Her Husband's Harlot

This book was
made possible by a community of amazing people. With appreciation and love, I
dedicate this book to them.

To my critique
partners, Virna De Paul and Tina Folsom. Virna, your talent and generosity
inspire me so much. Thank you for your support and those walks on the beach. Tina,
I don't know what twist of fate led us to finding each other on that list-serv,
but I thank the universe that it did! We've come a long way since our first
manuscripts, haven't we? You are a true friend, a fabulous travel companion,
and a writer whose talent, courage, and zeal motivate me to get to my keyboard
every day.

To my mentor,
Diane Pershing. Without your keen reading and insightful feedback, my work
would be at most a gem in the rough. Thank you for your generosity and for
being one of the first to tell me I could write. And to my agent Ethan
Ellenberg, for believing in the stories I had to tell.

To the community
of bright, warm, and gifted romance writers I have had the privilege to meet
over the past few years. Members of my local San Francisco Bay Area Chapter of
RWA—you rock! And fall just isn't the same without a visit to the Low Country
RWA Beach Retreat and all you lovely ladies there.

To my family.
Mom and Dad, you have always taught me to reach for my dreams—and look, I have!
Thank you for a lifetime of love and support; you're my inspiration. Candace,
you are the sister I would have chosen for myself. Thanks, sib, for sharing the
laughter and the tears along this journey. And to Stu and Renko, the parents I
was lucky enough to gain: thank you for being the loving, open, creative,
wonderful people that you are!

Finally, to the
two men in my life. Brendan, you may be small, but I don't know anyone who has
your courage and resilience. Your smiles light my way. Love you, buddy, beyond
words. And to my husband, Brian. I'll always be grateful that life led me to
you, my true partner and soul mate. You are every hero I've ever written. I
love you.

1817,
London, England

The
lush burgundy carpeting deadened all noise, bestowing an eerie silence upon the
corridor. Lady Helena Harteford shivered as a draft stirred the satin water-lilies
pinned to her white tunic and brushed her bare shoulders in a ghostly caress.
Given the capricious clime of London in the spring, her water nymph costume had
perhaps not proven the wisest choice, but the impetuous nature of her plan had allowed
little in the way of preparation. She stifled a sudden nervous laugh. Even if she
had had more time for deliberation, would she have found the appropriate
attire?

What,
after all, was the proper garment for hunting down one's husband at a
high-priced bawdy house?

An
answer, she reflected, unlikely to be found in her well-worn copy of Lady
Epplethistle's
Compleat Guide to the Comportment of Ladies
.

In
the distance, a grandfather clock tolled the hour, the twelve sonorous rings
underscoring the urgency of her mission. Helena studied the dimly lit stretch
ahead of her. Along both sides of the hallway, life-sized statues stood watch
over a series of doors. Cautiously, she approached the first door and pressed
her ear against the cool wood. No sound escaped. Indeed, the walls appeared thick
and solid, designed to ensure the privacy of the activities conducted within.
The very thought of her husband engaging in such activities bolstered her
courage and hastened her footsteps along the corridor.

Earlier,
from a second floor balcony, she had witnessed Nicholas' arrival to the rowdy
masquerade below. Under her feathered mask, jealousy had flamed her cheeks as
she watched him dance with two of the "Nuns"—courtesans wearing rouge
and not much else. The way the women had rubbed themselves against her husband,
like hungry cats ... Startled by the loud
snap
, Helena had looked down
to see the sticks of her fan broken in half. She'd begun breathing again only
when he had departed the dance floor (thankfully,
alone
) and strode up
the staircase. He had to be in one of the current rooms on the second floor;
she meant to search him out.

It
would be easy to spot her husband, despite the black silk mask that he wore. For
one, Nicholas stood a head taller than most men. With his swarthy skin and
powerful build, he resembled a pirate more than a lord of the realm. His short,
coal-black hair topped a face more rugged than handsome, and yet she found his
bold nose and broadly-planed cheekbones utterly arresting. And there were his
eyes. Orbs of ever-changing grey, they were at times dark and fathomless as a
well and at others the silver of fog above water.

Even
deprived of sight, Helena would have known her husband. His presence affected
her in a disturbingly profound, disturbingly primal, manner. When he was near,
her breath heightened, her skin quivered with almost unbearable sensitivity,
and her blood pumped languid heat into unmentionable parts of her person. Just
the thought of her husband stirred her secret imagination and infused her with
most unladylike longing ...

Helena
swayed a little and grasped the protruding edge of a marble
statue for balance. Perhaps she ought not to have partaken of the lemonade. It
had tasted odd, unlike any lemonade she had imbibed before. Not only had it
been lukewarm, but it had seemed to heat her mouth and insides as she drank it.
But when the proprietress had offered the beverage, it had seemed ungracious
not to accept. Besides, she had been thirsty, and there had been naught else to
do while she waited for Nicholas to arrive.

