London
1878
ETIQUETTE dictated that a gentleman caller did not extend his visit beyond fifteen minutes, so it was that Miss Minerva Dodger knew that her time in the company of Lord Sheridan would be drawing to a close within the next one hundred and eighty interminable seconds. Sooner, if luck was on her side, but the gentleman sitting to her left on the sofa in the front parlor was apparently determined to eke out his maximum stay. Since she had handed him a cup of tea shortly after his arrival, he seemed to have forgotten his purpose in coming here. The fine bone china with the red roses hadn’t once left the saucer that he balanced so expertly on his thigh.
This visit was his third within the past seven days, and all she’d really garnered from their time together was that he used a little too much bergamot cologne, kept his fingernails well manicured, and periodically released sighs for ostensibly no reason whatsoever. And that he cleared his throat to signal the end of his calling upon her.
She now welcomed the harsh gurgle as he set aside his cup before standing. Placing her own cup and saucer on the low table in front of her, she pushed to her feet and fought not to look too pleased that the ordeal was finally over. “Thank you so much for coming, Lord Sheridan.”
“I hope I may call on you tomorrow.” The earnestness in his brown eyes alerted her that he was not truly asking for permission but was merely stating his intent.
“If I may be so bold, my lord, allow me to ask if this is truly how you want to spend the remainder of your life—sitting about in heavy silences with only the ticking of the clock to remind us of the passing of time?”
He blinked. “Pardon?”
Now she was the one to sigh, hating that she was forced to be blunt because he refused to acknowledge the truth of the situation. “We are not suited, my lord.”
“I’m not certain how you’ve reached that conclusion.”
“We don’t converse. I have tried to engage you in several topics of conversation—”
“On the wisdom of England’s expansion in Africa. It is not a subject that should concern a lady.”
“It is going to concern a great many ladies if war erupts, and they find themselves catapulted into widowhood. Not to mention the financial toll on the country—” She held up a hand. The man looked positively horrified. “My apologies. You didn’t want to discuss it earlier, and I’m quite certain you don’t wish to now as you are preparing to leave. It’s simply that I have opinions and believe I have the right to voice them. You seem to have no interest in hearing my view on anything other than the weather.”
“You will be a countess.”
Now it was her turn to blink. “What has that to do with anything?”
“You will be Lady Sheridan. As such, you shall be too busy overseeing your duties and your charitable endeavors to be sitting about in the parlor with me during the afternoon.”
“And in the evening?”
“I have an extensive library that will be at your disposal. Although surely you do needlework.”
“I don’t, actually. I find it tedious. I much prefer a rousing debate on social reform.”
“I will not tolerate a wife who engages in rousing debates. It’s unseemly.”
“Which is why, my lord, we are not suited.” She said it kindly when she yearned to ask him why he thought any woman would want to be his wife.
“I have a very large estate, Miss Dodger. Granted, it does need some upkeep, but your dowry will set it to rights.”
And there it was, spoken at long last: the reason for his presence in her parlor.
“But you see, Sheridan, I come with my dowry. Furthermore, I come as I am. With my own ideas, not necessarily my husband’s, with my own interests, again, not necessarily my husband’s. But I want him to respect my opinions and interests. I want to be able to discuss them with him and know that he is listening.”
“I’ll give you children.”
What did that have to do with his listening, which he obviously was failing to do. She felt rather like a mule being tossed carrots in hopes that one would get the beast to move along. And while she desperately wanted children, she wasn’t willing to pay any price in order to obtain them. If she wasn’t happy, how could they be? “Will you give me love?”
He tapped his front teeth together. “It is possible that, with time, my affections would grow.”
She gave him a tolerant smile. “I think you would find living with me to be quite challenging.”
“I have two estates. Once I have my heir, I see no reason that we must live at the same residence.”
It took everything within her not to laugh hysterically. The man refused to heed what she was saying—which had been the problem from the beginning. “Call on me if you wish, my lord, but know that under no circumstances will I ever marry you.”
“You won’t get a better offer.”
“That may well be true, but I seriously doubt that I shall receive a worse one.”
