The Darkness in the Marquess of Dane

By Eliza Lloyd

For the dark Marquess of Dane, no offer is to low or depraved, but when the offer comes from one of the ton’s noble daughters, Miss Christina Turnbow, Dane is willing to entertain the iniquitous possibilities. Dane is not impressed by the pretenses of silly ton debs, but Christina has a ghost of a chance. She bears an uncanny resemblance to his dead wife.

Christina, already ruined by a slight scandal, and with her family on the brink of financial disaster, determines that she has one thing left to sell. And Dane is the only man who can afford her price. Can she do what no other woman has done? Love him?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eliza Lloyd
• Release date: Oct 14, 2015
• ISBN: 9781519921055

Book preview

Chapter One

In London, depravity had a name.

The Marquess of Dane.

No one really knew Dane on a social level—poser un lapin, as they said of Dane’s subsequent rejections to embrace the bosom of the beau monde—but his rank was too lofty not to include him on invitation lists to the best of society’s entertainments.

Dane, however, did not attend balls, did not care how his cravat was tied, did not care whether he shaved twice a day and did not care if he ruined one of the simpering, monotonous maidens the ton nobles liked to parade about during the Season as if there were gold between their legs.

He hadn’t actually ruined one. He thought the act might cause him to die of boredom. And if there was one thing Dane hated, it was boredom.

The teeth, pet. Watch the teeth. He ought to get out of bed. The clock on the mantel had just chimed two, but the young girl, Pearl by name, had the most luscious red lips and they were currently wrapped around the tip of his cock. He thought he could be persuaded to enjoy the mindless pleasure of another release before he climbed from the comfort of his plush mattress and away from the limbs of the three wenches draped over and beside him.

Dane enjoyed pleasure and he pursued it with vigor unmatched by the so-called rogues and rakes of the ton. By comparison, those neophytes were schoolboys in knee breeches, behaving as if they had invented wickedness. Dane had perfected it.

He wallowed in badness, drenched himself in depravity and lived for the moment he could shock an unsuspecting moralist into believing he was the last fallen angel. His darkness was complete.

There were the simple pleasures—flavorful cigars, full-bodied wines, high stakes and enthusiastic whores.

The other pleasures—the dark, unexplainable pleasures—were what set Dane apart from normal society. The best pleasure was sexual and the best sexual pleasure involved pain, both the giving and the receiving. After all, he was a generous lover when there was need, as long as the physical gratification was on his terms.

Scorn he earned. He was notoriously unkind to the woman of the ton—those who thought they could dally with the wicked Dane were rebuffed and embarrassed. Not a month went by when he was not propositioned for a night of dark and unbridled passion. He thought the term whore was very often misapplied.

Dane’s house of ill repute was located in Cheapside—the finest, most expensive and most private brothel in London. Whores never bored him. They could be deceitful, but not about the things that mattered to Dane, and they were dishonest, but about trivial things like gold pieces and hair combs.

He hadn’t bothered to name his whorehouse. Word had spread faster than his whores’ legs.

During daylight hours, the aristocracy pretended no such place existed. What nobleman would dare own such an abomination or besmirch the character of a title passed down from Henry VIII himself? One of Dane’s grandfatherly descendants was fat old Henry’s bastard. He supposed he came by his wickedness naturally.

But at night, those self-serving pompous asses were five deep, waiting for a chance to swive one of his experienced girls. He’d take their money, but there was no way in hell he’d adhere to their rules or pretend he wanted anything to do with their world.

The nondescript, converted townhome was where he spent much of his time unless he entertained. That he did at the warehouse located at Twenty Acres dock. It was a private place where Dane conducted his normal business along with a fourth floor expanse where he participated in special titillations that required privacy and dedication—an experimental workshop of sorts. Only his most trusted whores amused him there. And usually for several days at a time.

