She was nobility, that much he did know. Her fine threads and the cut of her gown hinted at it, but her diction clinched it along with the manner in which she held herself, as though accustomed to people bending to her will. He’d never much favored the aristocracy except for the coins they could place in his pockets. At nineteen, he’d opened the Cerberus Club intent on taking what he could from as many lords as possible, using them for his betterment. Certainly, the less affluent visited his gaming hell. He had no prejudice in him when it came to money. He’d taken it from sons, brothers, and husbands. Now, with the Elysium Club, he would take it from daughters, sisters, and wives.
Finn had made plans for this club before love diverted his attention away from it. He now lived on the outskirts of London, making a wife happy and raising horses. When he handed Elysium over to Aiden, barely a dozen women visited each night and it had been designed to reflect a bit more elegance and refinement. Aiden had made some adjustments in order to appeal to the ladies’ hidden desires.
The addition of the masks had been his idea, because he’d known women would be curious, but hesitant to show their faces. Yes, those who came through the doors had to swear an oath of secrecy, but he was well aware that oaths were broken. Hence, he’d needed a way to protect those who needed protection, while at the same time offering them a sanctuary and a means to fill his coffers.
The gaming room through which he escorted Selena remained much the same as Finn had left it. All manner of gaming was to be found here, and it was here that the bulk of his income was earned.
“I’d not expected to see men playing,” she said.
“They’re tutoring their partners. These games are not what ladies play in the afternoon while sipping tea. Would you like me to fetch you a tutor?” Even as the words escaped his mouth from habit, his gut tightened with the thought of anyone leaning in and whispering advice into the delicate shell of her ear.
“I have no interest in learning card play.”
He wondered where her interests resided but where was the fun in getting right down to it? He preferred keeping her at his side a while longer, learning more about her, discovering all the various facets of which she was comprised. “Perhaps this will interest you more.”
He led her through a doorway into a room his brother had envisioned for elegant meals with white linen-covered tables and candles flickering on them. What use had adventurous women for such boring dining options? He still had the flickering candles, but they stood on tall pillars providing the barest of light over fainting couches and mounds of pillows where ladies lounged while men placed grapes between their lips or handed them glasses of wine. Young bucks knelt before them, holding a platter of food while they ate to their hearts’ content. Some women invited the men to join them while they dined, some merely wanted to be served. Whatever their pleasure, the gentlemen were hired to provide it.
“Have you a hunger to be sated?” he asked suggestively. “A thirst to be quenched?”
“I have no interest in food or wine. Although I am intrigued by the decadence.”
She lifted those flame-blue eyes to his, and it took every bit of resistance he could muster not to fall headlong into the fire. Why was a woman with such seductive powers coming to an establishment that catered to the lonely wallflowers?
“Within this room, women are made to feel like goddesses,” she continued.
It pleased him that she understood the underlying purpose of his efforts here. He grinned. “Hence the reason we call it the Goddess Parlor.”
“Did a woman help you design this place?”
He thought a touch of jealousy marred her tone, but that could not be. They didn’t know each other well enough to spark emotions as volatile as that between them. Although had she wanted to lounge about within these walls, he might have found himself letting go any man who came near enough to inhale her strawberry scent. “My sister-by-marriage suggested the ladies would welcome being made to feel special.”
“Which one? Lady Aslyn or Lady Lavinia?”
Definitely nobility. She spoke the names as though they were familiar to her tongue, and he fought not to consider with what else he might wish to make her tongue familiar. “Lavinia. Although she’s dispensed with the use of lady before her name.” Except when she wrote scathing articles about the unjust treatment of unwed mothers and children born on the wrong side of the blanket. Then she embraced her place in Society, allowing it to serve her purpose and a greater good. “You seem to know a great deal about me.”
“Your family is the talk of the ton.”
“My family, but not me.”
“Of course, you. How do you think I knew of this place? Why provide women with all this?”
“I have a gaming hell for men. Not as posh. Cards only. But every now and then a woman would come to play. Why shouldn’t women have their own space in which to enjoy themselves? Why should they be relegated to evenings of needlework?”
“Because it is the proper thing to do.”
“And you are proper, are you?”
“I have been. In the past.”
“And now?”
“Not so much, obviously.”
He detected a bit of remorse in her tone, perhaps even shame. It would lessen in time. She would become addicted to what he offered. He had yet to welcome a lady into his lair and not see her return. “You might not be in want of wine, but you should at least absorb the atmosphere of the parlor in a bit more comfort.”
Chapter 2
As he began guiding her toward an immense ottoman in a back corner, she considered objecting, but her plans were dependent on retaining his interest. Besides, it would no doubt behoove her to become more comfortable with him. The velveteen-covered piece of furniture was larger than any ottoman she’d ever seen, designed to allow room for sprawling. He lowered her to its edge, and when she would have sat there primly and properly, he lifted her feet onto it, gently twisting her in such a way that she found herself lounging against a mound of pillows. She’d never been in a prone position with anyone other than her husband. “I’ll get it dirty.”
