Winslow is perhaps, well…”

Sir Arthur waved a dismissive hand. “Winslow
is in attendance when his vote is required.”

He looked at Charles. “Your father was part
of the Macartney envoy to China, was he not?”

“He was,” Charles replied as he studied the
man. Sir Arthur sat in the chair with his right ankle resting upon
his left knee, an air of complacency about him as if he owned the
room. Charles found it hard to envision the man with Miss
Terrell.

“And you yourself are lately returned from
there.”

“I have been in England several months
now.”

“I understand, while in China, you managed
to travel beyond our factory in Canton. All the way to Japan.”

Charles wondered as to the purpose of these
statements and kept his responses brief. “I did.”

“How did you accomplish this? Foreigners are
not allowed outside of Canton.”

“Charles is very resourceful,” Sir Canning
provided.

“I had the benefit of being alone,” Charles
replied, “without the pomp and fair that Macartney had.”

“Nonetheless, the Chinese are not receptive
to us. Our solace is they are no more receptive to the Dutch.”

“Knowing their suspicion and aversion, I
ensured my demeanor was always humble. And I was fortunate to have
befriended a traveling merchant.”

“Ah. And did you observe if the Chinese were
in want of any goods we could provide?”

Charles raised his brows. “Aside from Indian
opium?”

Sir Canning cleared his throat and intended
a moderating statement, but Sir Arthur spoke first. Undaunted, he
said, “Well, our hand is forced. The Chinese insist upon silver in
exchange for their goods.”

“Because we have nothing else of value to
offer them.”

“And now we have. Opium is our trump card,
Charles. It will do much to correct the trade imbalance between our
countries.”

Charles stiffened at the use of his given
name. He had little desire to befriend the man. There had been
whispers of the man shortly after the death of his wife, but
Charles could not remember what the confabulation entailed, only
that it was not complimentary of Sir Arthur.

“Surely you are aware the emperor is not
pleased with the opium, Sir Arthur,” Charles said.

Sir Arthur shrugged. “Do you not agree we
should seek greater trade with China?”

“Of course. But this stratagem concerning
opium can only lead to a grim end, even war.”

“Do you fear a war with China, Charles?”

“Tell me first, would such a war benefit
country or Company?”

Sir Canning began coughing, and Charles felt
a little sheepish. His employer had invited Sir Arthur with the
intention of soliciting the man’s support for him, and he had
repaid Sir Canning’s kindness by risking the minister’s ire.