Bliss River

by Thea Devine

Genres: Historical Romance

Synopsis

Decadence In the steamy Bliss River Valley of South Africa, a colony of aristocratic British citizens have given themselves over--body and soul--to a debauched and dissolute lifestyle. The stifling heat only intensifies their lust for every sin--and for each other.  .  . Deception Into this world of instant--and intense--gratification comes Charles Elliott, a man who walks a tightly controlled line between two worlds.  His very presence stirs the air of the colony--and the libidos of its devotees. Under the pretext of setting up a polo club in Bliss River Valley, Charles has put into motion a carefully conceived plan of revenge he has nurtured for years.  And even Georgiana Maitland, with her knowing eyes and boundless capacity for passion, can't quench his thirst for vengeance .  .  . Desire Faced with Charles' blatant disregard, Georgiana uses every womanly weapon at her disposal to disarm him. But when a shocking murder rocks the colony and Charles becomes the prime suspect, he concocts a daring plot, taking her captive in order to escape. It's only a matter of time before he discovers just how willing a hostage Georgiana really is--and how close he is to surrendering to her wanton touch ..  .  . She's the hottest writer in the industry. Romantic Times calls her "The Queen of Erotic Romance," and Affaire de Coeur hails her as "the divine mistress of sensual writing." She's Thea Devine, and she's the author of eighteen steamy historical romances (all published by Zebra Books), four novellas, and featured in the bestselling erotic romance anthologies, Captivated, Fascinated, and All Through The Night. She also writes contemporary romance and is a long-time freelance manuscript reader. She lives in Connecticut with her husband of 35 years, two dogs and two cats

Release date: March 1, 2012

Publisher: Brava

Print pages: 298

Sample

He didn’t see a glint of recognition in her eyes, and it both pleased him and irritated him.

She had no idea who he was. But there was no reason that she should, not after all these years.

All she needed to know was what the pleasure-seeking members of the expatriate colony lounging on the shady club veranda knew: that he was a top-ranked breeder of polo ponies who had come to display his first crop of bangtails to the newly inaugurated team on the newly built playing field at the Nandina Club in Murthagorda.

As he had planned. Every step he had taken to bring him to this moment, with him astride his prize pony and swinging his way down the field, had been planned with excruciating attention to detail.

It was his way. Deliberation. Penetration. Know the enemy before the attack. Lessons learned too young, too soon, and only implementable because he had moved in two worlds for so long, it was second nature now.

But there was a ferocity in him that he held rigidly in check, the part of him that raced his ponies over the sands of Saffoud and the greensward of the Nandina playing the field with the recklessness of a sheikh.

He was all of that and more, and a good fellow besides.

He drew his pony to a thundering halt beside the veranda, and the admiring crowd immediately burst into applause.

One man separated himself from them, his hand outstretched. “Charles! Fantastic beast. Excellent show.”

Charles swung down from the pony, tossed his mallet, tucked his hat under his arm, and grasped the other man’s hand. “I’m gratified you’re pleased.”

The man shook his head. “They’re beauties. Worth any price.” He clapped Charles on the shoulder. “Let’s drink to it. They should be ready for us inside.”

The crowd accompanied them, including her. He made it a point to be within visual distance of her. Her. The wife of a man who had a hundred thousand pounds to spend on a string of polo ponies to while away the idle hours of the idle rich in the sultry heat of a country thousands of miles from home.

He despised them.

But he wasn’t averse to taking their money. To moving in their world. To making himself indispensable to their pleasure.

The heat was stultifying and it wasn’t much cooler in the dim recesses of the club. But he was used to the deep bone-seeping heat of the desert, and the piercing, burning caress of the sun.

This was nothing to him; this was an oasis. He accepted a drink from a passing waiter-they all did—as Moreton Estabrook led them to the rear of the gathering room to a porch overlooking a cool fountain shaded by a stand of trees.

Perfect here. The group sank exhaustedly into a dozen or so wicker chairs arranged in a circle around a large wooden table. The women immediately pulled off their hats and gloves and summoned waiters to bring wet towels and someone to operate the fans.

