London 1811
May 14
Just before midnight LORD BEECHAM STOPPED
dead in his tracks. He turned around so quickly that he
nearly tripped over a huge potted palm.
He couldn’t believe it. He had to be wrong. She
couldn’t have said that, could she? He looked for the
woman he had just heard speaking.
He parted two huge palm fronds and peered into the
Sanderling’s library, a long, narrow, shelf-lined room just
off the ballroom. Where the library was filled with darkbound
tomes, cobwebs in gloomy corners, and just one
small branch of candles casting shadows, the ballroom
was overflowing with lit candles, plants, and at least two
hundred guests, all of them laughing, dancing, and drinking
too much of the potent champagne punch.
The woman he had heard before spoke again. He took
2 Catherine Coulter
a step closer to the dimly lit library. Her voice was rich,
tantalizing, filled with laughter. “Really, Alexandra,” she
said, “doesn’t just the simple thought of discipline, just
hearing the word, saying it slowly to yourself and letting
it caress your tongue as you say it, doesn’t it conjure up
all sorts of delicious scenes of dominance? Can’t you just
see yourself? You are completely at the mercy of another,
that person is in total control, and there is nothing you
can do about anything. You know something is going to
happen, you’re dreading it, your heart is pounding, you’re
afraid, so very afraid, yet it’s a delicious sort of fear you
feel. You know, deep down, that you are anticipating what
is to come. You can’t wait for it to come, but there is
nothing you can do except imagine what will be done to
you. Ah, yes, your skin is rippling with the excitement of
it.”
There was dead silence. Wait, was that heavy breathing
he heard?
Lord Beecham, whose very active imagination had conjured
up a vision of himself standing over a beautiful
woman, smiling down at her as he tied her hands over her
head and her legs, spread, to the posts of his bed, knowing
that in just a few minutes, he would remove her clothing,
one lovely garment at a time, slowly, ever so slowly,
and—
“Oh, goodness, Helen. I have to fan myself. I believe
my bosom is palpitating. You are far too good at painting
word pictures. What you describe—it sounds terrifying
and wonderful. It rather makes my mouth water. It also
sounds like a grand production that requires a lot of planning.”
“Oh, yes, but that is part of the ritual. It is very important
that it be planned perfectly. You are part of the
ritual, the most important part, if you are the one in control.
It requires that you be constantly inventive, that you
don’t continue to rely on the same old disciplines. Remember,
anticipation of something unknown is a very
THE COURTSHIP 3
powerful thing. To be effective, discipline must constantly
grow and change. In most cases, it is effective to have
other people nearby to witness the discipline. This makes
the recipient all the more frightened, his senses more
heightened, his thoughts more focused. It is an amazing
process. You will have to try it. Both sides of it.”
More deep silence.
Try it? He wanted to run into that room this very instant
and try everything he could possibly envision or dream
about. His fingers were already on his cravat, ready to
jerk it off so he could tie the wrists of the woman speaking,
together over her head, so she would be helpless, her
eyes large and frightened and excited as she stared up at
him, her lips parted. Damnation, he had only one cravat,
the one he was wearing. He needed at least two. He shuddered,
imagining the smooth flesh of her wrists as he
lightly wrapped the cravat around and around them, then
pulled them bound, over her head—
He heard a deep sigh.
“All of that is well and good, Helen, but what I need
are specific disciplines to try. A list of disciplines, if you
will. From mild disciplines to the most rigorous.”
He realized suddenly that he knew that voice. Good
God, it was Alexandra Sherbrooke. He couldn’t believe
it. On second thought, he pictured Douglas Sherbrooke in
his mind’s eye, that big, hard man who had reputedly kept
his wife happy for eight whole years now. And Alexandra
wanted to know about discipline? To try on her husband?
What a delightfully wicked idea.
Who was the woman speaking to her, this Helen?
“On the other hand,” Alexandra said after a moment,
“I would like to know how you know so very much about
discipline.”
“I have read every book, every article, every paper—
both scholarly and secular—ever penned on the subject.
