by Jenna Jaxon
Recalling his purpose, he knocked discretely on the door before he depressed the lever and walked in.
Juliet sat in a rocking chair before a cozy fire, a book in her hand.
His heart gave a lurch. She was so damned beautiful. Now all his. He closed the door with a click and turned the key in the lock.
“Set the tray on the table, Alice. I will eat before retiring,” she said, so engrossed in her reading she did not look up.
“I’ll gladly be your feast, sweetheart.”
The book fell to the floor with a crash as Juliet bounded up out of the chair and whirled around at the sound of his voice.
“Amiable.” She stood staring at him, a delighted smile spreading across her face. Dressed for bed in a nightgown and robe of soft blue that could not disguise her bulging belly, she appeared as an angel to his starved soul.
“Juliet, my love.” He gazed at her, drinking in his fill. His cock swelled at the sight of her.
She launched herself into his arms. Their lips locked, bodies molded together, touching as much of each other as possible despite the bulk that came between them.
He lifted her, fitting her better against him, never wanting to let her go. Time stood still as lips, tongues, and mouths tangled. Frantic longings and denied desires consumed him. He need wait no longer.
Amiable swept back the covers and laid Juliet down on the soft sheets. Then he recalled exactly to whom the bed belonged.
“Christ.” He collapsed on the bed. “We should leave as swiftly as we can, my love.”
“Whatever for, Amiable?” Juliet purred deep in her throat, fixing him with the most sensual stare he had ever seen from her—a smoky hot gaze that went straight to his shaft, now painfully erect. “Do you really want to wait to begin our feast?”
A frustrated groan emerged. “Juliet, do you realize where you have been staying, sweet? This is Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure, London’s most notorious brothel. This is the madam’s own bedroom we are in.” He took in his surroundings, expecting to be horrified, but the furnishings were tasteful, almost elegant. Surprising.
Juliet giggled and raised herself so her breasts brushed the thin shirting that covered his chest. He groaned again. She knew she tormented him, the little vixen.
“Of course I knew where I was staying, Amiable. Everyone has been so kind and considerate of me. We owe Miss Vestry quite a debt of gratitude.” She bent her head to nibble on his lips.
“Juliet.” He protested, weaker now, breathing more rapid. “Should we be doing this here and now?”
“Think of it this way, my love.” Juliet said, pulling his shirt free and skimming her hand across his smooth flat belly. “This will be your single chance to enjoy yourself in the House of Pleasure. How can you resist?” She slid her hand beneath his breeches and closed it around his hot, hard member, then stroked upward.
God in heaven, what was she doing? He’d have to give in to the inevitable once more. Quickly. He disengaged her hand and tore off his clothes. As his shirt cascaded to the floor, Juliet gasped.
“Amiable. What happened to you, my love?” She stared at the stark white bandages on his shoulders and chest, her brow furrowing.
He gave her a rueful smile and pressed her into the mattress. “St. Cyr believed he could persuade me to tell him where you were hiding.” A kiss to the middle of her forehead smoothed the frown lines. “He learned the error of his ways.” He kissed his way down her nose. “I don’t believe he will ever bother you again.”
Hovering over her mouth for a split second, he seized her lips with his own, parted them, and thrust his tongue into her. A taste of the homecoming yet to come.
“On the other hand, you are never getting rid of me.” He raised his head to smile lecherously at his wife.
Her face flushed. She encircled his neck and pulled him to her. “Good.”
He loved the smug, contented look on her face as he raked her gown up to her hips, parted her legs and thrust into her. No finesse, no gentle prodding. Only the driving rhythm punctuating one word: mine.
No matter this would be his single experience in the House of Pleasure, minutes later he lay on his back, spent and deliriously happy to have Juliet back in his arms.
Cuddling her to him, he whispered into her ear, “You know this means we’re married for good, don’t you, love?”
She nodded and tightened her arms around him.
“We have been married since July and you were never, ever married to St. Cyr.”
