On These Silken Sheets

by Sabrina Darby

  Had she not shown an instinct for public life by requesting that they move up their wedding in order to take advantage of the full swing of the social season? There was one more detail that intrigued him: her surprising impatience. Her aunt, Mrs. Mustlewhaithe, had hinted that Carolina was modestly eager for the wedding night.

  A good omen. He’d heard many stories of men saddled with a frigid wife and forced to seek companionship from other sources. That was not the life Oakley wished for himself. He desired a life without scandal, without mistresses.

  He looked around for his fiancée. She was nowhere to be seen and his searching gaze fell on Mrs. Mustlewhaithe’s face. The older woman, still beautiful for her some forty years, looked uncharacteristically dour. Her expression eased into a pleasant smile when she noticed Oakley’s attention.

  “She’ll be back momentarily,” Mrs. Mustlewhaithe explained, “she went to the retiring room.”

  Oakley frowned. That was the only negative he had found in Miss Hargreaves’s character; she spent far too much time in the ladies’ retiring room. But what could one say to that? It was a trifle, a mild peculiarity.

  “I’ll see what’s keeping her,” her aunt said with a tight smile before forging ahead into the crowd.

  Chapter One

  One day later

  Love is swift of foot.

  Love’s a man of war,

  And can shoot,

  And can hit from far.

  An atypical sneer curling his lips, Oakley recalled the stanza from George Herbert’s poem Discipline. Just as well that he hadn’t actually been in love. The only thing shot and wounded in this whole affair was his pride. A man never wished to be jilted by his fiancée.

  A man never wished to be a public laughingstock.

  Especially when that man was the Earl of Oakley and had spent the whole of his twenty-four years struggling to live up to the responsibility the title demanded, shying away from anything remotely scandalous.

  He should have seen the hints. Her retiring nature was due to disinterest; her long disappearances at the balls, secret trysts.

  He’d been engaged to Miss Carolina Hargreaves for little more than forty-eight hours when this morning, her father, vastly apologetic, revealed that his daughter had run away.

  With the notorious rake, Viscount Stanton.

  Oakley had stood by and watched them dance without the slightest idea that Stanton would steal the girl from right under his nose.

  Having spent the greater part of the afternoon at White’s, drinking himself under the table, he knew well that his name now spotted a number of bets on the books.

  “Bad luck, Oakley.”

  He looked up from the Scotch he was nursing.

  “Mind if I join you for a drink?” Sir Robert George didn’t wait for Oakley’s answer before he settled himself into one of the comfortable leather chairs. Only a week earlier this man had been his rival for Carolina’s affections.

  “Not at all,” Oakley said archly. He would have invited the man even if Sir Robert were not already sitting. After all, he was nothing if not polite.

  “I’m surprised you didn’t call him out,” Sir Robert mused.

  “I’d rather put the whole ordeal out of my mind.”

  “Impossible. It’s on everyone’s tongue. Why, it’s even likely she’d been tupping Stanton before she agreed to marry you.”

  Of course, it was likely, Oakley thought. The situation kept getting worse and worse.

  “Marchmont saw Stanton at Harridan House with an incognito lady…” Sir Robert trailed off suggestively. “I wish I’d known. I’d have had a chance to sample her charms. A very tasty armful, I would imagine.”

  “Harridan House?” Oakley ignored the other part. He had no idea if Miss Hargreaves—Lady Stanton now—was a tasty bit or not. He’d not so much as kissed her lips.

  Sir Robert looked at him incredulously. “Don’t you know? You’ve been missing out, my friend.” Friend. Now that word was a stretch. “It’s just as well. An innocent like you should never have Hargreaves as a father-in-law. His daughter clearly follows in his footsteps.” The older man shook his head regretfully. “I only wish I’d known sooner.”

  Oakley knew that Sir Robert had also offered for Carolina but the deceiving miss had decided to ruin Oakley’s life instead.

  “What is this Harridan House?” Oakley asked again.

