Michael pointed to a group further down the sidelines of the dance floor. ‘That’s Lady Templeton in the orange mask and feathers and…I say, a very decadent damped down muslin gown. You know what that means? Melissa will have already wheedled out the names of any men or ladies with titles who are on the guest list from her weak-willed lover, Browning.’
‘Weren’t you her lover once?’
‘Briefly. Never again. She eats green men for lunch.’ He pointed at Melissa again. ‘You watch. Any minute, she’ll weave her evil way through the dancers and try to match people to names. Despite the different styles of gowns and enormous concealing masks, she’ll work out who they are. She already knows many of the hundreds here so it won’t take that snooping lady very long to ferret out anyone not in her circle of acquaintances. The woman is evil, and delights in spreading her amassed tidbits far and wide, wherever she can cause the most upset and create the most havoc.’
‘Oh hell. That's all we need.’
Michael scowled. ‘And I know from personal experience that she’s not above blackmail when she’s short of funds, which happens often when she’s paying for a new lover. She likes them young and virile.’
‘She tried to extort money from you? Why didn’t you tell me?’
Michael shrugged. ‘I was young and green and humiliated by my own ignorance.’
‘Christ. Then meddling Melissa Templeton is the last person I want to bump into tonight. If she knows that I’ve left Margaret, and my estate, she’ll run to my mother and sisters and say she’s seen me at an acquiring ball. She’s vicious enough to enjoy seeing me squirm if I’m forced to explain that you coerced me into coming. My family will assume I’ve finally abandoned my reclusive life, but only to take a mistress into my keeping.
‘And for Melissa, truth or lies are all the same. She’ll take revenge on any man who has refused her, which means you Brent.’
‘I’ve not only rebuffed Melissa’s blatant advances, but I’ve also refused to meet at least twenty of the ladies my family considers eligible to be my second wife. The constant nagging will start up again, and Melissa will be grinning like a Cheshire cat at my discomfort. I've fobbed my mother off for months by claiming I’m not ready to rejoin the social whirl, yet I’m here. At a damn courtesan’s ball.’ Brent groaned. ‘My mother will hate me once meddling Melissa spreads her poisonous gossip She’s done it before. Spread tales of Marion’s infidelities, thinking it would make me want to jump into bed with Melissa. She was wrong.’ He sighed. ‘But that makes finding whichever Mitchell sister is wearing Lillian’s citrus mix even more urgent.’
Brent stepped out from behind the statue. ‘Come with me, Michael. I need your help. The orchestra is starting again. Can you weave your way through the couples going onto the dance floor. Pretend you’re drunk and bump into the ladies.’
‘Damn you, Brent, you’re insane. Sniffing around ladies coming and going from the dance floor just isn’t done. Their escorts are likely to take offense and give me a bloody nose. Besides which, I won’t risk running into meddling Melissa.’ He shuddered. ‘Don’t forget that I’ll be in the same predicament as you if my family hears that I'm associating with ladies of the night, rather than being bored to tears dancing with one of the numerous tedious chits they throw in my path. My mater will complain and my pater will have no choice but to threaten to cut off my very-generous allowance.’
‘If you think we've got a lot to lose,’ Michael said with a snort, ‘then picture the outcry if Candace is mixing with rakes and courtesans and meddling Melissa discovers her identity. Not even the duke’s standing will protect Candace from the gossipmongers. She’s to be presented next year with my sister, Fiona, so being here will ruin any chance she has of marrying well. And if it’s known that friends of her family, you and I…’ He stabbed a finger into Michael’s chest for emphasis. “Knew a titled lady was present and we did nothing to remove her from danger, the duke will kick both our backsides. Publicly. And our families will be humiliated.’ He groaned again. ‘That sort of seedy story will tarnish Lillian’s reputation, again, and stop her reentering society for another few years.’
‘I thought you preferred having Lillian in the country, so you can see her more often.’
