Black Silk (3 page)

It terrified her to think of children destitute. Of innocents being forced into workhouses. Or worse. She’d been so close to that herself. And she knew what it was to be illegitimate—she and her sisters were the illegitimate daughters of the erotic artist Rodesson, though their mother had spent a lifetime hiding that truth.

Maryanne sighed. Unfortunately none of the books had sold enough copies to pay for the royalties she had advanced to her authors. She was certain they would. Someday. But that day appeared determined not to arrive. And now she was in debt. Very much in debt.

“Penny for your thoughts.”

At her sister’s words, she muttered, “Five shillings would be more the thing.” Or five hundred pounds. Or five thousand.

“What?” Venetia, her hand resting gracefully on her rounded enceinte tummy, strolled along the path. She paused to press one blossoming rose to her face.

Maryanne tucked the manuscript to her side. “Nothing,” she murmured even as she felt the familiar plummet in her stomach.

Five thousand pounds. It was an impossible sum, and she still couldn’t quite understand how she had spent that much. But there had been so many women in need, so many children without futures. And Georgiana had “borrowed” far more money from their publishing house than she’d imagined….

The breeze flirted with the leaves and with the ribbons on her bonnet. But it did not toy with Miss Plimpton’s manuscript. No—it picked up those pages deliberately, tossed them up on the stone path, and sent them tumbling end over end toward her sister.

Fortunately for her, Venetia could not move quickly, and she certainly could not bend.

“Oh, heavens!” Maryanne darted after the fluttering white sheets and stomped her slipper-shod feet on two of them. She dropped to her knees and scooped them up.

“Are you working on another book?”

“Now and again,” she gasped. It wasn’t a lie after all. She was
working
on the book.

The stones bit her knees as she reached for the sheets, as she crumpled the pages in her haste to group them together. Venetia had supported them by drawing erotic pictures, using the talent she’d inherited from their scandalous father, Rodesson. But Venetia would have a fit if she learned Maryanne was editing erotic novels and in partnership with a notorious courtesan. Novels of passion, Georgiana called them.

They sold very well. Gentlemen loved them.

In truth, she could see why. The books were like ripe cherries—eat one and you craved another.

She couldn’t upset Venetia. But she could not stop her work—not when she was in such trouble.

As she gathered up Tillie Plimpton’s magnum opus and struggled to her feet, she saw Venetia carefully settle on the ironwork bench. “May I take a peek?”

Maryanne ducked her head. “Oh, no. It’s not finished yet.”

Venetia nodded, as though she understood, but of course she had no idea. And Venetia would not understand the truth. Venetia had saved their family—she had married Marcus Wyndham, the Earl of Trent. As a result, Maryanne now possessed a dowry in a sum that sent shivers down her back and made her legs quake. And of course she could not touch any of that money, even though she needed it so desperately.

A large portion would stay in her name once she married. But that would require leg shackling herself to one of the eligibles she danced with at Almack’s. And men who danced at Almack’s were not the sort of men one could imagine making love with naughty, roguish abandon in the middle of the theater.

“You needn’t be afraid to let me see. After all, someday you will have to let a publisher take a look.”

Maryanne choked on a giggle. She was a publisher! At least, she was running Georgiana’s business because Georgiana had vanished once again. No doubt her partner was in pursuit of a new lover, who had probably left town for the hunt, but she couldn’t help but feel again that sensation of her tummy dropping away. Usually, within a day or two, Georgiana sent her a letter. Either a glowing report on the charm, wealth, and allure of her new gentleman or a letter filled with fury, disappointment, and jaded regret.

It had been a week, and there was no letter.

“Lord Bainley sent hothouse orchids this morning, I noticed.” Venetia brushed back the red-gold tendrils that waved around her face. Her hazel eyes glinted with the mischievous delight she always took in assessing her sisters’ romantic successes.

Maryanne stared down at her hem and nodded. Her Season should have been a “success.” Six gentlemen had shown interest. Cards and flowers had arrived with diligence, and the men had squired her for dances. She had ridden in curricles in Hyde Park. She had stumbled through so many awkward conversations on the weather she had begun to think she could make a career in predicting it.

