three days of her training, strict and cantankerous as a ninety-year-old violin master.
And about as bloodless. After that brief, heated encounter in her bedchamber, he’d turned back into a creature of unfeeling stone.
Just as well. That moment of heat had nearly undone her. Afterwards, her nerves jangled, buzzed, jolted, for days. She’d felt hot everywhere, remembering his hands roving over her, and she was sensitive even to the slightest pressure of the air.
A forgivable reaction, considering the shocks she’d been through since coming down from Lancashire. Losing Sarah crushed her, leaving her insides nothing but a void to fall into, and never stop falling. So when Hawkesbridge touched her, her body had seized the excuse to keep her heart pumping, her lungs drawing in air. It had been instinct, nothing more. Sheer animal refusal to give up on life.
But still, she felt like a fool. While she’d all but fallen back on that satin-covered bed and let him ravish her, like any round-heeled milkmaid in a haystack, Lord Gargoyle had merely been trying to educate her. Trying to relieve her of her ridiculous prudishness, her provincial gaucherie. For the sake of their mission.
Thank heavens she’d come to her senses just in time.
She’d barely escaped with her virginity.
Her dignity, though, was probably lost for good.
The coach jostled her as it took a curve into a narrow lane, and then she realized it was slowing.
"Ready?" asked Sebastian. For the first time, his tone held a hint of uncertainty. Because of her .
The moment of truth.
They alighted beside a decrepit wood-beam and plaster building that might have been a thieves’ tavern two hundred years ago. But through the shutters warm firelight glowed, and bursts of raucous laughter spilled into the street. So did the rich smell of roast goose and new-baked bread, and of some steaming mix of lemon and sugar and spices and rum. Despite her odd taste in locales, Lady Barham clearly had no lack of funds. Or of friends.
Rachel took a bracing breath. The people inside had known Sarah—or Salomé—well. She released the breath slowly, relaxing her shoulders in the louche way Sebastian taught her, while tensing the muscles of her tongue and lips and jaw to make the sounds of French. She’d lived years with religious zealots who punished severely for any lapse in faith—she knew how to project conviction she did not feel.
Sebastian raised his fist to knock upon the door.
To her surprise, his other hand slipped into her own, his fingers wrapping hers in a quick squeeze. His grip was warm and strong and solid, and she took more comfort in it than she would have expected, or than she’d ever admit.
Then they were inside.
A tableau spread before them that, despite the modern clothes, might have come straight from a dissolute Roman orgy: men and women draped together on low couches, feeding one another tidbits of elegant food, with a few apparently feasting instead on one another’s bared flesh. On gentleman was sprawled back against blue velvet, his breeches undone, while a lady with wild chestnut curls knelt between his legs, her curls bobbing vigorously up and down as she made him gasp with pleasure. Another lady, if indeed either one of them was a lady, had her gown opened to the waist, her round breasts entirely bare. A man in a gold satin jacket was nuzzling shamelessly at one nipple, while busily working his hand up under her skirt.
That lady looked up in surprise as Rachel and Sebastian entered. “Gracious heaven!” she exclaimed. “Look what the wind blew in!”
The babble of voices hushed for a moment as a dozen more heads swiveled their way. Then a general outcry erupted, and a flood swept towards them, a rush of perfume and noise and body heat.
For the first moment, pure, blind panic knifed through her.
Then her mind moved into higher speed, noting age, hair color, height, distinguishing scars or distinctive noses, matching them to
And about as bloodless. After that brief, heated encounter in her bedchamber, he’d turned back into a creature of unfeeling stone.
Just as well. That moment of heat had nearly undone her. Afterwards, her nerves jangled, buzzed, jolted, for days. She’d felt hot everywhere, remembering his hands roving over her, and she was sensitive even to the slightest pressure of the air.
A forgivable reaction, considering the shocks she’d been through since coming down from Lancashire. Losing Sarah crushed her, leaving her insides nothing but a void to fall into, and never stop falling. So when Hawkesbridge touched her, her body had seized the excuse to keep her heart pumping, her lungs drawing in air. It had been instinct, nothing more. Sheer animal refusal to give up on life.
But still, she felt like a fool. While she’d all but fallen back on that satin-covered bed and let him ravish her, like any round-heeled milkmaid in a haystack, Lord Gargoyle had merely been trying to educate her. Trying to relieve her of her ridiculous prudishness, her provincial gaucherie. For the sake of their mission.
Thank heavens she’d come to her senses just in time.
She’d barely escaped with her virginity.
Her dignity, though, was probably lost for good.
The coach jostled her as it took a curve into a narrow lane, and then she realized it was slowing.
"Ready?" asked Sebastian. For the first time, his tone held a hint of uncertainty. Because of her .
The moment of truth.
They alighted beside a decrepit wood-beam and plaster building that might have been a thieves’ tavern two hundred years ago. But through the shutters warm firelight glowed, and bursts of raucous laughter spilled into the street. So did the rich smell of roast goose and new-baked bread, and of some steaming mix of lemon and sugar and spices and rum. Despite her odd taste in locales, Lady Barham clearly had no lack of funds. Or of friends.
Rachel took a bracing breath. The people inside had known Sarah—or Salomé—well. She released the breath slowly, relaxing her shoulders in the louche way Sebastian taught her, while tensing the muscles of her tongue and lips and jaw to make the sounds of French. She’d lived years with religious zealots who punished severely for any lapse in faith—she knew how to project conviction she did not feel.
Sebastian raised his fist to knock upon the door.
To her surprise, his other hand slipped into her own, his fingers wrapping hers in a quick squeeze. His grip was warm and strong and solid, and she took more comfort in it than she would have expected, or than she’d ever admit.
Then they were inside.
A tableau spread before them that, despite the modern clothes, might have come straight from a dissolute Roman orgy: men and women draped together on low couches, feeding one another tidbits of elegant food, with a few apparently feasting instead on one another’s bared flesh. On gentleman was sprawled back against blue velvet, his breeches undone, while a lady with wild chestnut curls knelt between his legs, her curls bobbing vigorously up and down as she made him gasp with pleasure. Another lady, if indeed either one of them was a lady, had her gown opened to the waist, her round breasts entirely bare. A man in a gold satin jacket was nuzzling shamelessly at one nipple, while busily working his hand up under her skirt.
That lady looked up in surprise as Rachel and Sebastian entered. “Gracious heaven!” she exclaimed. “Look what the wind blew in!”
The babble of voices hushed for a moment as a dozen more heads swiveled their way. Then a general outcry erupted, and a flood swept towards them, a rush of perfume and noise and body heat.
For the first moment, pure, blind panic knifed through her.
Then her mind moved into higher speed, noting age, hair color, height, distinguishing scars or distinctive noses, matching them to
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