Rejar

  Something about the thought troubled him deeply, but he squelched his concerns. They would not be mates if they did not have the capacity for great affection for each other.

  Lilac simply needed time to adjust to the change in her life. When she did, she would come to realize how much she meant to him. How serious he could be. How much he…

  Why think of it now? There were better ways to spend the late afternoon in Ree Gen Cee Ing Land than worrying needlessly about such an obvious thing. They were mated. Her breath had become his. She belonged to him.

  Abruptly standing with his mate in his arms, he grabbed one of the books off the side table as he made his way to the bed. Depositing her gently on the mattress, he handed the book to her.

  Plopping down on the bed near her feet, he instructed her, “Read to me.”

  “Now?” Lilac was surprised by his behavior. And a little disappointed. By the way his eyes had lit up when she kissed him, she thought for sure he was going to…

  “Yes, now.” He smiled at her.

  “And you want me to read this?” She looked down at the book he had given her; it was The Tempest by William Shakespeare. Not exactly the type of subject a man might ask a woman to read aloud. Most men would choose a romantic sonnet. It was an odd request.

  Nonetheless, he gestured with his hand for her to begin.

  “Very well.” Leaning back against the headboard, Lilac opened the book and began to read while her husband lounged across the foot of the bed.

  After a while, Nickolai began tickling her ankles. With his mouth.

  Lilac looked up from her page. “Stop that or I shan’t continue.”

  He grinned at her, but motioned for her to proceed.

  She read, “ ‘Full fathom five thy father lies…’”

  Nickolai lifted the bottom of her skirt and began to kiss her leg through the thin cottony material of her pantalettes. Soon his dark head completely disappeared under her skirts.

  “Nickolai.”

  “Go on, I am listening,” came the muffled voice.

  She was skeptical, but continued on, “ ‘Of his bones are coral made…’” His damp open mouth blew a puff of heated breath against the gauzy material on her upper leg. “Nickolai, what are you doing under there?”

  “Keep reading.” The voice ordered from beneath her skirts.

  “‘Those are pearls that were his eyes…’ Oh!”

  His hot tongue wiggled the slit of her pantalettes at the juncture of her thighs. “I believe I am about to find my own pearl.”

  Lilac swallowed.

  “Read, souk-souk.”

  “‘Nothing of him that doth fade…’ Nickolai, what are you licking?” His tongue swept along the vertical, open seam in a long, slow lap. “Oh, my God! Stop that at once!”

  He did not, of course.

  {Would you not give me what I desire, my Lilac?}

  She was so unnerved by what he was doing to her that she didn’t even realize he had sent her the thought. If she had paid more attention, she would have immediately noticed he couldn’t possibly be both speaking and doing what he was doing at the same time.

  She tried to regain her faint voice. “What is it you desire, Nickolai?”

  {Just a taste of what I crave…from your sweetness.} His nimble tongue darted through the slit. Lilac’s whole body shuddered.

  “N-Nickolai…”

  {Continue with the story, Lilac.}

  She made an attempt. “ ‘B-but doth suffer a sea-change into something rich and strange…’”

  There was a man beneath her skirts—between her legs—that changed into something rich and strange.

  An exotic, wildly handsome creature who knew how to use his tongue.

  Lilac gave up all pretense of reading the play when his tongue slid inside her with a delicious stroke. Only to wriggle about in a most sensational way.

  “Sto—Ohhhhh.”

  {I agree. What say you to this?} He swirled around his “pearl,” flicking the hidden nub repeatedly with the tip of his very talented tongue.

  “Ohhhh…”

  {Mmmm—I thought you might say that. And this?} He suckled on her.

  “Oh! Oh! Oh!”

  {Do you like my poetry, Lilac?} He licked her over and over. {Is it metered and rhymed to your delight?}

  Lilac was beyond answering. She moaned incoherent phrases.

  {When you are ready, I want your release against my mouth, souk-souk, so I can feel your pleasure on my lips.}

  If those words weren’t enough to do it, his next action certainly was. His tongue slipped inside her and he pur-r-r-ed…

  Lilac did exactly as he asked.