“But obviously the orchids cannot compete with a manuscript?” Gentle amusement rippled through Venetia’s question.

Guilty, Maryanne looked up. “Lord Bainley is not the right one.”

“I see. Have you found one that is?”

She shook her head. “Do you want me to accept Lord Bainley’s suit?” She prayed the answer would be no. Many gentlemen were fascinated with Grace’s loveliness—why couldn’t one of them have proposed to Grace this Season and divert the attention? With her sister Grace in the country with Mother, Maryanne was on her own.

Venetia tapped her lip. “Have you not found anyone you admire?”

A start, a twitch, and three manuscript pages slid to the ground again. Blast.

“There is someone, isn’t there?”

Collecting her pages once more, Maryanne nodded. Now, this was a secret she could safely reveal. It would be humiliating, but it would certainly distract her sister. “Lord Swansborough.”

In answer, the roses shivered with the breeze, and a flurry of pink and yellow petals leaped into the air.

“Lord Swansborough! You can’t be serious.”

A hot fire raced over Maryanne’s cheeks. “Why not? He’s delicious.”

And she could see him in her thoughts—his wickedly tempting smile, his darkness—black hair and eyes and dressed in his signature black dress clothes from head to toe.

She noticed an equally pink blush touched her sister’s cheeks. Now she was intrigued. Of course Lord Swansborough was a rake. She had no doubt he had done many of those exotic acts her courtesan authors described with such lusty wit. And Venetia had drawn erotic art, for heaven’s sake. How could she be
embarrassed?
Why?

“Tell me, Venetia. What do you know about him?”

“Stories that aren’t appropriate for—”

“Venetia! I am also Rodesson’s daughter.” It was still so hard to say that aloud, after so many years of pretending, even to herself, that she was not. “You are not the only one of us to see his artwork. I need to know the truth about Swansborough.”

“You truly are serious about him?”

“What did he do? How scandalous can it possibly be?”

“It is rather difficult to describe—”

“I have seen your pictures, Venetia.” This was the first time she had admitted it.

Venetia’s grip tightened on her shawl. “I had no idea.”

“I am not as innocent as you think. Even Grace has had a peek.”

At the mention of their youngest sister, Venetia’s fingers played with the fringe of her shawl. “Fine. Reputedly he had a woman drip hot wax on his chest.”

Maryanne dropped her graphite pencil to the walk and knew the lead within had shattered. Hot wax on his chest? How could that be erotic? Despite her confidence, she felt at once aroused, shocked, and unnerved. “You saw him at that orgy you attended, didn’t you?”

Venetia gasped. “How did you know about that?”

“No one notices me when I sit quietly to read. You were speaking with Marcus, and you obviously didn’t notice me. What exactly did Lord Swansborough do at the orgy?”

Venetia wore a full blush now. “I saw him pleasuring a woman with another man.”

Maryanne gulped, but it was nothing more shocking than what she had read. It appeared men enjoyed the sight of other people making love. It stimulated them. “Hasn’t every rake?”

“The woman’s ankles were bound, and she dangled from the ceiling. He…he pleasured her that way.”

Maryanne felt her quim clench suddenly, and a warm jolt of sensual agony washed through her. Her cheeks were definitely aflame. “All men are rakes before marriage. A successful woman is able to determine which one can be tamed by love.” She had heard Georgiana utter this phrase numerous times.

An auburn curl danced across Venetia’s cheek. “Once, I didn’t believe any man could be tamed by love.”

“But Marcus fell in love with you and has been the most devoted husband in the history of England. Has he ever even left your side for a night?”

Venetia laughed. “He has. But I would not exactly describe Marcus as ‘tamed.’”

“And that is what I want!” Maryanne cried. Perhaps Venetia finally understood. “I want a dangerous man. A sensual, uncivilized, passionate male who merely dresses up as a gentleman but is utterly primitive inside.”

“And that man will not be Lord Swansborough. He is too dark, most definitely too dangerous, and too…too…”

“Experienced? Exciting? Arousing?”

“Lewd. That is the most appropriate word for Lord Swansborough. He is entirely too lewd for you.”

Maryanne bristled. Venetia always knew best, always gave orders. There was no reason to argue, but suddenly she couldn’t resist. “But what if I were to allow him to bind my ankles and dangle me from the ceiling?”

