A Seduction in Scarlet E-Book

Sara Bennett

• Herausgeber: NYLA
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch

Seitenzahl: 437

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

A prim and proper widow gives in to her impulses at London's notorious Aphrodite's Club… and fulfils her wildest dream. As an honored widow and close companion to Queen Victoria, Lady Portia Ellerslie is captive to a life of public perfection. But privately, she still longs for the touch of a man. One lonely night, she gives in to her desires, and enlists Madame Aphrodite, the owner of London's most exclusive and erotic bordello, to arrange a wild one-night-only affair. Donning an alluringly dangerous scarlet dress and a veil to mask her identity, Portia arrives at the club ready to surrender to the long-suppressed desires raging inside her. Instead, she's shocked to lock eyes with Marcus Worthorne, the man she dreamed of in her former life as the vicar's daughter. Marcus remembers the very proper Portia… but how did she become this mysterious, enticing lady in red? Marcus knows he can fulfill her most wanton fantasies; and he also knows that it will take more than one enchanted, evening; because one night of delight will never be enough for either of them!

Leseprobe

A SEDUCTION IN SCARLET

SARA BENNETT

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either products of the writer’s imagination or are used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, organizations, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

A Seduction in Scarlett

Copyright © 2008 by Sara Bennett

Ebook ISBN: 9781641972741

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.

No part of this work may be used, reproduced, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without prior permission in writing from the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

NYLA Publishing

121 W. 27th St., Suite 1201, NY 10001, New York.

http://www.nyliterary.com

CONTENTS

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Epilogue

Also by Sara Bennett

About the Author

For Joy

PROLOGUE

Aphrodite’s Club,

London

Late Spring 1850

Aphrodite, the famous courtesan, sat forward in her Egyptian-style chair, her dark eyes bright with curiosity. “Lady Ellerslie. It isn’t often that a woman of your position and social standing comes to see me at my club. Please, tell me what it is you wish from me, and I will make it come true.”

“Madame, if only it were that simple.”

“But perhaps it is. Tell me, and we will see.”

Portia, Lady Ellerslie, hesitated, and for a moment her well-bred calm wavered, giving the courtesan a glimpse of the seething emotion she was trying so hard to hide. “I am relying upon your discretion,” she said with quiet dignity.

“We are all most discreet here, my lady.”

It had seemed so straightforward in the hansom cab on her way here, but now she was face-to-face with the woman . . . No, it wasn’t straightforward at all. But she had made up her mind to it, and once she decided on a thing, she went through with it. Besides, what was the alternative? Creep back home and do nothing? She could not bear it, not for another day, not for another moment.

Not for another night.

Portia drew a deep breath. “I am a widow, madame, as you know. My position is such that I must be extremely cautious, which is why I have come here today in a cab, wearing a veil and bearing a false name.”

Aphrodite inclined her head, but her eyes said she had heard all this many times before. That gave Portia some comfort. She wasn’t alone after all; there were others like her who were desperate to escape the strictures society had imposed upon them.

Escape?

No, escape was impossible, but perhaps just for a brief time, she might forget what was expected of her and pretend to be someone else.

“You would like some coffee or tea?” Aphrodite murmured when Portia did not go on. “A glass of something stronger, perhaps, to give you courage?”

“No, please, I don’t want anything to drink,” Portia said in frustration, her gloved hands clenching her reticule. Suddenly, the words spilled out of her, like a dam that had broken: “You are being polite, and I don’t want politeness and good manners; I don’t want to be hemmed in and suffocated with good intentions; I don’t want to pretend to be happy when I am sad and bite back my tears and my anger, to be so . . . so devoid of emotion because in the world I live in it is not the done thing to show how one truly feels . . .”

Aphrodite smiled and her dark eyes glittered. “Go on, Lady Ellerslie.”

Her inner feelings, once set free, could not be stemmed, nor could her sense of desperation. “Madame, just for one night, for one hour, I want to be a living woman again and not a marble memorial to my dead husband.”

Silence hung heavy in the small, chic room. Portia wished she could look away from the courtesan, but that would be cowardly—a denial of the words she had just spoken—so she kept her gaze still and steady as if she were not quaking in her boots.

“I will let you in on a little secret,” Aphrodite said, her voice conspiratorial. “You are not the only English lady of quality who has come here seeking my help, and you will not be the last.”

“I am not? What is the world coming to!” She sounded just like the queen, Victoria, as she had meant to, but her smile took away the sting.

“The world is designed by men, my lady. I will say to you what I said to those others. There is absolutely nothing wrong with a woman wishing to satisfy her sensual needs; it is a natural thing. But in your situation you are taking a greater risk, and it might be safer, and more convenient, if you took a lover from among your own circle. A friend? A servant?”

Portia shook her head. “No. I must be beyond reproach, madame, and if the merest whisper reached the ears of my family or the palace . . . I cannot soil my husband’s spotless memory. You understand that merely by being here today I put all in jeopardy?”

Aphrodite inclined her head. “You must be seen to uphold the pure perfection of Victorian womanhood,” she mocked gently. “I understand very well, my lady, and I sympathize with your dilemma. You have been placed upon a pedestal, and it is lonely up there. Especially if you are a sensual woman, and I think that you are. Forgive me, but can you not remarry? It has been two years since Lord Ellerslie died.”