‘I do enjoy her company, I must admit, but for her own sake she needs to mingle again in London next year, other wise she’ll not meet any eligible gentlemen. Lillian is special. Too loving to avoid marrying again and becoming a mother. Bringing out her sister is the perfect opportunity to slide into the social events without creating too much of a stir.’
‘Lillian’s reentry into the social whirl will cause a stir, no matter what happens here tonight.’
Michael grimaced. ‘That lowlife husband of hers did more than destroy his own life when he came off his horse. Racing through London’s foggy streets at three in the morning proved what we all knew. The bastard died through sheer stupid arrogance. But if that wasn’t enough to blacken the Armstrong name, someone started those preposterous rumors about Lillian goading him into the race.’
‘I know, I know. Armstrong was so full of his own self-importance that no-one, especially his wife, could have talked him out of that race.’ Brent ran his hands through his hair, forgetting that his valet had spent fifteen painful minutes combing his hair into the perfect style for a man about town. Personally, he couldn't give a damn about how he looked.
His normal style was casual and practical clothing, because his time was spent riding around his estate. Only if he was accompanying his daughter to visit neighbors would he don a coat and cravat, but for some reason his valet had decided that tonight he should look his best. No doubt one of his sisters had misconstrued his outing and instructed Henry to outfit him as a gentleman on the lookout for a wife. Laughable considering his first venture outside his estate was to a debauched ball, while he’d consistently told them he’d no intention of taking another wife, not yet anyway. His experience with marriage hadn’t been pleasant, and after his wife’s death he’d preferred to turn his attention to his young daughter, even if that meant becoming a recluse for the last four years.
So far, nothing and no one had changed his mind about a second marriage, despite hoping at some stage to give his precious daughter another mother. Margaret, the delight of his life, was better company than most adults, and the main reason he’d declined invitations to evening events around London, especially balls aimed at procuring a new mistress. Once his peers knew he was once again socializing, even if only at this lower level, word would spread that he was hunting for a bride. His peaceful Cornwall existence would be shattered by pushy matrons and unwilling chits. He shuddered.
Turning left, he eased into the crush around the edge of the ballroom, having pointed Michael in the other direction. If anyone knew his purpose, they’d certainly label him as a madman. Each time he passed a group of women, he slowed his steps and sniffed the air around them a couple of times, allowing their scent to fill his nostrils. So far, he hadn't detected any recognizable perfumes. Courtesans preferred heavier perfumes, scents that told prospective protectors that they were ready to negotiate the terms of a liaison, exchanging sexual favors for gifts of a house, servants, gowns, a carriage, and jewels.
Brenton passed another exaggeratedly-endowed marble statue, similar to the one behind which he and Michael had hidden. A stride or two beyond the six foot or more naked man, he stopped and sniffed. Inhaled again deeply. Orange, lemon, and a touch of bergamot, the aroma that always surrounded Lillian. A smell that reminded him of fresh air, sunshine, and simpler times. When they’d been children, they’d picked oranges straight from the trees on his estate, devouring them in the shade and later been berated by nurses and governesses when they’d returned home with stained clothing and sticky hands.
He sidled closer and stood on the dance floor side of the statue, where he wouldn't be seen but could peer from behind the exaggeratedly endowed naked man by tilting his head to the left a little. There were tw
o women, both masked and wearing very low cut and rather sheer gowns. The woman dressed in red tugged at the bodice of her high-waisted gown, but to no avail. The skimpy strip of red fabric was barely wide enough to stretch across the woman’s ample bosom and the tiny edging of lace refused to budge. Full-breasted ladies had always appealed to Brent, despite him marrying a lady whose breasts hadn’t increased past a small handful even when swollen during pregnancy. A closer look was needed. He couldn’t say for sure, but he thought Candace’s breasts were smaller than this lady’s. The thought of Candace slipping away from the safety of her home and mixing with these people dismayed him and would shock her father. However, the image of his sweet Lillian entering this den of iniquity confused, bewildered, and terrified him.
