"Watching you. Watching him. I think this game is over, fancy-piece. I am the only one whose interest you must fix." He reached out his hand and hooked his fingers in the bodice of her dress. "The only one for whom you ever reveal yourself." He pulled, and the bodice gave, freeing her breasts. "The only one…" He took her nipples one in each hand as her dress dropped to the floor. "These are mine…"

She caught her breath as he took them, expert now as to how much pressure, how light, how tight, and both at the same time which sent her senses spinning, made her molten with need.

She wanted nothing more than this, to be half naked with his fingers playing with her nipples; from pure innocence to pure passion on the tight hot pleasure points of her nipples.

Just like that, just like that… harder, softer-desire and lust rippled through her body, fusing deep in her core, centering on the skeining sensation from her nipples as he fondled them.

Just her nipples. No where else?

No.

Hot gold now, the feeling, sliding down down down down… yes… hot and thick and bright-gold-enfolding her, enslaving her, pooling deep deep deep, breaking in the center like stone hitting water, and radiating explosively outward, yes, all that heat, all… that… thick, all… that… go-old…

She wrenched away from him, covering her turgid breasts with her hands, and she sank onto the bed. What was that-? What WAS that?

He lifted her hands and pulled the dress away from her breasts, and then knelt so he could remove all her clothes, one piece at a time. Her dress, her undergarments, her slippers, her stockings, the band in her hair.

"A mistress is always naked."

"When she knows the man who keeps her is coming," she said tartly, to rip the mood. She wasn't sure she could bear any more this evening.

What he had done to her was more than enough. Her nipples felt irritated, used.

"He is always coming," he muttered, pushing her on her back and removing her undergarments. "He is always there." He dangled the chain in front of her. "Like all men. Thus, we claim the one we fuck." He slipped the chain around her waist, and it was then she saw that there was another chain hanging vertically from it. And that chain he looped between her legs just tightly enough so it caressed her there, and he attached it and locked it at the small of her back.

"Stand up."

She stood, feeling the thin strip of chain keenly. It didn't hurt. It was barely there; but she knew it was there, and that was what made the difference. He had the key, and another man could not get to her while she willingly let him bind her body.

He made her walk around the room. The enchainment was perfect, settling just on her hips and encompassing her lightly between her legs and enticingly in her crease. Now she was wholly his, her nipples, her body, her cunt. And when she was dressed, she would feel him, and when she was naked she would feel him, and never would a moment pass that she wouldn't feel him possessing her in some way.

The thought made him wild. He was hard to bursting to get to her. But the excitement was heightened by his restraint and by her submission to his will. The chain glimmered in the candlelight which cast erotic shadows all over her naked body as she paced around him.

And those breasts, those nipples… he would never get through an hour without touching her. Without… shit-he came. Damn and hell. He ripped open his trousers and let it come, let it spume all over to show her just what she did to him with her nipples and her compliant naked body.

She licked her lips as she watched him. Such a waste when he could have pumped it all into her. But he always said he had enough for her and more. And it would dry. By morning, it would dry, and by morning, he would be dry-if she had anything to do with it.

She pushed him onto the bed and began to undress him.

How many times had he fucked her? She couldn't even remember. All she knew was that it was morning, he was gone, and the slender chain was locked just between her legs where he should have been.

This mistress business is wearing. He's not here enough. I can't get enough. And now this.…

This was Reginald pounding at her door. "It's nearly noon, Regina. I'm worried about you. You never sleep in."

"… right there," she mumbled, grabbing for her clothes.

Five minutes later, she was downstairs in the dining room once more pouring tea, as if it were the second night of a play in which she was a performer.

And that was just what she was doing: performing.

She felt the containment of the chain, and she shivered. Jeremy knew just what he was about. He wanted to make her hunger for him, yearn for him, and what better way than this erotic reminder.

Which she didn't need. She craved him enough already. Her nipples were stiff with wanting his touch just from the memory of him touching her.