Portia wondered whether such a question was impertinent. Probably it was, but she did not care. This was the frankest conversation she’d had with a woman in many years, perhaps in the whole of her life. She hadn’t realized until now that such conversations were even permitted to take place. Perhaps they weren’t.

The thought that she might be breaking one of those interminable “rules” made her feel deliciously wicked.

“I do not think my remarrying would be looked upon favorably. I am the epitome of the faithful widow in mourning for her hero husband, and if I remarried, then the spell would be broken. Victoria—Her Majesty the Queen—prefers me to remain as I am. She is fond of telling me that I am a beacon that others may follow. Britannia in widow’s weeds.”

Unfortunately, it was all too true. But it was what she had wanted, after all. Her mother’s ambition and pride had brought her to this point, and her own sense of duty. Would she really want to change places with some happily married little cottage wife? If she was trapped, then it was a trap of her making and one she was content to inhabit—most of the time.

“So, you do not wish to take a lover and you cannot remarry. Instead, you have come to me. Let me guess, you want an evening of passion, but without any ties or conventions. Just a stranger in one of my pretty boudoirs, with little or no conversation, and then goodbye forever.”

If Portia was the sort to blush, she might have done so now, but hers was the cool, fair beauty of the English rose, and she had grown very clever at hiding her true feelings behind it.

“You have guessed right, Madame Aphrodite. That is exactly what I want.”

“Connection with a man you do not know?” the courtesan asked, speaking forthrightly.

Portia tilted up her chin so there would be no mistake. “Yes.”

Aphrodite smiled. “I am not trying to shock you, my lady. I like to be frank with my clients, and then there can be no misunderstandings.”

“I am grateful for your plain speaking. It is not something I am used to. I find it refreshing, Madame.”

“Then let me be plain again. You are not a virgin? I ask because your husband was a great deal older than you. He was still capable?”

Even her mother had not asked such a thing. Her mother would probably have fainted if she had discussed her husband’s prowess in the bedroom. It delighted Portia to be able to say out loud secrets she had kept for ten years. “He was capable, but I was a virgin before I married. As a young girl, I was kept so confined that there would have been no chance to be other than a virgin. But I wasn’t interested in the young men about me. I was a serious girl, not inclined to flights of fancy or dreams of love, and my future had been drummed into me so thoroughly that I believed I had no other choice than to marry well. The family fortunes were riding on me, madame, and to hear such a thing day after day . . . well, I did not take it lightly.”

It was true; well, mostly. There had been one man . . .a boy. Someone she had, briefly, fallen in love with and longed to give herself to, in the dreamy, innocent way of the inexperienced. Not that the boy knew that. They barely spoke, but she had fantasized about him all one summer. Come autumn, she was married. She hadn’t thought of him for years, her life had changed so much, and then, one day, there he was. Inside her head. Her young and innocent love . . . only now her feelings were not so innocent.

Aphrodite didn’t need to know that. Nor that he had taken a leading role in the fantasies she indulged in alone at night. Those dark wicked fantasies.

“After I married my husband I . . . I found I enjoyed the physical part of my marriage, but as you say, my husband was much older than me, and before long he became too ill to take the part of a husband. He was ill for many years before he died. That is not to say I begrudge my time as his nurse, but there was no physical intimacy between us.”

“I see, my lady. You loved him, but now he is gone, and for the sake of the public, the queen, your family, you must remain a perpetual widow.”

“Yes.”

“He was a national hero. They wish to preserve what is left of him.”

“I do not mean to denigrate his name; I would never do that. But I am twenty-seven years of age, and I do not want to be old just yet. I want to feel what it is to be a woman again. I think if I could spend some time with a man who is young and virile, and experience what other women take for granted, then I would be satisfied. Once would be enough.”

Aphrodite’s heavily ringed fingers tapped on the arm of her chair. “I hope you are right, but in my experience, ‘once’ is sometimes the start of something rather than the finish of it.” Her voice had taken on a warning note.

Portia smiled, confident she was in control. “I am willing to take that risk.”

CHAPTER1

It was far too early to go home, Marcus decided as he strolled through Covent Garden. Besides, Sebastian and Francesca would be there, glowing with connubial bliss. Since his brother had married, he didn’t want to go anywhere unless Francesca was with him— in short, he’d become a complete bore. Here he was, Marcus thought, freed from his stewardship of Worthorne Manor and a brief, disastrous stint in the Hussars, ready to experience all that London had to offer, and with no one to share it.

That evening, Sebastian had come to his room. “What are you doing with your life? You’re drifting,” he’d said.

Marcus had shrugged and grinned and told his brother he was jealous. “Not everyone has a purpose,” he said, choosing his waistcoat. “What do you think? This one, or the new one from Bond Street?”

Sebastian sighed and shook his head and gave up, for the moment.

Afterward, he had been to the theater and enjoyed a rowdy supper with some of his regimental friends, but they were called back to the barracks, and now he was all alone. Although normally that wouldn’t have bothered Marcus, tonight he was restless. Maybe he should visit one of the bawdy houses and while away an hour or two? Or attend one of the supper rooms in the Strand where girls in flesh-colored tights and short skirts kicked their legs up high? He considered his options.