Charles watched the bustle with a cynical eye. Spoiled aristocrats they were, and petulant, deliberately never getting used to the suffocating heat, and then using it as an excuse for their dissipated, self-indulgent excesses.

Indigent second sons could live like a sultan on the cheap here, and if there was money, a man could be king, if not God.

What was Moreton Estabrook, with his free-handed ways? King—or desert rat?

He had called for more drinks, and the waiters were just setting them on the table.

“Charles,” he boomed, taking a glass. “Good job. Ladies. Gentlemen. To Charles Elliott and the new polo club.”

They all lifted their glasses. She lifted hers tentatively.

“Hear, hear.”

“How soon can we make the arrangements?” Moreton asked. “And can you stay on until we’re properly established? We’ll pay for your time, of course.”

Of course. Charles felt a spurt of anger at the assumption he could be bought, but he let nothing show in his face. It was going just as he had planned, but he wasn’t sure he could tolerate Estabrook’s smarmy condescension for more than another five minutes.

He reined in his natural impulse to squash the fleshy bug that was Estabrook, and lifted his glass. “I am at your disposal for as long as you need me,” he murmured. For as long as I need you.

He sipped his drink. Vile-tasting liquid. He watched her out of the corner of his eye. She had the good sense to pretend to drink and then to set her glass aside.

She was inordinately quiet—or maybe that was just her way. She didn’t look too much older than the younger women of the colony, the daughters of the patriciate of Murthagorda.

She didn’t look like one of them.

Dissolute fools. She was very much one of them, rich, idle, indulged and loose-living. He lifted his glass once again, just grazing his lips with whiskey to hide his disgust.

Voluptuaries, the lot of them, pigs in heat. The women, casting covert glances his way, flirting with a fan, a look in the eye, the wriggle of a hip, a moue of the lips.

Wild. Willing. Untamed. Just ask me. Just touch me. Just come for me.

Painted whores. They knew nothing of love and sensuality. All they wanted was a body to feed on and toss away. They thought him like any other man in the Valley, every other man they had ever known who was easily seduced by a wanton woman with the morals of a goat.

There wasn’t a man alive who wouldn’t fall into their beds.

Except him.

And he was well aware that his reserve was too enticing, too much of a challenge. He was an enigma, a novelty, fresh blood; they liked what they saw and nothing else mattered.

Moreton rubbed his hands together. “This is excellent, most excellent. By God, we’ll be national champions before you know it. We’ll hold tournaments, we’ll bring in youth and ...” He stopped abruptly, catching a sharp look from the woman lounging across the table next to her.

“Well, you know what I mean.” He snapped his fingers and immediately a servant brought him another drink. “Again, Charles,” he lifted his goblet. “Welcome.” Everyone followed suit. “Good. Well. Dinner, of course, and then—well, there’s much for Charles to learn about Bliss River if indeed he is to be among us for a while.”

“All in good time,” the woman sitting beside her murmured.

“Nonsense,” Moreton said. “Charles has been here several days now; it can’t have escaped him how we live here. I tell you, man, the longer you stay, the more reluctant you will be to return to Argentina. There isn’t anyone who has come for a visit who hasn’t decided to stay. Fair warning, then.” He tipped his drink again, and Charles acknowledged it just as another servant presented Moreton with a huge handwritten billet of fare.

Moreton scanned it quickly. “Ah, dinner. Excellent. Tonight, my friends, we dine informally on lamb kabob, rice, lentil salad, and biscuits. Perfect after such exertions, my friend. And then after, with our brandy, we’ll talk”—he winked, as if he and Charles already shared some secret—“ man to man.”

They didn’t move, not an inch from where they had settled themselves after the demonstration. There were endless rounds of drinks, a confusing babble of gossip and discussion of current affairs.

Charles found himself pulling back even farther, just watching them all edgily, with an air of polite attentiveness that totally belied his boredom.

Hedonists, all of them, drowning in food, drink, and orgiastic pleasure. Especially pleasure. He was an expert at that in every form imaginable, and Moreton was naive to think that he hadn’t immediately perceived the whole moral underpinning of the Valley.

