Darting across the verandah, I breathed in the cool spring air, the evening dew soothing to my skin. I slipped down a garden path, away from the noise of the dance, listening to the breeze rushing through the giant oaks, the sound reminding me of our cottage outside Dublin. A pang of homesickness shot through me, a sob catching in my throat.

I came across a hermit’s retreat and slipped inside, stifling a bitter laugh at the conceit even through my tears. How much money did someone need to have to create something so worthless and silly? At least it didn’t come with its own bearded hermit. I settled on a bench and held my head in my hands. The cold, damp stone enfolded me in silence while I breathed in and out, letting the panic dissolve with each exhale. Lord Castlevane would stop at nothing to bind me to him. The sedition investigation was probably something he concocted himself and stoked for the sheer pleasure of it. If he couldn’t have me, he was bound and determined to make me miserable. He had made that clear enough in the past. I blinked back my tears, wiping my face with the back of my hand.

Those memories wouldn’t do.

Not here. Not now.

Charles. Always Charles. So young and idealistic. He never stood a chance against Castlevane’s horrible ambition.

The air stilled and footsteps sounded across the floor of the tiny hermitage. I glanced up.

“Who’s there?”

The moon broke through a cloud, and the towering figure of the sultan stood in the doorway.

I stood, my heart fluttering at the sight of him. The urge to run to his side, to let him cage me inside those big arms, filled me, and I gave an awkward curtsy, my shoulders trembling.“My lord Sultan,” I said. “You will miss the party.”

He stepped forward, and even though I knew I should leave, I stood my ground, letting him take my hand. He led me back to the bench, and we sat together, his gaze never leaving my face. Bringing his palm to my cheek, he made a low sound in his throat as he brushed away a tear.

I looked down, ashamed, but he lifted my chin with his finger, forcing me to meet his stare. Anger blazed in his dark eyes, and I grabbed his hand and gave it a reassuring squeeze.

“It’s quite all right.” I smiled, sniffing away the deluge of tears behind my eyes. I needed to pull myself together. “I’ve come to no harm.”

I leaned back, staring up at the stars through a skylight. “Lord Castlevane would never hurt me. He just finds ways to hurt the people I love.”

I looked over at the sultan, and the sympathy in his brown eyes arrested me. My lungs contracted, and I looked down, realizing we were still holding hands. His thumb pressed softly into my palm, and the effect on my body was immediate. Heat bloomed in my core, and I swallowed hard, imagining those hands around my waist, smoothing over my skin. I closed my eyes, letting the image wash over me. What did it matter what this strange man thought of me, wanton and nearly panting for his touch? I was Roisin, right? The “wild Irish girl”? Isn’t that what all the papers said?

“Have you ever been in love?” The question fell out of my mouth without thinking.

He leaned closer to me, his breath close on my neck.

“You don’t have to answer that,” I said, playing with the edge of my mantle, fingering the green, swirling embroidery. I let out a chuckle, remembering he couldn’t answer if he wanted to. He laughed with me, low and thick. My body responded to the incredible sound, and I took a deep, staggering breath.

“I must say, not having to listen to some dull Englishman prattle on all night is quite an improvement to my evening.” I stared deep into his dark eyes, our lips almost touching. I didn’t know what I was doing. I didn’t care. Painful memories stirred in my heart, and I wanted to escape them, hide inside this mysterious man’s spell for a moment. If it hadn’t been the sultan, it would have been some ridiculous dandy.

I was glad it was him.

“I was in love once.” I sighed, pressing my other hand to his beard, tracing the line of his jaw beneath the wooly hairs. “And Castlevane took it all away from me.”

The sultan’s hand gripped tight on mine, his muscles tense. The incredible maleness of him sent a rush of heat through my body, and I felt so small next to him. I shifted closer, breathing in the smell of clove and cardamom, of strength and power.

“So I vowed I would never love again.” I brushed my lips against his. “But I do find pleasure in other things.”

I wasn’t as flagrant as Christine, but I had taken lovers these past few months. London was full of married gentlemen who didn’t mind a casual fling in the backrooms of balls every now and again. Christine had shown me how to prevent pregnancy, and I saw no harm in it. And I certainly found no harm in finding solace in the arms of this sultan from a country I could barely pronounce and probably couldn’t find on a map to save my life. The fact he spoke no English was a boon. Foreign men could tell no tales.

He ran his hand down my arm, cupping my elbow and drawing me closer. He said something in his language, and my insides flipped, my thighs dampening at the sound of his low voice. With a throaty moan, he crushed his lips to mine, and I met him with a deep, pressing hunger. I dug my nails into the back of his neck, and he invaded my mouth with his tongue, forceful and seeking. His arms gathered me close, and I panted, gasping for breath as he broke the kiss, his lips searching for my neck, my collarbone.

With an exasperated sound, I tore away the harp pin holding up my mantle, letting out a deep exhale as the night air hit my chest. The green velvet fell to the floor of the fake hermitage, and the sultan pressed hot kisses on the upper curves of my breasts. Reaching down into my bodice, I freed one nipple, and he clamped onto it with a groan. My hands fisted his hair, pushing him closer against my chest, my body writhing as he sucked harder, wetness rushing from me as he stretched the pink bead from my flesh, nibbling it with the edge of his teeth.

