by Eva Devon
Kate twisted in her chair, bracing an arm on the carved wooden back. “I refuse to be daunted,” she said with a hint of false bravado.
Imogen smiled, though there was definite doubt in her green eyes. “Nothing like a stiff British upper lip.”
Kate grabbed the stack of invitations from the dozens of gentlemen of society and even a few hostesses. “Why, look at how many people require my company!” She gave the other, much larger stack of rejections, a hate-filled look. “Despite some people’s prudish ideas.”
“Yeeeesss,” Imogen said carefully. “But those,” she pointed at the invitation in Kate’s hand, “um, they are a bit, well how shall we say. . . questionable?”
Shaking her head, Kate pinned a determined smile on her face. “I have decided the ton is what is truly questionable.”
God, did she sound as mad as she thought? But she had to believe this, she had to cling to any hope or she’d start to cry. And damn and blast, she wouldn’t cry. She’d done enough of that back in Shropshire and she was done with that whole business.
“Why should I wish to know them if they don’t wish to know me?”
Imogen nodded, but she was eyeing Kate as if she were a skittish mare that might suddenly bolt. “True—”
Kate ignored it and continued on her bold campaign to ignore her own ruin. “And there are many people—”
“Men,” Imogen interjected.
“Yes, men,” she said huffily, “who wish to make my acquaintance.”
She shuffled through the invitations, hastily reading the various names in elegant black ink. Some were engraved with symbols and gold and silver. None of these were people of lower society. They were all extremely prosperous individuals. Her fingers stopped on a particularly beautiful invite. Which just so happened to be the fete her damned duke was attending. Its thick parchment was jet black, trimmed with gold. The ink was also gold.
“This one.”
His lordship, the Earl of Albany
should like to request
the presence of Mrs. Kathryn Darrell
for an evening of
adventure and refinement
Barridan House
Eleven o’ clock, if you please
“Yes, I shall accept this one.” Kate tapped it against her fingertips waiting for Imogen to say something. She’d arrive in sweeping glory and show that blasted man that, ruined or not, she was not afraid to show her face. Even if she was showing it in a den of iniquity.
As if trying to collect her thoughts, Imogen stared at the window. Finally, she plopped herself down onto the silk embroidered chaise across from Kate. Her lemon yellow skirts slid about her haphazardly.
“Kathryn,” Imogen said slowly. “I do appreciate your good humor over this unfortunate happening, but do you even know who Albany is?”
Kate shrugged. She should know. She’d spent all her time reading about the nobility, but she couldn’t even remember reading a scrap. “An earl, and that’s all that matters, does it not?”
Imogen rubbed her forehead, then sighed. “I suppose. But Kate, know that I simply cannot attend.”
“What? Why?”
“My position is already tenuous and to attend one of Albany’s parties is fatal for a woman who is already a bit infamous amongst the ton.”
“So you’re saying I’m flinging myself from the tea kettle into a boiling pot?”
Imogen laughed, a dry sound. “No, dearest. You’ve tossed yourself into the oven. I do assure you if you attend Albany’s party you shall find yourself in the flames, albeit the delectable flames,” Imogen lowered her chin, “of Hell.”
Kate gasped. If Imogen thought the parties scandalous, then surely they were the very essence of hedonism. A thrill went straight through her, mixed with a sudden dose of unease. “What happens at these parties?”
Imogen shook her head. “I’m not entirely certain, but there is a reputation for bottles upon bottles of wine, unclothed women and a complete lack of virtue.” She smiled. “And a jolly good time.”
And His bloody Grace, the Duke of Darkwell was going to be in the middle of it. Well, Kate was going to see to it that his night was not quite so merry. “I no longer have any virtue to cling to. You understand, don’t you?”
“Yes,” Imogen admitted, though it clearly pained her.
“I refuse to remain in this house another day.” Especially since her partner in sin was free to go about as he pleased. “I shall take a footman and if at any point I become overly disturbed by their scandalous endeavors, I shall leave at once.”
