St. Raven (11 page)

She would lose her maidenhead.

She might get with child.

And there was no possibility of marriage. Even with her father’s fortune intact, it would have been an unequal match. Without it, it was unthinkable.

She didn’t even want it. Oh, she acknowledged the wicked duke’s appeal, and the appeal an event like this stirred in the sanest mind and body. But she could not live with a husband addicted to this sort of game, a man who would laugh at fidelity. She could never share a husband with the likes of Miranda Coop.

The hall was still a riot of noise, a tempest of smells, and the revelers continued to pour in. Many were already drunk, and all of them grabbed drink from the trays carried by twisted servants in black imp costumes.

This was more a theatrical than reality, she told herself. As silly to be upset by this as it would be to scream against Othello smothering poor Desdemona. Could the house hold any more actors without bursting, though? Her senses throbbed with the din and stink.

Crofton, in his horns and scarlet robes, still welcomed people to his sensual hell, but now she found him more suited to farce than drama. Lucifer could not have horns and tail. To trap sinners, the devil must be beautiful and seductive.

Like the beautiful, seductive Duke of St. Raven.

How many of these raucous characters were people she’d met at events in London? Most of the women must be whores. The strident laughter, the shocking costumes, and something in the way they moved marked them. No wonder St. Raven hadn’t believed her claim.

Perhaps it was the whores who contributed the coarse perfume that hung so heavily in the air, though the smell of dirty bodies could be from anyone. She’d come across it in the best of society. Crofton was one who was careless in those matters.

Crushed against St. Raven by the crowd, she caught that scent of sandalwood. It was a saving antidote as they worked their way toward the drawing room.

He continued to be recognized, and he kissed three bold women who thrust themselves against him. Nothing to do with her, she reminded herself.

While he chatted to people, his hold became tighter and his hand squeezed—her hip, her bottom. She understood why, but it was another sign of what he was. Then, when he was again fending off questions about her identity, he turned her head and kissed her through her veil, his hand, low on her back, pressing her hard against his side.

Tired of being a puppet, she put her left hand on his silken hip and kissed him back.

His lips stilled on hers.

“Don’t worry, luv,” a woman said. “St. Raven don’t need rubbing up.”

Cressida froze. She’d missed.

The hard shape under her hand wasn’t his hip.

Oh, Lord—it moved, and only a thin layer of silk lay between her hand and it! She knew she mustn’t snatch her hand away, but wished something, anything, would whisk her back to her real life. She felt, heard, his soft laughter as he broke the kiss.

She opened her eyes to stare into his, silently begging for help. She could tell he was having as difficult a time as she was, but it was because he was fighting laughter.

His hot hand covered hers. Thank heavens. He was going to move it. Instead he pressed. The hard shape moved again. Perhaps it grew.

Her heart thundered, and a good part of it was fury. The swine was exploiting this. She couldn’t rebel, but she could glare, and she did.

“So impatient,‘” he murmured, but somehow loud enough for others to hear and laugh. Then he gathered her hand in his and stroked it up his body to his lips, to kiss the palm. “Later, my houri…”

“No need to wait, St. Raven!”

Cressida felt her eyes stretch wide as panic swamped anger.

Crofton!

St. Raven held her attention, kissing her fingertips one by one, giving her time to gather herself, then turned them both to face their host.

“I’m sure we’d all be most grateful for a display of your prowess, Duke.”

The disgusting man was leering, but that wasn’t what made her feel sick. His attention was fixed on her. Would he
recognize
her?

If her identity was exposed here, she would die. Literally and eternally. The respectable Cressida Mandeville, dead in a lewd costume after a lewd display at a lewd orgy. Matlock would be talking about it for the next fifty years.

“I never give public displays, Crofton. And as I’m sure you know, pleasure is enhanced by the torture of exquisite anticipation.”

Something in St. Raven’s tone killed Crofton’s bonhomie.

