Black Silk (6 page)
She needed one of the clues.
Swansborough gave her a lazy smile, the sort a lion would to a gazelle trapped beneath its paw.
“You have the most dangerous look in your eyes.” He had his trousers in his hands. “And considering I can see it even though you are masked, it definitely strikes fear in my heart.”
Determined, fighting nerves, she got up. Smoothed her skirts—as hopeless as that was. “I need the clue,” she said and gave her explanation.
His dark brows lifted. “Georgiana is that clever?” At her nod, he shook his head. “Astounding. You do realize you have to be whipped to get that clue.”
“What?”
“The lady of each couple is to be tied up and whipped. The gentleman is to receive some anal play from willing wenches while the whipping takes place.”
Georgiana had sent her here to be whipped?
“Do you still want a clue, sweetheart?”
“I don’t want to be whipped!”
“At the hands of an expert, it can be quite a sensual experience.”
“You’re mad! No!”
“I’ve never had a jade be quite so blunt, love.”
A mistake. Perhaps women readily agreed to be whipped if the suggestion was made by a man like Lord Swansborough. What if Georgiana’s life depended on her submitting to a lash?
“Not to worry, love.” That generous smile again, this one lighting up his eyes.
Easy for him to say that.
“I will get you a clue.”
“How—”
“Lock the door behind me, lass,” he continued without pause. “Barricade it if you wish. When I return I’ll knock three times and serenade you.” He fumbled with the buttons on his trousers.
“You’re drunk.”
“Not enough to stopping thinking, alas.” He picked up a wing chair and carried it to the door. He wore shirt, trousers, shoes, and an open waistcoat. “Shove the back under the knob,” he instructed.
She certainly knew how to barricade a door. She had both an older sister and a younger one.
The instant he closed the door behind him, and she was alone, Maryanne sprinted over, turned the key in the lock, and jammed the chair in place.
Now all she could do was wait.
And think about how exquisite it had been to hold the broad vee of his back and surge up to meet his thrusting cock.
Or she could think about being ruined. Think about being pregnant, possibly.
Think about how gloriously she had thrown away her life.
He had promised her the clue, and now he must live up to his promise. Besides, he needed the clue, too.
The brandy began to taste sour in Dash’s mouth, and his head buzzed with the descent from lust and alcoholic madness.
He’d thought his cousin hadn’t known.
Murderer.
The word still rang in his head. His cousin Robert thought he was responsible for an innocent man’s death—for the death of Robert’s older brother, Simon.
He needed to shove aside those thoughts. He wished he could go back to Verity to obliterate his memories with ecstasy. To obliterate his mind.
There was drink to be found everywhere—carried on silver trays by half-naked footmen. He threw two glasses of champagne into his belly. The dull roar in his head focused once more.
The couplets of the clue that brought him here danced in his head:
Dark pleasures on the fringes of Mayfair for the daring, the bold
Bindings at slim wrist and ankle fair, the flick of a lash to behold
’Til torment and ecstasy shatter the voluptuous lass
And willing wenches use clever tongues to pleasure a gentleman’s ass
The last line was raw, blunt, designed to titillate. He enjoyed anal play, especially from a woman’s tongue—it was a treat rarely bestowed. A soak in the tub followed by a woman lying between his thighs, licking cock, ballocks, and anus. Such a rare boon, he had to admit he’d be almost tempted to take Verity to the dungeon, if she were to enjoy the same fun and avoid the whipping. But genuine horror had shown in her brown eyes at the thought of birch work.
Scavenger hunters—in couples—held the clue cards and raced toward a plain wooden door set in the wall of one of the back rooms of the town house. He’d been here months ago—Dante’s Dungeon was famed amongst those who sought dark pleasures.
As he followed the crowd down the narrow, twisting staircase, he overheard snippets of conversation. All the women expressed the same fear: “Am I really to be bound? To be whipped?” And the men laughed about their fate with the wicked jades awaiting them—a pretty pink tongue thrusting in their asses.
Dash joined the crowd that stood in the shadows of the punishment cell. One nude auburn beauty was being shackled in place. She gave her partner a fetching smile. A proper little submissive, she would accept her whipping with pretty grace.
The men who bound her were footmen dressed only in black breeches, with massive codpieces of gold. Two attended her, one on each side, locking the iron bracelets around her wrists. They bent, locked up her slim ankles. Her back was to the expectant crowd—full hips, large derriere, small waist.
