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CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTONE

SINFUL ADDICTED

And watch for the first novel in Charlotte Featherstone’s

new historical romance series

SEDUCTION & SCANDAL

CHARLOTTE FEATHERSTON

THE SINS and THE VIRTUES

LUST

www.spice-books.co.uk

To Grannie MacAlpine,

whose stories of the dark and mysterious Fey did not have the intended effect.

I wasn’t scared in the least that a Faery would come and pluck me out of bed

because I was up after I had been safely tucked in. I was entranced.

And inspired! Thank you for those stories,

and for shaping my love of Faeries, and faerytales.

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

THANK YOU TO KATHLEEN OUDIT, FOR ONCE again spoiling me with a gorgeous cover. It’s everything I wanted and more!

And to my fantabulous editor, Susan Swinwood, who most definitely lives up to the adage Patience is a virtue! Thank you for that!

THE CURSE OF THE UNSEELIE COURT

IT IS SAID THAT THE FEY HAVE ALWAYS LIVED amongst mortals, their world lying parallel to ours. They live in two courts; the good faeries belong to the Seelie Court, where gaiety and light reign. Opposite to the Seelie Fey are the Dark Fey, those who live in the Unseelie Court, or the unholy court as it is known. These dark faeries are mysterious and sensual, well versed in pleasures of the flesh. It is said that to look upon them and their beauty is to be drawn into their erotic, voluptuous world, and once there, your fate is sealed, your body and will no longer your own.

And this is precisely what happened once, long, long ago, to a beautiful queen of the Seelie Court, who had the misfortune to catch the eye of the Dark Fey king.

Immediately, the king was besotted with the queen, driven to possess her at all costs. Queen Aine was all the king could think about, but Aine spurned him, forcing King Duir to steal her away from her golden court as she slept. Like Persephone taken to the underworld, Duir brought Aine to his dark court, plying her with his erotic skills. The Unseelie king was certain he could win Aine, but the queen despised Duir. Long had she plotted against her captor, vowing to leave the king and his court behind, but Duir kept her prisoner, a concubine for his dark pleasures.

The queen’s loathing of the king festered, until she could think of nothing but revenge. Fueled by hatred, Aine searched for a way to break free—all to no avail. Until one day, she was delivered of the king’s twin sons. Enraptured by his progeny, and grateful to the queen for giving him such a gift, Duir became less watchful, allowing the queen new freedoms, and it was then that Aine found a way to leave his court.

One night she stole away, taking with her one of her sons, the golden-haired child who was the image of her Seelie self, leaving behind his dark-haired brother who bore his father’s resemblance. As she fled, Aine placed a spell on the Unseelie Court, that it whither away, never to thrive again until the Dark Fey could make a woman give herself to him of her own free will. As well, she cursed the sons of Duir’s siblings—and any future male children of the king—with each cardinal sin, further destroying her own dark son’s chances of finding a virtuous woman who would give herself willingly.

To this day, the queen’s spell holds strong. The Unseelie Court is dying. There is but one hope for the court—to find the seven women who represent the virtuous aspects of humanity. Seven women who embody chastity, temperance, charity, diligence, patience, kindness and humility. Women whose very being calls to the sins deeply buried in each prince, sins that are eager to corrupt, through erotic pleasure, their virtues.

If the court is to survive, the fey princes will have to find a way to make the virtues follow them willingly, while satisfying the basic needs of their sins. Sins of which, perhaps, each virtue is ready for a taste.

PROLOGUE

Dear Diary,

Born of a higher power—gifted, favored … cursed. I am all of these things. It is said that not only my conception, but those of my sisters as well, was an auspicious event. Like the visit from the angel Gabriel to Mary, my father was visited in his slumber from the faery queen, who foretold the coming of our births and the importance of not only myself, but my three sisters. In his dreams, it was whispered to him the part we would play in a world that we had not yet seen—a world, it seems, we will never really become a part of.

Like the spirit of Christ to the Virgin, the queen infused within my father the qualities that all humans wished to possess—attributes that many sought through absolution at church, and monies given away to pardon them for any trespass. Through his seed, our virtues were passed on, each daughter possessing the moralities that would define her—humility, kindness, temperance and chastity.

We are bound to these virtues as surely as we breathe. They define us, our personalities, our hopes, our desires. They enslave us. Chain us, until the day our purpose in this small, confined world is revealed.

It is our lot in life. Some would say that others have endured far worse than what we have. After all, we were born into the Lennox dynasty—a family whose powers stretch from the southwest of England into the wild beauty of Scotland. A family whose riches have flourished. A family who is revered, and just a touch feared, for the four daughters who were born within minutes of each other.

While some fear that we’re witches, others eager to possess wealth and power fear not the mysterious happening of our birth, but the fact that we are beyond possessing. We are made for something else, something beyond the pleasures and ambitions of men.

We are made pure. Righteous. Virtuous. Lonely.

Imagine, as I have, going through life and never experiencing all it has to offer. Imagine what it is to dream—and dread—a future which you know nothing about, because, as my sisters and I know, we were not created for such mundane purposes as tending home and hearth, but for some other mystical, and I fear sinister, reason.

Imagine if you can bear to, never feeling the touch of a man or desire spear your loins. Imagine listening to your friends speak of the beaux they dance with and the shirtless laborers who toil the soil, their perspiration trickling between muscles, a sight that you’re afraid you will never understand the power of, or feel your own cheeks heat with a rush of physical longing at such a masculine, virile sight.

Picture, if you can, never feeling any heat warm your blood when a man’s gaze caresses you, lingering on breasts that should make you feel womanly, but instead, from which you feel disconnected. Indifferent. Sexless …

High and mighty they call me. Frigid. But I am neither of those things. I am Chastity—my name, and my virtue. It is who I am, my entire being. It, I fear, is my prison.

ONE

“YOUR HIGHNESS, THE TIME HAS COME.”

He knew it. Heard the wails for what seemed like days now, the resonance ringing in his ears. Not even here, in his private solar, was he free from the cries that seemed to haunt his court. Another howl, worse than the keening of a banshee, echoed through the castle, whispering through his blood and settling deep within his black soul.

The curse was upon them.

Niall, king of the Unseelie Court, son of Duir and the most powerful of the Dark Fey, stood before the enormous hearth with legs braced wide and hands clasped behind his back. Unblinking, he watched the orange flames engulf a blackened oak log, sending sparks sizzling up the flue and into the chamber. Another female scream rent the air; its chilling sound found its way once more inside him as he fought to show no outward emotion.

“Your Highness—”

“Who is the maid who struggles to bring her child into the world?”

“Gertrude, female of Irian.”

Niall shut his eyes against the pain of knowing his cousin would suffer this night. Irian, despite his Elvish blood, or perhaps because of it, was his best warrior at court. It did not matter to Niall that his cousin was a Half ling Fey. Irian was loyal and trustworthy, and like a brother to him. More than the blood brother whom Niall had shared a womb with. Irian’s mixed blood had never been of consequence to Niall, until now.

“It was a mistake to allow him within the inner sanctum,” the seer of the fey growled. “He has incurred the Mother Creator’s wrath, and now we shall all suffer.”

Niall held himself still, breathing deep, willing his anger to tether. “It is not the Mother Creator who has cursed us, Gwynad, but my mother.”

He heard the seer growl behind him. The tip of the old man’s yew staff slammed against the gold tiles, but Niall ignored Gwynad’s theatrics—no one cowed him, especially this wizened old mage.

“How did the female come to be at our court?” he asked, grasping at anything at all that might tell him she and her babe would be spared from his mother’s hatred and the curse that shrouded his court.

Gwynad sighed and rustled forward, his velvet robe whispering against the floor. “The girl was a servant. Irian purchased her from a mortal. Thirty pieces of silver, and a blessing on the mortal’s child.”

“It seems an even transaction,” he grumbled, despite the growing unease in his belly. The woman—Gertrude—had not cried out in the last few minutes.

Gwynad pressed closer, his voice a hushed whisper. “She did not want to come to the Unseelie Court despite Irian’s assurance she would be treated like a princess. She tried to persuade the mortal to take her back, but then Irian and his crazed Elvish blood took over and he stole her, carrying her here as though he were god of the underworld and her an innocent maid.

“She was not willing, nor has she softened,” Gwynad hissed, reminding Niall, not so subtly, of the curse his mother had placed on his court.

Irian loved the mortal. Niall knew that. But he also knew that Gertrude had never grown to love Irian. They were doomed, as was their babe. As was the Unseelie Court.

Suddenly the door to the solar was thrown wide, the thick oak ratcheting off the wall. Behind him, Niall heard the enraged breathing, smelled the scent of sorrow mixed with the sweet smell of death.

“She’s gone.”

Two words filled with gut-wrenching agony. Niall closed his eyes against it, steeling himself in opposition to the pain he heard in Irian’s voice.

“Damn you, she’s gone!”

Slowly Niall turned, bracing himself for what he would face. Draped over Irian’s arms was Gertrude, limp and pale—lifeless. She was dressed in a white gown, from the waist down the snowy fabric was coated red. His lover’s lifeblood dripped onto Irian’s boots and puddled between his feet.

“She will be afforded a fey burial as though she were your wife, Irian. As you are a prince of the Dark Fey, she would have been your princess. She will be buried as such.”

Niall looked up into the anguished face of his brother of the heart, willing Irian to look at him, but the warrior was consumed now, and the only thing Irian saw was his dead mate lying in his arms.

“What of the babe?” demanded Gwynad.

Irian growled, took a menacing step toward the seer, but caught Niall’s eyes and steadied his raging blood.

“It is a boy. He’s … alive. I do not know for how much longer. The mortal midwife says he has been born too early.”

“Gwynad,” Niall commanded, “fetch a woman to feed the child.”

The old man looked at him as though he were mad. “We have not had a child born to this court in years, Your Highness. There is no milk to be had from our women.”

“Then you have my permission to steal a wet nurse from the mortal realm.”

“And bring more disaster down upon us?” the seer thundered. “Your Highness, I beg you. There can be no more stealing from the mortals. Our court is dying! We must find a way to break your mother’s spell—”

“And what do you think I have been doing since I claimed the throne?” Niall roared in frustration. “Sitting on my arse, having a merry party? Is that what you think I do in here all damn day?”

The seer bowed and took a step back. “I know you have been searching for a way—”

“Enough!” Niall barked. “Gwynad, you will order two servants to take milk from the cow Farmer Douglas leaves out in the pasture for us to avail ourselves. I gifted him and his wife with a child through my magic. The cow is a tithe. Go now.” He turned his gaze to Irian. “Let us bury her in our way, my friend.”

A sob escaped Irian as he looked down into his dead lover’s face. “She didn’t want that, to stay here with me and our court. She begged me, Niall, as she saw her impending death, to free her. I … promised her I would.”

Swallowing hard, Niall watched Irian sink to his knees, weeping over Gertrude’s lifeless body. Not for the first time, Niall cursed his mother, the queen of the Seelie Court, for the spell she had cast. He cursed his father for allowing decades to go by without bothering to search for a way to lift the spell. But most of all, he cursed the day his mother had taken his twin and left him at this court to watch his people dwindle and die.

“Irian,” he murmured, resting his hand atop his cousin’s shoulder. “We will avenge her death. I promise you that. I will find a way to break this curse. You will find another woman, Irian—you will. And she will want you and desire you as fiercely as you desire her.”

Irian looked up at him, his black eyes glowing like onyx through a veil of anguish. “We are all cursed, Niall. The court is dying. Despite the riches we have and the bounty of food in our trenchers and the comforts of our chambers, we are cursed. We have every material thing a fey could desire except the love of a woman and children to see to the survival of our race.”

“I will break this damnable curse, Irian. I will do whatever it takes. I vow that.”

Irian’s face twisted from sorrow to anger. “Who will want us, Niall,” he sneered, “when we are condemned by sin?”

Standing in his father’s bedchamber, Niall pushed aside the cobwebs that had grown in the years since Duir’s death. Inside this room, the secret to lifting the curse was hidden, Niall felt sure of it.

A shiver of abhorrence slithered along his spine as he looked around the untouched chamber. The room was cold and oppressive, like the man who had once occupied it. Despite its warm jewel-colored bed hangings and lavish pillows in velvets and silk, the bed, indeed, the entire room, felt like a tomb. This room had also born witness to the rape of the Seelie queen, as well as the conception of him and his brother and their subsequent births. These walls had witnessed the night his mother had fled the Unseelie Court, taking with her his twin who was the image of her Seelie self, leaving him, the image of his father, to grow up in the care of a man who became nothing short of a raving madman.

