Nick me! Penelope thought; she was looking at a naked man. Even more astonishing, she was looking at a naked Lord Radmoor. She had been infatuated with the man from the moment she had first set eyes on him, but not once in all her silly romantic little dreams had she imagined him naked. And if she had, Penelope decided, unable to stop herself from staring at his groin, she would never have imagined that particular appendage to be so inspiring. The little knowledge she had gathered concerning the male anatomy had come from caring for young boys. She had always suspected that a man’s appendage would be larger than a boy’s, but would never have guessed it could be that large. Penelope did not know what emotion seized her more firmly, amazement, or terror over the fact that he actually thought he could put that inside her.
It was not only Mrs. Cratchitt’s potion that kept her from demanding, loudly and hysterically, to be set free, and Penelope knew it. Her infatuation with the man also held her captive. Until now she had seen him only from a distance or as she indulged in some spying, creeping about her own home like a thief. Everything about the man had drawn her, from his aura of strength and reserve to his elegant handsome appearance. She had been struck stupid by his beauty from the start. Clothed, he had often caused her to sigh with appreciation like some moonstruck girl. Unclothed, he left her unable to find the breath to even sigh.
She was finally able to lift her gaze to his face in the vain hope of easing the odd warmth infecting her blood. The sight of his body had stirred a strange fever inside her and she needed to shake free of it. His thick golden hair was unrestrained, hanging past his shoulders. A shorter strand dangled over his broad forehead. A long, straight nose, elegant bones, a firm jaw, and a mouth that begged for kisses with its slightly full lips equaled perfection in her eyes. It was a face she knew she would never tire of looking at. It was his eyes that held her spellbound, however. They reminded her of the mists upon the moors, a mystifying bluish gray that could lighten to clear silver or darken to the almost black color of threatening storm clouds. Thick, almost feminine lashes of dark brown tipped with the glint of gold encircled those incredible eyes. Sleek, faintly winged brows of that same color added to the exotic look, enhancing the faint hint of an upward slant to his eyes.
Her thoughts about his beauty abruptly scattered when he joined her on the bed, crouching between her spread legs. He stroked her thighs with his elegant, long-fingered hands, and pure, unfettered lust swept over her. Penelope knew the potion was at fault, but suspected its effects were strengthened by all the emotions the man already stirred in her heart and body. The vile potion the madam had given her had also shattered all her shields, opened wide the inner doors she kept shut to protect herself from the turmoil of sensing the emotions of others and from being overwhelmed by the spirits all around her.
Aunt Olympia had always said that those born of Wherlocke blood were passionate. Penelope was not pleased to discover the woman was right, not now, not when she was too helpless to control any of her emotions. Unless some miracle happened, she, who had never even been kissed, was soon to experience the full measure of passion. The fact that that thought more intrigued than frightened her was just another sign that she had no control at all.
“Your legs are so beautiful,” Ashton murmured as he stroked them, reveling in the softness of her skin.
“They are too thin,” she said, and the small, still sensible part of her drugged mind told her that that was a particularly foolish thing to say. His smile was beautiful, however, and held no ridicule.
“Sleek and strong. And soft. Deliciously soft.” He gently nipped the inside of each of her thighs and then soothed the spots with tender kisses and slow strokes of his tongue. “You are too sweet for this sort of life,” he whispered and looked at her. The tips of her breasts had hardened and there was a slight flush upon her cheeks. “And very responsive. You are new to this life, I think.”
“Oh, aye, quite new.”
Ashton would have smiled at her use of the word “aye,” which revealed her country roots, if it had not been so sad. Too many country girls came to the city to find honest work only to end up selling their bodies just to survive. He intended to ask her just how new she was but was distracted by her body and his own lust. She even smelled delicious, he thought as he pressed his body against hers.
Penelope started to explain everything, only to gasp in a strange mix of shock and delight when he settled his long body on top of hers. He held his upper body up by propping himself up on one forearm, but that did little to ease the intoxicating touch of his warmth and his weight. Even more startling was how eagerly her body responded when his hard length pressed against that mindlessly hungry place between her legs.
“Let me take you away from this,” he offered, surprising himself.
“Aye, that would be most kind of you,” she said, her voice little more than a whisper as she watched him slowly untie the silk ribbons holding the front of her immodest gown together. She should be shocked but she was mostly concerned that he would find her lacking.
“I could set you up comfortably someplace, in a little house all your own.” He was not sure how he could afford it but was determined to find a way. Ashton ruthlessly silenced the little voice that whispered in his head, telling him he was acting as recklessly as his father.
“Ah.” Penelope was disappointed but not terribly surprised. “So that I might service but one man instead of many and that one man would be yourself?”
“It would be better than this, would it not?”
“Quite possibly, but did you never consider the possibility that I might not wish to service anyone?” Especially not a man who did not even know who she really was and was courting Clarissa, she thought, frustrated by her inability to stop him or to act cold and unmoved by his gentle touch.
“Then why are you here at all?”
“That seems a rather naïve question. Do you truly think a woman wakes up one day and thinks—why, I do believe I will become a whore?”
Lord Radmoor’s question had made Penelope think he would probably doubt her tale of kidnapping, drugging potions, and imprisonment. He obviously thought as too many others did, that a woman would willingly choose such a degrading profession. Some might, she mused, for they believed they would find a rich patron, but far too many of the women were dragged into this hell through trickery, force, or dire poverty. Just as she gained enough of her wits to relate her troubles with clarity, he moved his hand over her breasts and her wits were scattered all over again.
Ashton closed his eyes and savored the way her soft breast fit so perfectly in his hand. “Perhaps it was a foolish question. Perhaps you had little choice.” He pressed a kiss to the warm skin between her breasts. “I am offering you a choice now.” He looked at her again. “What is your name?”
“Penelope,” she replied, spellbound by the warmth in his eyes.
“Penelope?” He smiled faintly, not sure he believed her. “An odd name for one of Mrs. Cratchitt’s girls.”
“I am not one of her girls.” Penelope suddenly wondered if the madam was really married, and if so, where was her husband? She hastily buried that thought when the whispers began in her head and she knew someone or something was trying to answer her.
“No? And what are you then?”
She could tell by the tone of his voice that he was just humoring her. Nevertheless, with what little clarity of mind she could muster, she decided to tell him her tale. She doubted he would believe her, or even falter in his seduction for a moment, but she needed to at least try to plead her case. If nothing else, knowing that she had tried might help ease the sting of shame she was sure to suffer once he was gone and the power of Mrs. Cratchitt’s potion faded away. At least she hoped she would feel shamed if she gave her innocence to Lord Radmoor. She had the sinking feeling she might not be.
“What if I told you I was the daughter of a marquis, cruelly kidnapped, and then sold to Mrs. Cratchitt? What if I said I was given a potion, dressed in this scandalous excuse