Her sister’s auburn brows arched. Venetia motioned to her stack of pages. “Let me see that manuscript you are working on.”

That she hadn’t expected! Maryanne slipped quickly to her feet and darted a few safe yards down the path. “No!” She sighed. “You needn’t worry about Lord Swansborough. I’ll never even dance with him, much less marry him.”

She turned abruptly. That thought shouldn’t upset her. Not when she had no intention of marrying. Jane Austen had produced marvelous work from her lovely cottage. Surely having a husband underfoot would have made that utterly impossible.

Now that Venetia thought marriage was quite magical, she was determined to foist Maryanne into one.

Maryanne stepped through the back door into the cool house. Sweet kitchen scents beckoned, but she ignored the plaintive rumble of her tummy. She had to get her manuscript hidden away.

She had it safely stowed in its hiding place when a quick rap came on her bedchamber door. A letter by the afternoon post.

The return address was Miss Beasley in Oxford Street, but the writing was Georgiana’s. Thank goodness. Surely Georgiana would be returning to London. She could cope with the creditors.

Maryanne tore it open and read.

I’m in terrible trouble. You must come tonight to this address. You must be masked, but you will be admitted, I’m certain of it. Be careful—this house is part of an erotic scavenger hunt, but I know you will keep your wits about you, and I have no one else to turn to.

G

Maryanne stared at the letter. She could see at a glance the address was unsavory.

Excitement shot through her.

Madness to go.

But what about Georgiana?

She could hire a Bow Street Runner.

And pay for him with what? Free copies of works of erotica?

Besides, having been given a glimpse into the sordid, shocking, naughty world of Lord Swansborough by Venetia, she was awfully tempted to have a closer look herself. To have an experience of her own.

One glass of champagne for courage.

Maryanne handed her empty flute to a bare-chested, masked footman who whisked it away. She couldn’t help but stare at his finely hewn, bronzed muscles, such a startling contrast to his immaculate powdered wig and black breeches.

Her invitation had gained her entry to Mrs. Master’s salon, but she rather felt as if she’d walked into hell. Surely hell was as hot, as raucous, and smelled as strangely. Decorated in Eastern fashion, the salon was a sumptuous den of gold and scarlet, velvet and silk. Pillows spilled everywhere on daybeds and on the floor. Couples and groups explored pleasure in sensuous and astonishing positions.

Behind her mask, Maryanne’s cheeks heated. She pushed aside a spray of glittering red beads that dangled from a swinging lamp.

Most of the women strolling about were completely nude, and they encouraged the handsome gentlemen to paw, pinch, or kiss them in any place desired before inviting them to play on the cushions. A few wore virginal gowns of pale silk, like hers, so she did not look out of place, at least.

How would she find Georgiana in this crush?

“My dear, you must be parched.”

Another glass was thrust into her hand. She half turned, and the gentleman bowed. Lord Craven. She almost dropped the glass. Lord Craven had been featured in many of her authors’ books. The acts he enjoyed gave her nightmares.

He plucked the glass from her fingers, his smile dazzling. Craven was a handsome man, a fair-haired gentleman with angelic blue eyes, long lashes of gold, and a lean, sculpted form. He held the glass to her lips. “Such a delicious brew is not to be wasted.”

This was a smaller glass than the one that had held champagne, and the fluid within was a deep burgundy. What harm in a sip?

But Craven tipped up the glass, and the liquor was sweet, intoxicating, and tempting. She continued to drink. At his laugh, she saw she’d drained the glass.

He gave her a leering wink and raised his hand. Instantly another tray of champagne was presented. “To cleanse the palate.”

It was true. The drink was…clinging to her tongue, sickly sweet. She took the champagne. He grabbed a flute and drank it in a gulp. “Do you dare, my dear?”

His smug smile irritated. “I’m not a fool, my lord.” She thrust the glass back, untouched, on a passing tray. She did not have to do as Lord Craven asked.

“Ah, the timid and pretty kitten is now a lioness.” But his smirk became a beaming grin of delight.

Understanding dawned. Most jades would not be concerned about becoming drunk. She had given away a clue that she was not a lightskirt.