A Wild Night's Bride (5 page)

She gestured to the young women sprawled about on woven mats making a great production of drying and displaying themselves. With the curl of a finger, she beckoned a voluptuous, dark-haired siren to her side. “Such a lovely, lush mouth.” She traced the girl’s lips. “Made for lascivious pleasures.” She cupped and caressed the girl’s breasts, circling the nipples until they stood taut and erect.

While some in the room self-consciously shifted in an attempt to hide burgeoning erections, to Ned’s growing discomfort, others openly masturbated or cavorted with the few bemasked female guests whose presence revealed decidedly voyeuristic inclinations. Gauging the growing interest of her guests, the hostess surveyed the room with a self-satisfied smile.

“For those unfamiliar with our Otaheitian customs, cleanliness and frequent and energetic copulation are believed essential to good health and vitality...as is the ceremonial inspection of every female’s...
Garden of Eden
...prior her to first sexual encounter.

DeVere smirked. “First encounter, my arse.”

The madam turned the girl around, back to her guests, and bent her at the waist to thrust forth the shapely globes of her buttocks. Licking a finger, the madam traced it along the glistening pink labia and then spread the lips to reveal an enlarged clitoris. “Observe the Otaheitian mark of beauty.”

“Good God!” Ned gasped.

DeVere roared with laughter. “The bawd’s brazenness surpasses even my jaded expectations!”

“As a mark of honor,” the hostess continued, unaffected, “I shall now bestow the privilege of that sacrament upon my esteemed guests.” Releasing the girl, Queen Oberea took up a scepter shaped like a giant phallus, assumed a commanding seat on a throne bedecked with orchids, clapped her hands, and cried out, “Let the rites of Venus begin!”

C
HAPTER
F
IVE

After they had dressed Madam Hayes in her Otaheitian regalia and were certain of the company’s preoccupation with the festivities, Mrs. Andrews turned her attention to Phoebe. From her simply dressed hair, earlier concealed by a modest cap, she let loose a number of thick, golden strands to cascade over one shoulder and topped the rest with a wreath of flowers. The gown was diaphanous and classically inspired, a seductively modified remnant from last season’s production of Shakespeare’s
Cleopatra.

“What if I am recognized?” Phoebe asked.

“You will hide your face as any so-called woman of virtue,” the wardrobe mistress scoffed. “You’d be surprised how many of them visit brothels incognito.”

Peeping through the door crack, Phoebe noted several well-dressed and bemasked women among the revelers. “Why do they come?” she asked.

“Do you really wish to know?”

“Yes, if I am to go amongst them,” Phoebe said.

“There are, of course, Sapphists.”

“What is a Sapphist?”

Mrs. Andrews’ voice lowered to a whisper. “An unnatural creature. A woman who enjoys other women.”

Phoebe frowned. “You don’t mean...”

“I do, indeed.” The wardrobe mistress raised a brow in a meaningful look.

“Oh.” Phoebe covered her mouth. “I had no idea of such things...”

“Of course, others come for the services of well-endowed men,” the elder woman confided. “Much like mares in season seeking the prize stallion.”

“There are men who prostitute themselves? And women who actually seek such gratification?”

“Some do, duckie, and many men offer their services for free. Then again, there are those of both sexes who are sexually excited just by watching others fornicate. There be much that goes on in these places that will surely shock the likes of an innocent duckling like you.” She draped a fleshy arm around the younger woman with a look of maternal concern. “Are you certain you still wish to go amongst the vile reprobates?”

While Phoebe was no longer innocent in acts of physical intimacy, this new information was alarming and placed all in an entirely new and disconcerting context. She found her courage wavering. She swallowed hard, marshaling her nerve. “Perhaps you should remind me again why I am doing this?”

“To find a protector who will promote you on stage and keep you in style, luvie. If it is your will, the power of all England is, at present, rutting in the next room.” She grinned, attempting to make light of the situation. “Look at the bright side. You’ll have ample opportunity to inspect your prospective gent’s...er...equipment.”

“But can they be so very different? Men’s...equipment?” Phoebe asked.

Her companion chuckled. “Aye, but how they use it really makes all the difference.”

“How do you mean?”

“Whether they use their...gifts...solely for their own pleasure or their partner’s, of course.”