I have seen every painting, etching, and drawing of disciplines
employed throughout the world and throughout
the ages. Now, the disciplines in China—goodness, talk
about inventive. The drawings show that the Chinese are
exceedingly flexible.”
A bit more silence, then Alexandra said, her voice lowered
a bit, as if she were leaning closer to this other
woman, speaking in confidence, but he could still make
out her words. “Helen, you are laughing at me. All right,
I accept that you know all about discipline. Now, you
must force yourself to come to my level. You have told
me how you discipline your servants. You have told me
about the ritual, how to build to a climax, how to squeeze
out every tantalizing drop of fear and excitement during
the discipline to achieve the result you wish.
“Now I want to go directly to the extreme pleasure end
of things. I want specifics. I am talking about physical
pleasure, Helen. I want to know exactly what you would
do to a man to drive him to the brink of madness. Since
you have read every tome written about the subject, you
must know something that would help me.”
Lord Beecham would not have moved if a beautiful
woman had stripped naked in front of him and started
kissing him. Now this was a kicker. Alexandra Sherbrooke
wanted to know how to drive Douglas to the brink
of madness? That made no sense. Driving a man like
Douglas to the brink would require very little effort on
her part. It would probably require an effort of ten seconds,
no more. Actually, any man who was still breathing
was a suitable candidate. He himself, for example.
Suddenly it simply became too much. He was eavesdropping
on two ladies discussing discipline, for God’s
sake. He was lurking there behind a palm, listening to
them, sweating, and ready to remove his cravat. It was
not to be borne. Lord Beecham couldn’t hold it back. It
just burst from his mouth. He laughed—something he
didn’t normally do because he was, after all, a man of the
world; a lazy nod or a slightly contemptuous snicker was
usually more fitting. And so what poured out of his mouth
THE COURTSHIP 5
sounded a bit rusty, perhaps a tad hoarse to the casual ear,
but it was a laugh, a good strong laugh, and it just kept
rolling out of him.
He realized they could hear him. That would never do.
He tried so hard to stop laughing that he hiccupped. He
clapped his hand over his mouth and quickly slipped behind
another giant palm tree. And none too soon.
“I know I heard someone, Helen. It was a man and he
was laughing. Oh, dear, you don’t think it was Douglas,
do you? No, Douglas would come right in here and laugh
in our faces. Then he would look at me with a smile in
his eyes and tell me to forget the thought of disciplining
him, that he is in charge. I am tired of his controlling
everything. Eight years is a long time, Helen. I want to
make him wild first, for once.”
“Well, that can’t be too difficult. Simply distract him
when he is reading the Gazette. Start nuzzling his ear,
kiss his neck, bite him. Why haven’t you done this already?”
Dead silence.
“Oh, dear, you are scarlet to your hairline, Alexandra.”
“I have bitten him, Helen, I have. My bites simply take
place in a different context. There is no Gazette lying
about.”
“A context that Douglas has provided?”
“Yes. You know, it’s just that Douglas has only to look
at me, perhaps give me a small touch anywhere with his
hand or his mouth, and I lose every shred of thought. I
puddle right on the floor, directly in front of him. It just
does not stop, Helen. Help me. Oh, dear, what if he is out
there, listening? Now he knows what power he wields
over me.”
“Trust me, he already knows. Now, you’re right, of
course. If it had been Douglas, he would be standing right
in front of us, laughing his head off. But then, perhaps he
would have let you lead him off to begin disciplining him
this very night—that is, if he didn’t decide to discipline
you first.”
Alexandra sighed.
“Goodness, you mean it? You’re serious here, Alexandra?
Doesn’t Douglas ever let you have control? Eight
years of one-sided marital sorts of things? From everything
I’ve read, this isn’t good. The Italians, especially,
believe that participation in lovemaking should be balanced.
You must pull yourself together.”
“It’s difficult once Douglas turns his attention on me. I
would like to read what the Italians have to say about
this.”
“I will lend you a treatise on it. Now, you cannot allow
Douglas always to discipline you first. You must focus
your mind, Alexandra.”
