“Safe. With me.”
Trying to open her eyes, Lucy fought through the haze, and the sleep that made her body feel heavy. She could not move her arms, or legs, or even lift her head from the pillow. The voice that cut through the fog pierced her memories. It was a familiar voice, from long ago, from dreams and nightmares.
“Thomas?”
Her hand was lifted, and this time she saw it was him. “You’re safe now. That servant, he hit you, and drugged you with ether. I saved you from him and brought you here.”
She stiffened. “Where is here exactly?”
“The House of Orpheus.”
Her body jolted as fear slithered through her. The effects of the drug were weakening, and she felt her strength returning.
“Shh, do not worry, love. You’ve no doubt heard terrible things about this place, but it isn’t bad. It is just a club above the Adelphi.”
“Sussex,” she groaned and she tried to move off the bed. She’d promised. And suddenly nothing seemed as important as keeping that promise.
“He kept you from me. I was there that night, I saw him take you into the alley. I tried to find you, but he disappeared with you, into the dark.”
“Charles, where is Charles?” she asked, suddenly feeling frightened. She had barely glanced at Thomas, the man she had defended, whom she had wanted to find above all reason. And here she was, thinking of a man her father wanted to force her to marry, and his servant.
“Do you mean the bloke who was hurting you? Lucy, please, listen to me. He was going to hurt you.”
“No.” Not Charles. Something was wrong.
“The effects of the ether he gave you. I’m afraid it can cause hallucinations, love. It’ll pass in time.”
“I must get home.”
“We’ve only just been reunited. We must talk—I must have you again, to know you’re still mine.”
Her sight was blurry but she tried to focus on his eyes. She had forgotten their color. From what she could see, they were not gray.
“You’re alive, but I thought you dead.”
“I am very much alive. Can you not feel it?” He reached for her hand and placed it over his heart. “It beats for you, Lucy.”
She frowned, tried to sift through the haze and organize her thoughts. “Why did you allow me to believe you were dead? You made promises to me, Thomas.”
“And I meant every one of them,” he whispered. “But I had nothing to offer you, Lucy. No money, no future. I had to make myself into something before I could return to you.”
She was tired, slipping back into sleep and she struggled against it. “Did you kill Wendell Knighton?”
“Of course not. Sussex must have told you that, yes? He’s lying. He wants to keep us apart.”
“He saw you, and you obviously saw him,” she whispered, alarm rising in her heart. “You were on the rooftop that morning.”
She started to struggle, but he gripped her arms, holding her down. “I followed you, love, to the lodge. You remember, you broke into the building. I followed you and I wanted to make my presence known then, but Sussex and Black arrived, and I couldn’t make them suspicious.”
Sussex hadn’t lied to her. It was Thomas he had seen. Thomas had been there.
“Were you on the rooftop?”
“Only to escape them.”
She collapsed back onto the bed, unable to fight him, or hold her eyes open any longer. “You’re Orpheus.”
“No, I am not. But you will meet him tonight, and all will be revealed. Rest a while longer, and when your strength is returned and your head clear, open the door and step into the hall. A servant will direct you. Here, take a sip of this.”
He was pressing a glass to her mouth, the green liquid tasted warm and bitter, and she choked.
“The Green Fairy,” he said. “Absinthe. It will help. I’ll be waiting for you. Tonight, we’ll be together again.”
“WELL?”
“All is prepared.”
“You said that the last time. Sussex poked his nose in where it didn’t belong.”
“He won’t tonight.”
Orpheus pulled his minion closer, his fingers wrapping around the man’s jacket collar. “See that he doesn’t, or you and I will be through. Do you understand?”
“Yes, master.”
“Now, see that the girl is prepared. My plan needs to be executed perfectly. It all hinges on this.”
Orpheus smiled to himself—his connection with his minion was over. He had proved his usefulness, but that usefulness was at its end. He had brought the redhead to him, and the Brethren would soon play into his hand, and like a house of cards, it would all come crumbling down. And he could not wait to witness it. To feel the rush of power.
