Читать книгу Only Scandal Will Do - Jenna Jaxon - Страница 6

2

“My God, look at the crowd!” Duncan said as he and Tommy entered the main public room of the House of Pleasure. So many patrons were sandwiched together. The brothel could easily hold upward of five hundred patrons; tonight it burst at the seams, the crowd swollen by the novelty of the tableau auction. Notorious for its ability to instigate debauchery, the house’s atmosphere already approached that of a drunken orgy.

A former gambling club, the establishment boasted a style hovering barely one rung above the vulgar. Cut-crystal chandeliers illuminated walls painted with murals, reputedly by Boucher himself, depicting highly erotic mythological and pastoral scenes. Marble statuary throughout posed in lascivious and provocative positions. Exotic, Chippendale chinoiserie sofas–their woodwork carved to resemble delectable parts of the female anatomy–invited patrons to fondle and fantasize. The decor alone had been known to make men hard.

As he and Tommy joined the carousing horde, Duncan noticed several gentlemen in costumes more extreme than his own, and relaxed. No one would pay attention to him. They shoved their way toward the first scene, set up at the back of the room. An eight-by-eight foot square platform raised five feet in the air, draped in swaths of red velvet, provided an impromptu stage. Despite his resolve to not be impressed with the theatrical offering, blood quickened in his veins, heat rose up his neck and his groin throbbed insistently.

“There’s a new production of The Beggar’s Opera at Drury Lane.” Tommy gestured toward the platform. “Or maybe it’s The Beggar’s Wedding. Anyway, I think this is supposed to represent Dick Turpin, the highwayman.”

A man in a scarlet coat wearing a black mask and tricorn hat pressed a sword to the well-exposed breast of a fair maiden from whom he demanded jewelry, one piece at a time. When the jewelry was at an end, other things likely would be removed as well. The girl’s exaggerated gasps and protests as she stripped off her jewels caused whistles and cheers among the audience. Unexpectedly, the tableau appealed because he could imagine himself as the highwayman, with the power to demand anything of the girl in the privacy of a bedroom.

Duncan shoved his way closer to the stage. The woman removed her jacket to reveal rouged nipples through a sheer white chemise. One of Amorina’s regular girls, Jenny. A good sort, though he had never bedded her. That tantalizing look of mock terror would be for him if he won her. The vision of a timid, upturned face, entreating him to spare her, turned the dull pulse in his groin into an unrelenting ache. Acting such a part had never appealed to him before, except for one time when Amorina had dressed as a bawdy shepherdess for a masquerade. After the party, she’d played the part of the submissive maiden to his lord and master. He’d been sated for days afterward.

That memory made him turn away from the stage, scanning the room for his ex-mistress. Then he relaxed. He was disguised. Amorina could not possibly recognize him, nor could anyone else. The last thing he needed was for the scandals of the previous year to rear their ugly heads. If Aunt Phoebe found out he’d attended an auction instead of her ball...

Duncan returned to the tableau, only to have Tommy snare his arm and propel him past the second stage, still unlit, to the third. Reclining there in white robes, stark against the bold magenta, canary and cerulean satin pillows, lay a leering sultan. Before him danced a black-haired harem girl, attired in a vivid emerald bolero bodice and pantaloons of filmy multi-colored silk chiffon that blatantly displayed her legs and the dark triangle where they joined.

“’Struth, Tommy. She might as well have nothing on.” Amorina’s house had grown bolder in his absence.

“I believe you’ll find quite a few changes here since you went abroad.” Tommy raised his voice and leaned toward him to be heard above the din of the room. “I told you this was going to be special, didn’t I?” He chuckled, and nudged Duncan. “Which one are you going to bid on? I suppose your pockets are deep enough you can outbid almost anyone here for any of these morsels.”

“I’m not bidding.” He shook his head firmly. Why should Tommy be so sure this would appeal to him? It did, on a dark level that disturbed him. Perhaps his recently enforced celibacy factored into that. “Where’s number two, do you think?”

“Don’t know. But look at number four, would you? This gets better and better.”

Draped in black, the last stage sported a plank extended over a deep tub of water at the edge of the crowd. There a man dressed as a pirate waved a sword, making the lady walk the plank. The dainty miss, attired in a fashionable ensemble, pled theatrically as she tiptoed down the board. When she reached the end, the pirate prodded her one last time. With a final cry of “Oh, save me!” she jumped into the vat of water.

A cheer went up for her pluck, then when she emerged, dripping wet, an even bigger shout. Her sodden dress hugged every curve, revealing each charming feature of her shapely figure.

