her to the floor with a loud thump. She landed crookedly on her rear and smacked her ankle against the vanity. Pain shot through the joint, and she moaned aloud, then clapped her hand over her mouth, wondering if the occupants in the adjoining room had heard the commotion.
If Mr. Stevens detected that she’d been snooping, she’d die of mortification!
Cautiously, she tugged herself up to a standing position. Though her ankle ached and her bottom smarted, nothing was injured but her pride. The beam of light from the hidden room was like a beacon, urging her to return to her perch on the stool, but she categorically refused to heed its beguiling call. However Michael Stevens might conclude his bizarre evening, she didn’t care to know. She didn’t
want
to know. Some mysteries were best left unexplored.
She hobbled out, shutting the door that separated her bedchamber from the dressing room. Confused, anxious, haunted by what she’d seen, she forced herself to bed and jerked the covers high. Eventually, after suffering through hours of wretchedness and chaos, she fell into a fitful sleep.
Michael heard a strange noise, as though someone had fallen, and it was followed by a restrained whimpering, but he didn’t allow the sound to distract him. There were several peepholes into the Viewing Room so, no doubt, diverse people were watching, and anything could be happening just beyond the walls.
For a moment, he endeavored to conceive of who some of the spectators might be. Perhaps it was one of those eccentric men who enjoyed huddling alone and playing with himself during the proceedings, or one who became stimulated for later sexual congress by spying on others. Perchance it was one of the handful of aberrant men with baser appetites, those who were not attracted to women at all—but to himself as a potential partner. They would be impatiently waiting for a degenerate glimpse of his engorged member, an impressive sight by anyone’s standards.
More likely, it was one of the women he hadn’t had yet, a newcomer to the party who was wondering if she had the necessary lack of inhibition to take a turn with him. They were all so overtly titillated by the prospect.
After years of existing on the fringe of their society, he possessed a wicked reputation that was decidedly deserved, and they craved the chance to engage in carnal relations with him so that they could brag about their exploits later on. Come the morn, he would be the main topic of conversation over breakfast: who’d lain with him, how many times, in how many ways.
His own motives for participating in Pamela’s lewd games weren’t specifically comprehensible. It was as though he was driven to prove, over and over again, that nothing mattered. Yet his obscure purposes paled in comparison to those of the women who coupled with him. They were lonely, bored, degraded in their pursuit of entertainment, but he declined to feel sympathy toward them. Pamela had devised the rules for the tainted amusement, and they flocked to indulge, hoping that something especiallynasty would occur—the naughtier the better—so that they would have more to bluster about to their friends.
He cared not. Not about their motives or their needs or wants. They could all go hang.
Even as the contemptuous thought passed through his mind, he suffered a pang of guilt, remembering the vixen named Sarah into whose room he’d been stupidly drawn. Her chamber was close by, and he was glad she had no method of watching what he was about to do.
The notion that she might stumble upon him in the midst of such corrupt conduct was unsettling and filled him with shame, and he grimly pushed her memory away. He didn’t choose to consider her predicament, or what might befall her. He didn’t plan to worry over her, or have her interfering with his practice of pleasure.
Already, she was plaguing his battle-scarred conscience, the one he’d carefully tucked away when he’d fled London three
If Mr. Stevens detected that she’d been snooping, she’d die of mortification!
Cautiously, she tugged herself up to a standing position. Though her ankle ached and her bottom smarted, nothing was injured but her pride. The beam of light from the hidden room was like a beacon, urging her to return to her perch on the stool, but she categorically refused to heed its beguiling call. However Michael Stevens might conclude his bizarre evening, she didn’t care to know. She didn’t
want
to know. Some mysteries were best left unexplored.
She hobbled out, shutting the door that separated her bedchamber from the dressing room. Confused, anxious, haunted by what she’d seen, she forced herself to bed and jerked the covers high. Eventually, after suffering through hours of wretchedness and chaos, she fell into a fitful sleep.
Michael heard a strange noise, as though someone had fallen, and it was followed by a restrained whimpering, but he didn’t allow the sound to distract him. There were several peepholes into the Viewing Room so, no doubt, diverse people were watching, and anything could be happening just beyond the walls.
For a moment, he endeavored to conceive of who some of the spectators might be. Perhaps it was one of those eccentric men who enjoyed huddling alone and playing with himself during the proceedings, or one who became stimulated for later sexual congress by spying on others. Perchance it was one of the handful of aberrant men with baser appetites, those who were not attracted to women at all—but to himself as a potential partner. They would be impatiently waiting for a degenerate glimpse of his engorged member, an impressive sight by anyone’s standards.
More likely, it was one of the women he hadn’t had yet, a newcomer to the party who was wondering if she had the necessary lack of inhibition to take a turn with him. They were all so overtly titillated by the prospect.
After years of existing on the fringe of their society, he possessed a wicked reputation that was decidedly deserved, and they craved the chance to engage in carnal relations with him so that they could brag about their exploits later on. Come the morn, he would be the main topic of conversation over breakfast: who’d lain with him, how many times, in how many ways.
His own motives for participating in Pamela’s lewd games weren’t specifically comprehensible. It was as though he was driven to prove, over and over again, that nothing mattered. Yet his obscure purposes paled in comparison to those of the women who coupled with him. They were lonely, bored, degraded in their pursuit of entertainment, but he declined to feel sympathy toward them. Pamela had devised the rules for the tainted amusement, and they flocked to indulge, hoping that something especiallynasty would occur—the naughtier the better—so that they would have more to bluster about to their friends.
He cared not. Not about their motives or their needs or wants. They could all go hang.
Even as the contemptuous thought passed through his mind, he suffered a pang of guilt, remembering the vixen named Sarah into whose room he’d been stupidly drawn. Her chamber was close by, and he was glad she had no method of watching what he was about to do.
The notion that she might stumble upon him in the midst of such corrupt conduct was unsettling and filled him with shame, and he grimly pushed her memory away. He didn’t choose to consider her predicament, or what might befall her. He didn’t plan to worry over her, or have her interfering with his practice of pleasure.
Already, she was plaguing his battle-scarred conscience, the one he’d carefully tucked away when he’d fled London three
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