“To find a protector who will promote you on stage and keep you in style, luvie. If it is your will, the power of all England is, at present, rutting in the next room.” She grinned, attempting to make light of the situation. “Look at the bright side. You’ll have ample opportunity to inspect your prospective gent’s...er...equipment.”
“But can they be so very different? Men’s...equipment?” Phoebe asked.
Her companion chuckled. “Aye, but how they use it really makes all the difference.”
“How do you mean?”
“Whether they use their...gifts...solely for their own pleasure or their partner’s, of course.”
“Of course.” Phoebe digested this with a frown. She had never considered the act of coupling all that pleasurable. Ridiculous and messy, perhaps, but never pleasurable. “The Viscount DeVere, what does he look like?” she asked.
“His member or his person, luvie?” The wardrobe mistress cackled.
Heat rose instantly to Phoebe’s cheeks. “I meant his person, of course.”
“Of course you did.” The wardrobe mistress winked. “But either way, I durst say he’ll not be too hard to spot, as he’s the kind of gent wont to spread his favors. As to his person, he’s midthirtyish, tall, with blazing blue eyes. Devilishly handsome. Find the women, and you’ll no doubt find DeVere.”
Phoebe nodded and donned her domino.
“Best to wait a bit, duckie,” the wardrobe mistress advised, straightening Phoebe’s headdress. “The gents’ll be done soon enough. They’ll rest and drink and then go at it fresh. Let the frenzy die down. And when you go out there,” she counseled, “you must move about like a woman of the world turning a blind eye to the goings-on. They’ll take you for a guest by your dress, but they’ll still be little better than wild rutting beasts, so don’t enter any private rooms.”
After a short interval, Phoebe slipped into the receiving chamber. The scene, much as Mrs. Andrews described it, was no less an assault to both her senses and her sensibilities. Redolent of the pungent scent of sex and sweat, it was as if the room itself was alive with undulating bodies entangled in coition, an act she’d once ascribed to feelings of love and intimacy. Now she knew only revulsion.
Phoebe strolled the room, affecting a jaded detachment to the shocking displays, as if they were all merely players on a stage. She moved about with circumspection whilst taking in the selection of lechers—her would-be protectors—with clothing discarded, wigs askew, sprawled out in depleted satiation, caught up in the throes of fellatio, or engrossed in various stages of copulation.
Her stomach turned to think of giving her body to any of them. Weaving and skirting the moaning, panting, and writhing human obstacles in her path, Phoebe began the search for her quarry until startled by a firm hand on her arm.
“What have we here? Fresh game perhaps?” asked the voice of George Capel-Coningsby, Viscount Malden, a close adherent of the prince and one of several men Phoebe had wished to avoid. She only hoped he would not recognize her in turn.
Hiding her apprehension with hauteur, she answered with a jut of her chin. “I fear to disappoint, but I am not part of the entertainment.”
Nevertheless, his hungry eyes lingered on her breasts. “If you are here to be entertained, I assure you I have ample means to accommodate you.”
The boast of his manhood was clear. She smiled tightly. “Perhaps you don’t possess what I desire.”
His brows lifted to his hairline. “A Sapphist, are you?”
Her half-smile neither confirmed nor denied the statement.
“Perhaps we might share some carnal delights after all? I find three can be a very cozy number,” he said.
Seeking escape, Phoebe scanned the room until hitting upon a lone gentleman, nearly hidden behind a large palm, nursing what looked like a coconut, and looking conspicuously out of place.
“I’m afraid I have no interest. Pray, excuse me, a companion awaits.” She wondered briefly if her would-be savior was perhaps one of those voyeurs, those sexually incited by watching others, but the more she considered him, the less she thought so. In the end, she decided he looked the least debauched and, therefore, the least dangerous of the lot. She shrugged out of Lord Malden’s grasp and boldly advanced across the room.
