Splendor (12 page)

Carolyn froze, her gaze slamming to his. "At the brothel?" Alarm was apparent in her tone.

"Was that not the plan? Are you having second thoughts? Perhaps you are pining for your lady friend?"

"I. .." Dear God, she was having second thoughts— dozens of them. Was she really going to enter a brothel, disguised as a man? But what could possibly befall her? If she were clever and careful?

He reached out, squeezing her knee quite suddenly. "Have you ever been to a brothel before, Charles?"

She blinked. Hesitated, her mind racing, her wits once again thoroughly scrambled. She said, "No." Honesty seemed like the best recourse, now.

"I did not think so," he said, and he patted her leg. "There is nothing to be afraid of," he soothed.

"I am not afraid," she lied. And the coach halted. Her heart jumped.

"These are very beautiful women," he said, his tone

soft. "You do like women, don't you . .. Charles?"

Their gazes met. Now was the time to confess—if she were to confess at all. Carolyn almost felt like taking off her spectacles and shouting out the truth to him. Instead, she sank her fingers into the fur of the sable rug.

"Charles. Why do we not be honest with one another? And cease all foolish pretense?"

He knew. He had known all along. She hadn't fooled him, not for a moment. Carolyn's pulse thundered in her ears. She nodded slowly, eyes wide, glued to his.

He patted her knee again. "I know you have never been with a v/oman," he said, low. "I doubt, also, that you are eighteen. There is nothing to be ashamed of."

Carolyn was still. He continued to hold her knee. His eyes were very warm. She found it difficult to breathe. She could not utter a single word.

He smiled at her. ' The first time can be frightening. Or so I have heard. I have a suggestion."

"What?" she heard herself whisper.

"Do not plan on doing anything. Instead, come with me."

"With you?" she squeaked.

"Yes." He reached for the door. "It is not uncommon, actually." And he swung it open before the footman could.

What was not uncomm.on? Surely he was not suggesting that something take place between the two of them? Did he know the truth—or not? Carolyn did not move. "What do you mean?"

"It is simple. I will make love to a woman . . . while you watch. It will be very instructive," he said. "I promise you that."

^ Nine ^

CAROLYN was reeling.

Sverayov smiled at her, as if it were settled, and stepped down from the coach. For one moment, Carolyn did not move. Watch him make love to a prostitute? Had her charade gone too far?

"Coming?" Sverayov queried coolly.

Carolyn started and eased herself out of the coach. The brothel appeared to be a nondescript brick town house. She glanced quickly around, trying to discern just where they were. It was a quiet, unlit residential neighborhood. "Is that Delancey Square over there just behind the church?" she asked. How breathless her voice sounded. But images were dancing inside her head, of Sverayov in bed with a faceless woman, Carolyn watching from nearby.

Of course, she would never do such a thing.

"It is," Sverayov drawled. He rapped on the door, which was immediately opened. Carolyn did not know what she was expecting, perhaps a half-nude woman, but the gentleman facing them seemed quite respectable in his waistcoat and trousers. But the usher did not bow, he seemed to bar the doorway, instead. "My lord?"

"Please tell Madam Russell that Prince Nicholas Sverayov is here to see her," Sverayov instructed.

The usher bowed and left. Carolyn glanced up at Sverayov, who caught her studying him, and he smiled at her.

Carolyn ducked her head, wondering what would happen next—wondering what Sverayov would do if she bolted and fled. But that would be ridiculous. She might never have this opportunity to see the interior of a brothel again.

The usher returned. Carolyn and Sverayov followed him inside. They paused in a pleasant if not simple foyer with parquet floors, red rugs, and walls upholstered in a multicolored fabric. A staircase with red runners was in front of them, and Carolyn could well imagine where those stairs led.

"Madam will be right down," the usher said. "Would Your Excellency and the young gentleman care to wait in the parlor?"

"We shall wait in the other salon; I do believe the young gentleman is in need of some refreshment." Sverayov threw his arm around Carolyn and quite dragged her down the hall. They passed the parlor—the doors were open— and Carolyn craned her neck to see inside. Several gentlemen were seated there, with an equal number of attractive women. Carolyn dug in her heels*. One glimpse was definitely not enough.

Sverayov's brows lifted. "You prefer the parlor?"

