by Sharon Page
“She is Clarissa Carrington,” Sandhurst whispered. “And across from her is a courtesan I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.”
The courtesan Sandhurst didn’t know had brunette ringlets, and a darker complexion—a light caramel color. The young woman’s eyes were almond shaped and exotic. She wore not a gown but a silk wrapper in a stunning turquoise color, belted tight around her.
At that moment, Sadie leaned over toward Rutledge, so her bosom pressed to the table. Portia couldn’t see, but she suspected the breasts had almost popped up and out of Sadie’s bodice. Rutledge was staring. In her mind, Portia named her the Brash Courtesan.
The Brash Courtesan giggled at the earl. “I think we should have a competition. Are you really as generously endowed as the rumors say? I think we should view the delightful pricks on offer and award those that please us best. Perhaps it’s time that women chose the gentlemen as opposed to the other way around.”
Portia sat stunned. How could she be that brash?
Naughtiness gleamed in Sadie’s eyes. “You claim to have thirteen inches, Rutledge. But is it true? Is there anyone here to beat you? Perhaps it’s not the length, but the thickness. Perhaps fatter is more pleasing?”
“It’s not size,” cooed the sultry dark-haired woman, the Elegant Incognita. “It is skill.”
“A large man can be like a bull, and make a woman cry out in pain, not pleasure,” declared the Old Madam. “But any lightskirt will take that man again, fascinated by his fearsome size, certain that the next time such a huge club will give her the orgasm that lets her see heaven. We’re all searching for that. The exquisite little death where we do indeed glimpse heaven.” She laughed loudly, riotously after this.
“That is true, Mrs. Barker. I know the endowments of every gentleman here,” said the Incognita. “Except Viscount Sandhurst.” She teasingly fluttered lashes at him. “I do hope to rectify that situation during this event.”
The lad blushed. Tugged at his collar. “Well . . . well, indeed. I should oblige.” Then he turned to her, Portia. “Unless I am claimed by another delightful lady.”
Oh dear.
The sound of glass shattering made everyone gasp. Sinclair growled, dropped his broken wineglass, and mopped up his hand. The footman rushed over to assist.
Someone laughed. A deep, throaty, husky chortle.
Portia looked toward the sound and saw the gentleman who’d laughed was staring at her.
It was the man with the darker gold hair. She hadn’t been able to see him well before, because he’d been leaning toward the woman beside him.
Now he watched her, leaning back casually in his velvet-cushioned chair. A smirk touched his lips. He brushed back his hair, the dark gold tresses falling over his brow. His eyes appeared to be violet. A startling color and probably just a reflection.
Then she gasped. She knew him. It was one of Sinclair’s old friends from ten years past. Viscount Willoughby.
But why smirk? Was it because he was responsible for bringing her here?
Ten years ago, the viscount hadn’t approved of Sinclair marrying her. She knew Willoughby had been the one to take Sinclair to scandalous brothels. Oh yes, it had been Sinclair’s fault because he had gone, but the viscount had been determined to corrupt him.
Could he be behind her kidnapping?
Somehow she had to question him.
Willoughby looked away from her. “The problem here is that there aren’t enough women. It’s damned disappointing.”
“What do you mean?” demanded Miss Bradshaw, the Brash Courtesan. “There’s one of you for each of us.”
“Almost, darling,” corrected the Incognita. “There are six of us, seven of them.”
“I like satisfying a group of women at once,” Willoughby said carelessly. “I never fuck less than three. Having only one woman is damned dull.”
Portia gritted her teeth. She hadn’t liked Willoughby then for his arrogance. It appeared he was no different now.
The footman—there was only one—cleared away the course. Humphries followed, serving the next one. He held a plate in front of her. It held pinkish red lobster tails, stuffed with something and delicately arrayed with green sprigs of an herb. She took one.