A passing pretty woman in an expensive dress and bonnet smiled, glancing at him out of the corner of her eyes. Marcus recognized the look. She was plying her trade, looking for a wealthy gentleman for the evening. Just for a moment he considered being that gentleman, and then suddenly remembered that he did have an engagement, after all. He searched in his waistcoat pocket—ah, here it was! An invitation from the exclusive Aphrodite’s Club.

“‘An evening of pleasure, where you can sample the delights we have available just for you,’” he read under his breath.

Sample the delights . . .

Marcus grinned. That sounded exactly like what he needed. Perhaps some of Aphrodite’s delights would soothe the restlessness in his soul, and restore his usual carefree nature. His mind made up, he hailed a passing hansom cab and set off for Aphrodite’s.

Portia felt as if everyone in the room was staring at her, not directly, but with curious darting glances. But they couldn’t see her; the veil covering her face made certain of that. She might as well have been invisible.

The knowledge gave her power and a sense of security. She was free to look and judge and make her choice, and no one would know. For someone who had spent much of her grown life with the eyes of others upon her, watching and judging her, it was incredibly liberating.

She almost hadn’t come tonight.

Victoria—Her Majesty the Queen—was feeling poorly, and Portia had been expecting a summons to the palace to sit with her. Fortunately, it hadn’t come. Portia felt equal parts of relief and guilt over that. Victoria was increasing again, and it frustrated her that she could not do all the things she wished to. She relied upon her friends and ladies-in-waiting to take her mind off her thickening body. But tonight, Prince Albert had stayed at her side, and Portia was not required.

After supper she went early to bed, pleading a headache. Her mother, whose own headaches were infamous, did not need to be convinced and let her go without a quibble. Hettie, her faithful maid and only confidante, had been waiting. Her plain, good-natured face was creased with concern.

“Are you sure, lieben? You can change your mind.”

“Hettie, you said you would help!”

Hettie took her hand, squeezing it. “And so I will. As long as you are not expecting to find love.”

“Love?” Portia raised an eyebrow. “I am seeking passion, Hettie. A warm body holding mine. I want to feel like a woman instead of a monument. Is that so wrong?”

“No, lieben, of course it isn’t. Come and let me help you dress . . .”

When Portia was ready, Hettie wrapped her closely in a dark cloak, then Portia slipped out to the waiting hired coach.

Now here she was in Aphrodite’s sparkling salon.

There were plenty of gentlemen present. Some were good-looking, but most were not. Portia did not expect a god. She was looking for that certain something, that moment of attraction, that spark that said this was the one. Behind the veil her gaze traveled from man to man. This one too short, this one too fat, this one whose voice was too loud, this one glancing at his pocket watch as if he had to be somewhere else . . .

Was she seeking fault? What if she did not find him?

Portia moved a little restlessly, and the scarlet silk rustled about her. The dress was tight and low-cut, giving her slim body a new voluptuousness and making her feel surprisingly sensual. Hettie had announced that it was a dress to wear to an assignation, as if she knew, and no man would be able to resist her. And the brilliance of the color . . . it had been so long since she’d worn anything other than mourning and half mourning.

She’d dreamed about the dress last night. One of her restless, feverish dreams in which a man held and caressed her in the darkness. And then, just before the end, he turned to the window and the moonlight fell upon his face, and she saw that it was him. Marcus Worthorne. Her seventeen-year-old fantasy from that summer long ago.

Portia sighed now, and wondered if that was her trouble. She didn‘t want just any man; she wanted someone who didn’t exist. Because, of course the Marcus Worthorne who had grown and developed in her mind wasn’t the boy she’d known at seventeen. He wasn’t real. He couldn‘t possibly be.

When she had arrived that night, Aphrodite greeted her and spoke to her discreetly. “Do not worry if there is no one here who catches your eye. There is always next time.”

But Portia knew it was quite possible there might not be another chance.

Ever.

She might not summon up the courage again, or circumstances might step in to prevent her. This was her moment, and she had to make the most of it. She had to take whatever Fate gave her.

So here she sat on her chair in her scarlet silk gown, with the ruffles of lace at the hem, and a scarlet veil covering her face and hair. The glass of champagne she held in her hand had been replaced three times. Or was it four? She no longer kept count. She was feeling light-headed, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Rather like floating in a warm, comfortable cloud, while all about her Aphrodite’s guests moved and conversed, making their choices. Surely this was far more honest than the dreadful debutante ball she remembered attending as a girl? If a woman was going to sell herself to the highest bidder, then let it all be out in the open . . .

She turned her head just as he moved into her field of vision. Her spinning world came to an abrupt halt. The sights and sounds around her merged in a meaningless blur.

Dear God it cannot be . . .

Was Aphrodite a witch? For how else could she have known? But of course Aphrodite didn’t know. She had placed herself in the hands of Fate, and Fate had given her a strange and remarkable gift. Marcus Worthorne, the man of her dreams, was standing in the salon here at Aphrodite’s Club.

