feet felt as if she stood on a roiling sea.
Each and every man reached his hand in his trousers and drew out his cock. She almost gagged on the smell of masculine sweat, the intimate aroma of their privates. They began touching themselves, stroking their lengths, squeezing and caressing the heads until each rod became stiff and fat and shocking.
“How dare you!” The high-pitched feminine shriek exploded from the beyond the circle. “Fancy! Snaring eight delicious gentlemen. How selfish!”
A blowsy, drunken woman shoved two of the men aside and stormed into the circle. Before Maryanne could move, the blond woman’s hand hit her shoulders and sent her stumbling back.
“A woman requires abundant…skill…to please so many men.” With that, the woman pulled off her chemise, revealing large breasts and plump hips. The men began pulling harder on their members at the sight of the nude woman, who lifted her nipples to her own mouth. Her tongue snaked out and touched the very tip of the erect, long, dark brown length.
For a moment, Maryanne was dumbstruck.
But there, between two dark tailcoats, was a glimmer of light.
She ran.
She ducked under arms and slithered around bodies, artfully dodging through the crowded corridor. At least she was small and slim.
Georgiana…
Maryanne stumbled over someone’s boot and almost fell into a half-naked footman. She glimpsed the young man’s face, beautiful with full lips and startled eyes. Behind her a woman laughed and then squealed.
Two people were copulating in the corridor. The man’s bared buttocks were pumping, and plump white legs jiggled around his. He was grunting, the woman screaming.
If this was Georgiana’s idea of a joke—for Georgiana had often said it would be amusing to take her secretly into the demimonde world—if her partner had lured her into this nightmare for a diversion, she would…would…
Throw ink on Georgiana’s gowns. Toss her jewels in the Thames. Put a bag of flour over her bedchamber door. Pour treacle in her shoes—
A male hand snatched at her breast.
She bared her teeth, pushed a drunk, swaying woman at him, and then raced down the corridor. At the end, she left the crowd behind. There was no one but her, which meant there could not be any perverse entertainments here. Her corridor abutted another, and at the junction there was a closed door. No sound came from behind the door.
Perhaps this was a safe place to hide. To decide what to do.
Laughter, moans, and screams echoed behind her, pounding in her dizzy head.
In this case, how could the unknown be any worse than the known?
The doorknob turned easily in her hand, and the door swung open to darkness.
She shut the door firmly behind her. Gasping, she braced her hands on it and turned the key in the lock.
A small snick startled her, along with the quick sulfur smell of a light being struck. Her heart almost extinguished itself. Shaking, Maryanne turned as flame touched wick and a light caught.
It reflected Lucifer’s dark eyes and wickedly handsome face. “Good evening, angel. Are you the night’s entertainment?”
2
At one glance, Maryanne knew he was drunk.
And knew, of course, he was not Lucifer.
Lord Swansborough sprawled on a wing chair. His shirt was open at his throat, and curling hair, soft and black as night, peeked out of the black-dyed lawn of his shirt. Cast aside, his elegant coat and his shimmering black waistcoat lay in a jumble on the floor by his feet. The light of the single candle glimmered on his thick blue-black hair.
Every night when she edited an erotic scene by candlelight, Swansborough became the hero of the scene. He was the man of fantasy who stripped off his clothes and lowered his naked body over hers. He was the one to boldly lift her skirts in the theater, or suckle her breasts in a carriage or even—and it was delicious madness to think of it—to tie her to her own bed, arms and legs spread, prisoner to his pleasure.
But here he was, in the flesh, winking at her!
And dressed in his usual shocking fashion—entirely in black.
He caught her staring and gave her a most wicked grin. Enticing lines bracketed his firm, wide mouth, and adorable dimples shadowed his cheeks. “You came in here to seduce me, didn’t you?”
With a crook of his fingers, he motioned her to move toward him.
She stayed at the door. “N—no.”
The Oriental motif had not ventured past the door. This was an Englishman’s study, resplendent with wood and leather, comfortable yet austere.
Both settings suited Lord Swansborough.
“Who are you?” he asked, and he tipped the decanter—the entire decanter—to his lips and took a swallow. He quaffed the drink—likely brandy—the way men in the country drank ale. Some spilled down his chiseled jaw, and he lowered the lovely glass thing and wiped at his beautiful mouth with his shirtsleeves.
His lordship was the first man here who was interested in her name. And she floundered helplessly—she had a creative mind, but all she could do was stare in astonishment.
He settled himself on the back of a chair, one booted foot dirtying the arm. The position displayed the long, lean, muscular power of his legs.
“Your name, puss,” he prompted.
She knew men used that name to describe a woman’s quim, and she knew she must suggest another name. But what did she want to suggest? Availability or the truth—that she was not allowed to touch a man like he? “Verity.”
Truth. Why had she thought of to call herself that—the opposite of what she would speak?
He saluted her with the decanter. “Imaginative. Where is your partner, Verity?”
“I don’t have one.” Which was, at least, the truth.
“I see.” Amusement, chilling amusement, showed in his rakish grin. “If I ravish you and make you explode in the most intense climax, will you give me my next clue?”
A jolt of shock raced, cold and startling, through her veins.
He thought she was a courtesan, employed to work in this bizarre scavenger hunt. She’d heard couples speaking of clues and hunting in the salon. “I came here to find a friend.”
The brandy decanter was almost empty. Had he truly drank that much? How could he still be conscious if he had? Her two glasses of champagne and that sickly drink had left her disorientated, and the giddy feeling was now a pounding inside her skull.
“Did you indeed?” he asked. His tone spoke ominously of a man’s awareness that he had a trapped female in his possession. But there was a teasing note underneath, and she knew she would much rather be trapped in this study with Swansborough than out in the rest of the house with the other scavenger hunters.
Tearstains itched on her cheeks, and she was certain she looked disheveled. How much did her mask obscure?
“Come here, Verity.” His voice had sobered, and it rumbled with bewitching erotic promise.
Verity. Which sounded like her sister’s name, Venetia. Had she thought of the name because her sister had had adventures and she had yearned for her own?
But Venetia had told her that Swansborough was exactly like the men who had surrounded her. And he was drunk, therefore dangerous. Logic told her that, but her heart skittered at the gentleness in his black eyes. They were hazy with drink, but not wild with lust.
“Come.”
A confident,