He looked again, on one hand cursing masked balls because he couldn’t see the faces and on the other, blessing those same masks for preserving anonymity. Lillian had large bosoms, so beautifully rounded that he’d often drawn on every ounce of willpower that he possessed to focus on her eyes when they spoke, rather than act the cad and drop his gaze to her magnificent chest.
He was no saint and he knew his limits. Knew he’d struggle to drag his gaze upwards if he even once viewed her incredible breasts at close range. Far better for his sanity and her modesty to admire the size and shape of her breasts at a respectable distance, and not risk doing something foolish. Schoolboys drooled when a maid bent to her work and inadvertently exposed the tops of milky-whole breasts, but Brent was well over thirty and hoped he was mature enough to have put his drooling days behind him. Though to be honest, if Lillian bent over and revealed her creamy flesh to his hungry eyes, he was likely to regress and gawk and gape like the gangly youth he’d once been.
Many years ago, he’d set himself strict limits with regards to Lillian and her sisters and he’d kept to his self-imposed rules. Other men stared at Lillian, and her beautiful sisters, though two of them were barely out of the schoolroom, but he’d always been drawn to women with substance and experience of the world, rather than blushing girls. Which, of course, was his present problem. Was one of these scantily clad women one of the ladies he knew? He had no definite proof, so he moved even closer to the two ladies.
Lillian was his best friend, plus a beautiful woman with a seductive feminine form and, right at this moment and in his direct line of sight, a pair of familiar bountiful breasts spilled over the top of a too-small red bodice. He blinked, and looked again. Heaven help him, it was Lillian. His friend who’d been targeted by unscrupulous women who, wanting to pull her down a peg or two, had blamed her for her husband’s impetuous nature. A titled lady who, according to convention, should be secluded from society while she mourned her husband. Lillian, his Lillian, stood before him drawing the eye of every discerning gentleman at a courtesan’s ball. Shock robbed him of breath and froze him in place. His head spun as he tried to imagine why she’d come here, and with whom.
As a duke’s daughter, she’d been taught the rules for mourning and for the behavior of widows all her life. A minimum of six months wearing black and withdrawing from society, followed by another six months wearing mauve and lavender and socializing only with family and close friends. Brent could think of no reason why she’d be here, flaunting herself in that red slip of a gown. What had possessed her to attend a ball, any ball, so soon after her husband’s demise?
More importantly, Brent’s mind was so numb that he couldn’t formulate a plan to hadn’t smuggle her out and away from the dance floor before masks were removed and someone recognized her as the duke’s daughter. Or before one of the lecherous men present realized that those were Lillian’s breasts squeezing past them and through the crowded room.
First step was to uncover the identity of her companion, a woman insensitive enough to introduce an innocent to this sort of event. Couples were finding quiet corners and getting to know each other better, much better. Some of the ladies, and he used that term loosely, had already shed layers of clothing and their remaining garments were so thin that they revealed rather than concealed their shapes. Personally, he preferred to unwrap his presents, piece by piece, and he liked to do it in private rather than in an overcrowded room full of peers he didn’t particularly like and took great pains to avoid.
Looking towards Lillian’s position, Brent cursed his inattentiveness. The lady in red and her companion had disappeared. He pushed between companionable couples, past clutches of leering youths, and dodged ladies of the night who were advertising their wares so blatantly that the slightest movement would topple their breasts out of their bodices and into full view. Hell, if that green buck on his right peered any further down the neckline of that redhead’s gown, they’d need to haul him out by his boots.
There, a laugh that sounded almost right for Lillian apart from a strange high-pitched trill at the end of every sentence, as if the speaker was deliberately leaving a question mark at the end of each speech. Nervousness? If it was Lillian, she had good reason to be nervous. And when Brent caught up with the two women, they’d have good reason to be nervous because he was furious with Lillian’s unknown companion, and her.
Yes, he’d wanted his best friend to find happiness, but he’d envisaged her slowly renewing friendships next year in London, chaperoning her sister, and perhaps sometime in the future accepting a marriage proposal. The idea of any man making advances to her when her emotions were still raw after her husband’s demise and the pain of the appalling rumors that said she’d urged her husband to his death, made his blood boil. Though he couldn’t put his finger on why he was so incensed.
