Chapter 7

Since the day had gone, Louisa had dressed in the secondary dress Miriam had laid and as she reached for the domino, was when Julius stepped into the room, holding a bag. Dusk was making the horizon indigo and grey, while thin lines of clouds were drifting to the edges.

Holding the domino, Louisa asked, "What are we doing, Julius?"

"I assume you mean overall," he said while reaching into the bag and pulled out a slick, dark wig.

Her brows lifted, "A wig?"

"I think its best if you try to full anonymity tonight," Julius replied, nodding to the domino. "Good choice too."

Taking the wing, she carded her finger though the silky tresses, "What are we doing, Julius?"

"Something I hope will open your eyes to what I described for you earlier," he let out a breath and leaned on the wall. His gaze was steady and somber.

"Enigmatic as ever," she shook her head, then went to the mirror and affixed the wig on her head.

As the wig settled on and she combed the bangs aside, Julius stepped behind her and slipped a silken, dark lace mark over her eyes. "This too," he murmured.

This close, she felt his heat and gazing at his reflection she swallowed at his perfection, his noble forehead and narrow nose, hard, sensual lips and deep, unfathomable blue eyes. Heat flooded her insides, her nipples prickling beneath her bodice as awareness throbbed in her blood.

Gently, she touched the mask. "I am getting overly confused, Julius."

"Soon, you won't be," he replied while extending his arm. "Please."

At the stroke of eight, Julius' carriage glided to a stop in front of a large, three-story late Georgian building with distinct Grecian influence on a tiny lane in Covent Garden. While the carriage slowed, Julius plucked out a demi mask and slid it over his head too.

"Are we attending a masquerade, then?" Louisa asked.

"Something like that," he said, then descended the carriage. His boots sloshed in a puddle but helped Louisa down away from the water. "But there won't be dancing."

Before they took the steps, Julius turned to her. "I know ‘tis only natural and admirable that a lady as you must have delicate sensibilities, but tonight, those virginal sensibilities will be torn from you. The mask of na?veté over your eyes will be pulled away."

Swallowing, Louisa whispered, "You're scaring me, Julius."

His brushed his lips over her forehead, "Hold unto me."

Taking the steps, they headed up to the doorway where Julius nodded to the footman and Louisa felt a twinge of worry about how easily the footman let them in. "Welcome to Pothos."

Almost tripping over her feet, Louisa slapped a hand over her breast. Pothos, the Grecian god of sexual longing, yearning, and desire. What was this place? A brothel?

Numbly, she asked Julius the same question and he keto his head straight. "It is on the borderline," he explained, "It is highly sexual, but no intercourse is allowed here. You will see what I mean."

They walked through the high-ceilinged painted with frescoes to resemble a temple or a church, but she covered her mouth at the sight of asubmissive man with his mouth sealed over a woman's place and Venus wielding a whip.

Her heart was beating unnaturally as they passed gleaming white columns until they'd reached a pair of doors at the end of the corridor. Julius' Adam's apple bobbed while he pushed the doors open and Louisa pressed her eyes to his shoulder.

Julius gently pried her head from him, "This is important, Louisa. You must watch." His hand settled on the small of her back and gently prodded her forward. "This is the first."

They'd arrived a hollow, a round room with an open door where a woman, clad in a gauzy slip of silk, rested in a padded bench, while a man, clad in tan breeches, matching boots and mask slapped a paddle in his opposite palm.

"Why were you naughty, Dahlia?" he demanded.

Shocked reverberated through Louisa, "Dahlia as in… Lady Dahlia Isadore? Marchioness Westlake?"

"The very same," Julius nodded.

"But—" Louisa swayed on her heels, "She is always so prim and proper. If you have a hair out of place, she looks over her turned up nose at you and now this…"

"I told you," Julius said. "Most of the ton are hypocrites."

"Thirty strikes," the man ordered while he circled her. "You will count them out."

Without any more time for Louisa to steel herself to prepare, the man whipped his hand around, the paddle whistling through the air. The soft crack had her jumping.

"One." Dahlia had closed her eyes. The paddle whistled through the air and Louisa covered her own mouth. Surely that had to hurt! She stepped back…into a hard wall of muscle.

Julius held her tight, "Watch."

As the paddling went on the lady's cries grew in volume… but not in pain. The timber was that of pleasure, orgasmic pleasure too. At the end, of the thirty strikes, Dahlia cried out in pure ecstasy and Louisa became keenly aware of her own physical state. Her skin was hot, sweaty, her limbs weak and trembling.

