Tight Laced

  Tight Laced

  Book I of the Dragon Duchess Series

  Copyright © 2015 by Roxy Soulé

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, except for brief quotations attributed to the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, occurrences and places are of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Published by words in a hurry

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  NOTE: Due to strong sexual content, this book is intended for the 18+ reader

  Roxy’s List of Helpers Supreme:

  Cover by Kit Foster

  Formatting by Champagne Formats

  Title Page

  Tight Laced

  Dedication

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thank you

  About Roxy

  Tight Laced is dedicated to my maternal grandfather, Joseph Rudgunas, who died in a coal mine in 1942.

  Yourself and your family are respectfully invited to attend the funeral of Lord Bloomsbury, the Earl of Highcastle, from the Rosehaven Church of St. Sebastian on the Third of October, 1877, at 11:00 in the morning, to proceed to Rosemount Cemetery. ~ funeral invitation sent from Highcastle

  LADY LACILIA TURNED the mourning locket over in her hands. Her father had given it to her years earlier, when her mother passed, and now he was gone as well. She brought her lips to the clasp, and then gazed up at the ceiling – though she really didn’t think that the idea of heaven as something above the world made any sense at all. Heaven, if there was such a place, dwelt in one’s heart.

  She whispered into the stilted quiet of the room, “I didn’t even have a chance to say good-bye, Papa.”

  Lacy had drained herself of tears, but the shock of her father dying so suddenly, and the entire manor switching from normalcy to grief, now sat upon her heart like a chunk of marble.

  Out in the hall, she heard sharp footsteps. Those of her stepmother, no doubt.

  All of Highcastle was in high mourning; she, Lady Bloomsbury, and Lady Sarah Jane had been outfitted in appropriate attire from Jay’s of Regent Street. Paramatta silk and stiff, black crepe – and so it was to be for months to come. The dress Lacy wore matched her spirit: sorrowful and bleak. And angry, too, truth be told.

  She’d adored her father, though the earl had been nearly fifty when she was born. Her mother, too, had not been young. The original Lady Bloomsbury had been a spinster, having lost many suitors to disease and accident, and it was a miracle, Lord Bloomsbury always told her, that Lacy had been born at all.

  Now, her parents both lay in the ground. Her mother, long dead of consumption in one plot of earth, her father in another. He’d remarried straight away, giving Lacy, in short order, a new mother and baby sister before she could even tie her own boots.

  Her stepmother had been a thorn in Lacilia’s side since day one.

  Upon returning from the funeral weeks earlier, Sarah Jane had broken out in a rash that still had not healed. Lacy supposed that her half-sister had reacted to the spray of lilies on the coffin. Sarah Jane, poor dear, was highly allergic to anything living: dogs, grass, flowers.

  It pained Lacy that there were never any animals or fresh-cut blooms inside the main house, but, of course, she understood. After all, it must be quite dreadful to be so sensitive to all that was beautiful.

  And poor, dear Sarah Jane was anything but beautiful.

  Whereas Lacilia was fair, Sarah Jane was pale. Lacy enjoyed a thick head of honey-colored hair, and her half-sister’s thin, dried wheat-colored tresses barely covered her pate.

  Spring and autumn assaulted the younger Bloomsbury girl each year causing fits of wheezing, sneezing and hives. The elder daughter came alive in those same seasons, rushing headlong into the meadows surrounding their estate (which bordered the beautiful town of Rosehaven), feeling fresh sun on her face and breathing in all the joyous scents: heather, daphne, ripe acorns and chestnuts.

  She had been named well: Lacilia Bloomsbury. Strong of constitution and stunning to the eye, but with a delicate side. The legs of a filly, fawn-like eyes. Her neck was long and graceful.

  At least that’s what people told her.

  She preferred the willowy flowers: delphinium, columbine, and would spend hours in the meadow in summer, gathering nosegays that she’d have to leave on the grass, or in the stable where only the ponies could enjoy them.

