His fingers lingered inside, and he whispered something soft and sweet in my ear. I drew away from him and stared up into his face, my heart racing. I had always felt a sense of urgency in the afterglow of lovemaking, wanting to escape as soon as I had finished. But the sultan stared down at me with a fierce protectiveness and concern. His grip loosened on my wrist, and he brought it to his lips, kissing the veins.
“I…” My voice caught in my throat. “I…”
What had I wanted to say? What did I need to tell him? A great heaviness weighed on my heart, and I swallowed hard, my throat dry and constricted.
“Audrey!” Christine’s voice rang out across the gardens. I startled, and the sultan’s hand dislodged from inside me. He brushed my skirts down with the care and attention of a lady’s maid. He lifted me to standing, and reaching down, grabbed my mantle and pushed it into my hands, his fingers lingering on the golden pin. A wave of dizziness sent me staggering, my legs weakened.
With a grunt, he crushed me against his chest and kissed me hard, taking my breath away. When our lips parted, he waved to the door of the hermitage, and I gave him a curtsy before racing across the grass in search of Christine, my feet barely touching the ground.
I spent the rest of the evening “exhibiting” my Irish culture: singing, dancing, and reciting poetry in Irish Gaelic. I had a perfect act, honed by my father since I could walk, so in many ways performing felt more natural to me than anything else. Applause rang out when I finished, and I flashed the audience a brilliant smile, shaking my loose hair down my back as I gave them a deep curtsy. I glanced up to find the sultan’s eyes fixed on me. He brought his two fingers to his lips, the same fingers he had moved inside of me, and kissed them softly. Heat bloomed in my face, my cheeks flaming. I wanted to see him again, explore his body, take my time. Need quickened deep in my belly, and I wished I could race back to his arms. But the crowd rushed me, and he disappeared beyond a sea of strangers.
Christine took hold of my hand, and before anyone could accost me with questions, she shuffled me into a carriage, and we were dashing back to the Elliots’ townhome.
“Oh my darling Audrey, what a brilliant evening!” Her eyes shone bright, and her face was flushed from dancing and too much champagne. “You are truly the toast of London.”
She sighed, leaning back against the cushions, eyeing me with her unfocused, drunken gaze. “You and the sultan appeared quite dashing on the dance floor.”
I smiled, staring out the window.
Christine flounced across the carriage and grabbed my hands. “You like him! Oh, wouldn’t that be a match!”
I extricated myself from her grip. “There’s no match, I assure you. But yes, I did find him quite…compelling.” With a cough, I hid my blush behind my hands, recalling the way the sultan’s hand had brushed up my thigh, how he pressed my wrist against the wall with so much force... I wrapped my fingers around my arm, wondering if he might have left bruises. The thought both sickened and excited me, and I shook my head at the strange desire to have him claim me somehow. Mark me in some way.
“Well,” Christine said, giving my shoulder a nudge. “You shall see him again because we’ve been invited to a party. A secret party. You can only get in if you have one of these.”
I glanced at her sideways, studying the gold coin in her hands, the image of a phoenix glinting in the streetlights. “What’s so secret about it?”
She giggled, stuffing the coin into her bodice and interlacing her fingers with mine. “It’s at Lord Barrington’s home, and the attire is quite strict. All black. And…” she leaned in, the sweet smell of champagne on her breath tickling my nose. “Masks.”
“Masks?”
“Yes!” She laughed again, leaning her head against me. I wrapped my arm around her, and she nestled closer. “Do you think it will be quite scandalous?”
“I wouldn’t imagine anything less of Lord Weston.”
“Oh, I hope so.” She peered up at me. “Will you come with me? No one will know it’s you.”
“Of course I will,” I whispered, holding her close. Soon, Christine drifted off to sleep, snoring softly against my arm. My gaze drifted out the window to the London streets rushing by, and I let out a long exhale, my thoughts with the sultan. His warm brown eyes, his hands both rough and kind. I could use a flirtation, a passing distraction. Because that was all it could be, after all. Nothing more.
Chapter 3
Joseph
It was a flirtation. Nothing more.