Duncan swallowed hard as audience members helped her back up onto the platform. He needed to leave now. The woman standing before him was as good as nude.

No support to be had from Tommy. His face mirrored the rest of the cheering men, their mouths leering at the woman, raucous calls and suggestions thick in the air. They radiated lust in a palpable wave which his aching flesh echoed as it strained against his tight breeches. Damn, it had been too long.

A nudge from Tommy distracted him long enough to take a deep breath, breaking the spell of the tableau. Taking charge of their direction, Duncan shouldered his way toward the first scene, where the bidding was about to commence.

“So what’s it to be?” Tommy shouted, struggling against the jostling crowd. “Do you fancy yourself a highwayman, a sultan, or a pirate?”

“Which one will you bid on, Tom?” He turned the tables. “Wouldn’t want to bid against my best friend, now would I?” He stopped before the unlit tableau, his back to the highwayman scene where bidding was escalating. Temptation pricked him like a knife. He really shouldn’t have come.

Tommy grinned, shaking his head. “Can’t bid on any of ’em, I’m afraid. Father put up a devilish fuss over the last scrape I got into. The upshot is, my funds have been cut off until I prove I can keep out of trouble.” The grin became wider. “Going to be harder to do now you’re back in London.”

“What scrape?”

“Later. The bidding’s almost done on the highwayman. Sure you won’t have a go?” A flicker in Tommy’s eye all but dared him. “I bet they let you wear the costume too.”

Enjoying one last wild night was tempting. God knew he needed a woman; the still-straining bulge beneath the domino attested to that. But the auction’s appeal began to wane, the amusement draining away without the camaraderie of his friend’s participation. Desperation rose from below and he opened his mouth to ask Tommy to let him stand him the money to bid. But the words died on his lips as a man dressed in a purple and white Roman toga mounted the stage at the second tableau with a motionless body draped over his shoulder.

The Roman stopped to survey the crowd and the body moved, squirmed and kicked, almost landing a foot in the middle of the Roman’s stomach. With an “Ummph!” the senator or emperor, or whomever he portrayed, dropped the struggling bundle on the floor. Though the stage was cushioned in white velvet, the girl hit with a solid thump, but made no complaint. A cheer went up from the crowd.

The senator stood over her, a whip in readiness in case the slave tried anything more. The girl scooted toward the rear edge of the stage, her head shifting back and forth as if she swept the rowdy patrons with her gaze. Her full-face mask, however, stopped anyone from seeing her features. Another bold move on Amorina’s part. The mystery behind the mask was intriguing, but asking men to bid on a bit of fluff, sight unseen, could backfire on Madam Vestry.

The slave was dressed in an almost transparent white gown, in flowing Grecian style, its folds torn in places and streaked with dirt. A daringly low bodice displayed full, enticing breasts, with a hint of dark nipples showing through the gauzy fabric. When she’d been flung to the floor, the straight tunic had revealed generous curves at her hips and buttocks.

Duncan’s labored breathing sounded harsh in his ears, drowning out the rest of the clamoring patrons. When he tried to swallow, he found his mouth so dry he had to peel his tongue from the roof.

The scenario itself did not appeal to him, but that girl...that girl with the incredible hair. The mass flowed shiny clean, obviously well tended; it would fall well below her waist. But the most enticing attribute by far was its fiery, bright auburn color. The long tresses, like molten flame, spilled down the slave girl’s back and around her breasts. Temptation incarnate.

Duncan’s arousal turned rock hard beneath his breeches, a reaction so immediate and insistent, he bent forward slightly to help stifle the hiss of his indrawn breath. He closed his eyes and willed his flesh to obey before his eagerness became embarrassing. By the time he was under control again, the auctioneer was calling for last bids on the girl. If he was going to make an offer on her–as his body well nigh demanded–he had better do it now.

“I’m offered six hundred pounds for this worthless Christian slave,” the auctioneer intoned, from in front of the stage. “The man who masters her will have his work cut out for him. She’s a feisty one, she is. Who’s up to the challenge?” he goaded the crowd.

Indeed, the girl looked less and less like a slave. She sat stock still in an attitude of defiance at the senator who drew the whip back for a blow. The man flicked the lashes forward, though without any force. Amorina would not want her girls marked. But the little imp on the floor grabbed the leather straps as they fell, twisted them around her hand and pulled sharply downward. The senator, caught off guard, tumbled onto the stage. The girl jumped to her feet, trying to free the whip from beneath the body of her fallen master. As she tugged, her hair rippled around her in the lamplight, a sensual river of burnished copper swirling like a bright mantle.

