Free House of Dark Delights by Louisa Burton Page A

alone.”
    Dashwood leaned toward her to trail his fingertips down her throat and over the soft swell of her bosom. “You’re assuming we must be alone for this…possession to occur.”
    â€œI do not perform for the amusement of an audience,
monsieur.
”
    â€œThe presence of others can be most stimulating to the passions,” he said. “Have you never enjoyed the sport of Venus in a room full of people?”
    â€œNever with such people as these. The notion of all these Lotharios watching and fondling themselves…” She shook her head. “I can’t imagine I would take pleasure in it.”
    â€œThey needn’t know what we’re doing, if we’re discreet about it.”
    She cast him a dubious look.
    Smiling, he scooted his chair back and patted his lap. “Come.”
    She looked around the room, as if to buy time while she thought it over. Presently, she rose and smoothed down her dress. Glancing about to make sure they weren’t being watched, Dashwood gathered up her skirts in back as she lowered herself onto his lap. He turned her so that she was facing away from him.
    â€œRest your elbows on the table,” he said quietly.
    Leaning forward, she did as he asked.
    â€œRelax,” he murmured, lightly stroking her back. “Listen to the singing. A damned sorry effort, that!” he called out as the song ended. “Like pigs farting in mud. Let’s have another one, and do try to carry the tune this time.”
    Dashwood slid his right hand beneath the great silken blossom of Elle’s skirts, whispering, “Rise up a bit so I can get to these buttons.” He shifted slightly, smiled. “You’re wet.”
    Smiling at him over her shoulder, she said, “You’re inspiring,
monsieur.
”
    Dashwood gripped her waist and pressed her back down with a little grunt of effort. She drew in a breath.
“Mon Dieu.”
    Dashwood sat back in his chair with a sigh, his right hand still buried beneath her skirts. “You’re wonderfully tight,
mademoiselle
.”
    Darius moved aside to avoid Dashwood’s foot as he hooked it around a chair leg beneath the table. Elle’s silk skirts rustled languidly as he caressed her.
    â€œOh…,” she breathed. “Yes…”
    For some time, they sat joined but unmoving, or nearly so. Dashwood’s foot flexed slightly against the chair leg and released, and again, and again, in a leisurely, steady rhythm. Elle widened her legs, bracing her feet on the carpeted floor.
    Darius could hear them breathing as the tension mounted. Elle stretched out her legs, her feet trembling. The chair leg creaked in an ever-quickening cadence.
    Dashwood’s gaze grew unfocused. He sat forward, grimacing. Elle closed her eyes, one hand clutching the edge of the table, the other fisted around her empty wineglass.
    He shuddered, a guttural little sound rising from his throat. The stem of the wineglass snapped in Elle’s hand. Prince Fitz glanced idly in their direction, then looked away. For a long moment, they sat rigid and flushed, sharing a crisis of pleasure while their oblivious companions sang and caroused.
    Dashwood slumped against her, his lungs emptying in a lingering sigh. Elle chuckled breathlessly.
    He planted a tender little kiss on the back of her neck.
“Merci, mademoiselle.”
    â€œDe rien, monsieur.”
    The song concluded to rousing applause, whereupon Whitehead launched into yet another. Having had quite enough of that, Darius got up, stretched, and strolled from the room. Seeking his favorite refuge within the chateau, he padded down the hall to the southwest tower, and pawed open the door. He sprinted down the winding stairwell and through a torchlit passage to the slightly ajar door at the very end, which he slipped through.
    It was blessedly quiet in the long disused
chambre de punition,
and dark, but with his sharp feline vision, Darius had no