But that had nothing to do with his purpose. His purpose still sat across the table from him, aloof, tense, and wary. Aware of him?

But he sensed no curiosity about him whatsoever. Rather, her attention was focused on Moreton, and the woman who sat beside them. The one who’d sent Moreton that warning look. The one who reminded him of a bird of prey, sharp, rapacious, merciless.

Dinner was served—chunks of marinated lamb and vegetables on skewers over a large firepot that fit into an inset in the table. Rice bowls. Lentil salad redolent of vinegar, oil, spiced tomatoes, onions. Flat biscuits to scoop the meat and vegetables. And wines and liqueurs, free-flowing, a servant assigned to refill every empty glass. Finger bowls full of cool water and floating petals. Servants to wield fans for their comfort as they ate.

Conversation slowed and petered out into an awesome concentration on the food. Their appetites were boundless, their enjoyment close to ecstasy.

There was no such thing as moderation.

“Help yourself, Charles, please,” Moreton invited. “There’s always more, and even more after that. And dessert is yet to come.”

So he helped himself, pacing himself to give the illusion of eating more while the others swamped themselves in gluttony.

Dessert was an anticlimax. They were too full, yet no one turned down the small cakes, fruit, and cheese that removed the main meal. There was coffee and tea, and claret and brandy to accompany that.

There was silence and complete absorption in the food, as the sun went down and twilight rose. Charles estimated they had been at dinner for close to three hours by the time Moreton rose, spread his arms, and indicated the meal was done. “Come, Charles, let’s walk.”

He had no choice but to follow. She did not give him a second glance, but he felt the interest and attention of every other woman on him as he gracefully withdrew from the table.

There was a palpable excitement in the air as they walked through the clubhouse, and then out onto the grounds in front, where a knot of women and girls were milling around.

Or were they?

“So this is our little village,” Moreton said. “Pennyfield vetted you so I know you’re a right one. I know you like what you see.”

Ah yes, Pennyfield. The connection. The conduit. The licentious bastard with his hints and smirks and allusions to life before the serpent struck. All too clear now what he meant. Charles was repulsed. “What exactly have I seen?” he asked finally, impassively.

Moreton waved his hand. “Freedom. For everyone.” He nodded at a group of women coming toward them. “And another night of voluptuous expectation. This is our life in Bliss River Valley, dear Charles. This is as close to heaven as a man can get. Look at those beauties trolling for a lover for tonight.”

Charles went rigid, and Moreton sensed it. “Do I shock you, Charles? Because of Lydia? But we’ve been married for years. This is our custom, and it is understood Lydia will find her own partner for tonight as well.”

Yes, Charles thought, his hands clenching, Lydia was very good at finding partners for the night. And she had recanted everything she had attained to be the wife of Moreton Estabrook? It was almost laughable.

Except that Moreton was as serious as a priest as he elaborated further. “Vows and commitments mean nothing here. This is the Garden of Eden, my friend. This is where all things are possible, every fantasy is permissible, every desire can be met. For everyone, male and female. And without regrets, without recriminations. Take what you want. Candy in a shop, my friend. Choose one piece; choose three. Whatever your wont, whatever your need.

“And surely you have needs after all the time you traveled to come to us, Charles. Choose one luscious morsel for your bed tonight. Look around you—the way the women are swinging their hips, the way they watch you, the way they lick their lips. They want you, the beauties. All of them with tight young bodies and hard-tipped breasts. Take one, Charles. Any one you like. Take two. They’ll burrow all over you and make you feel like a king.

“It is the way here. From age sixteen on. And we teach our children from the time they can talk that everyone belongs to everyone, and no one belongs to just someone. It’s a foolproof system. It readies them for their coming of age under the peacock fan; it primes them to participate in the daily pleasure as they come to learn what pure guiltless pleasure means. And thus we perpetuate heaven on earth, my friend.

“But, all this talk of pleasure has stiffed me to the root. And you need a partner for tonight. You know, you need not be particular. You need not be shy. Our women are eager to spread their legs and let you nuzzle inside them. Look around at all this prime flesh, my dear Charles. You can have any woman who takes your fancy.”

