I lay on the bed, staring up at the gauzy canopy, trying to stop my hands from shaking. Lord Castlevane and Dr. Moorland. Of course fate would find a way to make this weekend in the country that much more maddening. Both men kicked up a whirlwind of emotions, and I swallowed them down with a deep, shuddering breath. I had to keep calm. So much depended on my performance the next few days. As Christine explained on the ride here, the Aberthornes were one of the most powerful families in England. Their endorsement could open doors otherwise unknown for a writer such as myself. And through those doors? Freedom, independence, security for myself and my sister. I just needed to smile, dance, play, and sing. I could do those things. Surely, I could.

A tentative knock sounded on my door, and I bolted to sitting. I bet it was Christine coming in to whine about Lord Weston’s shocking behavior with Lady Aberthorne. I had tried to warn her about him, but she refused to listen.

“Come in,” I called.

The door opened, and I shrank back as I spied Dr. Moorland on the other side.

“What are you doing here?” I hissed.

“I thought I might call upon you to inquire about your health,” he replied in a steady voice. “As your doctor.”

I quirked an eyebrow at him.

He bowed.

Glancing on each side of the hall, he lifted his doctor’s bag, and his voice softened. “I would like to see to your stitches.”

I resisted the urge to itch them, the wound prickling on my forehead beneath my hair.

He gazed at me with his deep brown eyes, and my skin tingled hot beneath my dress. I knew I should have ordered him to leave my sight, but my body seemed to tug toward him, and I fisted my fingers in the bedspread lest I give in to the pull of his large, masculine frame. The man was a menace. What business did he have being a doctor? He should have been a pugilist. Or some Greek statue, frozen in place, unthreatening and admired. Cambridge honors, indeed.

I nodded. “Come in.”

He closed the door with a gentle push, taking quiet footsteps toward me.

“Did anyone see you?” I said.

“No.”

He began taking instruments out of his bag, and grabbing a basin, poured a small amount of that chemical potion into it. My eyes watered at the smell, and I choked back a gagging sound. He dunked a sleek pair of metal scissors into it, and he glanced at me.

“Will you let me examine the wound?” he said.

Yes. Touch me.

I swallowed hard, and sweeping my hair away from my forehead, I cocked my head to the side, gesturing for him to examine my stitches.

He settled on the edge of the bed and leaned toward me, his eyelashes brushing against his cheek before he leveled his gaze on the scar.

“It has healed perfectly, Miss Byrnes.”

He smiled, and my heart melted. I couldn’t help but grin back.

“Thanks to you, Dr. Moorland,” I murmured, averting my stare.

He rose and sunk his hands in the basin and took hold of the scissors. He placed a single finger beneath my chin and lifted up my head to stare at him.

“This should not hurt,” he said.

I sucked in my breath as the edge of his palm brushed against my cheek. He snapped through one of the stitches, drawing out the silk thread and setting it down on the side table.

“I’m surprised to find you here,” I said.

He cleared his throat. “I am here on business.”

“Of a medical sort?”

He nodded and for a moment his hand shook before pausing and cutting the next stitch. “I am trying to convince Lord Aberthorne to endorse our new smallpox inoculation program in Parliament.”

“Inoculation?” I glanced at him out of the corner of my eye. I had no idea Dr. Moorland was such a social crusader.

“Yes, it is when we inject a patient with—”

I laughed, raising a hand. “I know what inoculation is, Dr. Moorland. I was vaccinated myself. As I said before, my mother was quite revolutionary.”

A pink blush crept up his neck, and I resisted the urge to rest my hand on his shoulder and comfort him. The man didn’t need my reassurance, nor did he deserve it.

“I apologize, Miss Byrnes.” He snipped another stitch. “I am not used to being in such learned company.”

“How are your efforts so far?” I folded my sweaty hands in my lap, his nearness making my heart race.

He pulled the silk thread away. “Not good, I am afraid. Every time I feel I have Lord Aberthorne convinced, that prat Castlevane intervenes.”