In this room was the tainted past, and hidden amongst its dark secrets was the way to end the curse.

He glanced at the massive bed, its ivory sheets twisted and trailing to the floor, and saw the image of the king, dying. Leaving Niall to rule over a court that had no hope. A court tainted by the sins of his father.

As if whispered through the threadbare bed curtains, he heard the curse murmuring around him, a reminder of what he already knew—the legacy of his mother’s wrath. They might as well have been inked onto his skin, for those words and her spell were embedded into every facet of his being.

His mother. He looked to the portrait that hung above his father’s bed. Aine was silver haired and violet eyed—he had her eyes. She was from the court of sunlight and gaiety, and his father, from the court of night and carnal sin. Duir’s was a world of dark beauty and erotic sensuality, and his mother had been repulsed by it. His father hadn’t cared. His lust was too strong, so he had stolen her from her bed while she slept and forced her to accept him. His father, in his misguided Unseelie ignorance believed that he could make her love him through sex.

But his mother had never softened. Just as Gertrude had never softened with Irian.

Aine’s hatred and vengeance was complete against the dark court. No mortal or immortal could be brought to the court against their will and made to love a fey. They had to come of their own volition. They had to give their body and soul willingly. And it was for certain that no female would want him, or the other Dark Fey, once they discovered who they really were. Beyond their faery beauty lay the sins of the world. Lust, vanity, envy, gluttony … all seven consumed in each fey prince. Wrath was Niall’s sin, and tonight it was simmering beneath his flesh. He wanted revenge—bloody and merciless—against his mother, his twin and the entire Seelie Court.

“Tell me how,” he whispered hoarsely. “How do I make this right?” He hoped the spirits, either malicious or benign, who haunted this chamber would hear him. “Tell me how to lift this bloody curse and save my court from this black spot.”

A whisper, barely audible, brushed past him. Movement near the bookshelf caught his attention. The fluttering of vellum edged in gold leaf flittered to the floor, making him press closer. By magic, the image of words in the ancient fey tongue appeared before his eyes, giving him hope for the first time since he had assumed the throne of the Unseelie.

Some by sin rise, and some by virtue fall.

TWO

Glastonbury, Somerset, England 1789, the Eve of Beltane

THE TOR ROSE ABOVE THE VILLAGE LIKE A MEGA-lithic warrior, glinting in the sunlight. Atop the mysterious mound, like a stone needle penetrating the clouds, towered the remnants of St. Michael’s Church. For centuries the villagers had said that Arthur and Guinevere were buried there. But others believed most steadfastly that the faery folk dwelt deep beneath the rippling green grass that resembled layers of plush velvet. It was said that underneath the grass, beneath the tor itself, lay a labyrinth of winding crypts—the magical path to the Faery.

On certain nights of the year, like tonight, the Eve of Beltane, the veil between the immortal and the mortal realm was thinned and the fey and all their beauty and magic walked unknowingly amongst man. But Beltane was not until twilight. Hours away, yet. They were free from the faeries. At least for now.

Casting an admiring glance at the mysterious and striking tor, Chastity, of all people, knew to believe in the tales of the Daoine Side. The Faery People.

Drawn to the tor as she was, Chastity gripped the handle of her wicker basket tighter in her gloved hands, as if grounding herself against the luring beauty that tried to bewitch her. The tor, it was believed, was the site of the Unseelie Court—the unholy court of the fey. Dark faeries, the Unseelie were. Enigmatically erotic, haunting, beautiful fey that corrupted a soul with all the unearthly, sinful pleasures that any human could ever desire. The Dark Fey and their wicked enchantments were everything that Chastity stood against. The deep-seated virtue within her balked at everything they were: lustful, tempting creatures who stole virgins away from their beds and ravished them.

She should not be intrigued by the tor, or the tempting idea of a magical netherworld that was the Unseelie Court. She should be repulsed. Terrified for her mortal soul. Yet the only time she ever felt the slightest bit of tingling in her woman’s body occurred when her gaze lingered upon the sacred mound. Even now, as she strolled down the high street of Glastonbury with her sisters, her gaze was fixed on the tor. There was the faintest tingling in her body. She felt a touch warm, her thighs quivered slightly. Only the tor and the thought of the Dark Fey made her feel this way. Perhaps she felt the prickling awareness because they represented danger. They were the opposite of her in every way. To her virtue, they were sin incarnate. Yet, she could not discount the way her blood grew warm whenever she thought of them. It was only thus, she thought sadly, with the fey. Mortal men provoked nothing in her but bland conversation and an absurd impulse to hide beneath her cloak of chaste piety.

As if to prove her thoughts, Caleb Graham, a baronet in the village, passed her on the street, shooting her a most amiable, handsome grin.

“Goody day, ladies,” he murmured, his voice pleasing in a masculine way. “Lady Chastity,” he said as he removed his tricorn hat and bowed before her. “How lovely you look this morning. The walk has added an invigorating glow to your skin.”

Nothing. Not even the faintest fluttering in her belly. She had heard the other village girls—most of them older women—talk of Caleb Graham’s handsomeness. His desirability. Chastity saw it perfectly well. He was a handsome man, and his broad shoulders and chest belied a virile manliness that attracted the fairer sex. But nothing feminine stirred within her.

“Good day, sir,” was all she replied, for she was unable to make any idle or pleasant conversation with the opposite sex, however much she longed to possess the ability.

Chastity could not help but notice that his eyes had darkened as he replaced his hat atop his brown hair. Her aloofness was not what the baron was used to when he chatted with females. But Chastity was not blessed with the gift of artful flirtation. She didn’t know how. Didn’t understand it. Hers was a purity of the mind, soul and body. A paragon above the temptations of mortal man.

“Shall you attend the green this evening?” Caleb’s query was directed at her, while his gaze was firmly fixed upon her ample décolletage, which she discreetly covered with the corner of her silk shawl.

“I am afraid not. Do excuse us, sir, for we must be on our way.”

The censure in her voice startled him, causing an expression of maligned vanity to cross his features. “Well, then, good day,” he grumbled, and Chastity heard him mutter, “Frigid shrew” beneath his breath as he stabbed the ground with his walking stick and proceeded up the high street.

“Pay him no heed,” Prudence whispered next to her. “He doesn’t know a thing about you, and his assessment is wrong. Besides, I’ve heard stories about him. He’s not the sort you’d wish to set your heart upon.”

With a nod and a sigh, Chastity continued to stroll with her sisters down the cobbled street, taking in the bustling activity of the May Day preparations as she forced the interaction out of her mind. Caleb was handsome, so why couldn’t she bear to look at him, much less converse with him? Chastity feared she was the oddest female in Christendom. She most certainly was unlike any of the other young ladies of her acquaintance.

“You have such a way with the opposite sex,” her sister Mary chortled. “Would it hurt to bestow a smile upon one?”

Chastity did not take the bait. What did Mary know, she thought savagely. Mary didn’t realize the mental anguish Chastity suffered, the pain that came from knowing she wasn’t like other women. How would Mary feel if she were to discover that the desires of man and woman would never be hers to experience?

“Come, Chastity, you could have offered him a bit of encouragement. Caleb Graham has been hungering for you for a year, at least. Give the poor fellow a smile, or heaven forbid, a dance at the assembly rooms. Who knows, perhaps you might even enjoy shedding your mantle of purity.”

“Leave off, Mary,” Prudence demanded. “You’re just being hurtful and spiteful. Besides, it’s not done to stop in the middle of the road and talk to a man. It looks gauche and common, and Chastity was quite right to rebuff the baronet’s presumptive behavior.”

Mary sent Prudence a horrid glare. “A tip of the hat and a bland ‘good day’ is presumptive? Dear me, Prudence, you must come down from your tower room and live amongst the real world. I vow, you would have a fit of apoplexy at some of the things that have been whispered to me by the opposite sex.”

“Well, then,” Mercy said cheerily, changing the course of the conversation. “Shall we stop at the baker’s and have a Bakewell tart? I will buy them, for I have brought my pin money.”

Chastity glanced at her youngest sister. Mercy. The virtue of kindness, trying her utmost to make her sisters the best of friends, not to mention lessening the sting of Baron Graham’s painful assessment of Chastity.

“Come,” Mercy pleaded, “we shall all have a little sweet for the walk home.”

“We really shouldn’t dally,” Chastity replied. “Although, a quick stop for a tart to eat on the way wouldn’t be a bother, would it?”

Prudence, the second eldest, who was always restrained and temperate, declined. “None for me, thank you. But naturally the three of you may indulge.”

Chastity nodded in understanding before fixing her gaze on her three sisters. They were paragons. Everyone thought them utterly perfect. Yet each of them knew of the other’s desire to be anything but what they were. On the outside, they were ethereal models of the womanly ideal. Inside, they were empty vessels, trapped by the virtues they were born to embrace and embody.

“Well, come along, then,” Mercy said as she held her bonnet in place with her hand as a stiff wind gusted up, threatening to take it from her flaxen curls. “My mouth is positively watering at the thought of a tart.”

Within minutes they were in the cramped little baker’s, inhaling the fresh aroma of pastry and almonds and sweet-cream icing. “Oh, heavenly,” Chastity found herself murmuring. Her stomach rumbled in response to the scents. Or perhaps, she thought, glancing over her shoulder at Prue, who waited by the door, it was her sister’s long-denied belly she heard. She could see the hunger in Prue’s eyes, and Chastity tilted her head, indicating the wooden shelf where countless treats awaited them. Typical of Prudence, she pinched her lips and shook her head. Denial was all Prue knew.

“There,” Mercy announced, passing them each a tart as they stood outside the baker’s. She had bought one for Prue, but she refused it, so Mercy handed the tart to a small child who stood beside her mother, who was busy selling irises from a wicker basket.

“Oh, thank you, luv,” the woman said gratefully as her daughter reached for the tart and shoved it hungrily into her mouth.

“'Tis no trouble. The eve of May Day,” Mercy replied, “is not complete without a Bakewell tart.”

As Chastity smiled at the little girl, her gaze caught something radiant in the middle of the road. A man riding a pure white horse that was adorned with a glimmering gold bridle.

He was handsome, more striking than any man she had ever seen. He was tall and fair-haired, and his clothes appeared as though they were spun of gold gossamer threads. His tailoring was richly embroidered, embellished with layers of lace and cloth-covered buttons. He did not resemble a puffed-up peacock like so many gentlemen did in the current fashion. He was every inch a man, a feat nearly impossible to achieve considering his elaborately embroidered frock coat and waistcoat.

As his white horse trotted elegantly by, his eyes caught Chastity’s stare. The stranger inclined his head and moved along, forcing Chastity’s gaze to follow him as he made his way through the carts and carriages that littered the high street.

Who was he? she wondered, still entranced by the stranger. He didn’t live in the village. She would have seen him before now. Heavens, all the village women would have been talking about him. She would have seen him at the assembly rooms, or at a tea or luncheon or something.

As he made his way up the steep incline of the road, he glanced back at her once more over his shoulder. He did not stare at her like other men did, with a mixture of intrigue and lust. He was a gentleman. A polite gentleman.

But then he was gone, and Chastity realized that she had fallen behind her sisters. Catching up, she stayed to the rear of them, content to eat her tart and contemplate the stranger on horseback. He carried himself as though he was a prince. An ancient prince, she mused, the kind who had also been a knight, leading his men into war.

Fanciful thinking, she reflected. But what more in life did she have to do than think whimsical thoughts as she waited for the future to unfold?

“The village green looks remarkable, does it not?” Mercy said. “I adore Beltane. One day I would love to take part in the festivities. I wish it could be tonight! The weather is very fine and the moon is full.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t hurt if you had a dance around the maypole,” Prudence murmured.

“You know what will happen if I go to the green,” Mercy replied as she tied the long pink satin ties of her bonnet. “Everyone will run away as though I have the plague.”

No one replied. What could they say? It was the truth. The villagers were superstitious and as a consequence gave the sisters wide berth. The only ones not afraid to speak to them were rogues and rakes who were far too bold and who wanted nothing more than a bit of immoral fun. Which was something that their inherent virtues forbade.

But Mercy, with her virtue of kindness, was more easily forgiving of their lot in life. For her, it was easier to accept. At least, Chastity believed it to be so, for Mercy never complained.

“It is for the best that they are wary,” Prudence reminded them. “We aren’t like the others. And the fact has never been made more clear than now that we’ve reached our womanhood.”

