A Whisper of Desire (16 page)

The question that scared him witless was if he let her glimpse the beast he kept caged, would she turn from him? Would she be as disgusted? He couldn't bear to see her look at him as if he were an animal.

To prove his point, an animalistic growl issued from between his clenched teeth as his hands wound tightly in her hair. His hunger poured in hot waves through his body.

Sweet hell, he'd known when he kissed her in the ballroom that fateful night that he needed to stay away from her. The Libertine Scholars' villainess had put paid to that. Right now he'd never been so grateful, or terrified, at having married her.

The reason he'd stayed out of her bed was self-preservation. He had few defenses against her. He'd realized that the first time he'd made love to her.

Maitland squeezed his eyes shut. The pleasure was too overwhelming. He was shaking and he thrust his hips, sending himself deeper into the hotness of her mouth.

He felt her shudder with pleasure herself. She looked up at him with passion-hazed eyes, her arousal sending his flying toward the heavens, shredding the last grip on his control.

He tried to stop, tried to push her from him, but her nails dug into his thighs as she moved her mouth on him with renewed urgency.

His balls tightened, drawing up, ready to explode. Maitland shuddered, needing release more than he needed air. He tried to pull away, tried to be a gentleman, but it was too late. On a deep, dark groan, he thrust urgently and spilled his seed down her throat. She continued to suck until his spasm eased and she'd drained him dry.

So powerful was the euphoria that he stumbled to the bed and fell back, with his heart pounding deep within his chest.

He heard her licking her lips and felt her crawl up his body to lie snuggled beside him.

“I'd say that later tonight, I'll have no problem giving a very believable performance.” Marisa's voice was filled with satisfaction.

He couldn't even think to form a reply. All that filled his head was want and need. He wanted her beneath him. He wanted to pleasure her until she screamed his name over and over. She was like a drug and he wanted more.

He should be petrified of that thought, but right now, he couldn't give a damn. He simply rolled her under him and pressed himself between her welcoming thighs.

The entry into the club went smoothly once they got past the two huge men guarding the front door. Maitland and Marisa were ushered upstairs to be “interviewed,” which was the term used, but it felt more like an interrogation.

Angelo was not in residence, and his second-in-command, Francis, seemed suspicious of Maitland's sudden appearance. His Grace was too well known to pretend he was anyone else. As long as it wasn't Marisa receiving Francis's penetrating attention, then they might just pull this off.

They barely gave her a second look, so her disguise appeared to be adequate.

“What brings Your Grace to our doors?” Francis asked with knowing spite in his voice.

“Is this how you greet all your guests?” Maitland responded with ducal disdain. “I find your question distasteful. I thought this club prided itself on discretion.”

Francis's sneer wasn't only in his voice now. It was written all over his face. “There are usually only two reasons why a man comes to this club. I need to ensure you are not here to gain advantage over other members. You'd be surprised how many men who are in need of funds try to gain entrance.”

Maitland's indignation was not feigned. “I assure you, I have no need for funds.”

Francis nodded. “So I have heard. Is it membership of our selective club you are seeking or perhaps a one-off foray to relieve your boredom?”

“You're presumptuous. I have yet to decide if this club offers that which is of interest to me.”

Francis then turned his attention on Marisa. His probing stare made her want to flee, but she held her ground, standing tall. For once in her life she was grateful for her height. She could look Francis in the eye. “Who is your—friend?” he asked silkily.

“No one of consequence, but a lad important to me.” Maitland's words came out as a threat. He then placed a hand on Marisa's head as if daring Francis to ask more.

Marisa thought it was time for action. She turned to Maitland and ran her hand over his chest while looking directly at Francis.

Francis laughed. “No need to get all prickly. The lad isn't my type.” At Maitland's raised eyebrow, he added, “Too old.”

Marisa's insides recoiled at his words and she had to hide her face against Maitland's chest.
Too old!
What the hell did that mean, and did she want to know?

“What is to be your pleasure tonight?” Francis's attention was back on Maitland.

“Perhaps you could provide us with a tour. Only then will I decide if this club will suit.”

The Libertine Scholars had previously discussed their approach. To be seen to gamble immediately would ring alarm bells. This would be a slow and steady operation. Angelo must not guess their real intent.

Francis laughed, the wicked sound sending shivers down her spine. He ran his eyes over her as if he wished it were his hands. “Oh, I'm quite sure it will suit.” Then he clapped his hands and a young lad, probably no more than fifteen, appeared. “Please show His Grace and”—when Maitland remained silent—“his friend the bounty and pleasures of our establishment.”