Moreton was watching him closely. It was abominably clear the pasha was offering him his choice of the harem, and he had better make a selection. Moreton was no better than a whoremonger, showing off his stable.

They were all of a piece, these women, similarly dressed, educated in lust, alike in their movements, their blandishments, their lewd, practiced smiles. One was no more enticing than the other.

Except that one—

Far on the edge of the crowd, he saw her, aloof and removed, her ramrod posture immutable and proud. She was not engaged in a mating dance, far from it. She seemed disdainful of it, above it. She looked like she was trying not to be noticed.

And yet, who wouldn’t notice her? She moved like a queen, her pure profile silhouetted against the waning light, her dark hair tumbling in curls down her back.

He watched her for another moment, curious. And then she moved into the crowd, obviously lusting, as they were, for a lover. She was no different than the rest of them: a child of paradise, educated to fleshly pursuits.

Goddamn. He didn’t want to choose, not a one of them, and he would not perform on command, and so where would that leave him with his coy mistress in the morning? Probably the object of the pernicious gossip the colony loved to feed on.

There was no way around it. Someone would share his bed tonight whether he wanted it or not.

He shrugged. “You choose for me, Estabrook. I have no preferences. ”

Moreton eyed him consideringly for a moment. “I know the very one,” he murmured. “She is much more suited to your obviously refined tastes. She will come to you within the hour, my dear Charles.” He clapped him on the shoulder. “You have only to take yourself to your bungalow and relax, and then prepare to spend yourself until she sucks you dry.”

If there was anything Georgiana Maitland had learned in all her years in Bliss River Valley, it was the potency of her femininity. That, and the power of the word no.

“But my dear,” her mother would chide her, “there’s absolutely no reason to deny yourself. You’ve been amply prepared. You know everything. You are merely fulfilling your destiny. What more could any woman desire than to be a vessel for a man’s pleasure? But even better than that, any man you want. Every man you want.”

“They’re all pigs; who would want them?”

“They want us,” her mother would say, “and that confers power.”

But her mother had it all wrong: submission led to dependence. Refusal, withholding what was most desired, gave you the power.

She had watched for years as her mother danced a quadrille of passion with dozens of men in the Valley, yearning and hoping that Moreton would abandon his duty to her sister and come to her.

How often had Georgiana heard about the debutante days of the wild Wyndham sisters who had had the whole of London at their feet. Olivia and Lydia, walking all over the men who wanted them, rejecting proposals and marriage, status and wealth, and stubbornly going their own libidinous way. And look at where they were now: stuck in a sultry swamp of lust and concupiscence, yearning for lovers they could never have and a stability and order they denied they wanted.

And herding their children into the morass with them.

Her own father had abandoned them his second year out in the Valley and returned to England, Aling, and the countryside that he loved, believing in his soul that her mother, Olivia, had already poisoned her.

But it wasn’t too late—it wasn’t. She didn’t want this life; she wanted to get out of it, to get away somehow and join her father in England. It wasn’t too late. The initiation meant nothing. And she’d kept herself as pure as she could, rebelling, demanding to choose, and then making as few choices as possible, enough only to satisfy Moreton that she was conforming, that she was one of them.

Never.

She didn’t often do the twilight promenade. It was a nightly ritual that everyone knew was meant to precipitate a night of voluptuous promiscuity. It was never talked about; it was just done. There wasn’t a man in the Valley who wasn’t up for night after night of mindless fucking. Or a woman who wasn’t ready to accommodate him.

The promenade was their meeting ground.

She was the rare one. The one who valued her body and its pleasure. But she was twenty now, and getting too old for games. Moreton had warned her.

Moreton, the bastard, the high priest of penetration.

She shuddered whenever she thought of it. And that her mother wanted him, still. Forever. For all the years her mother had known him, for all the years she wallowed in hatred when he chose Lydia, and for all the years after she went on the rebound and married Georgiana’s father.

And then what transpired but that Lydia ran away with that Oxford-educated Bedouin prince, Ali Bakhtoum, and immured herself in the desert.

