Unfortunately, he did sign the contract she mentioned. In truth, an hour did not seem like such a grand forfeit considering Jarret’s tendency to lose far, far beyond his means. With no other choice, Ralston gave a nod, agreeing to the terms. When he asked what he’d be expected to do during this hour, Mrs. Dove-Lyon noted, “Do not worry. You will not be threatened or injured, my lord. This is not that sort of club,” she added with a smile in her voice. “Wait here. All will be made clear.”
Then she left.
A long ten minutes passed before her emissary arrived—another great burly fellow who made a gesture indicating Ralston was to go with him. Though annoyed by the lack of explanation, Ralston’s determination to finally get the matter settled so he could get home to his bed had him following the man up two flights of stairs, then down a darkened hallway. Stopping at the end, the bouncer stepped to the side, gave a nod, then walked away, leaving Ralston alone before a closed door.
Apparently, he was to enter.
A quick spear of trepidation arced through him.
What would he find in the room beyond? The Lyon’s Den was renowned for its pleasures and entertainments, but he’d heard of some wild things happening within the walls of the elite club. And he suddenly recalled that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was also known as the Black Widow of Whitehall. A foreboding title.
But the debt had to be paid. She’d demanded an hour. With everything he’d been forced to do in his life to keep his family’s interests and reputation secure, surely, he could endure an hour of whatever Mrs. Dove-Lyon had planned for him.
If he were being completely honest with himself, he had to admit to being curious. Hadn’t Jarret taunted him earlier in the night, saying he’d become too stiff and proper and could benefit from the kind of pleasures offered at the Lyon’s Den. He’d scoffed at the idea then. But perhaps…
His nerves buzzed with a subtle but poignant anticipation.
It had been ages since he could recall a time when he hadn’t felt a need to overthink every word or deed or action he committed. Ages since he hadn’t been the one to know exactly what needed to be done and how and when and why.
Standing now, before a closed door with no idea what he might be stepping into put him at an extreme disadvantage. He should feel wary and resistant.
Instead, he was invigorated by the prospect of walking into something utterly unknown. The recklessness of that thought alone should have had him turning on his heel to leave the club, repayment bedamned.
But his duty was too deeply ingrained, even when it contradicted the role he’d been raised to play.
It occurred to him that Mrs. Dove-Lyon was certainly crafty enough to corral him into a compromising situation to use against him later. Despite her assurances of discretion and privacy, she could easily be setting him up for blackmail. But if this was the only way to settle Jarret’s debt, he’d go through with it. Though he couldn’t bring himself to completely trust Mrs. Dove-Lyon, he trusted himself enough to know that whatever came out of the next hour, he’d find a way to ensure no negative consequences fell upon his family.
Before he reconsidered, he stepped forward and opened the door. Crossing the threshold, he entered a surprisingly large room lit by a chandelier hanging from the center of the ceiling. The wood floor was painted a gleaming black while the walls were covered in gold brocade. Heavy gold drapes concealed windows and shielded at least one semi-private alcove that he could see across the room. The furniture was sparse; a long table against one wall, a single throne-like chair, a chaise set in the shadows of the alcove. Despite the frequent glint of gold and the light overhead, the room retained an unsettling darkness in its farther reaches.
A soft whisper of sound reached him from the depth of those shadows, then a single word.
“Arrête.”
The command to stop—spoken in sultry French—surprised Ralston enough that he instantly obeyed. He hadn’t even realized there was someone else in the room. A delicate hum ignited throughout his body as a figure slowly emerged from thedarkness across the room. A female figure with dark, upswept hair and deep curves, dressed in black with a mask that covered all but her rich red lips.
Instead of approaching him, the masked woman kept a certain distance as she started to circle around him. Slowly. Keeping half in shadow and half in the soft glow of the chandelier. As he followed her silky movements with his gaze, Ralston noted how her eyes caught occasional glints of light, making them flicker with golden fire. When she disappeared around behind him, he tensed, thinking he should turn to keep her in sight. But for some reason a deeper instinct urged him to remain unmoving instead while tension tightened his muscles and his senses clamored for information.
He could hear the click of her boots on the hard floor and the soft slide of silk on skin with each step she took. He caught the faintest whiff of some light perfume reminiscent of night-blooming jasmine. Her presence behind him was not unlike a predator assessing prey. Stalking him.
It was not a new experience for him to be the object of others’ focused attention. But this felt different. Intimate. Charged.
He forced himself to remain composed despite how the fine hairs at his nape lifted in awareness. The silence had gone on long enough.
“Who are you?”
She clicked her tongue, as if in admonishment.
Frustration stirred.
The woman stepped back into his view and continued to a spot several paces in front of him. Finally facing him squarely, she slowly, deliberately smoothed her hands down the sides of her stiff-boned corset to rest on her hips. Then she tilted her head and curved her red lips into a smile that sent a frisson of alarm and something else through his core.
“You owe Madame a debt.” Her words were thickened by a French accent. “I am the collector.”
His stomach tightened. He was to give an hour to this dark creature?
Ralston was not a man to frequent brothels and bordellos. He preferred to keep his sensual exploits more private and well-contained. Since coming of age, he’d had arrangements with three different mistresses. Discreet women who offered their companionship in exchange for his care and consideration and financial support. Modest, proper relationships that kept the passion to the bedroom and ended without fuss or fury or even a hint of scandal.
Despite his lack of experience with the kind of temporary and more casual arrangements to be made in places such as the Lyon’s Den, he knew enough to understand that the current situation was backwards. How was he to settle a debt by spending an hour with this seductress? Typically, one would have to pay for such an experience. Jarrett had even mentioned a Frenchwoman whose services came at a precious cost.