“I knew, deep down inside, all along. Even when we thought I was his wife. When he tried to take me to bed, it felt like a horrible betrayal of you.”
“It didn’t happen?”
“No, it didn’t happen, my love. Because my knight in shining armor rescued me just in time.” She smiled again, a promise in her eyes. “Like now.”
“Now? I’m rescuing you now?”
“Yes, love.” She pulled his head to hers, lips again insistent.
He tasted her eagerness before she trailed licks and kisses down his body.
“I’ve been reading the most fascinating book this week,” she said, tracing a winding path with her tongue along his rib cage. “All about a scandalous woman who does all sorts of naughty things with men, don’t you know? It’s given me such ideas. You need to rescue me from these wicked longings.” Her mouth halted, hovered above his groin, her tongue peeping out between her lips.
His breath stopped. His shaft, so recently depleted, swelled once more.
Juliet licked her lips and it sprang to attention.
“What in God’s name did you read, love?”
“It’s on the floor there. I was reading it when you came in. It’s called Fanny Hill—Memoirs of a Woman of Pleasure. So now I can be your woman of pleasure.”
Christ. His wife had read the most notorious erotic book available in England. He groaned. Considering where she’d been he shouldn’t be surprised. The smoldering look in Juliet’s eyes as she watched his erection rise made his heart pound. Maybe he should be grateful.
“So raise your lance, my knight, and rescue a lady with a night of pleasures.” She set her lips on the tip of his shaft and slowly slid them down.
Amiable shuddered in ecstasy. “That will be my pleasure, my lady. Always.”
Meet the Author
Jenna Jaxon is a multi-published author of historical and contemporary romance. She has been reading and writing historical romance since she was a teenager. A romantic herself, she has always loved a dark side to the genre, a twist, suspense, a surprise. She tries to incorporate all of these elements into her own stories. She lives in Virginia with her family and a small menagerie of pets. When not reading or writing, she indulges her passion for the theatre, working with local theatres as a director. She often feels she is directing her characters on their own private stage.
Jenna is a PAN member of Romance Writers of America as well as a member of Chesapeake Romance Writers. Her debut novel, Only Scandal Will Do, is the first in her House of Pleasure series, set in Georgian London. Her medieval novel, Time Enough to Love, is a Romeo & Juliet-esque tale, set at the time of the Black Death.
She has equated her writing to an addiction to chocolate because once she starts she just can’t stop.
Turn the page for a special excerpt of Jenna Jaxon’s
Only Scandal Will Do
Kidnapped and sold at auction in a London brothel, Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam squelches an undeniable attraction to the masked stranger who purchased her, pits her wits against him, and escapes him and the scandal that would ruin her life.
Unable to resist temptation in a London brothel, Duncan Ferrers, Marquess of Dalbury, purchases a fiery beauty. She claims she’s a lady, but how can she be? No lady of his acquaintance in polite society is anything like her. Then he discovers she is who she says, and that this latest romp has compromised her reputation. He knows how that is. One more scandal and he’ll
be cast out of London society, but he needs a wife who’ll provide an heir to carry on his illustrious family’s name. He seeks out Katarina, intending only to scotch the scandal, but instead finds his heart ensnared. He’s betting their future he’ll capture her heart, but does he have what it takes to win the wager?
Content warning: A blade-wielding heroine who crosses swords with a master of sensuality.
On sale now!
Chapter 1
London, 1761
“Put her back in the carriage, now!” Her assailant snarled the brusque command, sending a shiver of fear through Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam.
An unseen attacker seized and tossed her into the coach. Gagged, hands pinioned behind her back, ankles bound together, she lay trussed like a Christmas goose in a cramped bundle on the hard plank floor of the dim carriage, her diaphanous Grecian costume in ruins. Schemes for escape flashed through her head in a dizzying whirl.
The horses jerked forward, the uneven cobblestones of London’s streets jouncing her already aching body.
All because she’d been bored.
