by Adele Clee
She stepped forward, her frilly pantaloons visible beneath her skirts. “I considered wearing a fichu, but we are attending a party for the demi-monde.”
A fichu would solve the problem of his excessive salivating. And yet the wild devil in him wanted to feast on the display of milky-white flesh. His gaze drifted down to the roses sewn around the hem of her gown, to the trim ankles that no doubt led to shapely calves and soft thighs, thighs that left a man desperate to explore.
The dilemma was enough to send him insane. Soon he would have to mop beads of sweat from his brow, take deep breaths to calm his racing pulse.
“Trust me, Miss Vale,” Wycliff said in the mischievous tone of a man who’d played a hand in this game. “Your costume is far less risqué than most who will attend tonight.”
And yet most men would find the lady’s innocent air and lush figure intriguing. A lack of exposed flesh would rouse just as much interest.
“We shall stay but an hour.” Lawrence would stalk Mr Layton, discover the names of those women in attendance who might have seen his bare chest. “Should you feel uncomfortable, you may return to the carriage and wait with Sleeth.”
Miss Vale studied his black domino and offered a coy smile. “I see you have come as the devil, Mr Trent.”
Lawrence inclined his head. “I am not one for games, Miss Vale, and the bucks give a man dressed in sombre attire a wide berth.”
Indeed, they had better afford his companion the same consideration else there would be hell to pay.
They were greeted at the door of Mrs Crandall’s house by the madam’s majordomo. Known for his handsome good looks, the servant was often a willing participant in these raucous events. Tonight, he wore the garb of a Turkish prince—silk pants, a jewel-encrusted turban and nothing but a gold waistcoat covering his bare chest.
Lawrence raised his black mask. “Mr Trent and Mrs Beckford.”
The majordomo bid them entrance, his beady brown gaze lingering on Miss Vale’s impressive breasts. One punch to the servant’s weak chin would see him crumple like a marionette with broken strings.
With his mask still raised, Lawrence cast the servant a stare that would send Lucifer scurrying back to his lair. “Has Mr Cavanagh arrived?”
“Half an hour ago, sir.” The man met Lawrence’s gaze briefly before turning his attention back to Miss Vale. “Should you require the use of the upper rooms this evening, my mistress has taken charge of the keys.”
Usually, the rooms were left unlocked. It was not surprising to find more than two occupants at rampant play. What had prompted Mrs Crandall’s desire to offer her guests privacy? Had a man with a branding mark on his chest made the suggestion?
Lawrence offered no reply for he would not have the servant presume Miss Vale was free with her favours. He placed his hand at the small of Miss Vale’s back and guided her through the hall, away from Woods’ lecherous gaping.
“We’ll find Cavanagh and see if he has spoken to Mrs Crandall.”
With any luck, Cavanagh had already discovered the names of Layton’s lovers. With his charm, it would not take much to find out if Layton bore the Brethren’s mark. And if he did—
“It would help if we knew Mr Cavanagh’s chosen costume.” Miss Vale fixed her gaze upon him though he suspected she would rather stare into his eyes than at the couples cavorting in the dimly lit hallway.
“Cavanagh has a fascination with the Romans. He considered coming as a gladiator but feared wearing a short tunic.” Lawrence bent his head and whispered, “Mrs Crandall’s tentacles tend to wander, are keen to explore.”
Miss Vale’s eyes widened. Lips as red and as soft as the silk roses on her mask formed a pout. “From what I know of your character, I find it surprising that you attend these events at all. You possess more integrity than all those here combined.”
The compliment hit his shield with the sudden force of a battleaxe.
Part of him wanted to exhale the breath he’d been holding since someone first used the term bastard as a weapon. To celebrate the fact that, at last, someone had seen beyond the circumstances of his birth. Part of him wanted to tell her that he belonged with these degenerates, that they were the only family he’d ever known.
“My moral character is not always sound.” She should know the truth. Know that he would devour those luscious lips if given the chance. “You would do well to remember I am a man who can satisfy his cravings without compunction. Therefore, the need to play protector to you is not without its struggles.”
