My Dearest Georgiana,
I believe my inability to human properly has caused me to make a muck of things. Gigi, love, I need you to know: I have not had any sort of intimate relationship with my ex-mistress since you and I became betrothed. And I do not want there to be. The only woman I want, in my bed, in my life, in my heart, is you. As you know, my skill set resides in translating someone else’s written word. I quite clearly am inept at speaking English for myself. Now, I hope to explain properly this time, with carefully chosen words that actually articulate what I mean:
While in Kent, I overheard a conversation you had with my sister. One about your desire of the Duke of Ironcrest and his proclivities. I am woefully uneducated in this area—I was unsure what these proclivities would even consist of. But I wanted to be able to offer those to you, whatever they may be. And this is where I erred, erred in the most egregious of fashions.
I went to my ex-mistress for guidance,purelyfor information. There was nothing untoward, no touching, no physical lessons. She informed me of the Duke’s interests and secured pamphlets for me—so that I could familiarize myself with such acts. That is what I was paying her for in my study, for said reading material.
I realize now it was utterly dim-witted of me to go to her, and I should have sought guidance elsewhere—literally anywhere else. I want you to know, I most assuredly won’t be seeing her ever again foranyreason.
I promise I will make this up to you. For as long as it takes. And I would like to start with tonight. I have a surprise for you, one which I hope will show you how dedicated I am to you, solely you, and your desires. I want to be the one to fulfill them for you. Just please bear with me as I stumble along the way. In the box accompanying this note is a black mask. You will need to wear this mask and present the small card tucked in this letter to gain entry. A carriage will be waiting for you at 9 o’clock to escort you to your surprise.
I desperately hope you will take it. Do not fret over much about what to wear. If things go as I plan them to, you shan’t be wearing it for long.
A thousand apologies,
Your hair-brained husband,
Fitz
She dabbed the back of her glove at the corner of her eyes. This letter? It filled her with an overwhelming hope. For her marriage. For her future with Fitz. Her eyes slid shut, and her head sank into the squabs of the rumbling carriage. He hadn’t been unfaithful. He had no desire to be unfaithful. Her husband was simply a fool. An adorable, always-saying-the-wrong-thing fool.
She still was unsure exactly what all this meant—besides the fact that her husband clearly hadnotslept with his mistress. He made it seem as though he wanted to explore her desires with her. But when she had brought one up—one which she thought was relatively tame—he had fled.
Hopefully, whatever this surprise would be, it would also allow for discussion. One where the meaning of her husband’s words were thoroughly deciphered. Goodness, he was as inscrutable as a hieroglyphic. She needed a bloody Rosetta Stone to understand him.
The carriage jolted to a stop, and then a moment later the door swung open, the dim light of the lantern hanging on the building outside filling the conveyance. A white-gloved hand appeared, and she took the servant’s hand and stepped down to the cobblestones. She glanced around. Darkness greeted her on either side of the alleyway, and the hairs on the back of her neck prickled. The lantern in front of her was the only light in the whole of the narrow cobblestone street. She stepped to the door, and the footman hurried forward, knocking on the door for her, then sliding away.
The door opened, and a large man, hair shorn down to his scalp, who looked like he might have a career as a pugilist, eyed her. She lifted her chin and extended the card, proud that her hand didn’t tremble, even despite the hard, scrutinizing stare the beastly man was giving her. She couldn’t imagine Fitz would send her anywhere unsafe. But goodness, he could make some incredible mistakes. The man nodded, and with a hefty step, moved backward, exposing a finely dressed servant in a black tailcoat and bright gold breeches and waistcoat. The footman beckoned her forward and took her card, glancing at it briefly.
“Please follow me, my lady. Your room is ready for you.”
The servant led Georgiana into what was apparently her assigned room. She stepped past the man and paused in the small area just after the door. A giant four-poster bed resided directly in the center of the room, the deep-red velvet curtains tied back with black tassels. There was no headboard, just a generous amount of space surrounding the bed, which looked as though it could be accessed from any of the four sides.
“Please undress, and youramantewill be right with you, my lady. There is a robe in the armoire for you. Refreshments and a light repast, including chilled champagne and spiced biscuits”—he gestured to a small table in the corner decorated with an assortment of nibbles—“are set up for you just there. And there is a fully stocked dressing table. Help yourself to whatever you need to prepare yourself. Any of the items you use are yours to keep after today. They are all new, never before used. If you will require assistance removing your garments or with your coiffure, I can send in a lady’s maid.”
Georgiana blinked at the man, eyes wide. “I can manage. Thank you.” She somehow formed the words through her bewilderment.Any of the items are yours to keep. Whatever did that mean?
He bowed and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Her head was spinning. She was clearly at a brothel. And averynice one, if the state of the room was any indication. She supposed she now saw what her husband meant when he said not to worry over much about what she chose to wear. Since apparently, she was to remove it immediately. She hastily shrugged out of her dress, a simple one that buttoned down the front—thankful she’d forgone a corset—and slipped into the charcoal silk robe. She hummed happily; it was delectably soft.
She grabbed a glass of champagne and a biscuit and began exploring the room. The walls were wood paneled with a rich walnut, oak, the entire back wall laden with shelves chock full of items. Georgiana walked forward, slowly perusing the shelves. Birch rods, riding crops, cat-o’-nine-tails. Her eyes widened. Paddles, feathers, rope. She paused before an assortment of fabrics, scarves of thin-silk, others made of thicker, sturdier materials, leather, but all for the same purpose—restraints, blindfolds, gags. Her heart rate kicked up. She glanced back at the bed and couldn’t believe how she had missed the loops and knobs decorating the frame. Limitless places for things to be tied. Her breath hitched. Fitz truly was going to give her anything she desired.
She downed her champagne, the bubbles tickling down her throat, the tart, crisp liquid sending a shiver down her spine. She leisurely made her way to a small table, nibbling on her biscuit, and her eyes widened. The table was covered with an assortment of…intriguing…items: connected beads, dildos in various shapes and sizes, clamps, melted wax, a bowl of ice—
“Well, isn’t this a surprise,” a deep, familiar voice murmured behind her.
She spun, and her eyes threatened to pop right out of her head.
Because there before her—
Was none other than the Duke of Ironcrest.
Georgiana was frozen, as frozen as the chunks of ice in the bowl next to her. The Duke stepped into the room, his face expressionless, lips flat, dark eyes unreadable, scar stark.
What was happening? Why was he here? Where was Fitz? Her mind reeled. She couldn’t make sense of this. And then quick as the snap of a whip, her mind flew to her husband’s letter.
I have a surprise for you.
