Nicholas's throat dried. The likelihood of that was remote. "Suitable? How could you know such a thing?"

"You know the special bookshop I fancy? She's been seen there. Without her maid. Darted in like a little rabbit, flushed scarlet and left."

"There. You see? She made a mistake and turned into the wrong door."

"I failed to mention she asked for a particular book. Had the t.i.tle written down on her calling card. Careless of her to have left it behind." Sheffield extracted the card from his breast pocket. "The proprietor thought I might be interested in some fresh blood, but I immediately thought of you. A few coins, and Miss Kerr's missing maid was found and very informative. She thinks there's something a little odd about her mistress."

Nicholas was disgusted. "Bribing servants? Beneath you, Tony."

His friend rubbed his chin. "Perhaps. But Miss Kerr keeps a sketch book filled with entirely shocking drawings. I persuaded the maid to filch one for me. I'll show it to you later, and it might help persuade you. A marriage portion might go a little way to settling your debts."

Nicholas shook his head. "If she's not an heiress, as you say, there's hardly any point."

"But surely there are other perks? If you are to saddle yourself for life to a woman, it is preferable that she share your tastes. Unless, of course, it is she who wants to wield the whip."

"I am not getting married," Nicholas repeated.

"It won't hurt to ask her to dance. I know her chaperone. Let's go have a word."

Sheffield propelled Nicholas through the crowded ballroom. An elderly woman with a ma.s.s of quivering bird feathers on her turban looked up at them through a lorgnette.

"As I live and breathe! Cousin Anthony! How delightful to see you here this evening."

Sheffield reached for her gloved hand and laid a kiss across her knuckles. "Winnie. You haven't changed a bit."

"Foolish boy. You always were a prevaricator. I haven't seen you this age. How have you been keeping?"

"Well, Winnie. Very well. I'm a little overgrown for the Season and its Marriage Mart, but my young friend here is not. May I present Viscount Nicholas Harland? My second cousin, Mrs. Winifred Gunnison."

The woman's eyes had glittered at the word "marriage," and Nicholas felt his heart sink. What was Sheffield up to?

"Delighted. And this is Miss Catherine Kerr. Cat, dear, you may greet Lord Harland and Mr. Sheffield."

Sheffield had been wrong. The girl's hair wasn't red, but a mix of gold and copper. It appeared to be very curly, but was pulled into a tight knot at the top of her head. Her face was round, freckled, her chin gently dimpled as if someone had brushed a thumb over it.

She looked trapped, her brown eyes darting away. She nodded once in their direction.

"Nicholas, don't just stand there. The orchestra is starting up. Surely Miss Kerr would like to dance?"

What the devil? Miss Kerr didn't look like she wanted to do anything but hide beneath her chair.

Nicholas managed an innocuous smile. "Forgive me, Miss Kerr. I'm unused to polite society lately. I confess this is my first ball of the Season, and here it is, nearly over. Summer will be upon us soon. Would you do me the honor of dancing and putting me at my ease?"

She cast a desperate look at her chaperone, but Mrs. Gunnison was patting the empty chair beside her so Tony could sit.

"Go along, Cat. Anthony and I will catch up on family affairs."

Nicholas heard Miss Kerr's long-suffering sigh. Could she have something against good-looking peers of the realm? Perhaps she'd been disappointed after seven seasons. Surely she was pretty enough, in a plump, kittenish sort of way. A marmalade Cat. Except they were always male, were they not?

Miss Kerr stood. She was neither short nor tall. The modestly-cut bodice of her cream-colored dress revealed an above-average bosom. She seemed to be focused on his left ear as he led her out to the dance floor.

It would be a waltz. He bowed and took her in his arms.

She hadn't uttered a word, and soon he spun her so thoroughly she didn't have any breath left. Nicholas gazed down at her, noting flushed cheeks and dropped eyelids. Her long lashes were pale but numerous.

"It's quite a crush, isn't it?" he remarked as he maneuvered them around the busy ballroom. "I suppose that's a mark of success."

"Mm."

"Have you enjoyed your Season, Miss Kerr?"

"Mm."

For the life of him, this tongue-tied creature could not possibly be the kind of woman who read naughty books or drew naughty pictures. She was beyond shy. Nicholas tried to imagine her naked and failed.

"I understand your father is known for his library. A learned man, is he? And don't say 'Mm.'"

She flashed him a dark look and said nothing.

"Now I've offended you. Do forgive me. As I said, I'm unused to civilized company."

Miss Kerr said nothing to that either. The dance was endless and Nicholas was growing more impatient by the minute. He was beginning to wonder if old Tony had a maggot in his brain for introducing him to this silent and sober little madam.

At last they took the final turn, and Nicholas took the opportunity to whisper in her ear. "I don't bite, you know. Unless you'd like me to."