Marcus hadn’t visited Aphrodite’s before. That was not to say he hadn’t visited houses of pleasure and bawdy houses, just not this particular one. He had made Aphrodite’s acquaintance, of course—the courtesan was his sister-in-law’s natural mother. But to visit her club . . . no, he hadn’t done that, hadn’t felt it was quite proper. Now, with the invitation in his pocket, the situation had changed.

Aphrodite, an older version of Francesca, smiled at him as he entered the salon, but she had not shown him any particular favor. Good. He preferred it that way. This was strictly private, nothing to do with family relationships.

For a time, he prowled about the glittering and gaudy salon, enjoying the company of the beautiful women, sipping his champagne. It was as if he’d stepped into a fairy tale where the princesses wore very little and were prepared to make all his dreams come true—if his pockets were deep enough.

Well, what was wrong with that? It wasn’t as if he was looking for a respectable wife, for God’s sake. Just a couple hours of pleasure with a companion seeking the same. They could enjoy each other and go their separate ways. But which woman? That was the difficult question. They were all lovely, all charming; it made it impossible to choose.

And then he saw her.

She was wearing scarlet, a dress that clung to her curves, the bodice so low her bosom was barely covered. It could have appeared tacky, but the woman’s posture was so regal, so assured, Marcus thought she might well have worn sackcloth and still have the bearing of a queen. He wished he could see her face, but the veil she wore over her head reached to her shoulders, and he could not see through it. The mystery woman was seated beside a gilt statue of Cupid, and she was so still that she might have been a statue herself. Although he couldn’t see her face or her eyes, Marcus had the oddest sensation that she was watching him.

He made another circuit of the room. The women were still beautiful and so obviously wanting to please, but now they all looked the same. He didn’t know what was wrong with him tonight, but his steps led him back to the lady in scarlet.

Marcus was intrigued by her. She was sitting so still, but wasn’t like a thing of stone. Her skin looked too warm, too soft, too touchable. And he wanted to touch her.

She moved.

Just a slight shift of position, but enough to make him think that she was very aware of him. Perhaps she was as interested in him as he was in her? He thought it would be amusing to find out, to set her a little test . . .

Marcus began to prowl the room again, but this time he kept a surreptitious eye on her. Did the face beneath the veil turn a little to follow his progress? One of the beautiful demimondes wriggled up to him, smiling, stroking his arm as she spoke to him. He leaned down, giving her his full attention, and made a joke. She laughed and tapped him on the arm with her painted fan.

Marcus glanced over at the woman in scarlet. Oh yes, she was definitely watching him. Her head was turned toward him, and she was leaning forward in her chair, to better observe him through the crowd. As if she did not want him to notice her interest, she turned quickly away, presenting him with the elegant curve of her shoulder, casually lifting her champagne glass to her lips.

Marcus strolled on, engaging another of the beautiful women in conversation, and then another, but the game palled when the lady in scarlet did not look again.

“Enough,” he murmured, suddenly impatient with her and himself. He set off toward her, cutting his way through the small clusters of guests, his gaze fixed on her like a hunting jungle cat.

She heard his approach, or perhaps sensed it. She turned toward him just before he reached her. He saw her body stiffen, as if she was preparing herself. Was she shy? More probably, she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings. A first-time visitor. An innocent.

Marcus smiled. This grew better and better.

The view from where he stood was truly delightful. Her breasts swelled over the bodice of her dress, plump and flawless, her skin like milk. A lady, then, and neither old nor wrinkled. He wondered whether she knew the effect she was having on the men in the room. Whether she realized how desperately he wanted to reach out and draw the scarlet neckline down that tiny bit, so that the peaks of her luscious breasts were disclosed to his gaze and his hands. And his mouth.

“Your glass is empty,” he said, his voice deep and soft and intimate. “Will you allow me to bring you another?”

The veil appeared flimsy but was, in fact, surprisingly impenetrable; he could only just see the pale blur of her features. She was hidden from him, and he found it frustrating. He wanted to see into her eyes. He wanted to gaze at her mouth. He wanted to know her.

She said nothing.

“We seem to be unattached, you and I,” he went on, as if her silence didn’t matter to him. “We’re watchers while the world goes by. Do you prefer to watch, is that why you’re here? To watch?”

Still nothing.

“If you want to join me, I promise you I can be fascinating company.” He took a step closer, and her head tilted to keep him in view. Her perfume reached him, something musky and sweet, teasing his senses. Her hand lifted, hovering over her cleavage, as if to preserve her modesty. “No, don’t,” he murmured huskily. “You are the stuff dreams are made of, lady. Don’t spoil it by playing the prude.”

He thought he saw the flash of her eyes. She hesitated, and then her hand returned to her lap.

“Thank you.” He smiled as if they were lovers already, his eyes as hot as his need. “May I?” Before she could move again, he bent down and lifted her hand in his, raising it to his lips. She was wearing gloves, but her flesh was warm underneath the thin cloth. She didn’t want him this close, he could tell, and when he released her, she folded her fingers tightly and dismissed him by turning her head away.

Marcus stepped back. “You wish to be alone?”

Nothing.

“A pity.” He let his gaze run over her one last time, committing her to memory. “I think we would have enjoyed each other’s company.”

