Читать книгу The Historical Collection - Stephanie Laurens - Страница 49

Excitement and anxiety pulsed just beneath the surface of Lucia Marini’s skin as she surveyed the Orchid Club’s belowstairs kitchen.

“We’ll have enough cakes?” she asked Jenny, the cook.

“For the fifth time, yes,” Jenny said with an exasperated smile.

She placed a candied violet atop one sugared confection and set that on a silver tray. Immediately, a masked female member of the staff whisked the platter away.

“Circulate three times through each room,” Lucia called after the girl.

A pair of hands settled on Lucia’s shoulders and gently squeezed. “Breathing’s not so difficult, once you get the hang of it.”

Lucia turned and smiled at her friend Kitty. Kitty’s ash-blonde hair fell loosely about her shoulders, and her hazel eyes regarded Lucia with fond amusement. With her coral freckles scattered across ivory skin, Kitty looked more like a country girl from Devonshire than a London woman of experience. She had once been the former and was now the latter.

At the sight of Kitty, a fraction of the tension knotted in Lucia’s chest loosened.

“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“A little,” Kitty said. She rubbed her hand over her exceptionally pregnant belly in habitual movement. “But a bit of ridiculousness is perfectly understandable. Tonight’s your first night as the club’s manager. Only an escapee from Bedlam would be calm about it.”

“I may need to be committed to Bedlam after the night’s over.” Lucia couldn’t keep still, and, despite a glower from Jenny, adjusted the placement of miniature tarts on their platter. They looked good, but were they good enough?

Jenny pointed a cook’s knife in Lucia’s direction. “Hands off, or I’ll chop them off and make them into mincemeat pies.”

Hands raised up, Lucia backed away from the sweets. “It’s not that I doubt your skill in the kitchen—”

Kitty laid her fingers on Lucia’s arm. “Stop right there before you say something that’ll make you cringe later.”

She tugged Lucia out of the kitchen. In the corridor, Kitty stroked a few strands of hair from Lucia’s face. “Be at ease, love. Everything will go swimmingly.”

Despite all the encouragement Lucia had given herself earlier, her composure fell away and she fought to keep from twisting her hands together.

“Mrs. Chalke entrusted the Orchid Club to me. All the souls that work here, they all rely on me to keep our doors open. I fail, and we starve.” The magnitude of Lucia’s responsibility nearly crushed her, yet this was what she’d yearned for—a place of her own, and the means by which she could create a better life for herself and those she cared about.

“Not so dire as that. True,” Kitty said with a nod, “we need the extra blunt the operation gives us, but nobody’s going hungry, no one’s sleeping on the steps of Christ Church. You needn’t ride yourself so.”

Lucia stepped back to allow passage for a small convoy of male staff members carrying crates of wine bottles.

“Remember, ragazzi, new rule—each guest gets a maximum of two glasses of wine.” Wine and spirits clouded judgment, and she wanted to ensure that every guest acted from a place of lucidity.

“Yes, miss,” they called over their shoulders as they moved up the stairs leading to the ground floor.

“And what of the girls’ home?” she continued to Kitty. A swell of anxiety rose up within her. “It won’t come to pass if the club sinks. All those girls will be left on the streets, without roofs over their heads, unable to read a letter or write their own names.”

Kitty exhaled. “Before you set sail, you’ve got to first build the boat. A step at a time, love.”

“What if—”

“Enough fretting now.” Kitty smiled warmly as she tapped a finger on Lucia’s chin. “You proved to our dear former manager, Mrs. Chalke, that you deserved to take over her job when she retired. No one doubts your ability—not even you. So go on upstairs and oversee your new empire, Your Highness. As for me,” she continued with a small grimace, “my feet are swollen as melons, so I’ll be retreating to my room. But I’d rather be down here, helping.”

Affection swept through Lucia in a soft tide. She enfolded Kitty in a quick embrace, though she bent into a concave shape to make room for Kitty’s round stomach.

“Never doubt that you help,” she said sincerely. “Between you and Elspeth, I have more than my share of better angels.”

Kitty laughed. “A winged angel big with child, that’s what I am.”

“Now fly, piccolo angelo,” Lucia said, swatting Kitty on the arse. “I’m a busy woman.”

Shaking her head, Kitty waddled toward the servants’ stairs, leaving Lucia briefly alone. She swallowed hard. Dark and ravenous for more of her flesh, the fear that always lurked climbed out from its pit.

She shut her eyes as she drew in a deep breath.

Cara Mamma, she implored the spirit of her mother, wherever you are, send your girl the spirit of good fortune and even better business.

Quickly, Lucia crossed herself. Now was the time. This was her moment.