***
Abandoned to his own devices by the disgusted DeVere when he’d refused to join in the ongoing orgy, Ned had called for another drink, which he now regarded with a scowl. The first had done much to ease his discomfort, filling him with a pleasant languor. Perhaps a second round of the poisonous potion would allow him to get through the rest of the evening. Deciding the soothing effects of the vile brew would be well worth the sacrifice, he gave a half-shrug, took a large breath, and downed the second bowl in a bitter choking draught.
“Is it really that bad?” inquired a sultry, feminine voice.
“Yeth, horrendouthly bad,” he answered. Ned looked up from his drink, immediately taken aback by the lovely form that accompanied the voice and then cursed his tongue for making him sound like the village idiot.
She laughed, a delightful sound. “Then why on earth do you drink it?”
“When in Rome,” he answered with a half-smile, pleased with himself for having responded without any S words this time. Who was she? He wondered if the warm sensation that had overtaken him was due to the beautiful and mysterious woman or the drink.
“Indeed,” she answered. “It is much like Rome. Caligula’s Rome, is it not?” He noted the wry twist to her lips, lovely lips at that. Her tone clearly indicated little fascination with the scene of decadent debauchery. “You don’t find it entertaining either?” she asked, confirming his thoughts.
“Not particularly.” Taking care with the Ls, he managed another brief but intelligible response. “I am no Sybarite and, thus, have no taste for such things.”
“Truly?” Blue eyes behind the feathered mask raked over him with renewed interest. “Then why have you come?”
“I am with a friend.”
“On the contrary, you are quite alone,” she observed with a hint of wit that made him smile.
“My friend is otherwise...engaged.” There now, progress at last, almost a complete sentence. The numbness in his mouth had begun to dissipate. His body felt light and his spirit languid and more at ease than he’d felt since his arrival. “Would you care to take some air?” he asked, suddenly emboldened. “The west side of this house has quite a lovely garden.”
She seemed to consider his proffered arm with hesitation. “I am not what you think...”
“For hire?” he volunteered. “I had no such thoughts. Pray, disabuse yourself that I have designs on your person, madam. I only desire a companion for a brief escape out of doors.” Escape was right. The drink had gone completely to his head. He felt queasy, slightly woozy, and suddenly stifled by the perfumed scent of flowers and the jungle of greenery.
***
Tilting her head, Phoebe assessed the large gentleman with greater scrutiny, deciding he was quite handsome in an unassuming sort of way. She guessed his age in the midthirties. His clothing was plain but well-cut with minimal ornamentation. He also displayed no outward signs of debauchery. His manners were impeccable, unusual enough under the circumstances, but moreover, he had addressed her with respect, most surprising in these circumstances. “In that case...” She smiled. “Perhaps just a short stroll.”
“It would be my honor.” He bowed formally and placed her hand on his sleeve. Phoebe didn’t know what had compelled her to accept his invitation to go outside when her entire purpose was to find DeVere who was certainly inside, but she found his lack of guile and self-deprecating demeanor both charming and disarming. Perhaps it was also that he looked so much like a fish out of water, much the way she felt.
She accepted his arm and exited the house into an enclosed courtyard that while well lit with flambeaux, appeared deserted. They perambulated the moonlit path for an extended time, the strangely companiona
ble silence punctuated only by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.
Phoebe couldn’t help slanting frequent glances at his face, a kind face, yet with a strong profile she found unusually attractive. “You must understand that I am not accustomed to private interludes with strangers. I am not a harlot, but an actress, you see.” She added cynically, “Though many deem there is little difference between the two.”
“I do not judge,” he said.
“No?” His words were welcoming, the timbre of his voice low and smooth, soothing to her frazzled nerves. His quiet presence seemed to encourage confession but then, perhaps, it was just that it had been so long since she’d had any confidante at all. Her eyes met his hazel ones and held. He had very nice eyes. Sensitive eyes, but she reminded herself she’d been fooled before. “Perhaps you will change your mind when you learn why I am here.” His genteel manner made her feel guilty, as if she had somehow deceived him. “I came for a decided purpose,” she blurted before she could stop herself.
