A Seduction in Scarlet Page 2

  Portia sighed now, and wondered if that was her trouble. She didn‘t want just any man; she wanted someone who didn’t exist. Because of course the Marcus Worthorne who had grown and developed in her mind wasn’t the boy she’d known at seventeen. He wasn’t real. He couldn‘t possibly be.

  When she had arrived that night, Aphrodite greeted her and spoke to her discreetly. “Do not worry if there is no one here who catches your eye. There is always next time.”

  But Portia knew it was quite possible there might not be another chance.

  Ever.

  She might not summon up the courage again, or circumstances might step in to prevent her. This was her moment, and she had to make the most of it. She had to take whatever Fate gave her.

  So here she sat on her chair in her scarlet silk gown, with the ruffles of lace at the hem, and a scarlet veil covering her face and hair. The glass of champagne she held in her hand had been replaced three times. Or was it four? She no longer kept count. She was feeling light-headed, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Rather like floating in a warm, comfortable cloud, while all about her Aphrodite’s guests moved and conversed, making their choices. Surely this was far more honest than the dreadful debutante ball she remembered attending as a girl? If a woman was going to sell herself to the highest bidder, then let it all be out in the open…

  She turned her head just as he moved into her field of vision. Her spinning world came to an abrupt halt. The sights and sounds around her merged in a meaningless blur.

  Dear God it cannot be…

  Was Aphrodite a witch? For how else could she have known? But of course Aphrodite didn’t know. She had placed herself in the hands of Fate, and Fate had given her a strange and remarkable gift. Marcus Worthorne, the man of her dreams, was standing in the salon here at Aphrodite’s Club.

  Marcus hadn’t visited Aphrodite’s before. That was not to say he hadn’t visited houses of pleasure and bawdy houses, just not this particular one. He had made Aphrodite’s acquaintance, of course—the courtesan was his sister-in-law’s natural mother. But to visit her club…no, he hadn’t done that, hadn’t felt it was quite proper. Now, with the invitation in his pocket, the situation had changed.

  Aphrodite, an older version of Francesca, smiled at him as he entered the salon, but she had not shown him any particular favor. Good. He preferred it that way. This was strictly private, nothing to do with family relationships.

  For a time he prowled about the glittering and gaudy salon, enjoying the company of the beautiful women, sipping his champagne. It was as if he’d stepped into a fairy tale where the princesses wore very little and were prepared to make all his dreams come true—if his pockets were deep enough.

  Well, and what was wrong with that? It wasn’t as if he was looking for a respectable wife, for God’s sake. Just a couple hours of pleasure with a companion seeking the same. They could enjoy each other and go their separate ways. But which woman? That was the difficult question. They were all lovely, all charming; it made it impossible to choose.

  And then he saw her.

  She was wearing scarlet, a dress that clung to her curves, the bodice so low her bosom was barely covered. It could have appeared tacky, but the woman’s posture was so regal, so assured, Marcus thought she might well have worn sackcloth and still have the bearing of a queen. He wished he could see her face, but the veil she wore over her head reached to her shoulders, and he could not see through it. The mystery woman was seated beside a gilt statue of Cupid, and she was so still that she might have been a statue herself. Although he couldn’t see her face or her eyes, Marcus had the oddest sensation that she was watching him.

  He made another circuit of the room. The women were still beautiful and so obviously wanting to please, but now they all looked the same. He didn’t know what was wrong with him tonight, but his steps led him back to the lady in scarlet.

  Marcus was intrigued by her. She was sitting so still, but wasn’t like a thing of stone. Her skin looked too warm, too soft, too touchable. And he wanted to touch her.

  She moved.

  Just a slight shift of position, but enough to make him think that she was very aware of him. Perhaps she was as interested in him as he was in her? He thought it would be amusing to find out, to set her a little test…

  Marcus began to prowl the room again, but this time he kept a surreptitious eye on her. Did the face beneath the veil turn a little to follow his progress? One of the beautiful demimonde wriggled up to him, smiling, stroking his arm as she spoke to him. He leaned down, giving her his full attention, and made a joke. She laughed and tapped him on the arm with her painted fan.