Lillian was his friend, nothing more, and she knew his feelings about marrying again any time soon. She was also one of the few people who knew of his first wife’s numerous affairs and what he’d done afterwards. He’d forgiven Marion for her affairs as his heart had never been truly engaged in their union and Marion had craved attention, constantly. What he couldn’t forgive, never would, was emotionally wounded their daughter at every chance because she hated that Brent lavished his attention on their delightful daughter and not her. During the first months of their marriage, he’d tried. Very hard. But Celeste had become more and more obsessed her about her looks and had been horrified when her stomach had swelled with their child and silvery lines appeared across her trim abdomen. He’d assured her that he loved those streaks as they meant they’d soon be welcoming their child into the world, but she grew angrier with each month and by the time their daughter was ready to enter the world, Celeste had been throwing daily tantrums and heaping blame on Brent’s head that carrying their child had ruined her figure. Being banned from her bedchamber had been grim, and yet a blessing, as by then he’d nearly used up his supply of patience and was simply biding his time until the baby arrived.
As he wove a path through the crowd, he listened for Lillian’s voice and tried to smell her particular scent, though the air in the ballroom was thick with heavy scents from both females and males. The smell of desire, and arousal, swamped him as he squeezed around several couples in the final stages of negotiating the terms of their associations, with the women listing what they’d like their protectors to provide. A house, gowns, jewels, and visits to the theatre. The air reeked of sexual awareness, not something he’d been surrounded by for quite a long time and a smell he’d have gladly avoided for many more years.
The push and shove, and the manipulation and capitulation made him inwardly shudder. Though he’d visited his share of brothels and indulged himself at wild house parties in his younger years, he’d never employed a mistress. Swagger and boasting had been part of every young buck’s introduction to society, both at London’s upper class’s balls and at country assemblies. Jostling and teasing during brothel visits had also been a normal part of his younger days. But then he’d married Marion and they’d added Margaret to their family and he’d been content to live the conservative life of a married man who believed in the sanctity of marriage. More recently, he’d simply felt jaded
after one unhappy marriage and he couldn’t dredge up excitement over two hundred primped and primed gentlemen and the equivalent number of ladies of the night playing games of intrigue and seduction.
There were many parts of married life he missed, desperately. Lust, desire, and passion he understood and, to be perfectly honest, yearned to experience again. The shared intimacy of conversations in bed after a bout of rigorous sex. Waking to a woman’s soft body wrapped around him and taking his time rousing her from sleep and then making sweet slow love to her. That he missed. Fake relationships, the sort formed here, left him cold, yet he yearned for the connection and sense of belonging that came with having a lover, or being in love.
There! That voice. That was the voice he knew as well as his own, and the scent that had often tempted him to rethink his views on marriage. Maneuvering around the dozen men and six women surrounding her, Brent eased into the lady’s intimate circle and stood at her shoulder. He sniffed. Oh, yes!
His senses hadn’t led him astray, nor had his sanity deteriorated and tumbled into madness, where his imaginings spiraled out of control and his fantasies sprang to life. Lady Armstrong, Lillian, was truly here in the midst of this decadence and debauchery. He shifted so they stood shoulder to shoulder, their arms touching.
Leaning in, Brent whispered in Lillian’s ear. 'Well, well, well. I certainly didn't expect to find you in attendance.'
CHAPTER TWO
LILLIAN STARTED when a man spoke directly into her ear. She sucked in a deep breath. Heaven help her, but she recognized that deep and melodious voice. Night after night she’d imagined that same voice soothing her when she cried over the death of man she’d imagined she’d loved, until his constant recklessness and his stream of women had cured her of the notion of loving him. Brent’s imaginary voice had reiterated that she hadn’t been responsible for her husband’s death, and that she should hold her head high and ignore the gossips.
Seven Nights of Sin: Seven Sensuous Stories by Bestselling Historical Romance Authors Page 36