EVA LEIGH is the pen name of a RITA® Award-nominated romance author who writes novels chock-full of smart women and sexy men. She enjoys baking, tweeting about boots, and listening to music from the ’80s. Eva and her husband live in central California.

ALSO AVAILABLE FROM EVA LEIGH

AND MILLS & BOON

The Scandalous Ladies of London series

FROM DUKE TILL DAWN

COUNTING ON A COUNTESS

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk.

ISBN: 978-0-008-27266-1

DARE TO LOVE A DUKE

© 2019 Ami Silber.

Published in Great Britain 2019

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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To Zack

Contents

Cover

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

About the Publisher

Chapter 1

London, England

1816

A droplet of sweat rolled between the shoulder blades of Thomas Edward O’Connell Cúchulain Powell, Earl of Langdon, as he steadied the cocked dueling pistol and took aim. He looked down the weapon’s barrel, his concentration fixed on his target twenty paces away. His exhalation misted in the chill midnight air as he fought for calm.

He inhaled, held his breath, then pulled the trigger. There was a flash and a cloud of smoke as the weapon’s concussion split the night’s stillness.

Twenty paces away, glass shattered.

The hushed crowd burst into applause and cheers of “Bravo!” as Tom lowered the pistol and grinned. He kept his footing as people swarmed around him, offering their congratulations and hearty thumps on the back. Numerous women, scented heavily with perfume, kissed his cheeks—so many that he imagined it looked as though he wore rouge.

“The hero of Regent’s Park,” George Mowbray declared.

“Not to Culver, I’m afraid.”

Tom looked over at his opponent, Lord Culver, who sulked as he handed his dueling pistol to a footman. Culver had missed when taking aim at the bottle of claret. Perhaps if Tom had been more virtuous, he would have deliberately missed so that there was no winner and no loser. Though Tom was an earl and the heir to the Duke of Northfield, no one would ever call him virtuous.

“Ah, shag him,” Mowbray said magnanimously.

“I’ll leave that to the professionals.”

Tom smiled ruefully as Culver’s hired companion for the evening attempted to soothe her client. When Culver shoved her away and she stumbled, Tom immediately strode through the crowd and jammed his fist into his opponent’s sternum.

“You may have lost, but you’re still a gentleman,” Tom said in a low, warning voice. Gently, he took the woman’s arm to make sure she kept her footing. “Apologize to the lady.”

“She’s just a whore, Langdon,” Culver said.

“Apologize.” Tom’s jaw firmed as he held up the pistol. “Or else the next time I fire this, it will be at your worthless heart.”

Culver scowled, but said in a grudging voice, “I’m sorry.” Under his breath, he muttered, “You Irish son of a bitch.”

Tom narrowed his eyes. “Repeat that.”

“I . . .” Culver gulped. “It was a jest.”

“A poor one.” Since the age of twelve, when he’d been brought from his mother’s Irish home to be educated in his father’s country of England, Tom had heard some variation of Culver’s insult. Why anyone thought Tom ought to be embarrassed about his Irish blood, he’d no idea. But he wouldn’t tolerate slurs. “Must I ask for another apology?”

“My sincere contrition,” Culver said. After casting Tom a wary glance, he hurried toward his waiting carriage.

“Hope I didn’t cost you your night’s earnings,” Tom said to the woman.

“Ah, no.” She gave him a dry smile as she eyed the throngs of young, wealthy bucks passing bottles back and forth as they caroused. “There’s plenty of pickings in this crowd.” She glanced at him and her smile turned more genuine. “Happens that I’m free right now, my lord. If you’re interested.”

“Perhaps another evening.” He wasn’t ready for bed yet.

One of the rakes came forward with a substantial bundle of cash and jammed it into Tom’s hand. “Your winnings, Langdon.”

No sooner than the cash was in his hand than Tom turned and handed it to the woman. “For putting up with Culver.”

“I couldn’t, my lord,” she said as she tucked the money into her bodice. She gave him a wink. “’Night, love.” She pressed a quick kiss to his cheek, then strode off into the darkness.

“That was near seventy pounds, Langdon,” Mowbray said in shock.

“She’ll have better use of it than me.”

There was no shortage of funds in Tom’s coffers, between income from his earldom as well as his generous allowance provided by his father, the duke. Other lordlings and bucks swam in seas of debt, hounded constantly by tailors, club proprietors, and wineshop owners. Tom made certain to pay everyone on time, for no other reason than the fact that he could.

“I’d do it again for free if it meant humiliating Culver. Bloke’s had it coming since he refused to cover his mistress’s bills.”

“You’re a daft bastard,” Mowbray said with a shake of his head.

“I’d agree,” Tom said affably, “except everyone knows about my parents’ celebrated fidelity. Bastard in deed but not blood.”

Someone handed him a bottle of whiskey and he took a drink before passing the spirits along to a trio of bucks who looked in dire need of refreshment.

“Good Christ, here you are!”

The throng opened up just enough to allow Christopher Ellingsworth to emerge, looking slightly bedraggled despite his military bearing. Since returning home from the War a year ago, Ellingsworth had renewed the friendship he and Tom had begun at Oxford, and from that point forward they had been nigh inseparable, with the exception of tonight.

“Missed the excitement.” Tom handed his pistol to the footman, who returned it to its polished mahogany case.

“Not for want of trying,” his friend said. “I’ve been to the opera, two gaming hells, and a phaeton race. Everywhere I went, I’d just missed you by ten minutes.” He shook his head but his eyes gleamed with reluctant admiration. “Good thing we’re not competing for the title of Most Scapegrace Gentleman in London, or else you’d best me.”

“That trophy isn’t much sought after, anyway. Why such urgency to find me?” Tom lifted an eyebrow. “My father’s not looking for me, I hope.”

The duke periodically got it into his head that Tom would somehow reform and conduct himself with the dignity and sobriety of a ducal heir with a family history of deeply traditional beliefs, but that was precisely why Tom spent his days asleep and his nights in endless rounds of revelry. One day, hopefully in the far distant future, Tom would inherit the title, and with it, the morass of responsibilities and duties that came with being one of the most powerful men in England—and a voting record dedicated to preserving the ancient systems of power.

Life as Tom knew it would end. He’d say goodbye to nights entertaining opera dancers, midnight swims in the Serpentine, and behaving like the kingdom’s veriest rogue, with his equally dissolute companions keeping him company.

As a marquess’s third son who had recently sold his commission, Ellingsworth had considerably less money but shared Tom’s appetite for running riot. There wasn’t one corner of the city they hadn’t explored in search of amusement and pleasure.

Ellingsworth hooked an arm around Tom’s neck and led him several paces away from the celebrants.

In a low voice, he said, “I’ve heard about something that I knew would interest you. A place in Bloomsbury called the Orchid Club.”

Tom groaned. “I’ve grown weary of clubs. Same games of chance, same people, same wine, same everything.”

His friend’s grin flashed. “This club is different. For one, it opens its doors only once a week and it just so happens to be open tonight.”

That wasn’t enough to snare Tom’s interest. Many clubs did what they could to cultivate an air of mystery in order to ensure steady business from those eager to discover its secrets.

“What else makes it so special? Is it a brothel?”

“It is most decisively not a brothel. You’ll need this, however.” Ellingsworth unhooked his arm from around Tom’s neck. He reached into his coat before producing something, then slipped the item into Tom’s hand.

Tom held up the object so he could study it better. It was a half mask made of midnight blue satin.

“What the devil . . . ?”

Ellingsworth chuckled. “You’re intrigued.”

“You’ve gotten my attention.”

Tom had torn all over London tonight, but still edginess and restlessness pulsed just beneath his skin. He needed diversion. Surely there had to be something in the city he hadn’t already done.

“Excellent.” Ellingsworth clapped his hands together. “I left my horse with the boy watching yours.”

He headed toward where the animals waited, and Tom quickly followed.

“Won’t you tell me more about this mysterious Orchid Club?” he asked.

“I wouldn’t dream of ruining the surprise.”

They reached the horses and after tossing coins to the lad holding the reins, Tom and Ellingsworth swung up into the saddles.

“Not even a hint?” Tom pressed.

In response, Ellingsworth put a finger to his smirking mouth, then wheeled his horse around.

Together, he and Tom rode off into the night.

Bloomsbury slumbered peacefully as Tom and Ellingsworth rode down an avenue lined with prosperous-looking homes. It hardly seemed the environment where a club—of admittedly unknown character—might thrive. The street was empty, while lamplight glowed warmly on the houses’ facades.

Ellingsworth pulled his horse up outside one genteel but ordinary home that boasted several stories and a colonnade, with potted plants flanking the front door. Heavy curtains had been drawn in all the windows, keeping the activities inside hidden. Not a sound emerged from the structure. No human voices, no music. Nothing.

“Still as the grave.” Tom eyed the building doubtfully. “You’re having me on. There’s no club in there.”

“I’d never feed you poor intelligence. Not when it came to finding new pleasures.” Ellingsworth looked affronted that Tom even suggested such a thing.

“My most sincere apologies.” Tom inclined his head. “What do we do with our cattle?”

“We take the mews to a stable in the back, but everyone enters through the front door.” Ellingsworth clicked his tongue as he guided his horse toward the narrow alley beside the house, and Tom followed.

A considerable brick stable awaited them, staffed by three smartly dressed grooms. A few carriages were parked outside, dozing coachmen sitting atop the vehicles. But within the stalls, there were horses of varying quality and age. Some were sleek, pampered animals clearly purchased from Tattersall’s, while others had seen years of hard service to their owners. There was even a donkey.

As he handed one of the servants the reins, he studied the groom’s face for some indication as to what kind of place this might be—a knowing wink, or maybe a sneer of disgust. Yet the servant seemed to deliberately school his features so that he gave nothing away.

“Be needing a mask, sir?” the groom asked.

Tom frowned at the servant’s use of sir rather than my lord, but he surmised that any club requiring a mask seemed to want anonymity for its patrons, insisting that he be called by his proper title might be ill-advised.

“I have one,” Tom said, patting the inside pocket of his jacket.

“You’ll want to put it on now, sir. Before you go inside. House rules.”

As Tom donned his blue satin mask, he saw that Ellingsworth did the same with one made of bronze silk.

“We’re to play at being highwaymen?” Tom guessed.

In response, his friend smirked. “Badger me with as many questions as you like, but I’ll answer nary a one until we’re inside.”

Tom heaved a sigh. “You’re enjoying my torment.”

They walked back up the mews to the front of the house.

“The trouble with you, Langdon, is that you’re far too indulged. That’s what comes of being the heir. Whatever you want, you get, and if anything is denied you, you insist it’s worse than the sufferings of Tantalus.”

“I am not indulged. I merely dislike delaying gratification. Waiting is unsupportable.”

Ellingsworth snorted. “You may be able to wield a sabre, and you can shoot, but you’d make for a terrible soldier.”

“I’ll leave soldiering to more desperate blokes like you.”

His friend’s expression darkened. “Those days are behind me.”

Tom fell into troubled silence. Since returning home from Waterloo, his friend’s temperament shifted and altered rapidly from moment to moment. Ellingsworth might be full of quips and jests, and in a trice, he would grow moody and withdrawn. Though it worried him, Tom never asked about these abrupt changes in humor, held back by a concern over his friend’s masculine pride. He sensed it had something to do with the War, something that, as a ducal heir, he would never experience.

