Page 15 of Only Earl in the World (Taming of the Dukes)
The answer to Jasper’s question from the other night at the opera lay in his hands: a slim novel entitled Lady Ivy Thorn, Or A Study in Secrets.
He sucked in a breath as he traced the simple design and plain lettering on the red leather-bound cover with one finger.
It seemed ordinary enough. These sensation novels were taking London by storm—mysteries, crime fiction, and gothic romances—all with one thing in common…
shocking subject matter like adultery, revenge, robbery, murder, romance, and seduction.
There was no author’s name, but he knew this was Briar with every fiber of his being.
Even the name of the titular character was close to one of his own playful nicknames.
His mouth quirked. It had taken many hours of perusing literary magazines, and visiting bookstores and newsstands before he’d finally, inadvertently overheard a gaggle of older women at a tea shop discussing the contents of a new Lady Ivy book in fervent whispers.
It was only with infinite patience that he’d waited until they had finished before innocently bumping into the woman with the volume in hand and gallantly apologizing for his clumsiness…but not before getting a thorough look at the cover and title.
“You dropped this, Miss,” he’d said with his characteristic charm, halting himself at the last minute from stooping to petty thievery.
It was one thing to shamelessly eavesdrop and another to steal someone’s personal property.
“Lord Lushing, at your service,” he’d said with a smart bow as he handed her the book.
“I do love a good mystery. A Study in Secrets sounds rather exciting. Would I enjoy this one?”
She had stared at him with huge eyes, her face going the color of a beet. “Y…yes, my lord. Though no , categorically not…it’s for l…ladies. I doubt you would…er…goodbye.”
Book snatched and tucked into a pocket, she’d rushed off rather quickly.
And now, after sending his factotum on a wild goose chase that ended on Holywell Street where salacious bookshops sold racy literature to locate his own copy.
Shockingly, Lady Ivy had sold out the printing of five hundred copies in days, but a few creative bribes later, Jasper was finally holding the slender red volume in his hands.
This genre of work, novel-with-a-secret, was aptly called sensation fiction, and they were the rage.
He closed the door to his office and made himself comfortable in his chair.
“What are you hiding, Sweetbriar?” he murmured, and turned to the first page.
He started reading. The story was whimsical and charming, the tale of an affluent but bored French heiress who had become a widow after a very short marriage.
Though she was wealthy and a woman of independent means, she decided to become a governess .
Interesting choice, though Jasper couldn’t quite understand why a rich widow would choose such a profession.
He continued reading and found himself swiftly turning the pages.
Despite being a young, widowed aristocrat, the heroine was relatable across class and station, considering her own humble origins as a shopkeeper’s daughter.
Perhaps that was why she chose to become a governess, though that plot point still didn’t make sense to him as there were no children.
Perhaps they would come later in the story.
Considering Briar’s vast intelligence coupled with her flair for dramatics, she was a lyrical and descriptive writer—he could almost hear her voice reciting the words.
The narrative was so much like Briar that he found himself smiling as he read, her social commentary about the glittering world she lived in clever and satirical.
She communicated in a way that felt accessible, weaving a story that any woman could relate to—one of hopes and dreams, and being true to herself, in a world that offered their sex little autonomy.
Even he felt connected to the heroine. Self-discovery was universal, after all.
In the second chapter, Lady Ivy visited a special chamber in her grand house. A room that catered to the exploration of…voluptuous fantasies. Jasper blinked, rereading the words.
Surely, Briar didn’t mean…
But on the next page, when Lady Ivy boldly removed her robe upon entering the chamber that was wallpapered in hues of black, cream, and red, Jasper’s neck went hot.
She was described as wearing soft kidskin boots that climbed from her soles to her thighs, lace coverings resembling ivy leaves over her hips and chest, and a demi-mask.
In one hand, she held a riding crop that she tapped against the top of her boot.
Her smile was one of unguarded desire as she surveyed the domain, including the handsome copper-haired lover who waited bonded and gagged, saying, “Your governess demands obedience.”