“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” admonished Mary, “you make us out to be pariahs. We’re not, you know.”

Chastity cast a glance to Mary, the eldest of the four, as they walked down the high street. Mary was not like herself, Mercy or Prue. She was altogether different. What virtue Mary possessed had never been very clear. She was far from humble, so the virtue of humility was out; so too was charity, for Mary was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to sharing. Perhaps she was the virtue of diligence? She certainly did have a very great enthusiasm for the opposite sex, and her pursuit of them.

“We are pariahs, Mary,” Prue’s stern voice intruded on Chastity’s thoughts. “It is a fact that cannot be denied.”

“Well, I have no difficulty whatsoever in finding friends, male or otherwise.”

Indeed, she did not. There were always circles of men around Mary for she was the prettiest of them all. Although they had been born within minutes of each other, they all looked different from the other. Mary possessed startling black hair and dark eyes. She was exotic and breathtaking. Chastity could not help but notice just how breathtaking as she walked alongside her. The men, it seemed, preferred Mary’s dark looks to Chastity’s fair hair and green eyes.

“I fear that you all will die old maids,” Mary admonished. “You put too much stock in what you should be instead of what you could be.”

“Have you not listened to anything Father has told us?” Prue asked, censure in her voice.

“I don’t believe in Father’s absurd stories about a faery queen bequeathing to him daughters who bore the virtues. It’s nonsense.”

Mary had never been a believer. But then, her sister felt unrestrained joy and mirth. She felt desire when a male caller came to tea, or when a rogue asked her to dance. Mary had experienced things that her other three sisters never had. Life.

Perhaps if Mary had been forced to live the life of a true virtue, Chastity mused, she would find herself believing in faery tales—or at the very least the frightening ones.

“If you three would allow yourself to leave the estate, you might find a suitor. It is your eccentric natures that make others suspicious, nothing more. Smile, flirt, flash a bit of ankle or bosom for once, you might be surprised what it will induce.”

“You are far too liberal in your dealings with others,” Prue cautioned. “It is better to be temperate and even.”

“And boring as the devil,” Mary returned. It was a direct hit. But Prue bore it well as she always did.

“Come now, we’re sisters,” Mercy whispered, linking her arms with Prue and Mary. “What is there left, if not kindness between us?”

“I’m only trying to help,” Mary sniffed. “For I have no wish to see you all end up as old maids, and I for one will not sit in my tower room becoming one with you. Tonight I am going to the green, and I am having a dance and a meat pie, and I’m going to go a-Maying as all other young ladies do. There is no harm in it, Prudence,” Mary snapped, “so you may put away your pinched lips and your disapproving frown. Now, who is coming with me?”

Her question was met with absolute silence. “As I thought. You three are utterly hopeless.”

The twigs cracked beneath the horses’ hooves as they emerged from the edge of the woods. Before them, sunlight filtered through the leaves that whispered around them. The hounds they brought sniffed the air, their ears alert, their dark, obsidian eyes watching the humans as they prepared for the Beltane festival.

Niall’s words seemed to whisper all around them. Some by sin rise, and some by virtue fall …

“Do you believe him? Our king’s belief that our curse will end once we find these virtues?”

Thane shrugged at Kian’s question as he watched the approach of four women down the path. Niall, while king of the Dark Fey, was also his half brother. As the eldest, Niall had always seemed awe inspiring to Thane, who was younger by five years. He had never had occasion to doubt Niall, nor had his older brother ever been proven wrong. They had very little to go on in regards to the curse, so why not trust in Niall and his vision?

“Seems a great folly to put any stock in the Bard’s words,” Rinion grumbled. “He’s only a human after all.”

“Shakespeare,” Avery grunted. “I only cared for A Midsummer Night’s Dream. But then, I’m partial to Titania.”

“To fucking the mortal actress who plays Titania,” Kian corrected.

Thane raised his hand to silence their banter. Pointing to the women, he commanded silence, then waved his hand, concealing their presence with faery glamour. If the women were to look their way, they would see only the iridescent glimmer of a sunbeam sparkling through the trees.

Convinced they could not be seen or heard, Thane turned to his companions. “Niall would not have sent us here if he supposed it was foolishness. Every one hundred years, the virtues are born into the mortal realm. They have been born. And they are of age. Our king believes that this is the only way to break his mother’s curse on our court.”

“Do you think the time is right?” Avery asked as he reined in his black steed to a halt. The women were close and the faery mount could smell their presence. “It’s only been six months since we were here to bury Irian’s woman.”

“And you stole that maid from the village,” Kian snapped.

Damn him, Kian was intent on starting something with Avery. Thane sent his twin a hard glare, which Kian naturally returned.

Like Niall, Thane’s twin was a fey prince, possessed with the cardinal sin of envy. Thane could see the jealousy in his brother’s eyes as he glared at Avery, who harbored the sin of gluttony. Of the seven of them, Avery and Kian were most opposed. As Envy, Kian coveted everything Avery had. And as the host of gluttony, Avery always had more, acquired more and strove for more, which made Kian’s jealousy deepen and simmer. It was a never-ending circle of gluttony and envy, and the inability to ever be satisfied.

Cursed since birth, Thane had always lamented his fate. However, in times like this, he realized that to be consumed by lust was a gift, as opposed to always needing to have what others had, or always needing more. At least lust could be satiated.

“She was a luscious armful, that one,” Avery said with a leer as he recalled the maid he had taken from the village. “Many bountiful pleasures to be had in that tasty morsel. I would have shared her, but then she preferred to be devoured whole by someone well versed in pleasure, not jealousy.” He laughed, taunting Kian.

Thane brought his horse to stand between them. “Enough. We needn’t have dissent between us. We are here for our souls, for the survival of our court. Petty jealousy and taunts have no place now.”

Kian glared at him, opened his mouth to say something, but Thane cut his twin off. “We can wait no longer. We must find, and possess, our virtues. Put your considerable skills into seduction, not barbs and insults.”

“I feel it’s time. It’s been six months in Faery, nearly three mortal years since we have seen the virtues,” Rinion, the harbinger of vanity announced. “They were nearly grown then. By now they’re of a suitable age to seduce. No, I agree with Thane. It’s time. As Niall said, we can wait no longer. The curse must be broken. And there is always the chance that our Seelie enemies might also be looking for them. We need to get to them first.”

Thane felt his body twitch as the sound of female voices drifted over to them, caressing his skin. His sin, Lust, reared its head, heating his blood. His gaze fixed on the sight of the four young women, dressed in richly embroidered silk gowns, passing them by. He knew instantly who they were. The Lennox girls. Their virtues.

Thane had no difficulty in recognizing his virtue. Chastity. The opposite of his sin called to him like gin called to a drunkard. She was a vision as she walked by him, completely unaware of his and the other princes’ presence in the woods that ran alongside the path.

It amazed him that a virtue could be a dichotomy. He expected Chastity Lennox to be a pinched-faced maid in a fragile, bony body. But Chastity was not fragile, nor pinched-face. Her face was ethereal, glowing of innocence, but her body … He cast his covetous gaze over her luscious form and felt himself swell. Her body was not chaste in the least. Her curves invited the most licentious of thoughts, the most amoral of all pleasures. What he and his sin could do with that delightful body had him sweating beneath his silk jabot and embroidered waistcoat and jacket.

Chastity Lennox, he realized, was going to be a delicious reward. He could not wait to touch her, to feel her in his arms. He could not wait to corrupt her.

Thane shoved his sin aside. Lust was a separate entity, housed within his body. A knowing need that grew hungry and powerful when aroused. A need that was always desiring sex and pleasure. Anything triggered the sin inside him, a bonny face, ample chest or a coy smile. Hell, a stiff breeze had been known to stir the sin within him.

Most times Thane could subdue it—somewhat. But as a Dark Fey, his natural inclination was toward the pleasures of the flesh. Which, of course, only pleased Lust. Lust very rarely was left to grow hungry and impatient.

But he was now. Yet Thane knew he could not allow his sin to reign. Not yet.

There were times when his sin so took over that Thane was powerless to stop it. When Lust came to the forefront, he was a powerful creature to deny, almost as though he were a separate entity. Most times, he was quiet inside him. Thane was aware of his sin only in thought, and desire. But once his Unseelie blood was heated with need, and Lust was rattling to be set free, absolutely nothing stopped him. Memories tripped through his mind of the debauches in his past. For now, those memories must suffice. Lust would have to learn to feed on them, while Thane wooed the virginal Chastity.

“There they are,” Avery murmured as he wet his lips, which were obscenely erotic on a man, let alone a fey. “And every bit more grown-up,” he purred as he devoured all of them with his greedy gaze. “Imagine them at court, surrounded by all kinds of decadence. What treasures they will be. I will very much enjoy showing them what pleasure true excess can be.”

Lust began to seethe, to pull at him. His sin took umbrage at Avery and his hedonism, that he was entertaining ideas about what it would be like to taste Chastity. Avery was a damn glutton, never satisfied, always craving, always needing more. Thane knew that Chastity would prove a most challenging delight for Avery and his sin.

“Now who bears the green eyes?” Kian asked accusingly.

Thane gave his twin no heed as he attempted to control his thoughts, but when he saw Avery’s black irises, which were rimmed in violet, dilate with hunger as his gaze fixed on Chastity, Thane said rather impulsively, “Brothers, I leave you to your virtues.”

With a wave of his hand, the veil of glamour dropped. Nudging his mount forward, he walked the animal a few short paces before pulling in beside the Lennox sisters. “Good morn, ladies,” he said, trying to resist the urge to grasp Chastity and haul her onto his lap. He could not steal her. Not if he wanted to break the curse. She must come to court of her own free will. She must give herself and her soul up to him, he could not take it from her. Her body was to be his gift, and therefore, he must wait until he was gifted with it.

“Sir, you are not known to us,” one of them said through lips that were plump, but pressed tightly together until they were thin and bloodless. Temperance, he thought as he caught her reproving glance as she and her sisters walked by him.

Jumping down from his horse, he took the reins in his gloved hands and followed them. “Then allow me to remedy that,” he said as he sketched a graceful bow.

“Come along. Now,” she muttered as she ushered the other three women along the path as though she were a mother goose gathering her chicks as a fox approached.

“Prue, for heaven’s sake,” one of them muttered before stopping and curtsying before him. “Don’t be rude.” When she glanced up, Thane was struck by the darkness of her eyes and the onyx ringlets that danced in the breeze from beneath her straw bonnet. “I am Mary Lennox,” she announced. “And this is my sister Prudence, my other sister Mercy and …” She glanced amongst the straw bonnets and the rippling silk shawls that billowed in the May wind. “And hiding behind them is Chastity.”

Their eyes locked, and he was stunned by how alluring Chastity’s green gaze was. Thane felt the instant heat of unbridled desire flare inside him. Lust wanted her. Badly. He smiled, trying to remember that he was portraying a mortal gentleman. As a fey prince, he took what he wanted. Their court manners were not mortal manners. But if he were to act as a fey now, he would never have a chance to win Chastity, nor experience her surrender.

“I am honored.” With a deep bow, he removed his hat and placed it over his heart. “I am Thane.”

He did the pretty and pretended he was a gentleman. All to no avail, for Chastity barely glanced at him, and certainly with nothing that could be considered reciprocal desire.

At that precise moment, his faery hound decided to come bounding out of the woods. He was large and strong, and making the most mournful sound Thane had ever heard. Something between a whimper and a snarl.

“Bel, that is enough,” he commanded. Pointing to the spot beside his boot, Thane motioned for the dog to sit. But Bel possessed a mind of his own, and instead, began sniffing the women’s skirts, shoving his nose up their hems. Lucky beast, he thought with amusement, until he heard the frightened little voice at the back.

“Stay away! “ The voice sounded panicky—trembling. It was Chastity’s voice.

“Bel,” he admonished as he stepped around the women and reached for his pet. Chastity was there, looking up at him with sheer terror in her eyes.

“He’s friendly,” he said, trying to be soothing. “He’s only a pup really, and more curious than anything.”

Thane saw her shoulders tremble as she fearfully watched the dog. “I … I don’t like beasts.”

Thane wondered if he could be classified as a beast. The Dark Fey were certainly known to be beastly in their appetites.

“Bel is such an unusual name for a pet,” the one named Mercy said. She held her glove palm out and Bel loped to her side, sniffing and licking the leather.

“It is an old Gaelic name that means the Shining One. He is named after the Celtic sun god of healing.”