How could he offer Ellingsworth a listening ear when he couldn’t begin to understand all that his friend had seen and done, all that he’d survived? Perhaps someday, Tom might bring the subject up—delicately. Until then, he’d be Ellingsworth’s companion in revelry.

They emerged back onto the street, and Tom held the gate that opened to the walkway leading to the front door. As if sensing the new experience that lay just steps away, his heart thudded with excitement as he approached the club’s entrance. Distantly, the bell at St. George’s proclaimed it to be one in the morning, straight in the middle of a rake’s day. While the good people of London slept and rested in anticipation of their labors, he and people of his ilk prowled the streets in search of adventure.

Ellingsworth stepped to the door and knocked. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap.

Tom’s lips pressed together as he suppressed a laugh. A secret knock? Truly? How trite.

The door opened, revealing a masked young black woman with closely shorn hair. She wore a coral-hued mask, and she gazed at Tom and Ellingsworth expectantly.

“I’ve come for the plums,” Ellingsworth said.

“We haven’t any,” was her answer.

“Peaches will suffice.”

Tom frowned, dimly recognizing the exchange from someplace, but he couldn’t quite recall where he’d heard it. A moment later he realized the phrases came from Alone with the Rogue. He’d read the erotic novel—penned by the mysterious and wildly popular Lady of Dubious Quality—cover to cover, and then reread it almost immediately after turning the final page.

For all its pretense at secrecy, the Orchid Club certainly had good taste in literature.

The masked woman opened the door wider. “Come in, friends.”

Tom and Ellingsworth stepped into the vestibule and the woman firmly shut and locked the door behind them. A single candle burned in the candelabra on a small table, but Tom could still make out the details in the entryway. It resembled any other in a well-to-do home, with nondescript but well-rendered paintings of exotic flowers hanging on the walls, and a large unlit chandelier hanging overhead.

“Is this your first time at the Orchid Club?” the woman asked.

“Yes,” Tom replied.

Ellingsworth said, “My name’s—”

She held up a hand. “No names here. The club abides by a code of strictest privacy. All are equal within these walls.”

Tom’s brows lifted. An egalitarian club was astonishingly progressive. Clubs were supposed to be strongholds of elitism, or so White’s would have anyone believe.

“The only person at the Orchid Club who is permitted a name is our proprietress, Amina. But you are not to ask anyone else for anything that might identify them. Is that understood?”

Both Tom and Ellingsworth nodded.

“There is one other rule which must be obeyed,” the woman said. “Everything must be consensual. No one shall be persuaded, coerced, or bullied.” Her voice firmed. “Whoever does not submit to this will be summarily escorted out and banned from returning.” She snapped her fingers and two brawny men emerged from the darkness, their faces impassive behind their masks. “These gentlemen are here to enforce the rules. I pray you do not make me summon them. Do I make myself clear?”

“You do,” Tom said. His mind spun, trying to determine what exactly transpired at the Orchid Club that required these rules.

“How much to enter?” Ellingsworth asked.

The woman spread her hands. “That is at your discretion. We operate on the largesse of our guests and ask that you pay as much as you are able.”

Tom took a crown from his pocket and held it out to the woman. She plucked it from his fingers and dropped it into a pouch at her waist, then turned her gaze to Ellingsworth, who shot a wry grin in Tom’s direction.

Chuckling, Tom dug out another crown and gave it to the woman. Ellingsworth’s allowance as a third son was comfortable, but his friend went through it at an alarming rate. It hardly mattered to Tom, as he had more than enough to cover their nightly expenses, and then some.

After the woman tucked the second coin into her pouch, she waved toward the hallway branching off the vestibule. “You may enter, friends. Enjoy yourselves.”

His pulse hammering, Tom strode down the dark corridor, Ellingsworth at his heels. A low hum of human voices flowed out of a room ahead, and beneath that came the lilting strains of music. Then came the unmistakable sound of a woman moaning in pleasure.

“What in God’s name have you gotten us into, Ellingsworth?” Tom asked lowly.

The possibility of a brothel had already been ruled out, and Tom was something of an expert in the noises women made when in the throes of passion. He could tell when they were feigning pleasure, and when they were sincere. The moaning coming from ahead was most assuredly genuine.

“Patience,” his friend said. “All shall be revealed.”

They both stepped into the doorway of a large parlor. Tom’s heart jolted in his chest, and blood rushed straight into his groin.

Everywhere he looked he saw exposed flesh. Women’s bared breasts, men’s upright cocks, abdomens, arses, limbs. It was a bounty of people barely dressed, or completely nude save for their masks. Men and women tangled together on low sofas, sprawled on thick carpets, or leaned against walls in groups that ranged from couples to quintets. A man in laborer’s clothing fucked a genteel lady from behind as she bent over a table. Three women formed a complex knot as they lapped at each other’s quims, while a gentlewoman unbuttoned the falls of a man’s breeches so that another man could suck his cock.

Sex. Everywhere, sex. The humid air was thick with the smell of it, and with the sounds of unrestrained sensuality.

Meanwhile, masked servants bearing pitchers of wine or platters of sweetmeats walked between the couplings, calm and disinterested. Clearly, they were quite used to the spectacle.

Tom wasn’t. Though he was no stranger to small parties that evolved into group sex, he had never before witnessed so many people from such an array of classes all engaged in public displays of carnality. He’d seen and done everything that London had to offer, but the Orchid Club was entirely new. And entirely wonderful.

“Bless you,” Tom said to his friend. “How did you learn of this place?”

“One of my old comrades in arms told me. It’s an open secret. Been around for years, actually, but it manages to stay hidden.” Ellingsworth’s lips quirked. “I see it pleases you.”

Tom watched as a man reverently stroked and kissed a woman’s arse while another man fondled her breasts.

“This is Paradise,” Tom said reverently.

Ellingsworth grinned. “None of the thoughts I’m entertaining are at all angelic.”

“Shall we explore the rest of the club?” Eagerness hummed through his body—at last, after years of exploring all of London’s most thrilling facets, he’d found a new experience.

A brunette reclining on a divan in nothing but her shift and a white mask crooked her finger at Ellingsworth.

With a grin, his friend clapped him on the shoulder. “I leave the investigation to you. A pressing matter has come up.” Ellingsworth walked quickly toward his waiting lover.

Less than a moment later, a blonde dressed as a dairymaid swayed over to Tom’s side.

“Shame you being on your own,” she said as she trailed her fingers down his waistcoat. Her accent held the rough consonants of East London. “Shame that I’m on my own, too.”

His body answered with a quick throb of lust, but he softly took her hand between his and pressed a kiss to her rough fingertips. So her garb and accent weren’t disguises. She truly was a dairymaid.

“Forgive me,” he said with a smile. “I’m still getting my sea legs.”

“Don’t need balance if you’re lying down.” She winked and glanced toward an unoccupied chaise.

“I’m truly tempted, love,” he said with genuine regret. “But I mean to get the lay of the land first.” When she frowned in disappointment, he said, “You’ll have no trouble finding a willing friend. If I return in quarter of an hour and you’re still on your own, I promise to make it up to you.”

She looked at him, her expression considering. “Sound awful sure of yourself.”

“There’s much in this world that defies my understanding,” he said. “Yet if there’s anything I do understand, it’s fucking.”

“Anybody can fuck,” she said, her hands on her hips. “But can you do it right?”

“Oh, yes,” he said with complete confidence.

She looked him up and down, and she smiled, liking what she saw. “Come find me then. A quarter of an hour.”

She ambled away toward a servant pouring wine, but before she’d gotten halfway across the room, an elegantly dressed man stopped her with a kiss. Given the enthusiastic way in which the dairymaid responded, Tom was certain she would be quite busy in fifteen minutes.

After grabbing a sugared cake from a platter and then following it up with a glass of wine, Tom moved from the parlor to an adjoining room. It was considerably larger than the previous chamber and looked very much like a ballroom, complete with parquet floors below, two sizable chandeliers above, and substantial framed mirrors on the walls. In the corner, a group of masked musicians played a waltz. At the farthest end of the ballroom stood what appeared to be a stage, currently empty. Tom could only speculate what sort of performances might happen at the club.

The dance floor was full of more guests in various stages of undress. Some of them actually danced, though their bodies were far closer than any Society function would permit. The rest swayed in couples or trios, kissing and caressing one another. Even a Cyprian’s Ball could not compete for unalloyed sensuality.

A man and woman paused in the middle of their heated embrace and beckoned for Tom to join them. Despite his stab of desire, Tom politely waved a decline.

This was precisely the sort of diversion he normally relished. Yet here he was, sticking close to the perimeter, content merely to observe rather than participate.

An unknown force held him back. He merely watched everything unfold around him and could not quite bridge the distance between himself and what he saw.

Perhaps he should leave. Leave Ellingsworth to his debauchery and then . . . and then what? Go back to his bachelor lodgings and spend the rest of the night reading by the fire? What a truly gloomy thought. He hadn’t spent a quiet evening at home in nearly a decade. But if he wasn’t going to avail himself on the Orchid Club’s bounty, maybe it was better to beat a retreat.

With a frustrated sigh, Tom turned to go. But he stopped when he caught sight of a woman standing alone by a table that held a potted orchid.

She was fully dressed in a sophisticated white-and-gold gown and wore a mask of gold satin. The light in the ballroom was dim, yet even from this distance he could see the olive hue of her skin, and the long line of her neck revealed by her upswept black hair. She possessed a bold splendor, her features strong and striking. She had a beautiful, generously proportioned nose like a Mediterranean goddess, and full, ripe lips. Like him, she watched the proceedings in the ballroom, but did not move to participate.

She held herself with the kind of poise that came only with complete self-assurance. As if she refused to believe anything could hold her back. That, even more than her beauty, made her magnetic. Once Tom’s gaze fell upon her, he could not look away, not even if the building had fallen down around him.

Who was she? What kept her from joining in the activity all around them? He ached to know her every secret, and burned to hear her voice—would it be high and musical, or low and husky? Anything and everything about her he ached to discover.

He couldn’t remember a woman affecting him so strongly, so quickly. He knew desire, certainly, and the quick pull of attraction, but this immediate fascination was unknown. Until now.

Every part of him craved to be near the woman in the gold mask. Overcome with staunch determination, he moved straight in her direction. Whatever tonight’s outcome might be, he could never regret coming here, because it brought him to her.

Chapter 2

Excitement and anxiety pulsed just beneath the surface of Lucia Marini’s skin as she surveyed the Orchid Club’s belowstairs kitchen.

“We’ll have enough cakes?” she asked Jenny, the cook.

“For the fifth time, yes,” Jenny said with an exasperated smile.

She placed a candied violet atop one sugared confection and set that on a silver tray. Immediately, a masked female member of the staff whisked the platter away.

“Circulate three times through each room,” Lucia called after the girl.

A pair of hands settled on Lucia’s shoulders and gently squeezed. “Breathing’s not so difficult, once you get the hang of it.”

Lucia turned and smiled at her friend Kitty. Kitty’s ash-blonde hair fell loosely about her shoulders, and her hazel eyes regarded Lucia with fond amusement. With her coral freckles scattered across ivory skin, Kitty looked more like a country girl from Devonshire than a London woman of experience. She had once been the former and was now the latter.

At the sight of Kitty, a fraction of the tension knotted in Lucia’s chest loosened.

“I’m being ridiculous, aren’t I?”

“A little,” Kitty said. She rubbed her hand over her exceptionally pregnant belly in habitual movement. “But a bit of ridiculousness is perfectly understandable. Tonight’s your first night as the club’s manager. Only an escapee from Bedlam would be calm about it.”

