For him, it was salvation, bringing him back from the brink of darkness. Twenty years had gone by since his parents’ deaths, yet still he dreamed of mangled and charred remains. Still, he heard his mother’s terrorized screams and his father’s fruitless cries. Still, his behavior when he’d last seen them taunted him. Had he known that he’d never look upon them again—
With resolve, he shook off the haunting musings that sent a chill down his spine. Here, he could forget, at least for a few hours. Here, the regrets didn’t gnaw unmercifully at him. Here, he could become lost striving for perfection, for the ultimate in pleasure.
He had merely to determine which lady would best suit his purposes, which would be willing to concede to his unusual request without protest. It bothered him not at all that the ladies wore domino masks. He cared little for their faces, understood their need for anonymity. Their concealment worked to his advantage as he’d discovered that ladies were more comfortable with his request when they were assured it would remain their secret—and his not knowing their identity made them bolder than they might have been otherwise. They liked being a little naughty as long as they weren’t caught. He couldn’t catch them if he didn’t know who they were.
Still, he had one cardinal rule he always observed: never the same lady twice.
The ladies brought their own masks, seldom changed them, as the façade became their calling cards, as effective at identifying them as the ones handed over to butlers in the early afternoon when they were making proper visits. The woman in the black mask decorated with peacock feathers had a scar just above her left knee from a tumble she’d taken from a pony as a child. The blue mask, black feathers had two delightful dimples in the small of her back. The green mask outlined in yellow lace possessed bony hips that had proven a challenge, but he’d been pleased with the results when their time together was finished. But then he’d always embraced the challenge of discovering the perfection in imperfection.
The three glasses of scotch that he’d enjoyed were thrumming through his veins. The din of intimacy was calming. The muscles that had been so tense earlier were relaxed. He was in his element here, or he would be in short order. As soon as he found that for which he was searching. He wouldn’t settle for less than what he wanted; he never did. If one sure thing could be said about the Duke of Ashebury, it was that he knew his own mind. That he was stubborn when it came to acquiring what he needed—or wanted. Tonight’s endeavors straddled the line of both what he needed and what he wanted. All needs would be met before dawn. Then, perhaps, he could be glad to be back in London.
Lifting his glass for another sip, he watched a woman wearing draping white silk and a white mask with short white feathers walk hesitantly into the room as though she expected the floor to drop out from beneath her at any moment. She wasn’t particularly tall, but based on the way the silk moved over her flesh with each graceful step, it was obvious that she possessed long, slender legs. He wondered if she was meeting someone, already had an arranged assignation. Some ladies did—it was one of the reasons that the men didn’t wear masks. So they were easily identifiable if their paramours wanted to meet them here. Another reason was that men simply didn’t bloody well care if anyone knew that they were in the mood for a good tupping. Even the married ones were brazen with their presence.
The woman in white appeared to have dark hair, gathered up in an elaborate style that no doubt required an abundance of pins. He couldn’t be absolutely certain of the exact shade because the lighting in the room—only flickering candles—enhanced the mood of secrecy as well as creating an ambiance for intimacy while providing a gossamer disguise for some distinguishing characteristics that were easily identifiable by color: hair, eyes, even the fairness of skin. Perhaps she moved slowly because her eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Gentlemen not yet spoken for did not swarm to her side. But then that was the rule here. Seduction happened slowly. Ladies needed to hint at an interest.
But then, if this was her first time, she might not be aware of the subtle rules. He was fairly certain he’d never seen her before. A connoisseur of the body, he would have remembered the elegance of her movements, the way the cloth glided over her skin, outlining her form. Slender legs, but meat where it counted. No bony hips there.
With one long swallow, he finished off his scotch, relishing the realization that the hunt was over. He’d thought he wanted a tall woman. He’d been mistaken.
He wanted her.
Chapter 2
MINERVA had spent a little over three hours preparing for her first visit to the Nightingale Club, only to discover upon her arrival that she had to change into something that very much resembled a silk nightdress. Although no nightdress she’d ever worn revealed as much or caressed her skin as lovingly as this one did. After a maid had assisted her in changing, she’d caught sight of her reflection in a mirror. With no undergarments or petticoats between her and the silk, she almost changed her mind and quit this place. Grace no doubt had the right of it, and she should just return to her world, proposition someone she knew, someone she liked even if it was only a little bit—
But that seemed even more awkward and unsavory than her present course. What if he wasn’t interested in the least or things between them were … awful? He would know who she was. What if he told people, his best mates, of their assignation? Grace said men boasted of their exploits. Minerva suspected they made sport of women who did not live up to their expectations. They certainly weren’t likely to confess to any shortcomings of their own. No, coming here was the way to go. The anonymity assured it remained her secret. No one would ever discover what she had done or with whom she’d done it.
Not to mention there was a bit of titillation to the notion of his not knowing, to her being secretive. Surely men found it provocative as well when an air of mystery was involved.