“Later, then.” Leer turned to sneer. “Though I cannot guarantee a private room as the night grows wild. You might end up giving a public display anyway, Duke—if anticipation wins out. But you’re not drinking…”

He snapped his fingers, and a horned imp hurried over with a tray of beakers. Crofton took one and pressed it into Cressida hand. “My devil’s brew.”

She accepted it, but didn’t drink. It would be the height of folly to get drunk here. She watched St. Raven take a beaker and toast their host, but she noticed that he took the merest sip.

Crofton looked at her. She raised her veil and sipped, somewhat let down to taste only spiced cider. Surely if it were dangerously heavy with spirits, she would taste that.

Crofton smiled. “I’m sure you’ll agree, Duke, that anticipation is enhanced by stimulation, and here we have it in plenty. Display in the back parlor, some clever birch work in the master bedroom. You could order your houri a pretty stinging.”

He smiled at her, showing the long teeth that had always appalled her. She worked hard at not speaking, and not glaring in return. She obviously failed.

“I see you haven’t broken her spirit yet. I would be happy to do it for you… No? Let me see, what else would amuse? Catamites in the back bedroom—appropriate, wouldn’t you say?” He let out a peculiar high pitched titter. “But I know that’s not your vice, St. Raven. Certainly not with your own slave girl at your side.” Crofton’s eyes slid back to her. “I feel I might know you, my dear.”

Cressida turned every faculty to looking stupid and not at all like Cressida Mandeville.

“Impossible.” St. Raven’s tone was absolute. “She is my personal discovery.”

“Ah, fresh from the country. Not for sale, I assume? I had planned something similar…”

Something stopped his words, and without looking, Cressida knew it was St. Raven. She could feel it—an emanation that raised every hair on her skin.

Crofton’s disgusting smile turned a bit sickly…
planned something similar
.

Her! If not for St. Raven, she would be at this debauch as Crofton’s whore. By his side, dressed in something appalling, fondled at his whim. Perhaps presented bare-breasted at the door.

To stave off a faint, she gulped her drink. An imp took her empty beaker and replaced it with another before she could say she didn’t want it. The drink was sickly and left a sour taste in her mouth.

Crofton was groveling now. “No offense, Duke. No offense. I only seek to please all my guests. There will be a competition in a little while which might amuse you. In the drawing room. Something a little different.”

“I’m not competitive in these matters, Crofton. I have no need to be.”

Crofton flushed. Oh, yes—he was furious, but he didn’t dare lash out, and Cressida didn’t think it was rank alone.

“I meant you might find
watching
amusing, Duke. Excuse me.”

Crofton scuttled off to greet a new guest, leaving Cressida trembling with the aftereffect of the confrontation, aware of tension lingering in the man beside her.

“Why do I think the drawing room is our target?” St. Raven’s voice was calm and light. Perhaps too much so.

Cressida swallowed and matched it. “The competition?”

“If I had a set of erotic statues, that’s what I might do with them. I’m surprised Crofton showed such imagination, but let’s go and see.”

He took her beaker and gave it and his own to a drunken couple nearby. They thanked him and drained them with surprising enthusiasm. Cressida worried about that. Perhaps there was more spirit in the drink than she’d thought. She checked herself, but could feel no sign of inebriation. She had occasionally drunk more wine than she’d intended and felt the effects of it.

Enough of this. She was here for an important purpose and must keep her mind fixed to it. Then, with heaven’s assistance, she would soon be home and could arrange her family’s return to the safe sobriety of Matlock.

* * *

Tris put Crofton out of mind. His disgust at the man was a distraction, though coming here might encourage his pretensions, damn it. Cressida Mandeville had a great deal to answer for, including some physical discomfort which was unlikely to be eased as he would wish.

Temptation still burned in him, temptation to seduce her. He was her guide here, however. He’d promised she would be safe.

But, desire whispered, he could satisfy a great deal of her curiosity without putting her at risk. She might even be safer for it, less likely to plunge into danger, more careful about whom she eventually chose as husband.