“It can be cleaned. Or we can remove your shoes.” Unlike hers, his words came easily, as though he’d murmured them a thousand times.
She noticed then that several of the women had done exactly that, bare toes peering out from beneath skirts, stockinged feet clasped in attentive hands. “I’ll leave them on.” They wouldn’t be here for long, surely.
He spoke to a footman before sitting so his hip buttressed hers. She hated that she gave a little start at his nearness, wasn’t acting nearly as sophisticated as she’d hoped she would.
“You’re tense. Would you like me to rub your shoulders?”
Her gaze darted nervously to those large hands and strong fingers. “Not at the moment.”
“Why are you tense, sweetheart?”
A different endearment, and she wondered how many he possessed, if he would use them all on her, if he used them on all the ladies, and she found herself wishing he would reserve one for her and her alone. Silly to expect to mean anything to him other than business. “The truth?”
“It’s always easier to recall than a lie, should the subject come up again.” He leaned back on his elbow, and with his free hand, he skimmed a finger along her calf. Only then did she realize her skirt had not fallen properly to cover her ankles as it should. Her first instinct was to shoo his hand away and tuck her toes up beneath the hem, effectively hiding what he should not be touching. But he would hopefully be touching a good deal more before the night was done.
Through her stocking she could feel the gentle and remarkably intimate swipe of his skin over hers. Swallowing, she strove not to become lost in the lovely sensations. She had to keep her head about her and not do anything improper in front of witnesses, no matter that she was disguised. “I’ve never done anything remotely naughty.”
His gaze shifted from the exposed calf to her eyes. “Why tonight?”
Shaking her head, she was grateful the footman interrupted the conversation by returning with a tray bearing a glass of red wine. Aiden Trewlove straightened, took the glass, and offered it to her. While she’d stated her lack of interest in it earlier, she decided a sip or two might go a long way toward calming her nerves. “Aren’t you going to join me?”
“It wouldn’t do for the owner to get foxed.”
“I won’t be getting foxed either.” Still she sipped the wine, smiled at how smoothly it went down, how it warmed and gave her a sense of familiarity. “A fine vintage.”
“My sister Gillie owns a tavern. She’d have my head if I didn’t serve the best.”
“She married the Duke of Thornley.”
“Another detail with which you’re familiar.”
“As I said, you’re all the talk.”
He stretched back on his elbow. “Which puts me at a disadvantage as I know so little about you.”
“You know nothing at all about me.”
“I know you’re someone’s wife.”
She tensed, but his finger again trailed along her calf, distracting her, easing her back toward a more comfortable place. “You’re guessing.”
“Although you’re wearing gloves, I can see the outline of a ring on your left hand. You would have been wise to remove it before you came.”
She should have, but she’d worn it for nearly seven years now, hadn’t even thought about it. Unsettled to realize she hadn’t taken the simplest of precautions to protect her identity, she took another sip, striving—
“A duke I’d wager.”
And nearly choked on the wine. With a cough, she covered her mouth, barely aware of him taking the glass from her as she sought to regain control, to prevent the burgundy from killing her. Gently, he patted her back. When she was more herself, she took the glass from him, cautiously swallowed the rich wine to regain her equilibrium. “Why would you think that?”
“The manner in which you hold yourself as though everything is your due, the impression you give that you are in a place beneath you, a place in which you really have no interest, walking with a man who isn’t good enough to polish your shoes.”
“You are wrong there, Mr. Trewlove. I suspect you are applying your own prejudices to me. Not that I blame you, not if the rumors I’ve heard are true. They say your father is nobility.”
On her calf, his fingers flexed as though she’d struck him a blow. “I don’t talk of my sire. Ever.”
So it was true. Noble blood ran through his veins, which worked well with her plans. “And I will not discuss my place in or out of Society,” she said tartly. “So it seems regarding that aspect of our lives, we are of a like mind.”
As he once more leaned back, his fingers returned to their trailing, going a tad higher with each stroke, growing dangerously close to her knee. So inappropriate and yet she sensed perhaps he was testing her, daring her to object. Or maybe he simply liked the feel of a woman’s leg.
“If I were to extinguish the candles on either side of you, enshrouded you in darkness, you could remove your mask.”
“Darkness is never absolute. Within this room, the mask remains. Besides, you’d be amazed by how observant some ladies are.”
He studied her for the longest and then began working on the buttons of her shoes.
“I said they were to remain on.” She would have kicked free if he hadn’t closed one hand around her leg, just above her ankle, the moment she began to speak.
“You’ll be more comfortable with them off. My floors are clean.”
He glanced at her through half-lowered lids, just as he’d looked at the gathered nobility in the church, and she had an unreasonable desire for him not to find her lacking, not to think her a coward.
“When was the last time you went barefoot?”
Strange that she should recall it. “I was nine, and there was a field of clover that I simply couldn’t resist.” It had felt like running over velvet. She shook her head. “My governess had a time of it, keeping shoes on my feet.”