He bowed, sober now, but as he strolled away, he struggled with a keen sense of disappointment. The veiled lady intrigued him. He wanted her. Marcus mocked himself: Why was he seeking the unattainable? The room was full of women. He was being ridiculous and childish wanting the only one he couldn’t have. He drank a couple more glasses of champagne and watched as some of the women performed an elegant display behind a thin curtain, a naked rendition of the birth of Venus in a papier-mâché clamshell. He wasn’t particularly interested and found it all rather silly.

It was time to go, before he became drunk and belligerent and sorry for himself.

Marcus was collecting his hat and coat when Aphrodite came gliding toward him in her black silk, her jewels glittering at her throat, her beautiful face timeless.

“Marcus,” she said, “please do not leave yet.”

“I think I must, madame,” he said, polite but firm.

“Is my club not to your liking?”

“Your club is magnificent. Your girls are beautiful.”

“But you are not in the mood to be pleased by mere beauty, oui? You want something more. Would it change your mind if you knew that there is a certain lady who very much wishes for your company?”

“I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would be more appreciative than I—”

“I speak of the lady in the veil, Marcus.”

“The lady in scarlet?”

“You are surprised?” She smiled. “She was very taken with you, mon ami. This is a special commission. Her identity is a secret, and she will wear her veil while she is with you. One evening, Marcus, that is all she requires. Can you give her an evening to remember for the rest of her life?”

Marcus removed his hat and handed it to her with a droll look. “I think I can manage that, madame.”

CHAPTER2

Portia couldn’t sit still. After she’d told Aphrodite which man she preferred, the courtesan led her to this luxurious little room to wait. For the tenth time her gaze flicked to the bed, placed discreetly in a shadowy corner, the plump cushions slyly peeping out from behind the lush draperies—the reason why she was here. And for the tenth time she thought about running away and forgetting the whole thing. But she conquered her fear. Because this was what she wanted, this was what she craved.

I want to feel like a woman again. I want to feel. And Marcus being here . . . it is as if it were meant to be.

Marcus Worthorne was perfect. Oh yes. She thought again of his eyes on her, burning her skin. She’d felt as if he was touching her, and a hot ache had ignited low in her belly. She had fantasized about him for so long, but even in her wildest dreams—some of them very wild indeed—she hadn’t expected him to grow into someone so perfect.

When she was seventeen, he’d seemed distant and unattainable. Perhaps that had been part of his attraction. He hadn’t known she existed, and even now, probably wouldn’t recognize her as the shy girl he occasionally met in the lane while riding his horse, or the girl who embarrassed herself so dreadfully that day in church. But he’d certainly recognize her as Lady Ellerslie; all of England did.

Marcus, the boy, had shown promise of the handsome man he had become, the sort of man she’d always secretly admired. Tall and broad-shouldered and slim-hipped, with the arrogant good looks of someone who didn’t worry about anything much. Oh no, he wasn’t concerned with what life might throw at him. In fact, Portia doubted that his life consisted of anything more than idleness and pleasure. Completely and totally her opposite, for she was very much a prisoner of her own conscience.

But what did that matter? It was the hot look in his eyes that was appealing to her senses, the sound of his voice that sent shivers skipping down her spine. Marcus was a man who knew how to please a woman, and he could give her the sort of pleasure she had been dreaming of. And then walk away without a second thought.

Perfect, Portia reminded herself. She didn’t require any empty promises, or any pretense that there would be a next meeting—in fact, such things would be an insult. It was simple mindless pleasure she wanted. There would be time enough to remember the world outside this room when she left the club. But for now, she wanted to forget everything, just for an hour or two, and Marcus Worthorne could help her to do that admirably.

The door opened.

He stood a moment, silhouetted against the gaslight from the salon, and she wondered if he did it on purpose because he knew how good he looked. But then she realized he was more intent on watching her, seated on the sofa by the fireplace, than striking a pose.

“May I join you?” His voice held the same amused tone she remembered from before, only now it was deeper, with a hint of seduction. She shivered, unconsciously responding to him. A jumble of memories filled her mind, but she shut them out, reminding herself of who she was and her position in the world. She had risen high from her origins, and although he would not know it, the reminder helped to restore her calm.

“Yes, please do,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. Unrecognizable.

He closed the door behind him and strolled toward her with the graceful, loose-limbed walk she had noticed in the salon. Aphrodite’s protégés had noticed it, too. He was the sort of man who would always be noticed. Women would look at him and want him. Perhaps they would even dream of him falling in love with them, but Portia was quite certain he would never love them. Instead, he would break their hearts.

“We haven’t been introduced,” he said, smiling down at her.

The firelight was flattering, casting shadows over her skin, warming her flesh, and this time she didn’t try to hide herself from his gaze. “We need no names,” she murmured back.

“You’re right.” He sat down opposite her.

His eyes were hazel, with a hint of gold. Intelligent but with a cynical gleam that reinforced her belief that he didn’t take life very seriously. But then, growing up in a wealthy and titled family, he’d never had to. In a way, she envied him and his carefree manner—it must be restful to be so self-centered—but she knew she could never be like him.

