Page 5 of Only Scandal Will Do

“’Ope you gets yer money’s worth, m’lord. Nasty lil’ bit o’ goods that ’un.

Actress, y’know. Don’t like the part she ’ad to play.”

Adjusting the domino and mask, Duncan motioned for the door to be opened. He smiled. This night would be memorable, he’d make sure of that.

* * * *

Katarina stood in the center of the room, searching for escape routes or weapons to hand. Her mouth ached from the gag and her body began to feel the bruises from her ordeal, but she forced physical discomforts to retreat. Jack had drummed logic and strategy into her at an early age. She would reason her way out of this situation despite the recent indignities.

A short time before, kicking and squirming with all her might, she had been carried into this small room lighted by a candelabrum, and tossed onto a canopied bed. The hated mask and gag ripped from her face, she’d gasped in great gulps of air, coughing and retching, uncaring about anything except the luxury of taking a deep breath.

With a chuckle, Nigel had scooped up the discarded gag and tossed the plaster mask onto the bed. “A little memento of your evening with us,” he’d growled and left. The door had closed and the key turned in the lock.

She sat up, her racing heart subsiding to its normal beat. The white face lay beside her, dark eyeholes staring at her, coldly mocking. She seized it and heaved the wretched thing at the door. The plaster shattered, a triumphal chord of sound. Tears of outrage welled as she drew in a deep breath and screamed for the first time since she’d been taken.

Several minutes later Katarina calmed herself, banked her anger, and compelled herself to think rationally about escape. The door was obvious, but she’d heard the key scrape in the lock, so did not spare it a glance. A tall window overlooking the alley promised greater potential, but thick bars crossed the panes. There were no other options. On to weapons.

The small, round bedside table held the candelabrum. Kat hefted the brass weight. Sufficiently heavy, but unwieldy. A pale gold wingback chair beneath the window offered no possibilities, leaving a washstand in the corner with pitcher and basin. That was the extent of the weaponry available.

“Damnation.” Other than setting the place on fire--a thought she dismissed as too risky-or smashing her purchaser over the head with the pitcher, she was left with her wits and sharp tongue as weapons.

Someone fumbled with the door. She recognized the scratchy voice of the shorter kidnapper even through the wood, and darted toward the washstand.

The door opened as Kat skidded to a halt in front of a tall, cloaked and masked form.

One glimpse of the monstrous figure sent her scream echoing in the small room. She fled backward until she splayed against the wall, trapped. The dark shape advanced with frightening speed, cape billowing, the golden mask of a lion’s head glinting in the candlelight.

Flattened against the cold plaster as the towering apparition rushed toward her, she willed herself to vanish through the wall like a ghost.

The spectre reached a finger out and stroked her hair. A normal hand, thank God. The arm that disappeared into the black folds was clothed in dark red fabric of excellent quality. He was just a man. She lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his.

“Who are you, sir?”

“Your master, slave.”

Harsh words cloaked in a voice of deep velvet. A shiver of dread raced down Katarina’s body, as much from the words as from his tone. She gathered her courage and replied, “I am nobody’s slave. There has been a dreadful mistake.”

“I think not, my lovely. I paid a small fortune for your ownership this evening. Make no mistake about that.” He continued to stroke her hair and she twisted her head to the side. His mouth below the half mask twitched into an insolent smile. “I am pleased, however, that you possess courage as well as beauty.” His fingers touched her cheek. “The mask hid the slave’s wealth well.”

She jerked away. “You may have paid for a slave, sir, but what you find in this room is a lady in distress. Will you prove a gentleman or a rogue?”

“A lady in distress?” He laughed and straightened. “How did a lady come to find herself on display at an auction, scandalously clad in a transparent Greek costume, in Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure?”

“House of Pleasure?” she squeaked.

“Where else would such a thing occur?” The man’s amusement seemed to deepen at her indignation. “And there will certainly be pleasure here tonight, slave.”

He ran a hand slowly down her arm, fingers trailing silkily against her bare flesh. Mouth agape at such a liberty, she slapped the hand away and ran for the door. With a long arm, he snared the diaphanous folds of her gown. The material strained against her body. Kat froze lest it rip, exposing her completely. Cursing her own folly for choosing such a costume, she swung around to face her captor.

“Please release me, sir,” she demanded, trying to keep her temper in check. She needed to woo this man to her cause. And though it galled her, she could only do so with soft words, not blows. Perhaps the blows could come later. “I beg you to aid me in my hour of need.” She put every ounce of charm into her smile; she could cajole him, as long as he couldn’t read her mind.

“Ah, but I have needs too, slave.” His hands were in her hair again, as though he could not help himself.

Well aware from his husky tone what needs the man likely had, Kat winced. If only she could see all of his face. It was so difficult to judge the man under that golden mask. She forced herself to relax, although the thought of his hands on her raised gooseflesh everywhere. It was only her hair, after all. No great sin. Perhaps if she softened her demeanor, she could convince him of her plight. She could offer honeyed tones for a little while.

“Will you hear my story of how a lady ended up in this House of Pleasure, sir?” Even to her own ears, her innocent tone sounded false. How would it sound to--

Releasing her hair, the stranger grabbed her hand. “We both know how you will end up, my slave. Come.” He pulled her toward the four-poster and she dug her toes into the rough, worn carpeting. Honey be damned, she had no intention of going anywhere near that bed.