He no longer rated a mention in the gossipy rags hawked on the street corners of London. He preferred to exist in his own world, not the fake one that pretended honor and nobility were the end all and be all, when in fact there was no honor or nobility anywhere to be had.

He reached across Jasmine and plucked up the cheroot burning in the ceramic tray. She mewled like a kitten and curled closer to him, her arm wrapped around his chest and her lush breasts pressed against his skin.

He puffed, pulling in an aromatic lungful, and exhaled as Pearl slid her tongue along the flanged edge of his erection. He moaned at the tactile warmth.

This was where he wanted to die.

In his bed with his whores, along with a rich smoke and a good Scottish whiskey.

He was to meet Rawlins this afternoon. A dreary task that would barely keep his mind occupied, but it was a forced discipline, one that made his existence possible. Hedonism wasn’t as easily enjoyed without money.

He inhaled another puff then stubbed the cigar into the tray before reclining on his back again.

Wake up, girls. It’s time for someone to fuck me properly. He slapped his hand across Penelope’s well-rounded ass. She groaned, opened her eyes and smiled warmly before stretching.

Jasmine was thick through the middle with udder-like breasts but was very enthusiastic when put to task—and she knew how to handle a whip. And she could take cock. All of him. Any time. He’d had some of his most debauched pleasures in her arms.

Pearl’s lips were her best attribute, but she was nearly boyish in her straight shape, with childish lumps for nubbins. Dane was easily aroused in the right circumstances and he enjoyed dressing her in frocks and spanking her when she was a naughty girl, which she was at the drop of a gold coin.

Another day, perhaps. He just wanted to mindlessly shag for a few minutes before he had to engage his brain.

At his command, Pearl glanced at him, her hair brushing over her cheek, the tip of his cock between her lips.

You know what I want, he said to her. His cock slid from her mouth and Pearl left the bed in search of the toys he preferred to augment his experience.

He rolled to his knees. Up, he said to Jasmine. There was a tangle of limbs as she rolled in front of Dane, going on all fours and spreading her legs wide. There was never a need for foreplay. His whores were always ready for him and willing to fake their response in a way that could make any man believe he was king of the world—part of Dane’s self-deception. It was all a show to create the illusion of reality.

He glanced down at Jasmine’s abundant ass. Between her legs, the luscious lips of her cunny were plump and dusky rose.

He stuffed his shaft, generous by any measure, into the soft, warm depths of a willing quim. He sighed, happy with this uncomplicated pleasure. He planted his hands on her ass and thrust in and out of her a few times before burying his cock deeply.

Penelope knelt beside him. Her hands caressed and smoothed over his skin, while she used her mouth and tongue to lick his neck and ear. Finally when he turned his face toward hers, she kissed him with open-mouthed abandon. Her breasts rubbed along his bare arm. He left one hand on Jasmine’s ass, kneading the fleshy cheek and stroking his thumb along the deep crevasse of her ass.

With his other hand, he grabbed a handful of Penelope’s breast. Jasmine started a slow rocking that rubbed the length of his erection.

Pearl returned to the bed. He felt the gentle tilt of the mattress and then smelled the scent of rose oil when Pearl loosened the stopper. His ass clenched in anticipation and his cock hardened further at the thought of penetration, causing a tighter fit and better arousal.

He spread his legs, which made Jasmine spread hers. Pearl slid the glass phallus along the crack of his ass. A spike of pleasure tensed his body.

Her fingers searched along the valley and spread one cheek outward. The cool glass touched his bottom. He released Penelope and Jasmine, his hands landing on the mattress while his body fitted around Jasmine’s.

He was vaguely aware of Penelope’s hands stroking over his back.

Jasmine’s cunny clenched against his cock.

Pearl had done this for him before. She thrust into him and then pulled back just as quickly. He gasped at the intrusion and his balls tightened dangerously. He clenched his teeth in a moment of attempted control.