So there was her mother, Olivia, firmly married and fuming, ensconced deep in the English countryside, and there was Moreton haring off to Africa and establishing an expatriate colony at Bliss River to feed his debauched fantasies. Because he certainly wasn’t going to take on Ali Bakhtoum for the love of Lydia. At least the way her mother told the story. Olivia followed him to the Valley over her husband’s objections, and never left.

And meantime, incited by a distraught letter that Lydia had somehow smuggled out to him begging him to save her, Moreton stormed the desert stronghold of Ali Bakhtoum and rescued her, leaving Bakhtoum and his entourage dead in the process.

And Olivia brokenhearted once again.

Because then Moreton went and married Lydia. And Olivia never divorced her father. And here they all lived in a haze of hedonistic harmony, educating their children to follow in their ways.

Dear lord. She never got used to it. And her obdurate father never believed that she could be saved.

But for the past few days, there had been a stranger in their midst, and that was the thing that compelled her to walk the twilight promenade, that gave her a small surge of hope.

A foreigner. Someone from outside who wasn’t used to their ways. Someone who might revile them. Someone, she thought, she might somehow coerce into helping her get away.

Coerce ... She knew one way of doing that. Only one thing to barter for his help.

So it all came down to that, she thought mordantly. It was all about sex all the time; there was no escaping it, and she was never going to get away.

She had to try. There were so few visitors to the Valley. And those who came went through a rigorous scrutiny to be certain they were the kind of people Moreton wanted there.

And Moreton wanted this visitor, obviously, so what hope was there, really? The man had passed the test and would be here for the foreseeable future. That meant he understood everything, and he was willing to participate in anything.

But even with all that, she was still curious to see this man the women had been gossiping about so endlessly for the past two days.

He would be on the promenade, of course; every man in the colony paraded there every night, hard and hot to fuck. Or they stood sometimes, lounging against a wall, their hands set low on their hips, subtly pointing toward their already bulging crotches, ready to root in the next available orifice.

Sometimes it was quick behind the door, in the clubhouse on a table, or in a frenzy on the floor. Sometimes it was an invitation for a night of long and leisurely sucking and fucking.

It was the heat; it made you torpid and heavy with arousal, your body languid as honey awaiting the sting of a bee. At night, you could divest yourself of corsets and constraints; you could flash a bare ankle, or the thrust of a tight naked nipple against a thin lawn dress. You walked slower, undulating your hips. You felt your body liquefy with an unnamed yearning. Your body stretching toward something hot and filling you with pleasure. Just the thought, just to imagine ...

All the juicy women along the promenade, all with the same yearning, the same tight wet place between their legs lusting to be mounted and driven to mindless oblivion.

And the visitor had his choice of any of these women and more ... willing wanton women who wanted that hot space filled and their bodies satiated with whichever penis was available for the night.

She skirted around the crowd as the women twitched and switched and provoked the men who had lined up to make their choices.

He was not among them. No, she could see him exactly where she expected him to be: at Moreton’s side, with Moreton eagerly explaining the process of procuring a partner for the evening. Moreton with his hundred mistresses casting for yet another, not hesitating to fondle and feel each of the women who passed his way.

Women she knew. Women who never looked at each other as they swayed and sashayed and played the coquette, shimmying up against any hand that burrowed down their bodices or against their buttocks.

How could he not be like those men? And did she really think she was not like those women?

And yet, from afar, there was such an air of restraint about him. He reacted to nothing, which must have frustrated Moreton to no end. Nor did he ogle any of the women flaunting themselves along the clubhouse promenade.

Moreton talked earnestly and the stranger listened, a tall, dark, well-built, paragon who stood aloof in the midst of the usual ruttish display of naked pandering that appalled her still.

After all these years, with all her experience. All she knew. All she’d done. She was not exempt, much as she might try to justify it.

She moved into the crowd, still watching him. People were pairing off. He said a few words to Moreton. Moreton responded and clapped him on the back, and off he went, in a long, lean, efficient walk, down the main avenue toward his bungalow.

With no one on his arm for the evening.

Interesting. So how likely then was he for the role of savior?

She was being naive, she thought as she moved into the shadows and removed herself from contention this nig. . .