Venetia gasped. “How did you know about that?”
“No one notices me when I sit quietly to read. You were speaking with Marcus, and you obviously didn’t notice me. What exactly did Lord Swansborough do at the orgy?”
Venetia wore a full blush now. “I saw him pleasuring a woman with another man.”
Maryanne gulped, but it was nothing more shocking than what she had read. It appeared men enjoyed the sight of other people making love. It stimulated them. “Hasn’t every rake?”
“The woman’s ankles were bound, and she dangled from the ceiling. He…he pleasured her that way.”
Maryanne felt her quim clench suddenly, and a warm jolt of sensual agony washed through her. Her cheeks were definitely aflame. “All men are rakes before marriage. A successful woman is able to determine which one can be tamed by love.” She had heard Georgiana utter this phrase numerous times.
An auburn curl danced across Venetia’s cheek. “Once, I didn’t believe any man could be tamed by love.”
“But Marcus fell in love with you and has been the most devoted husband in the history of England. Has he ever even left your side for a night?”
Venetia laughed. “He has. But I would not exactly describe Marcus as ‘tamed.’”
“And that is what I want!” Maryanne cried. Perhaps Venetia finally understood. “I want a dangerous man. A sensual, uncivilized, passionate male who merely dresses up as a gentleman but is utterly primitive inside.”
“And that man will not be Lord Swansborough. He is too dark, most definitely too dangerous, and too…too…”
“Experienced? Exciting? Arousing?”
“Lewd. That is the most appropriate word for Lord Swansborough. He is entirely too lewd for you.”
Maryanne bristled. Venetia always knew best, always gave orders. There was no reason to argue, but suddenly she couldn’t resist. “But what if I were to allow him to bind my ankles and dangle me from the ceiling?”
Her sister’s auburn brows arched. Venetia motioned to her stack of pages. “Let me see that manuscript you are working on.”
That she hadn’t expected! Maryanne slipped quickly to her feet and darted a few safe yards down the path. “No!” She sighed. “You needn’t worry about Lord Swansborough. I’ll never even dance with him, much less marry him.”
She turned abruptly. That thought shouldn’t upset her. Not when she had no intention of marrying. Jane Austen had produced marvelous work from her lovely cottage. Surely having a husband underfoot would have made that utterly impossible.
Now that Venetia thought marriage was quite magical, she was determined to foist Maryanne into one.
Maryanne stepped through the back door into the cool house. Sweet kitchen scents beckoned, but she ignored the plaintive rumble of her tummy. She had to get her manuscript hidden away.
She had it safely stowed in its hiding place when a quick rap came on her bedchamber door. A letter by the afternoon post.
The return address was Miss Beasley in Oxford Street, but the writing was Georgiana’s. Thank goodness. Surely Georgiana would be returning to London. She could cope with the creditors.
Maryanne tore it open and read.
I’m in terrible trouble. You must come tonight to this address. You must be masked, but you will be admitted, I’m certain of it. Be careful—this house is part of an erotic scavenger hunt, but I know you will keep your wits about you, and I have no one else to turn to.
G
Maryanne stared at the letter. She could see at a glance the address was unsavory.
Excitement shot through her.
Madness to go.
But what about Georgiana?
She could hire a Bow Street Runner.
And pay for him with what? Free copies of works of erotica?
Besides, having been given a glimpse into the sordid, shocking, naughty world of Lord Swansborough by Venetia, she was awfully tempted to have a closer look herself. To have an experience of her own.
One glass of champagne for courage.
Maryanne handed her empty flute to a bare-chested, masked footman who whisked it away. She couldn’t help but stare at his finely hewn, bronzed muscles, such a startling contrast to his immaculate powdered wig and black breeches.
Her invitation had gained her entry to Mrs. Master’s salon, but she rather felt as if she’d walked into hell. Surely hell was as hot, as raucous, and smelled as strangely. Decorated in Eastern fashion, the salon was a sumptuous den of gold and scarlet, velvet and silk. Pillows spilled everywhere on daybeds and on the floor. Couples and groups explored pleasure in sensuous and astonishing positions.
Behind her mask, Maryanne’s cheeks heated. She pushed aside a spray of glittering red beads that dangled from a swinging lamp.
Most of the women strolling about were completely nude, and they encouraged the handsome gentlemen to paw, pinch, or kiss them in any place desired before inviting them to play on the cushions. A few wore virginal gowns of pale silk, like hers, so she did not look out of place, at least.
How would she find Georgiana in this crush?
“My dear, you must be parched.”
Another glass was thrust into her hand. She half turned, and the gentleman bowed. Lord Craven. She almost dropped the glass. Lord Craven had been featured in many of her authors’ books. The acts he enjoyed gave her nightmares.
He plucked the glass from her fingers, his smile dazzling. Craven was a handsome man, a fair-haired gentleman with angelic blue eyes, long lashes of gold, and a lean, sculpted form. He held the glass to her lips. “Such a delicious brew is not to be wasted.”
This was a smaller glass than the one that had held champagne, and the fluid within was a deep burgundy. What harm in a sip?
But Craven tipped up the glass, and the liquor was sweet, intoxicating, and tempting. She continued to drink. At his laugh, she saw she’d drained the glass.
He gave her a leering wink and raised his hand. Instantly another tray of champagne was presented. “To cleanse the palate.”
It was true. The drink was…clinging to her tongue, sickly sweet. She took the champagne. He grabbed a flute and drank it in a gulp. “Do you dare, my dear?”
His smug smile irritated. “I’m not a fool, my lord.” She thrust the glass back, untouched, on a passing tray. She did not have to do as Lord Craven asked.
“Ah, the timid and pretty kitten is now a lioness.” But his smirk became a beaming grin of delight.
Understanding dawned. Most jades would not be concerned about becoming drunk. She had given away a clue that she was not a lightskirt.
Blast.
Lord Craven raised his hand. In the blink of an eye, men surrounded her, gathered by Craven. They made a circle—eight of London’s most desirable gentlemen. All dressed in the austere black and white of evening dress. All were taller than she, and as they stepped forward, tightening the ring, cold fear raced through her veins.
One man muttered something to Lord Craven—and the suggestion passed around the circle.
The sweetness on her tongue turned sour. She spun dizzily. She must escape.
But the circle was too tight. There was no way out.
A low, dangerous laugh sent a prickle down her spine. She gaped