Alexandra’s eyes nearly crossed. She shuddered delicately.
“Douglas has never said anything at all about discipline.
I’m sure he’s never done any to me.”
Helen laughed and patted her cheek. “From everything
I’ve read, I’ll wager Douglas already performs a lover’s
standard discipline on you and you don’t even realize it.
You’re just having fun.”
“Do you really think so? I wonder what specific sorts
of things that Douglas enjoys with me one could call discipline?
Perhaps I shall ask him.”
“Or perhaps not, at least not yet.”
“Whatever he does, it’s true that I do sometimes forget
to think,” Alexandra said, then squared her shoulders, “but
that’s another problem, one I will have to solve.” Her
shoulders squared even more and her magnificent bosom
achieved new prominence. “I will have to learn how to
retain my own control if I want to have a chance of controlling
Douglas. I will have to have a specific goal in
mind, a course that I will have to follow. I will get the
upper hand of Douglas. The brink of madness—yes, Helen,
that is where I want to dispatch Douglas. You must
tell me specifically what I am to do.”
Helen looked down at her fingernails a moment. She
knew she should keep her mouth shut, but she couldn’t
help herself. She said on a deep, wistful sigh, overflowing
with exquisite memories, knowing that Alexandra would
be enraged within moments, “Ah, even when I was fifteen
and I first saw Douglas and fell in love with him, I knew
instinctively that he wouldn’t be a clod. I knew he would
excel, and I wanted to be the female he chose to excel
upon. Such a pity that it wasn’t meant to be.” She sighed
again, a sad, forlorn sigh.
Helen watched beneath her lashes as Alexandra’s eyes
narrowed remarkably, and her voice turned mean and low.
“Helen, I will not tell you again. You will forget those
early years of infatuation with Douglas. You will forget
those tender feelings you cherished for him when you
were too young to realize what was what.”
“Yes,” Helen said at her most humble, her head bent
to show how contrite she was, “I will try.” She hoped
Alexandra couldn’t hear the laughter in her voice.
Lord Beecham heard the laughter. And then he realized
that here he was, a man of immense savoir faire, hiding
behind huge green palm fronds, hanging on these
women’s every word. He hadn’t yet seen the disciplinarian,
but he could see Alexandra Sherbrooke now. She was
looking around, just a bit apprehensively, her fingers
splayed over her incredible bosom. It was too bad Douglas
insisted she keep all that lovely white flesh more covered
than not. It wasn’t at all the style. God gave women bosoms
to flaunt, and every woman he knew flaunted, except
Alexandra Sherbrooke. Everyone had seen Douglas drag
his wife into a corner from time to time to pull up her
bodice if he thought there was too much white flesh showing.
A pity.
Lord Beecham loved breasts: bountiful breasts like Alexandra’s
that would overflow a man’s hands, small
breasts that were ripe and sweet, breasts pushed up to be
lovingly framed by a gown’s satin and lace. He loved to
bury his face in a woman’s breasts.
He got hold of himself. Who was the other woman, the
self-proclaimed mistress of discipline? He knew only that
her name was Helen.
Lord Beecham was not normally a skulker, but he had
to know who she was. He waited, veiled by the palm
fronds, until, finally, the two ladies came out of the Sanderling’s
library.
He nearly dropped his glass of champagne when he saw
Helen. She was the woman he had seen riding in the park
with Douglas. He remembered remarking to himself then
that he wanted a better look at her. Now he was getting
it. She had to be nearly as tall as he was, but there all
resemblance between them ended. His imagination soared
to Mount Olympus for suitable comparisons. She was
sculpted like a goddess, statuesque and beautifully curved,
skin so white it was alabaster, and her hair—surely even
goddesses didn’t have hair like that, thick and pure blond
with no hints of gold or red. She wore it twisted atop her
head, making her appear even taller, with long, lazy curls
caressing the white flesh of her shoulders. Her eyes were
bluer than Aphrodite’s, her smile so charming, so utterly
seductive, it could have belonged to Helen of Troy. He
would wager that this new Helen could launch even more
ships.