Mercy bent down and rubbed her hands through Bel’s pure white fur. “I am afraid that Chastity is not the animal lover in the family.”

That, Thane realized, was going to be a bit of a problem. The fey lived in the woods, surrounded by nature and all its creatures. With Chastity’s fear of animals it was going to be very hard to induce her to come and live at his court.

Thinking it best to steer the conversation away from animals, and Chastity’s increasing fear of the eagerly sniffing Bel, he asked, “Are you by chance going to the May Day celebration?” He indicated the village green, which was decorated for Beltane. Beyond the green, by the ruins of the ancient abbey was a pile of branches and logs, the beginnings of the traditional Beltane bonfire.

“No, we are not,” the one named Prudence announced in a clipped voice. “Now, good day to you, sir.”

Thane watched the four young women commence walking along the path. In the distance the tor rose, and at the foot of it was a grand manor home, fit for a duke. It was the Lennoxes’ estate. And Chastity’s home. He even knew what bedroom window was hers.

Despite her cold reception, he was not thwarted. Lust knew how to break down any resisting barriers. Thane could almost taste Chastity’s surrender on his tongue. Her sexual awakening aroused him, roused a hunger in him that had not been sated by any of his previous conquests. Lust, it seemed, was most eager to corrupt the innocent Chastity, in the most depraved ways. But it was not only his sin that desired her. Thane and his Dark Fey blood wanted her, too.

Allowing his gaze to linger, he followed the prim and beckoning Chastity as she sauntered down the path to her home—to safety. But Chastity Lennox was not safe anywhere from him—from the desire that was growing inside him.

Every one hundred years, seven virtues were born in the mortal realm, he reminded himself. Chastity had been born for him, to sate the sin inside him. She had been created exclusively for his sexual appetites, and the power that she was his, intended solely for him, was a feeling more dominant than orgasm.

Christ, he wanted her. And he would have her, too.

With a cheeky little backward glance, the dark-haired Mary smiled at him over her shoulder and he returned it, thinking of how soon it was going to be that he would see Chastity smile at him like that.

“Do not get any ideas about her,” Rinion said as he emerged from the woods and came to stand beside him. “She is mine.”

Thane glanced at the fey who harbored Vanity. He was astoundingly handsome. Women fell at his feet. Thane looked back at the dark and exotic Mary, thinking of her and Rinion together. It was good that the lovely little minx was his virtue. She’d give him a hell of a merry chase and Rinion deserved nothing less.

“I have no interest in your virtue, Rinion. I covet my own.”

Vanity laughed as he fiddled with his already immaculately tied lace jabot. “And she looked at you with as much lust in her eyes as a man does a used-up whore.”

“She’s chaste,” he replied, finding himself snarling the word.

“Poor you,” Rinion murmured before nudging his mount forward. “My virtue is humility. Already, I’m eager to see that saucy wench of mine on her knees. She will submit, I have no doubt, but I wish to see that sparkling, mischievous gleam in her dark eyes as she does so. Now then, I’m off. I have a virtue to corrupt.”

Thane pulled the reins of Rinion’s horse, bringing the animal up short. “Remember the curse. Seduce them. Corrupt their virtues, but don’t force them to follow you to court.”

Vanity’s brow rose, making him look even more handsome. “That little minx is practically begging for it. I’ll have her at court with her thighs spread before midnight.”

With a gentle nudge, Rinion moved his mount forward, but not in the direction of the women. Instead, he cantered for the open plain that had once been fenland and headed for the mansion. Rinion was a fool if he thought to go riding into the gates, proclaiming his stake on the eldest Lennox daughter. It wasn’t going to be easy to get within reach of the girls. George Buckman, the Duke of Lennox, was notoriously ham-fisted when it came to anyone coming near his daughters for even a dance, let alone with the thought of courting them.

Behind him, Thane heard the woods rustle, then Avery and Kian flanked his sides. “Next move?”

Thane pulled the black satin tie from his queue and allowed his long black hair to blow in the wind. He listened to the woods, to the creak of the tree limbs and the whisper of the shimmering leaves. Glancing at the tor, he imagined his court that lay beneath the mound, and the winding labyrinths that led to the magical other-world where the Unseelie Court lay, amidst a faery forest and enchanted waters. His was a magical world beneath the ground of the mortal realm. A court that resembled something out of the mortals’ Arthurian legends. The court that was so richly and lavishly appointed with gold and marble, silks and velvets. The court that was cursed and dying. The court that so desperately needed these virtues.

“For now we wait,” he announced. “And we watch.” And yearn, he silently added, feeling the burn in his loins and the hunger in his belly.

As he gathered the reins, he turned his mount just in time to see one of them—a faery galloping across the grassy knolls.

Crom.

Avery and Kian stiffened beside him. What was Niall’s twin doing out here, and so close to the Lennox estate?

“Bloody hell,” Kian hissed, the sound full of spite, “the Seelie want them, too.”

THREE

BEHIND HIS ENORMOUS ROCOCO DESK, THE DUKE of Lennox pored over the papers that were spread out before him. He had received them that very morning by messenger, from his man of affairs. Scouring the last statement, the duke sat back in his chair and smiled. All seemed to be in order. His wealth had doubled from last year, making him one of the richest landowners in England. Bloody faery magic, he thought, then laughed out loud as he reached for his crystal decanter of fine French brandy. It was illegal, of course—England was at war with France. But there was very little that his money could not secure, smuggled French brandy being one of them.

Pouring the golden liquid into his goblet, he sat back in his chair and smiled with satisfaction. Power, ambition, riches. He had them in spades. At last. And all it had taken was a little pact. A tithe, the faeries called it.

“Your Grace,” his duchess murmured as she swished through the opened library door. “The bills have arrived for the girls’ trousseaux.”

Leaning forward, Lennox waved his duchess into the room, still awed by her dazzling beauty after all these years of marriage. “And what has their trousseaux set me back?”

“An enormous amount,” she said with a smile as he captured her hand in his and brushed his lips along her fingers. She blushed. As pretty still as the day he had first laid eyes on her. He had wanted her so much. Still did. Nothing would have stopped him from possessing her. In fact, nothing had. There had been one particular hurdle to jump, but nothing too serious.

“The modiste has done an extraordinary job of dressing them,” his wife said. “Wait till you see them in their new gowns. Mrs. Hartwell has such a way with color and draping. And the lace,” his wife continued, obviously over the moon with pride, “the lace on their cuffs is at least three inches thick, and so finely spun. I can hardly credit how she is able to design such gowns.”

He did not want this private moment with his wife spoiled by talk of the village modiste. “Why you did not send for a modiste from London for a proper trousseau, I will never understand,” he grumbled, thinking of the woman who ran the only clothing shop in Glastonbury. “You know how I adore my girls, nothing is too good for them. I want them to have the best.”

“I like our modest little modiste,” his wife replied. “And their gowns look as though they were designed and made in Paris, not Glastonbury. Besides, our modiste is rather gifted.”

His brows arched. “In what way?”

“The villagers say she’s been blessed by faeries. They say,” his wife murmured, leaning into him, “that the reason her gowns are so magnificent and her stitches so delicate, and her lace so beautiful, is that the faeries visit her nightly and fill her orders.”

A harrowing thought, indeed.

“They say,” his wife continued, whispering in his ear, “that our little village modiste is happy to repay them in their favored currency.”

“Carnalities?”

“Honeyed milk.”

Patting her rump, Lennox sent his wife a lusty smile. “How little you know of the fey, my dear, for they would much prefer humping to honey.”

She blushed at his vulgarity. “What are you working on?” she asked, flipping through the papers that littered his desk.

“Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear,” he cajoled. Gathering up the papers, he stacked them away from her reach. His investments were listed there, and some of them were dubious to say the least. He had no wish for his wife to discover how he made his coin. Her Grace might be beyond accepting if she were to learn that the jewels around her throat were paid for by his investment in a notorious bawdy house that catered to humans and fey alike.

“Your Grace …” His butler coughed discreetly from the door. “You have a caller.”

“Who is it, Salisbury?” he grumbled, not wanting to be disturbed. His wife was feeling much too fine in his lap, and the thought of the Nymph and the Satyr, the bawdy house and all the erotic, decadent delights to be found there, had him aroused. Suddenly he found himself wondering what it would be like to have his wife and a little fey concubine addressing his needs. He had heard that the fey, particularly the Dark Fey, could fuck like the devil. Perhaps he would make a trip into the city and watch a female fey with her lover from behind the privacy of a peephole. He could put the theory to a test to see if indeed the fey were sexually insatiable. And maybe he’d even have one, too, a little pixie on his cock.

What a delightfully debauched diversion. Perversity was a healthy thing to maintain a man’s vigor as he neared the end of his fourth decade, and there was no place on earth more perverse than the Nymph and the Satyr.

“Your Grace?”

“Who is it?” he growled as his palm skimmed his wife’s rounded rump.

“He refused to give his name, Your Grace. He said to tell you that the time has come to pay up.”

Lennox lost his grip on his wife. All thoughts of nymphs and pixies rousing him to a sexual peak flew out of his head. Bloody hell, he did not wish for Salisbury to say another word. Thankfully, the butler correctly interpreted his hard stare.

“Probably Arawn,” he murmured as he patted his wife’s thigh. “Always a prankster, that Arawn. He’ll be wanting to take Prue on a ride or some such thing.”

“I shall leave you alone then, as you hammer out the details of Arawn’s courtship of Prudence,” his dutiful wife replied, slipping from his lap and straightening her hooped skirts. “By the by, do inform Lord Arawn that it will not ingratiate him at all to me if I hear of any of my girls being talked of in such a fashion. Paying up refers to commodities, Your Grace. Our daughters are not things to be traded.”

“Of course, of course,” he said, ushering her along with a wave of his hand. “Wouldn’t dream of such a thing.” And he wouldn’t. By God, he loved his daughters, and only wanted the best for them.

Lennox’s gaze followed his wife out of the room before fixing on his butler. Damn it, he knew it wasn’t Arawn come to pay a call. He had an idea who the intruder was, and needed a second or two to formulate his plan. His girls, he thought, thinking of them upstairs giggling and laughing as they pored over the boxes of new clothes and petticoats, stockings and ribbons. He must protect them at all costs.

Clearing his throat, he asked, “What manner of man is he, Salisbury?”

The butler frowned. “Rather odd, Your Grace. I’ve never seen him before. He’s tall, fair.a most regal, yet intimidating fellow.”

Lennox felt his throat dry up, from relief or apprehension he knew not. “Send him in,” he commanded, “and allow no one to disturb us.”

As if by magic, the stranger appeared behind the butler, startling the retainer. But Salisbury recovered with aplomb. “His Grace will see you now.”

The man breezed in and slammed the library door shut. For long seconds, his penetrating violet eyes stared him down, and Lennox refused to give in to the urge to loosen his jabot.

“George Jasper Buckman, the fifth Duke of Lennox?” the stranger inquired as he took the tapestry chair in front of the wide desk.

“Yes,” Lennox replied as sweat began to bead on his forehead.

“Queen Aine has sent me.”

He felt his face drain of blood. The man smiled, then reached for the goblet of brandy that Lennox had just poured. Raising the crystal to his lips, he took a sip, his eyes scrutinizing his discomfort.

“Queen Aine?” Lennox asked vaguely.

“You received a gift from my mother, did you not?”

“Did I?” he asked, feigning boredom. “I’m afraid I don’t recall being introduced to a Queen Aine.”

The man sat forward, his strange eyes darkening. “She found you weeping over the cradle of a deformed, lame little wretch. Your heir, I believe.”

Robert. His son. His heir. Aye, he had sired a twisted little thing. Lame, broken. He had wandered into the nursery one night, the night of his son’s first birthday and wept as he watched him sleep. The queen had appeared then. The lovely faery queen. She had offered him his greatest wish, a whole son. An heir that could take his rightful place as duke once he departed this world. And she had asked for nothing but a tithe to be paid later on.

It had been twenty-five years since that visit. He had never seen or heard from her again. He had produced the four daughters she had spoken of. They were virtuous girls, just as she had said they would be. He had done everything, and the queen had made Robert strong and handsome—and whole.

“Your heir enjoys a rather rich and healthy life, does he not?” the man asked as he settled into the chair. “I hear he has recently married.”

Lennox didn’t care for the tone in the man’s voice. Hackles raised, he met the stranger’s gaze. “State your business.”

“It is time the tithe was paid.”

“How much?” he asked, reaching into his desk drawer for a bank draft.