Glancing around the dimly lit parlor, she was struck with both curiosity and a dash of irritation. The men were completely clothed in trousers, jackets, waistcoats, shirts, perfectly knotted neckcloths. Why weren’t they forced to wear something that might make them feel as though they were standing about almost naked? Perhaps because a gent’s clothing didn’t leave as much to the imagination as a lady’s might. Still, it seemed rather unfair. Surely, if given the chance, ladies could appreciate muscled arms and bared chests. She fancied wide shoulders. And eyes that glinted with the ability to tease. Most of the men who had visited in her parlor had dull eyes or ones that revealed their thoughts drifting off to other places.
She recognized several lords. Lord Rexton was standing by the fireplace talking to a tall woman. How she longed for height. Not that she wanted Rexton’s attention. With a blush no doubt creeping from her toes to her hairline, she turned away, knowing it was ridiculous to fear he might recognize her or to be embarrassed by the sight of Grace’s brother wooing someone. He was young, virile. Ladies were no doubt thrilled to have an opportunity to be in his company. He was heir to a storied and powerful dukedom.
Dear God, she hoped she didn’t run into her brothers. But even if she did, it wasn’t likely that they would recognize her by the sight of her chin and mouth. The rest of her face was covered. She couldn’t do much about her hair, but then the dark russet strands weren’t that memorable anyway. Her dark eyes weren’t the sort to incite poetry. Men weren’t going to drown in them. They were as boring as the rest of her physical appearance.
Many couples were talking. That was no doubt part of the ritual. Silly of her to think that some man was simply going to toss her over his shoulder like some medieval pillager and haul her upstairs to a bed. She wouldn’t have allowed it anyway. She wanted a bit of wooing.
A footman approached, carrying a tray of glasses filled with amber liquid and flutes of champagne. Going for the amber, she snatched it up and tossed it back, relishing the burn and the heat cascading through her center. In their youth, she and Grace had never shied away from sneaking into liquor cabinets. She supposed, however, to be
attractive to a man, she should at least pretend to have a preference for champagne. It was more refined and ladylike, but just as she hadn’t pretended in ballrooms to be other than what she was, she wasn’t going to pretend here. A man might not see her face, might not know who she was, but she intended to own her behavior. If they shied away from a woman who drank scotch, she wanted nothing to do with them. As much as possible, tonight would be on her terms.
The footman took the empty glass from her. Before he could walk off, she snatched another one, probably should have taken two, then settled for taking merely a healthy swallow. There would be other footmen, other opportunities, and apparently she would have ample time to imbibe. All seemed to go at a snail’s pace. That was good. It gave her a chance to decide.
As her gaze swept over the crowd, she realized that she had spoken with most of these lords at one time or another. If they hadn’t appealed to her in a ballroom, what made her think they would appeal to her here?
You’re not going to marry him. You don’t have to really like him. You simply need to determine if he has the physical qualities to be a good lover.
This was to be a night for fantasy. For broad shoulders and narrow hips. Kind eyes, full lips. A thick head of hair. Shade unimportant. She scoffed. Maybe hair itself was unimportant. A bald man might make a wonderful lover. Having been judged by her too-large nose, strong brow, and round cheekbones, she wasn’t hypocrite enough to judge a man based on his looks. She wanted someone with a bit of intelligence, a dash of humor, and an interest in the different.
She considered her options. Lord Gant was dashing, but he tended to spit when he spoke. Lord Bentley was a dull conversationalist. Would he be dull in bed?
She hated that she was beginning to agree with Grace. This lover business was more than height, strength, and good looks. She needed someone she didn’t know. A complete stranger, not someone who had taken her on a turn about the dance floor or spoken to her during a dinner. No preconceived notions.
Or she could select someone whom she had fancied but hadn’t fancied her—at least not enough to ask for her hand. The problem was that she hadn’t really fancied anyone, which was one of the reasons she was here. Truth be told, she’d yet to meet a man whom she wanted to pursue her. Perhaps she was too particular. Was it really so awful if a man wanted only her coins? Could he fake passion and caring? Would he? She deserved better than that. Every woman did.
Starting to take another sip of the scotch, she realized that she’d finished it off at some point. Another should chase away the last of her nerves. Before she could begin to look around for a footman, a deep voice asked, “Let’s switch glasses, shall we?”
Jerking around, she found herself staring up into the Duke of Ashebury’s incredible blue eyes. She could count on one hand the number of times she’d been this close to him. They might have exchanged half a dozen words in passing. Handsome as sin with a devil-may-care attitude, he usually had a bevy of ladies circling about him, vying for his attentions. His tragic past, orphaned at eight to become the ward of a madman—not that anyone had realized the state of the Marquess of Marsden’s mind at the time—caused some ladies to find him even more appealing. They wanted to provide a safe haven and ply him with the love that he’d not had for years.
And well he knew it. He wasn’t above taking advantage of generous hearts. She didn’t know how many ladies he’d ruined although no ladies had ever confessed to ruination at his hands. But still, the rumors abounded. Yet in spite of his questionable reputation, there wasn’t a mother in all of England who didn’t yearn to see her daughter standing at the altar beside this man. And Minerva, drat her feminine heart, would have been content to have had a dance with him, to have spent a few minutes in the circle of his arms. He was, quite literally, the most beautiful creature she’d ever had the good fortune to lay eyes on. The irony of her thoughts did not escape her. Her looks held men at bay while his drew attention as though they were magnets—and she, drat it all, had turned into metal shavings.