“Yes, my master,” the lad said, and he indicated they should precede him from the room. “Where would you like to start, Your Grace?”

She could feel Maitland tense, the muscles in his arm rigid beneath her fingers. She squeezed his arm, trying to reassure him. She knew what was swirling through his mind. In trying to protect her sensibilities, her innocence, he'd placed their disguise and plan in jeopardy.

Marisa spoke, dropping her voice an octave. “Perhaps we could start with the main entertaining area, the drawing rooms, then move on from there.”

Maitland gave a curt nod, and the lad ushered them down the stairs. The club had not been particularly busy when they had arrived, but the noise coming to greet them as they descended indicated an ever-increasing liveliness.

When they reached the first drawing room, there were men she recognized from many balls, and those who obviously knew Maitland; however, they were careful to give no signs of recognition, no judgment—no fear either. Perhaps a secret shared…

If anything, she noted the flashes of interest in their eyes. And why wouldn't they be interested? Maitland was tall and handsome. His chiseled jaw was cleanly shaven, letting the dimple on his chin entice one to want to dip and taste with one's tongue. His evening jacket displayed broad shoulders. Marisa wondered if they too could imagine the coil of muscles underneath; there was no fat on his large frame. Jealousy began to sweep through her as she noted that most eyes, once they had drunken in his beautiful face, trailed down to his groin, and she inwardly preened. Only she had the privilege of touching, looking, and tasting him there.

The thought made her stand taller, and she couldn't help her gloating smile as they entered the room and took a seat. Maitland pulled her onto his lap.

He whispered in her ear, “Be careful, eyes are following you. Don't let yourself be caught alone with any of these men or your disguise might not last long.”

She nuzzled his temple. “Silly, they are ogling you. Some are wary, thinking you might expose or despise them. Others are smiling as if they knew all along you were of a similar bent. Then there are those, like the gentleman walking this way, who are very eager to make your acquaintance.”

He growled low in his throat. “You're enjoying this far too much.”

“Your Grace, how delightful to see you here at our illustrious club.”

“Baron—”

“We don't use names here—titles, yes, but not names. Silly, really, as we all know each other.” The baron turned to Marisa. “Yet, I don't know you. I'd certainly remember if I did.”

She felt Maitland's fingers tighten on her thigh where it sat across his lap. “The lad has no title, sorry. No names means no introduction.”

The baron looked her over, his eyes indecently lingering on the sock in her pants. “Pity. I've never seen him at the ‘markets.' You've kept him well hidden—in fact, you've managed to keep a lot hidden.”

“A necessity, is it not, especially when one has to marry? Women tend to decline even a duke if he's suspected of being a Molly. Heirs are required, I'm afraid. I hear your wife has just had a second son.”

“The first is definitely mine, not sure about this one. I don't really care, we live separate lives, and I like it that way.” He clicked his fingers at a young lad. “A bottle of your finest whiskey for this gentleman, on my account. We need to toast your nuptials.” He smiled and stroked a finger down Marisa's breeches-covered leg. “And toast your good taste.”

Maitland tipped his head in acknowledgment. “I'd prefer you didn't touch what isn't yours.”

“Of course, Your Grace.” The baron continued. “I assume your recent marriage is allowing you more freedom of expression, as I have not crossed paths with you in any of our haunts before.”

“There is nothing wrong with being discreet.”

“True,” the baron replied. “Not many know of this club, Angelo makes sure of that, so if you gained entrance, I feel you can be trusted.”

The whiskey was poured and the men settled in for a few drinks. They discussed the devastation resulting from the unusually cold summer, gray, dark, and wet. Crops were failing across Europe and North America, mainly due to lack of sunlight.

Marisa was also given a whiskey and she pretended to take little sips, when really she hated the stuff. The smell made her stomach churn.

She tuned out the two men discussing farming as if they were in White's rather than a Molly house, and began to take an interest in the activities around her.

On a couch across the room, mostly obscured by a curtain, she could just make out in the dim lighting a man and woman kissing and fondling. It struck her as odd to have a man and woman in a club such as this. It took her several minutes to understand it was a man dressed as a woman, kissing another man.

At one end of the drawing room, the doors opened into the gaming room. Through the haze of cheroot smoke she saw a few men playing cards. Once again, nothing very nefarious in their activities. At the other end of the room a wall of books, shelved in a beautiful mahogany floor-to-ceiling bookcase, drew her attention.

Needing to stretch her legs, she made to move off Maitland's lap, but his grip on her thigh tightened.

“I'm just going to peruse the literature for a moment. You keep conversing with your new friend,” she whispered teasingly in his ear.