The man laughed and crossed his long leg over his knee. “The queen has no need of your mortal money. What she desires are your daughters.”

“All of them?” he demanded, his eyes narrowing.

“All four of them.”

Reaching for the brandy, Lennox swallowed the contents of the goblet in one swig. Bloody hell, this was going from bad to worse. Never had he thought the queen would demand his daughters. Damn it. He’d already bargained with another of their kind for one of his daughters. That was where his wealth had come from. He wanted the best for his daughters, and before the fey had come, his purse was light, the debts heavy. So, he had made another bargain—one for gold, and his daughter’s happiness and comfort.

Christ, he was a man who had been visited by the fey not once, but twice in his lifetime. And both times the blasted creatures had known what he had wanted.

“The queen demands that you take the girls to London. They are not safe here.”

“Now, see here,” Lennox roared, “I take very good care of my daughters and there is nothing on this green earth that I would allow to harm them.”

“You, Your Grace, will have no power to stop the ones who are coming for them.”

“Bah,” he grumbled, waving off the concern. “There is nothing that wealth and influence cannot buy. My girls are safe here under my protection.”

“Others are coming for them. I assure you, they will not be bought off. Your wealth and influence will mean nothing to them. You must take your daughters and leave. At once. Your son and his wife are hosting a ball tonight, are they not?”

Lennox narrowed his eyes, unnerved that this stranger—this … creature could know something so mundane, yet personal, about his son and the masked ball he was giving.

“I am correct, am I not? Your son is having a grand party.”

“Now, see here. I’m not packing up the house and leaving for London today. Besides, we won’t make it to the ball in time.”

“Do you know who I am?” the stranger asked. He appeared bored, but his voice was sharp, full of warning.

“One of them,” Lennox found himself grumbling as he searched for a way out of this tangle. “Like her.”

The stranger smiled. “Indeed. I am Crom, the queen’s son.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you. Salisbury will see you out.”

Two large palms slammed down atop the shiny rosewood, making Lennox nearly jump out of his skin. “Your Grace, you do not amuse me. I am at the length of my patience. You will take your daughters, and you will leave Glastonbury. Today.”

“We won’t make it in time for the ball,” he repeated, “and I am not having my family on the roads in the dark of night. Thieves come out when the moon rises in the night sky. Infidels, sir. Highwaymen with whom I do not wish to cross paths. Imagine what the bastards will do if they discover my daughters and wife in the carriage.”

“You would risk my temper and my considerable powers to a weak roadside thief?”

Lennox bristled at the dangerous tone. “It cannot be done. Not today.”

“I have many powers, and getting you to London before the ball will be no great trial.”

“And what do you expect me to tell my wife?”

“Tell her whatever you need to. I don’t care. Just take the girls away from here. The others have discovered the presence of your daughters. They will stop at nothing to possess them. They are ruthless. Embittered. Dangerous.”

“The others, you say? “ he asked, looking once more upon the golden faery that loomed over his desk.

“The Dark Fey.”

Lennox felt his face drain of blood for the second time in minutes. Christ, what had he done?

“Pack your things and leave the rest to me. The queen will meet with you four mornings from now in the woods of Richmond Park. Do not fail to arrive, or her gift to your son shall be broken.”

“Wait,” he called as Crom prepared to leave. “What does she want with my girls?”

“It is none of your concern now. You accepted the gift and now it is time to pay the tithe.”

“I … I won’t have them hurt, you blackguard. They’re innocent young women. Good girls.”

“Allow me to allay your fears, Your Grace. They shall be treated like queens. One in particular. Chastity,” he said with a sly smile. “She is to be my bride.”

“And all my daughters? Are they to be wed?”

“Yes.”

“To your kind?”

“Of course.”

Lennox swallowed hard. Bloody hell! “All of them?” he asked in a choked voice. His wife would castrate him if she ever discovered that her daughters were wed to the fey as part of a bargain he had made. There had to be a way out.

Crom’s eyes took on a cruel expression as if he could read Lennox’s mind. “Yes. All of them are to wed and to reside in the Seelie Court. So you had better find a way to break the vow you gave to my mother’s enemy. For no daughter of yours shall be wed to anyone but the men of my court.”

“And these Dark Fey, they’re coming?” he asked in a strangled whisper.

Crom smiled, a show of cruel mirth. “Even now one approaches. I’ll leave you to settle your business with him. I suggest you put an end to your dealings with him. After that, you will depart for London.”

Nodding, Lennox fell back against the leather squabs of his chair. His bloody greed was catching up with him now. He had no alternative but to tuck in his tail and run. Perhaps the faery queen would protect his daughters from the damnable bargain he had made three years ago.

Crom vanished, his figure only to be replaced by that of Salisbury. “Your Grace, a Prince Rinion is here. He claims to be well-known to you.”

Indeed he was. “Send him in, Salisbury.”

The tall, imposing Dark Fey sauntered into the study. His eyes were a startling shade of blue, and his long dark brown hair was worn loose, down to his impressive shoulders. With a smug smile he looked about the room. “How very nicely appointed this library is, Lennox. Much more comfortable than the last time I saw it. I am so glad to see you are enjoying my little gift.”

He couldn’t speak. God help him, his normally calculating mind was blank. What if this Dark Fey discovered his deceit?

“Do you recall that night we struck our bargain? Riches beyond belief, all in return for the hand of your firstborn daughter.”

Lennox swallowed thickly. “Aye. I remember.” Three years ago the wretch had presented himself in the back garden, appearing like a fabled magus as he rose from a vapor of fog. His daughters had been dining alfresco beneath a tree, and the beast had not been able to take his eyes off Mary. Darling Mary.

They had been approaching that tender age, when a come-out season and balls were most important. They were already well past the age that most young ladies made their debut, but he hadn’t the blunt to provide a season for them. He had wanted to, but he was so heavily in debt. And to give all four of them a season at once was beyond what his pocketbook could allow.

The wretched faery had known his weak spot. His daughters. And coin.

“'Tis Beltane, Lennox. Your daughter is now three and twenty. I want my bride.”

“Yes, yes, of course,” he murmured as he tried to put aside the memory of their meeting, and the fact that despite his love, he had given one of his daughters away for coin. Of course, he hadn’t known what Rinion was then. He’d thought him one of those kind, benevolent faeries, not a member of the Unseelie Court. He’d never have made the bargain if he’d known the bastard was a Dark Fey.

“Tonight. At the end of the Great Hunt. I will claim her then. She is to wear this,” he said, waving his hand toward the settee beneath the window. Magically, a sheer gown made of white faery silk and trimmed in silver appeared. Atop it, a silver and crystal mask glittered in the sunlight. “Make certain she is ready to become my bride.”

Lennox found himself nodding like a fool. Thankfully the arrogant bastard took no notice of his agitated state before leaving the room.

“Midnight, Lennox,” the fey reminded him as he departed, “or I will be forced to come after you.”

The library door shut, and Lennox dropped his head into his hands. Christ, what a mess he was in. But there was nothing to be changed now. He’d been crafty in his dealing with the fey, and once the bastard discovered the truth of their bargain, there would be hell to pay.

His mind, which had been blank, suddenly began calculating and figuring. He thought of a way out of this debacle, and knew it would work, for at least as long as it would take him to remove his family to the capital.

“Salisbury!” he roared as he slammed shut a drawer in his desk. “We’re leaving for London.”

“London, Your Grace?”

“Yes. Within half an hour. Inform my daughters’ maids that the girls are to be ready. And take this.” He thrust a folded missive into the butler’s white gloves. “Have a footman bring this and the clothing on the settee to the seamstress in the village.”

God help him, he thought as he gazed out the window, if he and his girls were not long departed before the Dark Fey discovered his deceit.

“I don’t know why Papa was in such a hurry to leave Glastonbury,” Prue muttered, her mouth pursed with distaste. “It’s most unseemly. People will talk. And poor Mama—” she sighed “—she was fit to be tied.”

“Hmm, he did act as though the devil were on his heels, didn’t he?” Mary said as she looked around the crowded ballroom, watching the masked dancers glide through a minuet. “But Mama is a forgiving soul, she has doubtless forgotten all about it by now. Look …” Mary nodded to the corner where her mother was busily chatting with friends. “She seems rather happy, don’t you think?”

“I was worried the coachman was going to kill the horses,” Mercy added. “I don’t think we’ve ever made it to London so quickly.”

“It all seems very indecorous,” Prue admonished. “Poor Robert and his wife were astonished to find the entire family standing on their doorstep, hours before their ball. It sent the whole house into a flurry.”

“Robert didn’t mind,” Mercy murmured. “He loves us and was quite happy to see us in the threshold, rumpled from our hasty journey.”

With one ear to the conversation, Chastity listened to her sisters chatter on as they stood beside the table housing the punch bowl and champagne. She caught Mary smiling at a masked stranger who had caught her eye. A delicate pink blush painted Mary’s already lovely cheeks.

Quizzically, Chastity wondered what it was that caused such a reaction in her sister. Certainly the stranger was handsome, but nothing out of the ordinary. Nothing that would make her blush.

“What do you think? “ Mary whispered to her. “He’s fascinating, isn’t he?”

With a delicate shrug, Chastity studied the man who had started to make his way most diligently to where she and her sisters stood. “How can you tell? His face is covered with a mask. In fact,” she said, looking around at the opulent setting of the ballroom, “everyone is masked.”

“Yes,” Mary said, her voice breathy. “It makes it that much more exciting, does it not? Can you not feel it, Chastity, the excitement heating your blood when your gaze locks on a man?”

Chastity studied the pearl trim on the lace cuff of her sleeve. “No, I cannot.”

Her voice was intended to be firm, censoring, but instead Chastity detected a note of bitterness. No, she felt nothing when her gaze skated over the numerous gentlemen who were at the ball. She did not feel warm, or excited, or—

“Look for someone,” Mary instructed, “when you find a man that is pleasing to your eye, let your gaze linger. Imagine pulling the mask from his face, slowly revealing his identity. Imagine that you are the only two in the room. Two strangers, eyes locked, skin burning to be touched, lips aching to be kissed.”

Mary’s voice had dropped to a seductive purr, clearly entranced by the provocative words she used to paint her sensual image. Yet, Chastity had not fallen victim to any warmth or feeling, most especially the awakening of anything amorous.

“Imagine, sister, what it would be like to sample a forbidden taste of sin.”

Frowning, Chastity had always believed that sin would taste rather bitter, not the sweet delight Mary made it out to be.

“My lady, will you do me the honor?”

The stranger was reaching for Mary’s hand. In her other hand, Mary slowly waved her fan, allowing the lace edge to whisper over her exposed skin, making her heavy perfume rise up and linger between them. The man inhaled delicately, his dark eyes closing behind his mask for the briefest second.

“I would be delighted,” Mary said in a sultry voice before snapping her fan closed, allowing the masked gentleman to lead her to the floor.

Prue and Mercy had retreated to the wall, where they were talking with Ruth, their new sister-in-law. Chastity chose to stay where she was, unable to take her eyes off her sister and the man she was dancing with.

Mary’s color was high, her lips parted in a coy little smile that Chastity had never perfected—had never bothered to try. The mask she wore gave her some measure of privacy, and she used it to study the couples dancing before her. The wine and champagne was flowing freely, and the hour had grown late. There was a certain lack of inhibition growing amongst the crowd. She could feel it now, like a seductive fog hovering low on the floor before slowly rising and wrapping around them.

She smelled it, the desire in the air. It was thick, drugging in its mixture of sweetness and spice. It clouded her head, drew her in, made her feel languid and sleepy and immensely relaxed.

Through the eye slits of her mask, she looked around the room, waving her lace fan delicately back and forth, stirring the air in an attempt to clear her head of the luscious scent that seemed to be floating through the air. Straight ahead, the French doors were inched open, and Chastity made her way to them. She needed the air, which would be fresh and mind clearing.

Checking over her shoulder before she slipped through the doors, she saw that no one had noticed her, nor would they notice her exit. It would only be a short reprieve from the dance, but a most welcome one.

FOUR

QUICKLY, CHASTITY SLIPPED THROUGH THE PARTED doors and stepped out onto the balcony, which was shrouded in darkness. To the left of the balustrade was a boxwood maze, shadowed by the height of looming oaks and willow trees. Inside the maze there was a bench where she could sit and rest feet that ached from her delicate dance slippers. She knew she should not be out here, alone, in the dark, but her head still remained cloudy, and the lure of a rest in solitude was too great. The exotic scent still lingered, but her head would begin to clear when the fresh night air swept over her while she rested in peace and quiet.