  But now that her dear papa was rejoined with the earth, it seemed utterly cruel that there be a dearth of flowers at Highcastle. Lord Bloomsbury, an avid orchid collector in his younger days, would have eschewed all of the darkness of mourning. Had he a say in the post-death goings on, he would have demanded they behave as always. He so loved color about him. Black attire, he’d often complained, is acceptable for opera and nothing more.

  Dark. Drab. Dead.

  It was awful. If Lacy had her way, mourning would look quite differently. Emotion – yes, but the artifice of creating an environment much like the inside of a coffin? The earl would not have agreed to it.

  Lady Bloomsbury demanded the drapes be drawn, and every clock in the manor stopped at the time of the earl’s death: ten past midnight. Though Lord Bloomsbury had been transferred from the home almost immediately, Lady Bloomsbury had insisted that the mirrors in the common rooms be shrouded until after the holidays.

  The footsteps out in the hall clattered into the parlor. The shush-shush of stiff skirt. And now, a clap of hands.

  “Get up!” ordered the countess upon spying Lacy on her knees near the fireplace. “You look a fright, I dare say. Like a beggar. We have company expected.”

  Lacy raised her eyes and beseeched those of her stepmother. The elder woman’s harsh face, pinched lips and furrowed, penciled brow gave the younger a start. At the gravesite just a few weeks earlier, her stepmother had behaved so lovingly. She’d leaned her head upon Lacy’s shoulder and wept. Her veil shuddering with every sob. The guests had all marveled at how lucky Lady Lacilia was to be saved from the label of “orphan” with a stepmother so warm.

  Oh, if only they all knew the truth. Everything the countess did was a calculated performance.

  “You heard me!” repeated the widow, the crepe in her dress crinkling as loudly as the knots in the firewood which burned brightly before them.

  The woman’s eyes narrowed and lighted on Lacy’s hand. “What is that you are fondling?” She thrust out her palm.

  Lacy closed her hand around the locket. It contained a wisp of her mother’s blond hair, and she was not about to give it up.

  Just then Kent entered the room. Clearing his throat, he bid, “M’lady, Duke Darlington Moore of Blantyre Highmeadow has arrived.”

  Lady Bloomsbury pivoted round. “Oh goodness! The problem with stopped time is that it catches one unawares. We are not ready to receive him properly. Stall him in the library, Kent. And fetch my maid immediately.”

  Kent, Lord Bloomsbury’s long time valet, clearly in mourning himself, managed a weak, “Yes, m’lady.”

  “What? I did not hear you!”

  “Yes, m’lady,” Kent offered, more forcefully this time.

  The poor man, thought Lacy. Even though he was a servant, she was certain Kent had been her father’s best friend and confidante for decades. It was he who’d discovered his master in his quarters
after the fatal attack of apoplexy. It was he who’d rung the death bell, while having to conceal his own trauma.

  “And you!” barked the countess, snapping her fingers near Lacy’s ear, “there will be no weeping and wailing in front of the duke. In fact, you may take supper in your quarters lest we risk upsetting the man who has come all this way to pay his respects.”

  Lacilia rose. She would not make a scene in front of Kent, but, duke or no duke, she was not going to pretend to be jolly and bury her grief, either. “We are in mourning,” she offered, forcing calm up her throat. “Nobody would expect dry eyes so soon.”

  “Proper grief is one thing, Lala. Sobbing like an infant without any thought to decorum is quite another. At any rate, I have business with the duke. Business that is none of your business.”

  Lacy recoiled at the name Lala – her stepmother knew she hated that. Sarah Jane couldn’t pronounce her name for some years, so Lala became a familiar refrain. Only her father had respected her request to correct Sarah Jane. Lady Bloomsbury, of course, indulged her only true daughter. Despite the covering up of mirrors, she seemed to have no trouble conducting business. “Why, you buried your husband less than one month ago. Have you no heart?”

