by Eva Devon
In fact, if one played the music in the streets, he doubted one would have to fear a decline in population. An enterprising government might play such music to increase the number of taxpayers.
And then the gasps and laughter started.
“What the deuce do they see?” Hunt demanded. Standing at least a foot taller than the men about them, he peered over their heads.
“Hell,” Ryder announced, his good humor fizzing away as the feeling increased that he was about to be launched into Dante’s Inferno.
As the crowd filtered through and they entered into the vast room, Ryder found his mouth slowly dropping. Swaths of red, gold, and purple and been draped form the ceiling to form some massive tent. Candles and torches lined the walls, even massive mirrors swung from the curtains.
Feast like, tables piled high with food and drink were placed all over the room. There was even a small stage with lanterns along the front edge.
That was not what caused the general excitement.
“If this is Hell, I’m Lucifer’s newest devotee,” Hunt said, his voice low with delight.
Ryder, on the other hand, blew out a harsh breath. “Blast and damnation. Not women.”
Everywhere there were cushions. Red and purple velvet cushions with golden tassels, but in the end what man really cared about such things when one considered the women lounging on them. Wearing nothing but silken fabrics wrapped about their waists in the strangest skirts and tight about their legs. Their breasts were covered by the merest twists of the sheerest fabric, taunting and teasing.
Color was everywhere. The women’s hair was of a multitudinous rainbow. Jet blacks, brazen red, to palest blonde, they displayed themselves like languid cats ready to be stroked and petted.
“Oh yes,” Hunt purred. “A buffet of women.”
And it was.
“Do you think they can stand under the weight of all that gold?” Ryder asked, unsure if he was amused or annoyed by the display of decadence.
“Who wants them to stand?” Hunt’s displeased look vanished, now replaced by a wide-eyed one of anticipatory bliss.
The music grew wilder and a group of women, dressed just like the others, appeared from the back of the room, dancing forward. Their bodies undulated, their hips rippling, mimicking the way they’d rock with a man driving his cock into her.
“Your host, my lords! The Duke of Aston!” a voice shouted.
Suddenly, from some hidden hallway behind the dancing women, another group of women strode into the room, bearing a glittering litter on their shoulders.
“Good God, it’s not.”
“It is,” Ryder said dryly.
“I definitely think we should ask him to be a member of our club.”
Ryder snorted. “That peacocked ponce?”
The women kept walking slowly forward, their half-naked bodies dusted with gold. With seeming ease, they kept the litter balanced on their shoulders. On it, a man lounged back on his elbow. He wore black boots, black pants, and a red brocade coat over a white shirt open at the neck. His long black hair was studded with gold and a giant black hat with red feathers sat atop his head. The music came to a halt and the women slowly lowered the litter.
Well, Ryder’d give the Duke of Aston his due. He knew how to make a splash into the murky ton waters.
Aston stepped off his golden transportation and grabbed two girls to him, nuzzling the blonde one to his right then the red one to his left. He lifted his head and laughed, pressing his hands to their bare waists. “Welcome to my harem, gentleman! Tonight, what is mine, is yours!”
And on cue, the women on the pillows slowly rose to their hands and knees and crawled forward into the crowd of men.
“Yes,” Hunt groaned.
“No,” Ryder moaned in protest.
How the hell had this happened to him? He’d been at peace in Brooks’. Well, he’d been going mad with thoughts of Kathryn, but he hadn’t been about to be ravished by a pack of sex-crazed females. Not that they weren’t exquisite, but despite the fact he couldn’t have Kathryn, he wanted only her.
He turned to Hunt who was already eyeing a particularly voluptuous redhead. “I’ll be back,” he muttered, not overly concerned about leaving the duke to the ladies.
“Where the hell are you going?” Hunt asked absentmindedly as he reached out to the woman who locked eyes with him, her lower lip moist as if she had just licked it.
“I need air.”
Hunt beamed down at the beautiful woman, opening his arms wide. “More for me.”
Ryder shook his head and strode through the pack of entwining men and women. Already, groups were moving towards the artfully arranged cushions. Albany’s Devil’s Dance was about to be torn down from its place as the height of sensual sin.