Weston passed a glass of brandy into my hands, and I brought it to my lips. The taste of her still lingered on my fingers, overpowering the sweet liquor. I swallowed it in a great gulp, the alcohol burning down my throat. With a small nod, I held my hand out for more.
“Moorland, my good man.” Weston flashed me a scolding glance, but he poured more brandy with a twisted grin. “This is twenty years aged. Pace yourself, please.”
I turned away to face the fire. I had no idea what had come over me to behave in such a fashion with Miss Byrnes. It must have been my costume. The beard. The excitement of performing as someone else.
But no, it was more than that. The way Miss Byrnes had drifted through the room like some otherworldly fae sprite, how her delicate face had turned hard and fierce when that horrible man confronted her. I had felt her spine against my palm, strong and unbreakable. She was a formidable woman. Fearless. And yet, she had come undone beneath my hand. Her body hot and wet. Writhing.
Good heavens.
I resisted the urge to throw back my second glass, my hand gripping tight on the stem.
“That little Audrey Byrnes was quite a delight, don’t you say, Moorland?” Weston sighed and settled himself into a leather chair, the upholstery groaning as he leaned back, legs spread wide. “She could barely keep her eyes off you the whole evening.”
I set my glass down and tore at the fake beard along my jaw. The glue pulled at my skin, and I winced before placing it in my pocket. I massaged my chin. The residue flaked along my fingers and I let out a disgusted sound before returning to my drink. Weston and his ridiculous ideas.
“It was not me she was staring at.” I rose and wandered to the fire. “But the Sultan of Arismia.”
“Serves her right the way the little chit parades around like some Irish princess.”
I whirled around, my brandy sloshing on the floor. “Do not call her that.”
Weston threw back his head and laughed. “Oh, come now, Moorland. It takes one to know one, isn’t that what they say?”
“She’s just trying to sell her book. She has…responsibilities.” I leaned against the mantle, glaring at my friend over the rim of my glass. Weston could never conceive of such a thing. I had met the famous poet in Mecca and had attended him as his physician when he suffered from an ague. Sometimes I wondered if I would have done the world a favor to let the man waste away in that brothel, but then I pushed away the thought. Lord Weston was endlessly entertaining—and powerful. He was already circulating my pamphlet on small pox inoculation amongst the orphan population of London, and out of his very vocal praise for my endeavors, I received an invitation to speak with the powerful Marquess of Aberthorne regarding future efforts. Weston may have enjoyed playing the romantic fool, but beneath the literary façade, he was a true man of science.
“And besides, look at you. You have no excuse for that get up,” I said, waving toward his wild Arabian costume, a bright purple monstrosity patched together with castaways from his various courtesans. He resembled more of a circus freak than an actual Arabian man.
“Of course I have an excuse! I’m sick of English dress.” He flicked open his shirt and loosened the sash holding up his pajama pants. “Much more comfortable.”
I played with one of the embroidered buttons on my own costume, thinking of the way Audrey had clawed at the back of my neck when I kissed her, how I had pinned her against the wall and explored her. All of her. I should not have let things go that far,
but she was so hungry, so open and willing. It was all I could do not wrap her up in my arms and take her far away from all that noise and posturing. Like some barbarian in a penny dreadful. The lusty sultan. Utterly insane business. What would she say if she could see me now? A poor physician. A liar. A charlatan. My stomach churned at the thought, and I clenched my fist, swallowing the last of my brandy and setting my drink on the table. Weston filled it without asking.
“Anyway,” I said. “I’m done with the sultan. Arismia is not even a real place.”
“Oh, Moorland.” Weston laughed. “To the English, none of the East is a real place.”
I massaged my temples, an ache growing behind my eyes. I needed to return home. So much work tomorrow. Patients to see and research to pore over before my meeting with the marquess.
“Besides,” Weston leaned forward, “tomorrow is the grand Gathering of the Phoenix.”
I shook my head. “No. Weston, I told you—”
“Audrey Byrnes will be there.”
My heart stopped, the air catching in my lungs. Miss Byrnes? At a Phoenix party? With Lady Elliot in tow that could mean nothing but trouble.