“I’d very much like to see your face,” he said quietly, in that voice that made her think of bed.

“No.”

“You don’t think you can trust me? I’m good at keeping secrets.”

Was he? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to trust him with hers.

He must have read her answer in her silence because he shrugged and smiled as if it didn’t concern him either way. Reaching out a hand, he touched her fingers, resting on the sofa arm. She could feel him through her thin glove. For a moment, he simply smoothed the lace cloth with his thumb, gently caressing. He was watching her from beneath half-closed lids, trying to gauge her reaction.

“You’re a very beautiful woman.”

“How do you know?”

“You have an air.”

“An air of what?” she mocked.

“Assurance. You expect to be looked at.”

He was clever. She removed her hand, checking that her veil was firmly in place.

“Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t peek.” For a moment, his gaze caressed her idly, and then he spoke in a lazy voice. “May I do something I’ve been longing to do ever since I saw you?”

She was still fussing with her veil, but he didn’t wait for her answer. In a sudden swift movement he was on his feet, reaching for her hands, tugging her smoothly to a standing position in front of him.

Portia gave a gasp, shocked despite herself. In her world, gentlemen did not manhandle ladies, and never so masterfully. She realized that beneath his well-made clothing he must be all hard muscle. She opened her mouth to reprimand him and then closed it again. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this why she was here? There was no going back now, she reminded herself with a shiver of excitement.

“What is it you want to do?” she whispered, taking a step away, giving herself room to breathe.

“This,” he said, and before she could react, he slipped his finger beneath her low neckline and smoothly tugged it down a fraction.

She didn’t struggle. She didn’t reach up to cover herself, or shriek, or slap his face. She stood facing him, half-naked now, and proud as a queen.

He remembered to breathe. “I apologize,” he heard himself say. Apologizing wasn’t something he did very often, but her bearing made him want to beg her pardon.

“Why?” she asked in that husky whisper that was playing havoc with his senses. “You said you wanted to do it.”

“I should have shown more finesse,” he answered. “I usually do.”

“We could begin again, if you want?”

He laughed without humor. “I don’t think so.” It was difficult not being able to see her face, to look into her eyes, although he could see something of her against the fi relight—the shape of her cheek, the curve of her chin.

He reached out and touched her breast, and then bent his head to taste her. She made a sound, a purr in her throat, and he drew her nipple into his mouth, rolling the hard bud with his tongue. Her hands closed on his head, fingers almost painful as she combed them through his hair.

That exotic scent rose from her skin, musky and alluring.

“Do you still want me to stop?” he said, sliding his hands over her shoulders, caressing her back.

“No, I don’t want you to stop.”

He knew then that she was his.

Portia trembled. He had found the fastenings of her dress and made quick work of them. He hadn’t even begun to undress himself, so she did it. Hands at first uncertain, then growing in confidence, she removed his bow tie and unbuttoned his collar. His throat was strong and masculine, and she felt an urge to kiss him beneath his jaw and work her way down. Instead, she reached her hands beneath the fine linen cloth of his shirt and touched his skin. He was very warm, and there were hairs growing on his chest. She couldn’t remember whether her husband had hairs on his chest; she did not think she had ever seen him entirely naked.

She raised his shirt for a better look. There was a line of dark hair running down his stomach and vanishing beneath the waistband of his trousers. She lifted the linen higher and found there was a wedge of dark hair on his chest. His skin was clean and warm, and the urge came again to press her mouth to him and taste him. To do all the things she’d dreamt of and longed to do.

But he had other ideas.

Her scarlet silk dress was pooled about her feet, and he dropped onto his knees in front of her. Good heavens, he was licking the inside of her thigh, his tongue hot and wet as it came closer and closer to . . .

Portia’s head fell back and she gave a groan that came from deep within. All her pent-up desires and her secret cravings surfaced, and she felt the beginnings of a pleasure so all-consuming her knees buckled.

He lifted her up.

She felt the back of the sofa sliding against her thighs, and then he rested her hips upon the top of it, holding her firmly so she didn’t fall. He began to kiss her, little butterfly kisses up the inside of her thighs. She tried to sit up, but the way he positioned her made her helpless. He was gripping her hips, keeping the lower half of her body anchored, but the top half was weak and unsupported. She fell back, arching, her legs splayed.

He closed his mouth over her.

Ecstasy erupted. She may have screamed.

Portia didn’t remember much for several moments. She was still awash with that great maelstrom of pleasure, as if she had suddenly been lifted from London and spun around the stars, before being placed gently back down again.

Slowly she came to, blinking, and wondering why the room was patterned like lace. She realized then that she was still wearing her veil. Nothing else, just the veil. And she was lying in the bed that occupied the shadowy corner of the room.

Marcus Worthorne was beside her, and he was naked. She could feel his large, warm body pressed to hers, his fingers idly caressing her belly, her breasts, while he waited for her to regain her senses. “You were in great need,” he said, and there was an unmistakable note of male smugness in his voice.

“Yes, I was.” There was no point in denying it, and why should she?