Ryder ignored them, heading back towards the doors. He needed paper and quill. Surely, if he worded a note properly, if he could keep his priorities in order, somehow they could keep a relationship. Indeed, he longed to hear Kathryn’s voice, see her stormy eyes and feel her slender body against his.
“Running off, Your Grace?” The dark voice was rough as gravel and full of mischief.
Ryder stopped and turned. Aston. “No, I need a bit of air. I find it a trifle stifling in here.”
The man’s bizarre amber eyes glinted with humor. He held a gold and ruby goblet in his beringed right hand, the ruffles of his shirt teasing the lip of the cup. “But you mustn’t miss tonight’s entertainment. I assure you. . .” He paused as if searching for the right words. “You will be amused.”
Ryder hesitated for a moment, a good dose of suspicion running through him. “Thank you, but I have seen enough.”
“Ah, but tonight, I have a very special performance arranged. I had no idea you’d be here to see it.” Aston’s deep voice lilted with amusement, clearly enjoying some particularly delicious morsel. “It is a theatrical.”
Ryder inclined his head. “If you insist.” He could just walk out, but he’d never hear the end of it from Hunt, and Aston was up to something.
“Oh, I do. First.” Aston lifted his arms in a bombastic and welcoming gesture. The folds of his floor-length red coat billowed about his large frame. “Come. You require a libation.”
What he required was paper. But he was more likely to find whips and feather ticklers first.
Begrudgingly, Ryder followed Aston to a table near the small stage. The servant dressed in a turban and white pants, his chest bare, handed Aston a goblet. The duke turned to Ryder and thrust it at him. “You’ll need it.”
Ryder eyed the yellowish liquid wondering if Aston’s plan was to poison the ton. But he took the cup and drank. The rich taste of rum and juice sweetened his tongue. Not bad. Not bad at all. He tossed it back in a few quick swallows. “Again.”
Aston smiled, nodding. “I knew you’d like it.” The duke snapped his ruby-ringed fingers, and the servant instantly produced another drink.
“I’ve heard about your escapade with Mrs. Darrell.” Aston’s voice purred innocently as he handed him the refreshed cup. “I should love to hear about it firsthand.”
Ryder took the cup, the little good humor he’d begun to feel dissipating.
Aston smiled slowly exposing a predatory grin. “I hear she’s quite the beauty and throwing herself headlong—or shall we say skirt long?—at sin.” He twirled his hand contemplatively, the folds of his red coat, swirling. “Whichever term you prefer, of course.”
Ryder locked eyes with the London’s newest cocky prick, ready to cut him down to a more modest size. “I beg your pardon?” he gritted, his voice a subtle warning the good duke just touched on a forbidden topic.
Not heeding that warning, Aston didn’t flinch from Ryder’s gaze. In fact, he stared back like one dockyard dog challenging another. Casually, he lifted his goblet to his lips with the ease of a damned pasha and took a careless drink, the juice lacing slightly down his chin.
Dashing it from his lips, Aston whispered, his voice conspirator
ial, “I heard she was quite the piece of tart. That you sampled her slice at the Royal Opera.” He raised his eyebrows ever so slightly. “Was it sweet? For I love nothing better than a sweet slice of tart.”
Ryder slammed his cup down on the table, then his hands curled into twin fists. He was going to rip out the man’s tongue and turn him into a woman so he might sing a different and less offensive tune. “Your Grace, I request you retract your statement about the lady.”
Aston tilted his head as if he were puzzling something out, causing the feathers on his hat to dance merrily. “Pardon old man, but was there a lady in question?”
Ryder exhaled slowly, though he doubted that would help him cling to calm. With every moment, his blood pumped harder, faster, demanding he throttle the duke. The man was a total stranger, and yet he was undoubtedly delighting in this. “Aston, you’re insulting and I’m one step from knocking you into next week.”
Aston let out a barrel laugh so large, he pressed his hand to his chest and heaved for breath.