His plan was intricate. One needed to be patient and cunning. He’d waited years for this, and he would not ruin it by being rash. The end was in sight. He would have what he desired. His rightful place in the world.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
THE CLUB REEKED of sweat and perfume, cigars and alcohol, all mixed with sex and debauchery. It was cloying, a vaporous cloud that clung to every surface. The incense was heavy, the opium a bitter scent in the air that wafted and hovered, enchanting the revelers.
No one appeared to be in their right mind—if they were, they would not be acting out the scenes he was forced to bear witness to, but witness them he did. He was searching for Lucy, and he had not yet found her.
Adrian had no idea if Black and Isabella had made it to the club, or if they would come inside. He’d left with Montgomery before the others. He hadn’t wanted to waste a second finding her. It had been easy to gain entrance into the club; finding her was proving more difficult.
“Over there, guv,” Montgomery whispered. “There’s a door, you take it and see where it leads, and I’ll mull about in ’ere.”
“Do not leave this room,” he ordered, then he made his way through the bodies that danced, drank, and kissed, hoping he wasn’t being observed. Discreetly he slipped beyond the door to see a vision in a green morning gown, with her red hair piled high, brush past him. She was wearing a black beaded mask, and his pulse raced. He was going to kill her for breaking her promise to him.
Adrian watched as a footman carrying a tray made his way over to the woman in the green dress, and she followed the servant. Adrian followed her. His head was thick with the scent of hashish oil and incense smoke. A heavy sensuality blanketed him, and he fought through it, forcing himself to recall where he was. Orpheus was here, there was danger, and he could not allow himself to take risks with Lucy, even when every fiber of his being made him want to reach out and claim her—here and now.
THE ATMOSPHERE WAS CLOSE, intimate. The gas lamps had not been lit—the light was provided by the cozy glow of dozens of candles flickering in their golden candelabras, casting shadows on the walls that were at once eerie and sensual. Wall sconces held incense sticks, their tendrils scented with spicy, heavy perfumes that clouded her thoughts.
Lucy had awakened and left the chamber, but still the effects of the ether and the absinthe made her head feel heavy, and almost dazed.
Standing by the wall, Lucy peered into the adjoining salon, and quickly glanced away, blushing furiously. There was every decadence in that room, and despite having once lain with a man, she was unprepared for the sight of what was taking place. Thomas had spoken of the house before—when they had been together, lying on the floor of his rental flat. She had thought it decadent and exciting, but in reality it was revolting. It resembled nothing of what she had shared with Sussex. In her mind, that had been beauty, needy and heated, true, but he was right; there was something there between them, binding them. It wasn’t only lust. She wanted to tell him, but first she had something she must do.
Where was Thomas? Why had he not met her yet? She wanted desperately to leave. She needed to find Sussex.
Taking her mind off the antics she had just witnessed, she watched as a liveried footman approach
ed her, carrying a tray laden with a glass, sugar cubes as well as silver tongs and a spoon.
“Will you follow me, my lady?”
“Where to?” she asked, fear and suspicion rising in her voice, especially when she saw the tray contained a bottle of absinthe and only one glass.
“To a place more private, and safe,” he answered.
Reluctantly she followed him into a darkened chamber where only a few candles were placed. A sheer, gauzy curtain cordoned off a section of the room, separating it. What lurked beyond the curtain, she could not say, but she caught a glimpse of a shadow, and she stepped closer, realizing she was experiencing what the French called déjà vu. She had been here before, in a vision, a dream, or perhaps a trance.
“Who’s there?”
No one answered, and she was left to walk the perimeter of the room until she came to stand once more before the wall and the curtain, to lean against it for support and to fight the effects of the incense, and the rise of fear that threatened her.
“Why are you here?” The voice was quiet, a whisper of darkness and sin.
It was not Thomas’s voice, and she didn’t dare speak the name to whom the voice belonged. She was afraid now. Very afraid, for she had broken her promise to Sussex. She had no idea where Thomas was, and if he was this Orpheus person they hunted. Only one thing was clear—his voice soothed her.