The sensation sent bolts of pleasure straight down to somewhere deep in my abdomen, and I whimpered, parting my thighs. His hand slipped down, cupping my mound and rubbing hard against the delicate silk fabric. Without a thought, I pulled up my skirts and guided his hand to my slit, letting out a sharp gasp as his fingers pressed into me.

“Yes,” I whispered.

He curled them slightly, the sucking sound and our heavy breathing filling the tiny hermitage. With his other hand, he pulled my other breast free, massaging the delicate flesh, and pinching and pulling with an expert rhythm. The sultan was no selfish schoolboy, but confident and firm. In control. He teased my body; his only giveaway to his discipline was the raging erection pressed into my hip. I longed to free his cock, to feel him in my hands, but when I tried, he slammed my wrist against the wall, imprisoning me.

His hand moved faster, and he said something hot and foreign in my ear, his breath tickling the back of my neck. My hips thrashed beneath him, my body shaking as he leaned forward caging me to the wall with his strong arm. I buried my face into his chest and choked down a sob as he teased my orgasm from me until I finally collapsed against him.

His fingers lingered inside, and he whispered something soft and sweet in my ear. I drew away from him and stared up into his face, my heart racing. I had always felt a sense of urgency in the afterglow of lovemaking, wanting to escape as soon as I had finished. But the sultan stared down at me with a fierce protectiveness and concern. His grip loosened on my wrist, and he brought it to his lips, kissing the veins.

“I…” My voice caught in my throat. “I…”

What had I wanted to say? What did I need to tell him? A great heaviness weighed on my heart, and I swallowed hard, my throat dry and constricted.

“Audrey!” Christine’s voice rang out across the gardens. I startled, and the sultan’s hand dislodged from inside me. He brushed my skirts down with the care and attention of a lady’s maid. He lifted me to standing, and reaching down, grabbed my mantle and pushed it into my hands, his fingers lingering on the golden pin. A wave of dizziness sent me staggering, my legs weakened.

With a grunt, he crushed me against his chest and kissed me hard, taking my breath away. When our lips parted, he waved to the door of the hermitage, and I gave him a curtsy before racing across the grass in search of Christine, my feet barely touching the ground.

I spent the rest of the evening “exhibiting” my Irish culture: singing, dancing, and reciting poetry in Irish Gaelic. I had a perfect act, honed by my father since I could walk, so in many ways performing felt more natural to me than anything else. Applause rang out when I finished, and I flashed the audience a brilliant smile, shaking my loose hair down my back as I gave them a deep curtsy. I glanced up to find the sultan’s eyes fixed on me. He brought his two fingers to his lips, the same fingers he had moved inside of me, and kissed them softly. Heat bloomed in my face, my cheeks flaming. I wanted to see him again, explore his body, take my time. Need quickened deep in my belly, and I wished I could race back to his arms. But the crowd rushed me, and he disappeared beyond a sea of strangers.

Christine took hold of my hand, and before anyone could accost me with questions, she shuffled me into a carriage, and we were dashing back to the Elliots’ townhome.

“Oh my darling Audrey, what a brilliant evening!” Her eyes shone bright, and her face was flushed from dancing and too much champagne. “You are truly the toast of London.”

She sighed, leaning back against the cushions, eyeing me with her unfocused, drunken gaze. “You and the sultan appeared quite dashing on the dance floor.”

I smiled, staring out the window.

Christine flounced across the carriage and grabbed my hands. “You like him! Oh, wouldn’t that be a match!”

I extricated myself from her grip. “There’s no match, I assure you. But yes, I did find him quite…compelling.” With a cough, I hid my blush behind my hands, recalling the way the sultan’s hand had brushed up my thigh, how he pressed my wrist against the wall with so much force... I wrapped my fingers around my arm, wondering if he might have left bruises. The thought both sickened and excited me, and I shook my head at the strange desire to have him claim me somehow. Mark me in some way.

“Well,” Christine said, giving my shoulder a nudge. “You shall see him again because we’ve been invited to a party. A secret party. You can only get in if you have one of these.”

I glanced at her sideways, studying the gold coin in her hands, the image of a phoenix glinting in the streetlights. “What’s so secret about it?”

She giggled, stuffing the coin into her bodice and interlacing her fingers with mine. “It’s at Lord Barrington’s home, and the attire is quite strict. All black. And…” she leaned in, the sweet smell of champagne on her breath tickling my nose. “Masks.”

“Masks?”

“Yes!” She laughed again, leaning her head against me. I wrapped my arm around her, and she nestled closer. “Do you think it will be quite scandalous?”

“I wouldn’t imagine anything less of Lord Weston.”

“Oh, I hope so.” She peered up at me. “Will you come with me? No one will know it’s you.”

“Of course I will,” I whispered, holding her close. Soon, Christine drifted off to sleep, snoring softly against my arm. My gaze drifted out the window to the London streets rushing by, and I let out a long exhale, my thoughts with the sultan. His warm brown eyes, his hands both rough and kind. I could use a flirtation, a passing distraction. Because that was all it could be, after all. Nothing more.