Gently, he steered her to another cubicle, where a woman was on her knees, her hands tied behind her while she humbly took a strawberry the man finger-fed her. It was oddly docile compared to the other scene before.

"Julius," she whispered. "What is going on here?"

"You're seeing lessons in submission, Louisa." Julius said. "The men here, men like me, desire obedience and submission from the women they desire. There are times when the connection will transcend ropes and cuffs and paddles. Those trappings are mere symbols of the deeper need the men have and that is their surrender."

"Complete o-obedience?" she stammered.

"Some men do demand it in and outside the bedchamber," Julius replied. "But for me, submission in the bedroom heats my blood. That is where I expect my partner's honesty and obedience, particularly because it will mean her well-being and safety… and pleasure."

Her head snapped to him, "Pleasure?"

"Yes, pleasure," he said. "This is why it is important to have this discussion now, before we got any deeper in our agreement."

"Shall we leave?" she whispered. "I think I have seen enough."

He didn't hesitate to usher her back through the hallways and up to the font doors and into the soft, dusky night. He held her close approaching the carriage and helped her inside and wrapped knuckles on the roof, and pinned the shade on the up before the vehicle went off.

She dropped her hands to her lap and stared out the window as the pedestrians hurried off the streets, shopkeepers drew shutters down, hawkers came with their carts and taverns flung their doors open.

They were halfway home when she finally spoke. "I do not know what to say about that…but I am not repulsed, Julius. It might take me a while to understand the depths of your needs, but I do not find you odd."

"But you don't know what to do," he said angling his head knowingly, "…Do you?"

"No."

"Listen to your heart, and then let that guide what you do next." His eyes were the warm indigo blue of a summer night. "It will not guide you wrong."

She held his gaze. "What do you hear when you do you listen to your heart?"

"These days I listen to my head more than my heart," he admitted. "That organ is not good and pure like yours."

"If we do… continue with this relationship, will you ask me to do those things?"

"In time, yes." He confirmed. "But the performances we saw tonight are ones built after years and years of commitment and partnership, training and trust. It does not start just like that."

She slipped into silence again and stayed that way until they arrived at home and while removing her coat asked, "Shall we share supper tonight?"

He rolled his neck, "Yes, and this time, I will attend."

"Thank you," she smiled before coming to him, pausing before placing her arms around his waist. He shuddered when her cheek pressed against his chest. "I will see you soon."

Alone, Louisa tried to read the novel on her lap, but the words were blurring before her eyes. What she had witnessed in that club…didn't seem real. It felt like a dream, or a fantasy, a strange, unimaginable one…but it titillated her anyway.

What would it feel like to have Julius pin her hands together, place her on her stomach so she would lay across his thighs. He'd hook one his legs around her own, locking them tight.

"You're a wicked girl, meant for wicked things," he'd murmured.

"I am not?—"

The sound of the slap rang out before her brain registered the sweet heat of the spank. She raised her torso perpendicular to the floor until his large hand spanned her lower back, pressing her back down. Smacks rained down on both cheeks.

She tried to escape. She thrashed against his hold. She tried to cover her bottom with her hands, but he batted them away and continued the spanking, relentless. Each blow stung more.

The heat on her bottom increased until her skin was on fire. She fought for what seemed like hours, against his control, against the desire she could feel trickling down her leg. So little in her life was in her control. She couldn't stop her father.

She couldn't help her sister. The least she should be able to control was the sort of person she was, what she liked. She didn't want to be the sort of person who enjoyed being tossed over a man's knee.

His hand brushed over her skin faintly, a whisper of a touch before he brought his palm down, the rough calluses on his palm added another sensation to his slap.

Her flesh soon burned and each stroke of his hand resonated deep inside of her, the vibrations making her bud tingle and swell. Tension started to coil in her core, and she moaned.

Each slap of skin on skin dragged a whimper from her mouth Amanda squirmed, the heat at her core spreading to the rest of her body until her skin prickled in a low burn. She strained against his hold—to no avail.

"Don't fight it." He kissed the nape of her neck, tasting the salty sweetness of her skin.

He slipped his hand around her hip and circled the spot she needed. She arched her back as his second hand came down hard.

"Julius," she pleaded. "Don't stop. Please God, don't stop."

She jolted into reality with her heart thumping, she blinked at the sight of the fluttering ivory eyelet curtains and the pale wallpaper, her bedchambers. Her skin tingled all over and her cheeks burned with sudden panic.

Where had that wicked fantasy come from?

Slipping from the chaise, she went to the washroom and splashed her face with chilled water.

Dear god… is that what I want? Such strange pleasure?