“I may need to be committed to Bedlam after the night’s over.” Lucia couldn’t keep still, and, despite a glower from Jenny, adjusted the placement of miniature tarts on their platter. They looked good, but were they good enough?

Jenny pointed a cook’s knife in Lucia’s direction. “Hands off, or I’ll chop them off and make them into mincemeat pies.”

Hands raised up, Lucia backed away from the sweets. “It’s not that I doubt your skill in the kitchen—”

Kitty laid her fingers on Lucia’s arm. “Stop right there before you say something that’ll make you cringe later.”

She tugged Lucia out of the kitchen. In the corridor, Kitty stroked a few strands of hair from Lucia’s face. “Be at ease, love. Everything will go swimmingly.”

Despite all the encouragement Lucia had given herself earlier, her composure fell away and she fought to keep from twisting her hands together.

“Mrs. Chalke entrusted the Orchid Club to me. All the souls that work here, they all rely on me to keep our doors open. I fail, and we starve.” The magnitude of Lucia’s responsibility nearly crushed her, yet this was what she’d yearned for—a place of her own, and the means by which she could create a better life for herself and those she cared about.

“Not so dire as that. True,” Kitty said with a nod, “we need the extra blunt the operation gives us, but nobody’s going hungry, no one’s sleeping on the steps of Christ Church. You needn’t ride yourself so.”

Lucia stepped back to allow passage for a small convoy of male staff members carrying crates of wine bottles.

“Remember, ragazzi, new rule—each guest gets a maximum of two glasses of wine.” Wine and spirits clouded judgment, and she wanted to ensure that every guest acted from a place of lucidity.

“Yes, miss,” they called over their shoulders as they moved up the stairs leading to the ground floor.

“And what of the girls’ home?” she continued to Kitty. A swell of anxiety rose up within her. “It won’t come to pass if the club sinks. All those girls will be left on the streets, without roofs over their heads, unable to read a letter or write their own names.”

Kitty exhaled. “Before you set sail, you’ve got to first build the boat. A step at a time, love.”

“What if—”

“Enough fretting now.” Kitty smiled warmly as she tapped a finger on Lucia’s chin. “You proved to our dear former manager, Mrs. Chalke, that you deserved to take over her job when she retired. No one doubts your ability—not even you. So go on upstairs and oversee your new empire, Your Highness. As for me,” she continued with a small grimace, “my feet are swollen as melons, so I’ll be retreating to my room. But I’d rather be down here, helping.”

Affection swept through Lucia in a soft tide. She enfolded Kitty in a quick embrace, though she bent into a concave shape to make room for Kitty’s round stomach.

“Never doubt that you help,” she said sincerely. “Between you and Elspeth, I have more than my share of better angels.”

Kitty laughed. “A winged angel big with child, that’s what I am.”

“Now fly, piccolo angelo,” Lucia said, swatting Kitty on the arse. “I’m a busy woman.”

Shaking her head, Kitty waddled toward the servants’ stairs, leaving Lucia briefly alone. She swallowed hard. Dark and ravenous for more of her flesh, the fear that always lurked climbed out from its pit.

She shut her eyes as she drew in a deep breath.

Cara Mamma, she implored the spirit of her mother, wherever you are, send your girl the spirit of good fortune and even better business.

Quickly, Lucia crossed herself. Now was the time. This was her moment.

She climbed the stairs, drawing strength and composure with each step. No matter how much fear or uncertainty she felt, she could never allow her guests to see any hint of apprehension. The Orchid Club relied upon its aura of unbridled sensual freedom to attract visitors again and again. Guests wanted to feel safe as they indulged their erotic desires. If there was any hint of the proprietress’s anxiety, the fantasy would shatter like brittle sugar sculpture.

By the time she reached the top step, Lucia had swathed herself in the cool serenity of her professional persona. She was a queen, benevolent but untouchable.

She hadn’t gotten this far in life by giving up, by being afraid. Poverty hadn’t stopped her, nor had losing her only parent, or undertaking a long, perilous voyage to a foreign land. Again and again, she’d pushed onward, as she would continue to do so. Until breath left her body.

Some might consider her achievements dubious, but to her, they were triumphs.

She opened the baize-covered door that stood at the head of the stairs and stepped into the hallway. Sounds of sex encircled her, as familiar as the sounds of seabirds over the Golfo di Napoli had once been. There was also the warm ripe scent of sweat-glossed skin, and the heat that came from dozens of bodies engaged in vigorous activity.

Bypassing the two main rooms in the club, she neared the entryway, where Elspeth stood awaiting the subsequent knock on the door from the next arrival. Tall and lean, Elspeth wore her peach-hued gown to perfection, and with her short hair, she looked every inch the noble gatekeeper.

Before Lucia said a word, Elspeth’s smile flashed.

“Fear not, Amina,” Elspeth said, using Lucia’s alias. She held up a pouch that jingled, heavy with coin. “The take’s as good as it’s ever been. Better.”

Lucia permitted herself a small exhalation. Perhaps this might work out. Perhaps she could allow herself a moment’s satisfaction.

She envisioned herself donning an invisible cloak that gave her strength and poise, standing straighter as its folds swathed her body. “Any troublemakers?”

“I turned away a pair of drunken Mayfair louts. Other than that, it’s been smooth as a dish of milk.”

“So long as no bothersome cats come along to tip that dish.”

The coded knock at the door sounded, and Lucia moved on as Elspeth went to admit the guests.

For the first time, she stepped into her empire as its rightful ruler. No cornets heralded her arrival, and no rose petals scattered across her path. It was, in all ways, unremarkable—except to her. She drew confidence from each footfall, rising up taller and taller.

This is mine because I fought for it and won it fairly. I belong here.

Within the two main rooms of the club, everything appeared satisfactory. The sight of people fucking in full view of others had long ago lost its ability to shock or even arouse her. It was simply business. So long as her guests were happy and kept returning, the spectacle remained merely a component of her work and nothing more.

The staff moved through the chambers with smooth efficiency, offering refreshments, righting any overturned furniture, and monitoring their guests. Lucia exchanged attentive nods with Will and Arthur before proceeding on to the ballroom.

Before this evening, there hadn’t been music, but now musicians she had personally selected for their ability and discretion played music that graced the finest assemblies in London and the Continent. The melodies provided an elegant background as guests gave free rein to their most primal desires in full view of everyone.

Lucia herself had never attended a fine assembly. This would be the closest she’d ever get to hearing the music meant for the elite, and she smiled to herself to think that what a conte or principessa heard in some august ballroom was currently performed for people of every rank as they fucked one another.

Surveying the room, her gaze lingered on the female guests, looking for signs that they were being coerced or pushed into doing things they didn’t want to do—a man’s hand gripping a woman too tightly, or a woman literally backed up against a wall. But her female guests seemed willing and eager to participate.

She released a long breath, permitting herself a moment’s relief. Fears that her first night as manager would result in disaster began to dissolve. Everything seemed attainable, and that potential rose up within her like the bubbles in sparkling wine.

I can do this. It’s possible. Everything is possible.

Her thoughts abruptly silenced. She sensed someone’s gaze on her like a velvet glove stroking down the back of her neck.

Lucia looked around to find the source of the sensation. Her breath stuttered and her pulse came in a quick flutter when she saw its origin.

A rangy, dark-haired man in a blue mask strode purposefully toward her. He moved with fluid, masculine grace, his body muscular and strapping. The direct way he approached captivated her—as though nothing could keep him from being near her.

Lucia’s pulse leapt again.

She shook her head, trying to dismiss her reaction to the guest’s approach. Clients often turned their interests toward her. Yet there was a palpable sensuality to the way he walked and the interest in his gaze. It held frank erotic intent, and the confidence that he could give her extraordinary pleasure.

Even at a distance, his eyes said, I. Want. You.

Rather than walk away, as she normally did when a guest took interest in her, she stayed where she was. The distance between them closed, bit by bit, her heartbeat picking up speed the nearer he came.

And then he stood less than two feet away. He bowed, pressing a hand to his chest. She nodded her head in acknowledgment.

This close, she could see that his garments were exceptionally well made, clearly the work of an expert tailor, because only the finest needlecraft could create a suit of clothing that fitted his athletic form with such grace. His shining boots also had to be custom from Jermyn Street. Yet in contrast to this elegant appearance, dark stubble covered his cheeks and angled jaw, and he smelled slightly of gunpowder.

That, combined with his roguish grin, made her think of a buccaneer.

“Madam.”

“Sir.” She gave him a polite but shallow nod.

“You keep to yourself.”

He had a faint Irish brogue, making his words gently musical. She had learned many years ago to repress her own Neapolitan accent. There were many in Britain who viewed foreigners with suspicion, and it had been a matter of survival to sound as English as possible.

“I choose to,” she said.

He moved to stand beside her. His nearness was an intoxicant, making her slightly dizzy. Together they watched the swaying mass of bodies on the dance floor.

“I do as well, it seems,” he said, as if faintly puzzled by his own behavior. “This is my first time here and I find myself more content to observe than participate.”

“Some prefer it that way. They derive sensual gratification from watching.” She nodded toward a man who stood by himself, his eyes fastened on the spectacle of two other men kissing passionately, while his hand was down the front of his breeches.

“Usually,” the buccaneer said wryly, “I choose doing rather than watching.”

His grin flashed again, and her stomach gave a quick jump. She could imagine that he wasn’t the sort to sit idly by and let someone else devour an experience.

“What makes tonight different?” she asked. “I hope the establishment meets your expectations.”

“I had no expectations,” he said. “The friend who brought me here kept the nature of this place a secret until I stepped inside.”

She turned to him. “And now that you are within its walls, what are your thoughts on the place?” It was always a good idea to talk to guests, learn what pleased them and what they didn’t care for. Yes, that’s why she kept talking with him rather than moving on to other duties—to ascertain whether or not the club satisfied him. That was the only reason.

He looked thoughtful. Interesting that he would turn pensive, when, not several yards away, people engaged in acts of unrestrained eroticism.

After a moment, he said, “What’s here is joyous exuberance, a celebration of bodily pleasure and letting go. Aside from the code of conduct outlined in the vestibule, rules have no place in this establishment. People can fully express themselves without fear. That’s something to celebrate.”

She looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were the blue of the skies above Napoli, and they gleamed not just with sensuality, but sensitivity and intelligence, as well.

“Uncommon to hear a man articulate himself so well,” she said, “particularly when it relates to the act of fucking.”

His smile was genuine and devilish. “Madam, I can wax rhapsodic about fucking. But,” he added, “this place is about more than sex. It’s about . . .” He searched for the right words. “Living without limitations, liberated from censure and disapproval. That’s something that everyone desires. Even you, I’d wager.”

Instinctively, she stiffened and mentally reached for her unseen shield, protecting herself from any man’s attempt to delve beneath the surface of her carefully crafted persona.

“A moment’s acquaintance, and you feel you know me,” she said drily.

Undisguised fascination gleamed in his eyes when he looked at her. “You’re clever and aware. Always assessing the situation. But that’s merely one part of who you are. There’s passion there as well, though you try to keep it at a distance.”

Her mouth went dry, and she tried to swallow. How could he discern all this about her? From head to toe, she was swathed in her professional identity. She might be a different person with Kitty and Elspeth, but here on the floor of the club, she was Amina the Untouchable.

She pushed out a laugh. “Mercy,” she said, “you ought to set up a booth at Bartholomew Fair and tell fortunes. People would pay good money to have their characters delineated so incisively.”