At the foundling home, she’d always eaten simply. She had to run the foundling home on a meager budget now. Her brothers now had families to support, so they had to receive incomes, else how would they and their families live? They had found careers—one of her brothers had trained to be a physician, the other owned a print shop that was favored by the ton. But with wives and children of their own, they could spare little time for the foundling home.
Portia lifted her fork and took a nibble of the filling of the lobster tail. Heavens, it was succulent shrimp, rich and almost sweet.
She closed her eyes and sighed. She couldn’t help it.
She’d never had such delicious food in her life.
The Brash Courtesan suddenly squealed in delight. “Oh, Sinclair, if your mistress goes off with Sandhurst, then I would be more than happy to please you. After dinner, I would be delighted to suck your cock.”
Portia’s eyes had snapped open. And both her fork and a piece of shrimp had gone spinning out from her hand and were now flying across the table.
* * *
Sin caught Portia’s flying fork and tossed it to the table. The footman brought her fresh silverware as everyone else looked from her to Sin, then from him to Sadie.
Sadie wore a smirk like a cat that had not only gotten into the cream but who had given a standing order to have it delivered every morning.
“This time I’m devoted to my pretty mistress,” he said smoothly.
“That isn’t like you.” Sadie pouted, watching him. “You’re not even faithful to a partner at an orgy for longer than it takes to make her come.”
He saw Portia wince.
This conversation needed to come to a halt. “After dinner, Sadie, we’ll see.”
“We’ll see?” She put her hands beneath her bosom, lifting it. “You can’t be turning shy now. Not after all the wicked things you’ve done. You’re like Willoughby. The rumour is you never sleep in your bed unless you have four others sharing it with you. But with you, not all of your bedmates are females.”
Portia stared with wide eyes.
“Exaggeration. I’m not as legendary as that.”
“But you are,” murmured Clarissa. “You are quite legendary, Sin.”
“Enough,” he growled, his voice a warning.
Another course came, interrupting the conversation. The first meat dish. What startled him was how red-faced and shocked Portia looked. Their eyes met. She looked . . . so unhappy, so disappointed.
It couldn’t be because she cared about him.
No—he’d broken her heart once and she’d told him it was now too late.
The guests attacked their food. Sin lifted his wineglass to his lips. He was supposed to study the guests, but he kept staring at Viscount Sandhurst. Sandhurst was drooling over Portia. Sin glared at the lad over his wineglass. Glowering.
The lad was kissing Portia’s hand again. She was looking impressed by his attentions.
Sin tossed back his wine. He had cost Portia more than he’d expected. He had assumed, when he’d broken the engagement, that she would meet another man and marry.
He’d never dreamed she wouldn’t.
Guilt sat on him. Hard.
How did he make amends for taking ten years of her life?
First, he could find out who kidnapped her.
Across the table, he noticed Sax’s gaze falling on Portia. On her full, natural pink lips. On her rounded bosom and the obvious slender grace of her figure. His friend’s brow rose in appreciation.
He’d been surprised to find Sax here. In truth, he didn’t know why his initial reaction had been shock—Sax enjoyed bacchanalias as well as he did. They had only a chance for brief conversation. He had mentioned the notes, the absent host. Sax h
ad also received the note. And Sax was in agreement—something was off about this party. They had a missing host and the kidnapping of Portia.
Right now, he didn’t like the way Sax was studying Portia. The mask covered most of her face, revealing only the soft curve of her jaw and delicate chin, and her full, generous pink lips.
He caught Sax’s eyes. Across the table, he mouthed, “Mine.”
Instead of looking challenged, Sax just grinned.
He could trust Sax not to reveal the truth about Portia’s identity. And not to try to seduce her away. His warning hadn’t been necessary. Or had it?
After all, when he and Portia had seen Sax with Georgiana, Lady Linley, he’d heard Portia’s sharp intake of breath. She was staring at Sax. Just because she’d never seen a man fucking? Or because she liked the way Sax looked while he did it?
The man was damned handsome with white-blond hair, but long, dark lashes. At his orgies, women always swooned over Sax. It was irritating.