  Marcus glanced over at the woman in scarlet. Oh yes, she was definitely watching him. Her head was turned toward him and she was leaning forward in her chair, to better observe him through the crowd. As if she did not want him to notice her interest, she turned quickly away, presenting him with the elegant curve of her shoulder, casually lifting her champagne glass to her lips.

  Marcus strolled on, engaging another of the beautiful women in conversation, and then another, but the game palled when the lady in scarlet did not look again.

  “Enough,” he murmured, suddenly impatient with her and himself. He set off toward her, cutting his way through the small clusters of guests, his gaze fixed on her like a hunting jungle cat.

  She heard his approach, or perhaps sensed it. She turned toward him just before he reached her. He saw her body stiffen, as if she was preparing herself. Was she shy? More probably she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings. A first time visitor. An innocent.

  Marcus smiled. This grew better and better.

  The view from where he stood was truly delightful. Her breasts swelled over the bodice of her dress, plump and flawless, her skin like milk. A lady, then, and neither old nor wrinkled. He wondered whether she knew the effect she was having on the men in the room. Whether she realized how desperately he wanted to reach out and draw the scarlet neckline down that tiny bit, so that the peaks of her luscious breasts were disclosed to his gaze and his hands. And his mouth.

  “Your glass is empty,” he said, his voice deep and soft and intimate. “Will you allow me to bring you another?”

  The veil appeared flimsy but was in fact surprisingly impenetrable; he could only just see the pale blur of her features. She was hidden from him, and he found it frustrating. He wanted to see into her eyes. He wanted to gaze at her mouth. He wanted to know her.

  She said nothing.

  “We seem to be unattached, you and I,” he went on, as if her silence didn’t matter to him. “We’re watchers while the world goes by. Do you prefer to watch, is that why you’re here? To watch?”

  Still nothing.

  “If you want to join me, I promise you I can be fascinating company.” He took a step closer, and her head tilted to keep him in view. Her perfume reached him, something musky and sweet, teasing his senses. Her hand lifted, hovering over her cleavage, as if to preserve her modesty. “No, don’t,” he murmured huskily. “You are the stuff dreams are made of, lady. Don’t spoil it by playing the prude.”

  He thought he saw the flash of her eyes. She hesitated, and then her hand returned to her lap.

  “Thank you.” He smiled as if they were lovers already, his eyes as hot as his need. “May I?” Before she could move again, he bent down and lifted her hand in his, raising it to his lips. She was wearing gloves, but her flesh was warm underneath the thin cloth. She didn’t want him this close, he could tell, and when he released her, she folded her fingers tightly and dismissed him by turning her head away.

  Marcus stepped back. “You wish to be alone?”

  Nothing.

  “A pity.” He let his gaze run over her one last time, committing her to memory. “I think we would have enjoyed each other’s company.”

  He bowed, sober now, but as he strolled away he struggled with a keen sense of disappointment. The veiled lady intrigued him. He wanted her. Marcus mocked himself: Why was he seeking the unattainable? The room was full of women. He was being ridiculous and childish wanting the only one he couldn’t have. He drank a couple more glasses of champagne and watched as some of the women performed an elegant display behind a thin curtain, a naked rendition of the birth of Venus in a papier-mâché clamshell. He wasn’t particularly interested and found it all rather silly.

  It was time to go, before he became drunk and belligerent and sorry for himself.

  Marcus was collecting his hat and coat when Aphrodite came gliding toward him in her black silk, her jewels glittering at her throat, her beautiful face timeless.

  “Marcus,” she said, “please do not leave yet.”

  “I think I must, madame,” he said, polite but firm.

  “Is my club not to your liking?”

  “Your club is magnificent. Your girls are beautiful.”