  Unable to withstand his intense erotica another moment, she burst into a thousand fragments. And every one of them had his name on it.

  There was a rustle of her skirts and Nickolai’s tousled head popped up. Looking rather like the cat who swallowed the family canary, he quirked a raven eyebrow at her.

  “Nickolai…” she gasped, still trying to regain her breath.

  “Lilac.” He said her name with an upward tilt of his mouth. A teasing, knowing sound of utter deliberation.

  Against her better judgement, her lips twitched. “So,” she said, picking up the book, “do you want to hear the rest of this?”

  Rejar let out a roar of laughter. Smiling seductively down at her, he said, “By all means. Let us see what the next page holds, shall we?”

  As Lilac began to read and Nickolai began to do something extremely interesting with the pads of his fingers, she couldn’t help remarking on how much trouble her pantalettes had gotten her into that day.

  Rejar whispered in her ear that it was not the pantalettes.

  By that evening word was all over the ton about Lilac’s enticing “tell all” at Lady Whitney’s.

  Leona Harcorte heard the story at a rout she was attending. Even though she had suspected the Prince knew his way around the sheets, the bride’s story of the groom’s prowess went beyond all expectations.

  It was time for her to begin laying her foundational trap.

  A man of his proclivities would not stay satisfied long with his innocent little wife. Leona intended to be first in line when the Prince let loose. It was always best to catch these rogues while they still had plenty of energy left.

  She immediately decided she would throw a small, impromptu dinner party the next evening for some of their mutual friends. On exiting the rout, she headed back to her home to write out her invitations.

  Leona decided to send a personal note of friendship along with her invitation to Lilac. The kindhearted, gullible chit would definitely accept, bringing her sensational husband in tow.

  Perhaps she should include the brother as well?

  Leona had heard some amazing reports about him; her curiosity needed satisfying. She quickly jotted his name on the invitation.

  The following morning Lilac received the invitation along with the personal note. As Leona had predicted, she immediately accepted. Much to her husband’s and Lady Agatha’s displeasure.

  “She is my friend, Nickolai. If you do not wish to attend, then don’t.”

  There was no way he would let her attend any function Lady Harcorte sponsored by herself. He had seen Lady Harcorte in a disturbing light at Byron’s country home. “I will accompany you, Lilac, but Leona Harcorte is no friend of yours.”

  “Believe as you like.” She turned to Traed. “The invitation was extended to you, Traed. Will you not join us?”

  Traed had no intentions of doing anything else; he needed to keep a close eye on Rejar. “I will definitely be there.”

  Rejar looked at his brother-of-the-line, surprised by his ready acceptance. Traed normally was not one to socialize with strangers. With any, for that matter. The man was typically a loner.

  Lilac turned to her aunt, ready to offer up an apology; Auntie Whumples was not included in the invitation. Before she could speak, however, Agatha forestalled her.

 
“Do not even ask me as I will not step foot into that Cyprian’s house!”

  “Very well, Auntie; if that is your wish. We shall miss you.” Lilac’s eyes twinkled with a private amusement. It did not go unnoticed by her husband.

  They arrived at Lady Harcorte’s town home just before eight in the evening. There were about twenty-five people present for this small, impromptu gathering of the beau monde.

  Rejar had already warned Traed that the evening meal in a gathering such as this could last from three to four hours. Rejar did not think Traed believed him. Well, he would find out soon enough when plate after plate arrived with no end in sight. He groaned inwardly. Much of the food here was not particularly to his liking.

  Since dinner was called for eight, there would not be too much time to socialize before they were ushered from the drawing room into the dining room.

  Just before dinner was announced, Leona Harcorte strategically angled her way over to the Prince’s party. When they were called to table, she intended to have Prince Azov escort her.

  Leona hesitated slightly when she caught sight of the man next to the Prince. He was almost as tall as Prince Azov and just as well built. But the physical resemblance ended there.

  This was no sultry, sensual creature she faced. There was something about this one which gave her pause.