Now, he felt a sharp slam in his gut. What if Portia looked at Sax and wanted him? What if she wanted Sandhurst?
His plan had been to portray her as his mistress to the guests—with all the exclusivity that came with such a title—but she wasn’t his mistress. She was free. And, in that mask and gown, she was stunning.
Jealousy hit him harder than guilt.
The butler appeared. “Port will be brought in for the gentlemen. Sherry and coffee are available for the ladies in the west drawing room.”
An untouched dessert sat in front of him. The lone footman was moving from female to female, drawing back her heavy chair.
Sadie cooed, winked, and waggled her fingers at him. Ignoring her, Sin got up and went to Portia, who was heading for the door.
He stood in front of her. Through the holes of her mask he could see her huge gray eyes. “Where are you going?”
“For sherry and coffee with the women. As I’m supposed to do.”
“I don’t like you leaving my sight.”
“I shall be with all the women.”
“Women can be more dangerous than men, Portia.”
“Well, I shall take care of myself.”
Pulling away from his hand, which he’d settled on her arm, Portia followed the women. Sin wanted to go after her, but he realized this time alone with the men, before their brains focused on rutting, would be profitable. A time to question them.
At that moment, Sadie ran back into the room. Sin tensed, expected she would do something bold and daft, like jump on him. Instead she went to Sandhurst, who was still seated, and whispered in his ear, ensuring her tits pressed against him.
Sadie’s bosom just about swallowed up the lad’s head. Sadie left; then, blushing and swallowing hard, Sandhurst stuttered. “Have to excuse myself for a moment—have to go—something to do—”
“Know exactly who you’re going to do,” Rutledge sneered. “Though Sadie needs more than a boy just out of short pants. That girl can fuck until your head’s ready to pop off. Doubt you have it in you to keep up with her.”
Sandhurst gulped. But he headed out of the room anyway.
Sin went back to his chair, leaned back in it. Angry. Irritated. He used to love a good orgy. Now, he just wanted to get Portia out of here, take her home—
But without sex, how did he get the guilt and regret out of his head?
* * *
Portia had felt a quiver go down her spine at Sinclair’s intense look. I don’t like you leaving my sight.
Of course, that was just because he was being protective. She followed the women toward the drawing room, trailing behind the others. Then she spotted Sadie, alone, down the hall, looking furtive.
Why wasn’t Sadie with the viscount? Why did she look so guilty? Was their meeting for another reason than a romantic tryst? Curious, Portia followed. No one would suspect they were meeting about her kidnapping—everyone would assume they were doing something naughty.
Portia approached, then slipped behind a marble statue of a nymph that stood in a niche so Sadie would not see her. The nude nymph’s full figure and huge bosom could hide a small horse.
In the hallway, the young, bosomy courtesan met Viscount Sandhurst. “Quiet and come with me,” Sadie commanded, and she led Sandhurst by the hand down the corridor.
Blast. Portia still didn’t know if they were going to meet for pleasure or to discuss a plot that involved the kidnapping of innocent women.
She couldn’t picture blushing Sandhurst, who seemed to be only thinking about sex because he was so young and fascinated by it, being a clever villain. And she felt there was an intelligent, evil person behind her kidnapping. Though, that was just a guess. Just an instinct.
Sadie didn’t seem to have any thought beyond seducing a man with a title.
But was that true? Or just a very good act?
The problem was—how could she follow them without being spotted? She could hardly walk in on them if they were having a passionate encounter.
She went back into the drawing room. And walked in on yet another shocking thing.
Harriet Barker and the young courtesan whose name she didn’t know were kissing while sitting on the sofa. A sloppy, openmouthed kiss with lots of moaning.
As Portia almost stumbled over her feet, they broke apart. “I thought you were one of the men,” rumbled Harriet. “What’s taking those blasted gentleman so darned long?”
“Maybe they’re kissing each other while we’re not there,” suggested the very lovely widowed countess. Her soft laughter fluttered through the room.