What a queer sensation that had been. She had never experienced anything like it. It had warmed her body as nothing ever had, not even champagne. The lingering heat and the languorous feeling still seemed wrapped around her, giving her the fanciful taste of what the enduring effects of sensuality must feel like. Despite the fact she had never experienced any sensual feeling before, Chastity knew that what she had experienced was some unexplained erotic charge in the air. Unsullied or not, she was not a simpleton.

Taking a few calming breaths, she stared up at the sky, watching as the sliver of silver moonlight appeared behind a black cloud. It was the Eve of Beltane, she reminded herself. The night of the Great Hunt, the union between the god and the goddess. Of course there was a carnal element to the evening. Everyone was anticipating the hour of midnight when it would be Beltane, and the frivolities and promiscuous activities of the spring and May Day would be welcomed with eager arms.

Back home in Glastonbury, the Great Hunt would just be beginning, and the bonfire on the village green would be blazing high into the sky. In the woods, men would chase maidens, and beneath the very same sliver of moonlight they would celebrate the rites of spring.

The Great Hunt and all Beltane’s festivities were steeped in pagan belief and the old way of the Celts. With the mystery of the tor and its prominent setting in the village it was not hard to feel rather pagan most of the year, but on evenings such as this, everyone threw aside propriety and Christianity to participate in the ideals of growth, sexuality and fecundity, for those three things had long represented the spring.

For centuries, Glastonbury, which had always been known as the Land of the Summer People, had been at the center of Beltane. As a child, her father, who had been raised in the little village, celebrated this very night every year. Every year except this one.

For some reason, her father, who had never been averse to accompanying them to the village on the Eve of Beltane, had acted as though the villagers and the festival were anathema. This year, after promising her and her sisters that they were old enough to witness the Great Hunt, after they had allowed themselves to grow excited about the prospect, he’d denied them.

“You’re not going to such a hedonistic display. It’s archaic,” he had grumbled as he waited for them to cram themselves into the town coach. After the carriage had lurched down the drive, he had refused to speak anymore of it, telling them only what they already knew, that they were off to London, to her brother’s ball, and then back to the Lennox town house in Grosvenor Square to spend at least a fortnight.

It all seemed so very strange, especially since her father had always striven to keep them very far removed from the capital. “Nothing but rakes and dowry thieves in London,” he had always claimed. So why now had he had a change of heart?

It seemed that their whole life their father had prevented them from being tainted by the sights and sounds—and smells—of London, only to turn around that very morning and all but force them to embrace the city.

Something wasn’t right. She sensed it. And that something had to do with her father and his perplexing behavior. Thinking it through, Chastity found herself at a loss to explain it. Perhaps, she thought, taking a deep breath, she couldn’t make heads or tails of his behavior because her mind was still clouded by the lingering scent of… of whatever that had been back in the ballroom.

Glancing back at the beckoning maze, Chastity glided to the stairs, the hooped silk skirts of her gown making a soft brushing whisper against the stone. She would find privacy and quiet there in the maze to reflect upon the puzzling events of the day.

Descending the stairs, she trailed her gloved hand along the stone banister, noticing the sparkling moonbeam that widened over the quartz cut stone. The moonbeam became less filtered light, and more like a fine swath of iridescent wetness. Like mist, but it radiated such a dazzling brilliance that Chastity watched it, hypnotized by its beauty, as it seemed to dance in and around the banister as though it were alive.

What folly, she chastened herself. It was a reflection of the rock quartz in the moonlight, nothing else. And the scent? her mind whispered to her. What of that?

It was back, that lush, exotic blend that reminded her of a faraway place, a spice island, or India perhaps. It was heavy, evocative, almost drugging, yet it made her feel as light as a feather. As if she were the one floating, and not the mist particles that glimmered in the moonlight.

Ceo Side, something whispered to her. Faery Mist.

She had heard of it before, the ability of the faeries to come as rain, mist, fog and shadow.

Now she heard it murmured on the wind as her slippers sank into the damp grass. Were the Daoine Side—the fairy people—here in the back gardens of her brother’s London estate? But why here? Why now? For her whole life, her father had talked to her and her sisters about the fey, yet she had never seen them, never perceived that they were somehow truly a part of her life. So why now was she obsessed with the idea of them? Perhaps it really was the champagne making her head fuzzy, and nothing more.

Head heavy, limbs warm, Chastity moved deeper into the darkness of the ten-foot-tall maze. She was breathing heavy, she realized. The lace that held her cameo secure around her throat felt suffocating. Her stays were tight, pushing her breasts higher, making it difficult to get air into her constricted lungs. Her fan dropped to the deep, damp grass as the air grew thicker, began to wrap around her, where it worked its way under her skirt to caress her calves, then thighs. She felt strange, as though she was disembodied. Her mind, always sharp and clear, would not work, and her lungs did not seem able to provide her body with adequate air.

With a gasp, she felt heat slide over her waist, then up to her breasts and, unable to bear it, she tore the lace choker off, flinging it to the ground, gasping to breathe. She was being smothered, but by what or whom, she could not fathom. She was utterly alone—and yet she wasn’t.

“A beautiful woman such as you should not be out in the dark, unaccompanied by a gentleman.”

Whirling around, Chastity startled when she heard the deep voice behind her. The man’s identity was cleverly concealed by an intricate mask made of gold and wire, designed to look like foliage. With his height, and the breadth of his shoulders outlined by the moon, and his long black hair whispering in the slight breeze, he looked like the fabled Oak King come to ravish her.

Unsteadily, she took a step back, coming up against a large birch tree that marked the entrance to the maze. She did not know this man, yet there was something about him that called to her—his voice, perhaps, or maybe the way he stood, so proud, so masculine, so … certain of himself.

“I have frightened you.” His accent was thick and alluring as he spoke to her, his voice musical, yet deep and intensely male. “I would not have it so.”

“I didn’t hear you approach, sir,” she said, noticing how the mist had not evaporated, but seemed to draw to him, like a moth to a flame. It was almost as if he was shrouded in it, shimmering in the glow. Chastity stared, frozen, fascinated by the magic of it, lured by the beauty of him.

“Forgive me.” He stepped closer to her, the vapor glinting and shifting around him. The scent that made her feel so strange earlier became stronger, heavier. It was a delicious smell, one that made her body tingle with a warmth she could not define.

“Have we met, sir?” she inquired, taking a step back as he approached her. He was now bathed in a shaft of moonlight, the effect quite breathtaking. She saw, even despite the mask he wore, that he studied her from beneath a thick veil of black lashes. His hair was as dark as a raven’s feathers, heavy and glistening like spilled ink in the moonlight as it grazed the shoulders of his velvet jacket. A frock coat that Chastity was quite certain required no extra padding.

He let her study him and she half wondered as their gazes met if the man was not fully aware of what his face and his figure must do to the opposite sex. Any sane woman would find this man unavoidably compelling and sensual. Any woman would wish to find herself in his arms, being kissed by his lips and ravished by his elegant, yet extremely masculine, hands.

She was not just any woman. Yet this outsider seemed to have a most disturbing effect on her. He possessed a beauty, a mysterious strangeness that seduced her even as her brain warned her to run, to leave the maze as quickly as she could. But she could not move. Her dance slippers were fixed firmly upon the ground as if they had been glued there.

Do I not tempt you? Are you not thinking, at this very moment, what my body would feel like upon yours?

The words came from nowhere—no, from him—despite the fact he had not moved his lips. Did not even smile. Just stood before her, silently allowing her perusal.

Your gaze lingers on my fingers as though you hunger to have them caress you, to slowly pull the tapes of your stays and reveal what has been so meticulously hidden beneath that gown. Despite the mask, I see in your eyes that desire, the burning deep inside to have my hands upon your flesh.

His voice again, beautiful, lyrical. His words luring. Enticing. But still his masculine lips did not move. Her own thoughts, then? she wondered. Was she even capable of conjuring up such base imaginings?

It frightened her to think so. It was impossible to believe that she, an innocent who had never been touched, could consider such things, yet Chastity could not dispel the fact that the stranger had not spoken aloud. Regardless, she heard his deep voice as though the words had been whispered intimately in her ear.

Reaching for her hand, he wrapped his ungloved fingers around her delicate ones, the warmth sending a delightful frisson along her spine.

“You are far too bold, sir,” she gasped, flustered when he looked up at her with piercing blue eyes that only seemed to glow as the gold of his mask glinted in the moonlight.

“Is it?” The deepness of his voice caused flutterings in her stomach. “Then let us begin again,” he suggested silkily. “An introduction in a private garden while bathed in moonlight is an auspicious event. One must ensure that it is perfect and unforgettable.”

Somehow Chastity knew that she would never forget one moment of this meeting.

The mist glittered in the moonlight, outlining his broad shoulders, moving with him as he stepped closer to her. He was otherworldly, breathtaking in his beauty. She would be recalling this moment, the feel of her body tingling and awakening, when she was an old woman sitting by the fire.

“The moonlight becomes you,” he said in a voice that was rich and smooth, that seemed to wrap around her. He reached out and Chastity saw how the glistening mist crystals glittered on his fingers, then wafted over her to her shoulder, where he caught a loose tendril of hair. “You were made to be seen in the dark. You are a perfect angel by sunlight, a tempting goddess by moonlight.”

She could hardly think. Was it the scent that surrounded her? The strangeness of the glittering mist and the masked stranger? Or was it that she was breathing too fast? Whatever it was, it was playing havoc with her mind. Had she heard him correctly, that he had seen her in the sunlight? Impossible.

“I don’t believe,” she said, then licked her lips to moisten them, “that you know who I am. Perhaps you have mistaken me for someone else?”

“No, there is no mistake.” The tendril of hair wrapped around his finger and he used it to pull her closer to him. “You call to me. I could find you anywhere, even in the largest crush of people or in the shadows of the Dark Walk in Covent Garden. There isn’t a place where you could hide from me.”

She should have been terrified by such a statement, yet she was horrified for another reason altogether—her body’s quivering response to such knowledge.

“You don’t realize it, but your body cries out, and my own answers it. We are destined to be together. Each to complete the other.”

His voice dropped to a seductive whisper as his eyes held her transfixed. This conversation was much too intimate for any innocent, let alone a virtue. He had obviously mistaken her for someone of experience and worldliness.

“I must beg you, sir, to release me. You are not known to me, and I am certain that you have mistaken me for your midnight rendezvous.”

“Lady Chastity,” he purred, drawing out the end of her name. The sound gave her goose bumps and she shivered, her fingers trembling in his.

“Sir?” she murmured, trying unsuccessfully to look away from his mesmerizing beauty. “How …” She licked her lips. “How do you know who I am? We’ve never met.”

“Haven’t we?” Turning her palm up, he bared her wrist and traced the delicate blue veins with the tips of his fingers. Together, they watched his graceful fingertips skate across her smooth skin, and Chastity, unable to control the sensations his touch evoked, whimpered with the need to feel his caress all over her. His lashes lowered and he closed his eyes as if he knew that her whimper was one of desire, not fear.

“What is your title, sir?” He was too richly garbed, and too well-spoken, to be anything other than an aristocrat. But his voice held a slight accent, an exotic-sounding one that was luring and seductive.

“Prince,” he murmured.

“A prince, no less,” she stammered, knowing she needed to go, but unable to make herself leave his side. “I … I have never met a … a prince.”

“How fortunate I am to be your first.”

It was a double entendre. She had heard them before and always recoiled from them. But this one, said in his deep voice, only tempted her further. Made her watch the slow brush of his fingers against the bounding pulse in her wrist and wonder what it would be like to watch his lips graze that very same spot, or other more intimate places on her body.

“I am your first prince, but am I the first to touch you like this?” he asked, glancing up from the lush fringe of his lashes, which his mask could not conceal.

“I am a lady, Your Highness,” she admonished him, but her voice was breathless, husky, and he smiled, the barest fleeting hint of a self-satisfied grin.

“An extraordinarily lovely lady.”

Drawing in a deep breath, he brought his mouth to her skin. She heard as well as felt him sniff delicately. His lips suddenly parted and she saw a glimmer of brilliant white teeth behind his sculpted lips. Slowly, the tip of his tongue crept out from between his lips and her breath caught, freezing in horrified wonder as she watched him.

With exquisite care and reverence he lightly grazed her wrist with the tip of his hot tongue. His lips soon replaced his tongue as he looked up at her. His eyes, Chastity noticed, were now black, as if his pupils had dilated and swallowed the blue iris.