Lord Beecham had just lost his wits. Frankly, his
literary-inspired imagination had made him produce tripe.
She was a woman, just a woman, and her name was
Helen. She might be on the magnificent side, but she was
still only a woman, nothing more, nothing less. He had
seen women who were more beautiful, had bedded
women who were more beautiful. She was not a goddess,
not even close to a siren of myth. She was just a very big
girl who happened to have very nice hair of a shade that
sparked poetry in a man’s soul. And she had spoken authoritatively
of discipline.
All other things being equal, she was a man’s dream.
He watched Helen and Alexandra walk away from him,
down the corridor to the ballroom.
She wasn’t a young, untried girl of eighteen either,
newly released from the schoolroom to prey upon the hapless
bachelors of London. No, she had been released a
goodly number of years ago, which meant she was well
married and knew exactly what was what—and that was
surely an utterly excellent thing.
He had always preferred married women. What man
didn’t? They were safe. They wanted what he wanted—
a bit of excitement, a bit of warmth, a new companion to
add spice and passion. They didn’t usually whine or carp
when he was ready to move on. He did not have to worry
about their husbands, most of whom were his friends and
who bedded other friends’ wives just as he did. Many men
and women were not discreet, and that sometimes
stretched civilized manners to the limit. Lord Beecham,
however, never spoke of his conquests. There wasn’t any
need to even if he had been inclined to bray and brag.
For some reason, he could not escape the gossips, no matter
how silent he remained.
He tossed down the rest of his champagne as the two
women disappeared from his view back into the ballroom.
He rubbed his hands together.
Helen was a very big girl. He spread his fingers out.
He thought of her breasts. Were his hands big enough for
her? Oh, yes, he thought, his hands would make do quite
nicely. He looked at his hands, pictured her breasts, and
knew that if he had been speaking just then, he would
doubtless have been stuttering.
Why were they talking about discipline? His flesh rippled.
He pictured Helen on her back, her white arms
pulled above her head, her wrists tied with two of his
softest cravats to the posts at the head of his bed.
A woman who was well versed in the art of discipline?
She had read everything ever written about it? Had she
also employed everything she had learned? Had it all been
employed upon her? It was a heady thought, one that
made him swallow a bit convulsively.
When he reached the ballroom he looked and looked,
but the big girl was gone.
He wasn’t worried. He would simply call upon Alexandra
and, with his exquisite finesse, discover Helen’s address
and the name of her husband.
He hoped Alexandra would cooperate. He had stopped
trying to seduce her at least six years ago, when one evening
in the midst of one of his more effective offerings
she laughed at him. It had wounded him greatly. He was
a renowned lover—at least that was what the gossips were
always saying.
But in the end, he quite liked Alexandra Sherbrooke,
despite her appalling preference for only her husband in
her bed. He liked her husband as well, all the more so
once Douglas determined he wouldn’t have to kill him for
trying to seduce his wife. It was nothing more than attempted
poaching, and that, Douglas had told him some
years before, he would let slide. Thank the heavens that
there were not all that many couples like the Sherbrookes
in London.
Exactly what did the big girl know about discipline?
Like Alexandra, he wanted specifics. He couldn’t wait to
find out. Other than her far-flung reading, had her husband
taught her? Or a lover?
Lord Beecham wanted her in his bed, and he wanted
her there very soon. He would be a lover who would teach
her something altogether new about discipline. He would
take his fill of her and when they eventually parted, she
would never forget him. Whenever she spoke of discipline
after her time with him, she would remember him, and
smile.
He rubbed his hands together in anticipation even as he
wondered if her hair was long enough to fall over her
shoulders and curl lazily around her breasts.
Lord Beecham was a man with a very detailed imagination.
He saw her beneath him, all of her, stretched out,
smiling up at him, and her hands were busy, very busy.
He was forced once again to swallow. He would bed her
soon. Very soon.
Tomorrow night would fit nicely into his schedule.
His fingers clenched at the emerging picture in his
mind, a very big picture.
So much white canvas.
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