The countess leaned against an enormous white piano, polished to a mirror finish. The whole room was white. In blinding daylight, it would hurt the eyes. In warm, golden candlelight, it was rather stunning.
“Ooh, I’d like to see that. Gentlemen kissing. Yummy!” declared the Unnamed Courtesan. She jumped up from the sofa, her brunette curls dancing. She discarded her wrap. Good heavens! Portia gaped. The woman wore only a corset embroidered in fanciful colors—turquoise, lavender, scarlet. Peacock feathers streamed down from the bottom of the corset, covering just her privates and her bottom. Her long, shapely legs were revealed. In a world where it was shocking to show an ankle.
Also, could such a woman be a kidnapper? She seemed only to care about gentlemen. All the women here seemed to be thinking only about the men—or was one woman faking her interest, and she was behind Portia’s kidnapping and the notes?
But who could be likely—?
“Who are you?”
The sudden, abrupt question startled Portia. Sherry flew up out of her glass and landed on the pale carpet as she spun around, wishing she could swallow her heart back into its place.
The Elegant Incognita stood behind her, watching her suspiciously.
“Me?” It took her so long to answer she knew she looked exactly as if she was lying. “I am Miss Love. The Duke of Sinclair’s mistress.” Summoning courage, Portia lowered her voice. “I’ve heard that a woman was to be kidnapped and brought here. Part of a game. Did you hear any such thing?”
The woman’s brows lifted. “No, but perhaps Genvere likes women to be unwilling. Some men do. But now that you have your hooks into Sin, you’ll never want for anything again. Will you?”
The woman peered at her, as if trying to see through the mask. “A woman wears a mask at an event like this to protect her identity. Which means she has something to lose.”
“Or she just likes to wear a mask,” Portia retorted. Though it wasn’t the cleverest thing she’d ever thought of. Still in her thoughts was the scene of the two women kissing. She knew there were women who loved other women, who had Sapphic feelings. But those women had kissed to entice the men. How odd to think men would be aroused by such a thing, since it appeared that men were not to be involved.
It interested her. She knew a proper woman should not be curious.
But she was.
She also knew she had no idea how to question anyone. How to find clues
or even, through extreme cleverness, get a person to reveal secrets. But she had to try.
Twirling a curl around her finger, she asked in a careless tone, “So it would not bother you if a woman was brought here against her will?”
“Of course I would find it stupid and tedious. But if a courtesan is to be successful, she has to feign enjoyment of stupid and tedious things,” the woman said lightly.
These answers weren’t helpful at all. Portia tried to think of something else to ask, when the butler cleared his throat from the doorway. “The gentlemen will be joining you momentarily—”
A scream came from outside the room, cutting off his words. The butler jumped a foot. It was a screech of terror.
Everyone ran for the door, to see what was going on.
Out in the corridor, the beautiful viscount lay on the carpet. Sadie lifted her two naked, melon-sized breasts off his youthful face. She clutched her bosom with both hands and threw herself back, falling on the floor on her bottom. Wildly, she looked around and her gaze locked on them.
“Oh my heavens, he’s dead!” she cried. “I think . . . I think my bosom killed him!”
8
Moments after Sadie’s panicked cry filled the room, thunder boomed. So loud, it seemed to shake the stone walls of the house. A gust of wind flung open the glass doors of the drawing room. Candles went out.
They were not plunged completely in the dark, but into a shadowy gloom, and one that was quickly split by a second ear-shattering scream that made Portia almost leap out of her slippers.
“I’m going to be hanged for killing him!” shrieked Sadie. She began to run about, rather like a headless chicken, if said fowl was clutching a dress to its bare bosom.
The young woman was stark white, squealing in terror. Even though Sadie held up her bodice, she was crushing her breasts flat, which made most of her bosom stick out the top and the sides and wobble about like aspic jelly.
The men, instead of one stepping forth to act as knight errant, appeared frozen with shock.