Ryder stared at him, hoping the bastard was just mad from too many hours in the sun on the high seas. But nothing would stop him from ripping Aston’s head off if he disrespected Kathryn one more time.
“Tell, me Your Grace, do you enjoy play acting?” Aston’s voice dripped with innocence.
A sick feeling grabbed Ryder’s gut. “On occasion.”
“Then you’ll adore this.” And without ado, Aston lifted his right hand.
The music came to a sudden stop and a young man wearing a silver mask and just a pair of dark breeches jumped onto the stage. His muscled chest reflected the yellow glow of the lamp-lit stage. “My lords! Tonight we tell the fabulous tale of a pretty country widow come to London!”
The crowd of men and women attending them turned towards the entertainment. Their wide, lust-filled eyes lit with excitement at the forthcoming entertainment.
A few whistles and cheers went up causing the young entertainer to lift his hands to silence them.
Country widow? Ryder glanced at Aston. “What the hell?”
“Enterprising on the moment, my dear fellow. Just like every other man will do with Mrs. Darrell. You do realize she is the fantasy of every man in the ton? If she leads the gents to her lovely tune, she’ll be the jewel of the demimonde.”
“Stop.” The world was spinning hard and fast, and he wasn’t sure what he was going to do.
“Stop what?”
“Whatever you’re about to do,” Ryder said flatly.
“The moment you took her in the opera, you two became open to such entertaining commentary. I am only giving you what you and every other man wants.” Aston arched a single brow. “Or did you wish for something else?”
The young performer gestured to the right. “I give you the delicious Mrs. D.”
A woman strode onto the stage, her face hidden by a bejeweled mask. But there was no question she was supposed to be Kate. Her blonde hair was curled, tumbling down her back and she wore a surprisingly modest pink gown.
“And her corrupter,” the narrator announced.
To the gasps and laughter of the audience, a man all in black, down to the mask that covered his eyes, took the stage. He circled the girl who bent, pressing her breasts even tighter together as she shivered dramatically at his presence.
“This is disgusting,” Ryder growled, staring at the representation of himself.
“Shh.” Aston waved at him dismissively. “You’re spoiling a splendid performance.”
The man sat on the small couch on stage. “Come, my sweet, have a seat.” And he leaned back parting his legs and pointing to his cock. “Right here.”
The girl playing Kate hesitated, exclaiming, “Oh, but I should not! For I am a virtuous widow.”
The actor turned to the audience and stage whispered out to them, “Ah, but this widow had her bud plucked. So, I will finger her rose.”
The crowd laughed.
“Come, my dear, sit upon me,” the actor commanded, his voice booming dramatically.
The young woman sighed, waving her hand in front of her smile then finally walked over and modestly sat upon his lap.
“And now, there is too much between us. I cannot bear to be parted from you.” The man took the girl in his arms, pulled her skirts up then yanked her astride his lap. “Or your sweet petals.”
“Oh, my lord!” the girl trilled. “Whatever are you doing?”
“Tending to your bush.”
“Oh! Oh!” She squirmed eagerly against him, tugging her skirts up higher and higher, gradually showing off her taut, pale bum to the audience.
And then they began to thrust against each other letting out ridiculously enthusiastic cries of pleasure.
Ryder let out a breath so harsh, his lungs burned then he turned to Aston. “I swear to God, you’re going to burn in Hell tonight.”
“Come now, just a bit of fun.” Aston’s amber eyes glowed with merriment. “The actress is quite good. Don’t you think?”
The entire room was laughing and shouting encouragement to the couple on stage. The entire ton knew how he and Kathryn had been discovered and now they were delighting in it as if it were the only form of entertainment.
“Fun?” Ryder snapped. Fury washed over him.
Suddenly, he felt Hunt’s hand on his shoulder, but he refused to tear his gaze from Aston.
“Let’s go,” Hunt urged quietly.
Ryder brushed his hand away. “I’m not leaving till this scum is a wet spot upon the floor.”
“Scum?” Aston threw back his head and laughed yet again. “Oh, my fellow, it was not I who left the delicious Mrs. D high and dry with no virtue to her name.” Aston leaned forward and winked. “Why, that was you. Wasn’t it, lad?”