She sighed delightedly as the footmen pinched her nipples and spanked her bottom. “Oh, yes. I have been naughty. I do need to be punished.” She half turned, face enraptured.
He scanned the crowd. Craven stood with a buxom blonde on his arm. Hell, he wanted to break Craven’s nose. No sign of Barrett, Craven’s partner.
And, damn, Robert was there—he saw the back of his cousin’s head, candlelight touching the curls as black as his own. A man stood beside him, a man who drew pensively on his cheroot—Jack Tate, the gaming hell proprietor who owed him twenty thousand pounds.
A woman walked forward, dressed in only a dyed-black corset and Hessians tailored to fit her shapely legs. The Queen of Dark Pleasure. She wore a mask, of course, with feathers of purple, the face encrusted with diamonds. Her lips were smeared with creamy crimson paint, her smile superior and cruel. A towering powdered wig disguised her hair.
Many speculated she was the Dowager Duchess of Derby.
All around him, the waiting women caught their breath. The Queen flicked the whip, sending the tail snapping against the stone flags on the floor. All jumped. One woman squealed. The victim, the auburn woman, tipped her head back, letting her curls spill down to her lower back. She then bent forward, exposing the line of her spine. Her hands fisted, and she betrayed herself with a flinch that sent the chains rattling.
Though he’d been in the same position himself, naked and spread-eagled, he had to fight the urge to free the auburn girl. He knew he could tolerate any pain, any torture—he had before. But a delicate, innocent, trusting woman…
He saw them then. A woman with a robe tossed around her, loose and flowing. A gentleman walked at her side, holding her hand and speaking in soothing tones.
Dash followed them back to the stairs.
“A thousand for your clue.”
Startled, the man paused and halted his lady, who held the robe and gaped. The woman gave a small gasp, a flutter of her lashes.
Had he made love to her one night? He couldn’t remember. He did recognize the man now. Viscount Braxton.
Braxton give a high-pitched laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand and a private harem trained in the erotic arts at Eden Manor.”
Eden Manor was a notorious country estate. Rosalyn Rose ran the place and taught her girls not to shy away from any sexual game—no matter how perverse. Reputedly the girls were innocents when they began, from impoverished gentility, desperate enough to go willingly to their fates. These were prostitutes who could not be purchased for money. Rosalyn knew her trade—she had made this “harem” exclusive and legendary.
Did it mean Rosalyn was involved in the disappearances of the Lady F and the other? Dash’s throat knotted as he remembered that Eden Manor was only a dozen miles north of his family seat.
“But you have to win to claim the twenty.” Coolly Dash let his tone remind Braxton that he would likely not win. “But I will pay five.”
The girl trembled. Her back must be stinging and raw. Her eyes spoke volumes, yet she dutifully did not speak.
“Five, eh?”
Braxton was in dun territory, close to having his credit refused.
With a shrug, Braxton pulled a card from a breast pocket.
“What does this mean?” Frowning, Maryanne again read the four-line clue.
Ascend to heaven to find true delight
But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight.
The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar
And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar.
“You truly only paid for this—you didn’t do those things?”
“No, sweetheart. No whippings. No clever tongues pleasuring my arse.”
She knew her cheeks were flaming. “How much did it cost you?”
“Enough, love.” Swansborough lounged on the chaise again. His eyes were shut, his long legs sprawled off the end of the ivory silk cushions.
“How does one ascend to heaven?”
“One comes, love.”
“There must be more to the clue than that.” Suddenly Maryanne realized she had spoken to him the way she would to her sisters. She had forgotten who he was, his status, his station. Quickly she added, “My lord.”
He laid his hands on his chest, fingers entwined. Black curls peeked out in the open vee of his white shirt.
“To what would you hold on tight…?” she mused.
“In orgasmic flight? Depending on the position, your lovely plump tits, your sweet derriere, your slim ankles…ah, I could go on.”
“You are not helping.” But her quim grew wet at his words, and her heart lurched at the way he teased her. They were strangers, yet making love had somehow made them friends—
“Serpent’s river,” he muttered. “That could be the Serpentine. Which fits with ‘thundering horse.’ I’ve raced horses in Hyde Park. But what about ascend? To go up. To fly. To—”
“Balloon ascension!” Maryanne cried. In London, they had all gone to see one in a park. “Goodness, people are going to make love in a balloon?”