Apprehension had her heart in a chokehold as she stepped into the small supper room, the small, intimate room with a small table near the window, where the staff had prepared what seemed to be dozens of candles around the room, the light reflecting off the polished the silverware.

She paused at the mouth of the room, as a tall, eye-drawing form, standing at the window, sipping a glass of wine. His dark blue silk dressing gown simmered black in the shimmery light and was molded to his athletic form and the hints of trousers legs underneath.

He had come.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

Turning, Julius's sharp eyes traveled with practiced sensuality over her. His hair was damp and curling from the bath he'd taken as well. At her approach, he rose immediately, and her heart fluttered as readily as a na?ve debutante's.

She couldn't help but allow her eyes to linger at the parted V of his robe, which offered a tantalizing view of his chest, and her belly tightened at the lean toughness and his long, loose-limbed stride as he came toward her.

"The table is set," he sat the wine to the side. "Join me?"

"I do believe those words should be mine," Louisa replied, shifting the lapel of her flouncy silk wrapper a tad higher. "I would love to join you."

"Cook made turtle soup but there is asparagus but if you prefer," he pulled out her chair. "Cold slices of duck confit, with brioche, as well as and for dessert there's trifle, the one with custard and brandied cherries."

"I shall be avoiding that one then," she replied reaching for her glass.

Sitting across from her, Julius's face was half hidden in shadow, but his tone was strict. "Modesty may be becoming Louisa, but you are blind to your appeal. You are not too plump. Release those idiotic voices in your head. eat to your fill."

With shaking fingers, Louisa did as she was told and ate, but as delicious as cook's food was, she barely tasted it. Julius's intense gaze was holding the air in her lung's hostage.

At the end, Julius placed the bowl of trifle between them and lifted the spoon. His left brow lifted expectedly, and Louisa leaned in, parted her lips and took the spoon in.

The flavor burst in her mouth but the silver gleam of hunger in his eyes was more delicious. He did it again, spooning the treat up, feeding her, making sure to have a brandied cherry in the bite and the sweet spirit was affecting her blood, making her heady.

When the spoon clicked in the bottom of the bowl, Julius stood and came around the table, held her chin and swept his thumb over her lips, sweeping a little droplet of the cream from her lips.

A sweet tension hung in the air, so thick and palpable that she could feel it clogging her own lungs. She was choked with indecision. What was going on? Why were his eyes coasting over her face so slowly and dropping to her lips at times.

His kiss was warm and firm, dissolving her doubts in a wave of honeyed heat. The taste of him was foreign, deliciously male.

He kissed the way he did everything else: with absolute authority…and it made her relax into the new, exciting sensations, sinful ... exciting.

Panting, she tried to shut out the feelings, the exquisite chafing of her skin against her chemise.

"…Do you remember that first time I came to your house for the first day of courtship?" he asked, pulling his away.

This time, her face flamed for a different reason. "Please do not remind me," she looked anywhere but at Julius's smirk. "That day will be affixed in my mind for the rest of my mortal days."

"You were in the library?—"

"And when you knocked, I thought you were a footman and shooed you away," the words came from her mouth laden with mortification. "You said my name and I shushed you. Surely you found that a bit unladylike."

"You were completely unladylike, but I found it intriguing that you were reading Crito by Plato and not like other ladies who would be spinning the pages of a novel or pouring over fashion plates."

"You were not unassuming after that," Louisa replied, "I know you did not like the chaperoned strolls in the park, the polite conversation with her family about the weather, chocking down watercress sandwiches drier than sand or being restricted to two dances at a ball but you did them anyway."

A corner of his lips curved, "More wine?"

"I suppose," Louisa replied, holding out her wineglass.

Sawyer knocked on the door, "Pardon me, Your Grace, but a letter has arrived for Her Grace."

He came forward with the letter on a silver platter and Louisa plucked it up with a simple "Thank you."

"Who is it from?"

It took her a moment to decipher the slashing handwriting on the envelope. "Viscount Grantville," she said, before opening it and two vouches fell unto the table before she pulled the stiff card out. "For you and your delightful husband, Your Grace. My dearest regards, Morgan Hunt, the Viscount of Grantville."

In the dim light, she plucked the vouchers up. "Voucher for the acrobat show…tomorrow afternoon," she looked up at Julius' clenching jaw. "You are coming with me then?"

He reached for his glass. "Well, you're surely not going alone, not on my watch. We shall go, see them and leave."

"Since we're there, I will be seeing the Waterfall," Louisa stated.

His lips flattened. "Fine."

"And the Supper Boxes," she said. "I'd image we'd be hungry by then."

"Also, fine."

"And the Lover's Walk."

"Absolutely not."