La Tragedia.
La Commedia.
Gli Innamorati.
And then, using tight red rosebuds, she proceeded to dazzle her audience with a collection of impossible tricks, passing the flowers through the ceramic, all while telling the story of star-crossed lovers, who found happiness and sorrow and ultimately, each other.
The cups flew across the table. “. . . fated to be . . .”
The buds appeared and reappeared. “. . . taking love for granted . . .”
And then, disappeared altogether as she showed the audience the empty cup bearing the portrait of two lovers in wild embrace. “. . . heartbreak,” she said, softly, before setting it to the table, upside down.
“But!” Fortuna said, after letting disappointed silence hang around her. “Tonight is not for heartbreak, is it?” She looked to a woman nearby. “Is it, my lady?”
The woman shook her head. “No.”
Fortuna looked to him. “Sir?”
He couldn’t help his smile. “No.”
“Allora . . .” she intoned with glee. “Perhaps, it is true what they say. In love, hope.”
She lifted the seemingly empty cup, to reveal a rose, blooming vibrant red. A collective gasp rose from the audience, and Ewan’s smile widened, even as Fortuna lifted the rose, bright and beautiful, dipped her head, and extended it to him. “For your innamorata. Piacere.”
He reached for the rose, but before he could take it, her gaze passed by him, over his shoulder. “Unless . . .” She paused. “A rose is not correct?”
And then, before the eyes of everyone assembled, she waved a hand over the bloom in her palm, and damned if it didn’t become something else altogether.
A stunning pink dahlia.
He laughed, knowing what he would find when he turned around. “As a matter of fact,” he said, loud enough that she would hear him. “That is perfect.”
Fortuna’s secret smile turned wide, and she tipped the bloom into his hand. She said something else in Italian, but Ewan was already turning to find Grace, and his breath was gone from his lungs at the sight of her.
She was in gold.
The spools of gold thread he’d promised her as children, they were here, woven into her magnificent gown, a rich dupioni silk that glittered in the candlelight. To an outsider, the dress was no doubt considered demure—particularly in relationship to the other frocks in attendance—perfectly fitted to her shoulders and down her arms, where the silk ended in a crisp point at the back of her hand.
But there was nothing demure about the neckline—low and scooped, revealing the swell of her breasts, and a stunning expanse of smooth, freckled skin. Her copper curls tumbled down around her shoulders, catching on the fabric and teasing at the line of the frock, one errant curl caught inside the fabric like a wild temptation.
The combination of gold and copper turned her into the sun, and surely, that was the reason he was so damn hot all of a sudden.
She ought to take it off or she was going to set this building ablaze.
A smile passed over her lips, and something flashed in her eyes, as though she knew what he was thinking. She nodded in the direction of his hand, where he had barely refrained from crushing the magician’s bloom.
“Fortuna’s favorite trick.”
“It’s an excellent one,” he said, his voice coming out low and graveled, as though he hadn’t used it for weeks. “I particularly enjoyed the bit where she manifested you.”
“That bit doesn’t always happen.” Her smile widened, and he had a wild urge to puff out his chest. He would make her smile forever if she’d let him.
“Even better,” he said. “She’s very good.”
“What is a circus without a magician?” she replied. “Shall we trade? My prize for yours?”
She extended a glass toward him, two fingers of bourbon within, and he raised a brow, his gaze tracking over the room, looking for the servant with the tray of champagne. “How did she . . .”
“Dominion is designed to provide you with your pleasure, sir. You think a bit of bourbon is a challenge?” He heard the triumph and pride in her words, and they made him want to kiss her.
“To provide me with pleasure, is it?”
“To provide attendees with pleasure,” she laughed.
“And what of you?” he asked. “Do you partake in it?”
She shook her head once, instantly. “No.”
“Why not?”
She paused, and he saw the answer go through her, but she didn’t speak it. And he’d never wanted an answer more than he wanted this one.
He waited. Tell me.
“Because it is business,” she said, finally, and it might be true, but it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to give. “Because it is my building and my business and my commodity. I don’t partake because my pleasure comes in giving others access to it.”
He nodded. “Like me.”
She looked down at that. Was she blushing? Christ, he loved that. He wanted that blush forever. “If you would like it, tonight, yes.”
Tonight.
“I would like it, tonight and every night.”
She was blushing.
“I only offer tonight.”
He was through with one nights. He wanted them all. “Then I shall take it. And spend the evening convincing you to give me more.”
She raised a brow. “We shall see.”
“It’s not a no.”
She rolled her eyes, but he saw the smile playing across her lips as she turned away, leading him out of Fortuna’s room, back through the larger space, where a second fiddler had joined the first, and a collection of couples had joined the original dancer, twirling and twirling in abandon.
Grace paused to watch, her gold skirts swirling around her as she stilled. He followed her gaze. There were three couples dancing, each pressed close enough to their partners that it made the dancing feel like something far more. An older masked woman danced with a tall, fair-haired man, the two of them locked in each other’s eyes as they moved. Closest to Ewan and Grace, a dark-haired woman spun from her lover’s arms, offering her a wide, winning smile before beckoning her from the dance . . . and presumably somewhere more private, for how quickly the women disappeared through the crowd.