She swallowed deeply, but that probably had more to do with the fact they had entered the drawing room where guests took gaiety to another level. In the muted light, one had to squint to discern those waltzing about the sparsely furnished room from those writhing and gyrating to a different tune.
Like Dante’s Second Circle of Hell, the atmosphere vibrated with the salacious hum of the wicked. Energy, as tense as the building coil in one’s core before climax, thrummed in air. These sinners saw the world through carnal eyes. Pleasure-seekers. People who compensated for their inadequate bloodline by excelling between the bedsheets. People who lived to pursue their decadent obsessions.
Panic surfaced.
He would have to make it clear that Miss Vale was his bed partner this evening. She would need to place her dainty hands upon him in a lover’s lustful caress. Touch him in a way that was a prelude to something far more sinful.
He drew her to the corner of the room while debating how to broach the delicate subject. The need to find the right words abandoned him the moment the lady gripped his arm and moved closer.
“One cannot help but be affected by the amorous sights, Mr Trent. No wonder Mrs Crandall holds the keys to the private rooms.”
As always, her voice carried the clinical tone of one making an observation, yet there was no mistaking the faint frisson of excitement. The thought she took a voyeuristic thrill from such a shameless scene sent a bolt of lust straight to his loins.
“People look for their partners early in the evening.” Changed them halfway through the night once they’d had their wicked way. “We must make it clear we’re a couple. I must make it clear that you are mine.” Heat flooded his chest. Were she his, she would have no need to scour this iniquitous den looking for a masked rogue.
Her lips parted though he sensed her anxiety. “And how might we do that,” she whispered, “without resorting to the obvious?”
“You must place your palm on my chest, trail your fingers up over my shoulders, play with the hair at my nape.” The muscles in his abdomen clenched. Such signals told a man a woman wanted more than conversation. “I shall cup your cheek and stare into your eyes when we speak. I shall place a protective hand on your hip and rock you in a slow, sensual rhythm.”
He would mimic what he might do if he had her in bed. It would not be a quick, rampant coupling. Hell, no. He would savour every damn second.
“I see.” She swallowed deeply. “I thank you for your guidance, sir, for one would hate to appear innocent.”
“You need to call me Lawrence.” Every ounce of restraint in his body fought against the informality. “A man’s lover does not call him sir.” Not unless they liked playing master and servant games. And he must encourage this woman’s independence not seek to control and dominate.
“Lawrence.” Testing the sound, she breathed his name on a sweet sigh. “You are the first man to insist I use his given name.”
The first but not the last. One day she might marry, and her husband would afford her the same pleasure. The thought proved sobering until the woman turned to face him and decided to practise petting.
Miss Vale touched his upper arm and stroked in the detached way one did to a pestering dog. “Forgive me. I am terribly inexperienced at this game.”
“All novices must start somewhere,” the devil in him returned, eager to tutor her in every aspect of carnal relations. “You must touch me in a way that excites. Slowly. With sensual grace. Imagine
the touch of your fingers igniting a blazing trail that will heat my blood.”
When her hand came to rest on his chest, Lawrence held himself rigid—mustered all his defences. Her blue gaze fixed on his black waistcoat with some fascination. Then, with feather-light fingers, she drew circles around the small brass buttons.
“Is that better, Mr Trent?”
“Lawrence,” he corrected but struggled to swallow down his desire when her fingers stopped on the bottom button, mere inches from the waistband of his breeches.
Telling himself he needed to check her mask was still in place, he cupped her cheek, stroked his thumb along the line of her jaw.
They stared at each other for a long, drawn-out second.
The magnetic pull of her mouth left him desperate for the tiniest taste. Just once. Though once would never be enough.
Lawrence bent his head, was certain Miss Vale came up on her tiptoes, but then a nudge in his left arm broke the spell.
“I thought you were attending with Miss— with Mrs Beckford?” Cavanagh said, lowering his handheld mask. He wore a blood-red toga draped over a white tunic, a gold wreath in his hair. Cavanagh’s gaze dropped to Miss Vale’s bulging breasts. “Did the lady have a fit of the vapours and is hiding in your conveyance?”