Slow, he barked. More than once, he had ejaculated the moment the phallus slid into him. For all of his experience, the right kind of stimulation sometimes made it impossible to control his reaction. His rapid breathing didn’t bode well for a leisurely arousal.

Pearl obeyed, stopping for a moment. His vision cleared. He thrust more fully into Jasmine, and Pearl matched his movement.

The girls moaned, effectively convincing him they were intent on his pleasure, as he paid them to be.

Another reason to avoid the inexperienced—he had to do more of the work. Damn, he loved his whores.

Penelope’s fingers slid across his chest and found the hard nub of one of his nipples. She pinched and then twisted. Pearl reached under his arm and grabbed his other nipple. The light pain dulled the last of his thoughts, until all that was left was unrivaled sexual decadence.

He could lose himself, banish thoughts of the past and dread of the future.

He thrust in slow, even movements in an attempt to experience every nuanced delight. The buildup wasn’t going to last long. He was too far gone to prevent the escalating start of ejaculation. Already his balls lifted.

Jasmine squeezed his cock. The burn in his ass consumed him.

Pearl dragged the leather end of a short riding crop across his back. His breath ratcheted in anticipation of the first round of pain. The pain that would facilitate his release.

When she drew back the lash, Dane groaned as anticipation captured him. The sharp sting went deep, burning across his thigh. The pain compounded as it landed over another welt he’d received earlier this morning.

Torrents of semen spilled from his cock. He cried out—the painful ecstasy too much to contain. Pearl used the crop against his leg again, the thwack sharper and more hurtful than the first. A second burst of semen had him whimpering like a child.

His hips jerked. He groaned, throaty and long.

The pulsing spasms caused his world to dim, obliterating the real pain, until he could barely hold himself over Jasmine.

In a moment of awareness, he cursed himself for leaving seed behind. He usually tried to keep his mind when it involved the potential for bastards, but sometimes his body’s demands were immediate and uncontrollable. Whores did not need the added burden of a babe, though some were intent on carrying a nobleman’s child, in spite of the certainty it would never be recognized.

He moved away and lay facedown on the bed, arms outstretched, still reeling from the sensations that pulsed through his body.

One of the whores caressed his back before slapping his ass with a hard thwack.

His lids lowered in sleepy contemplation of triumph. He would rather fuck and sleep than reflect on what he wanted.

Because he didn’t really know.

* * * * *

Rawlins waited for Dane in the library of the family home on Hanover Square, where he spent as little time as possible. His steward had refused, as much as a hired man could refuse, to conduct business at the whorehouse.

Lord Dane, he said.

Rawlins, I may dismiss you if you continue to disobey me. Dane found titles to be the most pretentious use of words imaginable, possibly because he was never meant to be a marquess.

Rawlins cleared his throat, and said, Dane. Good morning. Rawlins stood, leather case in hand, while he carried several bound journals under his other arm, which portended work. And thought.

That’s better. Dane poured drinks while Rawlins unburdened himself and then shuffled through the mounds of paper that had accumulated through the post, and which Rawlins would dutifully open and sort so Dane did not have to.

He lowered a glass of whiskey in front of Rawlins and then found the chair behind the massive desk for which Dane had no use other than to prop his feet upon—and the occasional skirt tossing, when one of his downstairs maids gazed at him coyly while pretending to clean the room.

There had been no skirt tossing since Rawlins had entered his life. Not only did he manage Dane’s affairs, he managed all of the respectable people around him. The orderliness made Dane believe, at times, that the beau monde and his former life were safe, yet nothing could persuade Dane it would be anything more than a pretense.

He was only interested in business in so much as it provided the means to continue his debauched lifestyle. True, there was a certain amount of pleasure in expanding his fortune, and there were definite elements of chance he found appealing. However, the tedium of farm reports year after year and the endless monotony of waiting for a ship to come into port had all of the appeal of watching grass grow. It was easier to pay someone to deal with the minutia of accumulating money while he handled the spending of it.

There are several invitations—

No.