And next to him, Grace smiled, her utter delight impossible to deny.
“Would you like to dance?”
She looked to him, confusion on her face, as though he’d spoken a language she didn’t understand.
He turned and set his glass on a nearby table, and when he turned back, extended his hand to her. “This time, no masks.”
“You’re wearing a mask.”
He shook his head. “Not the kind that matters.”
Not tonight. Not ever again with her.
She stepped into his arms, and the crowd around them cleared a space, and they danced, quickly finding the rhythm of the music. She gave herself up to his arms and the movement, and they were soon swaying and rocking and turning again and again, faster and faster with the music, until he grew tired of the infinitesimal distance between them and lifted her clean off her feet, high against him, and her arms and legs were wrapping around him and she was laughing down at him, and the crowd went wild with excitement.
When the music ended, they were both breathing heavily and laughing, and her beautiful brown eyes were on his, and everything was easy and simple and real for a moment, and Ewan felt something strangely like peace for the first time in an age . . . perhaps ever.
He couldn’t stop himself from leaning down and stealing a kiss, quick and soft and perfect, because she gave herself up to it immediately, and sighed when he pulled away.
“No masks,” he whispered. “Not tonight.”
Not between us.
“Why don’t you take pleasure here?” he asked her again, softly. “Why not make space for your own alongside everyone else’s?”
“Because pleasure is for sharing,” she said.
And shari
ng was too much trust. He understood that better than anyone.
But he wanted to give her all of it. The trust, the sharing, the pleasure. Whatever she wished. “Let me share it with you. Tonight.”
She was still for a long moment, not breaking his gaze, their breaths still coming fast and harsh, mingling together. Finally, she nodded. “No masks.”
And Ewan wasn’t sure he would ever feel a pleasure as keen as the one she gave him then. They separated, but he laced his fingers through hers, refusing to let her go as they fetched his bourbon and Grace led them to the door.
He drank as they walked. “This is some of the best I’ve ever tasted.”
She inclined her head. “I shall inform our providers.”
Devil and Whit.
“Or perhaps you’d like to tell them yourself,” she added casually. “I hear you are hauling for Sedley-Whittington now.”
So. She knew. “Lady Henrietta was kind enough to let me join the crew.”
“Why?”
Purpose.
He didn’t say it, but she seemed to hear it anyway. “And so this is your plan? Monday, Wednesday, Saturday, hauling cargo? Tuesday, Thursday, House of Lords?”
“It’s honest work,” he said, adding dryly, “Unlike Parliament.”
He liked it. He liked the strain in his muscles at the end of the day and the way the people he worked alongside took pride in it. He liked the taste of the ale that came at the end of the workday.
“In my experience, aristocrats don’t care much for honest work.”
He didn’t want to talk about aristocrats. “This place is for my pleasure?”
She met his eyes. “Yes.”
“No aristocrats tonight.” He gave her a small smile. “But you knew that would be my first request, didn’t you?”
Her lips turned up. “Indeed, sir. I did.”
“Thank you,” he said, softly.
“And what would be your second?” she asked.
His reply was instant. “I want to know Dahlia.”
A beat, while she considered. While he held his breath. And then she waved a hand toward the door of the next room, one level deeper into this magnificent world she’d created.
An invitation to explore.
An invitation to know her.
He met her eyes. “Show me.”
“With pleasure.”
Chapter Twenty-One
He loved Dominion.
She could see it in him, in the way he eased into the space, letting the lush delight of it wash over him. When she’d found him watching Fortuna, she’d had trouble looking away from the way he was so riveted to the magic. He knew it was a trick, but he gave himself over to it nonetheless.
And in that moment, as she experienced Dominion through his eyes, she knew she would never regret inviting him. Because in the very act of accepting her invitation, of coming to the club, of delivering himself over to it, he gave her hope.
And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it?
Wild and ridiculous and implausible and painful.
But also, rather perfect.
When they’d danced, he’d lifted her high in the air and given her the pleasure she’d so often denied herself. Freedom. Joy. Happiness, even in the tiniest sliver.
Didn’t they deserve that? After all these years?
They took it, walking through the door from the receiving room to the central oval room of the club, which had been transformed into a circus tent of sorts—the lushly upholstered furnishings moved to the outer edges of the room, and a large trapeze hung from the ceiling, upon which an aerialist performed with unimaginable strength for an audience of—Grace calculated quickly—nearly fifty people.
“Your club,” he said, softly.
She looked to him, unsurprised that he knew something of this place—he was no fool. But few knew the truth of it. “How much do you know?”
“I know it is for women,” he said.
“It is, on all nights but Dominion, and tonight, no man is here without a chaperone.”
He raised his brows. “And how do you keep the men at bay once they’ve experienced it?”
“An excellent question. Men are curious beasts, are they not? They at once wish to keep us out of their spaces and also loathe the idea of us making space for ourselves.”
