Lust

“Bel is such an unusual name for a pet,” the one named Mercy said. She held her glove palm out and Bel loped to her side, sniffing and licking the leather.

“It is an old Gaelic name that means the Shining One. He is named after the Celtic sun god of healing.”

Mercy bent down and rubbed her hands through Bel’s pure white fur. “I am afraid that Chastity is not the animal lover in the family.”

That, Thane realized, was going to be a bit of a problem. The fey lived in the woods, surrounded by nature and all its creatures. With Chastity’s fear of animals it was going to be very hard to induce her to come and live at his court.

Thinking it best to steer the conversation away from animals, and Chastity’s increasing fear of the eagerly sniffing Bel, he asked, “Are you by chance going to the May Day celebration?” He indicated the village green, which was decorated for Beltane. Beyond the green, by the ruins of the ancient abbey was a pile of branches and logs, the beginnings of the traditional Beltane bonfire.

“No, we are not,” the one named Prudence announced in a clipped voice. “Now, good day to you, sir.”

Thane watched the four young women commence walking along the path. In the distance the tor rose, and at the foot of it was a grand manor home, fit for a duke. It was the Lennoxes’ estate. And Chastity’s home. He even knew what bedroom window was hers.

Despite her cold reception, he was not thwarted. Lust knew how to break down any resisting barriers. Thane could almost taste Chastity’s surrender on his tongue. Her sexual awakening aroused him, roused a hunger in him that had not been sated by any of his previous conquests. Lust, it seemed, was most eager to corrupt the innocent Chastity, in the most depraved ways. But it was not only his sin that desired her. Thane and his Dark Fey blood wanted her, too.

Allowing his gaze to linger, he followed the prim and beckoning Chastity as she sauntered down the path to her home—to safety. But Chastity Lennox was not safe anywhere from him—from the desire that was growing inside him.

Every one hundred years, seven virtues were born in the mortal realm, he reminded himself. Chastity had been born for him, to sate the sin inside him. She had been created exclusively for his sexual appetites, and the power that she was his, intended solely for him, was a feeling more dominant than orgasm.

Christ, he wanted her. And he would have her, too.

With a cheeky little backward glance, the dark-haired Mary smiled at him over her shoulder and he returned it, thinking of how soon it was going to be that he would see Chastity smile at him like that.

“Do not get any ideas about her,” Rinion said as he emerged from the woods and came to stand beside him. “She is mine.”

Thane glanced at the fey who harbored Vanity. He was astoundingly handsome. Women fell at his feet. Thane looked back at the dark and exotic Mary, thinking of her and Rinion together. It was good that the lovely little minx was his virtue. She’d give him a hell of a merry chase and Rinion deserved nothing less.

“I have no interest in your virtue, Rinion. I covet my own.”

Vanity laughed as he fiddled with his already immaculately tied lace jabot. “And she looked at you with as much lust in her eyes as a man does a used-up whore.”

“She’s chaste,” he replied, finding himself snarling the word.

“Poor you,” Rinion murmured before nudging his mount forward. “My virtue is humility. Already, I’m eager to see that saucy wench of mine on her knees. She will submit, I have no doubt, but I wish to see that sparkling, mischievous gleam in her dark eyes as she does so. Now then, I’m off. I have a virtue to corrupt.”

Thane pulled the reins of Rinion’s horse, bringing the animal up short. “Remember the curse. Seduce them. Corrupt their virtues, but don’t force them to follow you to court.”

Vanity’s brow rose, making him look even more handsome. “That little minx is practically begging for it. I’ll have her at court with her thighs spread before midnight.”

With a gentle nudge, Rinion moved his mount forward, but not in the direction of the women. Instead, he cantered for the open plain that had once been fenland and headed for the mansion. Rinion was a fool if he thought to go riding into the gates, proclaiming his stake on the eldest Lennox daughter. It wasn’t going to be easy to get within reach of the girls. George Buckman, the Duke of Lennox, was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to anyone coming near his daughters for even a dance, let alone with the thought of courting them.

Behind him, Thane heard the woods rustle, then Avery and Kian flanked his sides. “Next move?”

Thane pulled the black satin tie from his queue and allowed his long black hair to blow in the wind. He listened to the woods, to the creak of the tree limbs and the whisper of the shimmering leaves. Glancing at the tor, he imagined his court that lay beneath the mound, and the winding labyrinths that led to the magical other-world where the Unseelie Court lay, amidst a faery forest and enchanted waters. His was a magical world beneath the ground of the mortal realm. A court that resembled something out of the mortals’ Arthurian legends. The court that was so richly and lavishly appointed with gold and marble, silks and velvets. The court that was cursed and dying. The court that so desperately needed these virtues.

