by Shana Galen
“You flatter me,” he said. The worried-looking coachman opened the door, and Warrick jumped out. He held out his hand, and when Fallon gave him a mutinous look, he said calmly, “Come out, or I’ll have to—”
“All right! I’m coming.” She descended without his assistance then stood peering up at a dark building in the heart of Chelsea. “Where are we?”
“The Grotto.”
“And what is The Grotto?”
He shook his head. “And you call yourself a courtesan. Come on and find out.” He took her hand and she promptly snatched it away. “Stay close to me,” he warned.
“I’d rather lie in bed with a snake,” she retorted.
He pulled open the black door of The Grotto. “You may just get your chance.”
Eight
Fallon had always thought of herself as a woman of the world, by which she meant very little shocked her. Her father had been a thief. She’d practically learned to steal in her crib—not that she had a crib. Her mother had been a whore. Fallon had seen men and women copulating from a very early age. And now she’d lived seven years as a courtesan. Even if Fitzhugh was correct, and she wasn’t really a courtesan, she played the part well. She went to the Cyprians’ balls, graced Harriette Wilson’s salons, and had wandered once or twice into the darker recesses of Vauxhall Gardens. She had seen depravity and lust and debauchery.
But she had never seen anything like The Grotto.
Upon entering, Fitzhugh led her down what appeared to be a dark tunnel. It was dank and stuffy and seemed to slope downward, almost as though they were traveling into a real grotto. At some point, possibly midway, a naked woman stepped into their path. It was so dark, Fallon could only see her because the woman held a lamp. Fitzhugh immediately reached into a pocket and gave her a couple of coins. Obviously, this was the entrance fee.
Fallon didn’t particularly want to go any farther, but she wasn’t going back alone. She had heard something rustling back there, and she was pretty sure it had been rats. If it wasn’t rats, she didn’t want to know what it was.
When the light from the naked woman’s lamp faded, Fallon said, “Are all the women naked?” At the courtesans’ balls, women often danced in various states of undress, so nudity was no shock to her. But she liked to know what was expected, and she wanted Fitzhugh to know she was not disrobing.
“No,” Fitzhugh answered. “She’s nude to ensure she doesn’t steal the entrance fee.”
“Couldn’t they just search her before she went home? She must get cold.”
Fitzhugh chuckled. “I think you’re missing the point.”
She was treated to a display of the point of The Grotto a few moments later when they entered the main room. It was circular in design and dimly lit by sconces that cast a flickering shadowy light. On one side was a bar with a large man pouring spirits. Scantily dressed serving wenches brought the men and women—mostly men—glasses and tankards as the men watched the show on the stage across the room. Fallon took one look at the stage and turned away. A shirtless man was being whipped raw by a woman dressed in executioner’s garb.
Fallon looked elsewhere and noted the main room branched off into various caverns, and each was labeled with words and illustrations. There appeared to be some sort of spanking room, an orgy room, a self-pleasuring room…
Fallon cut her eyes away. She really didn’t think she wanted to know the purpose of the other rooms. “Let’s find Gabriel and get out,” she said.
“Uncomfortable?” Fitzhugh asked.
She debated lying. She was supposed to be worldly after all, but this place was not so much worldly as frightening. “Yes, actually,” she answered.
“Me too.”
Fallon blinked in surprise. “Really?”
“You think because I’m a man I like this sort of thing?” He indicated the whipping on the stage. “It’s not to my taste any more than it is to yours.”
She thought about asking him what his taste was but wisely decided otherwise. He might just tell her.
Fitzhugh approached the man at the bar and put a fiver on the scarred wood.
“What are you drinking?” the man asked.
“I need information,” Fitzhugh said.
“I supply gin, not information.”
“Fine. I’ll have a glass of gin and one for the lady.”
“How chivalrous,” Fallon muttered. No lady drank gin. Of course, no lady frequented a place like this. But when the man on stage began whimpering, she thought perhaps a sip of gin wouldn’t be amiss.
Fitzhugh handed her a glass, and Fallon drank. It was horrible stuff, but it gave her something to do and somewhere to look besides the man, who had resorted to begging.
“I need to speak to Gabriel,” Fitzhugh said.
“Don’t care,” the barkeep answered and moved away.
Fitzhugh gave her a shrug. “That didn’t go as planned.”
“Ask one of the serving wenches,” she told him. “They’re probably not immune to your charms.”
He grinned. “I have charms?”
She shook her head, refusing to answer. Fitzhugh smiled at the next wench who passed him, and she paused, keeping a safe distance away. Fallon thought the poor girl had probably been pinched and grabbed more times than she could count. “I need to speak to Gabriel,” he told her.
The girl, who was probably all of seventeen but who looked thirty, glanced over her shoulder. “He’s busy.”
Fitzhugh withdrew another fiver and put it on her tray. “Could you show us somewhere we could wait for him?”
The girl glanced down at the fiver then at Fitzhugh. The blunt disappeared, and she nodded at him to follow her. “Private rooms are this way.”
They entered another dark corridor, and Fallon was glad to be away from the main room and the man being whipped. This corridor was quiet. On each side were closed doors. Fallon could hear groans of pleasure and the slap of bodies through the thin wood.
