by Jason
“Don’t!” she gasped, and it was genuine.
“But I must,” he murmured against her skin. “Isn’t it sweet?” He ran his tongue along her shoulder, easing the gown off as he went. “As sweet as you . . .”
She clutched the front of the gown to stop it sliding further. “Please!”
It was right for the frightened child, but it wasn’t acting. “Remember,” he murmured, “you get to keep all your clothes on. Which is more than I do.”
He felt her relax a bit. “That was your own choice,” she hissed into the bed.
“Someone had to show the paying customers a bit of skin.”
Her hands made fists. “London is foul, and all in it!”
He laughed against her skin and let his teeth graze her. “Considering the king and queen live here, sweeting, that could be seen as treason.” He kissed down the top few inches of her spine and she shivered. It wasn’t from fear of treason, either.
“Just do it!” she whispered.
“Too soon,” he replied and eased off her a little, sliding his hand down to rub at the small of her back. He rubbed firmly there as he teased and tormented her upper back with his mouth.
He heard her breathing alter. Ah, Portia, one day we are going to do this as it should be done, and take it to its beautiful conclusion. Aloud, he whispered, “You are as sensitive as I dreamed, like the finest instrument.”
“Or a hair-trigger pistol,” she muttered.
He laughed and began to work his hand lower.
With a heave, she turned to avoid that, but his hand ended up in a much more interesting place. For the audience he said, “That’s more like it, Hippolyta. I knew you’d come to like it.” Sotto voce he added, “No, don’t fight. Whimper.”
Her eyes flashed outraged defiance, but she made a sound like an anxious puppy. It was surprisingly disconcerting and Bryght was strongly tempted to cuddle her. How the devil did men rape these creatures in truth? He’d never concerned himself over it much, and wasn’t sure there was anything he could do about it, but now it bothered him.
Getting rid of Cuthbertson would end one foul supply. It wouldn’t do anything, however, for other victims, or for frightened brides like Prestonly’s poor wives.
He found his hand was stroking her belly in soft, comforting circles, and she was staring at him in wary confusion.
“There’s nothing to be frightened of,” he said aloud and whispered, “Trust me.”
Perhaps there was the slightest trace of trust behind the mask. Daring to be gentle, he kissed her lightly on the lips before leaving the bed to inspect the items on the wall. He relieved one satyric male figure of the oil vial he held and returned to the bed, tipping oil onto his finger and breathing in the aroma.
As he thought. Musky, powerful, and sexy as all Hades if her instincts were attuned to it.
Ten
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Portia’s mind was all spinning confusion. During the auction she’d been prepared for the worst. Bryght’s voice had unbalanced her so she had not known what to think, but when she’d realized Fort was there, she’d been sure of rescue.
But it had been Bryght who’d claimed her, and he had not freed her but brought her to this disgusting room.
Now they seemed to be involved in wagers. If she had it right, she’d get the ridiculous sum of twelve hundred guineas if she could act as if she wanted Bryght Malloren.
And she’d be free of him forever if she could do it by pure acting, without wanting him at all.
She tried to tell herself that would be easy, but she wasn’t in the habit of deceiving herself. It was because he could stir desire in her that she needed so badly to escape London. He’d stirred wild desire in her in broad daylight and fully clothed. Now, half naked in the flickering lights he was a creature of her darkest dreams.
And surely more wicked, she reminded herself. After all, he was here in a brothel by choice. He clearly knew all sorts of lewd skills. And he was, of course, a gamester. He was here with her because of a wager!
She watched him warily. He was coming back toward the bed with a vial, tipping it onto his finger. . . .
He smiled, and before she could avoid it, touched his finger just below her nose so that a tendril of perfume crept into her. She could not identify the smells in it but it was similar to the incense in the air, and it was wicked.
She scrubbed at the tainted spot, but the smell could not be banished.
Pretend, but don’t surrender, she reminded herself.
She watched his every move. She was beginning to understand what he meant when he said that she did not even know the rules of this game of chance, but surely she could control her own responses.
Bare-chested, his dark hair loose to his shoulders, his beauty enriched by the wildness of it, he smiled at her. “Don’t look so terrified, Hippolyta. You’re going to love every moment of this.”
She eased away from him. She didn’t want to love every moment of this. She wanted to pretend to surrender and have it over with.
As long as he did not accept that surrender.
What if it were a trick? What if when he persuaded her to say she wanted him, he took the permission she gave?
He said to trust him, but she didn’t.
Only a fool would trust a rake like Bryght Malloren.
She expected him to cover her again, using his size and heat to melt her senses, but he disconcerted her by sitting cross-legged on the bed by her feet. He grasped one ankle to pull her slightly closer. She let out an involuntary squeak and wriggled her skirts into decency.
He poured oil onto his hands, put down the vial, then began to work the oil into her right foot. He stretched and stroked it, giving each toe special, delicate attention, running his thumbs up her instep so her foot arched to him all by itself. A cloud of the spicy, sultry perfume crept up her body, accompanied by the softening pleasure of his touch.
Oh dear.
She tried to pull her foot away. “What are you doing?”