White flashed before Ryder’s eyes. His muscles flexed. His hand flew back and his fist throttled forward. The punch slammed Aston in the mouth, splitting his knuckles.
Instead of sprawling as Ryder expected, Aston smiled, his teeth bloody. “At last.”
Chapter 16
“You son of a bitch.” Hunt launched forward to grab Aston.
Ryder seized Hunt and hauled him back.
“He’s mine,” Ryder hissed, his voice so low, he could barely hear it.
But instead of turning on Aston, Ryder vaulted towards the stage. Without even thinking, he jumped onto the polished wood paneling and grabbed the girl playing his Kathryn from the man’s lap. Pink skirts flew about as he yanked her free. Her muddy brown eyes flared beneath her mask. Regardless of her screams, he tossed her onto his shoulder.
The man in black scrambled from the couch and ran for the edge of the stage.
Ryder carried the girl off the platform. Every step sent his blood firing faster through his veins. Shrieking and flailing her arms, Ryder plopped her down unceremoniously onto a damned tasseled cushion.
Firmly, he grasped her shoulders. “Your acting is sadly deficient. I suggest a new trade.”
She nodded wildly.
A hand grabbed his shoulder and, without looking, Ryder whipped around and punched.
Aston blocked the blow with his forearm and the ass was smiling—smiling!
“Pistols!” Ryder challenged. “At dawn.”
Still smiling, Aston shook his head. “Sorry lad, we fight now or never.”
The man was bloody daft. And Ryder was going to put him out of his misery. “With pleasure.” He darted in, driving his fist into Aston’s gut.
Shaking his head, Aston staggered back. “Good punch. Harder next time.” He whipped his coat off and threw it out to the crowd who let up a merry cheer.
Ryder’s gaze followed the flickering red for a moment and he realized he and Aston were still on stage with the entire group of guests watching as if they were a Punch and Judy show.
At that exact moment, Aston jabbed him in the nose. The world exploded in sparks and Ryder twisted back to the duke. Hollers and shouts went up from the harem girls and the lords on the cushions below.<
br />
“Good show! Best I’ve seen!” some idiot shouted which was followed by a host of giggles.
Ryder tried to ignore it but it was the most grating sound. Aston darted right, pulled his fist back, the tendons on his arm cording. He slammed a punch into Ryder’s abdomen.
Furious he’d let him get in two hits, Ryder blew out a harsh breath. He balanced on the balls of his toes, focused on Aston’s ugly face then jabbed.
The duke’s head jerked back but he came back up, that damned smile still on his face, only this time, blood streamed down his chin. “That’s it, Darkwell!” he yelled. “Give me all you’ve got.”
Ryder shook his head at the man’s lunacy, but kept up the attack. Circling right, countering the duke’s movements, he looked for his next move in. He was not going to let him go—mad or not. After all, the man besmirched Kathryn and no man was going to walk straight come the next morning after slandering her.
Hunt somehow got up to the edge of the stage. Standing beside it, his black hair glistening like obsidian in the candlelight, he pounded his hands against the platform. “Take him down, Darkwell! Take the pirate bugger down!”
He and Aston kept beating on each other, exchanging punch after punch until they were slinging badly aimed hooks and jabs. With growing frustration, Ryder realized they were evenly matched and, after several minutes, both of them were staggering around the stage, swinging at the air and bleeding like bizarre fountains.
Not to mention they were both breathing like overworked bulls.
Everyone in the crowd jumped to their feet, leaning forward to see who would be last. Over the blur and ringing in his ears, Ryder could have sworn he heard someone making bets.
“Drive the poxy bastard into the carpet!” Hunt shouted again.
“W-What carpet!?” Ryder stammered, his legs heavy and his mouth as dry as cotton.
Luckily, Aston swayed on his feet. Blood spattered his white shirt and the grin had gone from his face. In fact, he was blinking furiously, his right eye swelling up like a plum.
Ryder drew up his fists and tried not to let his legs buckle. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had made such meat of him, but he was going to take the bastard down.