With a smile designed to melt hearts and cause a woman not to care that he had no interest in permanence, he took her tumbler, set it aside, then, with his long, warm fingers covering hers, he folded her hand around his glass. She’d never had a man’s bare hand touch hers or any other part of her for that matter. It should have been unsettling. Instead, the touch seemed to spread along her skin—
Because it was. Without taking his gaze from hers, he slowly, ever so slowly, glided his large, roughened hand along her forearm, over her elbow, up to her shoulder before letting his fingers linger lightly in one place, toying with the thin strap of her gown, as though he longed to ease it aside and watch the silk flutter to the floor. She could hardly breathe, and yet it was rude not to acknowledge him.
“Your Grace,” she managed, with the rough throaty voice she’d been recently perfecting, adding another layer to her disguise. “I didn’t realize you’d returned from the safari.”
Those gorgeous blue eyes widened slightly, his smile diminished a fraction as he angled his head to study her more closely. “Have we been introduced?”
She had barely parted her lips to speak when he pressed one of his long, thick fingers against them. “Don’t answer that. Here, for the ladies, anonymity is sacred. I’d be cast out if anyone thought I’d deliberately tried to determine who you were.”
She doubted anyone would cast him out. His was a powerful family—or it had been before his father died. From rumors she’d heard, he’d yet to take his responsibilities seriously, not that anyone blamed him. Rather, Society seemed to take delight in his adventures. He spent more time out of England than in, traveling the world with those with whom he’d grown up. Raising hell wherever they went if the stories were to be believed. Certainly they were known for the trouble they created. But they were indulged, sought after, encouraged. The timid lived vicariously through them, and, compared to them, most of London was timid.
“What shall I call you?” he asked, his finger still against her lips, causing little tingles to play over the sensitive flesh. “And don’t use your real name.”
Even without the admonishment, she wouldn’t have. She wasn’t so befuddled by his nearness that she couldn’t think clearly. Her lungs might have ceased to work properly, but her mind was still agile. “Lady V.”
A dark eyebrow arched. “Victoria?”
Virgin. Not that she was going to admit that to a man who’d probably deflowered half of Christendom.
His eyebrow lowered, his dazzling smile returned, his eyes glittered with a hint of wickedness. “No,” he murmured in a provocative way that caused warmth to bloom in the pit of her stomach and spread throughout her entire being. “Something more exotic. Venus, perhaps.”
“Perhaps.” It was unconscionable that she could be so enamored of a man with his reputation, and yet for a lady seeking adventures in a boudoir, this man could deliver. Of that she had no doubt. Sensuality radiated from every pore of his being, from his immense height—he had to be well over six feet—to his well-shod toes.
She moved her head back slightly so his finger was no longer on her lips although his other hand had yet to leave her shoulder. Taking a sip of the scotch, she was grateful her own hands weren’t quaking with her nervousness. When she had considered her plans for this night, she’d certainly never contemplated falling into bed with a duke, especially with one known for his sexual exploits. Women spoke of him in whispers, his prowess legendary. He would no doubt laugh at her fumbling, her inexperience. She wanted her first, possibly her only, time to be with a mortal, not a god.
Another swallow, more gulp than sip. She wasn’t certain how to extricate herself from this situation. Did she simply walk away? Or did she confess that he was too close to fantasy—
But then wasn’t fantasy what she yearned for? If she craved memories that could carry her through to her dotage, wouldn’t it be best to seek out a man with vast experience, a man who knew his way around a woman’s body,
a man who would take charge, would ensure the coupling was unforgettable? Based on his reputation, he was the perfect man for her needs. If she was honest, he reigned at the top of her list of desired lovers … not a difficult status to obtain when he was the only one on it. But she’d always known that he could barely be bothered to give her the time of day, much less consider her as a bed partner. He didn’t need her dowry. He didn’t need anything from her.
“Is this your first time—” he began, making her wonder if she wore her inexperience on her sleeve. Only she didn’t have sleeves. She had only the bare arm that he was slowly drawing tiny circles along.
“—here,” he finished.
Probably no harm in admitting that. She nodded. “It’s not quite what I expected.”
“You thought it would be an orgy?”
“Something like that. People are standing around talking, when I suppose I thought they’d be doing naughty things.”
His blue eyes darkened. “Oh, make no mistake, they’re doing very naughty things. You see Lord Wilton speaking to the lady in the red mask?”
“Yes.”
“I suspect he is telling her how he plans to nibble on her earlobe, her neck, her shoulder, how he will take his mouth on a journey over every inch of her body.”
“Why doesn’t he simply get on with it?”
“The pleasure is heightened with anticipation, with a slow stoking of the fires that will eventually consume.”
Yes, she could see that. Ashebury’s words alone had set kindling alight within her. Imagining him nibbling on her, she grew so warm, it was a wonder she didn’t melt into a puddle of molten desire at his feet. “Is that what you do? Build the anticipation with words?”
Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) Page 3