“Indeed, as you are most certainly not dead, whose body, then, is interred at the Barclay crypt bearing your name?”
“I haven’t the foggiest,” Phineas replied. “I went into hiding after two attempts were made on my life. I had no notion that the Comte Le Sur had proclaimed me dead—with feigned proof.”
“Which of his daughters had you seduced?” Lance asked.
“Both.”
Penelope waved a dismissive hand. “It matters not. It is more than wonderful to have you alive and returned. I have not had much in the way of an Adonis to feast my eyes upon—not since Vale. Alas, he has not graced our company for nigh on two years.” She sighed wistfully. “He used to stand right where you are.”
“The Marquess of Dunnesford?” Phineas inquired, turning around to face Penelope. “What induced him to take his leave?”
“He fell in love,” Lance answered with a sigh to match Penelope’s.
“Dunnesford? In love?” Phineas repeated, incredulous.
Penelope and Lance both nodded. “With his wife.”
“The deuce.” Phineas shook his head, wondering what other surprises lay in store with his return to England. He turned his attention back to Lady Athena, who carried a crop as if she were the headmaster of a school for truculent boys.
“Does this Lady Athena do naught but watch?” he asked Penelope.
Penelope aimed her quizzing glass at the woman in question, then brought it back towards Phineas, her preferred subject.
“She is my assistant,” she replied. “I have delegated most of my duties to her, but she is not the sort to intrigue your attentions.”
“All manner of women intrigue me,” Phineas responded with a rakish grin.
“You are incorrigible,” Lance commented with a shake of his head. “Was it not your entanglement with a woman that forced you from England in the first place?”
Phineas remained quiet. He had no desire to revisit the past. Nor did he know or trust Duport well enough to divulge the entire truth of the affair.
“What does it matter?” Penelope admonished. “From what I heard the duel was more than fair. That Jonathan Weston was killed…”
Phineas turned around to see Penelope clearly wishing she could have swallowed her words. He crossed his arms over his chest. “Who is this Lady Athena?”
She shook her head quickly. “I do not name the identity of my patrons, and Lady Athena has never indicated a desire to reveal herself.”
Lance added, “She is one that even you, my friend, will find difficult to conquer.”
Phineas raised his brows. “My reputation as a lover must have diminished greatly in my absence.”
“Your skills in that vein are of no use with her. She rarely chooses a partner for herself, though there will be a Presenting for new members shortly. In the twelvemonth she has been here, she has selected a man for herself no more than thrice, and allows no one to bring her to climax.”
“Odds fish.” Phineas had never heard of such a thing. What was the purpose of coming to Madame Botreaux’s if one could not attain that sublime euphoria? This Lady Athena was the most peculiar woman. He looked over the balcony to see Lady Athena circling the couple. Was it the boots that lent her stalking such an erotic quality?
“I can see your thoughts, Lord Barclay,” Penelope said with a small grin. “I will lay you a wager that what you contemplate cannot be done.”
Phineas unloosened his cravat with slow deliberation.
“Alas, a work of art gone in a moment,” Lance murmured, but his dismay was easily replaced with a new interest as Phineas began to untie his shirt.
Both Penelope and Lance nearly drooled as the shirt was pulled overhead to reveal a chiseled chest.
“My—my word,” Lance stammered. “Have you taken up pugilism?”
“I have. I also spent a good deal of my time on the Continent in Italy, perfecting the art of the sword. Your stakes, madam?” Phineas asked.
“You,” Penelope pronounced. “I wish you to be mine for a night.”
“And if I can seduce the Lady Athena, what is my prize?”
Penelope smiled, envisioning her win already. “Name your price.”
“Her name,” Phineas answered. “I want to know who she really is.”
Penelope glanced down in consideration, but after a brief hesitation, she lifted her chin. “I have witnessed Lady Athena for a year now. As delectable as you are, Barclay, she will not change her ways.”