Miss Kerr's pink lips dropped open. Whether she was shocked, surprised or intrigued was impossible to tell. He returned her to Mrs. Gunnison and persuaded Tony to leave.

They waited on the darkened street for Sheffield's carriage. "You said there was someone I'd be interested in? I hope she's more responsive than Miss Kerr. You're mistaken about her, old boy. Couldn't get a word out of her. Not the type to leave the straight and narrow, I'd wager."

Sheffield shrugged. "I wouldn't be so sure of that, Nick. Did I not mention her little speech impediment? Perhaps you fl.u.s.tered her. Made her nervous. She looked to be a delicious armful."

Nicholas supposed she had been, untamed curves and orderly curls. But he was not interested.

Chapter 3.

What an odd night! Catherine dismissed Minton and sank into her bed. She could still feel the heat of Lord Harland's gloved hands on her body and his breath at her ear.

His words...what did they mean? She shivered as she imagined his white teeth at her throat.

She had been mute in his arms, struggling not to expose her verbal tics. Lord Harland must think her a ninny. Rude, too. But she was tired of pretending to enjoy herself. And it was clear Harland had been forced to ask her to dance. Sheffield, his gray-haired friend, had left him no alternative.

Mrs. Gunnison had been delighted to b.u.mp into her relative, although their relationship was distant at best. Sheffield was at least two decades younger than the chaperone, and their paths seldom crossed. Like Harland, he was not a habitue of ton parties. Catherine wondered what had spurred them to come this evening.

She was restless as usual, waiting for all the nighttime noises to dissipate in the house. Keeping her hands steady, waiting. Antic.i.p.ating. It was sweeter when she denied herself, delayed her gratification. In a few moments she'd blow out her candle and lift her nightdress. Drop it to the floor. Reach for the bottle of oil in her bedside drawer and slick it over her tender flesh.

Catherine shut her eyes. If only she'd been brave enough about the book. Like a fool, she'd run off when the clerk gave her such an appraising look. His expression had been so shrewd she couldn't bear it. He still held the card in his hand as she'd dashed out the door-she should have s.n.a.t.c.hed it away.

She had written the t.i.tle down so she wouldn't have to try to say it. The best intentions paved the road to h.e.l.l. Now the greasy fellow had her calling card. What if he decided to tell her father what she had tried to buy?

Her father might lock her up. Or send her to an asylum where she'd really be bound, and not for her pleasure. Oh, G.o.d. There was something wrong with her, and she didn't know how to fix it. Didn't know if it could be fixed.

Catherine lay still, listening to the click of her mantel clock. Her breathing slowed, and she raised her hips to shimmy out of her nightgown. The touch of linen sheet set her bare body on edge. The candle was extinguished, the vial found, its perfumed liquid poured and signaling her senses.

She knew there were toys one could use to fill oneself, but like the book, she would never be able to ask for them. She would make do with the emptiness, as long as her fingers swirled above. A frisson shook her as she imagined the scarf at her mouth blocking her cries. Ropes at her wrists and ankles. A dark-haired gentlemen who nipped her neck and arranged her body for his delectation.

Her faceless master turned into Lord Harland tonight. He gazed at her with his bright blue eyes, searching deep into her soul. A knot of worry unraveled-she was completely safe with him. He'd know what she was thinking, what she wanted. What she needed, and she wouldn't have to say a single word.

Her hands became his, nails skittering across exposed skin. A few rough strokes and she was at the brink without the usual effort. Catherine felt the collar tighten at her throat, bonds stretch, gag hold her mouth open though she would be ever silent. When he was done amusing himself, he'd remove the gag and thrust his c.o.c.k deep into her throat, so deep that- Catherine convulsed helplessly, her fingers scrambling to pitch each wave higher. She tasted something dark and forbidden, knowing it was only her overactive imagination.

How she wished she could swallow Lord Harland's seed. Wouldn't he be shocked to learn that the awkward woman he danced with wanted to experience sin first-hand?

On her knees. Over a chair. Her body pressed up against a wall. There were so many possible varieties, they might never get to them all.

Catherine stifled a sob and withdrew her hand. What a fool she was. She'd never do any of it, certainly not with a man as handsome as Nicholas Harland. Her father was apt to marry her off to some widowed old fossil who didn't care what she wanted as long as she raised his children or lay quietly in the dark, a receptacle of a quick and loveless coupling.

If she belonged to Nicholas Harland, she would sink to her knees and kiss his boot. Beg to submit to whatever struck his fancy.

Catherine rose on shaking legs from her bed and opened a drawer. A tangle of ribbons lay within. She unspooled one and tied it around her throat, imagining Lord Harland's broad hands circling. It wasn't tight enough. Frustrated, she pulled it until the ribbon cut into her skin.