  Chapter Two

  What exactly is Harridan House?” Maggie Coswell asked in a discreet whisper behind her fan.

  The laughter that met her question was the exact opposite of discreet, and the rich, throaty sound drew many curious glances their way. It felt to Maggie as if the whole of the theater had decided the little scene in Diana Blount’s box was the true play. Doubtless Diana had intended that very effect. The voluptuous redhead required men’s admiration and attention for her daily sustenance.

  Maggie sighed and tried to make herself invisible behind her fan. Not that she really had to worry, with Diana sitting next to her. Her own mousy brown curls and muddy brown eyes were enough to cast her invisible to most men. Which was exactly as she’d liked it the past three years since her husband’s death. It was only lately she’d begun to…

  “It’s a private club, my dear,” Diana confided, leaning forward so that the expanse of generous and well-formed flesh rounded above her neckline was better exposed to view. “Open to men officially and women unofficially. Within its walls, any fantasy you desire might be had. One lover, two…a woman, man…whatever you wish. The dress code is a mask, a cloak and little else, though many forgo the mask and the cloak.”

  “And you are suggesting that I…?”

  “A lover so often comes with as many strings as a husband. I’ve been having the devil of a time shaking my latest. Allow yourself one night at least to taste the pleasures as freely as you like,” Diana suggested. “Tonight, in fact.”

  “How do you know about this place?” Maggie ventured, ignoring for the moment the frightening idea of doing just as her friend suggested. This very night. “Have you?”

  Again, Diana let out that rippling, sensuous laugh and the echoes of it played on Maggie’s skin.

  “My dear, I am going to tell you a secret that very few people know. As my dearest and oldest friend, I require that you hold it in the strictest confidence.”

  They were old friends, second cousins even. They’d both grown up in the farmlands around Exeter; Maggie, the daughter of a merchant, had married a wealthy lawyer, and Diana, the daughter of a doctor, had married a wealthy baronet. A very wealthy baronet, who’d left her a very wealthy widow. Despite the longevity of their friendship, Maggie was suddenly certain that there were a great many secrets Diana had gained since moving to London seven years earlier.

  “Roger, that old roué, founded the place years ago. He owned it under a corporation to keep his name clean, but I’ve inherited it, you see.” Diana grinned, catlike. “I could tell you quite a bit about the men of the ton…”

  “No!” Maggie gasped in shock. She’d imagined scores of lovers, but not this. This was wicked, depraved and absolutely intriguing. “Was your husband satisfying?” she managed to ask delicately, wondering at the idea that Diana’s ancient husband had any sexual capability. The poor man, seventy-two on their wedding day, had not been in good health.

  Maggie’s own husband had been three times her age, but as she had married at a very young fifteen years of age, his forty-five had been remarkably lusty and virile. She may not have particularly cared for her husband, but she had learned much from him and she still longed for his touch.

  “Roger had his own proclivities.” Diana shrugged, her expression uncharacteristically shadowed.

  More secrets, Maggie realized. Yet secrets were the natural result of seven years’ absence.

  “I would like to see this place,” Maggie admitted. “But perhaps tonight might simply be exploratory? I don’t think…”

  “Ah, Maggie-doll.” Diana grinned, break
ing whatever heavy thoughts she’d had. “Let this evening be exploratory!”

  Chapter Three

  Through the window of the unmarked carriage, Maggie observed the bustle of activity in front of the otherwise inconspicuous house. Located in a respectable part of town, if not entirely fashionable, it looked just like every other building on the street. If Diana had not revealed to her the truth, Maggie would never have guessed what lay behind the stone walls.

  Diana’s carriage did not stop at the front. Rather, it turned the corner and entered the mews. At the last possible moment, Diana handed Maggie a pink silk half-mask, which covered the eyes and nose. Then she tied a red one over her own eyes and pulled the hood of her cloak up over her betrayingly auburn locks.

  “The servants know me only as Madame Rouge,” Diana explained, “otherwise I could never enter society as I do.”

