Page 80 of A Story of Love

“Might I also have a newspaper if there is one?”

Gregg hesitated and then nodded. “I’ll have one sent up with your breakfast.”

“Does that mean Lord Severn won’t be returning tonight?”

Again, he hesitated, and then said, “I don’t believe so.” The hard, almost satyrish, angles of his face softened slightly. “Try to get some sleep, Miss Fontenot.”

Lori stared at the door long after it closed and then set down the books. She was simply too agitated to read. Instead, she resumed pacing, her mind racing from subject to subject, always returning to the two worries that consumed her the most: how was she to get her story to David, and what would happen to her novel if she did not deliver.

When the clock on the mantle chimed two in the morning, she sighed and climbed onto the gothic black leather bed. She had expected to toss and turn, but she must have fallen asleep immediately because the next thing she knew a pale gray light was filtering between the heavy black velvet drapes that covered the room’s only window.

Lori stared up at the canopy, her thoughts no longer in the same turmoil as the day before.

It was impossible to deny the truth of her situation: she was being held hostage in a brothel by a man who had been her lover.

Lori bit her lip as a memory of her abandoned behavior flickered through her mind’s eye.

“Oh, God,” she murmured, closing her eyes and squeezing them so hard that she saw stars instead of the erotic images that had burned themselves into her brain.

Did she really possess such antiquated notions of morality that she regretted taking a lover? Hadn’t it been Lori who’d said to Freddie and Serena—the two women she’d always been closest to in her small group of friends—that there was no shame in enjoying sensual pleasure. Just like any man.

Well, it was time for her to take her own advice.

Lori forced her eyes open. “I refuse to be ashamed for what I did.” The words were loud in the quiet room and Lori wasn’t sure exactly who they were for.

Besides, engaging in carnal acts with Lord Severn was hardly her most pressing concern at this point. There was also the not insignificant matter of how she was going to escape.

She absently chewed on a broken fingernail, considering her options as she glanced around the gaudily appointed room, her gaze lingering on an especially medieval looking whip and manacles that appeared to be lined with thick black fur.

Who would have guessed there was a room even more vulgar than the bedchamber Severn used for his amours. Did he use this room, too? Did he use the implements that covered the walls? What did he do in this massive black bed?

The possibility that he used this room to have sex with other women caused a confusing and twisted ripple of desire and jealousy to assault her body.

Lori scowled at her reaction to his prurient behavior, and then was immediately irritated by her knee-jerk shame. Hadn’t she just finished convincing herself that there was no shame in sensuality? Wasn’t it natural that she would respond in such a way? It didn’t mean there was anything wrong with her.

She shoved back the bedding, swung her feet to the floor, and shrugged into the gaudy dressing gown she had worn yesterday.

The room’s only portal to the outside world wasn’t just barred, it also faced the river. The pier, which had been empty the night before, was today crawling with dock workers. Lori squinted at one man who wasn’t working, but just leaning against one of the pier posts. And staring right up at her.

Lord Severn had posted a guard outside her room!

There truly was no escape. She was his prisoner. His to do with as he pleased.

Yet again she experienced a pleasurable tingling between her thighs.

Wonderful. She was Severn’s prisoner and secretly lusting for him.

Not so secretly.

She caught a glimpse of her scowling face in the mirror on the opposite wall and her expression turned to horror.

“Good Lord!” Lord Severn had removed much of the face paint two nights earlier, but not the kohl around her eyes. She’d gone to bed last night without even looking at herself or washing her face. The black had smudged and her hair—which his lordship had loosed—sprang out from her head like so many black snakes.

And then there was the emerald and gold dressing gown.

It clung to her body like oily green water. She might have been nude, her nipples hard and puckered against the fine silk.

Lori groaned.