Desire was the most insidious thing.

"… theater tonight and… after…" her father was saying.

Oh, it was too much. She didn't care a whit what her father was saying, and she felt so disgraceful, she couldn't even look at him.

"What day is it?" she muttered, her voice muffled.

"Friday, of course," Reginald said, thinking that the best course was just to ignore her lapses this morning. Better than censuring her anyway, and he hardly had the heart to do that as it was. "The papers have come, my dear. Do you wish to have one?"

She was scared to death to have one, given the gossip columns, but she took one anyway. Friday. Four days… five?… since she had formed her ill-considered plan to wreak revenge on her father and Jeremy. And look at the end result: her father still believed she was interested in Raulton (did she not predict it?) and she had willingly become Jeremy's mistress.

How had this train of events happened? How had she gone from virgin to vixen in the space of less than one week? And how had she ever lived without that explosive pleasure?

It was enough to make her brain burst, to think about it. All of it. Or plan what to do next. Or deal with the fear there might not be a next.

Well, there would be a next because Jeremy had claimed her. But when he tired of her-it didn't bear thinking about… She opened the paper instead.

The morning line had opened at White's, and marriage prospects were all the talk, his, Raulton was amused to see, in particular.

It wasn't as if he weren't aware of it, but the fun was in seeing who made the Book. It was always vastly entertaining.

White's echoed Heeton's line but one. Soames was there- insipid little whelp-and Law, who at least had some countenance if nothing else to recommend her. But the interesting one was the Olney. She who had kept up with him at loo this past evening, and who eyed him with more than passing curiosity whenever he saw her.

She was the only one Raulton would not have predicted. She was too outspoken, self-aware, self-sufficient. And not in the least malleable, or one who would be accommodating to his needs.

But beautiful, yes. The most beautiful among this year's London belles, despite the fact it was her third turnout. And well-spoken, witty, stylish, shapely, with plump full breasts and neat taut nipples that she had practically presented to him on a platter last night.

Olney with her thick dark hair and her knowing blue eyes. Silvery laugh. Elegant hands. Exquisitely dressed. An only child, and her father's heir. Fascinating. A woman any man should want to marry.

And the Book made her at ten-to-one.

Why had no one told him about her?

He wasted no time finding out. And he liked what he heard: a productive estate in Hertfordshire waiting for the man she would marry. Money in funds. London town house. Best circles.

The woman was surely a treasure. What was wrong with her?

Why had no one snapped her up heretofore?

Did it matter? If no one wanted her, she must be desperate this third Season, and thus, fair game. And he was as eligible as anyone, and mending his reputation daily. It was time to suck it in and throw his preconceived ideas out the window and sniff around a woman he could actually stand to live with.

One who looked like an excellent fuck, judging by her breasts and nipples. And if she was, so much the better. Things-or at least one thing-were certainly looking up.

Ancilla came to call. "What's to do, my dear Regina? I missed the Petleys' party last night, and apparently it was the place to be."

Regina rang for tea, and they settled in the library. "It was a card party and supper for a few friends. A few hundred friends, that is. Their house cannot accommodate such a rout. But there we were, and so was everyone else they had ever met in all their years in London. I ensconced myself at loo and did not need to bother with the rest."

"No, just with Mr. Raulton. Really, Regina…"

She sighed. "Is that out and about already? You would think these people had better things to talk about." She motioned the maid to bring in the tea cart and set up the table. "Like food, for instance. Well, the Petleys do better than most at table, but where can you find anything like this? She filched one of cook's scones from the cart and popped it in her mouth.

A strategic exercise really so she would not have to answer Ancilla's questions. But Ancilla was never deterred, and if anything she was too patient by half, which was probably the way in which she got most of the good gossip she always seemed to have.

"They've booked his matrimonial chances at White's," she said off-handedly. "Father told me this morning. Which means it's been on at Heeton's for at least a week. Would you care to wager whose names are on the line?"