Jerking his head around, he glared at her mother, sitting in the corner with her needlework as though she were responsible for the words spewing from Minerva’s mouth. “Your Grace—”
“Mrs. Dodger,” her mother interrupted succinctly.
Sheridan released a frustrated sigh. “You are the widow of a duke.”
“I am the wife of Jack Dodger and prefer to be addressed as such.”
He tapped his front teeth together several times before clearing his throat. “Very well, if you insist.”
She smiled sweetly. “I have from the moment I married him a good many years ago, but I don’t believe you’re here to discuss the choices I’ve made in my life.”
“You are quite right, madam, I am not. Will you be so kind as to explain to your daughter why she should not be so quick to dismiss my suit?”
Her face serene, she bestowed upon him an indulgent smile. “To be quite honest, Lord Sheridan, I think your afternoons would be better spent elsewhere.”
Harrumphing, he pinned Minerva with his glower. “I intend to have a wife by the end of the Season. I shall not wait for you to come to your senses, Miss Dodger. I shall move on.”
“I think that would be most wise.”
“You’re foolish to give up what I can provide.”
“With the help of my dowry.”
The tapping of his teeth again. In time, the habit would no doubt drive her mad.
“Good day, Madam, Miss Dodger.” With that, he spun on his heel and strode from the parlor without so much as a backward glance.
With a deep sigh releasing much of the tension that had accompanied Minerva with his visit, she rolled her shoulders before wandering across the room and dropping unceremoniously into the chair beside her mother’s. “Strange, but I’d have felt more foolish if I’d married him.”
Reaching across, her mother squeezed her hand. “You’re not foolish at all. You know your own mind. Somewhere, there is a man who will relish that aspect of you and view you as more than an ornament.”
While Minerva wasn’t prone to pessimism, on this particular subject she couldn’t dredge up her mother’s optimism.
“I just passed Lord Sheridan going out as I was coming in,” Grace Stanford, the Duchess of Lovingdon, and Minerva’s dearest friend, said as she walked into the parlor, her two-year-old son perched on her hip. “I daresay, he bore the look of a storm cloud.”
“What a marvelous surprise to have you drop by,” Minerva’s mother said, her smile brighter than anything the sun could produce as she rose and crossed over to their newest arrivals. “How is my grandson?”
The boy reached for her, and she took him into her arms. “I swear, you have grown so much since last I saw you.”
“You saw him a few days ago,” Grace reminded her mother-by-marriage.
“Too long.”
Approaching, Minerva tried to read her friend’s expression, but Grace was known for never giving anything away. It made her an extremely skilled opponent at cards.
“So, Lord Sheridan?” Grace prompted.
With a sigh, Minerva shrugged her shoulders. “He thought we were well suited. I didn’t.”
“He has considerable debt,” Grace said.
“Precisely.”
“He is rather nice-looking and can be quite charming.”
“He sat here for fifteen minutes staring at his teacup as though hoping to catch a glimpse of his tea evaporating.”
“Oh dear.” Her eyes held sympathy and understanding. Before her marriage to Minerva’s half brother, the Duke of Lovingdon, Grace had been navigating the sea of fortune hunters as well.
“So what brings you to our door?” Minerva asked.
“I simply wanted to visit with you for a bit.”
“I’ll leave you girls to it,” her mother said distractedly, pinching the child’s chubby red cheek. “Come along. Let’s find your grandfather. He’ll be delighted to see you.” She looked at Grace. “That’s all right, isn’t it? If I take him off for a bit?”
“Of course. I’ll find you when I’m ready to leave.”
“Take your time,” Minerva’s mother said, before wandering from the room in search of her husband. If Society ever saw Jack Dodger playing peekaboo with his stepgrandson, his fierce reputation would be shattered.
“She does love him,” Minerva said, ignoring the ache in her chest because she might never give her parents a grandchild.
“I know. Furthermore, I knew his presence would ensure we had some time alone when we wouldn’t be disturbed.”
A mixture of anticipation and dread coursed through Minerva. “You acquired the address?”
“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” As though she could outrun the conversation, Grace moved swiftly to the sofa and sat.
Minerva joined her there, the excitement over the possibilities drowning out any of her initial trepidation. “Do you have it?” she prodded impatiently.