“Learning about other people doesn’t interest me.” His gaze held hers. “Learning about you does.”

Her breath caught as they stared at each other.

He stepped closer, and warmth radiated from his body into hers. “Will you join me for a dance?”

There was no mistaking the intention in his low, seductive words, especially as almost no one on the dance floor was actually dancing.

Could I? More to the point, should I?

Guests propositioned her nearly every night the house was open, and that clearly hadn’t changed since she’d become proprietress. Her breathing had never quickened with those guests. When she’d fielded their offers, she hadn’t felt the heat of the room pressing against her sensitized flesh.

She had never been tempted, not enough to neglect her duties.

But this buccaneer—with his Irish accent and his wicked lips and his burning blue eyes—he enticed her. To hell with all her rules and caution. She could lose herself in heat and sensation. Without a doubt, he could give her an abundance of pleasure.

But the club, and her dream, came first. Entangling herself with a guest led to complications, and any complication—such as an importunate or jealous lover—would throw yet more obstacles in her path. He would demand her time, her attention, and neither could be spared. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a man. And this man would assuredly be a distraction.

She struggled to lock away her reaction to him, like a keeper of wild beasts trying to urge a tiger back into its cage.

“There are so many available partners,” she said.

“I want to dance with you.”

Her heart took up a fast rhythm. “I cannot.” Regret tinged her words. She held out her hand. “I’m Amina, the manager.”

His brow above the mask creased with surprise, but like a gentleman, he took her hand and bent over it. Instead of kissing the air above her knuckles, his lips touched her skin.

Fire shot through her body. From the simplest, smallest contact.

He murmured, “I’d introduce myself—”

“But you can’t.” Her voice was breathless. She withdrew her hand, though her skin continued to radiate with his warmth. “For the safety of my guests, I know nothing about them, not even their names.”

“A good precaution.”

“Policy dictates that I don’t get involved with guests.”

His full lips shaped into a frown, and she braced herself for him to ask for an exception, or cajole her, the way other clients had done. Men did not like to hear a woman tell them no.

A moment later, he said, “Understood. I must respect your choice. Everything here is consensual, after all.”

She relaxed slightly. “So it is.” She offered him a smile. “This being your first time, I welcome you. My hope is that everything is to your liking.”

“Everything but the manager’s policy regarding her involvement with guests.” But he smiled as he said this. “This is a wondrous place. We can be our truest selves.”

Much as she wanted to, she couldn’t speculate on his background. Anonymity stood as one of the central tenets of the Orchid Club. Yet he was well dressed, even more finely than a banker or brewer. The artful way he’d bowed revealed a privileged background. She inhaled his scent of gunpowder and spice, taking it deeply into herself, tucking it away for later.

A thousand questions assailed her, wanting to be given a voice. What brought him here tonight? What was he seeking? What responsibilities weighed so heavily upon him that he took delight in the establishment’s offer of freedom?

She could never ask, and never know the answer. “You paid the entrance fee,” she said, “so I urge you to take advantage of what there is to offer.”

She waved toward the dance floor, which had evolved into a mass of sweat-slick flesh. Moans and grunts competed with the music.

Damn the distance she put between herself and the guests. If nothing else, he’d give her several hours of pleasure. Touching her deeper, realer self—that was an impossibility. Letting someone get truly close led straight to disaster and misery.

The buccaneer’s gaze never left her. “The most fascinating and intriguing thing here is you.”

She made herself laugh. “Sirrah, you are fulsome in your blandishments.”

He didn’t laugh or smile, his expression utterly serious. “When I set foot outside these doors,” he said, “I don’t need to flatter anyone. What I want, I get. So believe me when I say honestly that I’d much rather talk with you than fuck a stranger.”

Her heart thudded. “Because, unlike everyone else, I tell you no.”

“Because you intrigue me beyond measure.”

She could only stare at him. The part of herself that she’d locked away, the part that longed for comfort and affection and all the things lovers shared, ached with want. Oh, she’d taken men to her bed over the years, but other than physical gratification, she’d made certain those encounters never touched her heart. She had been forged through hardship and loss, treading a solitary path. If sometimes her body throbbed for want of someone to hold her all through the night, if she ached for someone to whisper into her hair that she was to be cherished . . . she tamped it all down.

Think of Mamma. Her pain and loss.

Yet here was this man, this guest, a person unknown to her. Her buccaneer. Offering a taste of what could never be.

“I must go,” she said. “My duties can’t be neglected.”

His mouth turned down, but he nodded. “I will be back soon. To see you, Amina.”

It wasn’t her real name, yet the sound of it on his lips sent a dark thrill through her. Oh, to hear him call her Lucia as he joined his body with hers . . .

He gave another bow before turning and striding away. She watched him, her gaze riveted to the width of his shoulders and how beautifully his breeches fit his long, muscular legs. Compelled to follow, she trailed several paces after him, observing him as he walked. He didn’t join any of the couplings but went straight for the door.

Lucia did not follow him any farther. The threshold was where her dominion ended.

Taking a deep breath, she straightened her shoulders and adjusted her mask.

The club’s policy was to be open every week. Perhaps the buccaneer would return then. Perhaps she might see him once more, and they could talk, as they had tonight.

Her breath came faster.

In all her time here, he was the only guest who ever truly caught her attention, the only guest she’d wanted for her own selfish pleasure.

Doesn’t matter. Flirtation is all we can ever share. The establishment—and the profits it generated—was too important to her to throw anything away on a casual encounter.

Drawing herself up straight, she continued on with the rest of her night. There were responsibilities that needed tending—keeping the refreshments circulating, ensuring the staff’s well-being and the guests’ safety, maintaining the club’s spotlessness—a hundred tiny tasks she had to supervise. Yet, like a child sneaking tastes of her parents’ wine, she permitted herself brief thoughts of the buccaneer.

It would be a struggle not to grow drunk on him.

Chapter 3

One year later

Tom waited at the foot of the back stairs, his body both heavy with grief and impelled into motion.

For six weeks, he’d kept vigil at his father’s bedside, barely sleeping, eating only when forcibly urged to by the physician, and hardly stirring from the ducal bedchamber. But for all that, for all the physician had bled Father and applied every technique that modern medical science had devised . . . the old duke had died anyway.

Tom could still hear the rattle and rasp of his father’s breath stopping. It was that dreadful silence that heralded the end. The man that had both berated and coddled Tom had departed the earth, leaving behind a chasm that might never be filled. That chasm yawned open within Tom. Its emptiness threatened to devour him whole.

Feeling his shoulders bow beneath the weight of grief, he struggled to straighten them. Today was for Maeve, and he had to have strength for both of them.

Only that morning, news of his father’s death had been printed in the pages of the Times and Hawk’s Eye, revealing to the world the loss of one of England’s most staunch defenders of traditional values. They had said nothing about how the late duke preferred roast potatoes every Tuesday, or that, despite the fact that he continually bemoaned his son’s carousing and wildness, he used to give Tom books of adventure stories on his birthdays, even into adulthood. On Tom’s bookshelf in his private study, he had a copy of Guy Mannering, with a typically terse “To My Son on His 32nd Birthday—Yr Father” inscribed on the inside cover.

None of that had been in the papers. There were aspects of the Duke of Northfield that no one but those closest to him would ever know.

But in the Times, there had been a paragraph that, hours later, Tom could recite from memory. It had burned itself into his mind, and into his heart.

We cannot help but speculate whether or not the new duke will take up his late father’s ideology and principles. His Grace, the previous duke, has left a sizable void in the nation’s political landscape. Further, it is a known truth that the younger gentleman in question has led a somewhat undisciplined existence. Many await his next steps with bated breath. Shall he continue in his riotousness, or will he take up the mantle left behind by his father, and preserve England’s established institutions?

We cannot foretell.

God above, but if that wasn’t a burden to carry. The eyes of the country were on him. And all he wanted to do was run.

But now that he was duke, he could use his might in the advancement of progressive causes, as he’d longed to do when he was only the heir. Others might expect him to be a duplicate of his father, but he didn’t have to be. He could be his own man with his own beliefs, his own goals.

A step quietly creaked. He glanced up, and saw Maeve, dressed in mourning black bombazine with a jet broach at her throat, a veil covering her face and a black handkerchief twisted in her fingers.

His heart plunged to see his sister, a girl of just nineteen, so somberly garbed. She ought to be dressed in bright, springtime green or the yellow of daffodils, with a coral necklace about her neck and her pretty face rosy from the heat of a ballroom.

He smoothed a hand over the dark band encircling his arm and ran his finger along the length of his black neckcloth. Unlike Maeve, his mourning was limited to smaller signifiers—in every way.

Ballrooms were forbidden to her, as were color and joy. As if she, or Tom, could ever feel joy again in the wake of their father’s death.

Maeve’s steps were slow as she descended the stairs. When she reached the bottom, she paused, holding the newel post. Her veil stirred as she let out a long exhale.

“Are you certain about this?” Tom asked. “You don’t need to tax yourself.”

“I need to go,” his sister said. Her words were steadier than her gait. “I need to see him.”

“As you like.” But Tom wrapped a sheltering arm around her shoulders as he guided her toward the back door.

Tenderness and protectiveness rose up within him when she leaned against him. He was rocketed back to when he’d been a lad of thirteen, cradling his newborn sister in his arms, frozen with terror that he might drop the delicate thing and have her shatter into tiny fragments at his gangly feet.

His mother hadn’t been able to keep any other baby she’d conceived. All his siblings had either died in utero or within a day of their births. No one had been certain whether or not Maeve would join her departed siblings in the churchyard. Yet she’d made it through the first week, and when Tom had finally been allowed to see and hold her, he’d vowed then—just as he vowed now—that he would safeguard her for the rest of his days.

They reached the door that opened to a narrow, walled yard, and Tom pushed it open to escort Maeve out. Thick gray clouds smeared across the sky, and a cutting wind blew into the yard.

Maeve tilted her head back and inhaled deeply. “I missed this.”

“The dreadful weather?”

“Being outside. I haven’t set foot outside the house in three weeks and five days.”

He’d had to report back to her about the funeral and burial, as she and their mother had been obliged by the rules of polite society that such a sorrowful ordeal would tax their fragile emotions overmuch.

A corner of Tom’s mouth lifted in a humorless smile. He had been the one who could barely stand beside the open grave as the casket had been lowered. He had swallowed countless tears, trying to manfully force them back rather than permit himself the luxury of open grief. His throat still burned with gulping back sobs. Maeve and their mother, Deirdre, were free to show their sorrow—so long as they did so within the confines of Northfield House. Open displays of anyone’s emotions, be they male or female, were distressing and gauche.

No one seemed permitted to indicate that they had feelings, especially not messy, complicated feelings that threatened to rip one apart from the inside out.

But he had to be strong. For Maeve, for their mother.

“How does it feel to be in the open air again?” he asked.

She was silent for a moment. “Cold.”

“We can go back.”

She shook her head. “I don’t mind. It proves that I’m still alive.”

The unspoken words but he isn’t hung in the air.

“And,” she added, “Hugh’s expecting me.” Though her veil obscured her face, there was a hint of brightness in her voice as she said Lord Stacey’s name.

“The carriage is waiting for us.” Tom helped her out of the yard and down the gravel path that led to the stables. “I told John the coachman to draw the curtains so that no one could see you.”

“My thanks.”

Tom bit back a warning about the possible damage to her reputation if she was seen outside of her home so soon after her father’s passing. It was her decision to make, and he trusted her judgment.