“Here.” The serving girl indicated an empty room. A stained bed, listing to one side, had been tossed in the corner.
“Thank you.” Fitzhugh gave her another fiver. “Send Gabriel to us when he’s done.”
The girl looked at the fiver then at Fitzhugh. She opened her mouth as though to say something, perhaps give a warning, but then she took the fiver and nodded. “It will be a few moments.”
“We’ll wait.”
When she was gone, Fitzhugh closed the door, and Fallon was relieved to note the room was actually relatively quiet. She wouldn’t have minded sitting down, but she wasn’t going near that bed.
“Now what?” she asked.
“Now we wait. When he arrives, let me talk.”
“Fine. I don’t know what I’m doing here anyway.” The shadows in the dim light became clearer and she realized the frescoes she had initially thought were abstract depictions were actually cavorting couples. She tilted her head at the angle of one couple. She couldn’t imagine that would work in reality.
“See anything you’d like to try?”
“With you? Never.”
Fitzhugh pointed to a depiction of a man kneeling before a woman, his face buried between her legs. “I’d like to try this.”
Fallon looked away, but it was too late. Heat had shot from her belly to the apex of her thighs. She shifted uncomfortably. “Perhaps that serving wench will oblige you.”
“I’m not interested in her.” He moved closer, making it more difficult to ignore him. “I’m interested in you. I can’t help but wonder…”
She knew he’d left off so she would ask him what he wondered. It was a trick, and she wasn’t going to fall for it. But, damn it, what did he wonder? She glared at him. “You wonder?”
“What you taste like.”
The wave of arousal hit her so hard she all but crumpled. The room see
med to spin, and her belly tightened.
“I know you want me, Fallon.” He moved closer, leaned in, and whispered in her ear. “Let me taste you. Let me touch you.”
She shook her head.
“All you have to do”—he nibbled the spot just behind her neck with his lips—“is lift your skirts. I’ll do the rest.”
No.
But she already knew she’d give in. She was allowing him to kiss her neck, allowing him to whisper in her ear. He was right. She did want him. She glanced at the fresco again. She wanted that.
“Why?” she asked when his hand groped for her hem and began to inch her skirts up. “What is in this for you?”
“I get to feel you come,” he said. “I get to make you come.”
His hand inched down her bodice. Since he’d dragged her out of Alvanley’s ball without giving her the opportunity to fetch her pelisse, he could easily skate his fingers over the half-moons of her breasts. Her skin immediately prickled with awareness, and her breath caught in her throat. His hand dipped inside her bodice, and she could not help but arch for him.
She felt the buttons at the back of her gown loosen, and then the bodice dipped down, exposing the top of her stays and sheer chemise. Those deft fingers pushed the material down and freed her from its confines.
The cool air in the room caressed her bare skin while his fingers hovered above her. “Have I told you,” he began, circling her, “that I adore your breasts?”
“No.” She was surprised at how level her voice sounded. Inside she was burning, aching for him to touch her with more than his eyes.
“They’re exquisite. Perfect.”
Fallon didn’t understand why he was talking so much. Why didn’t he just touch her? Was he trying to drive her mad? Knowing him, she rather thought he was.
“May I?” he reached one hand out, stopping just short of cupping her.
“Why stop now?” she murmured.
“Why indeed?” His warm hand smoothed over her flesh, sending heat shooting through her. He cupped her, caressed her, then lightly brushed his fingertips along the slope of her breast. When his fingers reached her nipples, he lightened the pressure, making her moan. She could hardly feel his touch, and it made her yearn for it all the more. Her nipples puckered, and it took all her willpower not to thrust herself into his hand out of desperation.
“Do you like that?”
“Harder,” she said.
“Oh, no.” He shook his head. “You want light and teasing.” His fingers mimicked his words. “You only think you want it hard and fast.”
“You don’t know what I like,” she protested, but he was rapidly proving that he did. She could feel the wetness between her legs, could feel her body tingling, throbbing for him. For more of his touch. His fingers, his hands.
His mouth.
As though reading her mind, he dipped his head to her breast and flicked his tongue across her nipple. Again, his touch was so light, so teasing, she barely felt it. She was almost in pain with wanting him now, and she did push toward him. “Put your mouth on me.”
“I don’t think so.” His tongue flicked out again, swirling around her hard flesh, tasting her, tickling her, making her flesh swell and pulse. She was hot and cold, wet and then dry when he blew on her moist nipple.
And then he repeated his actions on her other breast, and Fallon was all but panting. How was he doing this to her? She was no virgin, but her body had never reacted like this. She’d never wanted a man so much, never craved release so much. She needed him. She felt she would go mad if he didn’t take her soon.
He pushed her back against the wall, and she all but wept with joy. He was going to take her, hard and fast. But no. He knelt before her and raised her skirts. She wanted him inside her, but this would do. Without any protest or pretension, she spread her legs. He pushed her skirts up and secured them between her back and the wall. For a long moment, he just looked at her. She felt she’d never been gazed at for so long and so thoroughly.