“Why?” the voice asked again. “Tell me.” She felt his body pressing against her back, the brush of his warm breath against her ear, muted by the gauzy curtain that hung between them.
Closing her eyes, she allowed her head to tip back, but he moved slightly, allowing the curtain to cradle her into his chest. Behind her lids, she tried to conjure up his eyes—a pair of gray eyes flashed before her, and she tried to move, to reach, but the absinthe made her languid, liquid, while increasing her awareness. It was a strange drink, not like champagne that muddled thoughts. Absinthe was different in that it heightened one’s perception, almost to a point of crystal clear realization. While the mind was clear and light, her body was heavy, as if she were trying to walk in water encumbered by the weight of a heavy ball gown. There was a sensuality to it, a languor, and a certain beckoning she must obey.
“Tell me, why now?”
“All this time,” she whispered in an anguished voice. “I never saw you.”
His body moved beyond the curtain, and she felt his arm slide along the soft fabric, as if trying to reach her hand—to touch her palm with his. Unbearably erotic it was, with only the filmy curtain keeping them apart.
“I have been here, waiting. But you refused to see me.”
Sussex. It was his voice. His scent discernible amongst the incense. It was the large body that was so warm and inviting—familiar from last night at the Mount Street house.
This scene, this déjà vu, was the vision she had seen during Mrs. Fraser’s trance. This was the purported future that held her.
Was this the crossroads she spoke of? If only she could turn around, and reach for the gauze, tear it down and reveal the man like she had in her vision. But she hadn’t the strength, her body would not obey, would only allow her to slide her arm outward, searching through rippling water and darkness for a hand she felt, so close within her reach.
“I’ve seen you.” Her voice wavered as her heart started to pound hard against her breast. Something was warming inside her, and in the dark, with anonymity, she felt an ease and confidence she had never experienced before. “I’ve…thought of your kiss, trying to recall those moments when…when something inside me changed.”
“My kiss? Do you not remember it?”
She did. The memories of it had tormented her. She shouldn’t want it, shouldn’t be this inconstant creature who vacillated between dislike and passion, but something had changed between then and now. She had seen a different side to him, a side not ruled by pride and politeness.
“Shall I awaken your memories, then?”
“Yes.”
“Do you not recall it? What it did to you, how it made you feel?”
“No,” she whispered, trying to entice him to speak. “Tell me the power of it.”
“The power of a kiss is a heady pleasure, one that teases the mind, warms the heart, lifts the soul and tempts the body.”
Lucy let herself grow lax. Behind her closed lids, she saw him, and did not run from that image, or the knowledge that the man seducing her with words was not the man she had come to meet, nor was he anyone she would have ever dared to think might have this effect on her.
“One should feel a kiss deeply inside. It should melt them from the inner core of their being, to the outside, where the flesh burns for touches from lips and hands, and the caress of a warm, velvety tongue.”
A breathless pant escaped her, and she knew she should be utterly mortified by it. But he only pressed closer, and she felt the tentative touch of his warm palm grace her fingertips.
“Words and kisses are so very much alike, they have the power to lure and entice, to arouse, and soothe—to punish in the most pleasurable of ways. Like words, a kiss should leave you wanting more—needing more.”
Lucy gulped, unable to say anything. She wanted more. Definitely more.
“A woman’s body should respond in the same way. Your pulse should race, a heavy drum in your veins, and beneath your chest. Your breath should catch, and your head tip back in anticipation.” His voice dropped to a wicked, sensual, whisper. “Your breasts—” his fingers brushed along hers, the curtain still between them lessening the touch, yet heating her even more “—they should be heavy, growing with want. The tips sensitized, tingling, the dark cherry nipples, tight and aching—little points wanting to be freed from behind their steel cage.”
Oh, God, her breasts were aching, and yes, her nipples were brushing against her corset, wanting to be freed, to be taken in his hands, between his teeth—to experience what she had last night.