T
orches burned in a ring, flickering in the summer’s breeze, licking at the dark sky. At this time of night, Hyde Park was quiet, and, of course, at this time of year, many of the
haute volée
were not in town.
The flames crackled softly, sending a smoky, warm scent into the gently roiling air.
Maryanne gazed upward at the taut ropes illuminated by the soft light. The bottom of the enormous balloon could be seen, gaudily patterned, but the top disappeared into the star-flecked darkness. The woven basket beneath looked precarious and impossibly small.
She faltered. She couldn’t go up in the air in that!
Lord Swansborough’s fingers cupped her elbow. Sandalwood surrounded, tempted. “We appear to be the only couple here.” A soft rumble by her ear, his voice buoyed her courage. Yet they were not really a couple. Not really partners.
“You needn’t have come with me. I could have taken a hackney myself.”
His hand released, then slid around, and he held her the way a man held a dockside tart, with hand locked around her waist, and her body snuggled tight against him.
“You, at least, I can protect, love.” His voice was low yet intense. A deep, dangerous sound.
Did she want his protection? Did she want a partner? Georgiana, her partner in publishing, caused her nothing but trouble—had brought her into this dangerous game. And her mother had once believed Rodesson would stand at her side as the most intimate partner—husband. Her mother had been left to rely on herself.
The torchlight lit up the faces of the men attending the balloon. Red-gold light caught a beaked nose, a hollowed cheek, even the scarring of a man who’d lost an eye. They looked like demons in Hades, drinking and smoking, laughing raunchily in the quiet park.
Was Georgiana here in the park? Had these men seen her?
And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar,
the riddle read.
Maryanne stopped, and Swansborough halted with her. His aristocratic face gazed down in concern. Painted by golden firelight, he was utterly breathtaking—his face a sculpture of sharp cheekbones and firm, sensuous lips. Darkly shadowed, his eyes reflected both silver moonlight and bright torchlight.
“Gentlemen usually ride in the early morning, don’t they?” she asked. “Doesn’t that mean we will have to wait? Aren’t there supposed to be thundering horses?”
“We will see. Your madam might already be there.”
“Georgiana is not my madam. She is my…” She could not say
partner
, not without piquing his interest, prompting questions she didn’t want to answer. “My friend.”
“Friend,” he repeated. His lips lifted in a smile. “And you hesitated a very long time.”
“Why are you not like other drunk gentlemen?” What foxed man would listen so intently to her conversation? What sober man, for that matter? “Any other man would have fallen asleep by now.”
“Well acquainted with drunk men, Verity?” He sounded amused, but with his face in shadow, she couldn’t be certain.
“As most women are.” Which was true. Any woman who spent time around men, even in a country setting, in the most innocent of contact, would become acquainted with foxed men.
“You are very intriguing, Verity. Most women would be wondering what they could obtain from me. We made love, after all. What did that mean to you?”
Everything. But she knew it meant nothing to him. It had been merely an amusement.
A rattle behind sent her heart hammering. She spun around as a curricle drew up and two grays tossed their heads. Long white plumes waved on a lady’s bonnet, and Maryanne felt both hope and fear. The lady was clad entirely in silver and white. Georgiana did that on occasion. Who was the gentleman driving the carriage—was he a threat?
But as the tall gentleman, attired in a heavy, three-tiered greatcoat, jumped down, Swansborough murmured, “Lady Yardley and the Duke of Ashton.”
Lady Yardley waved a greeting at Swansborough. “Dear Lancelot! Have you completed the task?”
Lancelot?
Maryanne gaped as he released her waist and swept a bow for the Countess of Yardley. “Not yet, my dear Sophia.”
The countess smiled wickedly and toyed with a silvery blond curl. Though she was not young, she was exquisitely lovely, and her lines gave fascinating character to a charming face. She was compelling, seductive, alluring.
Her soft, melodic laughter was enticingly feminine. “It looks treacherous.”
“Only for the intrepid,” Swansborough agreed, and Maryanne felt him direct her toward the balloon with a gentle push on her bottom. She swallowed shock—they’d made love. How could she be startled by a caress on her clothed derriere?