“For now we wait,” he announced. “And we watch.” And yearn, he silently added, feeling the burn in his loins and the hunger in his belly.

As he gathered the reins, he turned his mount just in time to see one of them—a faery galloping across the grassy knolls.

Crom.

Avery and Kian stiffened beside him. What was Niall’s twin doing out here, and so close to the Lennox estate?

“Bloody hell,” Kian hissed, the sound full of spite, “the Seelie want them, too.”

THREE

BEHIND HIS ENORMOUS ROCOCO DESK, THE DUKE of Lennox pored over the papers that were spread out before him. He had received them that very morning by messenger, from his man of affairs. Scouring the last statement, the duke sat back in his chair and smiled. All seemed to be in order. His wealth had doubled from last year, making him one of the richest landowners in England. Bloody faery magic, he thought, then laughed out loud as he reached for his crystal decanter of fine French brandy. It was illegal, of course—England was at war with France. But there was very little that his money could not secure, smuggled French brandy being one of them.

Pouring the golden liquid into his goblet, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Power, ambition, riches. He had them in spades. At last. And all it had taken was a little pact. A tithe, the faeries called it.

“Your Grace,” his duchess murmured as she swished through the opened library door. “The bills have arrived for the girls’ trousseaux.”

Leaning forward, Lennox waved his duchess into the room, still awed by her dazzling beauty after all these years of marriage. “And what has their trousseaux set me back?”

“An enormous amount,” she said with a smile as he captured her hand in his and brushed his lips along her fingers. She blushed. As pretty still as the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had wanted her so much. Still did. Nothing would have stopped him from possessing her. In fact, nothing had. There had been one particular hurdle to jump, but nothing too serious.

“The modiste has done an extraordinary job of dressing them,” his wife said. “Wait till you see them in their new gowns. Mrs. Hartwell has such a way with color and draping. And the lace,” his wife continued, obviously over the moon with pride, “the lace on their cuffs is at least three inches thick, and so finely spun. I can hardly credit how she is able to design such gowns.”

He did not want this private moment with his wife spoiled by talk of the village modiste. “Why you did not send for a modiste from London for a proper trousseau, I will never understand,” he grumbled, thinking of the woman who ran the only clothing shop in Glastonbury. “You know how I adore my girls, nothing is too good for them. I want them to have the best.”

“I like our modest little modiste,” his wife replied. “And their gowns look as though they were designed and made in Paris, not Glastonbury. Besides, our modiste is rather gifted.”

His brows arched. “In what way?”

“The villagers say she’s been blessed by faeries. They say,” his wife murmured, leaning into him, “that the reason her gowns are so magnificent and her stitches so delicate, and her lace so beautiful, is that the faeries visit her nightly and fill her orders.”

A harrowing thought, indeed.

“They say,” his wife continued, whispering in his ear, “that our little village modiste is happy to repay them in their favored currency.”

“Carnalities?”

“Honeyed milk.”

Patting her rump, Lennox sent his wife a lusty smile. “How little you know of the fey, my dear, for they would much prefer humping to honey.”

She blushed at his vulgarity. “What are you working on?” she asked, flipping through the papers that littered his desk.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he cajoled. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them away from her reach. His investments were listed there, and some of them were dubious to say the least. He had no wish for his wife to discover how he made his coin. Her Grace might be beyond accepting if she were to learn that the jewels around her throat were paid for by his investment in a notorious bawdy house that catered to humans and fey alike.

“Your Grace …” His butler coughed discreetly from the door. “You have a caller.”

“Who is it, Salisbury?” he grumbled, not wanting to be disturbed. His wife was feeling much too fine in his lap, and the thought of the Nymph and the Satyr, the bawdy house and all the erotic, decadent delights to be found there, had him aroused. Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like to have his wife and a little fey concubine addressing his needs. He had heard that the fey, particularly the Dark Fey, could fuck like the devil. Perhaps he would make a trip into the city and watch a female fey with her lover from behind the privacy of a peephole. He could put the theory to a test to see if indeed the fey were sexually insatiable. And maybe he’d even have one, too, a little pixie on his cock.

What a delightfully debauched diversion. Perversity was a healthy thing to maintain a man’s vigor as he neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.

“Your Grace?”