Imogen stared at her as if Kate had signed herself into Bedlam.
She put the invitation down upon her desk and smoothed her skirts. “The matter is settled.”
*
Ryder tightened his fist around the long leather reins and spurred his big, black hunter on to greater speeds. The horse’s powerful muscles worked beneath him with seamless energy as he ate up the earth.
Rain poured down on them in thick sheets, drenching the rough hills and soaking him through to his skin. He didn’t give a damn. He felt oblivious to it. Taking danger in hand, he held the reins with one gloved fist and gave the hunter its head. If he fell at such a breakneck speed, he would be dead in an instant. Savoring the risk, Ryder urged the stallion to a reckless pace.
He could go on like this forever and he’d already been at it for three hours. But no matter how hard he rode, how fast he tore up the earth or the chances he took, he couldn’t drive Mrs. Darrell, no, Kathryn, from his thoughts. Her name was temptation on his lips and if he had his way, he would never utter it.
Even now, as he raced across the long, green plain, her face beckoned him. Her gray-blue eyes blazed with unfulfilled passion, passion he had barely tasted.
Cursing himself, he whipped his hunter around and they began the long route they’d already covered twice that morning. He was going to ride till he was exhausted or he’d broken his own neck.
The gait of the hunter rocked his body, but with each thud of the hooves, he heard her name. Kathryn. Kathryn. Kathryn.
He couldn’t escape her. Over the last two days, he kept expecting to see her, just as she’d mysteriously popped up wherever he went before the scandal. But she hadn’t and he felt like a fool, looking for her face around every corner. Hell, she probably hadn’t left her house since the opera.
Ryder leaned down and snapped the reins into the air. The hunter, taking his cue, let out another burst of speed. The stallion loved it. With his huge and powerful heart, they could go on like this almost all day.
And they might.
Everywhere he went, people jeered about his latest conquest. The papers had cited it for the last two days. It was too good a bit of gossip to pass over lightly.
Rain battered him from all sides. Ryder tossed his rain-soaked hair back from his face, ignoring the sliding drops that poured down the sides of his cheeks and dripped from his unshaven chin.
Kathryn Darrell had been a kind woman, untouched by the cruelty of the ton until she had met him. Now her life was destroyed. For there was no question, Kathryn was ruined. Any day now, he was certain he would hear of her departure to the continent.
Gladly, he would accept it.
His chest tightened painfully at the thought and he swerved his hunter towards a fence. They soared over it. For one brief moment, his thoughts were clear. Free. As soon as they hit the soaked ground, thoughts of her rattled back with full force.
She would leave. She would never wander back into his life. He would keep his vow of devotion to Jane. And never again would Kathryn surprise him with her wit or her stormy eyes as she crossed the room to speak with him. He would forget her.
He would.
Chapter 11
Kate stood on the threshold of no return, squared her shoulders and marched right over it. Her candy bright pink skirts brushed over the marble floor and she drew in a steadying breath.
The home was immense.
Apparently, t
he Earl of Albany was not only a man addicted to depravity, but was also one of the wealthiest men in London. A very dangerous combination. She’d read in Debrett’s that he held one of the oldest titles. Which was probably why the man could do exactly as he pleased.
Green granite columns towered in the entryway and above her head was a fantastical glass ceiling. If the sun had been shining, it would have rioted with color.
As it was, the room was fairly dark. Only a few candles illuminated the darkness. Which struck her as a bit odd, because if the duke was so wealthy, he should have no trouble affording a well-placed candelabra here or there.
The butler, a young man with silver-blonde hair and warm eyes took her cloak. He gave her a slow smile. “It is a pleasure, Mrs. Darrell. His Lordship will be most pleased.”
Would he, indeed? This, while the butler himself glanced her up and down as if she were a bit of fine flesh? If the butler felt the inclination to be this forward, what would the guests be like?
Kate nodded at the man as she tried to sneak a glance at the only open doorway at the back of the room behind the set of mahogany stairs that twisted round to the floors above.