“I’m glad I could be of service. Now it’s my turn.” And just like that he was on top of her, his body hot and heavy. He was a big man, and she wondered if she should be afraid, but there was nothing frightening about him—she did not feel threatened. He reached down between them, fingers caressing, teasing the source of her pleasure. “Tell me when you’re ready,” he said as she gave a gasp.

Now. But she didn’t say it. Her throat was tight as she fought the urge to beg and cry out for more, and her skin felt damp and feverish as those repressed desires rose to the surface again. She opened her thighs, instinctively pressing upward, to be closer to those wicked fingers.

“You like this?” he murmured, his breath warm on her cheek through the veil. He shifted slightly, and she felt his male member seeking entry. “Let me kiss you,” that devil’s voice whispered. “I’ll close my eyes. I swear it. Let me lift the veil just enough for me to kiss your mouth.”

“No. . .”

He entered her a little, teasing her, withdrawing again. The tip of his member stroked her, and she weakened.

“You must only kiss my mouth,” she whispered.

He lifted the veil, just enough to uncover her chin and mouth. She felt his finger tracing her lips and then his breath warm on them. Then he kissed her. There was no easing into it, just the plundering of his mouth on hers, enjoying her fully and lustily.

A moment later, his body drove deep into hers, and the shuddering pleasure rushed over her again, so intense that this time she couldn’t even cry out. Wonderful. To think she might never have known this, that she might have gone to her grave with only her dreams for company. The reality was so much better.

Marcus gave a hoarse cry, enjoying her as she was enjoying him, totally lost in the moment. No emotion, no love or recriminations, no thought of the future. Just now.

Exactly as she wanted it.

She must have dozed, because when she woke he was lying beside her, his breathing deep and quiet.

She wanted to touch him, to stroke her fingertip down his cheek to his square and manly jaw. She wanted to explore the breadth of his chest with all those fascinating dark hairs, and the flat plain of his stomach, and all that lay below. But it was over now. Time to leave, before the evening that had so far been so marvelous became awkward and was spoiled. She would savor it, though. When she was seated, bored to death, at one of the endless functions she must attend, she would remember and smile a secret little smile.

It was just a pity that she could not see him again.

Why not?

The thought came from nowhere; sly, dangerous.

Abruptly, Portia slipped from the bed and stood up, her heart beating hard. That was not the plan; that had never been the plan. Once, yes, but more than once was far too risky.

Long, powerful fingers fastened about her slender wrist. Startled, Portia caught her breath, and when she turned to him, he was watching her through half-closed eyes in that lazy, teasing manner she was already growing to enjoy.

“Oh no, not yet, my lady. We are not done.”

“I have to go.” She meant to be firm, but her voice treacherously wavered.

“Do you?” His mouth curved into a smile. He rolled onto his back and stretched, the powerful muscles in his arms and legs tightening, and she couldn’t take her eyes off him. Portia didn’t remember moving; she didn’t remember making the choice, but the next thing she knew she was climbing on top of him, pressing herself to him, all that hard bare skin beneath her naked body.

He grinned, reaching up to stroke her back, following the curve of her hips down to her rounded bottom. She felt him hard against her thighs, and with a smile of her own, she bent her head and lifted her veil, just enough so she could taste his skin.

“Well, perhaps not just yet,” she murmured, feeling him tremble against her lips and tongue. “Perhaps I can wait a little longer.”

“Marcus,” he groaned. “That’s my name.”

I know, she thought, but didn’t say it aloud. Instead, she sat up, resting her hands upon his shoulders, and gazed down at him through the safety of her veil.

“You are mine for this evening,” she said, her voice seductive and powerful. “I can fulfill all my fantasies, act out my wildest imaginings, and no one will ever know.”

Except her . . . and Marcus.

“Please do,” he said, and his smile was pure invitation.

CHAPTER3

“Marcus? What time did you get in?”

Marcus opened one eye, hoping it wasn’t his brother’s voice, but unfortunately, it was. Since Sebastian had married he’d become a first-rate bore when it came to bedtime. But then again, he thought, if he had a wife as delicious as Francesca to retire with, he might be a little more prompt.

“Is that bacon I can smell?”

“Probably. Are you coming to breakfast or are you going to lie there on my library sofa all morning?”

The library had seemed as good a place as any to brood on last night’s experiences—the mysterious lady with the body of a goddess. Oh yes, there was plenty to think about, including why he had told her his name. It had been the perfect scenario. No names, no commitments, not even the need for polite pretenses. Just hot, exciting, bodily contact. And then he’d had to complicate matters by giving her his name.

Why the hell had he done that?

Moodily, he followed Sebastian into the breakfast room and threw himself down into a chair, still managing to appear graceful. His brother, after giving him a sideways glance, began to pour him a cup of coffee.

“I had a letter from my manager, Grieves, yesterday. There’s a problem with some of the tenants at Worthorne Manor.”

“Do they need their hands held?” Marcus retorted. “I know what you’re doing, Seb. You’re trying to find something for me to do, to keep me occupied. I don’t need your help. I can run my own life.”

Sebastian began to pile up a plate with a selection from the sideboard. “It seems to me you aren’t running it very well. Months have gone by since you left the Hussars, and you still haven’t decided on a new course of action, a new career.”