  This, Lacilia knew, was quite out of line, so she was not surprised when her stepmother struck her hard on the cheek.

  “M’lady!” gasped Kent, his footsteps quick across the room to intercede.

  “It’s alright, Kent,” Lacy managed, her cheek stinging with the slap. “We are not ourselves.”

  The countess turned to face the valet, the backs of her hands motioning for him to take his leave. “Do not keep our good guest waiting.”

  There was certainly a lot of kerfuffle in the adjoining room, Darlington mused. Particularly given that they’d recently laid poor Lord Bloomsbury to rest. One would expect a more staid and phlegmatic aura under the circumstances. Instead, there was the sound of raised voices. Women’s voices.

  Had Darlington not been in a somber mood – Lord Bloomsbury had been an eager and kind supporter of the duke’s ventures – he might have chuckled aloud. Having been raised as the only boy in a house full of sisters, the cackling of “hens” was quite a familiar sound. One he missed, truth be told, now that the girls had all married off.

  “Darling Darlington,” they teased him at the occasional ducal dinners, “too dashing for a duchess, too demanding for a queen. What woman will ever be able to tame our little brother?”

  The duke gave in to his reminiscence and chuckled, despite his sad state. Levity had always been his saving grace, and he might do well to grab hold of a cheerful, light mood. Perhaps Lady Bloomsbury would appreciate a bit of mirth?

  This was tricky business, paying condolences whilst attending the delicate subject of money.

  Darlington looked about the room nervously. They were keeping him waiting. Was that a tactic?

  His gaze fell on the well-stocked library and then moved on to take in a curio filled with Bavarian crystal. And then, portraits of the earl and his second wife (his first had died tragically, but Darlington could not quite remember how). On the adjoining wall hung two photographs featuring children. Girls. He stepped closer to better examine them.

  One girl, the younger, he surmised, had the petulant look of a whiny brat. Much like his eldest sister, Mathilde, who’d grown sourer over the years, and was now married off to a portly banker, a new child in the pram each year.

  This girl in the portrait was done up to look prettier than she was. An expensive fur muff covering her hands. Pink color on the cheeks added to the tintype for enhancement. Oh, he could spot that a hectare off. This child had a bulbous forehead and bug eyes made less homely with an expensive topper from a custom milliner. Pity that Lord Bloomsbury would need to marry off such a girl.

  Oh, wait, the man was dead.

  Darlington sighed.

  The other portrait, a smaller one, featured a daughter far more comely. That daughter was no doubt a rascal, given what he discerned as scraped knees and an impish smirk.

  Though her hair was partially concealed by a bonnet, he surmised that it was silken. The tresses of a princess, really, the way they cascaded over her shoulder and down to her waist. And the girl’s eyes: almond-shaped. Hazel, perhaps. Or even a pewter – a lustrous grey-silver. Though it was difficult to tell from the photograph.

  Something inside of Darlington stirred. Silly of him. This was a mere child!

  But, perhaps, not currently.

  The duke began a calculation in his mind. How old would these daughters be now? As he stood there pondering a sum of years, the valet, Ken, was it? reentered the room, clearing his throat as he crossed the span. “Your Grace, I’m afraid the Lady Bloomsbury is, er, detained. Can I see to your tea while you wait?”

  The duke imagined that the woman was fetching her husband’s ledger, which was not good news. “I see,” he said, stepping close to the late Lord’s man. “I don’t suppose you could rustle up a skinful? Gin, or absinthe if you have it? Not going to smother the parrot or anything …”

  “Right away, Your Grace.”

  Darlington was directed to take a seat in the library, and a footman arrived in short order to present him with a small glass of green liquor. The footman bowed, but hardly looked pleased.

  “Much obliged,” Darlington offered.

  The footman bowed again, and backed out of the room.

  The duke sipped.

  This room was bleaker than the last, with shrouded mirrors and drawn drapes. Death was such a dour business. The duke drained his glass.

  Probably best not to request another.

