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making it pebble hard.  And this. he slid his hand down her bodice to the flat plane of
her belly where he kneaded the small mound.  And this, his voice was a low rumble in
her ear as his fingers traced the curls of her sex through her thin gown.  I want this so
much. So much so that I cannot sleep. So much that I am constantly thinking of you, of
your lips, your flame red hair, the way your skin feels. So much that I lie awake, hard and
aroused, torturing myself with thoughts of how you will feel beneath my hands, my lips,
my body. I dream of how you will taste, Madeline. I dream of the taste of your sex, the
feel of you on my tongue. Tell me, would you let me taste the desire I create within you?
A whimper caught in her throat and he tightened his hold on her while he kissed her
shoulder.  Tell me what you want, Maddy.
 I want a future. A future with you. What, she said, feeling her legs tremble
when he cupped her once more.  What do you see for us in your future?
He stopped then, his hand splayed across her belly as his hot breath came in short
pants against her.
 You shouldn t have asked me that. He abruptly moved away from her, his
hands grasping the bookcase, steadying himself and caging her. She wished she could see
his face, to know what expression he wore, but he didn t turn her to face him, instead, he
pressed himself against her, his breathing much too rapid and much too harsh.  You
should have asked me what I wanted from you, Madeline. I was prepared to bare my
desire before you and tell you what I wanted was you. I would have told you that I
wanted you naked beneath me, that I want to feel myself slip inside your body. I would
Mistress of the Night Charlotte Featherstone 45
have owned up to the fact that I dream of your seduction while I lie alone at night in
bed.
She felt herself tremble at his words, felt her desire flare further, wondering what
she could do to get him to take her in his arms and kiss her. But then his voice, which had
been husky with emotion, with physical desire, changed, replaced with aloofness.  You
asked what I saw for my future, Madeline, and I can tell you I see nothing. The picture
before me is black and empty, and infinite. I have no future.
* * * *
 Look hard, boy, this is your future. This is what you ve got to look forward to.
Blaine shook off the memories of the day at Bedlam, the feel of his father s strong
fingers gripping his neck, forcing him to stare at the patients. As he looked up at the
portrait of his dead father, he was still able to feel the viscous tightening of his sire s hand
on his neck. Even now, at thirty three he still trembled at the sight of him. George Henry
Hartley, the eight Earl of Hardcastle had been a big man, a towering giant with wiry gray
hair and burly sideburns. He d been possessed of big shoulders and fists the size of prized
hams.
As far back as he could remember, Blaine had been aware of his father s hatred
for him, cognizant even at seven that his father was ashamed of him. His idiot son. His
halfwit heir.
Taking a long swallow of brandy, Blaine stared into the gray eyes of his father
and felt the old pain swell within his breast. His father had told him he was nothing, that
he would never be anything but a sniveling simpleton writhing on the floor of Bedlam.
How his father had taken delight in telling him how worthless he was, that he d never
grow to be a man of any consequence. But he had shown the old bastard. He d gone off
to Eton and he d learned, excelled in fact, in every area of study. He d been terrified of
the other boys learning his secret, but he d braved it, wishing nothing more than to show
his father he could succeed.
He d found confidence in his early years at Eton, and after Bronley, Stanfield,
Reanleigh and Bathurst had entered his life, he d begun to change. Begun to believe that
the world might not be as cold and terrifying has his father had let him believe. But then
the old bastard had ruined it all by bringing him home during the holiday break. He d
dragged him to Bedlam and forced him to confront his secret.
His body had changed that winter, and so to, did the nature of his illness. It had
been Christmas Eve and the dinner was about to be served. His father had been in a vile
mood all day, and Celeste and his mother had been sitting at the table, nervously
fidgeting with their utensils. And then Blaine had smelled it, that oddly familiar scent of
burning bread. His muscles had tightened and jerked, begun to shake beyond his control
and he d look to his mother to help him. But she had sat there staring at him, a look of
horror on her face, her lips twisted in repulsion. He d seen the same look on the visitors
to Bedlam as they watched the inmates, their madness spiraling out of control. He d
watched, frightened, sickened as they sat transfixed in horrified fascination watching the
inmates. He recalled looking around the table, seeing that his family was staring at him
the same way the ton did the insane idiots in Bedlam.
He d spent the next two days in bed, weak and exhausted, almost unable to gather
Mistress of the Night Charlotte Featherstone 46
the strength in order to make it to the chamber pot. For two days he lay in bed, listening
to his father rail at him about him being an idiot, a God-damn embarrassment to me, and
the Hardcastle title.
Unfortunately, his sire had not been able to see past his own prejudices and
embarrassment in order to admit that he d fathered a child with epilepsy.
The falling sickness had been the bane of his existence since birth. For the first
twelve years of his life it had been a subtle shaking of the head and hand, or a mere
drifting off as if he were day dreaming, but having no recollection of doing so. The [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]

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