It was a cruel thing to permit men the release and freedom of leaving their homes in the wake of a family member’s death, while women were trapped within the walls, barely permitted a visitor other than a consoling clergyman. How could anyone survive the crush of grief if they could not take in a little air or be given even a moment’s reprieve from their sorrow?

So Tom had agreed when Maeve had proposed this sortie. He would give his sister anything, if she asked.

“This way,” he said, guiding her along the path.

“I can’t see a thing behind this blasted veil,” Maeve grumbled. “It’s like my eyes are full of smoke.”

“I’ll be your eyes.”

“Again, my big brother champions me,” she said warmly.

“As a big brother, I am contractually obligated to champion you.”

They had reached the stable yard, where the carriage and driver awaited them, while a groom held the horses. In a show of respect, the coachman wore a black caped coat, the footman standing beside the vehicle was attired in inky livery, while horses had been draped with black fabric.

Tom and Maeve approached the carriage.

“Your Grace,” the coachman said, bowing. “Lady Maeve.”

Tom suppressed a grimace. Wrong, he wanted to shout. My father is His Grace, not me.

His whole life, he had known that one day he’d assume the title. But that had been a purely intellectual exercise and easy to dismiss. Yet to finally be the Duke of Northfield felt like trying to breathe underwater.

I’m not ready, damn it. Not for any of this.

“You know where we are headed?” Tom asked the driver as the footman helped Maeve into the carriage.

“Broom House Farm, Your Grace. In Fulham.”

“And?” Tom prompted.

“And Her Grace isn’t to know of it,” John recited.

“No one is to know of this excursion. Make sure your grooms keep their silence. You’ll all see yourselves handsomely rewarded for your discretion and punished for any indiscretion.”

It was a fact of life that servants and staff gossiped, and if word ever got out that Tom helped Maeve break her mourning to see Lord Stacey, she would be the one suffering the harm to her reputation. Lord Stacey and Tom might receive sidelong glances of disapproval, but they’d still be admitted into drawing rooms and dining chambers throughout London.

A carriage kitted out in mourning might attract moderate interest, but Tom could move about the world freely without consequence. If someone recognized the vehicle, it would be a simple enough matter to explain that Tom was attending to his newfound responsibilities—alone.

“Yes, Your Grace.”

“Grand.” For good measure, Tom slipped a guinea into John’s hand before he climbed into the carriage.

Once the door had been closed, and the curtains in the windows secured, Tom rapped on the roof to signal they were ready to depart. The vehicle jolted slightly as it surged into motion, but it was excellently sprung, and as they drove down the mews and onto the street, he hardly felt the movement. The sound of the wheels was dampened by the straw that had been laid out along the street during the late duke’s illness. Soon, though, they had driven past Northfield House, and the rumble of the wheels and the clop of the horses’ hooves formed the background noise of their journey.

Fulham was some four miles away from Mayfair, a journey that took them through Belgravia and Chelsea. At a decent pace, he and Maeve would reach their destination in three quarters of an hour.

“Don’t peep through the curtains,” Tom warned Maeve as she attempted to do exactly that.

She flopped back against the seat, making a sound of frustration. “I wish I could look outside and see the world again.”

“It will still be there when you’re out of mourning.”

“Months from now.” She sighed regretfully, then clicked her tongue. “You think me a callous chit for thinking of my own comfort and amusement at such a time.”

“I think,” he said, his voice gentle, “that you can mourn whilst also longing to live your life. It’s a hard burden to be locked away from all company, and doubly so if one is a girl barely into her second season.”

“A young woman, not a girl.”

“My apologies.” He pressed a hand to his chest and gave a slight bow. “And if you are a young woman with an ardent suitor, six months of deep mourning might seem like an eon.”

“So it does.” Maeve leaned forward, reaching out and taking Tom’s hand in hers. “Hugh and I haven’t seen each other since Father took ill. Your kindness in facilitating this is remarkable.”

His brows lifted. “Shall I be a cad, and stand in the way of my sister’s happiness?”

“Don’t be flippant, Tommy. This is a risk for both of us.”

“A moderate one for me, but an extraordinary one for you.”

“One I have to take.” Urgency and youthful conviction throbbed in her words. “Hugh is everything to me.”

What would that be like, to believe in something so strongly? To have faith and purpose?

In the whole of his thirty-two years, Tom had never experienced that. It shamed him to feel a pulse of envy for the girl—young woman—that had once gazed upon him with pure idolization.

He shouldn’t, couldn’t, begrudge Maeve her happiness. But out of all the experiences he’d had in his life, never had he known what it was to care deeply for anything or anyone not related to him. Somehow, the little sister who had tried to run after him on her stubby toddler legs had grown into a woman who loved, and was loved in return.

Her brother could not say the same.

“You are certain that Lord Stacey will be waiting for us in Fulham?” Tom asked.

She nodded. “His last letter spoke of nothing else.” She patted her heart, and Tom could only guess that was where she carried Lord Stacey’s missive. “He’s made all the arrangements that we might see each other, if only briefly.”

Foolish, romantic girl. How he coveted that for himself.

“We’ll be unable to stay long,” he cautioned.

“Any time with him is a gift.”

He snorted. “Now you sound like one of Shelley’s poems.”

She made a soft scoffing noise. “As though I would attempt to emulate that histrionic, overwrought scribbler. Everyone knows that Keats is far superior.”

Tom didn’t hide his grin. It was never difficult to solicit an opinion from his sister, a fact which bedeviled their mother but delighted him.

“I’m partial to Byron, myself,” he said. “Except for that bit about sleeping with his sister.”

“Half sister. But still, that does tend to color one’s enthusiasm for his work.”

The constriction around his chest eased. For all that she was thirteen years his junior, he never felt the divide of their years. They could always talk and jest freely, and while he never detailed his dissolute exploits to her, she was one of the few people that accepted him as he was.

I’d kill for her.

The words formed in his mind as firmly as if he’d spoken them aloud. It was an oath he swore to himself.

“Talk to me of anything but the past six weeks,” Maeve pled. “What was the last play you saw?”

“An excellent work by the most esteemed Viscountess Marwood. It involved a kidnapping and three assumed identities.” Riveted by what he saw on the stage, Tom had barely stirred in his seat, not even to flirt with a few daring widows.

Maeve clapped her hands together. “Ah, splendid! And was there a swordfight?”

“Between the heroine and the villain.”

She chuckled. “Even better.”

For the remainder of the journey to Fulham, they spoke of subjects unrelated to death and loss—a relief. They carved out a space for themselves in the midst of grief, where Tom could set aside the fact that now, he was the duke, shouldering the title’s massive responsibilities, and he and Maeve were merely themselves as they had been. The scapegrace elder brother and the sardonic but adoring younger sister.

The carriage slowed to a stop, far faster than Tom had anticipated.

“We’re here, Your Grace,” the coachman called down.

In short order, Tom stepped out from the vehicle and helped his sister down. They had stopped in the front yard of a tidy farmhouse that was surrounded by trees. At another time of year, the garden might be abundant, but within the chill months of late autumn, all that clustered around the house were bare hedges. Beyond the farmhouse was a little barn and an enclosed pasture. Smoke rose in a column from the house’s chimney. Someone was inside.

“My assignation spot?” Maeve asked, looking around.

Tom grimaced. “Assignation has carnal associations that I’d rather not consider in relation to my baby sister. Let’s call it an appointment, instead.”

“If that’s what helps you sleep at night.”

He shook his head. To the best of his knowledge, Maeve and Lord Stacey had never been fully alone together. They weren’t officially affianced, and even if they had been, it was the unfortunate custom of the ton to prohibit intimacy between gentlemen and young women of good breeding.

A stolen kiss was the best any of them could do. No wonder Tom had so little interest in polite society. He’d moved past mere kissing nearly two decades ago.

The door to the farmhouse opened, revealing a man’s silhouette. Tom barely had time to consider the identity of the man before Maeve cried out, flinging back her veil as she ran toward the house.

Tom followed at a deliberately sedate pace. He feigned interest in the autumnal garden as Maeve and Lord Stacey embraced.

“Oh, Hugh,” Maeve said, “I am so glad to see you.”

“There, my darling,” Lord Stacey answered in a soothing voice. “We’re together now.” In a slightly louder voice, he said, “Your Grace.”

Tom stopped his sham of investigating a pruned rosebush. “Lord Stacey.” He bowed slightly to the younger man.

Hugh Gillray, Lord Stacey, was considered by people of estimable opinion to be one of the best catches in London. He was handsome, in an amiable and approachable manner, with waves of sandy hair, bright hazel eyes, and the athletic form of a true Corinthian. Even more significant, he was the heir to the powerful and influential Duke of Brookhurst, possessing the allowance to match.

But clearly none of that mattered to Maeve, who had her head on Lord Stacey’s shoulder.

Maeve and Lord Stacey had met at a regatta in May and had been nigh inseparable ever since. It was merely Lord Stacey’s relative youth—only twenty years old—that prevented him from asking for Maeve’s hand. The Duke of Brookhurst had made it clear that only when his heir had reached the mature age of twenty-one could he propose.

But Lord Stacey’s birthday was in a month, within Maeve’s period of full mourning. Fielding an offer of marriage during mourning was uncouth. And so Maeve and her beloved would have to wait to even begin their official courtship.

A fact which was made clear by the way she and Lord Stacey had plastered themselves together today. They stood side by side, hands clasped, as though unable to permit even the smallest distance between themselves.

“Thank you so much, Your Grace, for permitting this,” Lord Stacey said with all the fervency of youth. “The owners of this farm have been generously compensated for providing the venue as well as their discretion.”

Tom made himself look as formidable as possible. “Don’t betray my trust by taking undue advantage.”

“Tommy!” Maeve exclaimed, sounding mortified.

Yet her embarrassment meant less to him than safeguarding her reputation. Perhaps it was hypocrisy to protect her virtue when Tom himself enjoyed the standing as one of the ton’s profligates, but that was the double standard that guided most of Society. He might not support that double standard, but he wouldn’t gamble his only sister’s happiness on his own opinion.

“I won’t, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey’s gaze was earnest.

In all of Tom’s dissipated carousing, not once had he crossed paths with the lad, leading him to believe that Lord Stacey truly was an upstanding—possibly virginal—young man.

“How fares your father?” Tom asked.

“He’s quite fixated on passing an upcoming bill,” Lord Stacey said. “Something to do with increasing the punishment of transients.” The lad’s eyes grew somber. “The passing of the late duke came as a blow to him.”

“That, I don’t doubt.” In addition to sharing a friendship of over three decades, the Duke of Brookhurst and Tom’s father had been longtime confederates in the political scene. Together, they had formed one of the most dominant conservative syndicates in Parliament.

When Maeve and Lord Stacey had shown a marked preference for each other, Tom had witnessed the Duke of Brookhurst and the late duke at White’s, toasting the continuation of their alliance and the marriage of the two bastions of England’s utmost traditional, upstanding families. It would be a union that pleased everyone.

“He, ah, mentioned something this morning,” Lord Stacey said, his face reddening. “About you. About . . . needing your support in Parliament. He’s relying on it. For, ahem, our sake.” He glanced down at Maeve, before looking back at Tom. “Might I…speak with you in private for a moment, Your Grace?”

Tom frowned. “As you wish.”

Maeve made a sound of exasperation but didn’t stop Tom or Lord Stacey when they moved a small distance from her.