Lawrence cleared his throat. “This is Mrs Beckford. And I suggest you avert your damn gaze.”
“I see.” Cavanagh gave a knowing grin.
“We are working on adding an air of credence to our disguise.”
“Is that so? If the idea is to appear as desperate lovers, you’ve excelled in the task.” He captured Miss Vale’s hand, brought it to his lips and introduced himself. “It is a pleasure to meet the lady who has Trent in a quandary. A man must admire any woman willing to fight for justice.”
Lawrence gritted his teeth else he was liable to punch his friend. He cast Miss Vale a sidelong glance. “By quandary, he refers to the fact that I would rather you were safe at home in Shepperton.”
That was a lie.
Miss Vale simply smiled. “Have you had any luck finding our quarry, Mr Cavanagh? It might help if we knew his choice of costume this evening.”
“Layton is dressed in the garb of an Elizabethan and is wearing a ridiculous white ruff.” Cavanagh jerked his head to the left. “He’s standing near the painting of a ship navigating the Thames.”
Layton nuzzled the neck of a milkmaid while his hand delved under the hem of her skirt. It struck Lawrence that his costume was an intentional choice. He might make excuses for not removing his shirt and ruff but would have no problem removing his codpiece.
“Perhaps if I could get a closer look at his face whilst he’s wearing the mask,” Miss Vale replied, “I might confirm if he is the rogue who carried out the vicious assault.”
While her suggestion made logical sense, a sudden pang of foreboding warned Lawrence against the idea. “And what of Phillip Wincote?”
“He’s the one leaning against the wall near the drinks tray, dressed in black and sporting the full-face devil mask.” Cavanagh took a step closer. “There’s talk he ruined an innocent at Mrs Calderham’s ball. The chit’s father called him out and took a lead ball to the arm as a result.”
An icy shiver ran the breadth of Lawrence’s shoulders when he locked gazes with the rogue on the opposite side of the room. With the villain’s face covered by the mask, it was impossible to determine his expression. Smug was his guess. Wincote stood alone with his arms folded across his chest—an arrogant pose, not a defensive one.
The urge to capture Miss Vale in his arms and never let go came upon him. “You have no way of assessing Wincote’s likeness in that mask.” Not unless Lawrence ripped the image of the grinning imp from the rogue’s face and delivered a vicious punch.
Miss Vale frowned. “He has the same conceited air about him. I doubt I shall ever forget his insolent grin. But there is something about Mr Layton I dislike, too.”
Frustrated by their lack of progress, Lawrence sighed. While Wincote gave them his full attention, Layton was too busy fondling the milkmaid to consider the other people in the room. But as a man who had suffered disappointment many times, Lawrence knew better than to judge things on face value.
To add to his irritation, Mrs Crandall entered the room in the white gown of a vestal virgin. One could not mistake her vibrant red hair or the overstated sway of the hips that was supposed to convey a sensual appeal.
“Blast,” Cavanagh muttered. “I don’t trust that woman. She has already slipped me the key to her private chamber. I’m supposed to meet her there on the stroke of midnight.”
Lawrence couldn’t resist the opportunity to tease his friend. “And the servants will enter her room in the morning to find a red toga, a fig-leaf crown and a pile of gnawed bones. I’d suggest a quick escape, but the woman is heading this way.”
“One always assumes it is men who prey on women, not the other way around,” Miss Vale said. “You must be firm, Mr Cavanagh, else you will never have peace.”
A vision of Miss Vale fighting the masked rogue burst into Lawrence’s mind. Murderous thoughts came upon him again, and he glanced around the room only to meet Layton’s surreptitious stare. Cunning men did not make their interest as obvious as Wincote had done. And it was a devious man who drugged Miss Vale’s maid so he might enter the lady’s chamber and claim his prize.
“Ah, Trent. Mrs Beckford.” The madam of the house came to join their group. She sidled next to Cavanagh and touched his shoulder as if already familiar with the feel of his body. “Woods said I wouldn’t miss the shepherdess with bountiful breasts. I understand your prowess in bed has caused no end of trouble for Trent.”