“No.” I took a step toward the poet. “Tell them not to admit her.”
Weston threw his hands in the air. “As if I would stand in the way of the Irish goddess. She would likely spear my head on a pike.”
I suppressed a smile, remembering the way she had threatened that cad, Castlevane. “Quite likely.”
“Come now, Sultan Saeed,” Weston pleaded, leaning forward. “One last appearance and then we’ll put him away forever.”
I took out the fake beard and stared at it, rubbing my thumb over the wooly hairs sewn together to look so real, so perfect. Enough to fool an Irish princess. But perhaps she saw only what she wanted to see. A rich and powerful distraction. Something she could play with and discard easily enough. Gritting my teeth, I balled the beard in my hand and stuffed it in my pocket.
I could play games too. Much more intricate games.
Dangerous games.
Chapter 4
Joseph
Weston grabbed my arm and emitted a low laugh. “I believe the marquess and the marchioness are here. This should make for a fine evening.”
He whirled his domino over his arm, the long nose of his plague mask poking me in the cheek. I brushed him away, suffocating beneath my own mask. With that and my fake beard, I thought I might pass out from the heat of the candles illuminating the room.
“Don’t make trouble, Weston,” I murmured.
“Oh, the marchioness and I are dear old friends.” He nudged me, placing a glass of wine in my hands. “You two should become acquainted. Richly acquainted.”
Scanning the hall, I sought out Audrey Byrnes, looking for her dark curls and petite form, but I only met with the blank stares of masked strangers. Their black dominos shimmered in the pale light, turning like shades toward the naked women roaming through the crowd and serving wine. They wore masks of black velvet and lace that swirled down their faces and chests in intricate curlicues, contrasting sharply with their pale skin.
Opening ceremonies for the Gathering of the Phoenix would begin soon. Part of me wished Audrey would stay away, but another part of me longed to stand near her, feel her heart quicken beneath my palm as my other hand stroked her thigh, her breasts. The image of her parted lips, the moonlight shimmering in her bright green eyes sent a shot of desire right to my cock, and I adjusted myself beneath the long folds of my black cloak. What would she make of this masquerade? Would she find it disgusting? Would she find it scandalizing? Or would it excite her? My hands clenched at my sides, hating myself for the ache for her, for any reason to be near her again.
“But she’ll be preoccupied tonight,” Weston said, interrupting my dark thoughts.
“Miss Byrnes?”
He threw back his head and laughed, his teeth flashing beneath his mask for a moment. “My god, man, is that all you can think about? No, not Miss Byrnes. The marchioness, Lady Aberthorne. They are doing an initiation tonight.”
Panic gripped my chest, and my eyes gazed across the room again. The Gathering of the Phoenix, or “The Gathering” as those in the know called it, was a neo-Dionysus cult. An excuse for rich, bored aristocrats to indulge in all manners of debauchery. Not that I was in any position to judge. This was my third time in attendance, and the entertainment was certainly exciting, if a bit historically inaccurate. I had not experienced a female initiation, but I had heard they had a reputation for getting out of hand.
I took another sip of wine, reminding myself not to imbibe too much. The revelers around me had no such inhibitions, and the crowd buzzed, wild laughter filling my ears. The hollow sound of an organ piped through the chamber, and a low drum started to rumble in the pillars edging the great room.
“Is that you, Sultan Saeed,” Lady Elliot’s high-pitched voice rang out through the chamber.
Lord Weston whirled around. “Lady Elliot! Miss Byrnes!” he cried.
With a deep exhale, I turned, coming face to face with the tiny, nymph-like form of the Irish goddess. Her curls were twisted tight up from her face, her fair skin near translucent beneath a black dress and cloak. A simple porcelain mask lined with gold covered almost the entirety of her perfect face. No one would recognize her except for those full lips. Lips I had sucked on, hungered for, crushed to my own. Remembering my role as the sultan, I gave her a deep bow and muttered something in Arabic.