“And what of that, Lady Chastity? Is that the first time a prince, or any man’s tongue, has tasted your flesh?”

Like a simpleton, she nodded, unable to do anything more. She should break this trance he held her in, but suddenly she lacked the incredible moral strength it would take. She was weakening, and Lord help her, she didn’t want to find her wavering resolve. She wanted more, to discover what he would do to her, how far he would go in this game of seduction.

Watching her, compelling her with those black, fathomless eyes, he drew his tongue across her wrist once more, their gazes locking upon one another, their faces still masked, heightening the charge between them.

“Do not fear me,” he whispered as her hand trembled in his. “I would never hurt you. ‘Tis only pleasure I seek to give you.”

“My God, your voice,” she gasped, tugging her fingers out of his hold and backing away. Suddenly she was thrust back to that afternoon, and the vision of a huge white dog and a dark-haired man came rushing back to her. “I … I know you.”

“You have mistaken me for another.”

“Today, by the woods, back home,” she began, stepping back, trying to put a safe distance between them. “You were on horseback and you stopped us on the path. But how could you …”

The sensual haze began to evaporate. How could this man—this stranger—possibly be the one who had found her and her sisters walking that very morning? How could it be that he had come to London? To her brother’s ball? But something inside her screamed that it was him, and that she needed to run from him. He was dangerous and not just because he was a threat to her innocence.

He followed her like a tiger stalking its prey. Farther and farther she backed up, until she was deep amongst the trees that stood tall around the garden bench. Surrounding her, the maze rose high, engulfing her and the stranger. Step for step, he followed her, his gaze never leaving her face. The intensity of his stare grew stronger, more bewitching, singeing her flesh until she was hot and struggling to breathe.

“Is that really what you want? What you were feeling just a few seconds ago—the very great desire for me to leave you?”

“Stop it at once, sir,” she demanded, although her voice lacked conviction. Behind her brocade stomacher and the tightly laced stays, her breasts inched up, caused by her ragged breathing. Breathing that should have been harsh and rasping owing to fear, not this strange, intoxicating sensation that only could be lust.

“Come to me, Chastity,” he coaxed, “I can feel how much you want to, just allow yourself one moment of unguarded pleasure.”

Her lips parted as she struggled for air. She heard herself gasping as she cried out, coming up short against the trunk of a tree. With lightning speed he was before her, his arms wrapped around her waist as he pulled her deeper into the maze.

“Stop this,” she cried, struggling in his arms—not because she was afraid of him, but because she was afraid of herself and the need that was suddenly ruling her.

“I have spent so long just waiting—watching. You call to me, to the deep-seated hunger inside me. A hunger I would never allow to hurt you, but only wish to share with you.”

His words shocked her. The intimacy of them, the honesty made her still in his arms. Pressing her backward over his arm, she felt his solid, flexed muscles beneath her shoulders. His mouth was mere inches away from hers, and his eyes, those intense, mysterious eyes which were still black, held her steady.

He held her thus, bent over his arm, her breasts straining against her formfitting bodice, the mounds of which were in increasing danger of spilling out of her demure square neckline.

Chastity was aware of her body, of how it heated and yearned, her flesh swelling against her stays, the liquefying between her thighs, and all the while he continued to stare down into her upturned face, scrutinizing every inch of her. She wanted to say something, to act as though she were not a naive innocent, but she could not catch her breath or think clearly when she looked into his eyes.

His free hand came up to roam over the contours of her face before trailing down to her jaw. “Never fear me,” he whispered at last while tenderly stroking his finger along the pounding pulse at the base of her throat. She didn’t cry out as his fingertip glided down toward her décolletage, but swallowed hard.

His eyes seemed to glow even brighter as his gaze dropped to the wild fluttering in her throat, then lower to her breasts, which were now generously spilling out from her stays.

“The way in which the moon plays over your skin beckons me to explore. To touch. To taste.”

His fingertips lingered lightly over her pulse and she heard him growl, the sound of a jungle cat purring in satisfaction. His mouth lowered then stilled, and a cry, not of the jungle cat but that of savage beast, emanated from deep in his throat.

“There can be very great pleasure to be found in darkness. You needn’t fear it. But only embrace it.”

Closing her eyes, Chastity tilted her head back, savoring the heat coming from his mouth as it washed over her décolletage. She burned, breathless, waiting for something she could not name.

She didn’t understand, only knew that this feeling must not leave. She wanted it to consume her. Wanted to fall victim to him. She was not this person, this wanton. She was a virtue, but it seemed her virtue had abandoned her, leaving her as she truly was, a woman yearning to be seduced.

“Yes, yield to me. Let me come to you as I am. Embrace the darkness, the darkness in me, and let me take you … corrupt you …”

Breathing hard against Chastity’s milk-white throat, Thane endured the pain that pierced him. He was forcing her. It was forbidden. It would only deepen the curse, but by the goddess, he wanted her, wanted to take her without any thought or control and sink himself into her luscious body.

She whimpered, not out of fear, but of feminine arousal, and he decided that perhaps he could still make her want him. He couldn’t hide his little growl of victory as he brushed his lips along the full, throbbing vein that ran from her neck to the apex of her breast. Parting his lips, he breathed hotly against her. The mist that was part of him began to float over her, whispering softly, covering her until the little beads of moisture turned to a glistening rivulet of water that trickled between the valley of her generous breasts.

She squirmed in his arms, but it was not an attempt to be free of him. No, she wanted him, like a woman wanted a man. He could smell her arousal, the scent of passion wafting up from beneath her gown. He could smell the rich, heady nectar of her blood through her skin, which was sweetly anointed with the perfume of orange blossoms. Perfume as an aphrodisiac was a poor second, and no match for the power of a woman’s blood, heated by lust. But Chastity’s innocence mixed with her heavy perfume was as intoxicating as a pint of faery mead.

Staring down at the woman he held in his arms, Thane watched the rise and fall of her breasts. A perverse sense of need, inspired by his sin, made him desire to see his seed trickling between her luscious breasts. He wanted her marked, covered in his scent. Thane wanted her for his.

Wanting to taste her. Needing to rip away the contraption that caged her body from him, he lowered his head, inhaling her musky scent. Thane listened to the erotic cadence of her heart that beat urgently beneath her breast. He wanted to feel that rhythmic pulsing around his cock while he was buried deeply inside her, her virginal quim clamping and throbbing, surrounding his shaft, milking him dry.

He would stay there, just like that, savoring the feel of her body accepting him. He would raise himself above her, blotting out everything but him. She would see only him, above her. Feel only him, deep inside her. And then, when she was focused solely on him, their gazes locked, he would take her. Body and soul. Virtue to his sin.

Their nights would be spent in pleasure. In slow, languorous lovemaking, and frenzied fucking, in which he would feel her sweating against him. She would beg him to stop—only to plead with him to take her once more.

She was still as death in his arms, and he looked up from her overflowing bodice and into her eyes. Was she afraid? Terrified? Did she know what he wanted to do to her? Could she see into his mind, and watch his fantasy of her beneath him, her bottom in his hands, her hips arching to meet his thrust? Did she know how badly he wanted to watch her body open to him? How he wanted to take her to his court and mate with her as a Dark Fey should?

By the goddess, did she know what sort of monster he was? He was Lust. He fucked like an animal. He was insatiable. She could never, in her innocence, understand what he wanted to do to her, or have her do to him.

He should leave her, this innocent little lamb, yet she represented what he so desperately wanted. Something of his own. Not a possession or a thing. But his. His opposing virtue. The woman who was opposite to him in every way. The woman who could help free his court of its curse. The woman who might very well free him.

But the sin inside him was raging beneath his skin. His sin wanted to defile her. To take her now, while her large eyes were wide with wonder, and with her body smelling of desire. Lust wanted to fuck her. Thane wanted to … He didn’t know. Yes, he wanted to taste her, to feel her hot body surrounding his cock, but he wanted something else. Her to desire him. Him, the prince. The Dark Fey. He did not want her under Lust’s hypnotic guise.

“Chastity,” he whispered before brushing his mouth along the swell of her breast, tasting mist and the scent of woman on her flesh as he moved his mouth along her. “Let me taste you.”

She blinked up at him with her wide eyes and he saw the desire to be desired shining in them. Lowering his mouth to hers, he felt a jolt of excitement rush through his veins. Her lips were soft, pliant beneath his. He pressed another soft kiss to them, and this time he opened his mouth, allowing his heat to envelope her.

Hungrily he pressed up against her, encouraging her to part her lips for him, but she wouldn’t, or did not know how to allow him the intimacy. In growing frustration, he cupped her chin with both hands, slipping his tongue effortlessly between her lips. Boldly their tongues touched, stroking each other with increasing fierceness.

She was clutching him to her breasts and he could hear as well as feel her heart steadily beat faster and faster with each stroke of his tongue.

He was suddenly consumed with the need to see her and opened his eyes. Hers were closed, long lashes fluttering against pale, porcelain cheeks. Her fingers were in his hair, tangling and gripping as she purred and moaned and brushed her curved body against the length of his.

Lips parting, he fastened onto the supple flesh of her throat, began to suck, and she crumpled deeper into his arms, unable to stand. He sucked and laved, kissed, then blew hot, moist air over her wet flesh. His tongue and lips explored her throat until he was met with the lace barrier of her bodice, and then, he tore at the buttons, thrusting the bodice wide open until her décolletage was once more bared and he was scraping the tips of his teeth along her skin that was now warm and flushed pink.

The scent of her passion-infused blood was so strong it overtook all his senses. He could no longer hear, could no longer see because of the lust that was blinding him. He could only smell, and the scent only grew stronger until his own body was shrouded with her arousal.

Pushing her breasts up against his mouth, he alternated between kisses and licks, searching for the elusive nipple he knew he would find budded and erect beneath her stays. As he pulled her breasts free of the corset, she fell to her knees before him. When she looked up at him, he saw the ecstasy in her lovely eyes.

Lust like he had never known assailed him and he felt the animal within begin to stir again. He was no longer able to hide his glamour, and Chastity was now fully ensnared by the beauty of the fey. He didn’t want to entrance her or trap her. He wanted her to want him of her own free will. But her lush body and innocent mouth made him powerless against his sin. The fey with honor, with good intentions, was unable to sway Lust to give up his hold on Chastity Lennox.

Reaching for her hair, Thane pulled the pins free and shook out the long silky tresses that cascaded down to her waist. He studied her, thinking of her as an ancient pagan goddess with her heavy breasts bared and her head tossed back in an enchanting sexual display of femininity. This, he thought, as he palmed her breasts, was what he desired from his mate. This liberation to feel passion, to indulge in the needs of man and woman. One day, she would agree to come to him, to join him in his court, and there, they would be together, his intended mate. He would spend the night with her, awakening her in the dark with his kisses and the slow languid rhythm of his cock sliding inside her.

Chastity Lennox. His future mate. His virtue. His fantasy. He wanted her, regardless of the consequences.

Her eyelids fluttered closed as his fingers traced the rounded contour of her cheek. Her lips parted on a sigh, and he imagined what it would be like to have her on her knees, waiting for him to slip his cock between her lips.

Yes. Both the fey and Lust in him wanted her just like this, bare breasted with tousled hair and kiss-swollen lips parting, waiting to pleasure him with her lush, innocent mouth.

“Beautiful Chastity,” he whispered reverently, allowing himself the forbidden image of her taking his length in her mouth. Her mouth would be hot. Wet. Infinitely exciting.

“Please.” The word was whispered so quietly, almost pleadingly. No, he wanted to reply, no, he couldn’t stop. But he tilted her chin up and saw the shame in her eyes. Any glimmer of passion and desire was now gone, leaving her staring up at him with such fear, like a lamb going to slaughter.

“Do not look upon me with such horror,” he whispered.

“Then leave me be.”

Stepping back, he released her. Abandoning her was the most difficult thing he had ever done. Being denied was so shocking, so foreign to him. He found himself off center. His fey glamour had not been subdued. His beauty, he knew, was undeniable, utterly compelling to humans, yet here was this young woman, in the first flush of arousal, denying him and her own sexual needs.

She blinked, the glaze in her eyes clearing as she looked around her surroundings with confusion, then horror. She cried out and covered her breasts with her hands. He didn’t want to see shame make her face pale. He didn’t want her to hide anything from him, least of all her body. A body that could make the most celebrated courtesan murderous with envy.

He could only imagine the thoughts running through her mind, the indignity her virtue would force her to feel.