Steadying
herself, Helena squinted in the gloom at the statue. The stone face had a beard
and ... horns? Recognition dawned as she registered the lascivious expression.
A satyr, she thought wonderingly, half-man, half-goat, like the drawings she
had once glimpsed in a book pilfered from her father's collection.

She
looked down at the thick, long jut of stone beneath her fingers and gasped, her
fingers flying free as if singed by flame.

Merciful
heavens!
Her cheeks pulsed hotly
against the silk-lined interior of her mask.
Surely 'tis not an accurate
representation. Why, it could span both my hands ...

She
swallowed, remembering the invading hardness, the sensation of unbearable
stretching between her legs on her wedding night. Was
that
what Nicholas
had tried to ... to push inside her? She had been far too afraid to look, but
seeing the marble phallus now, the way it thrust resolutely forward, she released
a horrified moan.

Of
course it had not worked! Why, 'twas against the very laws of nature. Despite
her plump curves, her frame was quite petite, with her eye level reaching in
the low vicinities of her husband's chest. It was one of the things that delighted
her, feeling small and utterly feminine next to his bold, virile physique. But
mayhap their difference in size contributed to a certain mismatch in other
areas. Rather like trying to thread a rope through a needle.

Eyes
darting side to side, she leaned forward to take a closer peek at the statue.
She knew her curiosity to be most indecent yet her hand stretched forward,
seemingly of its own accord. Her index finger hesitated against the base of
phallus; she noted with surprise the fruit that hung beneath. The rounded sac
looked just like a summer peach, juice-swollen and dangling from a thick
branch. She grew bolder, continuing her exploration upward. The marble felt
cool and hard beneath her fingertip. Slowly, she traced the raised veins
twisting along the shaft until she arrived at the end, which flared
unexpectedly into a plump mushroom. Her fingertip paused in the peculiar indentation
at the tip.

"Right
this way, milord," a female voice purred. "We are not far from the
room."

At
the sound, Helena snapped to her senses, snatching her hand away. Her mind
blanked in panic as footsteps approached. The glow of a candle licked the walls,
dissolving the spell of the satyr. All would be ruined if she was recognized. Her
instincts finally took hold and propelled her down the corridor. Her hands
shaking, she grasped the brass knob of the nearest door.
Locked.
She
raced forward, trying door after door to no avail. Her breath caught in her
chest as she came to the end of the hallway. The last room. Relief shot through
her as she saw that the door rested slightly ajar. She slipped inside, easing
the door closed behind her.

For a
moment, Helena found herself enveloped in pure darkness. In the next moment,
she heard a man's rumbled words—Goodness gracious, the room was
occupied
.
Her hand shot to the door knob. To her astonishment, the smooth brass was
already turning, twisting in her hand. A lusty laugh sounded from the other
side of the door. Helena gasped, dropping to the ground. With stealth born of
pure fear, she scrambled backward from the widening shaft of light. Blindly,
she turned onto her knees and crawled, seeking the safety of darkness. She
plunged forward, feeling her way past the spindly legs of a pianoforte and the velvet
back of a settee.

"Well,
what have we here?"

At the
drawling tones, her mind emptied to a void. She could find no words to speak. Shaking,
praying that her costume disguised her, she slowly twisted her neck around. But
there was no one behind her, only the outlines of furniture which resembled
ghostly beasts under the faint dusting of candlelight. It took a minute for her
thoughts to flow again. Whoever it was, he was not addressing her. Relief
stabbed her chest.

"I
found a friend, St. John. Her name is Lucy." This was another man's voice,
the accents high-pitched and well-born. "And she's
very
friendly,
aren't you, wench?"

Lucy
giggled as if to prove it.

"The
more the merrier, I always say," St. John said.

Once
it sank in that there were
two
gentlemen with the lady, Helena exhaled
softly. Grossly scandalous as her current situation might be, at least she had
not intruded upon a sexual assignation. Likely she had intruded upon a friendly
supper, or perhaps a card game suited to three players. Lowering her cheek to
the floor, Helena peered through the legs of the settee. Her face burned
suddenly and not from the rough bristle of carpet beneath her cheek. Framed by men's
boots on both sides, a pair of stocking-clad legs rose from a glimmering pool
of fabric. As she watched, one curvy leg kicked aside the discarded gown and
wound sensuously around the boot in front of it. At the same time, the other
leg nestled into the Hessians behind.

"Ooo,
milords, it appears I am caught 'twixt a rock and a hard spot," Lucy
cooed. "Why don't we sit us down and get to know one another better?"

Helena's
eyes widened as the boots and silk-covered feet advanced in her direction.
Tugging desperately at her skirts, she clambered away from the settee. Her
knees chafed against the coarse carpet as she pitched to the right, searching
for a place to hide. Behind her, there was the soft thud of bodies falling onto
cushions, followed by guttural, animal sounds. Helena moved faster, her breath a
harsh wheezing in her ear.