Doggedly, Katarina tested the bonds securing her hands, strained against the coarse rope then relaxed, seeking play in the cords. None. She muttered a curse and forced her whole body to relax. Tension would never free her. Rough and tumble games growing up with Jack had taught her that.
Jack! God, where was he? Was he alive or... She’d heard one muted cry when they were attacked, then nothing. If her brother were dead, it would be her fault.
Katarina pulled and twisted her wrists. If they had stayed in Virginia, they would have been better off. London was far wilder than she would have believed. Although she’d heard of women being abducted by highwaymen, she’d thought them only tales--until now.
But when Jack inherited a title, they’d been forced to come to London. The six months of mourning for their father not quite over, Great-Aunt Harriet now commanded the little social life allowed her. The past month had found her stuck all day with strong tea and inane gossip about her aunt’s old friends. Finally, rebellion set in. Over breakfast this morning, she’d demanded Jack escort her to a masquerade ball this evening, ironically attired as Athena, goddess of war.
A nasty rut jarred the carriage, making Kat groan. What wouldn’t she give for Athena’s armor at this moment, or at least her spear. She had to admit, though, she’d gotten her wish. She wasn’t bored now.
* * * *
Duncan Ferrers, the Marquess of Dalbury, reared his frame back in the worn leather office chair with a sullen sigh at the mound of papers piled on either side of the usually tidy desk. When one removed to Italy for almost a year leaving a steward to look after things, chaos reigned.
Chaos ate up time better spent in pleasant pursuits, such as drinking at White’s, or gaming at Worthing’s, or exploring the delights of Amorina, his special sweet meat at Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure. Amorina, Madame Vestry herself, had been his mistress for two years prior to his departure. Duncan wondered idly who had replaced him during his absence, and sighed once more.
He opened the desk drawer and withdrew a piece of heavy cream-colored paper, folded and sealed with a blob of blood red wax imprinted with the entwined initials AV. Duncan raised the letter to his nose, closing his eyes briefly at the familiar smell of orange blossoms. He read again his name in the bold, cursive hand. It had arrived two days ago, but remained unopened. Why had she written?
Amorina was no longer for him.
Duncan threw the missive into the drawer, slammed it shut, then groaned. It would take a month to sort through the bills alone. He plucked another receipt from the pile that never seemed to shrink, then stopped. Damn. Aunt Phoebe’s masquerade ball this evening required an appearance. A nuisance, but a necessity. For the family.
Oh, to hell with business. He flung the bill down and came to his feet. If it had waited a year, it could wait one more day.
He’d turned toward the crackling fire to dispel a sudden chill, when Grayson opened the door to announce, “Mr. Thomas Redmond is in the drawing room, my lord.” Chill dissipated, Duncan grinned, quit the room and hurried down the hall.
“Tommy! God, it’s good to see you again!” Duncan greeted his godfather’s son and longtime friend with a warm handshake followed by a slap on the shoulder.
Round, boyish face alight, Tommy returned the slap, then wagged a finger in his face. “Duncan, you idiot. Why did you stay away almost a year?” Tommy sprawled in the middle of a Chippendale sofa, stretching long legs toward the roaring fire. “The club’s been deadly dull without your excitements. I swear we have had no more than four duels since you left, none even a contest. Barely any blood drawn at all.”
“My dueling is behind me, I hope.” Duncan seated himself beside his friend, restlessly stroking the gold-striped brocade of the sofa’s rounded arm. “The scandals died down, I suppose?”
Tommy rose awkwardly and strode to the sideboard, drawing the stopper from a decanter of expensive cognac. “Well, there are certainly new ones making the rounds.” He didn’t quite meet Duncan’s eyes.
Talk still going around, then. Damn. Duncan clenched his hand, digging crescent dents into the heavy fabric.
“It’s cold enough to be autumn instead of spring.” Tommy poured a libation with a generous hand. “Here, you’d better drink up as well if we’re going to brave the raw winds tonight.” He splashed amber liquid in a second cut-crystal tumbler and thrust it into his host’s hand.