Carolyn did not reply. She was staring. She recognized Sir Thomas Woodhaven, an outstanding member of Parliament who was a fervent champion of all kinds of reform, especially for those who had so little. Recently he had taken up the cause of young children employed in the naines. Carolyn's eyes were popping. Woodhaven was there, in a brothel! She was incredulous, disappointed, and even angry. She had always admired him so. But he was a fraud.

Her gaze moved to the other gentlemen as Sverayov tugged on her arm, but she recognized no one. And the women were not half-dressed. Although their gowns were very revealing, they were no more daring than many of the gowns Carolyn had seen earlier at the Sheffields', including that of Lady Carradine. She was somewhat disappointed.

"Shall we?" Sverayov asked as if impatient.

Carolyn nodded and he guided her down the hall and

into the last salon, which could have been tjje salon of any gentleman's club. It was paneled in wood, filled with small tables, and a fire roared in a stone hearth. Carolyn sat down with the Russian prince, searching the cozy room for any other faces she might know. She stiffened. "Is that not Lord Davison? One of Castlereagh's assistant foreign ministers?"

Sverayov leaned back in his chair. "It is." He eyed her. Davison looked their way and nodded briefly at the Russian.

Carolyn wondered if Anthony knew his father frequented a brothel. And Sverayov thought women inconstant and hypocritical! "I saw Sir Thomas Woodhaven in the parlor," she said in a strained tone.

"How shocked you were."

"He has spoken more than once, with great passion I might add, about the failing morals of this country. He has taken a very strong position publicly against all vices, and that would include the vice of dallying in a brothel." Her eyes flashed. "He was a hero of sorts for me."

"I am sorry you have had to remove your rose-colored glasses," Sverayov said. "No one is perfect, Charles. And rose-colored glasses could very well become your downfall one day."

"And what is Stuart Davison doing here?" she demanded.

Sverayov signaled to a servant. "Two ports, if you please," he said. "I imagine he is doing, or shall do, almost exactly what we plan to do." He smiled.

She met his gaze and drowned there. Their eyes held. Forbidden, erotic images quickly returned to her. For a moment she was swept away, imagining Sverayov passionately involved with a woman. Then, to her amazement, the fantasy changed and the woman in his arms became herself.

"This will be an experience which you will never forget," he promised her softly.

Instantly, shaken to the quick, Carolyn forced her mental wandering aside. Carolyn did not doubt his words—except

that she was not going to turn herself into a voyeur, even if she was, shockingly, tempted. Suddenly his hand covered hers. Carolyn forgot to breathe. "Sverayov," she said huskily as he oh-so-casually removed his hand, "I understand your intention and it is ... it is interesting. But I cannot watch you while you make love to one of these women. It is sinful."

He smiled. "Surely you are not an overly moral prig? An enlightened young man like yourself?"

She bristled. '"Perhaps my morals are the norm—and your vices are not."

He laughed.

"Sverayov, I am being serious. It just is not done."

He laughed again. "To the contrary, young Charles, it is done all the time. In fact, there are rooms with mirrors one can see through from an adjacent room, just for the very purpose of voyeurism."

"There are?" Carolyn gasped.

"Yes, there are." He seemed satisfied.

Carolyn's mind had become peculiarly blank. And her pulse was racing faster than ever before. But she could not, must not, do as he wished.

Suddenly Sverayov was standing. Carolyn looked up as he embraced a faded but still lovely blond woman, elegantly dressed in lavender silk. Diamonds sparkled from her ears and throat.

"Claire, how are you?" he asked, smiling.

"Niki, what a pleasure, and what a surprise," she said warmly. Her gaze immediately went to Carolyn, who looked away. "It has been more than a few years, my dear," Claire Russell said.

"Yes, it has." His gaze was steady on Claire's face. "You have remained as beautiful as ever."

She scoffed. "Please, I am ten years older, but you have hardly changed. Even had I not been told that you were here, I would have recognized you immediately."

He chuckled. "This is my young friend Charles Brighton," he said, mming. "Brighton, Madam Claire Russell."