  Maggie wondered if anyone was fooled by these flimsy disguises. As she knew no one in London and her looks were utterly forgettable, Maggie had no fears on her own accord. Diana was a different story.

  Masks in place, they entered at the rear of the house, through the small walled garden, and climbed the stairs to the private suite on the first floor, which the baronet had always retained for his use and Diana continued to keep.

  The maid who awaited them, dressed soberly in gray, looked no different from any other lady’s maid. The contrast of her plain outfit served to heighten the opulent effect of Diana’s apartment.

  All of China’s silkworms must have been put to use to create the furnishings. And all those furnishings had been created with only one thought in mind—the facilitation of intercourse.

  The high bed was lush with scarlet draperies and sheets. The chaise longue was upholstered in burgundy velvet, an impractical fabric unless one wanted the softest feel under bare skin.

  Maggie imagined herself spread out on that seat, her late husband running long lengths of red silk over her body. Thomas would have known what to do with every nook, cranny and instrument in the room. There were quite a few objects about which she could only speculate.

  Had Thomas ever visited this house on his many trips to London?

  “Whom would you like to be tonight?” Diana asked when the maid opened the large wardrobe and revealed an astonishing collection of skimpy costumes.

  “Whom?” Maggie stepped toward the magical shimmering closet, her hand outstretched.

  “You can be anyone tonight, Maggie-doll,” Diana urged, “Venus, pearls dripping from your body like waves, or Hippolyta, the Amazon queen.”

  Diana, herself, had changed into a simple red sheath and was wrapping a length of gold tissue around her hair to create a concealing turban.

  Maggie had to admit, in the dim light, under the glamour of the unusual dress, Diana looked very unlike the Lady Blount who had just attended the opera.

  “Tonight this room is yours, my dear, if you should desire its use.”

  Maggie hardly heard the offer. She was too busy imagining the possibilities of pretending to be someone she was not.

  “And here, coz, step behind the screen and put this in.” Diana pressed a small damp sponge in Maggie’s hand. “It’s better to be prepared.”

  Maggie closed her fist around the contraceptive, still staring at the array of costumes. She could be anyone—someone more graceful, more beautiful, better born, divine even.

  She sighed lustily and pointed at a length of fabric in varying shades of blue. The effect shimmered like the ocean.

  “Excellent choice,” Diana agreed, with a sultry laugh. “Excellent.”

  Chapter Four

  Oakley had never in his life imagined such decadence. Within the inconspicuous stone walls of the stately house were three floors dedicated to nothing but sex, with every effort made to accommodate the voyeur.

  It was ridiculous to see grown men with masks over their eyes but their bodies as bare as the day they were born.

  Oakley didn’t think he could perform for show. Nor did he desire to do so. As he kept pace with Sir Robert George, touring room after room of shockingly erotic tableaux, he wanted nothing more than to leave the house and retreat to the arms of the courtesan he’d visited less than a dozen times over the last year when need overwhelmed. There the decor was stately, the doors closed and locked.

  The dining room was a play on the very idea of a meal, two women spread out on the table length-wise, their naked bodies offered up as succulent dishes. Sir Robert assured him this was the usual fare in the ground-floor room, a tempting morsel for those who didn’t care to venture deeper within the club.

  What should have been the formal drawing room on the first floor was now a room taken over by three large, canopied beds and many smaller sitting areas.

  Oakley was astounded to see men conversing and enjoying their brandy as if they were at White’s, while only a foot away an orgy of human flesh writhed. He was further shocked to recognize a number of men he knew from Parliament, men he had thought faithful to their wives or at least discreet.

  He wondered, despite the mask that concealed a good third of his face, how much damage he did to his reputation simply by standing in this room.

  Then he imagined Carolina there with Stanton and recalled that he was already the butt of society’s jokes.

  “So this, Sir Robert, is where you spend your time,” Oakley drawled, sparing a glance for his companion. He could not imagine enjoying himself in such an atmosphere. No matter how hurt his pride, he didn’t wish to compound the pain by developing a venereal disease.

