Alexandra Benedict - Too great a temptation: the seductive power of Americas super church

The earth was sound asleep, lulled by a soft chorus

Damian needed money. Lots of it. Ironic, really, that he,

Hes to be our new navigator?

The hammock rocked gently, Mirabelle nestled inside.

Oh, good. Someone to keep me company. I cant stand

The sounds coming from the belly of the ship had

Dinner was over. Mirabelle found herself in the mess, surrounded

The gentle pitch and roll of the rig did nothing

The sailors erupted in a chorus of hoarse guffaws.

Damian slammed against the wall, then toppled to the floor.

Damian sensed a moist cloth bathing his chest, the soothing

Damian battled the turbulent waves, the chill of the water

That does it. Im going to kill him!

To hell with both their lives?

Wake up, Belle.

Damian had made a terrible mistake. It was one thing

Damian slammed his boot into the iron bars.

Mirabelle hammered away. It was dark out. Only a small

Home.

Mirabelle counted off her fingers. Six chickens. Check. Three barrels

What the hell do you think youre doing, Damian?

In the faint light of the breaking dawn, Mirabelle sat

The large London square was bustling. Harlequins in bright costumes

A peck on the cheek and Henry was off. Ill

Who lives here?

Damian burst into his bedchamber and marched straight over to

Mirabelle crouched in the corner of the dank dungeon cell,

An explosion rocked the castle.

Damian took in a ragged breath, lost, the chaos in

Mirabelle jerked the key in the lock.

Mirabelle inhaled the dewy morning air. Gripping the balcony ledge,

Damian waved his hand, clearing a path through the cloud

England, 1819

T he earth was sound asleep, lulled by a soft chorus of chirping crickets. Into the soothing surroundings intruded the distant hail of creaking wheels. Fast approaching, a rickety carriage jingled along the pebbled road, each squeak of the axle muffled only by the exuberant squeaks of the wench within.

Why, ye wily devil. The doxy giggled in her drunken stupor, fumbling with the laces of her corset, trying to fasten the garment in mock gentility.

Now, now, luv. Lets have none of that.

A robust hand brushed her gawky fingers away from her bosom. She dipped her head back in a peal of laughter, all but toppling off the hard set of thighs she was straddling.

Damian Westmore, the Duke of Wembury, dubbed the Duke of Rogues by his peers, was slumped back in his seat, mesmerized by the pair of plump breasts bobbing in rhythm to each lurch and wobble of the carriage. He was in no hurry to see the bountiful mounds tucked back into the shelter of the corset, and with a wicked grin, he cupped one heavy breast, raising the puckering nipple to the tip of his lips, and blew.

The wench giggled, then moaned with pleasure. In a lanky stroke, Damian licked the rosy bud, nipped, then licked again. She bucked in his lap, groaning, the sweet sounds of carnal hunger making him stiff and ready for her.

Ride me, he growled.

Slipping her shaky hands beneath her skirt, the giddy wench grappled with the buttons of the dukes trousers.

And so the impassioned couple dallied in such a manner for the rest of the journey, insensible to the distraction their fervid voices inflicted on the poor coachman.

It was an hour later the screeching wheelsand voicescame to a whispered halt before the ancient dwelling.

A black leather boot kicked open the carriage door, and out stumbled the inebriated duke.

Wait here, he gave the rough command to the driver, and then with a seductive growl, ordered the accommodating wench to do the same. Ill be but a minute, sweet.

With a bubbling laugh, she collapsed against the cushioned seat and rucked her skirt up over her knees. Hurry back, Yer Grace.

His eyes went to those finely curved calves and glossed over firm, smooth thighs, as she lifted her skirt higher and higher.

Damian could feel the swelling in his groin again. He slammed the door shut to keep himself from pouncing back into the carriage.

What a bird, he whispered with a devilish grin. But upon pivoting to confront the imposing main doors of the castle, he found his humor had quickly vanished. Lets get this over with.

Stumbling up the stone steps, he rattled the handles. Locked. Blast it! He pounded on the mahogany entrance, cursing all the while at finding his own doors secured against him.

Jenkins! he bellowed for the butler.

One door opened. Your Grace, came the stoic greeting, followed by a curt nod of obligatory respect.

Petulant after hammering on the door for some time, Damian demanded sharply: Where is she, Jenkins?

In the parlor, Your Grace.

Damian stepped into the dark entranceway and slammed the door closed with the heel of his boot. Take me to her.

Candle in hand, the old butler complied, and progressed through the stone-clad foyer and into the deserted corridor.

What time is it? snapped the duke, his deep blue eyes peeking into each of the desolate drawing rooms.

It is shortly past nine oclock.

So where the devil is everyone? And then the piercing table corner jabbed him in the thigh. And why the hell is it so bloody dark in here! he blasted, and promptly kicked the insolent table for having found itself in his direct path.

Jenkins, not the least perturbed by his masters display of temper, evenly answered both questions in sequence. Her Grace has temporarily relieved some of the staff, and requested all but essential lights be extinguished.

Well, I am the master of this castle. He pointed to his chest. And I have not dismissed the staff nor ordered the house to be enshrouded in darkness. So fetch the servants back and light some infernal candles!

Yes, Your Grace.

The butler resumed his steady pace through the corridor, the fractious duke wavering in tow.

The servant soon paused before the sealed parlor door and proclaimed: Her Grace has been expecting you.

Damian just bet the old nag was expecting him. Three days ago, his mother had dispatched a courier with a letter bidding him home urgently . He snorted. Urgent, his bleeding ass. He was accustomed to the womans skullduggery, and this letter was just another one of her shams.

It seemed his mother had no other purpose in life but to disrupt his own. First had come the scathing lectures on propriety and responsibility and other such reprehensible nonsense. Then, when shed learned of the hedonistic revelry reigning within the walls of his ancestral keep, shed packed her bags, abandoned London, and moved back into the castle, forcing him to search for amusement elsewherewhich he found readily enough in the many dens of gamble and drink.

Now, unable to follow her son into the lairs of decadence, but still intent on reforming his immoral ways, his mother had resorted to luring him out of his havens through such feeble means as a fabricated crisis. Well, hed not stand for it a moment longer. The next urgent letter to reach him would find its way into the nearest fire. Hed tolerate no more of the womans interference, and he intended to tell her so that very night.

Would you like me to announce you, Your Grace?

Not this time, Jenkins.

The butler gave a stiff nod and moved away from the door. I am sorry, Your Grace. And with those cryptic words, he retreated down the corridor, the aura of candlelight receding with him and finally disappearing around the corner.