“Who sent ye?” he repeated.
Understanding dawned in that moment and I felt a flush rising up my cheeks. Tom’s expression was perplexed as I struggled to remember the precise wording Lock had used.“Tell them my sister sent ye.”
“My sister.”
With a grunt, the man stepped back and tipped his head, allowing us entry. I knew what I’d find based on my brief time on the continent, but Tom was in no way prepared.
There were molly houses in London, but none I’d been brave enough to frequent—not at the risk of Mother’s and Davina’s reputations and security. If I’d had a bit more warning, I probably wouldn’t have risked it here either. But the wide-eyed awe with which Tom glanced around the room, a ruddy flush rising up his chest and cheeks, was enough of a reward.
The environment was tame at the moment, though it would probably get more exciting as the night wore on. I was almost certain he’d never experienced anything like it.
“Molly house,” I whispered in his ear.
He nodded distractedly.
And then, with the ceremony it was due, I reached for his hand and laced my fingers between his, before releasing a breath. He startled, glancing down before meeting my gaze. Agonizingly slowly, he brought our joined hands to his lips where he kissed the back of mine.
“Ye’ll need to move oot of the doorway.” The guard from before muttered, tipping his head toward an empty table. I pulled Tom after me to sit.
We were quickly attended by a man in a dress that would have made my mother weep with envy, a vibrant red silk with more lace than fabric. He’d forgone the stomacher, leaving hisfront bare for the viewing. “Good evening, gentlemen?” There was a flirtatious note in the tone.
I nodded and replied, “Good evening, sir? Ma’am?”
“Ma’am,” she confirmed.
“Whiskey for me. Tom?”
He nodded again, still not managing to form a word.
“First time?” the server asked.
“Yes.” His voice was strained.
“Dinnae worry, lad. We’ll be gentle with ye.”
I hummed. “I’llbe gentle with him.”
“So possessive,” she teased, then wandered off with a swish in her step. Tom’s gaze flicked over to another table where two men were kissing freely, openly. And I rather suspected a bit more, though I couldn’t see.
“Xander…”
“I know.”
“I’d heard of such a thing, but I never?—”
“I know,” I whispered, resting my forehead against his temple, breathing in his fresh scent.
“It’s…”
“A lot?”
“Wonderful,” he murmured, and I turned to follow his gaze. Two older gentlemen, one with hair mostly gone grey, the other with little hair to speak of, shared a table across the room, simply murmuring quietly and holding hands. I knew the ambiance would be nothing like this in the hours to come, when drink and other substances took hold in the night air. But now, in the late afternoon, it wasn’t so different from Gunter’s or Hudson’s, with happy couples chatting amiably.
A tall, shapely man came over to us with two glasses of whiskey. He wore a black, richly embroidered, feminine corset over his shirt in place of a waistcoat and I heard Tom’s quiet gasp at the sight. The man’s braces hung around his waistand he’d forgone a coat. Though there was nothing particularly scandalous about the outfit, I could tell that Tom felt something—whether it was intrigue or distaste wasn’t entirely clear. At least not until his tongue darted between soft lips.
“There you are, boys.”
“Thank you.” I waited until he turned back to the bar before questioning Tom. “So, a corset?”