“Aren’t you even going to bid?” Tommy taunted him.

“One thousand pounds!” Duncan surprised himself–he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Sold!” The auctioneer beamed at the crowed. “Sold to the man in the black domino.” He continued sotto voce to Duncan. “You can settle your account with Madam Vestry right through there, my lord. Her servants will take you to your room.”

Still struggling, acting her part to the very end, the girl was plucked up like a sack of wheat between two men who took her away. A hand pounded his back and he turned to find Tommy grinning broadly.

“Knew you’d do it, Duncan. I can hardly wait to get all the details tomorrow. Suppose you’ll cry off the aunt’s masquerade after this?”

In a daze, he nodded.

Tommy shoved off, found other friends and disappeared into the throng as it swept toward the harem scene. After a moment he recalled he must go sign his vowels, and closed his eyes. The ordeal was not yet over. He still had to face Amorina.

Ridiculous, to be fretting over his ex-mistress. He strode boldly through the curtained doorway, only to be brought up short at the sight of Amorina sitting behind her neat desk. Like a lioness watching her prey advance. Undeniable beauty, unparalleled hauteur, uninhibited passion. He would give anything to feel that exquisitely talented body beneath his once more. Except the risk of scandal.

Duncan sauntered forward, signed the IOU with a flourish, then stood back and braced for the recriminations. Following two years of almost constant, close companionship, he’d cut her from his life overnight. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to send her the customary parting gift. Of course she’d reproach him.

Madame Vestry glanced at the scrawl, then back at his cloaked figure and said crisply, “Your purchase has been placed in the blue room, Lord Dalbury. You have the entire night, of course, if you wish.”

Duncan nodded, stunned. To expect anger and accusations, only to be met with detached civility, seemed somehow more insulting. More dangerous. Amorina was not one who forgot or forgave easily. She gestured toward the dim corridor to her right and he left without a word, swirling the folds of his black cape in his haste.

Unfortunately, that little transaction left him feeling out of sorts. Should he simply leave and go home? No. Not only had he paid a fortune for this fantasy, but he was painfully aware of a gnawing ache in his groin. It had definitely been too long. He recalled the slave girl’s brilliant, cascading hair, and his enthusiasm returned.

Duncan stopped before the specified door. One of the servants who’d carried his slave inside rose to open it. “’Ope you gets yer money’s worth, m’lord. Nasty lil’ bit o’ goods, that ’un. Actress, y’know. Don’t like the part she ’ad to play.”

Adjusting the domino and mask, Duncan motioned for the door to be unlocked. He smiled. This night would be memorable, he’d make sure of that.

* * * *

Katarina stood in the center of the room, searching for escape routes or weapons to hand. Her mouth ached from the gag and her body had begun to feel the bruises from her ordeal, but she forced physical discomforts to retreat. Jack had drummed logic and strategy into her at an early age. She would reason her way out of this situation despite the recent indignities.

A short time before, kicking and squirming with all her might, she had been carried into this small room lighted by a candelabrum, and tossed onto a canopied bed. The hated mask and gag ripped from her face, she’d gasped in great gulps of air, coughing and retching, uncaring about anything except the luxury of taking a deep breath.

With a chuckle, Nigel had scooped up the discarded gag and tossed the plaster mask onto the bed. “A little memento of your evening with us,” he’d growled and left. The door had closed and the key turned in the lock.

She’d sat up, her racing heart subsiding to its normal beat. The white face lay beside her, dark eyeholes staring at her, coldly mocking. She’d seized it and heaved the wretched thing at the door. The plaster had shattered, a triumphal chord of sound. Tears of outrage had welled as she’d drawn in a deep breath and screamed for the first time since she’d been taken.

Several minutes later Katarina had calmed herself, banked her anger and compelled herself to think rationally about escape. The door was obvious, but she’d heard the key scrape in the lock, so did not spare it a glance. A tall window overlooking the alley promised greater potential, but thick bars crossed the panes. There were no other options. On to weapons.

The small, round bedside table held the candelabrum. Kat hefted the brass weight. Sufficiently heavy, but unwieldy. A pale gold wingback chair beneath the window offered no possibilities, leaving a washstand in the corner with pitcher and basin. That was the extent of the weaponry available.

“Damnation.” Other than setting the place on fire–a thought she dismissed as too risky–or smashing her purchaser over the head with the pitcher, she was left with her wits and sharp tongue as weapons.

Someone fumbled with the door. She recognized the scratchy voice of the shorter kidnapper even through the wood, and darted toward the washstand.

The door opened as Kat skidded to a halt in front of a tall, cloaked and masked form.