She climbed the stairs, drawing strength and composure with each step. No matter how much fear or uncertainty she felt, she could never allow her guests to see any hint of apprehension. The Orchid Club relied upon its aura of unbridled sensual freedom to attract visitors again and again. Guests wanted to feel safe as they indulged their erotic desires. If there was any hint of the proprietress’s anxiety, the fantasy would shatter like brittle sugar sculpture.

By the time she reached the top step, Lucia had swathed herself in the cool serenity of her professional persona. She was a queen, benevolent but untouchable.

She hadn’t gotten this far in life by giving up, by being afraid. Poverty hadn’t stopped her, nor had losing her only parent, or undertaking a long, perilous voyage to a foreign land. Again and again, she’d pushed onward, as she would continue to do so. Until breath left her body.

Some might consider her achievements dubious, but to her, they were triumphs.

She opened the baize-covered door that stood at the head of the stairs and stepped into the hallway. Sounds of sex encircled her, as familiar as the sounds of seabirds over the Golfo di Napoli had once been. There was also the warm ripe scent of sweat-glossed skin, and the heat that came from dozens of bodies engaged in vigorous activity.

Bypassing the two main rooms in the club, she neared the entryway, where Elspeth stood awaiting the subsequent knock on the door from the next arrival. Tall and lean, Elspeth wore her peach-hued gown to perfection, and with her short hair, she looked every inch the noble gatekeeper.

Before Lucia said a word, Elspeth’s smile flashed.

“Fear not, Amina,” Elspeth said, using Lucia’s alias. She held up a pouch that jingled, heavy with coin. “The take’s as good as it’s ever been. Better.”

Lucia permitted herself a small exhalation. Perhaps this might work out. Perhaps she could allow herself a moment’s satisfaction.

She envisioned herself donning an invisible cloak that gave her strength and poise, standing straighter as its folds swathed her body. “Any troublemakers?”

“I turned away a pair of drunken Mayfair louts. Other than that, it’s been smooth as a dish of milk.”

“So long as no bothersome cats come along to tip that dish.”

The coded knock at the door sounded, and Lucia moved on as Elspeth went to admit the guests.

For the first time, she stepped into her empire as its rightful ruler. No cornets heralded her arrival, and no rose petals scattered across her path. It was, in all ways, unremarkable—except to her. She drew confidence from each footfall, rising up taller and taller.

This is mine because I fought for it and won it fairly. I belong here.

Within the two main rooms of the club, everything appeared satisfactory. The sight of people fucking in full view of others had long ago lost its ability to shock or even arouse her. It was simply business. So long as her guests were happy and kept returning, the spectacle remained merely a component of her work and nothing more.

The staff moved through the chambers with smooth efficiency, offering refreshments, righting any overturned furniture, and monitoring their guests. Lucia exchanged attentive nods with Will and Arthur before proceeding on to the ballroom.

Before this evening, there hadn’t been music, but now musicians she had personally selected for their ability and discretion played music that graced the finest assemblies in London and the Continent. The melodies provided an elegant background as guests gave free rein to their most primal desires in full view of everyone.

Lucia herself had never attended a fine assembly. This would be the closest she’d ever get to hearing the music meant for the elite, and she smiled to herself to think that what a conte or principessa heard in some august ballroom was currently performed for people of every rank as they fucked one another.

Surveying the room, her gaze lingered on the female guests, looking for signs that they were being coerced or pushed into doing things they didn’t want to do—a man’s hand gripping a woman too tightly, or a woman literally backed up against a wall. But her female guests seemed willing and eager to participate.

She released a long breath, permitting herself a moment’s relief. Fears that her first night as manager would result in disaster began to dissolve. Everything seemed attainable, and that potential rose up within her like the bubbles in sparkling wine.

I can do this. It’s possible. Everything is possible.

Her thoughts abruptly silenced. She sensed someone’s gaze on her like a velvet glove stroking down the back of her neck.

Lucia looked around to find the source of the sensation. Her breath stuttered and her pulse came in a quick flutter when she saw its origin.

A rangy, dark-haired man in a blue mask strode purposefully toward her. He moved with fluid, masculine grace, his body muscular and strapping. The direct way he approached captivated her—as though nothing could keep him from being near her.

Lucia’s pulse leapt again.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss her reaction to the guest’s approach. Clients often turned their interests toward her. Yet there was a palpable sensuality to the way he walked and the interest in his gaze. It held frank erotic intent, and the confidence that he could give her extraordinary pleasure.

Even at a distance, his eyes said, I. Want. You.

Rather than walk away, as she normally did when a guest took interest in her, she stayed where she was. The distance between them closed, bit by bit, her heartbeat picking up speed the nearer he came.