  “It’s a much livelier club than Brooks’s,” Sir Robert grinned, stopping a woman dressed in a short, diaphanous imitation of a Grecian toga and pulling her toward him.

  The woman giggled and ran her hands down Sir Robert’s chest.

  “I can sponsor you as a member, if you like. No better way to get over a broken heart.”

  “If your heart is broken, I’m certain I can repair it,” the woman said saucily, reaching out toward Oakley’s crotch. Her fingers barely feathered over the cloth of his breeches before he stepped away.

  “Ah, I see,” the woman purred, “you would prefer a man.”

  Sir Robert laughed and Oakley flushed, his anger rising to cover his embarrassment. But such a comment didn’t deserve a response.

  “Shall I leave you here and continue the tour on my own?” Oakley asked, stiffly.

  Sir Robert sighed and pushed the woman away.

  “No, no, my poor man, I shall keep you company till we find you the proper companion for the night.”

  They left the drawing room. The hallway was larger than most London homes, and two more fenestrations led to other rooms; one set of ornate double doors appeared to lead to what in a normal house might have been the master bedroom.

  “Closed doors?” Oakley wondered aloud.

  Just then the gilded wood parted and two female visions entered the hallway.

  Oakley sucked in his breath at the sight. The taller one, dressed in a scarlet gown and matching mask, her hair concealed entirely by a gold turban, was magnificent. Her lush body pushed against the luxurious cloth and begged to be touched.

  “Ah, you are a lucky man to see Madame Rouge,” Sir Robert breathed. “Her appearances are rare. She is a goddess.”

  “She is?”

  “The proprietor of the club. She took over two years ago, but no one knows her true identity. Not that it matters. I’ve been wanting to bed her since I first laid eyes on her.”

  “Who is her companion?”

  “That, Oakley, I do not know.”

  The lady in question floated in a sea of gauze and silk, her brown curls obscured by a fine net woven with pearls and seashells. A blue mask concealed the upper portion of her face but revealed a set of perfect pink lips, curved just slightly upward toward well-defined cheeks. Her slim body was as delicate as an opera dancer’s; her small, pert breasts, outlined by the silk, offered a different eroticism than that of her companion’s more ove
rt sexuality.

  A goddess in truth.

  Her sweeping gaze settled on him. From this distance, and with the obfuscating mask, he could not discern the color of her eyes, but the intensity of her gaze jolted him.

  He felt her hot glance in every fiber of his body, down to his cock, which hardened instantly and lay uncomfortably against his lower abdomen.

  Sir Robert’s swagger disappeared and he strode with purpose across the room. Oakley followed him, unaccountably nervous.

  Chapter Five

  He wore one of those silly masks, merely a swath of black silk over the eyes, but from the glossy black of his hair, the piercing blueness of his eyes, to the straight nose and strong jaw, she knew she’d know him even when the mask was gone.

  If she ever saw him again.

  How could she not recognize him? He was beautiful. Tall, well built. Maggie’s appraising gaze flittered down his body to where his breeches lay tight against his hips, revealing just how well built he was.

  “Who is he?” she managed to ask, watching the two men approach. In a moment the stranger would be before her and she would have to decide how far she wished to explore.

  “Sir Robert George,” Diana answered, “please don’t tell me you desire him. I’ve seen him in action. Skilled, well-endowed, yes, but—”

  “No, the one behind him.”

  “Ah.” Diana let out an appreciative sigh. “I don’t know. He looks familiar, but I don’t believe I’ve seen him here before.”

  Maggie laughed nervously.

  “Oh, my sweet cousin, it only took a moment in my house to tempt you beyond repair.” Diana grinned wickedly. “Take the key.” She pressed the metal into Maggie’s hand.

  “Tell me, Madame Rouge, if tonight I might fulfill your fantasies.”

  Maggie dragged her attention back to Sir Robert George. The man reminded her of her late husband: mid-forties, blond, hawkish features, still in his looks and lusty. She’d had enough of a man like him. Four years, in fact.