The butler pointed a white gloved finger at it. “Just through there, madam. Your footman, of course, can wait in our kitchens.”
She glanced back at Gregory, wondering if she should keep the man by her side. It would be highly unusual to take him, but she had no idea what, exactly, she was getting herself into. The last thing she wanted was to be caught in a circle of libertines with no defense. “Actually, he provides me with irreplaceable services and shall be accompanying me.”
The butler smiled then raked his honey-brown eyes over Gregory. “Whatever pleases you, madam. The more the merrier.”
Kate’s eyes widened and she nearly tripped as she took a step forward. Were they all going to have sex together? The servants and the lords alike, all in one happily squirming group?
The urge to march right back out of the earl’s home did a little dance inside her, but she’d made up her mind and there was no turning back. For now. After all, she had plans. Plans to thwart Darkwell in his pursuit of pleasure.
She sauntered forward, her skirts in hand, and glanced back over her shoulder, happy for the presence of the big servant behind her. “Do stay close,” she whispered.
Unlike the cheeky butler, Gregory nodded, his manners superb even though he surely knew they were heading into some sort of sporting house. Kate stepped into a long corridor. It was empty and she glanced right to left and then squinted into the shadowy darkness. Either she was very early or very late. But the invitation had said eleven.
The rich Oriental rug of blue and gold muffled her footsteps and the matching pale blue silk walls were absolutely beautiful. Gilt mirrors hung along the sides, reflecting the scant light in the sconces placed sparingly along the walls.
With every step, she spotted another vision of herself. It was surprisingly disconcerting as if she were an observer of her own leap into sin. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes wide with apprehension. Gregory, on the other hand, looked downright fascinated. She threw him a reproachful glance and he coughed.
Though she’d spent little time in London, she’d never heard of anything like this. Where in heaven’s name was everyone? Music drifted towards them from the end of the hall and, to her relief, she spotted a doorway.
When she reached the end of the hall, she stopped. The opening led to a set of stairs that headed down into an amber glow. Laughter and the hum of voices mixed with the sounds of dance music wafted upward.
What was this, some sort of metaphorical plunge into Hell?
A servant stepped out of a small nook to the left. Kate jumped. “Good gracious, man!”
“Pardon, Mrs. Darrell, I take it you are new to the Devil’s Dance?”
She gaped at him. The what? “The. . .?”
“The Devil’s Dance,” the servant supplied cheerfully. “Please descend.”
He stood to the side, gesturing to the black hole that, depending upon one’s point of view, either led to endless pleasure or a personal audience with the prince of darkness himself.
Kate started to laugh, but it was downright nervous even to her ears. She glanced at Gregory and found him staring back. A positively concerned look creased his features.
Well, she’d already caused a massive scandal, so what was one more?
Taking both courage and her skirts in hand, Kate started down the stairs. Her eyes eventually adjusted to the barely lit darkness. With every step, her heart slammed in her ribs, for she had no idea what she’d find. But as her foot touched the last step, she turned to face the open doorway at the bottom and nearly tumbled flat on her face.
The room was a packed fairyland of sin. Tiny candles were deposited sporadically throughout the room. They floated in the air from little glass boats hanging from the mirrored ceiling. Everything seemed to reflect the hundreds of little star lights. The walls were panels of gold embellished mirrors. They reflected everyone, allowing the guests to watch themselves and each other. . . and their lack of attire.
The first thing that was immensely clear was that she was inappropriately dressed or, perhaps, overdressed was a more accurate interpretation. Her pink moiré gown was hardly modest. In fact, she’d purposefully pulled the neckline as far down as she dared and had her maid lace her corset especially tight so her breasts were two plump rounds pressed tightly together.
Kate glanced down at her own gown then back to the women. She looked like a Methodist’s daughter compared to the company.
