Chapter 6: A Dangerous Game

Life as Baron d'Arcy's mistress was luxurious but not without its perils. In the weeks that followed, I became accustomed to silken sheets, fine wines, and the Baron's constant attentions. With his patronage, my days of scraping by were over; I hosted Nicolas in an elegantly furnished townhouse he provided, and wanted for nothing—at least materially. Yet, as comforting as security was, I felt a restlessness stir in my core.

My ambition, once awakened, refused to be tamed. Nicolas was devoted, but he was also a man with his own life—business in the courts, meetings with ministers—times when I was left alone. During those hours, I wandered the city incognito, keeping my ears open for gossip and my eyes on potential opportunities. I began to understand that knowledge was as valuable a currency as beauty, and I sought to gather both.

It was during one such afternoon outing that I encountered Marquis Etienne de Beaumont, a name that made my heart skip for more than one reason. He was newly arrived at court and rumored to be seeking entertainment; but more shocking was the surname—Beaumont, the same as Alexandre, my former fiancé. A jolt of fear and anger coursed through me when I overheard it at a café terrace. Could it be a relation? Perhaps not; Beaumont was a common enough name among nobility. Still, curiosity got the better of me.

I engineered a meeting quite accidentally on purpose: as the Marquis passed by my table, I let my handkerchief flutter to the ground in front of him. He retrieved it, as any gentleman would, and thus we fell into conversation. He was younger than Baron d'Arcy by a decade, handsome in a polished way, and clearly taken with my charm within minutes. I introduced myself only as "V," smiling mysteriously when he pressed for more.

Our exchange was innocuous—flirtatious smiles, a few compliments, nothing overt. Yet I felt a thrill at his attention. Here was a man of status who did not know my past, who saw only an attractive woman of ambiguous station. For the first time, I tested the waters of straying from Nicolas's shadow. It was a dangerous game indeed, but the allure of broadening my influence tugged at me.

The Marquis invited me to join him for an evening carriage ride through the park, an offer I gracefully declined for the moment, citing a prior engagement. We parted with him kissing my hand and begging permission to call on me soon. I gave him no address, only a coy "Perhaps we shall meet again," leaving him wanting more.

Flushed with the success of my brief flirtation, I returned home that day feeling triumphant. But my triumph was short-lived. Baron d'Arcy arrived that evening in an unusually somber mood. Over dinner in my candlelit dining room, I sensed something off in his demeanor. His smiles were forced, his gaze appraising.

Finally, he set down his wine and said quietly, "I had an interesting chat at court today. It seems a certain Marquis de Beaumont was seen rather taken with a beautiful unknown lady at the café. An enchanting widow who goes by 'Madame V'."

My stomach dropped even as I kept my face carefully neutral. Gossip in this city traveled faster than plague. I had been careless. I began to form a soothing lie, but Nicolas continued, voice cooling further, "Tell me, ma chère, should I be worried that my so-called exclusive companion is already catching the eyes of other men?"

I reached across the table to lay my hand on his. "Nicolas, please. It was nothing. A chance meeting. I would never betray the generosity you've shown me." That at least was true—I hadn't done anything but chat.

His eyes searched mine, skepticism and a hint of hurt in them. A twist of guilt surprised me; I hadn't intended to wound him. Before I could say more, he rose from his chair, drawing me up with him by our joined hands.

"Nothing, you say. I wonder if the Marquis thought it nothing." His tone held a dangerous edge of jealousy. He led me into the bedroom, the shadows dancing from the single lamp. My heart thumped.

"Nicolas—" I began, but he pulled me close, one arm snaking firmly around my waist. The intensity in his gaze stole my words.

"I have indulged you because you bring me great happiness," he murmured, brushing my lower lip with his thumb. "But I will not be made a fool, V. If you desire more than what I provide, you need only say it. I will not share what is mine."

A tremor of apprehension went through me at those words. What is mine. I realized that while I had been feeling powerful and independent, in his eyes I was effectively his possession. This was a reminder. One I would be wise to heed.

"I desire only you," I whispered, leaning in to press a contrite kiss to his jaw. I decided the best course now was to mollify and reassure him utterly. My survival depended on it; if he cast me off in anger, I would lose everything I'd built so far. "Forgive me for speaking with the Marquis. I was merely being polite. My heart belongs to you, Nicolas."

He exhaled, some of the tension easing from his posture. Gently, he guided me backward until my knees hit the edge of the bed. "Show me," he said, voice low, though it was more plea than command. "Show me you are mine."

I nodded and let him lay me down against the pillows. If he needed dominance to feel secure, then I would yield—strategically. "I am yours," I breathed, reaching up to caress his cheek. "Let me prove it."

Nicolas's eyes darkened with a potent mix of relief and lust. He captured my wrists suddenly, bringing them up above my head. My breath hitched as he held them there with one hand. From the corner of my eye I saw him reach to the side table and produce something—one of his cravats, left behind on a previous visit.