Tom gazed at the young man in a silent prompt to speak.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lord Stacey said, a touch of stammer in his voice. “My condolences on your loss. But I have to tell you that I overheard my parents speaking just this morning. My father . . . he hasn’t fully decided whether or not he supports my marrying Maeve.”

Only when Lord Stacey backed up a step did Tom realize that he scowled fiercely. “Why the deuces not?”

“Because you were a bit wild. That’s what he said to my mother. He didn’t know if he could trust you to uphold the line’s reputation—and he wants your vote.”

“My vote,” Tom ground out.

“Yes, Your Grace.” Lord Stacey ducked his head. “He said to Mama that if you didn’t support him in Parliament . . .” The young man coughed. “The marriage wouldn’t happen.”

Tom stared at Lord Stacey. “What?” he said in disbelief.

“I’m sorry, Your Grace. That’s what he said. And I would never impose myself on you in any way, only . . .”

“Think of Maeve.”

“Yes, Your Grace.”

Tom gave a clipped nod. It was in the papers, and now this. Expectations. Pressures. And this threat.

“Hugh,” Maeve called. “Stop making my brother scowl.”

Her suitor coughed. “Yes. Right. Sorry.”

With Lord Stacey following, Tom walked back to Maeve. His head rang. Lord Stacey’s words, and the column in the Times cemented a reality he did not want to face. Did not but had to.

To preserve unity between his family and the Duke of Brookhurst’s, Tom had to follow the path his father had walked. It was a path that stuck to England’s most revered traditions and ancient institutions. Many a time Tom and his father had argued over the late duke’s firm stance against progressive policies. But his father had remained obdurate.

As the new duke, Tom could choose to abandon his father’s staunch beliefs. But that meant severing ties with alliances that went back to the time of the Restoration, including the tie between the Northfield and Brookhurst dukedoms.

It was clear in Lord Stacey’s awkward confession the Duke of Brookhurst would forbid his son from marrying Maeve if Tom did not fall into line. The duke would surely cut off Lord Stacey’s allowance. The young man was a good lad, but Tom wasn’t certain he’d choose noble sentiment over realistic poverty.

“I’ll leave you two to your chaste rendezvous,” Tom said to Maeve and her suitor. “You have fifteen minutes before we must return home. Mind, you’ll keep yourselves to this front yard, and I shall keep you in my sights at all times.” He fixed Lord Stacey and his sister with a sharp look. “I make myself clear, aye?”

Maeve rolled her eyes, but Lord Stacey nodded, saying, “Yes, Your Grace. Of course.”

Unaccustomed to the role of chaperone, Tom strode off to walk the perimeter of the property. He kept his word and maintained eyes on the couple. Because, no matter how upstanding and honorable Lord Stacey might be, he was a young man, and most likely had a young man’s appetites and urges.

As Tom strolled along the fence line of the farm, the sky overhead heavy and gray, his thoughts churned in time with the movement of his body.

He’d hoped to reverse the regressive stance of the dukedom. He’d wanted to wield his power to help others—but the Duke of Brookhurst had a metaphorical gun to his head. Either play the part of the supportive Tory, or Maeve couldn’t marry the man she loved.

His own convictions—or the happiness of his sister.

Tom glanced at his sister and Lord Stacey as they sat on a stone bench in the front garden. Their heads were bent together, their hands intertwined. The air around them fairly vibrated with the intensity of their adoration. As Maeve’s shoulders began to shake with sobs, Lord Stacey ran his fingers down her cheek before embracing her. Comforting her.

Another hot stab of envy pierced Tom.

Since his father’s illness and passing, he’d consoled his mother and sister, holding them when they wept and listening as they poured out their grief. While he didn’t begrudge them their need for succor, there was no one to give him the same consolation. No one to comfort him, or hear his broken confession that while his father had been a strict and uncompromising parent, Tom had loved him. Loved him and missed him.

He faced all of this alone.

Not only that, he saw that he was now the face of the Northfield dukedom. As the Duke of Brookhurst had said, Tom’s conduct reflected on the Powell family. With the death of his father, he was supposed to become one of the pillars of English Society. The seventh Duke of Northfield. Not a title to be taken lightly. Nor were the responsibilities that came with that title easily shirked.

The life he’d known of gaming hells, opera dancers, and riotous pleasure—all of it had to stop. For his mother’s sake, and for Maeve’s.

His steps stopped. A galvanizing thought hit him.

“Fuck,” he said softly.

The Orchid Club, and Amina, were now forbidden to him. The place—and the woman—were too scandalous. He had to close the door on that part of his life, though it had been part of the fabric of his existence for a year.

A new loss tore through him like a claw. Never to hear Amina’s voice again, never to behold her as she walked with her queenly air and knowing gaze, nevermore to talk or flirt with her. All of it, gone.

It seemed impossible, insupportable. He wouldn’t know how to exist without the club and without Amina. She was a constant in his life, a person of both gravity and spirit. He didn’t want to walk away, but he’d no choice in the matter.

Today was Wednesday, which meant the club would be open tonight.

He firmed his jaw with resolve. This evening, he’d don his mask for the very last time, and see her just once more. When he did, he intended to make her a very bold, forbidden proposal that went against every rule.

One night together, before they parted forever.

Chapter 4

The newspaper fell from Lucia’s hand, landing on the kitchen floor with a soft ruffling sound that she barely heard. She stared straight ahead, and everything she saw—from the fire burning in the hearth, to Kitty cradling baby Liam as she stirred up a pot of porridge, to the light in the windows shifting from morning to afternoon—appeared distant and far away, as if she was looking through the neck of a bottle.

“Dio ci aiuti,” she whispered. “God help us.”

“What is it?” Elspeth asked from her seat at the table. “You’ve gone white as whey.”

Numb with shock, Lucia scooped up the newspaper and walked it to the fire. She threw the paper into the flames, watching it curl and turn black before finally breaking into ash.

She moved clumsily to the table and sat heavily in a chair. She ran her fingers back and forth over the grooves cut into the table’s wooden surface, marks left by countless meals shared in this very kitchen with the people she cared about most in the world.

All of that might disappear. Far sooner than she could ever have feared.

“There were secrets Mrs. Chalke entrusted to me.” Her words sounded stunned even to her own ears. “I didn’t want to keep them from you, but I’d no choice. Holding those secrets was one of the conditions of taking the position as manager.”

“Ours is a business built upon secrecy,” Elspeth said. “We can’t fault you for holding to it, if it meant our continued employment.”

“Grazie.” Lucia exhaled, hoping that this simple act might ground her when she felt utterly out of control. “The identity of the club’s owner—that was one of the secrets. Exposing his identity compromised everything. So, I kept silent.”

“Understandable.” Kitty brought Liam over and gently lowered him into his high seat. “But we had our suppositions, didn’t we, El? Thought he might be a banker or some rich cove who had a taste for fucking and an even bigger appetite for profits.”

“That’s so,” Elspeth said. “But I was hoping he might be some bishop who liked to earn extra coin from sin while preaching against it from the pulpit.”

“In a way, you’re both right.” Lucia looked back and forth between her two friends. “He was a man of the highest rank, the bluest blood, and moral. At least, he liked people to think he was moral, but it was he who came to Mrs. Chalke to propose the opening of the Orchid Club.”

It felt strange to say even this much about the man who’d been their patron, when for over a year, she’d held firm to the knowledge of his identity. Holding tight to mysteries was her trade, and even with her dearest friends, it jarred to share them.

But it might not matter anymore.

She looked around the kitchen, taking in the rows of copper pans in their open cabinets, the soot-stained wooden beams in the ceiling, and the large table that dominated the center of the room, where later that afternoon, Jenny and her crew would prepare the sweetmeats and savories that fed their guests.

Tenuous, the lot of it. She might blink and it would disappear forever. Worse than losing her employment was the fact that the club employed a substantial staff, people whom she’d come to think of as a kind of found family in the absence of her own kinship by blood.

What if she couldn’t save this? What if she couldn’t save it for them?

“The owner of this club . . .” She swallowed. “He’s dead.”

A horrified silence reigned, broken only by the sounds of Liam slapping his hands on the tray in front of him.

“Does that mean that the establishment’s finished?” Elspeth asked.

“I don’t know.” Cristo, how she hated saying those words, and hated that she didn’t—couldn’t—predict what might befall her and the staff of the Orchid Club. She was the mortar that fixed everything together, but there was nothing she could do to prevent the earthquake that threatened to shake the building into rubble.

Why hadn’t she seen this coming? When she’d gone for her monthly meeting to deliver his share of the profits, he had been absent, with illness being given as the explanation. She hadn’t known the severity of his poor health. Until now.

“If he was a highborn cove,” Kitty mused, “it stands to reason that he’s got an heir, and that cove is our new owner.”

“True.” Lucia hadn’t considered that. “These English nobles love nothing so much as preserving pedigrees. Thinking on it, I recall our dead patron mentioning that he had a son.”

“Then the club passes to that bloke,” Kitty said. “Wouldn’t it?” She looked at Elspeth as if searching for answers.

Elspeth held up her hands. “If you’re looking for an expert in English aristocrats and their patrilineage, look elsewhere.”

“So,” Kitty continued, “he’s got a son. And that gentry cove is our new patron. Then there’s no harm for us in his sire’s passing.”

Unable to keep still, Lucia surged to her feet. “We don’t know if his son knew his father’s connection to this place. Diavolo, the son might not even know of the Orchid Club’s existence.”

“Be a hell of a shock when he finds out,” Elspeth muttered.

“Esattamente. What if he’s prudish, and the thought of owning a club for fucking horrifies him?” She paced, her thoughts tumbling over themselves, each scenario worse that the next. “He’d shutter us for certain.”

They’d lose the club.

And without her income, she’d lose her dream. The home for girls could never come to pass.

She pictured them, the countless young females cast onto the streets of London without anyone to care for them, to protect them and ensure that they could have a life of anything but the meanest poverty and subsistence. But Lucia was going to help them. Not all of the girls, because that would be impossible, but surely it was better to improve the lot of a few rather than let all of them meet grim fates.

Lucia gasped, choked by desperation and fear. She couldn’t fail them.

“Or maybe,” Elspeth said in a placating tone, “he’s one of those randy men who’ll delight in possessing an establishment such as ours. He might like it and keep us operational.”

“I hope so.” Lucia braced her hands on the heavy worktable, trying to stay on her feet when she thought it very possible she might tumble headlong into darkness. “We’ll know soon enough, when I deliver the owner’s share of the profits.”

“How long until delivery day?” Kitty asked as she tickled her son’s foot. The baby giggled.

Lucia tried to take comfort from the infant’s laughter. Happiness and joy had ways of persisting, even in the midst of chaos and potential disaster.

“Tomorrow.” It was always the same. Every twenty-first of the month, she’d travel to Mayfair to bring their patron his portion of the take. With no guidance, there was nothing to do but hold to that plan.

“What do we do until then?” Elspeth asked.

She’d learned from an early age that anything and everything might vanish, and in the absence of security, she could only rely upon her own determination. Surely there had to be some way to keep the Orchid Club running and preserve her dream of the girls’ home. She’d find some way to make that happen.

Right now, however, her mind and heart were both blank.

“We’ll open the club a second night each week,” she said. “Fridays. Until the new owner says we must close, we’ll increase our profits as much as possible. Save them up in case we lose our employment and income.”

Her friends nodded.

“In the meantime,” she continued, “none of the guests tonight can know of our troubles. I’ll tell the staff about our second night, I won’t speak of the new owner to the rest of the staff till I know for certain what our fate might be.”