  He tossed his head back and closed his eyes for a little rest. This might take some time.

  When he opened his eyes again, there, standing before him, was an angel.

  Had he been poisoned? Was there arsenic in the liquor? The duke patted himself about his chest. Yes. He was intact. At least his upper extremities were. Surreptitiously, he clenched his thighs. The old adage: whiskers, wanker, pocket watch flooded his head. All there. Darlington was not dead.

  “Duke?” said a lilting, yet, strong voice.

  He stood. Bowed. “Lady …?”

  The angel tipped her head. Gestured at the empty glass, “Are you Irish?”

  “Not presently,” he said. “Maybe in my next life. If I’m lucky.”

  “And you’ve come to Highcastle in our most grievous hour to …”

  Oh, this angel was quite the minx. Darlington watched her quick mouth. Her lips so plump. Her cheeks, flushed. “Pay my respects. My deep, sincere condolences.”

  She considered him through those pearly-silver eyes of hers. Thick lashes framed the almond shape. She breathed in as if about to respond, then thought better of it, and turned her back to him. When she finally did utter words, there was a quiver to her voice.

  “I find it poor form to alight on a family in deep mourning. Swilling their liquor like a rogue.”

  Darlington was not accustomed to being called out in such a manner. He found it slightly amusing. He needed to find the right words of apology, of course, but his nature was now aroused. A young, nubile lady with her back to him. A lusty thought superseded his impulse toward grace. He pictured this lass bent over on the settee, her hands moving behind her to lift her skirt ever so slightly. Her waist was as tiny as the mid-section of an hourglass – he envisaged the tightly laced corset that no doubt defined her shape.

  He pictured her head turned round to look at him. She might even wink at him. Lift the hem a bit higher, exposing what he guessed was a thigh the color of cream. In his mind, he heard her whisper, Naughty, naughty duke. Now you must fill me with your manhood. You must thrust your cock into my wet, luscious center until I drip with your seed.

  “Are you here to offer condolences, Duke, or to swindle my father’s estate?”

  Her sober words pierced his fantasy, and the delicious quiver in his trousers subsided.

  “Swindle?”

&
nbsp; She whipped round. “My mother. My stepmother, has business to discuss, but make no mistake, my father taught me to be shrewd. You owe us money. That much I know to be true.”

  Darlington felt heated, as though invited to duel. How could this comely lass, this girl of what, twenty, twenty-two? How could she possibly know the details writ upon Lord Bloomsbury’s ledger?

  “Your father was fair, strong, and gracious,” he said. “I would never sully his name or legacy with an act of swindle.”

  Her black dress, high-buttoned as it was, seemed to choke her just then. She sputtered, coughed, and placed a hand upon the back of a chair.

  And that’s when Darlington noted, she was coming undone. Tears began to stream down her cheeks, her shoulders convulsing in sobs.

  What could he do? She was a damsel in distress, was she not?

  His better nature leapt to action, and he withdrew a handkerchief – one embroidered with his people’s dragon rampant. He consoled her, put an arm around her shoulder, and offered her the cloth with which to dab her sorrow.

  She reached out to accept the handkerchief with her delicate hand, and just at that very moment a thudding sound interrupted the mood.

  Darlington looked up to see two stern women – their black skirts shushing as they strode close. Both ladies had their hair pulled back severely. Both of them, their bulbous foreheads dusted in thick – almost greenish – powder, approached. The elder of the two offered, “Your Grace, please forgive us for the rudeness of this mad lady. Lacilia, take your leave at once.”

  Before Darlington could find the words to keep the young lass by his side, she floated out of the room, leaving him to face his destiny.

  Whereupon The Earl of Highcastle - or his assigns - agrees to loan Duke Darlington of Blantyre a sum of £50,000 for the purpose of investment in Blantyre’s central coal mining operation, taking as collateral the ducal estate. The duke agrees to the irredeemable disposition of any and all personal property in the event of non-payment of the money at the stipulated term.