Duncan raised an eyebrow. “How did you know I was going out?”
“Didn’t you get your invitation?”
“I arrived less than a week ago. No one knows I’m home yet.” He leaned forward, head cocked. “How the devil did you know I was back?”
Tommy grinned. “Saw your aunt at the Mayfield’s gala on Monday. She mentioned you landed last week. Thought I’d give you a day or two to settle in.”
Duncan shook his head. “Leave it to Aunt Phoebe. But what invitation are you talking about, Tom? My aunt’s masquerade?”
“God, no!” Tommy grimaced. “The one to Madam Vestry’s latest auction.” His smile widened to a leer. “The madam hit upon a fresh idea for an auction. Tableaux.”
“She’s auctioning off tableaux? Of what?”
Tommy’s bright blue eyes glittered with excitement. “Tableaux of your deepest desires or darkest fantasies. Haven’t you ever imagined having a fantasy come true? A slave to your master? A pirate with a captured maid? A Roman soldier and a vestal virgin?” The young man chuckled. “I doubt you’ll find a virgin there tonight, though I understand some of these girls are new.”
Those images conjured a wide smile, but Duncan shook his head. Perhaps if things had been different. “What time’s the auction?”
“Due to start at nine, as usual. Didn’t you get the invitation?”
“I received it, although I didn’t open it.” Avoiding the astonished face before him, he glanced at the mantle clock. “It’s gone eight now. I can take you to Madame Vestry’s on the way to my aunt’s.”
“You’re really not going? I would have believed you’d be keener on this, after the long voyage.”
“Oh, I’m keen enough, but I can’t be seen at Amorina’s. You know that.”
“Where’s your sense of adventure, Duncan?”
“Left it in Italy.” He stared intently at the fire for a moment. “You heard about my cousin, Roger Ferrers?”
“Killed in a hold-up out on the Guildford road. Sorry, Duncan.” Tommy’s gaze now also focused on the dancing flames. “That’s what brought you back?”
“Yes.” He frowned at the memory. “My aunt wrote, telling me it was my duty to return, marry and produce an heir. Which is true.” He scowled. “Easier said than done, though.” After the series of scandals that rocked him last year, it might be a cold day in hell before he could convince a woman to walk down the aisle with him. “I envy you your two brothers.” Duncan rose, dow
ning the rest of the cognac. Though his favorite, the brandy’s usual warm, nutty flavor seemed harsh tonight.
“You wouldn’t if you were a third son,” Tommy replied. “Having to make your own way isn’t as attractive as you might think.”
“Perhaps its charm would pall after a while.” Duncan laughed, dispelling the bleak mood, and left to don the black domino costume he’d brought from Italy. The cloak, hood and glittering gold half-mask fashioned like a lion’s head concealed him entirely. He’d remain anonymous at the masquerade tonight. Settling the voluminous folds over wine red coat and breeches, he entered the drawing room and stopped at the dismayed expression on his friend’s face.
“Are you wearing that to the auction?” Tommy asked.
“I’m not going to Madame Vestry’s.”
“Oh, you’re not becoming a Martin Marplot are you?” the young man whined. “What good is it to have you back if you’re going to spoil everybody’s fun?”
“I hardly found it fun to be accused of owning half-interest in my mistress’s brothel,” Duncan spat through clenched teeth. Then he relaxed. “I need a wife and I would wager I’ll have a better chance finding her at my aunt’s masquerade than at the auction.”
“Just come with me for a while,” Tommy pleaded. “Look over the tableaux and think what you’ll be missing.” He frowned, pulling his earnest face into a comic mask. “’Sblood, Duncan, you’re twenty-six years old. You’re entitled to one last scrape.”
After all this time, he did deserve a night of carousing, by God. “Damned if I won’t. But I’ll still wear this.” He gestured to his unusual attire. “I’d rather not announce my presence at Madam Vestry’s. I suspect I won’t be the only one stopping by the auction before heading to my aunt’s party.”
* * * *