“Is that wise?” Kitty wondered. “They might want to know.”

“There’s nothing any of them can do until we know what our new owner plans to do. And as for ourselves . . .” She let out a long breath. “We wait. And hope.”

Chapter 5

Within his carriage, Tom stared out the window, watching the world shoot past him. Everything seemed to be going too fast. He hoped that tonight, he’d be able to gain his footing again, if only for a little while.

The vehicle sped down London’s darkened streets, heading toward Bloomsbury. And release. But only for a brief while.

Absently, Tom touched the ducal signet ring on the smallest finger of his left hand. At the feel of the gold against his fingers, thoughts of his father flooded him, threatening to drag him down into the ever-present morass of grief.

Tom slipped off the ring and tucked it carefully in the inside pocket of his coat. Where he was going tonight, he couldn’t have anyone recognize him.

It was for Maeve, and his mother, that Tom had made the choice that impelled him to Bloomsbury tonight. After this night, he would never again return to the Orchid Club.

A throb of loss pumped through him, but he put it aside. He meant to enjoy these last hours of freedom before donning the permanent disguise of staid, sober duke.

He adjusted the green silk mask covering half of his face. While wearing it, he could be anyone. A sailor or a tradesman or a vagabond. All cares could be set aside for a few hours in his final pursuit of selfish, wonderful pleasure.

The carriage pulled up outside a place Tom knew very well. He’d visited it weekly for almost a year, until recently, when he’d stayed at his father’s bedside and failed to attend the Orchid Club’s openings.

His footman jumped down and opened the carriage door for him.

“Wait for me in the mews,” Tom directed the young man, though he needn’t have bothered. The routine was well-known by his servants.

When the carriage drove off, Tom tugged down his dove-gray silk waistcoat and brushed at the shoulders of his gunmetal-gray coat. How strange to be out of mourning, even for a few hours, but he didn’t want anyone inside knowing such intimate details.

After climbing the short flight of stairs to the door, Tom gave the customary secret knock. Tap. Tap-tap. Tap. Waiting, hoping, his heart rose in his throat in anticipation. They hadn’t seen each other in too long.

Throughout these long weeks, he’d used the memory of her as a touchstone, a gleam of gold amidst the ashes. He needed that brightness now.

A moment later, the door opened a sliver and the black woman appeared.

After he’d exchanged the customary password with the doorkeeper, he entered. For good measure, he showed her a small coin, stamped with a mask. The token was given to whomever had attended the club more than three times, to demonstrate that they were familiar with the rules of the establishment.

The tangles of grief and responsibility loosened in his chest as he stepped into the foyer. A sense of ease and release crept through him. No one here called him Your Grace. Only the moniker for all guests: friend. This was where he was meant to be. Not the heavy-paneled study where all the matters of the estate were handled, nor the corridors haunted by England’s men of power, where Tom was charged with both preserving England’s traditions—regardless of Tom’s own feelings on the matter—and preserving the Powell family’s reputation.

He handed the doorkeeper money, which she tucked into the purse hanging at her waist.

“Most everyone is in the drawing room and the ballroom,” she said, gesturing to the hallway behind her.

Familiar with the route, he made his way toward the sound of conversation, laughter, music, and sex. With each step, more and more weight fell from his shoulders. For the first time since his father’s final illness, Tom felt genuinely buoyant. Yet that buoyancy was undercut by the fact that soon, he’d give this up, too.

He entered the parlor, and his gaze fell upon the familiar sight of guests in various states of dress and undress. Bare flesh gleamed in the candlelight, laughter and sighs filled the air, and the scent of perfume and unbridled sexuality wafted like a tropic current.

Some weren’t actively engaged in sensual pursuits. Two women drank champagne and chatted in low voices. A quartet played a game of cards—though it appeared the stakes were articles of clothing, as evidenced by the piles of gloves, stockings, and coats heaped in the center of the table. No one bid their masks.

The people in this room could have been anyone, from barristers to fishmongers, barons to abigails. That was part of the thrill. The man or woman someone was coupling with could have been their servant, or master. It was rumored that spouses had made love to each other without ever knowing their partner’s true identity. But it was impossible to ever know the truth of this.

Tom took a glass of wine from a passing footman, then sipped as he surveyed the room. He took his usual place by the window. The moment a woman in a red dress began approaching him, he moved on. Over the course of the year, he’d fielded many offers of sex from interested parties, but he’d never accepted. That wasn’t why he came to the Orchid Club.

He crossed the threshold of the ballroom. This was where he’d first met Amina, a night he’d never forgotten. As always, the notes of a waltz drifted from the musicians as the guests on the dance floor surrendered to the seductive air of unfiltered desire.

This was not sanctioned London. It was the secret, dark side. The place where people of all walks of life came for release, to cavort and be free.

He sensed a charge like unheard music, a subtle threading of awareness moving invisibly through his body. Despite being engaged in watching the unfolding action, Tom became conscious of a new presence in the room.

Amina had arrived.

She glided through the chamber, calm and assured, a small, unreadable smile playing about her lips as she stopped to chat with guests, making certain they had everything they needed. Tonight, her mask was emerald green, embroidered all over with gold thread and tiny pearls. The mask matched her richly hued gown, which hugged her curved body.

Tonight, her thick black hair was pinned up, though small brilliants seemed to twinkle in the dark waves. But it could have been his imagination. For surely whenever she was near, he had eyes for no one but her.

Riveted, Tom watched her glide through the ballroom, expertly weaving through the crowd. She kept that slightly removed smile on her face as she talked with the celebrants. Occasionally, she waved over a servant to provide more refreshments to the guests. She checked with the musicians and adjusted the position of a candelabra on a table.

This is my realm, she seemed to silently declare. The ruler of Bloomsbury. The empress of the Orchid Club. Regal and confident, her head held high, her shoulders back.

She caught sight of him, and he straightened to his fullest height. A thrum of excitement pulsed through him, all the way to his bones, as she approached. The lingering clouds of his unease lifted the nearer she came.

This close, he could see the deep brown of her eyes shining behind her disguise. Her pupils were large, fathomless.

“Rogue,” Amina said when she stood before him.

“You chide me baselessly.” His heart took up double time to have her so close and to hear her low, throaty voice again. Every now and again, he caught a hint of an unknown accent in her words, yet he could never ask after her origins.

She had to be from somewhere warm, a place where, beneath a gleaming sun, dark-eyed beauties felt temperate breezes caress their tawny skin. The thought of all Amina’s flesh bared to the sunlight made his mouth water.

“I’m not a capricious creature,” she said crisply. “I do nothing without reason.”

“If you are my judge, I’m entitled to know the offense for which I am accused.”

She clicked her tongue. “Even worse that you don’t know.” At his mystified silence, she explained, “Six weeks. It’s been six weeks since I’ve last seen you within these chambers. I thought you’d enlisted or run off to Argentina.”

He smiled to himself. “You think me an adventurer?”

“I think you dreadfully rude to have disappeared,” she said coolly.

He bowed. “Family obligations, unfortunately, have kept me away.”

A corner of her mouth lifted. “I forget, sometimes, that people have families.”

Despite her wry smile, a note of melancholy tinged her voice, making him contemplate her kin. Did she have any, and did they know what she did to earn her bread?

Then, she said more lightly, “You’re here now. That’s all that matters.”

“Thinking of this night has been a balm to me these past weeks,” he said candidly. There was no need to dissemble or tell flattering half-truths. Not here. Not with her.

“If you’ve been troubled, I am sorry for it.” Sincerity firmed her words. Perhaps he was, to her, more than another masked guest, something beyond a means to keep a roof over her head.

God knew she held greater significance to him than her role as manager of this establishment.

He bowed. “I’ll find my way through my difficulties.”

Or so he hoped. Every step put him deeper and deeper into unknown, perilous territory.

“Good,” she said. “It would pain me to think of you in distress.”

“Would it?”

She shot him a pointed look. “I’ve no reason to speak falsely.”

“You are this club’s proprietress. I would be inclined to believe that you’ll say nearly anything to ensure a paying guest’s return.”

“It may be that I do not always give voice to my innermost heart,” she said, inclining her head. “Yet I will not lie. Not often,” she added wryly. “But, I won’t dissemble with you.”

Perhaps here, too, she wasn’t telling the truth, but he chose to believe her. It filled him with dark pleasure.

“Appreciated, madam.” Her presence beside him warmed him far more than any wine.

“We match.” She glanced at his mask. He’d forgotten that his was green, nearly the same color as her own. She stroked a fingertip along her mask, and then his. Though it wasn’t skin-to-skin touch, he nearly growled at the contact. “Coincidence?”

“Fate,” he said.

She gave a half smile. “Fate doesn’t exist. There are only choices.”

“And what do you choose tonight, madam?”

“For now, I choose to spend my valuable time with an inveterate scoundrel. One who disappears like smoke.” Her rich and husky laugh reached all the way down to his groin, making it tighten. Then she frowned. “In all this time, you’ve never joined in the activities in here. A displeased or bored guest is unacceptable in my establishment. I thought that when you stopped coming, maybe you’d grown tired of us.”

“Nothing here has ever disappointed me.” He was never returning after tonight, so it cost him naught to speak the truth.

Together, they observed the room and people within it. Half-nude guests danced together, while sighs and moans gently wafted above the music.

“You have never participated in the activity here,” she said, “not once in the whole of a year.”

After the too-brief conversation they’d had that first night, he’d returned again. And again. Each time, he’d been careful. Seeking her out, but trying not to appear too fervent. Yet every time, he made sure to engage her in banter, draw her out like a silken thread.

She was swathed in mystery, cloaked in secrets. Beautiful, aloof. How could he resist her? He wanted more.

But they played a sophisticated game, him and Amina. Always at a slight distance, like chess opponents strategizing the movement of their pieces on the board. A word here. A flirtation there. They both seemed to understand the way of the world, never revealing themselves entirely. All the while, desire was an invisible presence between them, gathering strength.

The last time he’d been at the Orchid Club, they’d spoken of their favorite secret places in London, little corners of the city that held unexpected joy. She hated the zoological gardens because of the caged animals, but loved to watch the birds take wing above a tiny square nestled in Chelsea. He’d confessed he would grab a cake from Catton’s famed sweet shop and eat it while standing on the banks of the Thames, watching the ships drift along the water.

Then . . . he’d taken her hand. A brief touch. Their eyes had met, and the charge between them had crackled like summer lightning. He’d nearly gone to his knees from merely that contact.

She’d slipped away to see after other guests, but he’d felt her gaze on him the rest of the night. A promise of what could be. He’d excitedly planned what might happen the next time they met. But then he’d had to disappear. Leaving the potential unfulfilled.

Until now.

He stepped in front of her so that he commanded her full attention. She tilted her head back to look him in the eye. Always, she had that direct way of looking at him, and it shot awareness through him with a hard, quick intensity.

“I return to this place again and again for one reason,” he said. “The same reason that brings me here tonight—you.”

Her lips parted, yet she did not speak. Surprise flashed in the depths of her eyes.

He narrowed the distance between them, and this close, he caught her scent of night-blooming flowers.

“This will be my last visit to the Orchid Club.” It pained to speak it, making it more real, more inevitable.

She frowned. “If I’ve said or done anything to drive you from here—”

“The world pulls me away, not you. I’d speak more on it, but the rules of the house . . .” He smiled regretfully.

“I . . .” She looked away, then back at him. “I’ll miss you.”