But Lord Dane, he said.

"Dane. How long have you worked for me, Rawlins?"

Fourteen months, sir.

"Oh, it feels so much longer. Continue to call me Lord Dane and I will be forced to hire someone who can remember that small position requirement. And you’ve asked me every week about the balls I have told you I do not wish to attend." Rawlins was his fourth man of affairs in the last six years. When Dane had interviewed him for the position, he had made it clear Rawlins would be required to mix with the less desirable of society, would likely be ostracized and would eventually find Dane in some awkward position that would be embarrassing to behold. Rawlins was also paid an exorbitant amount of money—not only for his competence but also to keep quiet and avert his gaze.

But the Duchess of—

No.

I’ll send your regrets.

Do you actually word it that way? ‘Lord Dane sends his regrets.’ And do you think they believe you?

I wouldn’t know, sir.

Hand me the invitations. Dane beckoned with his fingers and Rawlins smiled.

They are alphabetized, sir, Rawlins said as he passed the invitations across the desk, confident, as if he had finally influenced Dane’s behavior for the better.

Dane dropped them in the waste bin. Now they aren’t.

What should I tell—

"Nothing. Now let us move on to weightier matters. Has there been any news on the Hespereth or the Angelus?" Dane leaned back in his chair and stared out the window while Rawlins expounded.

Neither is due until the end of the month.

The ships were bringing silks and spices from the Orient and India—lucrative if the ships arrived safely. And the new shipments?

Montgomery’s line would provide the best return for your money.

To hell with him. Not one ounce of my gold is going to that Scottish dog. Dorian Montgomery had stolen something Dane had wanted very badly—the most exquisite courtesan in London, the infamous Westminster Whore. He had been irritated for several months since the incident. He still couldn’t imagine Montgomery had actually outbid him for the whore’s services. He would never know since Montgomery had absconded to Italy with the unique Isabelle St. Hillaire. Montgomery had at least married the girl—Dane wasn’t one to spend a princely sum upon a woman and then think it necessary to shackle himself for a lifetime!

There was the small matter of his dark reputation, even though he had gone out of his way to impress the wench.

And what the hell had Dane needed a courtesan for when he had a house full of whores...

And what of spring planting?

The farms at Longford were flooded in the last storm. Several of the farmers will have to replant. I advised those affected that you would assist with the necessary funds until harvest.

I will do no such thing.

Rawlins handed over a thick leather ledger, which Dane accepted and propped in his lap. He flipped through a few pages until he reached the last page with numbers and glanced through the final sums. He managed a quick assessment of the accounting while continuing his conversation with Rawlins.

But how will they manage?

Rawlins, I must keep my reputation intact. I thought I made this most clear to you when you were hired.

They have no money. I just assumed—

"No one receives money from Lord Dane. It isn’t done. However, you will find the Longford Benevolent Fund is flooded with cash and is willing to make a donation to those in need." Dane slapped the book shut and dropped it to the desk.

But you subsidize the Longford Benevolent Fund.

"The community subsidizes the fund. Send them to the vicar, Rawlins."

Of course, sir.

Were there any lives lost?

None. Eldridge Nance lost most of his sheep herd.

And Widow Evans?

Her daughter finally persuaded her to let the farmstead and move in with their family.

Good. One less to worry about.

They spent another hour reviewing accounts until Dane mentioned his next investment opportunity. I wish to start a gaming house. I want you to look into it and let me know what you find out next week.

Of course. You wish to purchase an existing business or establish a new one?

I don’t know. I only just thought of it a few minutes ago. But within the month, two at most, I want to be operational. I’m losing money just talking to you about it.

A month?

Money, Rawlins. You can make that happen. Something special, though. I don’t want one of those smoke-filled back rooms that cater only to men. I’m thinking of a three-story establishment with a floor for women only. Dane leaned his head against the cushiony back of the chair and shifted slightly to relieve the strain against his abraded thigh. "And