The Blonde Samurai. Jina Bacarr

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      5

       Cliff House, San Francisco, California

       Six weeks later…

      We made the journey from London to New York, then across the continent by railway, and I must say I was flattered by the endearing personal service afforded to me as Lady Carlton. It mattered not that I was Thomas O’Roarke’s daughter, more that I commandeered the title of aristocrat with a handsome husband at my side. James cajoled the wives of business associates we met along the way, impressing their husbands with my father’s money, paying for lavish parties and handing out Cuban cigars. He was on his best behavior.

      Until tonight.

      We were dining in a private room at Cliff House, marveling at its lofty view overlooking the coast and the bellowing seals romping about on the rocks below, when James made an off-putting remark about the fashionably low décolleté of my gown. In a not-too-subtle manner, he insinuated I was intent on seducing every man I came in contact with, including our sober-faced waiter.

      Me? A seductress? The idea amused me since the art was unknown to me, though I had travailed in my reading about infamous mistresses, their style, repartee, even the popularity of their scent. (The next time you smell a musky odor upon his lordship’s handkerchief, be advised it could be the natural perfume of a certain courtesan residing on Lupus Street known for imparting her body aroma on a gentleman’s handkerchief.)

      I knew the daring gown was stunning, too dazzling for an early dinner, but I ventured to wear it anyway. Shoulders straight, bosom high, hips buoying the twenty or more flounces on my overskirt, I walked with a sensual flair to make every man dream about what was underneath. (I learned to affect a certain disinterest in what I wore from watching ladies of the British aristocracy, as if the nature of wearing garments was a plebian aptitude one merely adopted on a divine whim.)

      Aside, I must tell you I loved the feel of the satin swishing between my legs, the velvet caressing my breasts, the lace pricking my nipples and making them taut. I wore such frilly, pretty clothes to evoke a mood and create a world of my own, a world where I played the role of a woman beautiful and mythical, a woman desirous to men, a woman so legendary no man could resist her. I cared not if that world collapsed when I stood nude before a full-length oval mirror and examined my features, plain as they were. When I swathed myself in glittering finery, I embarked on a deep and satisfying adventure that allowed me to indulge in my romantic wanderings, to race forward into the mirage I had created and walk through the fire of criticism unscathed.

      Which was why I chose the color red. A defiant color, bold and perfect. I relished how the velvet gown in crushed strawberry hugged my body, the small cap sleeves sliding down my bare shoulders while the tiered soft bustle swayed behind me, the long train sweeping over the muted Oriental carpets. A long row of pearl buttons gave off an opaline luster, racing down my back like a game of dominoes.

      I also enjoyed the effect this gown had on the ladies who gossiped about me at the Viscount Aubrey’s soiree when I returned to London. (You remember what I wore that night, of course you do.) I also relished the attention of the gentlemen who couldn’t take their eyes off me. Especially my husband. He hated the idea of another man looking at me, even a servant, when he couldn’t bed me.

      “What do you think about my husband’s remark?” I asked the black-tailed server as he poured me another glass of claret. My fourth. I needed no excuse to indulge in spirits. My nerves were frayed from fatigue, my mind listless. I admit the wine as well as his comment brought up my Irish dander, knowing as I do my susceptibility to lose my tongue when imbibing spirits, so I tossed aside any reserve I held in abeyance.

      “I beg your pardon, your ladyship?” the server answered quickly.

      “Am I trying to seduce you?” I drank the wine quickly lest I spill it on my gown and sour the rich red color with a dark stain. The wine teased my tongue with its tartness as I swallowed it, the choker of diamonds around my neck bouncing up and down when I tightened my throat muscles. I held my glass up and the waiter poured me another with hesitation.

      “Whatever your ladyship wishes,” he answered automatically, without moving a muscle in his drawn face, then realized too late the consequences of maintaining his cool exterior.

      I smiled at my husband, showing my teeth as I answered him. “You see, my dear husband, you’re not the only man I’ve charmed with my…wit.”

      James threw his head back and laughed. “I may have agreed to your terms, my dear wife, but the game between us isn’t finished.” He glared at my cleavage, smacked his lips, then took another bite of his half-eaten salmon, pink and moist. He rolled his tongue over his lips, teasing me. “Seeing how I’ve yet to taste your American…wit.”

      I ignored his sexual innuendo, preferring instead to stir up naughty mischief of my own, something, anything to assuage the emptiness in my soul. I refused to allow his remarks to hurt me, though I suffered from an illness of the mind brought on by the infusion of indulgence when a loving touch would have meant so much.

      “Then I shall order dessert to tempt your palate.” I waved at the waiter who hadn’t moved a muscle, though I detected a persistent twitch under his right eye. “Bring us a tart.”

      He cleared his throat. “What kind, milady?”

      “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “Blond or brunette will do.”

      “Your ladyship, what you ask for is…indecent,” the waiter sputtered. “We are a reputable establishment.”

      I pushed my empty plate away from me. “The man refuses to serve me, James. What are you going to do about it?”

      “Shall I shoot him?” he asked, the intent in his voice not serious, but the waiter didn’t know that. The poor man’s shoulders slumped and his eyebrows flew upward. He bowed and excused himself without delay, leaving us alone to play out our depraved game in private.

      “I’m surprised you didn’t flog him,” I mocked, picking up my napkin and twisting it around my fingers. “Isn’t that more your style?”

      James leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table in a laissez-faire attitude. “I prefer a plump, feminine bottom to satisfy my need.”

      “Any female, James?” I probed, pricking his mind with my verbal needle. “Or must they be young and saucy?”

      “I prefer virgins.” He pulled the cork from the wine bottle the server had left on the tray and stuck his forefinger inside. “They’re tight and so willing.”

      I ignored his blatant exhibition of erotic double entendre and drove home my point. “Like the poor girl you ruined in London?”

      “Which one?” he dared to ask, making a popping sound as he withdrew his finger from the bottle. He licked his finger clean, his eyes never leaving mine. I couldn’t suppress a shiver at the thought of him probing inside me with his fingers, then licking my juices. I preferred my dildo.

      “The girl’s name was Lucie,” I said. “I stopped her from jumping out of the library window on the top floor.”

      I remember that afternoon before tea, scrambling as I was to procure a new story to titillate me, when I heard sobbing coming from the library. I opened СКАЧАТЬ