“And your belly, it should be quivering, your womb aching, your thighs growing wet with desire. Inside, you should bloom, should open like the petals of a flower.”
She nodded, squeezed her eyes shut and let his words rush over her. She was feeling all those things, and more.
“My mouth,” he whispered, and this time he was right up against her, his head lowered so that his mouth, through the thin gauze, brushed her neck, “should make you open to me, to allow me to explore your body. And that body should welcome me deep inside, accepting the pleasure I could give it.” His breath was hot against her ear, and she could barely stand, her legs feeling like gelatine. “I could give it so much pleasure, this body of yours. I could bring you to the stars with only my kiss. Did you know, I could make you cry out, and shatter—to come, with a kiss from my mouth on your core?”
Lucy hid her shocked gasp by steadying herself with a fistful of the curtain, but he must have heard, or sensed her surprise at the shocking image he just produced, for his next words were a dark chuckle, and a smile she could feel as he pressed his face closer to her neck.
“Would you allow that? For me to give you that pleasure?”
“That’s…that’s indecent,” she murmured, trying to collect herself. The very thought was scandalous.
“I wouldn’t take no for an answer. I would force it upon you, spreading your thighs, lowering my body between them.”
Oh good God, she could see it, and she could not stop from wondering what he would look like, those gray eyes peering up at her.
“You would protest—not because you feared me, or because you didn’t want it, but because you think you must—that it is the only thing to be done for a proper lady. But I would whisper to you that nothing is forbidden in love.”
The smoke from the incense seemed to come faster, and the candlelight was beginning to dim. Perhaps it was all figments of her imagination, for she was breathing too fast—wanting too much.
“I would set my fingers to you, part you with my thumbs, stare down in wonder at how beauti
ful you are, and then I would lower my mouth to you, tasting, smelling, and then I would caress you with my tongue—slowly, thoroughly, until I felt your hips rise up to meet me—”
“Stop!” she choked. “Please…do not say more.”
“A kiss,” he said, “should leave a man aching and aroused. The woman should feel what she does to him, he should show her what her touch, her sighs and moans do to him.”
He took her hand. The gauze came with them as he placed her arm behind her back, and rocked into her, filling her hand with the length of him that was pushing against his trousers.
“The promise of a kiss,” he said, and his voice faltered as she gently brushed her hand up and down the steel length of him, “should make one feel as though they are dying, and their lover’s lips are the only tonic to save them.”
“I…I…” She tried to say it, to face the startling fact. Squeezing her eyes, she whispered softly, “I am dying.”
The sound of fabric rendering jolted her, but before she could ascertain the cause of it, she was grasped and turned around and was staring up into the silver eyes of the duke.
“Dying. Perishing. Dissolving, and only your lips—your kiss—will save me.”
His mouth captured hers—hard, demanding, his fingers threading into her hair, clutching as he ground his open mouth over hers. His tongue snuck deftly inside, and they both moaned at the feel, the taste, the heady intoxication of that shared kiss. Her arms came up around his shoulders; with her eyes tightly fused she allowed her hands to feel—to see him as he appeared beneath her fingertips.
She couldn’t speak, could barely even breathe. His chest was pressed tightly to hers; she could feel through her watered silk gown that he wore no jacket or waistcoat. Only a linen shirt that allowed her to feel the incredible heat radiating from him, how the fine lawn clung to his muscles and smelled of him.
His lips moved from her, and she protested, pulling him closer, but he just tipped back her chin and nipped at her jaw, his hands leaving hers only to skim down her sides to cup her derriere.
She could do nothing but rest her head against his shoulder and savor the musky, male scent of him. She could not protest, only sigh as his lips skimmed her skin. His whiskered chin abraded her soft flesh as he moved his mouth lower, his tongue tracing a path down her neck—a neck that was surely glistening with perspiration—with desire and need. His hands…oh, the way his hands cupped and molded and cared for her, as if her pleasure was all that mattered to him.
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