“Don't go too far, and stay in sight.”

She heard the baron laughingly say, “I wouldn't want the lad too far from my sight either.”

Angelo's, or the club's, book selection was impressive. There were many expensive books, finely bound in beautiful leather covers. She ran her finger along the bindings of several, not recognizing any of the titles. She was well read and had expected to find something she'd read before.

A gold leaf–imprinted cover caught her eye. Her finger halted on the binding and she pulled it from the shelf:
Sonnets by Aretino, with illustrations. I Modi.
Marisa loved sonnets.

She opened the book to a random page and her mouth formed a silent
O.
The sonnet was in French, which she spoke and read fluently, but what captured her attention were the erotic illustrations accompanying the words. It showed a couple— she thought it was a male and a female, but she couldn't quite be sure—engaging in coitus. Not so scandalous, except for the fact the position they were in looked about as comfortable as being stretched on the rack. She turned the book in her hand, trying to ascertain if it had simply been printed incorrectly.

One person, it was difficult to tell if it was male or female, was lying on their back with their legs pulled up and over their partner's shoulders until only their neck and head rested on the mattress. She could see how it might work, but it looked jolly uncomfortable.

“I love that position. Much deeper penetration, don't you agree?”

She snapped the book shut, heat flaming her face, and tucked the book into her pants, under the flaps of her jacket. She turned her head to find a man, about the same height as her, peering over her shoulder. She swung round to fully face him and took a small step back, her retreat blocked by the bookshelf.

The young man before her was dressed as a pirate, yet he looked more angelic than evil. Marisa guessed he was about her age. Perhaps her age is why he'd approached her.

He was incredibly handsome, with his ebony hair long, hanging past his shoulders, and it curled in girlish ringlets. But it was his eyes that held her spellbound. They were the palest blue, almost the color of deep, thick ice.

“I can tell by your blush that you are new to this game. I'm Clarence.” He briefly looked back at Maitland. “You have managed to score a distinguished and rich…protector.” He stared at her for a long moment, his eyes drawing her in, and she hoped her disguise held. “I can see why. You are breathtakingly beautiful. The feminine-looking men always do well. Just ensure you save the money and gifts he showers on you. Then you can afford to be fussy when looking for your next protector.” His smile diminished. “Having a protector is better than ending up in a Molly house, even an upmarket one like the Top Hat.”

“Why do you not have a protector? You're certainly beautiful enough.”

He shrugged his slim shoulders and repositioned the cutlass at his side. “I have a younger brother. At first he was too young to be ‘useful,' so no protector was interested in a small boy as well. Starving and on the streets, we ended up here. It's not an unusual story, and I could have done a lot worse.”

“How old is your brother?”

“Simon is ten and two. If I could I would see him away from this life. He hates it here and is unable to cope as I did. I don't mind the company of men, but Simon…It turns his stomach. I'm saving our money so I can set him free. I can't have him on the streets; his life would be worse.”

Marisa shuddered to think what could be worse than this.

“At least I'm lucky because I'm one of Angelo's favorites. That fact affords me certain protection and allows me to be choosy. I have my pick of clients.” He leaned closer and whispered in her ear. “If you'd like to invite me upstairs with you and His Grace, I'd be very interested.”

She ignored his offer, curious about Simon. “I hope you're protecting Simon from this life.”

He looked at her with guilt-ridden eyes. “How do I protect him from the realities of life? Everyone has to work for their keep.”

A knot began to form in her stomach. “What sort of
work
does he do?”

“I don't think I need to tell you.” At her horrified stare, he added, “I started servicing clients at ten, Angelo at least waited until Simon's twelfth birthday. When did you begin this life?”

She pretended to look at the books on the shelf, trying to hide the well of tears in her eyes. How could anyone let a child—yes, child; twelve was still the age of innocence—be used this way? Nausea swam in her stomach and she gripped the bookshelf, willing away her dizziness. She had to get out of here now or she'd race upstairs and try to find Simon. Then everyone would be in danger, including the boy.

Thankfully, something across the room drew Clarence's attention. “We shall talk later, yes? It's time for the show.” He winked at her. “I shall be thinking of your lips wrapped round me when I'm in David's mouth. If you're interested, find me later.” With a stroke of his thumb over her lips, he turned and sauntered across the room to where a bench had just been positioned in the middle of the floor. Upon reaching the bench, he leapt onto it with cutlass raised.

“I'm Big Dick Pirate, feared across all the seven seas. Bring forth the prisoner who dares to try to sail past me without due payment.”