“You wound my pride, madam,” Phineas replied, covering his heart in mock pain.
“If she selects you, you will have such time until she casts you aside.” Penelope sidled up to him and tapped his chest with her quizzing glass. “At which time, you shall be mine, dear Barclay.”
He captured her hand and brought it to his lips. “I adore a wager that knows no loss for me.”
Penelope trembled at his touch and had to take a step away from him to breathe.
Phineas bowed.
He turned his attention back to Lady Athena. No woman had yet proven impervious to his charms. His conquests reflected all manner of women from a shy rector’s daughter to a frosty matron who disapproved at first of his attentions upon her daughter, then became increasingly envious of her own progeny. Lady Athena possessed the one quality he needed: she was a woman.
Invigorated by the impending challenge, he descended the balcony and prepared himself for the Presenting.
* * * * *
Gertrude “Gertie” Farrington appraised the men and women in the Presenting, a ritual in which new guests and those wishing for a new lover presented themselves for selection. She felt formidable in her new garments. Of particular pride were the boots she had designed herself. The mask she wore was cut from the same fabric as her corset. When first she had donned the name and character of Lady Athena a year ago, she had favored a gold mask. Now black was her preferred color.
Her favorite crop, a symbol of her authority, rested atop her shoulder at a smart angle as she strode down the line with the air of a general inspecting his troops. Senior patrons selected first, but many of them deferred their position to Lady Athena. Out of pity or respect, Gertie knew not. Nor did she care.
She eyed a slender young man of fine form. He had thick lips, and she imagined what it would be like to kiss him. But it had been some time since she had last chosen a patron for herself. She wondered that she would know what to do.
And then her gaze met a pair of intense eyes behind a silver mask. In the dim lighting, she could not discern the color of the eyes, which seemed to capture what little light existed and reflected it back twofold. They stared at her with unnerving intensity. Feeling as if she might drown in their pools, she pulled her gaze wider and contemplated the whole of the physiognomy. Though his mask covered half his face, the shadows suggested a striking appearance.
The body, too, was beautiful. He stood a head taller than she, and had a pleasing proportion, neither wide and brawny nor long and lanky. She imagined running her hands over the ridges of his chest and caressing his strapping thighs. His muscles, sleek but not burly, exposed an aristocratic background full of sport. His calves were well defined, as was the bulge in his breeches.
Conscious that he was still staring at her with unabashed impudence, she raised her brows at him. She had never seen him before, though she could not be certain as most of the patrons hid their identity behind masks. He did not seem to understand the position of authority she held here or he would have assumed a more deferential air.
Strange, but he seemed to read her thoughts in the way that he looked at her. For the first time since becoming a regular at Madam Botreaux’s, she felt herself faltering. Her heart seemed to palpitate unevenly. Walking past him, she spotted a more callow fellow who puffed his chest forward in a display of undue confidence. Just as she was about to pass on selecting anyone for the evening, she heard a voice behind her. His voice felt like velvet, if such a thing were possible, its resonation low an
d comforting.
“Afraid, my lady?”
Gertie could feel the blood pounding a warning in her ears. She turned slowly towards the man with the bright eyes. “It is customary that those in the Presenting line not speak lest spoken to.”
“Am I to be punished for it?”
His response startled and puzzled her.
“It would seem you are new here,” she replied, trying not to appear nettled. “As such, your transgression may be forgiven.”
“Are you afraid to administer the punishment?”
She stared at him in disbelief. Had he twice called her afraid? Rising to his challenge, she responded, “Consider yourself spared.”
“That fails to answer my query.”
She sucked in her breath, then enunciated the difference. “Not afraid. I am disinclined.”
The corner of his mouth curled. “Ah. Of course.”
Of course? What the devil did he mean by that? Did he presume to know her better than herself? Realizing her vexation growing, she took a deep breath and eyed him more keenly. Who was this stranger and why these attempts to insult her?
“Is it punishment you be wanting?” she asked him imperially.