Carolyn stood quickly, avoiding the woman's eyes, which seemed searching. "A pleasure," Carolyn muttered. The woman's eyes were far too intelligent, too probing. Carolyn was afraid that Claire Russell could see right through her disguise. And what did the apparent fondness between the Russian and the madam mean? Had they once shared a liaison? Carolyn thought it hkely. She gazed from one to the other, unable not to remark that Claire Russell had a beautiful figure and those strong, striking looks that only faded but never disappeared with age. She was jealous and incapable of denying it even to herself.

But how could she be jealous of one of Sverayov's old flames?

"Charles, I am going to speak privately with Claire." Sverayov's eyes caressed her flushed face. "I shall explain our little predicament."

Carolyn took her seat, watching them from the comer of her eye. She could not catch a word being exchanged. Undoubtedly Sverayov was telling Claire that she was an inexperienced young man. Oh, Lord. He was intent upon teaching her how to make love by demonstrating his technique to her. Did she dare, just this once, allow herself to fall into the sinful jaws of voyeurism? Could she watch Sverayov perform with another woman?

Had she become mad?

A servant placed two glasses of port on the table. Carolyn quickly reached for one and took a draught of the sweet, heavy wine. She then felt eyes upon her and she glanced up, only to find Sverayov regarding her intently with his gleaming gaze even as he spoke to the blonde. Carolyn returned his stare. The port was already warming her insides and calming her pounding heart. Her shoulders; until now as stiff as two boards, had relaxed slightly. She sipped the port again. This was, she now told herself, an incredible opportunity. She was already inside a domain reserved exclusively for wealthy, powerful men. And while she knew how a man made love to a woman, she could not really imagine just what the procedure entailed—and if she

were absolutely truthful with herself, she had wondered about it for some time. She was being given the chance to witness expert lovemaking. Although she was hardly a depraved voyeur, and certainly not titillated by anticipation, who could, in their right mind, pass up such a chance?

Carolyn sipped her drink, thinking about how she might never fall in love and therefore might never actually experience lovemaking herself. This might be her only opportunity to truly learn what the act was all about.

She smiled at her glass. Actually, now that she had thought things out, she was beginning to realize how very fortunate she was. She would stay, she decided, for a few minutes, just to get the gist of things.

How warm the salon had become.

Sverayov returned to the table but did not sit down. Madam Russell left. "Do you wish to finish the drink or go upstairs?" he asked. His gaze was brilliant, like yellow diamonds.

Carolyn clutched the glass, her pulse rioting in spite of the fact that she had almost finished her drink. "Go upstairs .. . now? So . . . soon?"

He seemed to bite back laughter. "Everything is arranged. Madam Russell has suggested Victoria, a young lady who enjoys the use of mirrors—and is adept at performing for outside parties. You have nothing to fear, Charles," he said softly. His eyes gleamed. Wickedly? "You are only going to watch from an adjacent room. Or would you rather leave? My coach can take you home."

Carolyn stared at him. It was hard to think. But she had made up her mind and was not about to go home. This was her golden opportunity. She stood abruptly, so abruptly that she knocked over her chair. But Sverayov righted it. "I am ready," she said thickly.

"Have you become eager?" he asked, slipping his arm around her shoulders. "Perhaps you should not have drunk the port so quickly. It is potent."

"I am as sober as you," Carolyn said, although she knew she was a bit inebriated.

He chuckled sofdy. "Perhaps your sobriety is just as well. Being as you are quite shy."

Maybe he was right. Carolyn walked with him into the hall and up the stairs. He did not remove his arm from her waist. It felt far more than pleasant—his arm was warm and strong around her waist, making her acutely aware of him. But he, of course, was merely being friendly, the ges-mre being naught but male camaraderie. As they walked her hip bumped his thigh repeatedly. His hand tightened on her waist.

Carolyn tried to clear her head, which was beginning to feel rather fuzzy. It was hard to remember that she must not be a woman, not when his body was so hard against hers. But he was convinced she was Brighton. And they were in a brothel—where he was about to make love to another woman. Carolyn realized that she was growing a bit anxious.

The second-floor corridor was lined with closed doors, except for one. They paused on the threshold. Carolyn inhaled, confronted now with what was about to happen. One of the most exquisite women she had ever seen, clad only in a pastel pink satin wrapper, was brushing her thick, blue-black hair in front of a huge mirror. She paused and faced them, her limpid gaze going from Sverayov to Carolyn. Her skin was as pale as ivory, as delicate as porcelain.