It was a blasted orgy. The affair at Podmore’s. Marcus had been able to slip in through a door that led into the gardens instead of coming through the front where he would have had to show an invitation he didn’t possess.
After making some discreet inquiries of the servants beforehand, he’d known people would be wearing masks, so he’d be unidentifiable, could move about with a measure of anonymity. However, in addition to the mask, he’d expected people to wear clothing. Especially after he’d gone to the bother of borrowing evening attire from his brother. It was a slightly tight fit, not that anyone was going to notice as they were too busy shedding their own apparel.
In all honesty, most were not nude, not completely anyway. A couple of ladies were gallivanting about in gossamer sheaths as though theywere wood nymphs. Three men had thrown inhibition and their clothing to the wind and were chasing after them.
Marcus was no prude but certainly preferred privacy in his intimate encounters with women. One clad creature, untamed moon-shaded hair flowing around her, came up to him and trailed a slender hand along his chest.
“I’m Aphrodite. Whom might you be?” Her voice was soft and refined. Was she of the nobility? With the domino hiding three-quarters of her face, he couldn’t be sure if he’d known her in his previous life.
“Zeus.”
She laughed, the sound ringing out like crystal bells within a cathedral at Christmas. “Zeus is over there.”
Following the direction of her tilted head, he saw a man lounging on a huge pillow resting on a dais, scantily clad women spread out over other pillows feeding him what appeared to be grapes and olives. He wore trousers and unbuttoned shirtsleeves. No mask, but then he was the host and was expected to be here. Podmore.
As Marcus began to swivel his gaze back to Aphrodite, he caught sight of someone else he recognized, someone he shouldn’t. He narrowed his eyes. He had to be mistaken. It was only because he’d hoped she’d be here, and yet she moved as gracefully as Esme. But the hair trailing along her back was a mahogany shade that glistened in the wavering light provided by the flickering flamesof the candles that adorned this room. No gaslight to illuminate the surroundings more clearly but then decadence preferred darkness.
He couldn’t take his eyes from the not-so-mysterious woman as she wended her way among the guests. She wore a gold domino with feathers at the side, the shade matching her loosely flowing golden satiny attire that was cinched at the waist by a thin braided rope. He knew that chin, shaped like the bottom of a heart. More, he knew those lips. They’d visited his dreams often enough since he’d first met her, with more deliberation since she’d joined him at the Mermaid. And oh, the wicked things they did to him when he was lost to slumber would cause Satan to blush.
“Excuse me,” he said to the goddess beside him, before cutting a swath that would put him directly in Esme’s path.
She was adept at avoiding reaching hands that would have brought her in for a passionate embrace. Everything within this chamber, no doubt within this residence, was done passionately, and he resented that she was here, probably searching for someone to replace his father’s role in her life, at least for the night. What did he care who crawled into her bed? He’d made his position clear, and yet he’d never regretted the utterance of words so much. He could have used a different phrasing to indicate he would never fancy her, but the hell of it was he did. And it angered him to be so drawn to her.
So he’d been deliberately cruel and crude inorder to send her running. The man he’d been a year ago would have never done such a thing. Perhaps he should stop trying to understand the past and just move on with his life. He was weary of the frustration and the fury. Of the cold permeating his soul, of never knowing warmth. Of distrusting everyone—especially her.
As he made his way to her, she sidled between two gents, and he noticed the pocket watch dangling from the braided rope at her waist. What an odd adornment for an affair such as this. Was she obsessed with time or merely the memory of her father?
Slowing his pace, he decided against confronting her immediately in favor of observing her more closely. With her head slowly moving from side to side, she was taking in her surroundings, apparently making mental notes of where she was less likely to be noticed. Periodically, she changed her course, skirting areas with gentlemen who were busily engaged with other women. While she seemed to be part of this soiree, he also had the impression she was striving to blend in and not be detected. But he was certain it was her. Esme. The height, the curves. The grace with which she glided among the guests.
But the lustrous shade of her hair confused him. Had the other been a false piece? Or was this one? The vibrancy of the red would certainly make her stand out. This one not quite so much. Still, she was not one to not shine. Her confident bearing was almost a physical presence. Like thatof a royal. When one entered a room, people immediately noticed. Royals commanded attention, as did she.
She glanced around, a soft smile turning up the corners of her mouth as though she was exceedingly pleased with how the night was going. He fought the urge to duck. With his black trousers and tailcoat, ivory waistcoat, pristine white shirt, and gray cravat not resembling those of someone who came from the streets, and the simple black domino mask covering the top half of his face, he thought it unlikely she’d recognize him. If she had spotted him, she certainly gave no pause before floating into a nearby corridor and disappearing from sight.
Keeping his gait quick but measured so no one would think he was giving chase, he followed, entering the hallway in time to see her slipping into a room at the far end and shutting the door behind her. He peered over his shoulder. Because the grand salon was naught but flickering shadows and this passageway even darker, it would be difficult for anyone to see what was going on in here. Not that anything was. It was deserted.
He marched forward until reaching the chamber she now occupied. He considered rapping on the door or simply bursting in or abandoning his need to confirm that the woman he’d spied was exactly who he thought she was.
And if she was? If she was engaged in a secretive tryst within those walls? Did he truly want to witness a man enjoying the delectable fruitsshe offered? Those lush lips, that wide mouth, that succulent body, those legs that judging by her height had to go on forever? Perhaps she was auditioning a new lover. He should return to his own efforts to discover why his father might have mentioned Podmore, if the viscount had somehow been involved in leading his father to his ruin. He turned on his heel—
Hell and damnation.
He gripped the latch, shoved open the door, and crossed the threshold. She glanced up from where she was hunched over the desk—her discarded mask resting beside the lone lamp providing light—and studied him, one second, two before returning her attention to whatever she’d been doing when he strode in.
“Get the hell out, Stanwick,” she commanded in a tone that would brook no argument from a gentleman, but then he’d long ago given up claim to being one.
Therefore, he quietly closed the door behind him and cautiously approached. She appeared to be holding her father’s pocket watch... only it seemed to have a minuscule telescope attached to it. Quickly she took something out, put something shaped similarly in, and peered down.Click.Rapidly she went through the motions again.Click.
He came around to stand beside her. A bit of foolscap was flattened on the desktop, and she was moving that odd contraption over it.Click. Click.“What the devil are you doing?”
“None of your affair.”
Anotherclicksounded, this one louder and more ominous. The opening of the door.
“Demonstrate your intelligence,” she demanded just before grabbing his lapels, falling back upon the desk, bringing him with her, and latching her mouth onto his.
That beautiful mouth that had her tossing and turning in bed with frustration most nights since he’d first shown up at her door was as dark, rich, and flavorful as she’d imagined. Scotch, probably. Perhaps even a cheroot. He was decadence, pure and simple.
She’d spied him shortly after he arrived and had decided that once she was done with her task here, she might take a bit of time to flirt with him, tempt him, make him regret his words from the other night. She’d even considered indulging her fantasies, to make him want as he’d never wanted before. No one would find it odd if she’d kissed him in the main parlor. She could only hope whoever had opened the door would feel the same about coming upon them now. She also prayed that Marcus Stanwick understood her instructions and comprehended that he needed to play the part of a lover caught in a tryst.