Maryanne’s chest tightened. She took a deep breath, remembering the feel of Swansborough’s hot, wide back as her hands had skimmed over it. Remembering the scent of his skin, the taste of his neck…
Her heart ached at the thought of other women touching him that way. It had been everything to her. It hadn’t mattered to him.
“Are you all right, love?” Deep and concerned, Swansborough’s voice cut through her horrified thoughts.
She fought for calm. “Lancelot?” she asked. A pet name from a lover, perhaps? How could she, untutored and country bred, compete with such a beautiful woman? Of course, she couldn’t—and she wouldn’t be. She was his partner for this night—this one night.
Swallowing hard, she realized the truth. That might have been her one chance to make love. She couldn’t marry now—which was what she’d wanted, of course—but now the realization stunned her. She couldn’t take lovers—that could cause scandal, and she didn’t dare hurt her mother, her sisters, and Venetia’s coming child with scandal.
Her heart was pounding into the silence. He didn’t answer, so she pressed. “Why Lancelot? Confide.”
“Verity wants truth, of course.” They’d reached the circle of torches, where the smoke was thick and sweet, and the light showed his wry grin.
What woman could resist that slightly self-mocking smile? It made Maryanne’s legs turn to treacle.
“It’s my name,” he admitted. “Dashiel Lancelot Blackmore. Dashiel was my father’s choice, a family name, to him a sign of longevity. Lancelot was my mother’s flighty wish.”
She nodded in understanding. Rodesson had bestowed Venetia’s name upon her, but her mother had named both her and Grace, determined not to give in to romantic fancy.
Though she couldn’t explain any of that, he smiled. “My father gritted his teeth every time he heard it,” his lordship continued. “It amuses Sophia—Lady Yardley—to use it. She pretends I am a noble knight, which, of course, I am not. My sister’s name is Anne Persephone—once again, my parents came to an odd compromise.”
“Aren’t you a noble knight?” she teased and marveled at her bravery. The few times she’d met Lord Swansborough, she’d managed an awkward curtsy but almost no conversation.
“No, sweetheart, don’t fancy me to be Lancelot, because I’m not. I wish I could charge in and rescue damsels.”
He moved away, and though the summer’s breeze was warm and humid, she shivered at the loss of contact. He hailed one of the men, who lurched forward. Aware of the leering gazes of the other men, Maryanne fiddled with her mask. Push it up a bit? Bother—now she couldn’t see. She slid it back down. Had she loosened the strings?
Groping behind her head, she stumbled into Lord Swansborough, who was now in low conversation with the man.
“Sorry, milord. I can’t tell you naught unless you go up and perform. It’s the rules, and they’d ’ave me hide if I cheat.”
“All I need is information. I’m looking for a courtesan.”
With a lecherous laugh, the man pointed to the basket. “Only enough room fer you and the one tart, milord. Along with our man Tanner who sees to the balloon. Threesome pleasures won’t do in the basket.”
“I’m seeking a blonde named Georgiana Watson. Brazen and voluptuous.”
The man inclined his head—his hair was as dark as his lordship’s beneath a brown cap, his skin swarthy, and he wore a red kerchief at his neck. “Ye’ll have to go up, milord.”
“And make love with my lady up there?”
A chortle was the answer, and Maryanne took a deep breath. The sky was a blend of deep cobalt blue and rich violet, and pink touched the edge of the trees. “The balloon goes up in the dark?”
“Aye, lass, it can.” The balloon tender’s baritone was gentle and respectful as he spoke to her, which surprised. But then
Lady Yardley
was taking part in this event. Perhaps, as Maryanne was masked, the balloon man thought she was a lady, like Lady Yardley. “You’ll be tethered. We let it rise, you complete yer task, and ye’re brought down.”
Swansborough drew something from his pocket—a pouch, and from that he drew notes. “For your information.”
But the balloon tender shook his head, with a look of pained regret.
A young man with bronzed skin and gleaming white teeth, doffed his cap, winked, and bowed. He must be the man who controlled the balloon. Maryanne swallowed hard. How could she make love in front of a stranger?
But what if Georgiana was in danger?
“Then we’ll go up now.”
“I can’t!” She backed away, staring at the bright balloon, trim fluttering in the breeze, and the flame beneath, stark and golden against the dark.
Swansborough swept his arm about her shoulders and turned her away from the sight. “Why not? Afraid of heights?”