  “But you are not in the mood to be pleased by mere beauty, oui? You want something more. Would it change your mind if you knew that there is a certain lady who very much wishes for your company?”

  “I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would be more appreciative than I—”

  “I speak of the lady in the veil, Marcus.”

  “The lady in scarlet?”

  “You are surprised?” She smiled. “She was very taken with you, mon ami. This is a special commission. Her identity is a secret, and she will wear her veil while she is with you. One evening, Marcus, that is all she requires. Can you give her an evening to remember for the rest of her life?”

  Marcus removed his hat and handed it to her with a droll look. “I think I can manage that, madame.”

  Chapter 2

  Portia couldn’t sit still. After she’d told Aphrodite which man she preferred, the courte
san led her to this luxurious little room to wait. For the tenth time her gaze flicked to the bed, placed discreetly in a shadowy corner, the plump cushions slyly peeping out from behind the lush draperies. The reason why she was here. And for the tenth time she thought about running away and forgetting the whole thing. But she conquered her fear. Because this was what she wanted, this was what she craved.

  I want to feel like a woman again. I want to feel . And Marcus being here…it is as if it were meant to be.

  Marcus Worthorne was perfect. Oh yes. She thought again of his eyes on her, burning her skin. She’d felt as if he was touching her, and a hot ache had ignited low in her belly. She had fantasized about him for so long, but even in her wildest dreams—some of them very wild indeed—she hadn’t expected him to grow into someone so perfect.

  When she was seventeen, he’d seemed distant and unattainable. Perhaps that had been part of his attraction. He hadn’t known she existed, and even now probably wouldn’t recognize her as the shy girl he occasionally met in the lane while riding his horse, or the girl who embarrassed herself so dreadfully that day in church. But he’d certainly recognize her as Lady Ellerslie; all of England did.

  Marcus the boy had shown promise of the handsome man he had become, the sort of man she’d always secretly admired. Tall and broad shouldered and slim hipped, with the arrogant good looks of someone who didn’t worry about anything overmuch. Oh no, he wasn’t concerned with what life might throw at him. In fact, Portia doubted that his life consisted of anything more than idleness and pleasure. Completely and totally her opposite, for she was very much a prisoner of her own conscience.

  But what did that matter? It was the hot look in his eyes that was appealing to her senses, the sound of his voice that sent shivers skipping down her spine. Marcus was a man who knew how to please a woman, and he could give her the sort of pleasure she had been dreaming of. And then walk away without a second thought.

  Perfect, Portia reminded herself. She didn’t require any empty promises, or any pretense that there would be a next meeting—in fact such things would be an insult. It was simple mindless pleasure she wanted. There would be time enough to remember the world outside this room when she left the club. But for now she wanted to forget everything, just for an hour or two, and Marcus Worthorne could help her to do that admirably.

  The door opened.

  He stood a moment, silhouetted against the gaslight from the salon, and she wondered if he did it on purpose, because he knew how good he looked. But then she realized he was more intent on watching her, seated on the sofa by the fireplace, than striking a pose.

  “May I join you?” His voice held the same amused tone she remembered from before, only now it was deeper, with a hint of seduction. She shivered, unconsciously responding to him. A jumble of memories filled her mind, but she shut them out, reminding herself of who she was and her position in the world. She had risen high from her origins, and although he would not know it, the reminder helped to restore her calm.

  “Yes, please do,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. Unrecognizable.

  He closed the door behind him and strolled toward her with the graceful, loose-limbed walk she had noticed in the salon. Aphrodite’s protégés had noticed it, too. He was the sort of man who would always be noticed. Women would look at him and want him. Perhaps they would even dream of him falling in love with them, but Portia was quite certain he would never love them. Instead he would break their hearts.

  “We haven’t been introduced,” he said, smiling down at her.

  The firelight was flattering, casting shadows over her skin, warming her flesh, and this time she didn’t try to hide herself from his gaze. “We need no names,” she murmured back.

  “You’re right.” He sat down opposite her.