Grace shifted uncomfortably. “Are you certain about this, Minerva? Once it’s lost—”
“I’m well aware how virginity works, Grace.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Give over the address.”
She didn’t dare say aloud the name of the establishment. No one did. Rumors of the existence of the secretive Nightingale Club had been floating through London for years, but its location was a closely guarded secret because its owners were supposedly ladies of the aristocracy—married ladies who had established a place for others such as themselves to bring their paramours for discreet rendezvouses, their husbands none the wiser regarding their illicit affairs. Its purpose had evolved over the years so that even those who had no lover might secure one for a night. That was all she wanted. One night.
“Your brother will kill me if he learns that I assisted you with this endeavor.”
“He won’t do any such thing. He adores you to distraction. Besides, he isn’t going to find out. It’s not as though I’m going to announce it, but you know full well the sort of life he led before he married you. Why is it acceptable for men to be naughty but not for women to partake in the same liberties?”
“It’s simply the way of it. What if you fall in love—”
Minerva couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud at that. “I’ve seen six Seasons, Grace. I’m on the shelf gathering dust, except for the occasional fortune hunter. I have no interest in a marriage that is a business arrangement. I want to be loved for who I am. My immense dowry doesn’t aid me in finding love. I’m not particularly pretty.”
Grace opened her mouth to protest, and Minerva cut in before she could speak. “You know it’s true.” Based upon the dowry her father—one of the wealthiest men in London—had bestowed upon her, she had not wanted for men’s professed affections, but not a single one had carried an ounce of truth. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, couldn’t even classify herself as pretty or endearing in the looks department. “I have too much of my father in me. His dark eyes, his common features. And I’ve his head for business. I’m smart, and I speak my mind. I’m not demure or biddable. I want passion and fire, not the coldness of silence and sighs as we wait for the minutes to pass until we’re no longer in each other’s company. Do you have any idea how often I have sat in this very parlor with a gentleman who did little more than hold a teacup on his lap and comment on the biscuits and cakes as though they are the sum of my life? I’m intimidating. I know that. I consider holding my tongue, but I don’t want to give a gentleman a false impression of whom he is courting. I’m not shy about spouting my opinions, and men find such behavior intolerable.”
“You simply haven’t met the right man yet.”
“It’s not as though I’ve taken to hiding behind fronds. I’ve been visible, seen by everyone. My dowry is attractive; I am not. Men do not seek me out with passion in mind, but rather purse strings. It’s grown wearisome.”
Grace studied her quietly for a few moments. “What if you should get with child?” she finally asked, and Minerva nearly groaned at the tedious questioning, but she appreciated that her dear friend meant well.
“I’ve researched. I’ll take precautions.”
Grace slumped back, nibbling on her lower lip. “The act itself is incredibly intimate, Minerva. I can’t imagine engaging in such actions with someone I didn’t love.”
“I’m well aware that it won’t be perfect, Grace, but at this point in my life, I want to feel desired. I’ve heard that most of the men who frequent the place are of the aristocracy. So it’s quite possible it will be someone I know, possibly someone I favor. I fancy many of the gents; they simply don’t fancy me.”
“But after all that you’ll share, won’t it be awkward when you see him in the future?”
“He’s not going to know it’s me. I’ll be masked.” The mask she’d purchased in anticipation of acquiring the location of the infamous club covered two-thirds of her face, leaving only her eyes, lips, and chin visible.
“But you’ll know. Everything he did. Everywhere he touched. Everywhere you touched.”
Warmth and a bit of discomfiture coursed through Minerva as she imagined being caressed with large, strong hands. She took the images to bed with her every night even though they did little except leave her aching for what she’d never experienced. Her greatest fear was that she might actually weep if a man ever fondled her with bare hands. She’d been touched by men before, but always with cloth—gloves at the very least—serving as a barrier. “I’ve thought about the ramifications long and hard, Grace. It’s not something I decided on a whim. Do you have any idea how lonely it is to have never felt so much as the stroke of a man’s finger along forbidden flesh? During dinners, no one sneaks in an errant touch beneath the tablecloth, out of sight of others, when my gloves are resting on my lap and my hands are uncovered. No one does anything untoward where I’m concerned.”