One glimpse of the monstrous figure sent her scream echoing in the small room. She fled backward until she was splayed against the wall, trapped. The dark shape advanced with frightening speed, cape billowing, the golden mask of a lion’s head glinting in the candlelight.

Flattened against the cold plaster as the towering apparition rushed toward her, she willed herself to vanish through the wall like a ghost. It reached a finger out and stroked her hair. A normal hand, thank God. The arm that disappeared into the black folds was clothed in dark red fabric of excellent quality. He was just a man. She lifted her chin and forced her eyes to meet his.

“Who are you, sir?”

“Your master, slave.”

Harsh words cloaked in a voice of deep velvet. A shiver of dread raced down Katarina’s body, as much from the words as from his tone. She gathered her courage and replied, “I am nobody’s slave. There has been a dreadful mistake.”

“I think not, my lovely. I paid a small fortune for your ownership this evening. Make no mistake about that.” He continued to stroke her hair and she twisted her head to the side. His mouth below the half mask twitched into an insolent smile. “I am pleased, however, that you possess courage as well as beauty.” His fingers touched her cheek. “The mask hid the slave’s wealth well.”

She jerked away. “You may have paid for a slave, sir, but what you find in this room is a lady in distress. Will you prove a gentleman or a rogue?”

“A lady in distress?” He laughed and straightened. “How did a lady come to find herself on display at an auction, scandalously clad in a transparent Greek costume, in Madame Vestry’s House of Pleasure?”

“House of Pleasure?” she squeaked.

“Where else would such a thing occur?” The man’s amusement seemed to deepen at her indignation. “And there will certainly be pleasure here tonight, slave.”

He ran a hand slowly down her arm, fingers trailing silkily against her bare flesh. Mouth agape at such a liberty, she slapped the hand away and ran for the door. With a long arm, he snared the diaphanous folds of her gown. The material strained against her body. Kat froze lest it rip, exposing her completely. Cursing her own folly for choosing such a costume, she swung around to face her captor.

“Please release me, sir,” she demanded, trying to keep her temper in check. She needed to woo this man to her cause. And though it galled her, she could only do so with soft words, not blows. Perhaps the blows could come later. “I beg you to aid me in my hour of need.” She put every ounce of charm into her smile; she could cajole him, as long as he couldn’t read her mind.

“Ah, but I have needs too, slave.” His hands were in her hair again, as though he could not help himself.

Well aware from his husky tone what needs the man likely had, Kat winced. If only she could see all of his face. It was so difficult to judge the man under that golden mask. She forced herself to relax, though the thought of his hands on her raised gooseflesh everywhere. It was only her hair, after all. No great sin. Perhaps if she softened her demeanor, she could convince him of her plight. She could offer honeyed tones for a little while.

“Will you hear my story of how a lady ended up in this House of Pleasure, sir?” Even to her own ears, her innocent tone sounded false. How would it sound to–

Releasing her hair, the stranger grabbed her hand. “We both know how you will end up, my slave. Come.” He pulled her toward the four-poster and she dug her toes into the rough, worn carpeting. Honey be damned, she had no intention of going anywhere near that bed.

“Let me tell you my story, sir. ’Tis truly enlightening.” She snapped her wrist down, freeing herself from his grasp, then turned and raced across the room, searching in vain for weapons once more. Frustration mounting, she seized the wingback chair. At least it presented a barrier of sorts. She thrust it in front of her.

“Sir, you must hear me. I truly am not what you think.”

His skeptical stare was bearable. But when he pursed his lips and made a “tsk tsking” sound, he might as well have shouted the word “whore.”

“I am not!” Katarina clutched the chair’s golden upholstery to keep from launching herself at him and wrapping her fingers around his arrogant throat. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, sister to the Earl of Manning. I was kidnapped and brought here tonight against my will.”

He cocked his head. Then his mouth twitched. “Truly? What an exciting life you must lead...Lady Katarina, was it?” He chuckled deep in his chest, and took a step toward the chair.

She glared at him. “I am Lady Katarina Fitzwilliam, you dullard.”

“And true ladies always run around London at night scandalously underdressed as Greek slaves?”

“My brother and I were on our way to a masquerade ball when I was abducted.”

“As was I, fair lady,” he bowed with an exaggerated flourish, “when I decided to come to this charming establishment instead. Perhaps if we had continued on our ways uninterrupted, we would even now be dancing together at the ball.” That nasty laugh grated against her nerves worse than the screech of rusty nails, making her contemplate murder. If the scoundrel didn’t believe her story, killing him might be her only means of escape.