He turned to face her, placing a warm hand over hers. “Though I wondered what would bring such a lady to a place like this, your reasons are your own, madam. I am only glad of your company.”
His statement, curious rather than judgmental, was nearly her undoing. Phoebe felt her lip quiver, her armor slipping. Why was he being so genteel, so kind to her? It had been so very long, years now, since anyone had addressed or treated her as a lady.
She awarded him with a sultry smile, Kitty’s smile. She leaned into him, tempting him with a close view of her décolletage. She smoothed her hands up his arms, relishing the strong solid feel of them and entwined her own around his neck. Her lips sought his ear where she murmured against his clean-shaven skin. “Then I am truly a finer actress than I thought...for I have come seeking a protector.”
She withdrew a few inches and focused an inviting gaze on his mouth, a full, sensual mouth, and briefly wondered what he would taste like and how it would feel when he pulled her into his arms. She was overcome with a yearning to feel his embrace, his warm lips seeking hers. Something about him drew her inexplicably, engendered a feeling of safety and comfort that she found irresistible, that her very soul craved. She also knew how dangerous such a man could be. You are not Phoebe. You are Kitty. You are here to find a patron, not a lover. Lovers betray, she reminded herself with a shake.
“A protector?” he asked.
“Yes.” She gifted him with a siren’s smile. “And I’ve begun to fancy you for the position.”
***
Her warm, sweet breath caressed his cheek, the generous swell of her lovely breasts, and lovely they were, pressed against his chest. His nostrils flared at the combination of her womanly essence with the light perfume scent of her hair. The sum total stirred his cock to life, seizing him with a rampant jolt of carnal hunger he’d been tamping down for three long years of self-denial. He closed his eyes and ground his teeth against the powerful urge to crush her in his arms and devour that luscious mouth.
With a herculean show of self-control honed from long practice, he gently disengaged her arms, putting her at a safer distance. His reply was formal, stiff and terse. “If that is what you sought from me, I’m sorry to disappoint. I would not be a suitable candidate.”
Her response betrayed bewilderment and then a complete misconstruction of his actions. “I have heard of certain women with a preference for their own gender...”
“Gad, no!” Ned barked. “It is no such thing as that! It’s just—I haven’t—I can’t—Oh, bloody hell!” He raked a hand through his hair. “Is it impossible to believe that not every man wishes to use women in such a demeaning manner?”
“Demeaning? You mean to say you have never paid for your pleasure?” Her tone was laden with cynical disbelief.
“I was young and wild once,” he confessed. “But unlike some of my acquaintances, I have discovered the deepest fulfillment of body, mind, and spirit comes not from random acts of lust, but from the abiding love of a woman.”
“You speak of a wife?” she said.
“Yes.”
“Then your presence here tonight belies your professed devotion, my lord.”
“Edward,” he answered softly, ignoring her sneer.
“What?”
“My name is Edward, not my lord. Sir Edward Chambers, although my friends call me Ned. And my wife is dead these past three years.”
Her eyes grew wide. Her expression softened. “Oh... I couldn’t know that. Forgive me,” she whispered.
He shrugged. “There’s nothing to forgive. In truth, you are right. I shouldn’t be here. It’s not a respectable place, and I am an eminently respectable man.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh.
She didn’t smile in return. She moved closer. Once more, he felt an almost overwhelming urge to take her into his arms but didn’t trust his power of restraint. If he even touched this woman he would be lost and buried in her to the hilt before she could blink. He feared he would become as a rabid animal if he gave in to his baser nature.
“But doesn’t even an eminently respectable gentleman get lonely?” she asked, idly caressing his sleeve, her blue eyes gently probing his.
“Yes,” he answered almost inaudibly.
“Then have you never thought of taking a mistress?” She moved her hands to his chest again, where she fingered the lace of his cravat. Her gaze beckoned to him, or perhaps it was his heightened lust playing tricks on him. “Most men do, you know. It is more or less expected.”