“If I might be honest, this recourse seems rather tawdry. Perhaps you should seek out a lover.”
“You don’t understand, Grace. Men don’t find me appealing in that way. They don’t have improper thoughts or consider me alluring. If a man even hinted that he fancied me, I’d marry him.”
“You’ve had marriage proposals.”
“From impoverished gents, and it became quite clear, quite quickly that they yearned to hold near my dowry, not me. Your advice helped me identify the fortune hunters, and thus far—to my everlasting disappointment—they’ve all been fortune hunters.”
“Perhaps you took my words too much to heart.”
“No one looks at me the way my brother looks at you. Even before he professed his love, it was obvious that he wanted you in the worst sort of way.”
Unable to deny the words, Grace blushed. Minerva stood and began to pace. She was striving so hard not to show how nervous she was about this decision. It was the correct one for her. She wanted to know what it was to be with a man, and she’d grown weary of waiting. “The anonymity appeals to me. If I botch it all up, no one is going to know.”
“You won’t botch it. But I do worry that you’ll be hurt.”
Kneeling before her dear friend, Minerva took her hands, squeezed. “How can I be hurt when, for a little while, I shall feel as though I am desired? Grace, I have never once in my life felt as though a man desired me. And while I know that he won’t know it is me, that all he truly wants is my body, it will be my body that he touches, my body in which he takes pleasure, my body that receives pleasure in return. It’s not perfect, but it’s something.”
“It’s rather rash when there are alternatives. You could proposition a man to be your lover.”
“And how do I deal with the embarrassment when he says no?”
“He might say yes.”
“Six Seasons, Grace, and I’ve never been kissed. Never been ushered into a shadowy garden. My dance partners are becoming fewer and farther between. I am recognized for what I am: a spinster. It is time for me to acknowledge that I shall never experience a grand love, and I won’t saddle myself with a man who can’t love me as deeply as my father loves my mother. Or my brother loves you. If I’m going to be with him for the remainder of my life, I want a gentleman who is besotted. And if I can’t have that, I want to know at least once what it is to be with a man without the barriers of societal mores. Maybe then, I can move on and find happiness elsewhere.”
With a sigh, Grace worked her hands free of Minerva’s clasp, reached into the pocket of her skirt, and withdrew a folded slip of paper. Minerva wanted to snatch it up, but she feared she would tear it because Grace’s fingers were turning white with her death grip on the frail parchment.
“Along with the address,” Grace began, “I have included a list of gentlemen to avoid should they cross your path. Lovingdon assures me that they are selfish lovers—not that he knew why I was asking, but it seems that in the privacy of their clubs, men are prone to boasting about their conquests.” Pursing her lips together, she extended the paper. “Please be very careful.”
Minerva closed her steady fingers around the answer to her dreams. The time for being careful was long past. She yearned for a night to remember. “Don’t suppose you have a list of whom I should consider?”
Grace released a forced laugh. “Afraid not. I just wished a gentleman could see you for your true worth, something that has nothing at all to do with your dowry.”
“Not every gentleman can be as wise as my half brother.”
“Pity that.”
Pity indeed. But then, Minerva wasn’t one to languish on the negative. She’d had no luck with the marriage market. It was time to move into the realm of pleasure.
THE Duke of Ashebury was on the hunt for a pair of long, shapely legs. Standing casually with a shoulder pressed to a wall in the front parlor of the Nightingale Club, he observed with a jaundiced eye those who entered. The ladies wore flowing silk that caressed their skin as a lover might before the night was done. The shimmering fabric seductively outlined the body, hinted at dips and swells. Arms were bared. Necklines were low, the silk gathering just below a tasteful showing of cleavage designed to entice. People murmured and sipped their champagne, while exchanging heavy-lidded gazes and come-hither smiles.
The flirtation that occurred within these walls was very different from that found in a ballroom. No one here was searching for a dance partner. Rather, they wanted a bedding partner. He appreciated the honesty on display, which was the reason that he often stopped by when he was in London. No pretense, no ruses, no duplicity.