Much better. Her room was dark, but she knew where to look next. She had removed the bark of the stick herself, polishing it until it was smooth. It was not often she allowed herself this agonizing pleasure, but tonight was different. Catherine's skin tingled with a confusing combination of hope and despair. Swiftly, she brought the stick down on her bare b.r.e.a.s.t.s and wept with the stinging joy of it.

Again. And again. It was not enough, but Minton might notice-she was a noticing sort of maid. There were times when she looked at Catherine with a smirk, as if she knew the tumbled thoughts of her mistress.

But that was impossible-no one could possibly fathom her depravity.

Catherine stumbled back to bed. Perhaps if her fantasies came to actual life, they wouldn't be so pleasant. After all, pain was not something one usually sought, nor was confinement. People were after freedom-wars had been fought over it.

But for Catherine, freedom meant something altogether different. She wanted her limbs tethered, her mouth shut. She wanted to feel the certainty of being possessed. Only then would she be protected.

She sighed. It made no sense, and she couldn't very well ask anyone to make sense of it. She chose not to remove the ribbon, wishing it could be even tighter, and clutched the smooth stick. It would perform additional duty tonight as she inched it carefully into her wet channel. A happy sigh escaped, and she left it lodged within. The end of it poked against her thigh, a delicious reminder. Sleep came almost instantly.

Minton shook her head. Pitiful, that's what Miss Catherine was. The morning light showed her mistress naked in her bed, a thin branch sticking out of her privates. Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s sported faint red lines, and a scarlet ribbon was tangled around her neck-like people wore when they were in sympathy to those aristocrats murdered in the French Revolution in the last century.

Minton was too old for this sort of thing. Miss Catherine was mad. A Bedlamite. What would Mr. Kerr think if he saw her now? Perhaps Minton had been wrong to speak to that Mr. Sheffield. He seemed a shifty bloke, but she was tired of covering up for her mistress. The girl needed a keeper-she should be hidden away from G.o.d-fearing folk.

Then there were those horrible sketches under the mattress-hair-raising they were. Minton had shut her eyes as she tore out a sheet from the book to prove to Mr. Sheffield everything she said was true. His eyes had lit-mayhap he was just as crazy as the mistress and good luck to the both of them.

The man had given her a letter of reference and a substantial sum, enough that she could find new employment. And that's exactly what she would do today-leave this wickedness behind.

Minton set the tray down quietly and left the room. Let someone else pick clothes out for the mumbling little fool. The devil had already cursed Miss Catherine's mouth and looked to be doing his worst with the rest of her body. Scandalous it was to be so shameless, lying there for all the world to see. Why, that stick must have taken care of her virginity! Miss Catherine was nothing but a common wh.o.r.e, even if she had no man to take her in hand.

Minton ran up to her attic room and packed her few possessions. Not much comfort there to miss in the spa.r.s.e alcove. Mr. Kerr wasn't overgenerous, up to his eyebrows in books with nary a care for anyone else in his household. Perhaps if Miss Catherine had had more parental guidance, she might have turned out normal. Too late. The girl was four and twenty, bad habits firmly established. What decent man would have her now?

Chapter 4.

Nicholas's hand shook.

Impossible.

The subject was clearly Miss Kerr, all curly hair and dreamy dark eyes. She was in a cla.s.sic submissive position on her knees, legs spread, hands tied over her head, a strip of fabric against her lips. Twists of wire surrounded her swollen nipples, and glistening liquid seeped from her slit down her thigh. She appeared to be in a high state of excitement, a man's fingers threaded through her hair.

Sheffield chuckled. "Still don't believe me?"

"Where did you get this?" His words were raspy.

"I told you. Her maid. But not for long-the woman has had quite enough. She's quitting. Apparently Miss Kerr is not as secretive about her private inclinations as she should be."

The paper had been folded, and Nicholas returned it to its original state. He was inflamed with desire, not something Sheffield needed to see.

"She's a fetching thing, you must admit. Quite surprising." Tony poured them both a brandy.

Miss Kerr's expression had been unmistakable. If the picture depicted the truth of her, she was the purest submissive Nicholas had ever encountered. He was used to women playing at being naughty, and he had no objection to using them to quell his needs. But pretense was different from real abdication of one's will.

"Even if you don't marry her, I think she'd be amenable to a good hard f.u.c.k. Maybe we can share her."

Nicholas frowned. An unaccustomed streak of possessiveness overtook him. If he decided to bed Catherine Kerr, he'd do it alone.

"Speaking of sharing, you said there was someone here who'd interest me," Nicholas reminded him, changing the subject. The possibilities of Catherine Kerr were too perfect to discuss here.

"Ah, yes." Sheffield swirled the brandy before taking a sip. "I have a live-in slave I've trained to my taste, you know."

Nicholas had not. Before tonight, he'd never been to Sheffield's house. He raised an eyebrow, waiting to hear more.