His grip was too tight. “Exploring you,” he said, resting her heel on his thigh, concentrating on her toes, his dark hair falling forward to conceal his face.
By heaven, but he was beautiful. . . .
No, Portia!
He worked meticulously from one toe to the next. “Before we are finished, my Amazon, I intend to know every inch of you, and pleasure most of them.”
Portia shivered in earnest. “I don’t like this.”
He looked up, shadowed and mysterious, magnificent as the ceiling gods, and as powerful. “Liar.” His voice was soft and deep as the night sky. “With me you will find the pleasures from your most secret, heated dreams, and you will admit the truth—that you are mad for me.”
He wasn’t acting. “No!”
He smiled with quiet confidence. “Oh, yes.”
Portia again tried to escape but his grip tightened. She flung herself back, her arm over her eyes and sought complete control over her body. His clever fingers were having an effect, though. If he carried on this way he might make his words true.
He raised her leg a little and kissed her toes as he began to massage the oil into her heel, then up the sensitive tendon to her calf. He kissed his way to her instep, and her eyes drifted shut at the sweetness of it ... but then she forced them open.
She would not give him any reaction. Not a trace.
Then the wetness of his tongue traveled along her foot and his teasing fingers reached the back of her knee.
She squirmed.
No, she wouldn‘t!
But it was not just her foot and knee. Though he was not touching anywhere else, other parts of her body were heating, vibrating, desiring. . . .
How could her body betray her so?
“How beautiful are thy feet,” he said, and it sounded like a quotation. “Delicate, arched, sensitive. Like the rest of you.” He was using his deep voice to cast a spell on her. “Sensitive, all of you, arching to my touch . . .”
>
Portia arched before she knew it. She sucked in a breath and prayed for strength.
He shifted and she was relieved, but it was only to begin the same onslaught on her other foot.
“Your limbs are slender but strong,” he murmured. “Your skin is smooth as finest Chinese silk. When I stroke the silk you feel it everywhere, even in your most secret places. Places where you ache to be touched...You are supple as a willow, graceful as a doe as you move in your desire. Fighting with you, little warrior, was pure pleasure. Victory and sweet surrender will be heaven on earth. For both of us . . .”
Touch, perfume, voice, words—they were gradually melting Portia’s bones, her muscles, and her resistance. She tried to remind herself that this was all clever tricks and acting, but even so, she ached, she moved.
His hand slid firmly up her calf and down again, and she took a sobbing breath. He rolled her onto her front and stroked the back of her legs, light behind the knees, harder on the calves but always over her skirts, never under.
Portia buried her head in her hands and tried to remember why it was so important to both deny that this was pleasant, and pretend that this was pleasant.
His hands moved up, over her buttocks, and onto the small of her back, to massage there with deep strength.
“You can feel it into the bones and beyond, can’t you, little cat? Stretch like a cat. Purr for me. . . .”
And Portia did stretch—she couldn’t help it—but she Stopped herself from purring. “Enough!” she gasped. “My lord, please . . . !”
“Not yet, not quite yet, but almost, yes?”
He turned her again in a tangle of black hair and skirts and his clever hands brushed her breasts.
Portia wriggled away at that, but even as she did so, her body moved in a way of its own, and he laughed. “Yes, your body wants me, but do you?”
Thinking only of their personal wager, Portia cried, “No!”
He pulled a face at her, and then she didn’t know the truth. Was he trying to seduce her, or was this all pure acting? If anything, that made it worse. Here she was, wax melting to a puddle in his hands, and he still had his wits about him.
Well, she could keep her wits, too. She draped her arms around his naked shoulders. “Oh, my lord, I lied. I want you. Take me! But if you do,” she muttered into his ear, “I swear I will kill you.”
“Trust me,” he whispered and twisted her for a kiss.
It was a kiss such as she had never imagined—an assault on her senses and her will involving far more than their mouths. His naked arms held her close, and her arms and hands had only his skin to contact—silky skin, warm over muscle and bone. Portia had never before experienced so much body.
The sultry perfume was all over both of them, blending with the smell of his skin and the taste of his mouth so that she couldn’t cling on to sanity.
She was on her back now, with him on top—heavy, hot. He was touching her breasts and creating a mad yearning.
She couldn’t remember why this was wrong, why they shouldn’t . . .
When he released her mouth to trail hot kisses around her cheeks, her ears, her neck, her shoulders, she kissed him back, kissed and tasted every piece of delicious skin that passed her lips.
He nibbled her ear lobe. “Your hips. Move your hips.”
Portia was about to say she didn’t know how, when he stroked swiftly over her breasts and her hips moved of their own accord. She exaggerated it, telling herself that it was acting, but she knew it wasn’t.
She ached inside and her body sought relief of that ache like a flower seeking the sun.
She who had never known a man, knew what could be, what should be. If it hadn’t been for the watchers, she would have demanded it here, now, with no regard for virtue or morality.
“Yes, my beautiful one. Dance for me, show me that you want the gift of Venus. . . .”
And Portia danced. Her whole body moved to the rhythm of his touch. Her heart thundered, and she breathed as in the wildest, whirling jig. . . .
“You want me, little one. Yes?”