Once more, he fought the powerful urge to breathe her in, to devour her, but maintained his rigid self-restraint against her sensual onslaught. Though he’d never failed to be gentle with Annalee, he’d exercised little control over his libido. Generous and loving to a fault, she had indulged him, and now she was dead. Dead. Because he couldn’t keep his hands off her, or better said, his prick out of her. Grappling with his need for that long-ago rapture, Ned averted his gaze only to light upon a statue of Pan fornicating with the moon goddess, Selene. Not helpful. Not helpful at all.
“For better...or worse... I am not most men,” he said, grasping her hands and lowering them to her sides. “I do not live in town, neither do I follow fashionable habits. I live a quiet life in the country. Besides, I cannot afford to embroil myself in scandal. I have my daughter’s future to think of.” Yes. Think of Vesta instead of your bloody prick.
“You have a daughter?”
He laughed at her surprise, relieved for the change in topic. “I do. She is the light of my life and soon to be eighteen. It is time for her come-out, the reason why I have come to town, to arrange a house for the season.”
“Then how do you come to be here? In this of all places?”
“As I said, I am the guest of a friend and could hardly avoid it. DeVere insists that I am becoming a dull old man and is resolved to meddle in my life.”
“DeVere?” she asked, averting her gaze to the fountain.
“Aye. Ludovic, Viscount DeVere.”
“The one they call the devil?” Her voice sounded strangely flat.
“Aye.” Ned laughed. “Many would claim the devil and DeVere are one and the same. Perhaps they are right.”
“You know him well then?”
“Since university. I count him among my closest friends.”
***
“Do you, indeed?” Phoebe asked, realizing she had inadvertently struck gold. Here was the very one to help her achieve the meeting she sought. Yet now, she felt little enthusiasm for the pursuit. But I am looking for a protector.
“Might I impose upon you for an introduction?” she asked.
His mouth became a tight line. “You wish me to conduct you to DeVere?”
“If you would be so kind.”
“It would hardly be a kindness to do so this night, madam. I fear my friend might not be on his best behavior. Besides, I don’t even know your name.”
Her front teeth touched her lips and paused. “Kitty,” she said. “Kitty Wi
llis, lately of Covent Garden Theatre.”
“Lately?”
“Yes. The theater has closed for renovations, thus, I find myself temporarily out of work.”
“Ah,” he said. “Might I ask if that circumstance has anything to do with your present quest?”
“It has everything to do with it. I am in danger of losing my livelihood. Hence, I seek a gentleman who might be inclined to provide for my needs and promote my career.”
“And you think DeVere might be so inclined?” His expression was unreadable, but his reluctance to make the introduction was obvious. Why, when he’d clearly stated he had no intention of taking a mistress for himself? Maybe he just doesn’t want you. The thought was a painful blow to her confidence. But you are Kitty.
“I have heard DeVere is generous...and in more ways than one.” Her gaze swept downward, her implication clear.
“I see.” His mouth hardened.
She didn’t know why she’d said what she had, but his rejection stung, regardless of his reasons. Did she subconsciously wish to alienate him now? Drive him completely away because he didn’t want her? She wondered if she had taken the act too far.
“If that is truly your wish, Miss Willis, far be it for me to deny you.” His manner, only moments ago warm and relaxed, shifted to stiff and cold, making her regret her words.
Phoebe accepted his arm again with a profound physical awareness of him, a feeling she’d never experienced before. He seemed so different from any other man of her acquaintance, and, certainly, the antithesis of the rake she had set her sights on. She had chosen DeVere as her best prospect, yet after only this short time in Ned’s company, she couldn’t help fervently wishing that he was DeVere. Though she believed he felt the same powerful magnetism between them as she did, when she had asked for an introduction to his friend, he had obliged, thus proving her feelings unrequited.
A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1) Page 4