St. Raven (10 page)

The crowd was cheering and urging them on.

Cressida looked down at the duke. “I suppose this sort of havoc happens at every orgy, since you aren’t interested?”

He grabbed her at the waist again and swung her down. “I’d be pleased to ogle the show, but I, at least, remember our purpose. Which way to the study?”

Cressida swallowed a temptation to squabble for the fun of it, and tugged him through an alcove to the right of the stairs. This opened into the back corridor. It was deserted at the moment, though a couple of wall lamps provided light. The noises faded, and this area looked so like the house she’d lived in last year that she swallowed around a lump in her throat.

“It must feel strange.” He was disconcertingly alert to her feelings.

“Yes, but this wasn’t my home. We spent only last December here. Most of the furnishings came with the house.”

She had herself in command again and led the way to the study. She listened but heard no sign that anyone was inside, so she turned the knob and went in.

She paused. It was so unchanged, she could imagine her father sitting at the large central desk keeping his meticulous records. They’d known each other for only a year, and these days she was furious that he’d thrown them into this disaster, but he was an interesting man. His talk of travel and trade and limitless possibilities had filled an empty place in her mind and heart.

A hand on her back pushed her farther into the room; then St. Raven closed the door. “Where are they?”

Cressida looked around. “Not here. They’re not here!”

“Hush. Remember, I didn’t think a man like Crofton would ignore such things.”

“But what if he’s sold them? Or given them away?”

“If they’re as intriguing as you say, they’ll be on display. Anything else you want while we’re here?”

She stared at him, remembering that he never had explained the highway robbery. “Larceny in the blood, I see.”

“One famous ancestor was a pirate. So? We’re short of pockets, but if there’s anything you want, I’m sure we can manage.”

She thought about it, but her father had taken his important papers to London with him. The house, including this room, was scattered with his mementos of India, and she begrudged them to Crofton, but not enough to try to collect them now.

St. Raven had picked up something from the desk. A dagger, but with a design of flames around the edges and tip. “What’s this?”

“A wisdom sword. I don’t remember the Indian name for it. It represents cutting through knots of confusion and deceit.”

“We need one of those.”

Tris considered the flaming sword wryly, wondering what the devil he’d been thinking, to bring a lady to this event, particularly dressed as she was. Pugh wouldn’t be the only one trying to buy her, nor Helmsley the only one to grope her. And she’d been witness to Miranda Coop and Violet Vane at their worst. The sooner they had the jewels and were out of here, the better.

He put the sword down. “You’ve had a taste now. Perhaps you’d prefer to wait.”

“You can’t leave me here!”

“There’s a key in the lock.”

“And master keys. And, anyway, you don’t know the right statue.”

Damnation, she was right, but her lush curves and veiled scarlet lips made him want to lock her in a dungeon. “Describe it to me.”

She shook her head. “I can’t. There are quite a few that are similar. I need to see them.” She cocked her head. “Anyway, this is a rare opportunity to explore a foreign land. I’d be disappointed if the most I saw was a squabble.”

“Here, however, be dragons.”

“Made of ribbon and papier-mache.”

She was a child. “No. Here be dragons with real teeth and fiery breath. Don’t let the tinsel distract you.”

He’d given her a mask with narrow slits to mute the effect of her large eyes, but even so, he could sense them widening. Good. She had to understand the dangers.

“Be careful, and stay with me at all times. Yes?”

“Yes. Which is why you can’t leave me here.”

“Why do women always want the last word?”

“Because we’re right?”

He opened the door. No screaming, so the fight must be over.

“Come on,” he said. “We’ll try the drawing room or dining room first.”

“This way.” She took his hand and pulled him to the right. The touch startled him.

And her, judging by the way she paused and stared at him.

He smiled and curled his hand around hers. “Lead on.”

He’d touched many women’s bare hands, which was not something every gentleman could say, but he couldn’t remember when he’d last linked hands with a woman like this, in a friendly, almost childlike manner.

Cressida drew the duke toward the dining room, distracted by the effect of ungloved hands, by the way he’d wrapped his around hers. When had she ever linked hands with a man like this before?

