Gigi waved her cloth. “There is plenty of time for that.”
At two-and-twenty, she’d had her share of offers from eligible partis, but none of them had interested her. She was certain she would know when the right fellow came along. Marrying for love was a family tradition, and luckily, her parents wanted no less for her. In the meantime, she had more important matters to focus on.
While Letty wandered off to handle correspondence, Gigi continued scrubbing at a stubborn patch of dirt. From beneath the grime, a long, tubular shape emerged… Her cheeks burned when she realized what lay beneath her hand. Attached to the hairy groin of a satyr, the plaster member was huge and meticulously detailed with veins. Its mushroomed tip thrust toward the ceiling. Not long ago, she would have laughed at the ridiculous proportions of the body part. But the Viking loomed in her mind’s eye, and her blood thrummed as she realized that this part of him had been equally sizeable?—
“You’ll never believe this, Lady Gigi!”
At Letty’s voice, Gigi jerked her hand away—too quickly. Her abrupt motion sent the ladder swaying backward, and she held on for dear life as it teetered on rickety legs. Gasping, she leaned forward and tilted the ladder back against the wall. She descended the rungs on shaky limbs. Prepared for an I-told-you-so lecture, she was surprised when her friend didn’t let out a peep. Looking over, she saw why: with her head bent over a letter, Letty had missed Gigi’s death-defying experience.
“What have you there?” Gigi asked.
“It’s a letter from a solicitor,” the spinster muttered, scanning the page. “I’ve had an offer.”
“An offer for what?”
“For the spa.” Letty looked up, her blue eyes glinting with shock. “Someone is offering a fortune to buy it.”
Chapter Two
A month later
Conrad Godwin was a man who did not accept failure readily. At one-and-thirty, he had fought for everything he had—literally, since the initial stake for his business had come from his days as a prizefighter. In the ring, he’d never backed down from an opponent, big or small, and he’d taken that philosophy with him into the boardroom. Seven years ago, he’d established his investment firm, Godwin & Co., and his ability to discern a winner from a loser had made him richer than Croesus.
A few months ago, he’d made the move to London, setting up a plush office near the ’Change. He filled it with men of business he’d trained to provide counsel on lucrative schemes. Toffs were curious about him, and his competitors wanted to know his plans, yet he deliberately stayed out of the limelight. Enigma added to his mystique, and the years in the ring had made him a bit of a showman. He would reveal himself, his true self, when the time was right.
When every part of his plan was in place. When he had both his enemies against the ropes and begging for mercy. Only then would he execute his vengeance.
Anticipation simmered. He was close to achieving the goals he had been working toward for years. A spa, of all things, stood in his path, but he was taking care of that problem in the time-honored tradition: he’d instructed Ezra Marvell, his trusted solicitor, to buy the damned place. The offer was beyond generous for the ramshackle property, but no cost was too great for justice.
While Conrad couldn’t claim many virtues, patience was one of them. He’d been plotting his retribution since the ripe age of eight and could wait a few weeks for his schemes to come to fruition. In the meantime, he sought out diversions such as tonight’s visit to the Temple of Flora. The exclusive bawdy house was hosting an orgy in celebration of the Roman goddess of fertility and flowers. The trompe d’oeil mural on the walls and ceiling transported the viewer to a forest meadow, the effect enhanced by potted plants and silky green carpets.
Like the other patrons, Conrad wore a loose robe and mask to preserve his anonymity. He was seated on a private dais staged to resemble Roman ruins with fallen columns and crawling ivy. He’d reserved the platform because it provided the best view of the room, and he demanded the best. He watched as lightskirts wearing only crowns of flowers danced, flirted, and showed off their skills.
A few feet away, beneath the bower of a fig tree, a woman in a curly red wig was on all fours between two patrons. Her generous breasts jiggled as the men skewered her mouth and cunny. Despite the tasks that occupied her, she noticed Conrad watching and lifted a hand, crooking a finger at him. He had to admire her ambition…and her balance. As he was presently engaged, he shook his head. The whore acknowledged his refusal with a good-natured wink, her attention claimed by another fellow who joined her group.
That was the thing Conrad appreciated about orgies: they were both intimate and impersonal. One could feel the spark of connection, then nothing at all. There were no ties, no lies, no empty promises. He appreciated the honesty, a rarity when it came to relationships.
Looking down, he clenched his hand in the blonde locks of the naked woman kneeling between his thighs. Isobel Denton’s mouth was painted the red of ripe cherries, and she was putting it to good use sucking his cock. Moreover, she’d surprised him by recruiting a lightskirt to share in the task. With his other hand, he sifted through the brunette curls of the prostitute skillfully licking his stones.
As a man who prided himself on self-control, even the combined ministrations weren’t enough to make him spend unless he allowed it, and for now, he enjoyed the indolent pleasure. Isobel drew on his shaft, making slurping noises before releasing him with a wet pop. In the holes of her red mask, her brown eyes had a lusty glow, and she licked her glossy lips.
“Do you like that, darling?” She breathed the words against the flared dome of his cock. “Two mouths on your meaty prick?”
He assumed this was a rhetorical question. However, during the month they’d been casual bedpartners, he had learned not to trust Isobel’s generosity, which usually signaled a desire for something in return. As Isobel liked to be the center of attention, he was certain that her willingness to share came with a hefty price. While he didn’t mind quid pro quo, he despised manipulation. In business and in life, he never agreed to anything without knowing the terms.
He raised his brows. “Was there something you wanted in return, sweetheart?”
“Must you be so distrustful?” Isobel made a moue. “Why can’t I simply want your pleasure?”
“But you want something else as well.”
Isobel studied him, obviously debating whether it was time to show her cards. She was a comely widow with ash-blonde hair and a curvaceous figure. Like many bluebloods, she possessed an excellent pedigree but no money to speak of. The first time Conrad had tupped her, she’d mentioned coyly that the lease on her town house had increased and was coming due, and wouldn’t it be a pity if she had to leave London? He’d gotten the hint and taken care of her year’s rent. Soon thereafter, her modiste’s bills had started arriving at his residence, and he’d taken care of those too. He was a generous man when it suited him, and he was, after all, getting what he wanted in return.
He liked high-kick ladies—their soft hands, expensive perfume, and eager cunnies. During his prizefighting days, he’d had his share of them as they’d enjoyed the illicit thrill of dallying with a lower-class lover…which they’d assumed he was. None of the affairs had lasted long. After the women had had their fill of rough and wild between the sheets, they’d left him to search out another novelty, which was all he’d been to them.
Only once had he been stupid enough to want more. From that debacle, he’d come to understand that relationships were no different from business dealings. Everything was a transaction: a negotiation for power or resources. While females might prefer the candy-coating of romance, they knew exactly what game they were playing. Unfortunately for Isobel, he was in no mood for games…at least, not with her.
The country maid darted across his mind’s eye. Over three months had passed since their encounter, yet he recalled every detail. God’s blood, she had been a looker—easily the most beautiful woman he’d ever laid eyes on. Almost too beautiful to be real. That day, he’d been traveling incognito to surveil Chudleigh Bottoms, which played a vital role in his revenge, and he’d stopped to bathe in a stream. The last thing he’d expected was to run into a water nymph.