Surely no woman could be so frankly curious without chafing at the boundaries of propriety. The memory of her hand on him, of her startled,
curious
eyes—

Perdition! He had to settle for the novelty of guiding a tourist through this dangerous territory and returning her to her own country untouched. Didn’t he always say that he liked a challenge? Well, he had one now.

An event like this was designed to stimulate the erotic senses and break down barriers, though he found Crofton’s style crude. That drink, for example. Thank heavens Cressida hadn’t drunk much of it. He’d been distracted for a moment. She could have drained a whole cup.

He certainly didn’t need it. Cressida herself was an aphrodisiac. He found her costume more enticing than Miranda’s vulgar exposure, and her ladylike movements more stimulating than the whore’s undulations.

Miranda was nearby, laughing with a man in a fool’s costume. It struck him that she was of similar height and build to Cressida, and yet the effect was so very different. Vulgar curves on one, luscious curves on the other.

He indulged in a sweeping assessment of his houri’s charms.

Her breasts were too big for fashion, but he loved it, and Pugh had been right about her rump, damn him. That bottom, firm, high, and round, made his mouth water and his hand itch to stroke and squeeze…

Devil take it! The sooner they found the statue and could leave, the better. He wrapped an arm around her dainty waist and forced a way through to the drawing room.

Tris paused in the doorway to assess the drawing room, but also to regain his sanity. Get the statue and get out.

He could see them now—a line of ivory statuettes on the oak mantelpiece on the far side of the room. They were interset with candles so the fireplace resembled an altar, but the crowd could hardly be seen as worshipers. Some were pressing close to study the statues, others milled around drinking and laughing. A few were attempting the poses.

In front of him, Cressida went on tiptoe. “There they are.”

She sounded relieved. She couldn’t be any more relieved than he was.

Another brush of her delightful bottom against his body and he might snap. He wished he could move away from her, but the crowd pressed them together, and anyway, they needed to be able to talk secretly.

“Do you know which one?” he murmured, close to her ear, tormented by a scent he was coming to know too well.

Her scent.

She turned her head slightly, bringing her lips close. “One of the vertical ones. I can’t distinguish which from here.”

Tris focused on their target.

“One of five, then. The other four are more or less horizontal. How will you know which is which?”

St. Raven’s voice was soft in Cressida’s ear. She felt his warm breath against her lobe. The aroma of sandal-wood was all around her, along with something more, something deeper, something pounding like a pulse in the air.

Perhaps that was why she felt so strange—hot, dizzy, and peculiarly sensitive all over her skin, but especially in secret places. She longed to rub herself against something.

Against him.

He was saying something, about feet on the ground…

“… There’s a limited range of possibilities.”

Possibilities. She’d thought all the poses of the statuettes impractical, but now, crazily, her body ached to turn to him and attempt them.

“Well?”

Cressida swallowed and inhaled. “I’ll recognize it. But we need to be closer. To them, I mean…” she added desperately.

“Very well.”

The center of the drawing room was even more crowded than the hall, which was probably why he steered a path around the edges. She supposed he had to tuck her close to his side as they threaded between chattering, laughing groups, but she wondered how long she could stand it and stay sane.

She inhaled his sandalwood with every breath so it wove into her brain and spiraled there. Despite the noise all around, she could hear his heartbeats, feel his pulse pounding along with hers. Her shocking silk costume stroked her skin with every movement.

His mask looked at hers, and his eyes seemed larger, darker. Was he as frustrated as she by how little of the eyes the masks revealed? His lips parted, and she could see his chest rise and fall with deep breaths.

Sounds seemed magnified, but at the same time distant. That drink must have been full of brandy or some other spirit, but she forced herself to behave normally.

What on earth was
normally
in a situation like this?

She’d always assumed that she would enjoy the marriage bed in some cuddly sort of way. She’d never imagined this wild, wanton fire within her ready to flare at the first scandalous opportunity.

Tris had to keep torment close by his side. He could cope with her curves against him, beneath his hand. He was an experienced man. He could control himself, protect her.

Could he prevent her seeing what was going on in the middle of the room? At least everyone had all their clothes on—for now.