He had already claimed a bedchamber, the key nestled in his jacket pocket, as he wanted no one to disturb what he had so painstakingly set up. His needs were unique, and he knew that within these walls, they would be kept secret. People did not discuss what occurred at the Nightingale Club. For most of London, its existence was something spoken about in longing whispers by those who knew it only as myth. But for those familiar with it, it served as a sanctuary, liberator, confidant. It was whatever one needed it to be.
For him, it was salvation, bringing him back from the brink of darkness. Twenty years had gone by since his parents’ deaths, yet still he dreamed of mangled and charred remains. Still, he heard his mother’s terrorized screams and his father’s fruitless cries. Still, his behavior when he’d last seen them taunted him. Had he known that he’d never look upon them again—
With resolve, he shook off the haunting musings that sent a chill down his spine. Here, he could forget, at least for a few hours. Here, the regrets didn’t gnaw unmercifully at him. Here, he could become lost striving for perfection, for the ultimate in pleasure.
He had merely to determine which lady would best suit his purposes, which would be willing to concede to his unusual request without protest. It bothered him not at all that the ladies wore domino masks. He cared little for their faces, understood their need for anonymity. Their concealment worked to his advantage as he’d discovered that ladies were more comfortable with his request when they were assured it would remain their secret—and his not knowing their identity made them bolder than they might have been otherwise. They liked being a little naughty as long as they weren’t caught. He couldn’t catch them if he didn’t know who they were.
Still, he had one cardinal rule he always observed: never the same lady twice.
The ladies brought their own masks, seldom changed them, as the façade became their calling cards, as effective at identifying them as the ones handed over to butlers in the early afternoon when they were making proper visits. The woman in the black mask decorated with peacock feathers had a scar just above her left knee from a tumble she’d taken from a pony as a child. The blue mask, black feathers had two delightful dimples in the small of her back. The green mask outlined in yellow lace possessed bony hips that had proven a challenge, but he’d been pleased with the results when their time together was finished. But then he’d always embraced the challenge of discovering the perfection in imperfection.
The three glasses of scotch that he’d enjoyed were thrumming through his veins. The din of intimacy was calming. The muscles that had been so tense earlier were relaxed. He was in his element here, or he would be in short order. As soon as he found that for which he was searching. He wouldn’t settle for less than what he wanted; he never did. If one sure thing could be said about the Duke of Ashebury, it was that he knew his own mind. That he was stubborn when it came to acquiring what he needed—or wanted. Tonight’s endeavors straddled the line of both what he needed and what he wanted. All needs would be met before dawn. Then, perhaps, he could be glad to be back in London.
Lifting his glass for another sip, he watched a woman wearing draping white silk and a white mask with short white feathers walk hesitantly into the room as though she expected the floor to drop out from beneath her at any moment. She wasn’t particularly tall, but based on the way the silk moved over her flesh with each graceful step, it was obvious that she possessed long, slender legs. He wondered if she was meeting someone, already had an arranged assignation. Some ladies did—it was one of the reasons that the men didn’t wear masks. So they were easily identifiable if their paramours wanted to meet them here. Another reason was that men simply didn’t bloody well care if anyone knew that they were in the mood for a good tupping. Even the married ones were brazen with their presence.
The woman in white appeared to have dark hair, gathered up in an elaborate style that no doubt required an abundance of pins. He couldn’t be absolutely certain of the exact shade because the lighting in the room—only flickering candles—enhanced the mood of secrecy as well as creating an ambiance for intimacy while providing a gossamer disguise for some distinguishing characteristics that were easily identifiable by color: hair, eyes, even the fairness of skin. Perhaps she moved slowly because her eyes were adjusting to the dimness. Gentlemen not yet spoken for did not swarm to her side. But then that was the rule here. Seduction happened slowly. Ladies needed to hint at an interest.
But then, if this was her first time, she might not be aware of the subtle rules. He was fairly certain he’d never seen her before. A connoisseur of the body, he would have remembered the elegance of her movements, the way the cloth glided over her skin, outlining her form. Slender legs, but meat where it counted. No bony hips there.
With one long swallow, he finished off his scotch, relishing the realization that the hunt was over. He’d thought he wanted a tall woman. He’d been mistaken.
He wanted her.