Mirabel was swimming in shame.
Why, ohwhy, had she listened to her sister when Octavia suggested the owner of Lady Fortune could discreetly help her to find a lover?
You’ll be wearing your mask, Octavia had said.
Your anonymity is assured there, Octavia had said.
It is better than going to a disreputable house where you can choose a cicisbeo as if you are choosing the color of your evening gown, Octavia had said.
At which point Mirabel had demanded to know how her unwed sister was aware of such houses of ill repute. Octavia had shrugged, offering nothing.
But what neither Octavia nor Mirabel had considered was just how devastatingly handsome the owner of Lady Fortune was. He possessed the sort of masculine beauty that robbed one’s breath. That made one’s heart leap. That made one’s tongue feel as if it had been stitched to the roof of one’s mouth.
She could go on, but he had just told her that mayhap he could be of help to her. She was humiliated enough to linger, despite the dreadful manner in which the interview had thus far unfolded. Partially because she wished the floors would open and swallow her whole.
“Your help is no longer required,” she managed to say, sounding like the woman her marriage had forced her to become.
The Duchess of Stanhope was a cold, emotionless, rigid apostle of propriety. At least, she had been, when she’d had no other option. And she still was, according to all who knew her. The social circles in which she traveled were impeccable. Nary a hint of scandal had ever tainted her name.
And that was why, now that Stanhope was gone and her period of mourning was at an end, a secret membership in Lady Fortune and the chance to experience everything she had missed had been decidedly, deliciously appealing. Appealing enough to risk everything for this meeting. There was some comfort in her anonymity, but the social damage which could befall her children should word of her indiscretion spread remained a terrifying danger.
He stepped nearer to her, bringing with him the scent of citrus and leather. And bringing his impossible magnetism as well. The man was a walking, breathing invitation to sin, from the tousled mahogany waves of his hair to those dark, spellbinding eyes, to the fall of his cravat. And that was to say nothing of his height, his broad shoulders, long legs…
Lady Fortune’s owner raised an ungloved finger and dared to touch her, tracing the bare patch of skin beneath the gold-and-ruby necklace adorning her throat. That rough pad swept along her collarbone, sending a trail of answering fire burning straight through her.
“Are you certain it is no longer required, my lady?” he pressed. “You are lingering.”
Any woman would have tarried with this man, just to remain in his presence for another minute. But she did not say that, for it would be more foolish than all the revelations she had thus far made.
“I am certain. Once again, I beg your pardon.”
His finger was still upon her, tracing slowly,branding. “I could be your lover.”
His words shocked her. Someone gasped, and she knew it must have been her, yet she had no recollection of forming the sound, so thoroughly had he taken her by surprise. “You?”
He considered her, that maddening forefinger hovering on her hungry skin.
When was the last time she had been touched by a man for the sake of touching alone? She could not recall. Stanhope had bedded her out of necessity, and after she had given him an heir and a spare—three children later—he had never again visited her bed. His defection had been a relief rather than a disappointment, but now, she longed for connection.
Forthis.
With this man.
“Me,” he said.
Her every sense came alive.
“I…”
“Need a lover,” he finished for her, smiling slowly.
With wicked intent.
She felt that smile in the ache that blossomed to life between her thighs. “Need seems a bit strong of a word.”
“Require seems just as strong, no?”
He was not wrong, and yes, that was how she had initially phrased her request. Had it been an ill-chosen word? Her head was muddled. Her tongue, tangled. Her body, aflame.