At last he displayed deference by bowing his head. He said in a low baritone, “If you would give it, my lady.”
She shivered for it felt as if his words had caressed her skin. No man in recent memory had provoked her with such efficacy. She straightened in triumph, but he dashed the cup of victory as quickly from her lips.
“And if you dare,” he added. When he looked up, there was a glimmer in his eyes.
If she selected him, then his stratagem prevailed. If she did not, she risked validating his accusations. The great Lady Athena feared no one—even if this man, with his uncanny ability to unsettle her, possessed an air of danger.
Her pride carried the day.
She put the tip of her crop upon his pectoral. He did not flinch.
“You will rue your words,” she informed him. “Towards that end, I would be much inclined.”
He bowed his head in acknowledgement. “I am yours, my lady. At your disposal and your command.”
The words rang heady promise, but she tried to ignore their echoes. She stalked towards one of the many arched alcoves that lined the main assembly hall. The stranger followed behind her.
Located at the far end of the ballroom, her alcove looked upon the length of the assembly hall. On the opposite end wound the large staircase that led to the balcony of Madame Botreaux. She had once been invited to join Penelope on the balcony but had declined. She preferred proximity to the patrons, which allowed her to catch every gasp, every furrow of the brown, every moan of pleasure—all experiences that she might never know for herself.
The furnishing in the alcove consisted of a table, chair and wide chaise. The dim lighting came from a lone candelabra. Gertie indicated the stranger should stand in the center. To her relief, he did as she directed without word. She took a deep breath and began to circle him. She knew not what to make of him. He had successfully provoked her into selecting him, inviting her to punish him of all things. Perhaps she would. His behavior certainly merited a set-down.
“What brings you here?” she asked at last.
“I presume the same raison d'être that brings you here,” he replied without wavering his gaze. “Lady Athena.”
The smoothness of his voice made her shiver, but the tone irked her. She sensed a veiled taunt.
“Who are you?”
“I would trade my identity only for yours,” he answered.
“Then I shall call you Hephaestus whilst you are mine,” she pronounced with a deliberate smirk for Hephaestus was a lame and therefore grotesque god in Greek mythology, but he only smiled as if he shared in her mirth.
Walking behind him, she eyed the curve of his rump—round, hard and smooth beneath his tight breeches.
“Is my lady pleased by what meets her eye?”
The devil…Gertie stared at him in disbelief. Who was this man and how did he seem to know her thoughts?
“You are forward,” she informed him.
“I prefer it to pretenses.”
Did he mean to accuse her again? She began to relish the opportunity to lord over him. For the night only. She had never committed herself to any man for considerable length of time—save for the one that she was bound to by law and vow—her husband, the Earl of Lowry. The reason for her patronage at Madame Botreaux’s. The stranger before her had presumed that they possessed some shared interest in coming to the Ballroom, but he knew nothing of her situation.
“Modesty and manners are not the same as pretenses,” she said.
“And what purpose do your modesty and manners serve? I find them rather strangely placed in an establishment such as this.”
Once more she was taken aback by his audacity.
“By the quality of your speech, one might presume you to have been born into breeding,” she said, “but you display a great lack of it, sir.”
“Hephaestus,” he reminded her.
She felt the color rise in her cheeks.
“I freely own that my governess had more than one occasion to reprimand me,” he said. “I give you leave to do the same if you are so inclined and if your modesty and manners would allow it.”
“I am inclined!” she snapped before she could think of aught else to say.
“Then shall we commence? What manner of punishment would you like to administer?”
She was at a loss. She had never punished anyone before, but Lady Athena would have no qualms. She would make Hephaestus rue his impudence.
“The headmaster at my school for boys would—” he began.
“Yes, I think that a fitting place to start.”
Her response surprised him for a change.
“Brace yourself against my writing table,” she directed.