At the end of the passage she turned to look at him again. He raised their joined hands and kissed hers. A strange unsteadiness swept over her.

This is a masquerade, Cressida. This is all playacting. And if there is something more here, if there is a man you like, don’t forget that he’s a rake. He kissed that woman’s breast with as little concern as he just kissed your hand!

She pulled free of him and led the way around the corner and into the small back parlor.

And stopped.

This wasn’t unchanged. The dull and rather dark paneled room now blazed with red lights—or rather, lamps with red glass chimneys. In this lurid glow, naked women posed on tables, obscenely.

Not entirely naked. They wore veiling, but every detail of their bodies was clear. With their slim hips and tiny breasts, they looked like children.

Men pawed at them, touching them in unthinkable places, and the girls only laughed. They had protectors— dwarves and hunchbacks dressed in black with horns on their heads. Imps from hell, she supposed. They didn’t protect them from much.

She turned to St. Raven and murmured, “Are they so young?”

“No, whores who can look young.”

“But why?”

He pulled her on. “Some men have strange tastes. Remember our purpose. I can’t see any statuettes here.”

The statuettes! The lurid light made it hard to be sure, but they certainly weren’t on display. She let him lead her away, despite a lingering feeling that she should do something about those posing girls.

The dining room was a relief. It looked almost normal. The lighting was simply from candles, and refreshments were laid out in a conventional manner.

In fact, it looked much the same as when she and her parents had dined here, sometimes with guests. Giggles threatened at the thought of the neighboring Ponsonbys, or the vicar and his wife at this feast.

She looked around the guests. Tight and revealing seemed popular. The fight must be over, because the woman in black was here—Violet something?—her dress clinging to every curve and torn open to expose her small, pointy breasts.

She was… flirting?—which did not seem to be the right word—with a pirate in thigh-boots, breeches, and a shirt open to his waist. Those breeches might as well have been painted on. A large bulge was unignorable, and Cressida knew what it was. She’d seen classical statues.

The woman in red was here, too, though on the other side of the room, breasts still exposed and marked by scratches. It didn’t seem to bother her. She was laughing as Henry VIII—Pugh?—fed her some sort of long pastry.

Cressida placed him. He attended some society events. Lord Pugh, fat, florid, and loud, but she’d never have guessed him debauched. She thought he was married.

She’d foolishly assumed these entertainments were for bachelors, but clearly not. St. Raven was a bachelor, but she didn’t suppose he’d change when he married Lady Anne, which made a mockery of that lovely moment in the theater.

And he recognized harlots by name.

She looked again at Pugh, and the harlot called Miranda, and couldn’t help but notice that as the woman slowly ate the pastry, her hand played around that strange article of fashion called a codpiece.

She’d always thought it peculiarly indecent. Even kings, such as Henry VIII, had worn it. She wondered what ladies had done in such times. They could hardly have pretended not to notice.

Then Cressida’s mind made a connection between the long scarlet protuberance at the front of Lord Pugh’s puff breeches and the long pastry he was feeding to the woman…

After a moment she tore her gaze away—and found St. Raven watching her, darkly inscrutable. He picked up something from the table and offered it to her. Something long and cylindrical.

“No, thank you.” She hoped the words sounded like icicles.

“It’s only a half cucumber filled with—” He scooped some of the pink stuff up with his finger and tasted it, sucked it. “—potted shrimp.”

“Perhaps I don’t care for shrimp.”

“But you are supposed to care for… shrimp, Roxelana.”

She cast him a look she hoped
felt
like icicles. He was reminding her of her part—mistress of the harem, but also the sort of woman who would attend an orgy like this. A slight flick of her eyes made her aware that some people nearby were paying attention.

“Do you fear poison, my love?” St. Raven asked. Eyes on her, he turned the cucumber and bit off the end.

More outrageous images flooded into Cressida’s mind.

“Ouch,” she said.

He exploded with laughter, covering his mouth and almost choking. Grinning with victory, Cressida rescued the remains of the delicacy before he dropped it.