“I can’t…Not in front of…” She faltered. A courtesan wouldn’t mind—in the stories she edited, courtesans delighted in having two men at once, for most men preferred a lady to make a threesome and not a competitive cock. Had she revealed herself?
Dark and searching, his eyes captured hers. “You truly are a novice, aren’t you?”
An escape! She nodded so hard her curls struck her cheeks.
“Then we go up alone.”
The man scratched his dark-stubbled cheek. “Tanner’s needed to fire the flame and to vent the balloon to bring it down—”
Lord Swansborough silenced him with a wave of his black-gloved hand. “I’ve seen balloon ascensions and have an idea how it works. Have Tanner explain it.”
“Aye, milord, but we have to witness that the couple carries out the act.”
Swansborough gave a jaded shrug. “You’ll know.”
As he strolled over to Tanner and then followed the young man’s directions, his lordship’s eyes gleamed with boyish enthusiasm. He tugged at ropes, fiddled with the fire, chatting amiably to Tanner all the while. Maryanne crossed her arms before her chest. He seemed more fascinated by the art of ballooning than with the thought of making love.
She strained to see into the dark—but saw no sign of Georgiana.
Suddenly his lordship was at her side. “All right, love. We’re ready.”
Maryanne watched her raven-haired Lancelot elegantly climb into the basket. Of course, he could do it easily—he had endless legs and wore trousers. Just as she stared helplessly at it, he scooped her effortlessly into his arms. In a froth of hems and petticoats, she was hoisted over the wicker wall and into the basket. As her feet touched the floor of the basket, it came up to meet her. “Ooh!”
The flame illuminated the sculpted planes of his face, his wicked grin as the balloon went up. The basket tilted to the right. She clutched the side. “Goodness.”
Swansborough laughed. “But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight,” he quoted. He wrapped a hand around the stays that secured their small basket to the enormous balloon and kept the other near the fire box and the ropes that worked the vents. Below, illuminated by the torches, she saw the men gripping the tether ropes, feeding them through gloved hands.
A lurch to the left, and she tumbled back against his lordship. His large body pressed against her, his arm locked around her waist, and she felt safe—though if the basket tipped, they’d both fall. Why should the thought of falling to their deaths together, sharing disaster, make her feel better?
“Magnificent, isn’t it?”
With her hands gripping the basket, she stared down.
Far below, the torches looked like tiny candle flames, and she could no longer see the men. Men who thought she was going to rut with a viscount here. Men who thought her a courtesan.
Don’t think of that.
The Serpentine caught the moonlight, water rippling in the sweet breeze. Dark trees bobbed and swayed, the leaves silver, and the park was a stretch of dark velvet.
She gazed up. Stars dotted the violet skies above the park. And London’s lights were spread out before her. “It’s beautiful.” The basket swayed. “And terrifying.”
His mouth touched her neck, a brush of heat, and she squealed in surprise. Her giggle made her blush—girlish and thoughtless. His hand skimmed up to her breasts as his lips skated over her nape. Delicious sensation rushed over her skin.
This was truly flying. She felt as though she floated on air—weightless. But she didn’t dare let go of the basket.
Out of the corner of her eye, she saw him tug a rope, and the basket dropped a startling few inches.
“The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar,” he whispered.
“I know.” She spoke to the whole of London, laid out before her, and to the stars that seemed so close she could gather them if she dared to reach. “I don’t dare move.”
He curled his long, elegant fingers around her left breast, lazily stroking the curve beneath, where her heart hammered.
“I won’t let you fall.”
“Lord Swansborough, that is a promise you cannot make.”
His thumb, gently stroking her nipple, stilled.
“We will hold on together,” she whispered, half turning. He stood so close her cheek brushed his, his stubble rasped lightly against her skin.
He let go long enough to sweep his arm across Hyde Park, and Mayfair, and London’s vistas. The balloon basket jerked, and she swallowed another squeal.
His voice growled beside her ear. “Verity, you are more magnificent than all of that.”
In an instant her skirts were up, her legs bared in front of London, but they were in their private world, far above Mayfair. She loved the thought of being in public yet being utterly private and free. Her skirts spilled down in the front, pooling on the rim of the basket. His hands caressed her thighs, her bottom, coaxed her to take tiny steps to part her legs. “We cannot.”