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So here she sat on her chair in her scarlet silk gown, with the ruffles of lace at the hem, and a scarlet veil covering her face and hair. The glass of champagne she held in her hand had been replaced three times. Or was it four? She no longer kept count. She was feeling light-headed, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Rather like floating in a warm, comfortable cloud, while all about her Aphrodite’s guests moved and conversed, making their choices. Surely this was far more honest than the dreadful debutante ball she remembered attending as a girl? If a woman was going to sell herself to the highest bidder, then let it all be out in the open…
She turned her head just as he moved into her field of vision. Her spinning world came to an abrupt halt. The sights and sounds around her merged in a meaningless blur.
Dear God it cannot be…
Was Aphrodite a witch? For how else could she have known? But of course Aphrodite didn’t know. She had placed herself in the hands of Fate, and Fate had given her a strange and remarkable gift. Marcus Worthorne, the man of her dreams, was standing in the salon here at Aphrodite’s Club.
Marcus hadn’t visited Aphrodite’s before. That was not to say he hadn’t visited houses of pleasure and bawdy houses, just not this particular one. He had made Aphrodite’s acquaintance, of course—the courtesan was his sister-in-law’s natural mother. But to visit her club…no, he hadn’t done that, hadn’t felt it was quite proper. Now, with the invitation in his pocket, the situation had changed.
Aphrodite, an older version of Francesca, smiled at him as he entered the salon, but she had not shown him any particular favor. Good. He preferred it that way. This was strictly private, nothing to do with family relationships.
For a time he prowled about the glittering and gaudy salon, enjoying the company of the beautiful women, sipping his champagne. It was as if he’d stepped into a fairy tale where the princesses wore very little and were prepared to make all his dreams come true—if his pockets were deep enough.
Well, and what was wrong with that? It wasn’t as if he was looking for a respectable wife, for God’s sake. Just a couple hours of pleasure with a companion seeking the same. They could enjoy each other and go their separate ways. But which woman? That was the difficult question. They were all lovely, all charming; it made it impossible to choose.
And then he saw her.
She was wearing scarlet, a dress that clung to her curves, the bodice so low her bosom was barely covered. It could have appeared tacky, but the woman’s posture was so regal, so assured, Marcus thought she might well have worn sackcloth and still have the bearing of a queen. He wished he could see her face, but the veil she wore over her head reached to her shoulders, and he could not see through it. The mystery woman was seated beside a gilt statue of Cupid, and she was so still that she might have been a statue herself. Although he couldn’t see her face or her eyes, Marcus had the oddest sensation that she was watching him.
He made another circuit of the room. The women were still beautiful and so obviously wanting to please, but now they all looked the same. He didn’t know what was wrong with him tonight, but his steps led him back to the lady in scarlet.
Marcus was intrigued by her. She was sitting so still, but wasn’t like a thing of stone. Her skin looked too warm, too soft, too touchable. And he wanted to touch her.
She moved.
Just a slight shift of position, but enough to make him think that she was very aware of him. Perhaps she was as interested in him as he was in her? He thought it would be amusing to find out, to set her a little test…
Marcus began to prowl the room again, but this time he kept a surreptitious eye on her. Did the face beneath the veil turn a little to follow his progress? One of the beautiful demimonde wriggled up to him, smiling, stroking his arm as she spoke to him. He leaned down, giving her his full attention, and made a joke. She laughed and tapped him on the arm with her painted fan.
Marcus glanced over at the woman in scarlet. Oh yes, she was definitely watching him. Her head was turned toward him and she was leaning forward in her chair, to better observe him through the crowd. As if she did not want him to notice her interest, she turned quickly away, presenting him with the elegant curve of her shoulder, casually lifting her champagne glass to her lips.
Marcus strolled on, engaging another of the beautiful women in conversation, and then another, but the game palled when the lady in scarlet did not look again.
“Enough,” he murmured, suddenly impatient with her and himself. He set off toward her, cutting his way through the small clusters of guests, his gaze fixed on her like a hunting jungle cat.
She heard his approach, or perhaps sensed it. She turned toward him just before he reached her. He saw her body stiffen, as if she was preparing herself. Was she shy? More probably she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings. A first time visitor. An innocent.
Marcus smiled. This grew better and better.
The view from where he stood was truly delightful. Her breasts swelled over the bodice of her dress, plump and flawless, her skin like milk. A lady, then, and neither old nor wrinkled. He wondered whether she knew the effect she was having on the men in the room. Whether she realized how desperately he wanted to reach out and draw the scarlet neckline down that tiny bit, so that the peaks of her luscious breasts were disclosed to his gaze and his hands. And his mouth.
“Your glass is empty,” he said, his voice deep and soft and intimate. “Will you allow me to bring you another?”
The veil appeared flimsy but was in fact surprisingly impenetrable; he could only just see the pale blur of her features. She was hidden from him, and he found it frustrating. He wanted to see into her eyes. He wanted to gaze at her mouth. He wanted to know her.
She said nothing.
“We seem to be unattached, you and I,” he went on, as if her silence didn’t matter to him. “We’re watchers while the world goes by. Do you prefer to watch, is that why you’re here? To watch?”
Still nothing.
“If you want to join me, I promise you I can be fascinating company.” He took a step closer, and her head tilted to keep him in view. Her perfume reached him, something musky and sweet, teasing his senses. Her hand lifted, hovering over her cleavage, as if to preserve her modesty. “No, don’t,” he murmured huskily. “You are the stuff dreams are made of, lady. Don’t spoil it by playing the prude.”
He thought he saw the flash of her eyes. She hesitated, and then her hand returned to her lap.
“Thank you.” He smiled as if they were lovers already, his eyes as hot as his need. “May I?” Before she could move again, he bent down and lifted her hand in his, raising it to his lips. She was wearing gloves, but her flesh was warm underneath the thin cloth. She didn’t want him this close, he could tell, and when he released her, she folded her fingers tightly and dismissed him by turning her head away.
Marcus stepped back. “You wish to be alone?”