“I …” She jumped up, tears trickling down her cheeks. “You have humiliated me, sir.”

“No,” he said, his voice harsh as he reached for her. “There is no shame in desire.”

“There is a very great indignity in animal lusts, my lord. And you, sir, are the worst sort of defiler.”

“Does my passion disgust you?” he asked as he captured an errant curl and ran his finger through it, “or is it your response to my lust that mortifies you?”

Her eyes widened, and her mouth parted on a silent word. The ugly creature inside him rose, gnashing its teeth, wanting retribution for her slight. His sin wanted to take her, to ravish her and show her shame, humiliation. And the Dark Fey … He wanted to lash out as well, his pride stinging at her hurtful, if not accurate, assessment of him.

He captured her, brought her up hard against him so that her bare breasts were pressed against his silk waistcoat. She gasped as a button rubbed against her nipple, pebbling it. “You feign innocence so well,” he whispered hotly in her ear. “You act as though you’re offended, disgraced, ruined, but still your body heats for a touch. Your scent perfumes the air, and I would wager that if I were to search beneath the layers of lace, and innocent white linen of your petticoats, I would find your tight little cunt wet for me.”

She slapped him hard across his cheek. “Never.”

He smiled and allowed her to walk away, if only for a moment so he could collect what was left of his honorable intentions. “Have you thrown the gauntlet down, Lady Chastity?” he called after her.

“I will never submit to you,” she sneered as she righted her dress. Reaching for her, he brought her up against him, whispering hotly in her ear.

“You will do more than submit, I assure you. When I next have you, you’ll beg.”

FIVE

“WELL?”

“They have found them.”

The smash of a crystal goblet against the gold wall made the handful of pixie handmaidens hovering about the faery queen jump with fear.

“Leave us!” the queen snapped, further frightening the easily agitated pixies. Crom watched the servants file out of his mother’s salon. They knew as well as he did that it was never a good thing to invoke the ire of the queen. She was one of the most powerful fey in the world, and she did not suffer setbacks easily. Her thirst for the annihilation of the Unseelie Court kept her strong, focused and easily angered.

She whirled on him, the silver robe she wore over her long gown billowing out like a puff of smoke. Her beautiful features twisted into a mask of horror, anger and perhaps fear. “How can this be? How have the Dark Fey learned of the virtues?”

“I do not know. But I assure you, they have.”

“No,” she huffed as she paced the perimeter of the gilded room. “No, it is impossible. They could not have discovered that the mortal blood they need to end their curse is that of the virtues. That secret has been safe for two hundred years. I made it so,” she seethed. “It is my spell, my curse, and the virtues,” she scoffed, now in full-blown anger, “are my creation. Mine. Designed for use in my court. I control them. I use them. Not,” she huffed breathlessly from her tirade, “the Dark Fey.”

“Mother, calm yourself,” Crom suggested as he reached for the decanter of mead. Pulling the crystal out of his hand, she slammed the decanter back onto the table.

“I want answers, Crom. It is impossible that Niall, or any of the others, could have learned of the virtues and their importance in the curse.”

“Perhaps,” Crom murmured as his gaze followed her about the room, “you have a spy in your court.”

That stopped her cold. She glared over her shoulder, violet eyes glistening with malice. “There is no snitch here.”

“Are you certain?”

“Completely. No one would dare defy my orders or betray their queen.”

“What of Viviana? She has escaped our court. Perhaps she is aiding your Unseelie son now.”

His mother stopped pacing, paused to look out the window and steadied herself, while pondering the thought. “She is a mortal, born a hundred years ago. Of course, living in our court slows her aging, but once she leaves …” His mother turned to him, her violet gaze now steady and assured. “She’s been gone six months, which is three years in the mortal realm. If she’s still alive she’s an old woman, probably crippled and babbling away. But more likely she’s turned to ash and the wind has carried her far away.”

His mother was usually right, of course. But in this matter, she wasn’t thinking clearly or broadly enough. Viviana was the virtue of diligence. Persistence. She had been brought to the Seelie Court with the first seven virtues and mated to a fey who was domineering and harsh. She had not been treated like the other six virtues. No, Crom thought, remembering the painful cries of Viviana as her fey husband mated with her. No, if anyone had the will to see something through, it was her. If anyone had a reason to betray the queen and the court, it was Viviana.

“Absolutely not,” his mother murmured. “It is not Viviana. Besides, Sucellos had a firm hand on her. She was submissive and content at last with her lot in life.”

No, she hadn’t been. His mother was deluding herself if she truly believed it. Sucellos was the fey warrior who ruled over fertility and death. His magic was powerful and dark, and Viviana had feared him, the monster Sucellos was. Twisted by his power in the Seelie Court, and the darkness that seemed to simmer in him, Sucellos was cruel, depraved and commanding. Crom would bet his riches that Sucellos carried inside him the blood of a Dark Fey. A fact that Sucellos was scrupulous about keeping from the queen.

“If not Viviana,” he asked, “then who?”

“No one in my court,” she firmly replied. Crom flicked a piece of lint from his lace cuff and glanced at her. So blind, he thought wonderingly. When had it been that his mother’s desperation for justice had started to overshadow the well-being of her own court? She was consumed by the need to bring the Unseelie to their knees. To see them obliterated. Their destruction was her every waking thought, and no doubt, her nightly dream.

“Perhaps,” he suggested carefully, “you underestimate my brother’s mental fortitude. He is not a simpleton, but a powerful Unseelie king.”

“He is a bastard barbarian,” she spat. “Born of that brute who raped me.”

“You forget something elemental,” Crom said, knowing he was going to enrage her. “Your blood also flows through his veins.”

“Do not talk to me of that … that monster,” she roared. “He is a Dark Fey, an abomination. I need no reminders that he came from my womb.”

“Still, he is your son—with at least half of your powers.”

She blanched. The beautiful, imposing queen of the fey actually paled, and Crom hid his grin. He had finally figured out his mother’s greatest fear—his twin.

She recovered swiftly and resumed her pacing. “The Dark Fey are stupid creatures. They care more for sex than magic and politics. Their court is a cesspool of carnality, not influence or elegance. They’re not capable of unraveling the secret of my spell.”

“Regardless, Niall has discovered that the key to releasing his court from its fate is to breed with the virtues and infuse his dying court with the much-needed—and powerful—pure mortal blood.”

“They are to be ours!” his mother cried, her hand curling into a small fist. “The first seven came to this court a hundred years ago, and now the time is ripe for the next seven to mate with our princes. It’s been arranged. I’ve chosen well, not only for strength, but for a higher purpose for our court. Each Seelie that I’ve chosen will enhance the virtue, their offspring will infuse our court with every desirable quality. Those women are to be ours, gifts to my faithful courtiers. I will not allow it, my … creations to be tainted by the touch of a Dark Fey.”

“Calm yourself, Mother,” Crom drawled. “You forget that to end the curse these virtues must come willingly. Once they are exposed to the sins of the Dark Fey, these innocents will not follow them.”

“You do not know the power of the Dark Fey,” she murmured, wringing her hands. “Their glamour, it is the most beautiful in the world. Their seduction, the sweetest, most heady arousal you have ever felt. Even as your mind hates them, your body—” she trembled, then steeled herself “—your body desires them, craves them. These women, they may not have a chance to protect themselves if they fall prey to a Dark Fey’s glamour.”

An interesting and most informative little lesson. Had his mother forgotten that he was also part Dark Fey? His father had been their king. And although he looked like his golden Seelie mother, there were undeniable characteristics within him that were all Unseelie.

“Mother, you worry over naught. I’ve taken measures to protect the virtues.”

His mother sank onto a velvet chair. She looked fatigued and old, almost as old as her two hundred and fifty years. “Tell me.”

“They are close at hand and are being guarded by some of my men who are posing as footmen.”

His mother brightened. “London?”

Crom smiled. “Indeed. I’ve warded off the Lennox town house. Naught but mortals shall enter their domain—at least until we have decided what is to be done about my brother and his band of cursed princes.”

“I need to speak to Lennox,” his mother demanded.

“Four mornings from now,” he announced. “It’s all arranged. He will meet you at the gates of Richmond Park. I assumed that would be beneficial to you, since the park incorporates your court. You will be safe on your warded ground if the Dark Fey decide to follow Lennox.”

His mother’s smile widened, making her expression beam with loveliness. “You are very much my protégé, are you not?”

Crom inclined his head. “You have been both mother and father to me. Naturally, I have followed in your footsteps.”

“And what do you want, Crom? I sense that this interest in the virtues is not merely to keep your mama happy and the curse against your bastard brother alive.”

Ah, at last they had arrived at the crux of the matter. He needed to be cautious, for his mother was as shrewd as she was beautiful. Every move, every decision was made for the greater good of the Seelie Court. The damn court was all his mother lived for, thrived for. Her vengeance against the Unseelie had never wavered, only grown since she had fled his monster of a father’s court a little more than two hundred years before.

In mortal terms, it was an unfathomable length of time for vengeance to perpetuate. In the world of the fey, it was nothing. But Crom felt as though it was aeons. He was tired of it. Sick of being treated as a youngling by his mother. It was time to take over the helm. The Seelie needed a king, and never more so than now, with the Unseelie coming out of their dark court to wreak retribution upon them.

“Crom?” his mother prompted, her voice full of suspicion.

There was no need to rile her, to make her suspect that he planned to throw her over and build a new Seelie Court. No, he needed to play his hand wisely.

“I would request, Mother, that you consider bestowing one of the virtues to me.”

“To you?” She laughed as she picked up a silver mirror and gazed into it. “Whatever would you do with a virtue?”

It annoyed him, the way she thought of him as an ineffective courtier. Well, what did she know? He had been gathering his little mutinous army beneath her nose for the past three years. With the promise of fairness, and a mating with a virtue to strengthen their Seelie powers, the six fey he had chosen to help usurp his mother’s throne were more than eager to set his plan into place.

His mother had ruled too long. Her only care was for the utter destruction of the Unseelie Court—a vision he shared. But he had many more ideas of making their court thrive, something his mother had long ago abandoned. There were alliances to be made with other fey in other countries. Fortunes to be created, both with fey and mortals alike. The world was advancing, and more and more the mortals who inhabited the earth failed to believe the stories of the Daoine Side the way their ancestors once had. No, times were changing, and if the Seelie were to survive, they must change with it. There were millions of mortals in need of fey gifts, and millions more to use as pawns.

His mother didn’t see that. She only saw the destruction of the court that had turned her into an embittered woman.

There was nothing he would have enjoyed more than informing her that her days of ruling the Seelie were numbered. But one thing he had learned being her son was that one needed to be certain that one had the upper hand—fully. Crom was not quite convinced he had that yet. So, he pretended that his motivation was far more benign.

“I would like a wife, Mother. I believe I am entitled one. And younglings. Wouldn’t you enjoy that, playing the part of doting grandmama to lovely little fey-virtue children?”

She waved her pale hand, dismissing him. “Pick one of my ladies-in-waiting, or a courtier’s daughter.”

“I want a virtue,” he said, grinding his teeth together. His mother arched her brow, replaced the mirror atop the table and glared at him.

“And what would you do with a virtue?”

His mother would not believe it if he told her. For three years he had been fantasizing about Chastity Lennox. Her innocence, her purity would be the perfect symbolism for his new court. As queen, she would emulate everything he was trying to achieve. And in bed … he felt himself grow aroused as the image of the voluptuous Chastity Lennox formed in his mind. In bed he could be as wicked as he wanted to with her. She would belong to him—only him. Oh, he kept his Dark Fey blood well hidden from his mother, but the appetite of a virile Dark Fey was there, simmering deep within him. He wanted to dominate the virtuous Chastity, and hide her away in his bedchamber, corrupting her through the night, and purifying her by day.

“Mother?”

“I suppose I can think on it.” Which meant she wouldn’t give the matter a passing thought.

“After you meet with Lennox?”

“Yes, yes,” she replied absently as she reached for the decanter and poured herself some faery mead.

Crom stood and smoothed his waistcoat with his palm, then he turned and reached for his sword, which was tucked safely away in his scabbard. “Good day, Mother.”

There was silence until he reached the door, then her voice called out to him, engaging and lyrical, sweetening the warning in her words. “Do not think to overrule me, Crom. You will not enjoy the effects of losing to me.”

Closing the door, Crom pressed his back against the carved wood. It was not going to be easy, but he would do it. He would overthrow his mother, and in the end, he and his faithful men would possess a virtue, and thereby form a new Seelie Court.

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