Damnation!
His heart stopped while he awaited Miss Vale’s reply.
He needn’t have worried. The lady trailed her fingers over his brass buttons like a skilled courtesan and gave a coy smirk. “A woman is only as good as her partner. And Lawrence knows his way around a lady’s bedchamber.”
Mrs Crandall’s gaze dropped to his breeches, and she moistened her lips. “So I am told, though I prefer my men a little less brooding.”
Mrs Crandall made him sound like the worst of rakes.
Miss Vale stiffened at his side but made a quick recovery. “When a man has such an impressive physique, brooding enhances his appeal. Indeed, I can scarce keep my hands to myself.”
“Then you will want a key? There are but a few rooms left.”
Hell, no! If left alone in a dark room with this shepherdess, there could be only one outcome. And yet the urge to beg for a key waged a war within.
“Not tonight.” Miss Vale’s acting skills were to be commended. She leaned forward to present Cavanagh and Mrs Crandall with an eyeful of milky-white flesh and whispered, “We’re experimenting out of doors. Indeed, the last time I gazed upon Lawrence’s naked form, we were in a graveyard.”
Mrs Crandall laughed and tapped Miss Vale playfully on the arm. “Oh, you’re a riot, Mrs Beckford. No wonder you have men fighting for your attentions. And you have given me a splendid idea for our next soiree. Hot Arabian Nights. We shall erect tents in the garden which will feed your appetite for exploring nature.”
“Perfect.” Miss Vale smiled. “I’m sure Lawrence will approve.”
“Wholeheartedly,” he said, though did not wish to imagine a hot night in a tent with Miss Vale. “I’m sure the thought of sleeping outdoors appeals to Cavanagh, too.”
His friend gritted his teeth and mouthed a curse. “I’m afraid the heat brings me out in a dreadful rash.”
“A massage with aromatic oils will soothe any raging irritation,” Mrs Crandall replied. “And with my expert fingers, I know just how to hit the right spot.”
They all chuckled though only Mrs Crandall seemed genuinely amused.
Woods entered the room, marched over to his mistress and mumbled in her ear. The madam clapped her hands and nodded profusely. “Time for a game,” she said in the tone of an excited c
hild.
With the bang of a hand gong Woods had snatched from a side table, he announced that his mistress wished to address the crowd. Gaining everyone’s attention, Mrs Crandall moved into the middle of the room and informed them they were to take part in a game of murder.
A chill ran the length of Lawrence’s spine, bringing the hairs on his nape jumping to attention. Was the game Mrs Crandall’s idea or had another guest made the suggestion? He observed Layton’s wicked grin.
“Woods will hand you all a character card,” Mrs Crandall informed them. “When we snuff out the candles, you must creep about the room. The person with the victim card will choose an appropriate moment to scream and crumple to a heap on the floor.”
“Once the lights are out, the lady is sure to grope my nether regions,” Cavanagh complained. “I might take my leave before we plunge into darkness.”
“When Woods enters with the lit lamps, you are allowed three chances to guess the murderer. Failure to give the correct name means you will have to remove an item of clothing.”
Bloody hell!
The odds were against them. There were thirty people in the room. But this game was not about skill and mental agility. It was about rousing the crowd to partake in an orgy.
Without thought, he gripped Miss Vale’s hand and held it tight. “Lead the way. We will be right behind you.” He’d made a mistake bringing Miss Vale to this pernicious den. A mistake he was desperate to rectify.
“Are you ready for the fun to begin?” When the crowd cheered, Mrs Crandall summoned Woods to hand out the cards. Impatience saw her take half the pack and distribute them to those on the opposite side of the room.
Cavanagh was the first in their group to receive a card—that of the handsome lothario. Lawrence held his breath while waiting for Miss Vale to reveal her choice from the deck. There were but two words on her card—lying vixen.
Miss Vale looked at him and gulped.
Had any other woman received the card, he might have questioned her integrity, believed that fate had given him a sign. And although he could not explain how he knew, he was certain honesty flowed like blood through Miss Vale’s veins.