If she wasn’t speaking the truth to him now, she was an excellent actress. She was the picture of regret. So he opted to believe her—it was a falsehood to which he’d gladly cling.

“And I’ll miss you.” For the rest of his life, no matter what befell him or what path his life took, he’d ache for her. “Before I take my final leave, I’ve one thing to ask you.”

“And that is . . . ?”

He took her capable hand in his. She wore no gloves, and neither did he. The press of their palms together jolted through him, bright and hot. He’d anticipated her touch again with an unseemly eagerness—but now he saw that his eagerness had been entirely warranted. She felt . . . exquisite.

“Spend the night with me.” To his own ears, his voice was all but a growl.

Her eyes widened. For a long moment, she said nothing. Hope rose and fell within him, like a bird riding currents of air.

“One night,” he said in the silence. “In the morning, we’ll part company forever, but until the sun rises, we’ll give each other unimaginable pleasure. I promise,” he went on, “you’ll have nothing to regret, only memories of an extraordinary night. All you have to do is say yes.”

She stared up at him. Her breath came quickly, mirroring the thundering of his own pulse. The heat between their bodies could start a conflagration that would raze the city.

God, how he wanted her.

One moment became another and another. He could see the thoughts racing behind her eyes, the calculation of risk against reward.

He prayed for her answer, craving it with a fierce intensity, yet fully prepared to walk away if she said no. The choice had to be hers.

Her gaze locked on his, and when she spoke, her words were firm and decisive.

“Yes.”

Chapter 6

Lucia’s gaze moved over her buccaneer. He was tall, broad-shouldered, dark-haired and possessed spectacularly blue eyes, and his devastating handsomeness was like a weapon against which she could not defend herself. He had a clean, straight jaw and a very wicked, sensuous mouth.

“Yes?” he repeated.

“Yes,” she said once more. Her pulse sped with each word from her lips. “I’ll take you to my bed—for tonight alone.”

Am I making a mistake?

Sleeping with a guest had always been forbidden, even when Mrs. Chalke had run the club. And yet, for a year, Lucia and the buccaneer had circled each other, drawn by an irresistible pull. All this time, she’d fantasized about him. What his touch would feel like, how it would be to caress his bare skin, or discover his taste.

She’d resigned herself to never knowing the answer to these riddles. But after this night, she would never see him again. He’d said as much.

And tomorrow, she’d learn the fate of her club. Everything could come crashing down in less than twenty-four hours—the death of the establishment, the loss of employment for the twenty members of the staff, and the end of Lucia’s funding for the girls’ home.

The future was a morass of uncertainty. But tonight, just this once, she’d permit herself selfish pleasure.

No harm will come of this. There was no danger to her heart, no threat of a growing attachment. They would enjoy each other, and part company. She’d be safe.

His eyes darkened and his nostrils flared. The look of pure desire on his face stoked her own need.

“I’ve a carriage out back,” he said.

“My rooms are just upstairs. No waiting.” No time to reconsider or question herself.

“Guide us there.”

With his fingers intertwined with hers, and her heart pounding, she led him to the foyer.

Elspeth rose from the low stool upon which she sat and stared at Lucia and the buccaneer’s joined hands. Her wide gaze flew to Lucia’s.

“I’m leaving everything in your hands for the rest of the night.” Lucia looked levelly at her friend, but knew her gaze held a note of entreaty.

Only for tonight. For this single time, I’m taking something that’s meant for me alone.

Perhaps Elspeth understood how much Lucia needed the solace and distraction of pleasure, because she nodded.

“Enjoy your evening,” Elspeth said.

Silently, Lucia exhaled. She offered Elspeth a small, grateful smile before leading her buccaneer up the main staircase. As they climbed the stairs, she was acutely aware of his presence behind her, and the burn of his flesh against hers from merely the press of hands. The steps creaked with his mass, reminding her of his size, so much larger than her, giving her a foretaste of his weight on her. A thrill danced along her limbs and centered between her legs, where she was alive and sensitized.

The main corridor upstairs was lit by a single candle. Lucia stopped outside her door, fitting the key into the lock. She trusted her friends and the staff, but never knew when an inquisitive guest might manage to find their way into the private rooms where she, Kitty, and Elspeth lived.

As she slid the key into place, her buccaneer pressed close behind her, nuzzling her neck. For a moment, she simply held herself still, absorbing his touch. Her eyes struggled to remain open, and her hand trembled. She couldn’t seem to unlock the door.

“You’re up here early.” Kitty’s voice broke through Lucia’s sensual haze. “I— Oh.”

Lucia looked down the hallway to see Kitty standing outside her room, jogging little Liam on her hip.

Behind Lucia, her buccaneer stilled but didn’t move away. His breath fanned warmly across her nape, making her breasts tighten.

A smile bloomed across Kitty’s face. “As you were, soldiers.” She saluted before disappearing into her room.

Alone, finally. Lucia opened the door to her chamber. Taking a breath, she stepped inside.

He followed at once, shutting the door behind him. She quickly locked it so no one would disturb them.

She leaned back, knowing full well that the movement pushed her breasts tightly against her gown’s curved neckline. A shameless, proud display.

He stepped closer, and her breasts brushed his broad, solid chest. This was the closest they had ever been to each other, and her whole body felt acutely sensitized, aware of every point of contact. His thighs against hers, their hips cradling together.

“Am I to have you, then?” he rumbled.

She adored the hint of an Irish accent in his words, yet would never know more about where he came from, or anything at all about him.

Here she was, in her room, with an intimate stranger. A man she knew well, yet not at all.

More, a voice within her cried. I need more than another meaningless fuck.

She forcibly shoved the unwanted thought away. It was so much easier to reduce her need for him to the craving of one body for another. Delving deeper and learning him made him too real, turning him from a fantasy into a fully developed person.

No. She shouldn’t crave that connection. It only led to pain and heartbreak.

“We are to have what we want,” she said in a murmur, looping her arms around his neck and bringing him down, closer to her. He cupped her waist, heat from his body seeping into hers.

This is all I want, she told herself, trying to quiet her demand for affinity. A good, hard fuck. Only that.

For a moment, they merely gazed at each other, their mouths hovering closely. Then, as her eyes drifted shut, their lips came together. Softly at first. A brush back and forth as they learned each other’s textures and the hints of their taste. His initial gentleness surprised her. She expected him to crash against her mouth and take, take, take. That was the way of most men. But not this man. He progressed slowly, learning her bit by bit.

Her heart thudded in alarm. This was too affectionate, too meaningful, reaching deep into her to find the place where she yearned for true intimacy.

She turned the kiss more demanding and ravenous. He responded at once, sweeping his tongue into her mouth with velvet strokes. She sank into the sensation. The man knew how to kiss a woman. He clearly took pleasure from the act itself, rather than rush it toward another destination. She took from him hungrily, as he gave her himself, deep and rich and lush.

I don’t want to take another stranger to my bed, that voice within her interjected. Who is he, truly?

Stai zitta, she mentally hissed back. Don’t muddle things. They’re complicated enough.

She moved deeper into her room, needing to hurry toward the raw, purely physical needs of her body as if she could outpace her thoughts. He followed. After pausing briefly to light a candle, she let her hands roam over his body, and, che bello, he felt magnificent, solid and firm with tightly hewn muscle that shifted powerfully beneath her touch. This was all she needed to know—that he was beautifully made and could give her physical release.

If she wanted more, if she craved the comfort one soul could give another, she’d lock that craving away, where it couldn’t hurt her.

His large hands caressed her everywhere, sweeping along the curves of her arse, cupping her hips, skimming up over her waist. Heat tore through her, turning her liquid and pliable.

The back of her dress dipped low, baring the skin between her shoulder blades, and she jolted with pleasure as he stroked her flesh there.

He cupped her breasts, and sparks tumbled through her entire body. She arched up into his touch. His growl resounded low within her, speaking directly to her need for the purely carnal.

Yes, just this. Only this.

His rumble grew deeper when he plucked her nipples into tight points, making her moan.

This was perfect. This was precisely what she needed. The fall into pleasure, heedless of everything but desire. Tomorrow didn’t matter—nothing mattered but now.

It’s not enough, that infuriating voice insisted. What of your heart? What of the bond between two souls? I want that.

There was no way to escape her own demands, much as she tried to silence them.

“Too many clothes,” he muttered. He edged back slightly and moved to pull off his coat.

“Wait,” she heard herself say.

He froze in midmotion. “You want me to stop?”

“Yes—but no.” She drew a shuddering breath. Don’t say it. “I need more.”

Madonna santa!

His gaze sharpened. “Anything.”

“I want . . .” She could not stop the words as they tumbled from her lips. “Give me one truth about you.”

“A truth,” Tom said slowly as he struggled to make sense of what she’d asked. He lowered his hands.

Amina spoke in a rush, as if trying to get every syllable out before she thought better of it.

“Not your identity. That remains hidden. But tell me something about yourself.”

“Why?” He pushed against the wall of his confusion. This was not what they had agreed upon.

“What does it matter?” Her words were almost sharp. “We’ll not see each other again after tonight.”

“Yet to speak of such things goes contrary to your established rules.”

He tested his own response to her request and found . . . welcome acceptance. Finding a stranger to fuck was easy enough. He’d taken others to bed within minutes of meeting, with them knowing nothing about who he was or knowledge of what he feared or desired in the hidden recesses of his heart. Hell, there had been more than a few times his bed partners hadn’t even known his name.

It hadn’t mattered to him then. But the chance to have Amina discover more about himself felt as though he’d waded into a warm ocean, becoming more and more buoyant with each step.

For a moment, she was silent.

“I’ve had lovers before. Always, I made certain to keep them essentially strangers. You and I, we’re destined to walk away from one another, but . . .”

He’d never heard her sound uncertain, not once, and yet she spoke as if testing out her thoughts that were unknown, even to herself.

“But . . . ?” he prompted.

She tilted up her chin as if in defiance. “I want this to be different. I want you to be different.”

So—he wasn’t the only one invested in their two-person planetary system.

What she suggested was a risk, yet secrecy was her stock-in-trade.

They’d part with the dawn, leaving him only with memories of physical sensation. Yet to have her learn about him wasn’t enough. He hungered for anything about her, small, gleaming pieces that he could hold tight to in decades to come.

“One condition.”

She gazed at him warily. “Tell me your terms.”

“In exchange for my truth, I want the same from you.”

Behind her mask, her eyes went round.

His pulse throbbed. It was a gamble, demanding this from her. Much as he wanted her and the pleasures of her body, there was a chasm within him that demanded a deeper knowledge of this extraordinary woman. Perhaps he might not know the secrets of her mind and heart, but in the long years ahead when he was mired in cold, passionless duty, he could warm himself with embers of remembrance.

Her room gave some clues as to who she was. Though it was simply furnished, there were touches of vivid color everywhere. Vibrant green fabric draped across the foot of her bed, the table was painted a sunny yellow, and bright blue curtains hung in the window. A half-read book lay atop the table, though he couldn’t see the title. Pictures from fashion journals were pinned to the walls, and a vase of purple Michaelmas daisies perched on a windowsill.

No pictures or miniatures of family.

Her silence stretched on, and each moment without her answer drew tautly along his flesh.

“An incentive,” he said. “For every truth given, an article of clothing will be removed.”

Her tongue darted out to moisten her lips. The quick, carnal action stoked the flames within him even higher.

Finally, she said quickly, “You go first.”

Instead of giving in to the urge to pump his fist in victory, he inclined his head in agreement.

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