“You spent eight years off playing, brother. I’ve only wasted a year so far. I think of a career as a new pair of boots . . . you have to find the one that fits without pinching.”

Sebastian frowned and set the plate down in front of his brother.

Marcus gave him a charming smile of thanks and set to eating. His exertions last night had certainly given him an appetite. He wondered what she—the mystery woman, the lady in scarlet—was doing at that moment. Was she lying in her bed all warm and desirable while her maids prepared her for the day ahead? Or was her husband lying next to her wondering why she didn’t seem quite as vigorous as usual?

No! Now he’d gone and spoiled the image. No husband, then. She was alone, dreamily sipping her hot chocolate and thinking of him. She was remembering the pleasure they had experienced together at Aphrodite’s Club. Now her hand had slipped beneath the bedclothes and was moving down over the soft curve of her belly, closer and closer to— Sebastian cleared his throat meaningfully.

“What is it, brother?” Marcus said, stifling a yawn.

“You were sitting there with your mouth open. I thought in a moment you might start to drool. You were with a woman last night I take it?”

Marcus laughed. “Of course I was.”

“And you’re wanting to see her again? I know that glazed look in your eyes, Marcus. Lust doesn’t become you. It’s time you considered taking a serious view of women and finding the right one to settle down with.”

Marcus’s grin was smug. “I do take women seriously. You ask any one of my women if she has not been taken very seriously indeed, and she’ll tell you she has. Thoroughly and rigorously. To both our satisfactions.”

“And who is your newest lady love? Tell me it isn’t another actress. Don’t you remember the histrionics you had to put up with when you said goodbye to the last one? Not to mention the blunt it cost to keep her happy.” Sebastian went on, listing his brother’s amours and his own objections to them, but Marcus wasn’t listening.

He was thinking about the lady in scarlet.

He wished he could tell Sebastian all about it, if only so he could make a wager with him. Because he knew the odds were good that even though their arrangement was for one evening only, his goddess was going to ask to see him again. Women had a tendency to want to repeat the experience.

And he was going to accept.

Portia’s feet tapped their way briskly along the gallery toward her bedchamber. This morning she’d been a domestic whirlwind, finishing her tasks in record time. She even replied to several letters she’d been avoiding for a week, and tallied up the household accounts, one of those challenges she particularly loathed but no one else seemed able, or inclined, to do. Now she was going upstairs to change her clothes before ordering the carriage around so she could pay a scheduled visit to Victoria.

Hettie was waiting for her with a smile. “The gray satin, lieben, or the lavender crepe?”

Portia had only recently left off her widow’s black for half mourning in grays and lavenders and other subdued hues. She knew she should by rights have been returning to brighter colors after two years, but when she mentioned it to Victoria, the queen had looked so sorrowful and disapproving that she hadn’t broached the subject again.

“Thank you, Hettie, the gray will do, and I will wear the matching jacket. I doubt I will be staying for luncheon, but one never knows, so you will tell my mother where I am if I do not return?”

“Your mother is still in her room. She has the headache. It must be contagious,” Hettie stated in a level voice, but her eyes were quizzical.

Portia had not spoken of last night.

“My mother is getting worse. Yesterday she forgot my father’s name. Last week she couldn’t remember where she was born. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day she wakes up and doesn’t know who she is. Or who I am.”

“She is forgetful, that’s all,” Hettie soothed.

“I have mentioned her memory to Dr. Bryant but he is unconcerned, and I suppose I must listen to his advice,” Portia replied in a voice that said she didn’t entirely agree with the doctor. She knew her mother was not herself these days, that she had not been herself for some time. Her mind, once so sharp and acerbic, was now wreathed in clouds. The panic in her eyes was heart-breaking to see. When a word or a name eluded her, and she realized it was nowhere to be found, she would lose her temper rather than admit what had happened.

And what could be done? Dr. Bryant said it was a natural sign of aging and there was no cure. Portia, for all her wealth and position, was helpless to turn time around. They must just accept it, she’d decided.

“You are in fine looks today,” Hettie said quietly, but didn’t sound entirely happy about it.

Portia moved to the mirror and began to tidy her

hair. Her reflection gazed back at her, and for a moment, she was startled by what she saw. Could one night of physical excess really affect such an alteration? She was glowing, her skin fresh and healthy, her eyes a spectacularly bright blue. She looked as if she had been on a visit to Victoria’s beloved Scottish Highlands.

“I am, aren’t I?”

“What will you say if Her Majesty asks you what you have been doing to improve your complexion?”

Portia giggled, and then, shocked, bit her lip. She hadn’t giggled since she was seventeen.

“My lady!” Hettie was horrified.

“I . . . I will be good now, Hettie, I promise you.”

She had fulfilled her darkest desire and gotten away with it, but she must never, never risk such a thing again.

Marcus.

Why had he told her his name? She hadn’t asked. She had preferred they remain strangers, in his eyes anyway. She didn’t want to be tempted to search for him or to ask for an encore. A second meeting would surely be a disappointment; it stood to reason that it could not possibly live up to the first.

No, she had no plans to risk a second time.

“That is for the best,” Hettie said, and Portia realized she had spoken aloud. “If you were to be discovered in such a place with such a man, lieben, the disgrace. . .”