Page 4 of Only Scandal Will Do

“So what’s it to be?” Tommy shouted, struggling against the jostling crowd. “Do you fancy yourself a highwayman, a sultan, or a pirate?”

“Which one will you bid on, Tom?” He turned the tables. “Wouldn’t want to bid against my best friend, now would I?” He stopped before the unlit tableau, his back to the highwayman scene where bidding was escalating. Temptation pricked him like a knife. He really shouldn’t have come.

Tommy grinned, shaking his head. “Can’t bid on any of ’em, I’m afraid. Father put up a devilish fuss over the last scrape I got into. The upshot is, my funds have been cut off until I prove I can keep out of trouble.” The grin became wider. “Going to be harder to do now you’re back in London.”

“What scrape?”

“Later. The bidding’s almost done on the highwayman. Sure you won’t have a go?” A flicker in Tommy’s eye all but dared him. “I bet they let you wear the costume too.”

Enjoying one last wild night was tempting. God knew he needed a woman; the still straining bulge beneath the domino attested to that. But the auction’s appeal began to wane, the amusement draining away without the camaraderie of his friend’s participation. Desperation rose from below and he opened his mouth to ask Tommy to let him stand him the money to bid. But the words died on his lips as a man dressed in a purple and white Roman toga mounted the stage at the second tableau with a motionless body draped over his shoulder.

The Roman stopped to survey the crowd and the body moved, squirmed and kicked, almost landing a foot in the middle of the Roman’s stomach. With an “Ummph!” the senator or emperor, or whomever he portrayed, dropped the struggling bundle on the floor. Though the stage was cushioned in white velvet, the girl hit with a solid thump, but made no complaint. A cheer went up from the crowd.

The senator stood over her, a whip in readiness in case the slave tried anything more. The girl scooted toward the rear edge of the stage, her head shifting back and forth as if sweeping the rowdy patrons. Her full-face mask, however, stopped anyone from seeing her features. Another bold move on Amorina’s part. The mystery behind the mask was intriguing, but asking men to bid on a bit of fluff, sight unseen, could backfire on Madam Vestry.

The slave was dressed in an almost transparent white gown, in flowing Grecian style, its folds torn in places and streaked with dirt. A daringly low bodice displayed full, enticing breasts, with a hint of dark nipples showing through the gauzy fabric. When she’d been flung to the floor, the straight tunic had revealed generous curves at her hips and buttocks.

Duncan’s labored breathing sounded harsh in his ears, drowning out the rest of the clamoring patrons. When he tried to swallow, he found his mouth so dry he had to peel his tongue from the roof.

The scenario itself did not appeal to him, but that girl...that girl with the incredible hair. The mass flowed shiny clean, obviously well-tended; it would fall far below her waist. But the most enticing attribute by far was its fiery, bright auburn color. The long tresses, like molten flame, spilled down the slave girl’s back and around her breasts. Temptation incarnate.

Duncan’s arousal turned rock hard beneath his breeches, a reaction so immediate and insistent, he bent forward slightly to help stifle the hiss of his indrawn breath. He closed his eyes and willed his flesh to obey before his eagerness became embarrassing. By the time he was under control again, the auctioneer was calling for last bids on the girl. If he was going to make an offer on her--as his body well-nigh demanded--he had better do it now.

“I’m offered six hundred pounds for this worthless Christian slave,” the auctioneer intoned, from in front of the stage. “The man who masters her will have his work cut out for him. She’s a feisty one, she is. Who’s up to the challenge?” he goaded the crowd.

Indeed, the girl looked less and less like a slave. She sat stock still in an attitude of defiance at the senator who drew the whip back for a blow. The man flicked the lashes forward, though without any force. Amorina would not want her girls marked. But the little imp on the floor grabbed the leather straps as they fell, twisted them around her hand and pulled sharply downward. The senator, caught off guard, tumbled onto the stage. The girl jumped to her feet, trying to free the whip from beneath the body of her fallen master. As she tugged, her hair rippled around her in the lamplight, a sensual river of burnished copper swirling like a bright mantle.

“Aren’t you even going to bid?” Tommy taunted him.

“One thousand pounds!” Duncan surprised himself--he hadn’t realized he’d spoken aloud.

“Sold!” The auctioneer beamed at the crowed. “Sold to the man in the black domino.” He continued sotto voce to Duncan. “You can settle your account with Madam Vestry right through there, my lord. Her servants will take you to your room.”

Still struggling, acting her part to the very end, the girl was plucked up like a sack of wheat between two men who took her away. A hand pounded his back and he turned to find Tommy grinning broadly.

“Knew you’d do it, Duncan. I can hardly wait to get all the details tomorrow. Suppose you’ll cry off the aunt’s masquerade after this?”

In a daze, Duncan nodded.

Tommy shoved off, found other friends and disappeared into the throng as it swept toward the harem scene. After a moment he recalled he must go sign his vowels, and closed his eyes. The ordeal was not yet over. He still had to face Amorina.

Ridiculous, to be fretting over his ex-mistress. He strode boldly through the curtained doorway, only to be brought up short at the sight of Amorina sitting behind her neat desk. Like a lioness watching her prey advance. Undeniable beauty, unparalleled hauteur, uninhibited passion. He would give anything to feel that exquisitely talented body beneath his once more.

Anything except the risk of scandal.

Duncan sauntered forward, signed the IOU with a flourish, then stood back and braced for the recriminations. Following two years of almost constant, close companionship, he’d cut her from his life overnight. Hell, he hadn’t even been able to send her the customary parting gift.

Of course she’d reproach him.

Madame Vestry glanced at the scrawl, then back at his cloaked figure and said crisply,

“Your purchase has been placed in the blue room, Lord Dalbury. You have the entire night, of course, if you wish.”

Duncan nodded, stunned. To expect anger and accusations, only to be met with detached civility, seemed somehow more insulting. More dangerous. Amorina was not one who forgot or forgave easily. She gestured toward the dim corridor to her right and he left without a word, swirling the folds of his black cape in his haste.

Unfortunately, that little transaction left him feeling out of sorts. Should he simply leave and go home? No. Not only had he paid a fortune for this fantasy, but he was painfully aware of a gnawing ache in his groin. It had definitely been too long. He recalled the slave girl’s brilliant, cascading hair, and his enthusiasm returned.

Duncan stopped before the specified door. One of the servants who’d carried his slave inside rose to open it.