“Yes!” she gasped. “Oh, yes!”
“Bravo,” he murmured, and then was gone.
Portia came suddenly to sanity and watched in despairing astonishment as he paraded around the bed, bowing to the unseen audience. Dimly, she even heard applause.
Her body was still in ferment, stirred almost to madness by his skills, but her emotion was pure rage. She’d be damned if she’d let Bryght Malloren have it all his own way!
She sat up and putting on a girlish voice, cried, “My lord! Please! Do not desert me! Give me all of you!”
He turned, surprised admiration flickering in his eyes. “You’re too young, sweeting. Come back in a year or two and I’ll give you the next lesson.”
“Oh no!” she cried, getting well into her part. “You cannot be so cruel! You have set a fire burning in me and it must be quenched!”
With alarm, she discovered that she did not know what was acting and what was true.
He set one knee on the bed and leaned close to her. “Don’t tempt fortune, little one. I will make you burn again, my reckless Hippolyta and quench the flames, too. But not just yet.”
It was a promise, and Portia moved back.
Immediately, his hand slid around her neck, restraining her just inches away. “I won my bet, didn’t I?”
She wanted to say no, but honesty would not let her. “It will do you no good. I still won’t be your mistress.”
“Some fates cannot be avoided, petite. Remember that.” He released her and moved away.
Portia resolved to leave London on the morrow. At crack of dawn. On foot if necessary. With Fort here, the debt would soon be settled.
Fort!
Fort must have recognized her in order to have entered the bidding. How was she ever to face him? But she must face him in order to sort out Oliver’s problems and get them both out of the evil entanglements of London before it was too late.
Portia looked quickly at Bryght, who was putting on his clothes again. Had he meant it when he said he’d give her the twelve hundred guineas? It was an enormous sum, but would make all the difference. Even if Fort wouldn’t help, the bank would surely take a mortgage for the remainder of the debt. It would be much easier to pay it off, too.
She almost felt she should be grateful. Bryght had rescued her from worse men while leaving her virtue intact. By accident or design he’d solved her family’s problems, too.
Accident, for sure.
This whole event was probably part of his plan to seduce her. He’d think after an experience such as this she’d be ready to accept any offer, even a dishonorable one. If so, he had misplayed his hand. Tonight he had shown her that she could not trust her virtue and willpower once he turned his powers and skills against her.
That resolved her to avoid him forever.
She slid off the bed and straightened her twisted garments. She could almost feel again skillful hands roaming over her body with just two layers of cloth between them and her skin.
What would it be like skin to skin?
She shook her head. No.
Bryght was now dressed, though not nearly as neatly as he had been. He looked at her, then suddenly went to the bed and ripped off the sheet. He handed it to her and she gratefully wrapped it around herself.
But she didn’t want to be grateful to him.
He opened the door for her with courtly grace and she walked through expecting to have to face those evil, avid eyes again. The entertainment was over, however, and the room had settled to other matters. Drinking and gaming were going on, whilst on the dais, semi-naked women were striking lewd attitudes.
Portia turned quickly away. They, too, were acting sexual abandon just as she had done.
Except that in her case it hadn’t been acting, whereas in Bryght’s case it had. Portia realized she hated him for that.
A few people looked at her and grinned, but generally nothing was
made of their emergence. A very fat, sour-faced man sat nearby. “I give you your victory, my lord,” said the man, handing over a slip of paper and eying Portia. “But it was a tame show. Damme if it wasn’t.”
Portia clutched the sheet closer, feeling fouled by the look in his eye.
Bryght merely said, “I recommend subtlety to you, Mr. Prestonly, next time you attempt a virgin,” and steered Portia past the man and into the corridor.
Mirabelle came forward. “Come along, my dear, and we will settle accounts.”
Bryght followed and Portia turned on him. “I want nothing more of you.”
“You need my help, Hippolyta.”
“I do not! If you had the sensitivity of a ... a snail, you’d go away!”
“Toads? Snails?” He grinned lightly. “My dear, you need help with your money. If you take it home your brother will dispose of it almost immediately.” He turned to the madam. “I’ll handle it all. I’ll send you your cut, and pay hers into a bank. I’ll take care of Cuthbertson, too.”
Mirabelle’s brows rose. “You are going to ruin a very profitable little business, my lord.”
“I doubt you’ll starve. You will see her safely home?”
“Very well.”
Bryght took out a gold and enamel snuff box and delicately took a pinch. “And you would not care to spend time in the pillory, would you, Mirabelle, or be whipped at the cart’s tail?”
The madam’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Threats, my lord?”
“Promises. You must take great care of her, and no one must even suspect who Hippolyta is.”
“I do not know, and have no wish to.”
“One day, you will.”
Portia looked between them in bewilderment. Why did Mirabelle look maliciously amused? “Far be it from me,” said the madam, “to sully such perfect bliss.”
“What are you talking about?” Portia demanded.
Bryght replied. “We’re talking about keeping your identity concealed.”
“No one would recognize me like this,” she protested, but then Portia remembered that he obviously had and so had Fort. She clutched the sheet tighter.
“No one will identify you,” said Bryght, “unless suspicions are raised.”