  He was dangerous to his core.

  She approached the darkly handsome, enigmatically brooding man and waited while Lilac introduced her.

  Tapping him lightly on his arm with her fan, she smiled coquettishly up at him, several carmine plumes fluttering in her hair. “And what does Prince Nickolai’s brother think of our little group?”

  Glittering green eyes flicked down at her in cool appraisal. He scanned the guests, paying particular attention to the mode of dress of several fops. The corners of his etched mouth curved sardonically. “Otherworldly,” was all he said.

  In honor of the Prince, Leona had donned a clinging dress, which she had naturally dampened. The sheer, wet material was not much of a covering, yet this contained man seemed not even to notice the enticing style. It irritated Leona.

  When the butler announced dinner was being served, her annoyance prompted her to loop her arm through the older brother’s. “How nice of you to escort me, Mr. Yaniff.”

  Traed watched her knowingly. “Traed.”

  Leona, thinking he was giving her permission to use his first name, responded, “Then you may call me Leona.” She fingered the strand of pearls at her throat, “Please take care not to tread upon my dress—for nothing is under it but my modesty.”

  His mocking jade glance raked over her. “I do not believe your modesty is to be found…under there. Lee-oh-nah.”

  Her pretty brown eyes flashed with annoyance at the subtle insult as he briskly marched her into the dining room.

  As Rejar had predicted, course after course was presented to the table.

  Lady Harcorte had taken to the Continental custom of sending footmen around with the dishes. In this way, everyone had a chance to taste everything, not simply those dishes which happened to be at one’s end of the table. Such munificence made Lady Harcorte’s table a well-sought-after one.

  The first course started out with mulligatawny and turtle soups. This was followed by salmon and turbot surrounded with smelts.

  Lady Harcorte, at the head of the table, addressed Rejar, who had been seated by design to her right. “Russian caviar, your Highness; I procured it expressly for you.” She nodded at the footman, who placed a spoonful on his plate.

  Rejar looked at the black lumpy mass and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. By Aiyah, what was it? “Thank you; that was most thoughtful of you, Lady Harcorte.” Gingerly, he followed her lead, spreading some of the gooey mass on a hard, flat biscuit.

  Lilac, seated next to him, watched him curiously out of the corner of her eye.

  Taking a deep breath, he popped the noxious stuff into his mouth. He blinked. It was hideous! Forcing himself to swallow, he smiled rather sickly to Lady Harcorte. “Delicious,” he managed to croak.

  Lilac dabbed at the corners of her mouth with her napkin to hide her blossoming grin. It was obvious to her that her husband could not abide the vile stuff. An impish light imbued her green eyes. “Oh, then do have more, Nickolai! I can see how much you love it.” She snagged the footman bearing the caviar and plopped a large spoonful onto his plate.

  Nickolai privately sent her a fulminating glare.

  She batted her eyelashes at him, then quickly turned to engage the person on her left in conversation. Lilac tried not to giggle when she heard him mutter something foreign under his breath. The Russian Prince was forced by politesse to take another bite of the Russian caviar.

  With the serving of the first course, a curious phenomenon seemed to settle about the room. As soon as the first spoonful of soup lifted to waiting lips, a constant thirst arose out of nowhere, afflicting all of the guests at once. Port, sherry, hock, ratafia, and claret were liberally poured to stave off the malady.

  And continued to be poured throughout the long feast.

  This naturally led to an ambiance of geniality, which, over the course of several hours, led to total stupefaction.

  The second course was served.

  There was roast hare, roast pheasant, roast turkey, Bolognese sausage, Laplander reindeer tongues, Westphalian ham, pistachio cream, burnt cream, roast woodcock, collared pig, and stewed mushrooms. Then came the French dishes, potatoes, cauliflower, Spanish olives—the platters kept coming.

  Traed caught Rejar’s eye. Neither man could believe the lavish amount of food spread before them. On Aviara, feasts were customary, but not on this scale. Rejar could not help but think of the hungry people begging for food that he had seen wandering the streets of this savage world. In light of that, this display seemed almost obscene to him.

