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LENGTH: Short Story
SENSUALITY: Spicy/Carnal

Cover art (c) Eliza Black
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What chiseled lips he had! The better to fan desire's flames.

What strong hands he had! The better to touch her as no one had before.

Red-haired Constance Blakely's marriage was never consummated before her husband abandoned her for a Continental tour. What's a resentful and curious maiden to do when a devilishly handsome "wolf" offers to show her what her husband would not?

Rating: Contains graphic sexual content.

THE MOST DANGEROUS "WOLF' OF ALL

By

Taylor Manning

© copyright February 2004, Kathryn Overton & Betty Kasischke

Cover art by Eliza Black, © copyright February 2004

New Concepts Publishing

5202 Humphreys Road

Lake Park, GA 31636

www.newconceptspublishing.com

"Children, especially attractive, well bred young ladies, should never talk to strangers, for if they should do so, they may well provide dinner for a wolf.

"I say 'wolf,' but there are various kinds of wolves. There are also those who are charming, quiet, polite, unassuming, complacent, and sweet, who pursue young women at home and in the streets.

"And unfortunately, it is these gentle wolves who are the most dangerous ones of all."

-- Charles Perrault, 1697

Prologue

Hawkwood Estate,

Hampshire, England

1714

I was twelve when I married Duncan and he but fifteen. We stood in the parlor of my father’s country house as the minister pronounced the words:

"Those whom God has joined let no man put asunder."

I slid a sideways peek at my new husband, Duncan Blakely. I had never seen him before today and found him devilish handsome.

He had his full growth, towering over me, and the long, lean slimness of youth. His face, too, was boyishly beautiful, square-jawed and high-cheeked. His rich ebony curls were unpowdered and caught up at his nape.

No more had I taken my first sip of his heavenly beauty than to my complete horror, the small party gathered for our nuptials took us by the arms and pulled us to the bedchamber.

This was completely according to custom, but totally unexpected on my part. After all, it was midday and the bright June sun streamed through the bedroom windows. I had thought we would at least wait until evening.

But that was not to be.

As if they hadn’t a moment to lose, Mother and my two aunts pulled and tugged every garment from my body, exposing my childish figure to all present.

From between them, I caught glimpses of the same task being performed on Duncan, though his determination to do it himself hindered the haste of the gentlemen of the company.

I was quite sure that disrobing before a female was not a new experience for my young husband.

He stood tall and straight with a stubborn set to his chin and without a trace of embarrassment as his last garments fell away. I could not help but wonder how many maids he had bedded, and how I would fare in comparison.

The ladies escorted me to the bed, graciously allowing me to quickly hide beneath the white coverlet. I immediately clutched the protection to my breasts and am afraid that I stared in fascination as Duncan, naked as a stone, moved with an easy grace and slid in beside me.

It was only then that I meekly lowered my gaze, waiting for the company to follow my mother from the room.

To my complete dismay, five of them posted themselves around the bedchamber, three ladies by the east window and two gentlemen near the fireplace. Conversing in undertones, they left Duncan and me to our own devices, only occasionally flicking a curious glance in our direction.

I could feel the heat of Duncan’s body beside mine. But nowhere did our flesh touch.

If only his hand would reach out and take mine. Or his arm curl around me and pull me close. I was not afraid of the intimate act, so why did he not do what would make me his wife in truth and not just in name?

I waited. He never spoke. Never touched me.

What was he thinking?

With a jolt I understood his reticence. He was disappointed, perhaps even disgusted to be with me.

My carrot hair. He hated it.

And I was too small for him. At only four foot nine, I’m sure I still looked like a child. I wanted to scream and tell him I wasn’t. My courses had started four months past.

Of course, as yet I had no breasts to speak of, only dusty-pink nubs no larger than a pigeon egg.

Just then he moved and my breath caught in my throat. He rolled onto his side, facing me. Ah, at last.

But he closed his eyes so he didn’t have to look at me. Within moments his breathing slowed.

He had fallen asleep.

I was shamed beyond compare. He did not want me, could not even bring himself to touch me. How could I face the humiliation? My first inclination was to run naked as the day I was born from the room and hide in the nursery where I had been reared, until everyone was gone and I could recover. But that would have alerted all the witnesses to his indifference. No, that would not do.

I scooted closer to him, so it would at least seem we were whispering endearments. I, too, closed my eyes, but remained alert, my thoughts devoted exclusively to how tonight, when we were alone, things would be different.

And so the afternoon passed. At dusk the witnesses gathered at the foot of our bed.

"What now, Winifred?" old Mrs. Haskins asked. "They appear to be napping."

I cracked open one eye and saw Winifred, the Dowager Countess Meadowbrook, frowning most unpleasantly.

"Bad business, this," she said. "No consummation is an open door to all kinds of scandal."

"Should we wake them up and make them try again?" one old man asked from the vicinity of the fireplace.

"Just wake the boy," said his companion in guarding the fire. "He's the one who needs to do something. The gal can keep sleepin'."

A long silence followed this comment, one where I felt every eye on my sleeping husband and me. It was Lady Meadowbrook who finally spoke.

"No. Leave them be. I told them the girl was too young."

Lady Meadowbrook led the crowd away, at last leaving us to our rest. I snuggled into the unexpected and pleasant warmth of my husband's body and intended to follow him into peaceful slumber against the time of his awakening, when he would be more rested and ready to perform his duty. Alas, I had barely wiggled my way into a comfortable place when Duncan pushed away from me and rolled to the opposite side of the bed.

He rose and ambled to the place where his clothing lay on the divan by the window. Without so much as a glance in my direction, he pulled on his breeches, then his shirt, covering the boyishly muscular chest I had so briefly admired. I waited for him to speak to me, some word of ... something. Not love, surely, for we had not been married for love, but some declaration of any tender feeling he might have developed for me.

None came from his lips. He finished dressing and went to the door, where he paused, turned to look at me, then, with a nod one might use to greet a particularly disliked neighbor, he left.

I lay there on the verge of tears. My husband found me so unappealing he could not even do his duty. Was I such an appalling creature?

My tears died unborn, my anguish changing to ire. How dare he walk out as though I were nothing?

The opportunity to ask Duncan these questions never materialized, for the very day following our nuptials he departed on a grand tour of the Continent.

I had been abandoned.