  His eyes were hazel, with a hint of gold. Intelligent but with a cynical gleam that reinforced her belief that he didn’t take life very seriously. But then, growing up in a wealthy and titled family, he’d never had to. In a way, she envied him his carefree manner—it must be restful to be so self-centered—but she knew she could never be like him.

  “I’d very much like to see your face,” he said quietly, in that voice that made her think of bed.

  “No.”

  “You don’t think you can trust me? I’m good at keeping secrets.”

  Was he? It didn’t matter. She wasn’t going to trust him with hers.

  He must have read her answer in her silence, because he shrugged and smiled, as if it didn’t concern him either way. Reaching out a hand, he touched her fingers, resting on the sofa arm. She could feel him through her thin glove. For a moment he simply smoothed the lace cloth with his thumb, gently caressing. He was watching her from beneath half-closed lids, trying to gauge her reaction.

  “You’re a very beautiful woman.”

  “How do you know?”

  “You have an air.”

  “An air of what?” she mocked.

  “Assurance. You expect to be looked at.”

  He was clever. She removed her hand, checking that her veil was firmly in place.

  “Don’t worry,” he said, “I won’t peek.” For a moment his gaze caressed her idly, and then he spoke in a lazy voice. “May I do something I’ve been longing to do ever since I saw you?”

  She was still fussing with her veil, but he didn’t wait for her answer. In a sudden swift movement he was on his feet, reaching for her hands, tugging her smoothly to a standing position in front of him.

  Portia gave a gasp, shocked despite herself. In her world, gentlemen did not manhandle ladies, and never so masterfully. She realized that beneath his well-made clothing he must be all hard muscle. She opened her mouth to reprimand him and then closed it again. Wasn’t this what she wanted? Wasn’t this why she was here? There was no going back now, she reminded herself with a shiver of excitement.

  “What is it you want to do?” she whispered, taking a step away, giving herself room to breathe.

  “This,” he said, and before she could react, he slipped his finger beneath her low neckline and smoothly tugged it down a fraction.

  She didn’t struggle. She didn’t reach up to cover herself, or shriek, or slap his face. She stood facing him, half naked now, and proud as a queen.

  He remembered to breathe. “I apologize,” he heard himself say. Apologizing wasn’t something he did very often, but her bearing made him want to beg her pardon.

  “Why?” she asked in that husky whisper that was playing havoc with his senses. “You said you wanted to do it.”

  “I should have shown more finesse,” he answered. “I usually do.”

  “We could begin again, if you want?”

  He laughed without humor. “I don’t think so.” It was difficult not being able to see her face, to look into her eyes, although he could see something of her against the firelight—the shape of her cheek, the curve of her chin.

  He reached out and touched her breast, and then bent his head to taste her. She made a sound, a purr in her throat, and he drew her nipple into his mouth, rolling the hard bud with his tongue. Her hands closed on his head, fingers almost painful as she combed them through his hair.

  That exotic scent rose from her skin, musky and alluring.

  “Do you still want me to stop?” he said, sliding his hands over her shoulders, caressing her back.

  “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

  He knew then that she was his.

  Portia trembled. He had found the fastenings of her dress and made quick work of them. He hadn’t even begun to undress himself, so she did it. Hands at first uncertain, then growing in confidence, she removed his bow tie and unbuttoned his collar. His throat was strong and masculine, and she felt an urge to kiss him beneath his jaw and work her way down. Instead she reached her hands beneath the fine linen cloth of his shirt and touched his skin. He was very warm and there were hairs growing on his chest. She couldn’t remember whether her husband had hairs on his chest; she did not think she had ever seen him entirely naked.

  She raised his shirt for a better look. There was a line of dark hair running down his stomach and vanishing beneath the waistband of his trousers. She lifted the linen higher and found there was a wedge of dark hair on his chest. His skin was clean and warm, and the urge came again to press her mouth to him and taste him. To do all the things she’d dreamt of and longed to do.