Wordlessly, he bound my wrists together with the silk cloth, tying it firmly to the wooden slat of the headboard. I tested the restraint instinctively; it held fast. A flutter of panic stirred in my belly at being rendered helpless, but I swallowed it down. I had asked for this in a way.

His hands traced down my exposed arms, then he began to methodically undress me. I wore a loose muslin gown; he rucked it up to my hips, exposing my stockings and garters. With deft movements, he rolled the stockings down and off, leaving me bare-legged. The cool air and his heated gaze raised goosebumps on my skin.

"You are so beautiful like this," he said softly, almost to himself, as he bared the rest of me. Soon I was completely naked and bound, spread out for his pleasure. He stood back for a moment, drinking in the sight: my chest rising and falling rapidly, my thighs slightly parted in unconscious invitation, my arms stretched above yielding to his will.

Desire warred with vulnerability inside me. This situation was precarious—physically and emotionally. I had ceded control, and I had to trust that he would remain the generous lover I knew, not cross into cruelty. To my relief, when he came back to me, it was with tender kisses along my inner thigh.

He knelt at the foot of the bed and pressed my legs further apart. I flushed at the wanton exposure, but his hands on my thighs were gentle. Without warning, I felt the wet heat of his tongue glide through my folds. I gasped, back arching. The Baron had never before taken his mouth to that most intimate place on me; it seemed my show of submission had unlocked new fervor in him.

He groaned appreciatively as he tasted me, his large hands pinning my hips down as I instinctively writhed. The flicker of his tongue against my sensitive bud quickly dissolved any lingering anxiety in a wash of pleasure. Bound as I was, I could only moan and twist my hands in their silken restraint, surrendering to the waves of sensation.

"Nicolas... oh!" I cried out when he sucked firmly on that swollen nub, sending a shock of bliss through my core. My compliance and his jealousy had lit a fire in him; he lapped and suckled with a ravenous hunger, as though to imprint himself on me with every stroke of his tongue. I could do nothing but succumb, letting him take his fill while stoking my own arousal to a fever pitch.

As I neared a peak, he pulled away, leaving me whimpering in frustration. His mouth glistened with my wetness as he climbed over me, capturing my cries with a hard kiss. I tasted myself on his lips. "You are mine," he growled softly against my mouth as he positioned himself at my entrance. With a swift thrust, he entered me fully, forcing a keening moan from my throat.

He usually took his time, but tonight there was an edge of possession in every movement. With my wrists bound and body at his mercy, I truly felt what it meant to give up control. It was terrifying—and to my surprise, thrilling. Each powerful drive of his hips forced small sobs of mingled pain and pleasure from me. My earlier climax had been left dangling, and now every thrust pushed me back toward that precipice.

"Say it," he rasped, not slowing. His hand gripped my jaw, not harshly, but firmly enough that I met his fierce gaze. "Say you belong to me."

"I—I belong to you," I gasped, and in that moment I meant it. I clung to him with my legs, tilting my hips to let him even deeper, wanting to satisfy and appease him as badly as I wanted my own release.

His eyes flickered with triumph and affection at my words. He slammed into me, over and over, and his free hand found my pearl, rubbing it in tight circles that sent sparks exploding behind my eyes. Bound and overwhelmed, I shattered with a cry, my inner walls gripping him like a vice as pleasure overtook me.

With a hoarse groan, the Baron followed, spilling himself while buried to the hilt. He collapsed over me, careful not to crush me, his face pressed to the crook of my neck. For a long moment we stayed like that, entangled and panting.

Finally he raised himself and gently untied my wrists, kissing the slight red marks the bindings left. He gathered me into his arms, cradling me against his chest as we recovered. "Forgive my roughness," he said softly, sounding more like the tender Nicolas I knew. "I could not bear the thought of losing you."

I nestled into him, brushing back a damp lock of hair from his forehead. "There is nothing to forgive. You have me, all of me," I replied, my voice gentle. And for now, it was true. In that bed, I had given him everything he needed to trust me again.

Yet as he held me tight, I understood more keenly than ever the knife's edge I walked. Too much independence, and I would provoke possessive wrath; too much submission, and I would lose sight of my own goals. I had to keep balance, to give Nicolas enough of me to keep him devoted, while keeping a part of myself untouchable and free.

That night, after the Baron left, I stood by my window aching in body and spirit. The dangerous game I played was a tightrope: one misstep could send me tumbling back into ruin or worse. I knew now that I must be cunning beyond measure—to satisfy my patron's expectations while quietly maneuvering toward my own empowerment.

I unbound the last vestige of the cravat from my bedpost, running the silk through my fingers thoughtfully. If I was going to begin expanding my web of influence, I would have to do it far more carefully. Nicolas d'Arcy loved me in his way, but he also reminded me that love in our world came shackled with power. To stay free, I would need to become a mistress not just of a man, but of the very game itself.