“You know that better than anyone.”
His meaning was clear. She had been blocked from title, and threatened for her very existence even once she’d made it clear that she had no interest in that title. She swallowed, her thoughts clearly with his, and returned her attention to the room. “Guests are only allowed to attend with my express permission.”
“And you have them researched.”
She nodded. “Thoroughly. And once they are approved, they are ferried, blindfolded, from locations around the city by my own staff, and brought in through underground tunnels.”
He looked to her instantly. “I wasn’t.”
“No,” she said, softly. “You weren’t.”
Veronique had wanted him brought in with the rest of the men, insisting that of everyone who would be in attendance that night, Ewan was the one who was most dangerous—after all, hadn’t he always been?
“Why not?”
Grace had refused, laying her trust on the line. Her hope.
And she did not believe it was a mistake.
Please, she thought, don’t let it be a mistake.
“Because you are my guest.”
Something flared in his eyes, something like satisfaction. “And the show out front? Why, if everyone is entering in secret?”
She smiled. “Is it even a circus if there are no children to see?” He laughed at that, and she added, “Are they enjoying it?”
“Things are on fire; they are positively gleeful.”
“The more satisfied customers, the better,” she said, turning back to the room. The evening’s attendees were some of the most powerful and likeable people in London, Grace was proud to admit. The Duke and Duchess of L__ and the Marquess and Marchioness of R__ were both in attendance, husbands happily doting on wives. Lady N__ was back, this time with her partner; apparently there were no ships to be unloaded into the Bastards’ warehouse that evening.
But, as usual, the audience was largely female members of the club and their companions.
Grace watched the aerialist pull herself up to stand on the moving bar, then carefully balance on one foot and tumble over herself before returning to a seated position, petticoats high and wild and frothy, like those of the lady in the delightful Fragonard painting.
“Dahlia, you’ve outdone yourself!” Grace turned, smile on her face even as irritation coursed through her. Tonight was not hers—it was the club’s. Several feet away, the Duchess of Trevescan approached, champagne in one hand, and Henry, a very large, very accomplished companion, in the other.
“As ever, unmasked, I see, Duchess?”
The other woman waved a hand. “I don’t like how they smear my kohl.”
Grace tilted her head. “Well, if you are unconcerned, then so are we.”
The duchess looked past her, taking in a masked Ewan, long and lean, with his impossibly full lips and impossibly square jaw. The woman’s lips opened just slightly, her eyes going wide in surprise, and then something like . . . understanding. “I see you’ve a companion tonight, too, Dahlia.”
Grace ignored the wave of heat on her cheeks. “Even I am allowed a guest at times.”
“A guest,” said the Duchess, her eyes not leaving Ewan, who was looking down at her, the combination of the shadow of his mask and the dim lights of the room making it difficult to read his expression. “Well, how delightful to see you both.” She paused. “Together.”
She toasted them, sipped from her glass, turned a knowing look on Henry. “Shall we, darling?” When her companion grinned, she took hold of his arm and led him through the crush, toward the stairs to the rooms above.
Grace returned her attention to Ewan, who
watched their disappearance, thoughtfully, before looking back to the trapeze at the center of the room. They watched the performer for a few minutes before Grace said to Ewan, “It took a week to install the trapeze for her, but I think it was worth it, don’t you?”
He grunted his agreement, and she looked at him, noticing for the first time that he was not watching the aerialist. He was watching the audience, most of whom were club members, many of whom were enjoying the more salacious offerings of the club, as often was the case at Dominion.
Around the perimeter of the room were a variety of couples—and one triad—in various states of pleasure—nothing outrageous—there were rooms abovestairs that afforded privacy, and several rooms on this very floor that would provide the absence of privacy, should participants’ pleasures lean in that direction. But couples dotted the furniture, curled in on each other, women sitting on men’s laps, skirts hiked to the knee for easy caressing. Directly across from them, Tomas whispered into the ear of a giggling Countess C__, draped artfully over his lap. Grace had enough experience to know that the two would be leaving momentarily for a room.
Across the room, Zeva stood in the doorway, ensuring that all was well and welcoming, and all in all, there was nothing out of the ordinary for 72 Shelton Street.
But Ewan seemed unable to look away from it.
What was he thinking?
Her stomach flipped at the possibilities, not all of them good. “You are staring, my lord,” she offered, hiding her concern behind a teasing tone.
He did not look to her. “The men are not all guests.”
She watched his profile as he realized that 72 Shelton, besides being one of the finest clubs in London, was also one of its finest pleasure houses. “No.”
“And when you say pleasure . . .”
“However it comes.”
A little grunt. Understanding? Distaste? Disdain? Something else? “And when the men who are neither clients nor staff see what this place has to offer, how are they persuaded to keep it a secret?”
She heard it then. Fascination.
Something loosened within her. He wasn’t displeased. He was intrigued. And something else. He sounded . . . impressed. She smiled. “Once they are here, they quickly reveal their particular pleasures . . . which makes it easy for them to keep secrets.”
Daring and the Duke EPB Page 25