They had the whole room’s amused attention now. She must play her part, but truth to tell, she was enjoying this. She was very partial to potted shrimp, so she raised her veil, and slowly licked the pink filling out of the scooped-out cucumber.

Applause, but her attention was all on him.

His eyes sparkled, but his look said,
Your move
. It seemed cruel to bite, so she put the end in her mouth and sucked the last of the shrimp off.

Applause and even cheers burst out all around.

Not knowing what she had done, Cressida stared at him for guidance. He stared back. Had sparkle turned to fire? Something tightened her throat, so she had to work hard to swallow.

She pulled the cucumber out and turned away, turned to the table, pretending to study the selection of food, only too aware of the hubbub around her. Men were demanding to know who she was, and was she available. Henry VIII was bidding again.

Then a big body pressed against her from behind. Hands appeared on the table on either side, caging her. Hot breath stirred at her nape. She tensed to fight, but then she knew him. Perhaps it was sandalwood, but perhaps it was a more secret sense than that.

“Hungry?” he almost growled.

Quivering, she looked down, and her eyes were caught by his right hand, the one with his large gold signet ring, bold declaration of identity, here among the masquerade.

It was a hand, that was all. It melted her sinews and tightened her muscles, shortened her already unsteady breath. Long fingered, elegant, but nakedly strong and masculine. For the first time she noticed some scrapes on his knuckles and could imagine it as a fist.

She breathed in cool sanity. Last night the Duke of St. Raven had held up a coach, then engaged in a brawl. Now he was at an orgy and known to all. This was his world, and it most certainly was not hers.

She dragged her eyes away from that seductive hand and pushed back to gain more room, turning to meet his eyes. “I was merely taking a moment to look around the room. The statues aren’t here.”

Tris realized with shock that he’d forgotten the damned statues entirely. That little play with the cucumber had him hard and aching. He’d been pressing against her delicious bottom, mind turning to a different quest entirely.

Cressida Mandeville, he reminded himself.

Not Roxelana, either wife or whore, but Cressida Mandeville, virtuous merchant’s daughter from Matlock, a walking marriage trap if he fooled around with her.

“Come on, then.” He turned them toward the door.

She stopped halfway, and he looked to see what had caught her attention.

Roger Tiverton, in his usual guise of pirate, had a jam tart in his hand. He was holding it in front of his mouth, his long tongue dipping into it, swirling, scooping up the red filling, which he then drew into his mouth and swallowed.

Three women were watching appreciatively.

Plus Cressida Mandeville.

If Tris had been with Miranda Coop, he might have thrown her down among the suggestive delicacies and shown her what it was really all about. But Miranda wouldn’t need to be shown, and Miss Mandeville, devil take it, needed to be protected from all this lewdness.

He gripped her chin and turned her head to him. Her eyes were wide, startled, but not at all confused. And to think that he’d always liked a clever woman.

“We are not here for these amusements, Roxelana.” But those eyes asked questions he longed to answer. It could be done without taking her virginity. Without ruining her. Without trapping him…

“Unless I can interest you in other games,” he said. When she didn’t pull away, he added, “If you wish to explore further, I am completely at your service.”

“I’m not a whore,” she said, but softly.

“I’m not offering you money.”

He saw her draw a deep breath. “Then let us agree that I am not a wanton fool.”

Ah, Cressida, you want this, you know you do.

“It isn’t only whores who enjoy unsanctioned pleasures.” He drew her closer, let her feel his arousal. “I would enjoy pleasuring you, and I guarantee that you would enjoy it, too. Aren’t you curious?”

He thought for a precious moment that she was going to agree, but then she broke the spell and looked away. “That curiosity will be satisfied at a more sanctioned moment.”

For one brittle second he resisted sanity, but then he let her go. “For better or worse,” he said, steering her out of the room.

Cressida let him lead her out of the dining room, feeling as if she were leaving an opportunity she might regret for the rest of her life. She was not, however, a whore, and to surrender to a rake would be folly of the most extreme kind.