As he did so, she felt herself growing warm, an uncommon occurrence. In her time at Madame Botreaux’s, she had observed many an arse, perhaps few as beguiling as his or accented so well by such tight fitting breeches, but certainly enough agreeable ones. Why did this one call to her, tugging at some primal urge embedded deep within her body?
“Let fall your breeches,” she commanded. A tremble went
through her.
He did as instructed without the least bit of timidity.
Dear bodkins. She stared at the molded buttocks. Naked, his arse was even more inspiring. Shaking her head, she forced herself to concentrate on the task at hand. She was Lady Athena, about to discipline an unruly boy.
Taking a deep breath, she backhanded one arse cheek with the crop. He did not flinch. She landed another on the other cheek. Still no movement from him.
“My lady, those blows are mere tickles compared to what I have endured as a boy,” he said.
Gathering her strength, she dealt him three successive whacks in the same spot. This time she heard a small grunt. Even in the dim lighting, she could see the faint mark of where the crop had struck. She wanted to reach out and touch him there, caress his arse, perhaps even plant a kiss.
“Better,” he complimented. “But still fairly weak.”
Swallowing a growl of frustration, she struck him again, and again, and again, hoping the rhythm would diffuse the strange effect she was experiencing. But the vigorous spanking did not excise her disconcertion. On the contrary, she felt more flustered. Although he seemed to grip the table more tightly, he displayed little evidence of the sensations he must be feeling. The only one who seemed to be out of sorts was her. She was breathing hard from her exertion, and the sight of his body taking all she gave had only caused her to flush more intensely.
Not knowing quite how to proceed next, she adjusted her mask and told him to don his breeches. “We are done. For tonight.”
The words were out her mouth before she had proper time to consider what she said. Though she had thought to be done with him, she was curious to see if he would retur
n chastened. After buttoning the breeches, he stood erect, his posture emphasizing his broad shoulders.
“Thank you, Lady Athena.”
She nodded even though he faced away from her. The ensuing silence made her agitate her crop against her thigh. She let out a deep breath. “You will return two nights hence to this space. If I do not find you here waiting for me by ten o’clock, I am done with you.”
He turned around to give her a bow. “I am your servant, Lady Athena, and will do all that you bid.”
She strode out, not daring to glance back. She hoped he would not return.
CHAPTER TWO
THE STRIDENT VOICE of Dowager Lowry transcended the stairs as if she meant to call to someone on the second floor instead of speaking to her son in the drawing room where she waited. “I do hope your wife has not selected that dreadful gown of peach for the Bennington ball. Peach is not a becoming color upon her.”
Standing alone at the top of the stairs, Gertie glanced down upon the gown of peach she wore. With her dark brown curls and pale complexion, she had thought the pastel an appropriate color for herself. The satin gown with its layered lace ruffles at the elbows was one of her favorites to start the Season. She wore it with matching slippers and had labored to find the best among her jewelry to accent her attire, finally settling on her garnet set. Despite her impatience, she had allowed the coiffeuse to produce curl after curl in a meticulous attempt to create the Merveilleuse. For a brief moment, Gertie considered donning another gown, but they were late for the Bennington ball as it was, and she had the suspicion that the most perfect gown would not meet the approval of the Dowager.
“Or that horrid gown of lavender she wore to the Wempole garden party,” Sarah Farrington, her sister-in-law, added.
“Then why do you not impart your sensibilities to her?” Gertie heard her husband retort with irritation. “Instead you allow me to appear at these events with an unflattering wife.”
“I protest. I have made such an attempt, but alas, it has proven futile.”
Gertie recalled Sarah’s one endeavor. Her sister-in-law had reviewed her wardrobe, sniffing at the mediocrity of certain articles and explaining how each gown was unsuited for a woman of her shape and features before declaring the whole effort to be quite fatiguing and that surely it was time for tea? Gertie would have gladly taken any guidance from her sister-in-law for Sarah was a beauty of the first order and followed all the latest fashion plates in The Lady’s Magazine.
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