I let out a snort. “Castlevane believes the government shouldn’t interfere with anything. Except when it comes to oppressing the rights of the Irish, I suppose.”

“You have quite a dark opinion of the MP.”

“I have every right to.” I looked down at my hands, imagining Charles’s auburn hair and the way it brushed past his face. The panicked look in his eyes the last night I saw him before Castlevane’s men hunted him down and forced him to stand in front of a firing squad.

“I apologize, Miss Byrnes,” Dr. Moorland whispered. “I fear I have verged on a delicate subject.”

I lifted my gaze to the doctor, watching his steady movements.

“Not delicate, no,” I said. “Lord Castlevane killed my childhood sweetheart. The man I intended to marry.”

“Goodness.” He shifted his weight back to meet my stare. “Why?”

“Because that’s what you do with young men with strong opinions in Ireland. Whyever not?” I gave him a bitter smile. “If it hadn’t been Charles, it would have been some other young man.”

“But this was your young man.”

I glanced away, a wave of emotion washing over me. My throat tightened, and I let out a bitter laugh. “It was so long ago now. I don’t know why I’m telling you this.”

His fingers brushed beneath my chin, forcing my gaze toward him. “You can tell me anything.” He snipped the last of my stitches, wiping the wound with a clean washcloth. “I am your doctor.” He sat down on the bed, his brown eyes studying me.

I swallowed hard. “I’m afraid you know so many of my secrets now, but I don’t know any of yours.”

His face softened, and he nodded. “You do know my most ghastly secret, Miss Byrnes.”

“What is that? That you frequented the Gathering to watch women being whipped and fucked?”

The memory of the erotic display of the Order seemed to settle between us, the air filling with heat. I tilted my head, and his hand reached out, cupping the back of my neck. His grip was firm, the tendons on his wrist tight. The effect on my body was immediate, my thighs dampening from his forceful touch.

“No,” he said in a hoarse voice. “That is not the worst thing I have ever done.”

“Then what is it?” I said, leaning into his hand.

His lips grazed my cheek. “Well, once I dressed up as a sultan to impress a lady.”

I burst out laughing and took hold of his arm. “Oh, Dr. Moorland. If that is the absolute worst thing you have ever done, you are quite the saint.”

“I am not a saint, Miss Byrnes,” he said. “But a sad sinner.”

I pressed my face against his, my shoulders trembling at the thought of our scandal. If someone had walked in…if someone had discovered us…I swallowed my fear and brushed my lips against his earlobe.

“Give me my sin again,” I whispered.

He made a low sound in the back of his throat and pulled me close, crushing his lips against mine. My spine went limp, and my fingernails dug into the fabric of his coat. His tongue darted between my teeth, and I moaned into his mouth, parting my legs as he reached down to my skirts. He rubbed his hand against my mound, and I gasped, sinking back into the pillows as my body surged with overwhelming need. I had dreamt of his kiss, his mouth, his rigid cock in my hands, and those visions had driven me to distraction. I wanted something to sate me, take away that clinging desire.

He stretched out beside me on the bed, his lips still locked onto mine. My back arched in response to the friction, heat pooling between my legs as he shifted his hand back and forth. The smell of clove and cardamom hit my nose, and I breathed in the familiar scent, losing myself in it. His thigh locked me against the mattress as his other hand smoothed up my bodice, cupping my breast. His lips were so full, the dark stubble on his chin scratching my cheek as he broke the kiss, his lips trailing across my face to my ear. His teeth scraped against my earlobe, and I shuddered into his broad chest, grasping onto his strong arms and pulling him across my body until he hovered over me, his delicious weight trapping me beneath him.

“You kiss by the book,” I whispered with a sly smile.