And then he stood less than two feet away. He bowed, pressing a hand to his chest. She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

This close, she could see that his garments were exceptionally well made, clearly the work of an expert tailor, because only the finest needlecraft could create a suit of clothing that fitted his athletic form with such grace. His shining boots also had to be custom from Jermyn Street. Yet in contrast to this elegant appearance, dark stubble covered his cheeks and angled jaw, and he smelled slightly of gunpowder.

That, combined with his roguish grin, made her think of a buccaneer.

“Madam.”

“Sir.” She gave him a polite but shallow nod.

“You keep to yourself.”

He had a faint Irish brogue, making his words gently musical. She had learned many years ago to repress her own Neapolitan accent. There were many in Britain who viewed foreigners with suspicion, and it had been a matter of survival to sound as English as possible.

“I choose to,” she said.

He moved to stand beside her. His nearness was an intoxicant, making her slightly dizzy. Together they watched the swaying mass of bodies on the dance floor.

“I do as well, it seems,” he said, as if faintly puzzled by his own behavior. “This is my first time here and I find myself more content to observe than participate.”

“Some prefer it that way. They derive sensual gratification from watching.” She nodded toward a man who stood by himself, his eyes fastened on the spectacle of two other men kissing passionately, while his hand was down the front of his breeches.

“Usually,” the buccaneer said wryly, “I choose doing rather than watching.”

His grin flashed again, and her stomach gave a quick jump. She could imagine that he wasn’t the sort to sit idly by and let someone else devour an experience.

“What makes tonight different?” she asked. “I hope the establishment meets your expectations.”

“I had no expectations,” he said. “The friend who brought me here kept the nature of this place a secret until I stepped inside.”

She turned to him. “And now that you are within its walls, what are your thoughts on the place?” It was always a good idea to talk to guests, learn what pleased them and what they didn’t care for. Yes, that’s why she kept talking with him rather than moving on to other duties—to ascertain whether or not the club satisfied him. That was the only reason.

He looked thoughtful. Interesting that he would turn pensive, when, not several yards away, people engaged in acts of unrestrained eroticism.

After a moment, he said, “What’s here is joyous exuberance, a celebration of bodily pleasure and letting go. Aside from the code of conduct outlined in the vestibule, rules have no place in this establishment. People can fully express themselves without fear. That’s something to celebrate.”

She looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were the blue of the skies above Napoli, and they gleamed not just with sensuality, but sensitivity and intelligence, as well.

“Uncommon to hear a man articulate himself so well,” she said, “particularly when it relates to the act of fucking.”

His smile was genuine and devilish. “Madam, I can wax rhapsodic about fucking. But,” he added, “this place is about more than sex. It’s about …” He searched for the right words. “Living without limitations, liberated from censure and disapproval. That’s something that everyone desires. Even you, I’d wager.”

Instinctively, she stiffened and mentally reached for her unseen shield, protecting herself from any man’s attempt to delve beneath the surface of her carefully crafted persona.

“A moment’s acquaintance, and you feel you know me,” she said drily.

Undisguised fascination gleamed in his eyes when he looked at her. “You’re clever and aware. Always assessing the situation. But that’s merely one part of who you are. There’s passion there as well, though you try to keep it at a distance.”

Her mouth went dry, and she tried to swallow. How could he discern all this about her? From head to toe, she was swathed in her professional identity. She might be a different person with Kitty and Elspeth, but here on the floor of the club, she was Amina the Untouchable.

She pushed out a laugh. “Mercy,” she said, “you ought to set up a booth at Bartholomew Fair and tell fortunes. People would pay good money to have their characters delineated so incisively.”

“Learning about other people doesn’t interest me.” His gaze held hers. “Learning about you does.”

Her breath caught as they stared at each other.

He stepped closer, and warmth radiated from his body into hers. “Will you join me for a dance?”

There was no mistaking the intention in his low, seductive words, especially as almost no one on the dance floor was actually dancing.

Could I? More to the point, should I?

Guests propositioned her nearly every night the house was open, and that clearly hadn’t changed since she’d become proprietress. Her breathing had never quickened with those guests. When she’d fielded their offers, she hadn’t felt the heat of the room pressing against her sensitized flesh.

She had never been tempted, not enough to neglect her duties.

But this buccaneer—with his Irish accent and his wicked lips and his burning blue eyes—he enticed her. To hell with all her rules and caution. She could lose herself in heat and sensation. Without a doubt, he could give her an abundance of pleasure.

But the club, and her dream, came first. Entangling herself with a guest led to complications, and any complication—such as an importunate or jealous lover—would throw yet more obstacles in her path. He would demand her time, her attention, and neither could be spared. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a man. And this man would assuredly be a distraction.