“Sultan Saeed,” she whispered with a low curtsy. I forced my gaze to remain on her face. “He must be quite shocked to find us here,” Lady Elliot said.
Weston bowed. “Believe me,” he said. “The sultan is no stranger to carnal appetites. He may not worship the pagan god of Dionysus, but they have far more licentious rituals in Arismia.”
“How scandalous!” Lady Elliot squealed, and I grated at the sound of her shrill voice. She teetered against Audrey, gulping down a goblet of wine. Her mask was an intricate, sapphire-studded affair, and she batted her eyelashes up at Weston. That was a disaster in the making. Weston had a new lover every night, it seemed. All the women of London hungered for the passionate poet to warm their beds. He adored them, showered them with romance and verse, and then dropped them as soon as they became the least bit attached. Lady Elliot had her own fair share of scandal, but she was no match for the infamous Weston. He would leave her crying soon enough.
Weston and Lady Elliot wandered off through the crowd, and my attention returned to Audrey. I smiled, wishing more than anything I could speak to her, ask her about her life in Ireland, about her writing. I had dashed out that morning to purchase The Chieftain’s Daughter and had read it cover to cover when I should have been working on my case studies for tomorrow. Her descriptions of her homeland, the wild heart of Roisin and her love for the English lord who betrayed her family haunted me. I could not understand how such a tiny woman held such a great world in her head, such depth of feeling in her heart. Standing in front of her, I felt grateful for my mask and for my performance as the sultan. If I had spoken English, I would have surely stuttered like a schoolboy.
The crowd pressed on us, and I moved closer to her, breathing in the smell of fresh-cut grass and lemon. She stood so fair, so delicate, her long fingers clutched onto her wine goblet, her eyes bright and shining through her mask. A shot of annoyance flared through me at the bustling crowd, and I gazed above her head in search of some quiet corner. I wanted to hear her voice, the music in her words, her sweet, lilting accent.
Leaning up, she pressed her hand to my shoulder, motioning for me to stoop down. She cupped her hands to my ear, the brush of her breath sending a shot of desire through me. God only knows what sort of witchcraft this woman possessed to turn me into such a rabid creature.
“I haven’t stopped thinking of you since last night,” she whispered.
My cock turned to stone, my heart pounding. She thought I didn’t understand her words, but even if she had spo
ken Arabic, the rise and fall of her chest, the flush of her pale skin told me everything I needed to know.
The drumming swelled and the milling crowd raided the chamber, pushing and shoving closer to the platform in the middle of the room. She pressed against me, and I grasped her waist through her long black cloak, clutching her tight against my chest. Her back pressed against my cock, and I thrust my hips forward in response. Her belly swelled beneath my hand, and her lungs rattled out a long, shuddering breath. I set my wine glass on a tray held by a passing footman, allowing my other hand to throw my domino around her like a shield. I held her tight against me, my arm trapping her as I rolled into her again.
Her hand slid down my thigh, lodging my hip against her. She lifted her chin, exposing her long neck to me. I didn’t dare kiss her. Not here. Not yet. But my lips brushed against her smooth white skin, and her spine arched. I pinned her back with the flex of my arm, willing her body to submit to mine. To mold to mine. She stared at the platform, her face blank. We were two strangers in a crowd, our black cloaks blending into one. Everyone’s attention was focused on the ritual about to begin, and no one noticed the way my hand slipped down into her bodice.
Her breath hitched, and I made a low sound against her bare shoulder, willing her to still. She breathed out, moving her arm to allow me greater access. Her breast was so full, and my fingers drifted down to her tiny nipple, rolling it beneath my thumb. So pink. So perfect.
The doors boomed open and the candles guttered. Audrey stood on her tiptoes, trying to see what was happening on the platform. The gathering murmured around us, and I pinched her nipple hard, reminding her of my presence. Her gaze may have faced forward, but I wanted her body to belong to me. No matter what transpired, I wanted to be the one to make her wet, to make her come beneath my hands. No one else.
She let out a long sigh, and a man standing next to us stared over in our direction. I met his gaze beneath my mask, and I snarled, gnashing my teeth.
Wild Irish Girl Page 3