Tugging at his collar, Jasper blinked and blinked again.
So, when she wrote governess, Briar had meant that kind of governess…
like the ones specializing in flagellation in Marylebone who were experts in inflicting pain with pleasure.
Every drop of blood in his body descended immediately to his cock.
Dear God . He’d expected some broad strokes of amorousness, perhaps some heaving bosoms and a display of an ankle or two, but never this.
Loosening his cravat and adjusting himself, he continued reading.
Aside from the explicit nature of Lady Ivy’s adventures, it was exceptionally written…
the descriptive details were truly a study in secrets and sensuality.
The brisk honesty of the prose, juxtaposed with the air of innocence of the main character, was an intriguing combination.
The dialogue was witty and audacious, just like the author, and Jasper found himself laughing out loud in parts, his heart pounding in others.
The undercurrent of arousal that ran through the story felt like an entirely separate character—an omniscient one—as if desire were a companion on a journey.
Jasper could not help himself; he was hooked.
He kept reading. An hour flew by, and then another.
By the time he finished consuming the entire story of Lady Ivy’s adventures, he was sweating, his body was teetering on the knife-edge of arousal, and he had a raging cockstand that showed zero signs of dissipating.
In fact, he was harder than he’d ever been in his life .
He’d had to stop and go back to several sections, all the while unable to comprehend in the most primal, animalistic part of his brain that Briar —feisty, fierce, inexperienced Briar Fairview—was the author of something so sensually lush and extraordinarily vivid.
It didn’t seem possible, given her innocence, and yet, he knew it was her.
She isn’t that innocent…
Not only did Lady Ivy dispense and desire praise, degradation, and punishment from her lover, all depicted with very explicit consent and care, but she relished every second of it, open to truly embracing each part of the hedonistic experience.
It was evident that the gentle, rhapsodic prose underscoring such sensational material was written for women in mind, with the subtle encouragement for them to ask for what they wanted with their partners…
and to amplify that they, too, were deserving of pleasure.
That pleasure was a gift.
Briar was, without a doubt, a talented storyteller.
It was a truly unique exposition—sultry without being sordid.
However, no wonder the book was anonymous—if word got out, she would be utterly ruined.
Other writers who had penned books with suggestive matter had been condemned and shunned for immorality, even imprisoned, their work deemed depraved and obscene.
Both men and women, though in their world, women had much more to lose.
Jasper frowned, a thought occurring to him, as his eyes darted from the book in his hand to the parchment that had been sent to Briar, still sitting on the corner of his desk.
I know your secret. I have my eyes on you, little dove.
His stomach dipped, arousal dissolving as dread lodged itself deep. What if whoever had sent her the message didn’t mean her visits to Lethe? What if they meant this ? Her secret and very scandalous vocation. That would change everything.
Because the first was salvageable; the second would be her utter ruin.
With a curse, Briar crumpled the parchment and sighed at the ink she’d gotten all over her fingers.
It was official—her muse was on hiatus. Her imagination, formerly so fertile, was now barren, and she had a sneaking suspicion it had to do with her fictional engagement to a certain gentleman.
Because all she could think about was him .
As much as he had loosely inspired some of her heroes—she made it a point to give some of them dark or light hair with brown or green eyes—she couldn’t very well describe a living person.
Someone in her very discerning group of friends might make the connection.
They already read her stories and would take her secret to the grave, but they knew Lushing.
Her best friend was the man’s sister! She doubted Vesper would appreciate any correlation between her brother and an amorous lover begging to be flogged.
Pressing her knuckles to her flushed cheeks, Briar let out a hysterical giggle.
Her brain was obsessed with hair shades of copper, strawberry, and garnet…
and eyes that ran from sapphire to cerulean, nothing so humdrum as blue.
And the thought of even writing the earl into fiction—describing that athletic, vigorous body without a shred of clothing, while restraining La dy Ivy with her wrists pinned and her body folded over a cleverly designed piece of furniture—drenched her drawers every time.