“So I’m to offer up my cock for the lady’s mouth?” shouted someone behind her.
Letitia jolted in her seat, looking at the man next to her in alarm. She had thought he was a gentleman, so she was not prepared for his friends to be rowdy, uncouth types.
“We‘ve no need to yell about it through the Forest, Clar—Fawn,” said an exasperated voice that sounded somewhat familiar.
“Fawn?” cried the first man. “Why am I to have such a lacking nickname when you’re Stagshade and he’s the High Buckthorn?”
Letitia held back a giggle. These men were clearly toying with a recent addition to their group. Served the man right for yelling and disturbing her peace!
“Where shall I seat myself?” asked a familiar voice behind her. Letitia’s blood ran cold. She’d been under the protection of that man, Sir Francis Pinchpenny, for months, but she’d yet to getused to his casual cruelty. Or perhaps it only increased with time; it was difficult to gauge when she spent so often wandering through a mental pea soup.
“I want to see you use her,” he continued. “She’s a good little slut when you fuck her hard, but she gets skittish under a gentle hand. Like so many of her ilk, she only learns her lesson if you draw some blood.”
Oh God, there isn’t enough laudanum to get through this night,she thought, her shoulders slumping.
“Fuck.”
Before her stood another nude man with a thick cock and a stag mask.
But Letitia’s blood ran hot and cold all at once when she recognized a scar on the man’s thigh. It wasn’t large enough to warrant notice from anyone except a most devoted lover, cataloging even the tiniest marks on his beautiful body. While abed one morning, he’d told her the story of how his younger brother had accidentally discharged a rifle in the family portrait gallery and almost unmanned him.
They’d laughed until their ribs ached, the danger many years in the past and the wound so minor now. Then Anthony had climbed atop Letitia and shown her that there was no lasting damage to that part of him.
There’s no way he recognizes me,she thought, her heart breaking for the thousandth time since their parting. They’d crossed paths at the opera and restaurants, but he’d always looked right through her, as if she weren’t there at all. Had never been there. And accordingly, she’d become a ghost.
She hadn’t consumed enough laudanum to get through this night. This was going to kill her, and she wouldn’t even have the benefit of being blissfully unaware of the passage of time, the feelings in her body, and the latest rending of her heart.
Letitia had a bottle in her reticule. Where had she undressed? She vaguely recalled leaving her clothing in a heap somewhere, with the bag tossed carelessly atop the pile. Why hadn’t she brought it with her to the ballroom? She knew what these men would do under the direction of Sir Francis. Her stupidity knew no bounds; it was as if she wanted to experience anguish.
“I think you should start by fucking her arse,” said Sir Francis, clearly eager to get her humiliation and hard use underway.
The masked man who had originally approached her cast Sir Francis a quelling glance despite the papier-mâché covering what was no doubt a commanding expression.A champion — how novel,she thought.
“Always happy to fill a lady,” said the man now called Fawn, an awkward note in his voice.
“No oil for this little slut,” said Sir Francis, clearly not knowing when to still his mouth. “Likes a rough slide. Cries out for it. Or maybe just cries. Hard to tell with a whore.”
Letitia’s head dropped forward. It was one thing to accept certain acts that brought her no joy in the privacy of her rooms, but to have her secret shame spread out like a meal before other men — including the one she used to love — was too much. There wasn’t enough medication in her system to numb her to this, and she suspected there could never be enough, no matter how much she consumed.
She stood from the bench, her hands going out to steady herself. It put her right before Anthony, but he didn’t back away.
“Please excuse me while I fetch something from my reticule,” she whispered.
“You’ve had enough.”
Letitia looked into the eyes within that mask. For the first time in years, Anthony seemed to see her. And yet, he didn’t seem to recognize her. It was a relief. The thought of him knowingly witnessing her degradation made Letitia’s stomach churn.
“Who are you to say?” she asked, her newfound mental clarity taking the shape of a spear she wished to hurl at this man.
“Who am I…?” Anthony stared at her as if in disbelief. He turned in a circle as if summoning the patience to respond. Good. Landing a blow felt satisfying.
“If you could point me to the dressing room—”
“Do you have belongings in domiciles owned or rented by that man?” asked Anthony in a low voice.
Letitia paused, unsure of what he was asking.
“Your things. Where are they?”