But that day her mother had given her a blistering scolding, convincing her that she was too old for such nonsense. She’d kept her shoes on ever since. Disappointing her parents, disappointing anyone actually, had always made her feel rotten.
She sipped the last of the wine, finishing off the glass, and there was the footman offering her another. She took it, peered over at the man who seemed comfortable in spite of his awkward position, his feet remaining on the floor, and she wondered how he might react if she ordered him to place them on the ottoman, so she could remove his boots. Obviously the wine was having an effect on her, bolstering her courage. Although not completely. She gave a slight nod, and his fingers immediately returned to their endeavor.
When he’d removed her shoes, he handed them off to another footman who suddenly appeared. She assumed he’d somehow alerted the servant that he was needed although she’d seen no signal. “Give them to Angie, to be placed under my name.”
“Yes, sir.”
As the servant dashed off, Aiden Trewlove said, “You can pick them up in the foyer on your way out.”
She’d left her cloak there on the way in, at a counter in front of a room teeming with wraps. The girl guarding things hadn’t asked for her name but had merely given her a number. She wondered if they had a special place where they kept ladies’ things that came to them in his name, wondered what items ladies might leave with him.
Suddenly she wasn’t wondering anything at all as he stroked the side of his thumb along one instep before encasing her foot in both his hands, squeezing and kneading. So much better than clover against her soles. She rather wished she wasn’t wearing stockings. Then immediately felt guilty for enjoying his ministrations so much.
“Where were you educated?” she asked, seeking to distract herself from the wicked way his fingers moved over her.
“The streets.”
She shook her head. “You’ve had some schooling. I hear it in your speech.”
“That’s Gillie’s doing. She’s of the belief that speaking properly is the first step to moving up in the world. When we were younger, she worked for a woman who taught her how to rid herself of the Cockney. Gillie shared what she learned with all of us.”
“If not for your reputation, one wouldn’t know you came from the streets.” She’d sought to compliment him, but he merely shrugged as though it was of no consequence to him what people thought. She wished she could say the same of herself. But her position in Society required that she care and never cause any embarrassment to her family.
“How is it that you chose to own a gambling hell?” She was truly curious about this man, who worked to make her feet feel lovely while never seeking to take his heavy-lidded gaze from her face.
“This evening is about you, darling, not me.”
Those words melted her nearly as much as the press of his thumbs along the center of her sole. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d been anyone’s main focus, that her wants, needs, pleasure had taken precedence over another’s. “If that is truly the case, it would please me to know your tale so surely you should share it.”
He grinned such a masculine, sensual grin that she feared she’d find herself swimming in unchartered waters with this man. “That reasoning is a bit convoluted.” With another shrug, he dipped his head to the side, held her gaze. “Ever played the shell game?”
“I don’t believe so.”
“The patterer—that’s what you call the person who manages it because he talks the entire time—has three cups. He lets you see him put a pea or a ball or some other small object beneath one of the cups, then he starts moving them around quickly, talking, talking, and when he stops, he wagers an amount that you can’t correctly identify where the pea is. You guess correctly, he pays you. You guess wrong, you pay him. Not a lot, usually. Threepence, sixpence. Depends on the crowd, what it looks like they can afford.”
“And you always guessed correctly
where the pea was.”
That grin again that did funny things to her chest, made it tighten until it was difficult to breathe. “I was the patterer and always knew exactly where the pea was. Right in the palm of my hand. So no matter which cup they picked, they were wrong. As I was lifting the cup under which the pea was supposedly hidden, I would slip it into place. ‘Sorry, mate, here it is,’ I’d say and collect the winnings.”
“You cheated.” She was horrified at the thought, even more horrified that she was impressed with his strategy and quick sleight of hand.
He chuckled darkly. “Of course I did.”
“That’s how you made enough money to finance your business? On ill-gotten gains?”
She seemed to be amusing him because his smile got even broader. “No. I had this rickety little table with one leg in its center that I carried around with me, so I was always on the move, going from one place to another. Had my three cups, had my pea. One day a crowd had gathered. This bloke comes up, dressed all fancy. Red brocade waistcoat. I remember that the most, being impressed by the waistcoat and judging him on it. I was eleven. Had been doing my trick quite successfully for a while, was full of myself. Decided this toff had money. I was going to take him for a guinea. I laid out my terms, and he agreed to them.
“So I went through my little routine. Showed him the pea going under the cup, palmed the pea, shuffled the cups fast, egging him on, ‘Where’s the pea? Where’s the pea?’ I stop. ‘Where do you think it is, guv?’ I fairly crowed. He lifted a cup, and damned if there wasn’t a pea beneath it.”
She released a quick burst of laughter, taken off guard by the profanity he voiced so casually in her presence—no one ever used foul language in her vicinity—and the self-mocking look he gave her, as though he understood he deserved getting caught in his arrogance. “He was a swindler as well?”
The Duchess in His Bed Page 2