He growled, removing his hand between my thighs and rolling himself into my hips. His hard shaft stabbed into me between our layers of clothing, and I bit into his coat to muffle the whimper rising in my throat. He thrust into me again, and I lifted my skirts up until the lace pooled at my chest, the cool air hitting my sex. His fingers twisted in my hair, pins pattering across the pillow as he brought me to his lips for another kiss. With another sharp push, he brought the full length of his cock against me, and something uncoiled deep in my belly, a great rush of pleasure sending tremors all across my body. My hands grasped onto his back bringing him lower against my chest, our bodies fitting tight against each other.

His teeth nibbled at the tendons in my throat before he lowered his face to my chest, planting hungry kisses on the globes of flesh peeking from my dress. With a firm hand, he brought one free, clamping hard on my nipple with his perfect mouth. The seductive sultan was gone, and all that was left was a starving man, ravenous. Desperate.

His hips thrust hard into me again, pushing the bed back against the wall. He paused at the sound, our breaths mingling. He flashed me a dark stare, his brown eyes dilated, and then he found my nipple again. With his other hand, he locked onto my hips, sliding me closer against him. The possessive movement sent me into a spiral, and I writhed against him like a cat, the rough wool of his trousers creating the perfect friction against my sex. I must have cried out because his mouth pressed against mine, and he sucked in my cries.

“Shhh, quiet now…” he whispered.

The sound of his voice burned through my body, and I raised my hips from the mattress, locking my ankles against him as heat pulsed through me.

“Shh...shh…” he breathed against my ear even as he crashed against me.

He pulled me close to his chest with a low groan, squeezing me tight until I thought he would crush my lungs. I thrust my sex one last time against his cock, and a bright light flooded my eyes. I squinted them shut, tearing at the back of his neck with my fingernails. My core hummed and vibrated with endless pleasure, and I fought for breath.

He gasped into the curve of my shoulder, his lips sucking hard as he shuddered against me. His muscles tensed, shoving me against the headboard, and then he collapsed. Wrapping his arms around me, he turned sideways, nestling me against his chest. The curve of my cheek fit perfectly in the hollowed space right where his shoulder began, and I pushed his coat away, curling up close against him.

He cleared his throat. “That was unexpected.”

I lifted my head, flashing him a wide smile. “I knew I was going to kiss you the minute you opened the door.”

As soon as I spoke, I knew the words to be true, as strange as they were to me. I shook my head, cursing myself inwardly.

He raised an eyebrow, his lips parted in mock surprise. “My, Miss Byrnes. I did not think it would take so little to get back into your good graces.”

I lifted a finger and pressed gingerly against my raw scar. “Well, those blasted stitches itched so. I suppose I was overcome with gratitude to see you.”

He lowered his gaze to his damp trousers. “I believe it is I who am overcome, Miss Byrnes.”

I laughed and pressed a small kiss to his lips. I wanted to kiss him forever, the whole afternoon at least. He tasted like warm tea on a cold day, like the smoke from a brush fire in autumn. I wanted more. So much more.

“Please,” I said. “I hope you will call me Audrey. When we are in private, that is.”

He stroked the crown of my head. “In private?”

I smiled. “How else do you think these affairs go, Dr. Moorland? The people of the Gathering wear masks, and so do we. Of a fashion.”

His face fell, and a sharp pain hit my chest. The good doctor didn’t strike me as a romantic. He must know our prospects were impossible in every way imaginable.

“So you will play the Irish princess,” he said in a tight voice. “But who am I?”

I ran my fingers over the buttons of his shirt. The material was cheap, but the cut was well-tailored. I wished I could shower him with the finest fabrics, but I would never write enough books to make a sultan out of Dr. Moorland. He needed a good, middle-class wife, someone a little higher in status. With connections. Not a penniless author with a sickly sister and a drunken father.

“You are the crusader. The idealist. I saw you in the sitting room,” I said. “I saw your display of grace when Lady Aberthorne insulted you. You’re in this play, too, Dr. Moorland. We all are.”

He grasped onto my fingers and pressed them to his lips. “Please, call me Joseph.”