And then his hands inched up her thighs, and his fingers spread her. Just the gentle touch of his hand made her buck with pleasure. But when he leaned forward and touched his mouth to her, she could not help but cry out. She dug her fingers in his hair and pressed him hard against her.
But damn the man! He would not give her what she wanted. His tongue traced and laved and flicked, and her hips moved with his rhythm. Her body screamed for release. She was so close and then so far. So close, so close, and then he withdrew, teased, and she had to build up to it all over again.
“Make me come,” she demanded. “I need you.”
His tongue did something unexplainable that made her cry out. “Please,” she begged.
“What will you give me?”
“Anything. You can have anything. Take me. Just make me come.” At the moment, she meant it. She couldn’t think, couldn’t comprehend her words. She’d never felt like this before. Never felt so out of control, so desperate, so achingly aroused.
“Say my name,” he murmured against her most intimate folds. “Say it.”
Deep in the recesses of her hazy mind, she knew what he was doing. Deep down, she resisted his will. But the baser part of her cried for release. “Warrick,” she said in a harsh whisper. “Warrick.”
He licked her long and deliberately, his touch still gentle, but it was enough. Pleasure spiraled through her like long wisps of smoke, exploding into fireworks as he continued to lick her. She arched, bucked, screamed, and came. And came.
She couldn’t seem to stop. Just when she thought she had reached the apex of pleasure, he touched her again, and she was spiraling and spiraling. Finally, when she could take no more, when another climax would surely shatter her completely, he pulled away.
She collapsed into his arms, and he held her. She didn’t know how long she lay in his embrace. He held her so tenderly, his hands smoothing back her hair, and wiping the tears from her cheeks. She looked up at him, and he kissed her with such sweetness.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked.
“I told you—”
“No.” She shook her head. “Why are you treating me like this? Like I’m someone special?”
“Because you deserve it, and because, Fallon, you are special.”
***
He could see her debating his words. Did she truly not realize how extraordinary she was? How beautiful? How captivating? How clever? How utterly irresistible?
He’d never been with a woman who reacted the way she did to his touch. She was so passionate. He wanted to touch her again, just to watch her reaction.
“I suppose I have to tell you about my father now,” she murmured. She was righting her bodice and her face was cast downward so he could not see her expression. Warrick didn’t like to admit it, but he had manipulated her so that she would say his name. He’d wanted to hear the word in her husky voice. But now he regretted doing so. He wanted her to say his name voluntarily and without remorse. He wanted her to want to say his name.
And the devil take him if he should know why he cared if she said it at all.
She glanced up at him, the last remaining traces of passion clearing from her eyes. He cleared his throat. “That was the wager.”
“And you won.”
“It wasn’t entirely fair…” he began.
She shook her skirts out. “We didn’t place stipulations. I honor my bets, and I’ll tell you.”
He stepped closer, longed to take her in his arms again. “Fallon, you do not have—”
A quick rap sounded on the door, and it opened to reveal a tall, blond man. Warrick could tell from Fallon’s reaction that she recognized him. Warrick was no judge of male beauty, but this man appeared to be the sort that ladies tended to swoon over. He had thick golden hair, clear blue eyes, a straight nose, prominent cheekbones, height,
breadth, and all the rest. “I’m told you want to speak with me. Is there a problem with the services you received?” His voice was low and melodious, and Warrick got a sense this was a man who did not enjoy being summoned.
“We need a moment of your time,” he said, but Gabriel was looking at Fallon. Fallon noted his interest as well and moved closer to Warrick. He shouldn’t have brought her, he thought, belatedly. He should have left her safe at the ball.
“Do I know you?” Gabriel asked her, his look positively predatory. “You seem familiar.”
“I’m the Marchioness of Mystery, one of The Three Diamonds,” she said, sounding remarkably confident, despite what he knew to the contrary. “You might have read of me in the papers.”
Warrick rather doubted this was the sort of man reading the Morning Chronicle. More likely, he remembered Fallon from an earlier time. A time when she’d been called Maggie.
Gabriel was already shaking his head. “No. That’s not it.”
“We’ve actually come to ask you about Lucifer,” Warrick interrupted.
Gabriel raised an amused eyebrow. “Are you with Bow Street? I already told them I don’t know where he is.”
“I’m certain you were extraordinarily helpful, but I’m not with Bow Street, and I’m rather more interested in Lucifer’s Diamonds. I want to know to whom he sold them.”
Gabriel looked bored. “I know nothing about any diamonds. I merely managed Lucifer’s establishment. I didn’t involve myself in his personal affairs. Now, if that is all—”
“No, that’s not all,” Warrick said, “because you haven’t answered my question.”
Gabriel spread his hands. “Because I don’t know the answer.”
“Let me see if this reminds you.” He pulled a pistol from his great coat and leveled it at Gabriel. “Remember anything yet?”
Gabriel’s face turned ugly. “You’re going to pay for this insolence. I’ll see you flayed alive.”
“Promises, promises. Now answer the question.”
Gabriel crossed his arms over his broad chest. “I don’t think so, and if you kill me, you’ll never get the answer you seek.”