  The various aromas mingled, filling the room with the scent of gluttony.

  {Did I not tell you?}

  Traed inclined his head slightly, acknowledging Rejar’s thought.

  “Your Highness,” Lord Wolfston, seated across the table from Rejar, addressed him, “do you think it likely Napoleon will invade your homeland?”

  Rejar paused in the act of picking up his wineglass. “Who is this Napoleon?” he blandly asked.

  For a tension-fraught moment the table went completely silent. Whereupon, Beau Brummell, seated at the far end of the table, burst out laughing. “Marvelous wit!” he declared, setting the tone for the rest of the diners, who immediately broke into laughter and saluted Rejar with their glasses.

  The words “who is this Napoleon” echoed around the room as if it were the cleverest of jests. Lilac gave her husband the oddest look. She believed he meant exactly what he said: He had no idea who Napoleon was. Yet these people thought him a marvelous wit. She gnashed her teeth. Oh, the irony!

  “Prince Azov,” Wolfston chuckled, “may I pirate your bon mot?”

  Rejar, having no idea what a bon mot was, replied, “If my wife does not object to its loss, you may pirate it.”

  This caused another round of raucous joviality.

  Lady Harcorte rested her hand on Rejar’s arm. She lifted her lashes slowly in a blatantly seductive motion. “You are a sly boots, aren’t you?”

  Lilac leaned forward, taking note of their hostess’s personal gesture with her husband. For some reason, it bothered her immensely. She instantly took affrontage. Why was that woman’s claw on Nickolai’s arm?

  To make matters worse, Nickolai bent close to the woman and said something in an intimate tone to her. Fuming, Lilac kicked him under the table.

  Rejar paused, blinked once, then finished what he was saying to Leona Harcorte. He turned to his wife.

  Lilac did not like the twinkle in his blue eye one bit. Instead of being properly chastened like any normal husband would be, he seemed greatly amused.

  In fact, the expression on his face as he regarded her might be interpreted as
delighted.

  “Something upsetting you, souk-souk?”

  “Don’t souk-souk me! Stop speaking to that woman in that tone of—of face!”

  He grinned at her, making her realize her faux pas. “Are you possessive of me, my Lilac?”

  “Don’t be silly! I—I just think that you should be more—more circumspect in your dealings.” She stammered defensively, trying to cover her idiotic display.

  Smiling triumphantly, Nickolai’s arm curved around her shoulders, his hand going up to her topknot to give it a little tug. He purred sexily in her ear. “I hate your hair.”

  Her mouth rounded into a surprised O.

  Taking advantage of her combination of shock and dismay, he whispered softly, “Let me release it, souk-souk, so I can see it spill down your back and I will remember how it feels as it flows over me at night like the finest krilli cloth, streaming down my chest, across my hip, feathering my—”

  “Stop that!” Lilac turned beet red.

  Chuckling low, her husband turned away to answer a question from across the table.

  He was odious! Why couldn’t he be more well-behaved like his brother? Her sights went across the table to where Traed sat, quietly eating his meal.

  The guests on either side of him had attempted to engage the stony-eyed man in conversation, but on receiving only monosyllabic replies from him, they soon turned their attentions elsewhere.

  Even in a room full of people, Lilac noted that Nickolai’s brother seemed secluded and apart. She wondered why that was. On the occasions when they had engaged in conversations, she had found him to be attentive, interesting, and extremely intelligent. She was sure his present behavior was not due to reticence, for his persona was almost bold in nature.

  With his captivating looks, she would have thought he would have chatted up several of the women by now. By the coveted glances some of the female guests had been sending his way, they certainly hoped he would do just that.

  Yet, there he sat, patiently apart. Solitary.

  Despite this, there was a quality about the lone, handsome man that evoked her compassion toward him. He was something of an enigma.

  As if he read her thoughts, he looked up suddenly from the forkful of food he was about to put into his mouth, catching her eye. She smiled gently at him.