A rainbow of color had descended upon the room. Then there were the styles. Women wore gowns with mere strips of fabric for sleeves. A few didn’t have sleeves at all, only tightly laced bodices which barely, or didn’t entirely, cover their nipples. Their skirts were travesties. Oh, they still had the suitable fullness which hid the shape of the hips, but the exposed underskirts were made of the sheerest of materials so one could see directly through to the women’s embroidered stockinged thighs!
Clearly the French had inspired the fashion.
Her slippered foot refused to go through the doorway. Oh, no, she needed to brace herself first.
Kate gulped as she spotted one woman in a wine red gown, her dark, curled head turned towards a gentleman. The glimmering fabric fell over the underskirt and was tucked to the sides about three-quarters down as current fashion dictated with white roses and diamond broaches. There was only one true aberration from modern fashion.
Kate blinked as if that might somehow cause the shocking sight before her to disappear. Goodness, the woman wore no underskirt! The bodice descended in a v to the point where her hips and thighs met. Even so, she wore a pair of strange little crimson silk pants with ruffles about her upper thighs. Her crimson stockings stretched up to her mid-thigh. Red velvet ribbons and diamond buckles held them in place.
What kind of woman would wear. . .
Mrs. Barton turned towards her and her eyes lit with pleased recognition. Thank God, there was someone to guide her through the land of lewdness. Then again, Mrs. B might volunteer to be her personal guide to delights unsampled.
The actress snapped her golden fan open and started in her direction.
Kate smiled what she hoped was a bold smile. Unfortunately, she was fairly sure it was a brittle mockery of a grin. But if Mrs. Barton could thrive in this crowd, Kate could, even if it was only for the purpose of making the duke’s night one he wouldn’t soon forget.
Mrs. Barton strode forward, her long legs made even longer by a pair of extremely high red shoes decked with golden flowers and bows.
As if pulling a cork from a bottle, Mrs. Barton took her hand and pulled her through the door. “Welcome, my dear, to a life you have, no doubt, never imagined.”
“Err. . .” Kate took Mrs. Barton’s arm and strode into the dark ballroom with her. “Thank you.”
“I am delightfully surprised you took up Lord Albany’s invitation.” Mrs. B
arton’s eyes twinkled as she glanced down at her. “I did sense a need for freedom in you.”
Freedom? Right. Though not from clothing. . . Kate nodded like a puppet.
“Women in the ton can never truly be free,” Mrs. Barton proclaimed confidently. “They have too many people to please.”
“But you attend ton parties all the time,” Kate ventured, feeling a bit as if she’d been tossed into the middle of a mad, though beautiful, circus.
Artfully, Mrs. Barton wove through the tightly knit groups of gossipers, a queen amongst the revelers. “True. But you see, I have never been truly of the ton so they do not hold me to its rules. I am a novelty.” She paused and her lips twisted. “Rather like a trained monkey who bangs a pair of symbols, I add an air of naughtiness to their nauseatingly proper world. I put up with them because it’s good for my business. I am nothing if not a businesswoman.”
“An actress is always upon the stage, is she not?”
Mrs. Barton threw back her dark head, the red feathers in the black curls bouncing as she laughed. The rich sound turned the heads of half a dozen men who stared at her with unconcealed appreciation. “You, my dear, are a treasure of honesty.”
“Yes,” Kate said dryly. “A rather annoying quality, I admit.”
“I beg to differ.” Mrs. Barton waved her fan at the people surrounding them. “These pompous peacocks could use a dose of truth and coming from such a pleasing creature as you, they’ll listen to anything you say.”
As they wove through the wide skirts of the women, Kate nibbled on her lower lip. Her gaze darted right to left trying to take in the sights. Dozens of couples danced in the middle of the floor. A full orchestra played a tune that seemed to be encouraging the dancers to do things they oughtn’t do. In fact, she’d never heard such music, nor did she recognize the steps the couples danced. The couples were close, their hands about each other.
“What is that?” she hissed.
“That, my dear, is a marvelous dance quite popular in Venice and originated in Vienna. They’ve been doing it for a decade and it’s danced quite publicly throughout many parts of Europe.”