She struggled to lock away her reaction to him, like a keeper of wild beasts trying to urge a tiger back into its cage.

“There are so many available partners,” she said.

“I want to dance with you.”

Her heart took up a fast rhythm. “I cannot.” Regret tinged her words. She held out her hand. “I’m Amina, the manager.”

His brow above the mask creased with surprise, but like a gentleman, he took her hand and bent over it. Instead of kissing the air above her knuckles, his lips touched her skin.

Fire shot through her body. From the simplest, smallest contact.

He murmured, “I’d introduce myself—”

“But you can’t.” Her voice was breathless. She withdrew her hand, though her skin continued to radiate with his warmth. “For the safety of my guests, I know nothing about them, not even their names.”

“A good precaution.”

“Policy dictates that I don’t get involved with guests.”

His full lips shaped into a frown, and she braced herself for him to ask for an exception, or cajole her, the way other clients had done. Men did not like to hear a woman tell them no.

A moment later, he said, “Understood. I must respect your choice. Everything here is consensual, after all.”

She relaxed slightly. “So it is.” She offered him a smile. “This being your first time, I welcome you. My hope is that everything is to your liking.”

“Everything but the manager’s policy regarding her involvement with guests.” But he smiled as he said this. “This is a wondrous place. We can be our truest selves.”

Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t speculate on his background. Anonymity stood as one of the central tenets of the Orchid Club. Yet he was well dressed, even more finely than a banker or brewer. The artful way he’d bowed revealed a privileged background. She inhaled his scent of gunpowder and spice, taking it deeply into herself, tucking it away for later.

A thousand questions assailed her, wanting to be given a voice. What brought him here tonight? What was he seeking? What responsibilities weighed so heavily upon him that he took delight in the establishment’s offer of freedom?

She could never ask, and never know the answer. “You paid the entrance fee,” she said, “so I urge you to take advantage of what there is to offer.”

She waved toward the dance floor, which had evolved into a mass of sweat-slick flesh. Moans and grunts competed with the music.

Damn the distance she put between herself and the guests. If nothing else, he’d give her several hours of pleasure. Touching her deeper, realer self—that was an impossibility. Letting someone get truly close led straight to disaster and misery.

The buccaneer’s gaze never left her. “The most fascinating and intriguing thing here is you.”

She made herself laugh. “Sirrah, you are fulsome in your blandishments.”

He didn’t laugh or smile, his expression utterly serious. “When I set foot outside these doors,” he said, “I don’t need to flatter anyone. What I want, I get. So believe me when I say honestly that I’d much rather talk with you than fuck a stranger.”

Her heart thudded. “Because, unlike everyone else, I tell you no.”

“Because you intrigue me beyond measure.”

She could only stare at him. The part of herself that she’d locked away, the part that longed for comfort and affection and all the things lovers shared, ached with want. Oh, she’d taken men to her bed over the years, but other than physical gratification, she’d made certain those encounters never touched her heart. She had been forged through hardship and loss, treading a solitary path. If sometimes her body throbbed for want of someone to hold her all through the night, if she ached for someone to whisper into her hair that she was to be cherished … she tamped it all down.

Think of Mamma. Her pain and loss.

Yet here was this man, this guest, a person unknown to her. Her buccaneer. Offering a taste of what could never be.

“I must go,” she said. “My duties can’t be neglected.”

His mouth turned down, but he nodded. “I will be back soon. To see you, Amina.”

It wasn’t her real name, yet the sound of it on his lips sent a dark thrill through her. Oh, to hear him call her Lucia as he joined his body with hers …

He gave another bow before turning and striding away. She watched him, her gaze riveted to the width of his shoulders and how beautifully his breeches fit his long, muscular legs. Compelled to follow, she trailed several paces after him, observing him as he walked. He didn’t join any of the couplings but went straight for the door.

Lucia did not follow him any farther. The threshold was where her dominion ended.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and adjusted her mask.

The club’s policy was to be open every week. Perhaps the buccaneer would return then. Perhaps she might see him once more, and they could talk, as they had tonight.

Her breath came faster.

In all her time here, he was the only guest who ever truly caught her attention, the only guest she’d wanted for her own selfish pleasure.

Doesn’t matter. Flirtation is all we can ever share. The establishment—and the profits it generated—was too important to her to throw anything away on a casual encounter.

Drawing herself up straight, she continued on with the rest of her night. There were responsibilities that needed tending—keeping the refreshments circulating, ensuring the staff’s well-being and the guests’ safety, maintaining the club’s spotlessness—a hundred tiny tasks she had to supervise. Yet, like a child sneaking tastes of her parents’ wine, she permitted herself brief thoughts of the buccaneer.

It would be a struggle not to grow drunk on him.