and about to reach for a glass, Ritchie paused. He’d been knocked far too far off-kilter in the past few moments to be satisfied by frothy French wine.
“Bring me a glass of whiskey, if you would?” His own voice sounded strange to him, as if he really had suffered an almighty blow. But the servant seemed to notice nothing amiss and stepped away smartly on his errand.
Gazing out into the glittering throng of bejeweled women and immaculately dressed men, it seemed to Ritchie as if they were projections floating on a screen. They weren’t real, just flickering, moving images such as he’d seen at a demonstration by Monsieur Le Prince in Leeds a couple of years ago.
Only the now-hidden Beatrice Weatherly was real to him, and discreetly, so as to avoid attention, he slid her photograph out of his pocket again and savored the contrast between it and the living woman.
Both were sublime to behold.
In the image, Beatrice was unstudied, dreamy and natural, her eyes averted from the camera in a private moment, so unlike the brazen stares of most naked models.
In the flesh, she met his gaze with fire and mettle and challenge.
Both incarnations stirred his loins to an alarming degree. And much, he admitted uncomfortably, in the manner they’d once stirred for his lost, beloved Clara. His first marriage had been fully and mutually satisfying in that department, as well as happy in every other way.
As the efficient footman approached, weaving his way through the chattering, preening guests, Ritchie slipped the photograph safely back into his pocket.
The whiskey was fire and peat on his tongue, and it settled him.
Yes, he could view the photograph, and the others like it, and take pleasure in them whenever he wanted.
But they, and the ministrations of his own hand, weren’t nearly enough now. He had to touch and admire the woman herself. From that isolated moment of contact, his fingers still tingled, feeling the warmth of her skin, and its softness where he’d held her upper arm. His entire body still felt the aftershocks of that singular instant, and his stiff cock jerked anew from simply reliving it.
I’ll feast on you, divine Beatrice. I’ll draw from you every last ounce of sensuality that’s in you. Because I know it’s there, even though you might deny it now. I’ll taste and stroke every last inch of your flesh, and I’ll feel your exquisite fingertips on my cock returning that pleasure.
And I’ll do it soon, because if I don’t, I might go mad.
Mad? God no … The most unfortunate choice of word. Raising his glass to his lips again, he shuddered as if an icy specter had drifted across his grave.
No! No dark thoughts now. Beatrice Weatherly was light. Heat. Passion. Everything positive and full of glorious, abundant life.
And, thanks to her imprudent brother’s bad investments, and his foolhardy days at the racetrack and nights at the card table, The Siren of South Mulberry Street was now Ritchie’s for the taking.
CHAPTER TWO
Creatures of the Tropics
BEATRICE FELT AS if her head was on a spring, it swiveled about so often during the dancing.
She wanted to freeze stock-still in the middle of the ballroom, turn around, and angrily demand that Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie stop staring at her!
But the trouble was, every time she was convinced he was watching her, the aggravating beast wasn’t there. Had he become invisible all of a sudden? Was he watching her by some arcane, remote means, like a medium?
And if wasn’t watching her, why not? Absurdly, his lack of scrutiny now annoyed her even more than being watched had.
With a supreme effort, she maintained a courteous interest in her partners, of which, surprisingly, there were quite a few. Obviously, her notoriety as the Siren was attracting most of the men, but it was still a pleasant relief not to be a wallflower, as a twenty-four-year-old spinster with no money and a besmirched reputation should expect to be.
She danced with Charlie, of course, who lectured her throughout, and stumbled once or twice, too. Brandy on his breath told a clear story, but Beatrice made a point of being especially patient and agreeable. It wasn’t all her fault that her brother’s life was difficult, but she certainly hadn’t helped matters by being so gullible in her dealings with Eustace Lloyd, and by leaving it so long to entertain a new suitor at all.
She shared a waltz with Monsieur Chamfleur, tall and bluff and jolly, as well as a cotillion with Lord Southern himself, and several other whirls about the floor with the charming Mr. Enderby, and one or two other husbands of the ladies in her Sewing Circle.
Ah yes, the Ladies’ Sewing Circle. Beatrice smiled wryly. Not much of a stitcher, she would never have joined such a group in the normal course of events, but when a card had arrived out of the blue, inviting her, she’d fallen upon it gladly. In the weeks since those accursed cabinet cards had begun circulating, along with a fruity exposé about them in Marriott’s Monde, all other social avenues had dried up to a state of desiccation. Backs had turned on her at church, the Ladies’ Charitable Guild had requested she not attend anymore, and likewise a ladies’ reading group she’d not long joined but had been enjoying immensely. In the face of this universal discouragement it was worth a few pricked thumbs and a nasty hole-ridden mat or two for the chance of feminine conversation with someone other than Polly or Enid or Cook.
And the talk over the crochet, cross-stitch and teacups had turned out to be unexpectedly racy.
Until Ritchie’s disclosure, Beatrice had believed the Circle to be the primary source of tonight’s invitation. Both Sofia Chamfleur and her friend Lady Arabella Southern had been especially amenable at the weekly meetings.
Now, however, Beatrice had been disabused of that notion.
Either one or the other of those two ladies had acted as a pander, and had expedited her appearance here to serve her up to the infuriating Ritchie. A man who apparently had the power to haunt her when he was nowhere to be seen.
What’s the matter with me? I’m having a perfectly delightful time, a much better one than I ever expected. Why do I keep wishing that every partner was that monster?
It was true. Good company as her dance partners had been, somehow they all seemed like shadows. Even Monsieur Chamfleur, who towered well over a stocky six feet tall. Only the wild, hot feelings she’d experienced in Ritchie’s presence had any verisimilitude. Her arm still prickled where he’d touched her, and when she relived that touch, her thighs trembled and a betraying liquid heat welled between them.
No! He’s a rogue and a womanizer and he’s even less respectable than I am!
Drifting away toward the periphery of the supper room, she looked for Charlie, but he too was nowhere to be seen now. One of his lecture topics on the dance floor had been a stern homily to her on the importance of not being seen in conversation with Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.
“I didn’t realize it was him until he swanned up to us. The nerve of the man! If the papers are anything to go by, he’s a bad lot. Just stay away from him or he’ll compromise you even further.”
Beatrice had nodded, for once in perfect agreement with her sibling.
Yet she was disappointed. The ball was a dazzling, fairy-tale affair, and all the more so for the remarkable and revolutionary electrical lighting system that the Southerns had recently had laid on in their principal rooms. This new light illuminated the proceedings in a harder and more brittle manner somehow. It was unforgiving, yet it caused the women’s jewels to flash and sparkle and their gowns appear iridescent and vivid. But despite this modern miracle, all seemed lackluster just because she was missing a certain sharply beautiful man with navy-blue eyes, shiny, barely tamed blond hair and a mouth that could have as easily belonged to the devil as to an Adonis.