“Of course.” Phoebe digested this with a frown. She had never considered the act of coupling all that pleasurable. Ridiculous and messy, perhaps, but never pleasurable. “The Viscount DeVere, what does he look like?” she asked.

“His member or his person, luvie?” The wardrobe mistress cackled.

Heat rose instantly to Phoebe’s cheeks. “I meant his
person,
of course
.
”

“Of course you did.” The wardrobe mistress winked. “But either way, I durst say he’ll not be too hard to spot, as he’s the kind of gent wont to spread his favors. As to his person, he’s midthirtyish, tall, with blazing blue eyes. Devilishly handsome. Find the women, and you’ll no doubt find DeVere.”

Phoebe nodded and donned her domino.

“Best to wait a bit, duckie,” the wardrobe mistress advised, straightening Phoebe’s headdress. “The gents’ll be done soon enough. They’ll rest and drink and then go at it fresh. Let the frenzy die down. And when you go out there,” she counseled, “you must move about like a woman of the world turning a blind eye to the goings-on. They’ll take you for a guest by your dress, but they’ll still be little better than wild rutting beasts, so don’t enter any private rooms.”

After a short interval, Phoebe slipped into the receiving chamber. The scene, much as Mrs. Andrews described it, was no less an assault to both her senses and her sensibilities. Redolent of the pungent scent of sex and sweat, it was as if the room itself was alive with undulating bodies entangled in coition, an act she’d once ascribed to feelings of love and intimacy. Now she knew only revulsion.

Phoebe strolled the room, affecting a jaded detachment to the shocking displays, as if they were all merely players on a stage. She moved about with circumspection whilst taking in the selection of lechers—her would-be protectors—with clothing discarded, wigs askew, sprawled out in depleted satiation, caught up in the throes of fellatio, or engrossed in various stages of copulation.

Her stomach turned to think of giving her body to any of them. Weaving and skirting the moaning, panting, and writhing human obstacles in her path, Phoebe began the search for her quarry until startled by a firm hand on her arm.

“What have we here? Fresh game perhaps?” asked the voice of George Capel-Coningsby, Viscount Malden, a close adherent of the prince and one of several men Phoebe had wished to avoid. She only hoped he would not recognize her in turn.

Hiding her apprehension with hauteur, she answered with a jut of her chin. “I fear to disappoint, but I am not part of the entertainment.”

Nevertheless, his hungry eyes lingered on her breasts. “If you are here
to be
entertained, I assure you I have
ample
means to accommodate you.”

The boast of his manhood was clear. She smiled tightly. “Perhaps you don’t possess what I desire.”

His brows lifted to his hairline. “A Sapphist, are you?”

Her half-smile neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

“Perhaps we might share some carnal delights after all? I find three can be a very cozy number,” he said.

Seeking escape, Phoebe scanned the room until hitting upon a lone gentleman, nearly hidden behind a large palm, nursing what looked like a coconut, and looking conspicuously out of place.

“I’m afraid I have no interest. Pray, excuse me, a companion awaits.” She wondered briefly if her would-be savior was perhaps one of those voyeurs, those sexually incited by watching others, but the more she considered him, the less she thought so. In the end, she decided he looked the least debauched and, therefore, the least dangerous of the lot. She shrugged out of Lord Malden’s grasp and boldly advanced across the room.

***

Abandoned to his own devices by the disgusted DeVere when he’d refused to join in the ongoing orgy, Ned had called for another drink, which he now regarded with a scowl. The first had done much to ease his discomfort, filling him with a pleasant languor. Perhaps a second round of the poisonous potion would allow him to get through the rest of the evening. Deciding the soothing effects of the vile brew would be well worth the sacrifice, he gave a half-shrug, took a large breath, and downed the second bowl in a bitter choking draught.

“Is it really that bad?” inquired a sultry, feminine voice.

“Yeth, horrendouthly bad,” he answered. Ned looked up from his drink, immediately taken aback by the lovely form that accompanied the voice and then cursed his tongue for making him sound like the village idiot.

She laughed, a delightful sound. “Then why on earth do you drink it?”

“When in Rome,” he answered with a half-smile, pleased with himself for having responded without any S words this time. Who was she? He wondered if the warm sensation that had overtaken him was due to the beautiful and mysterious woman or the drink.

“Indeed,” she answered. “It
is
much like Rome. Caligula’s Rome, is it not?” He noted the wry twist to her lips, lovely lips at that. Her tone clearly indicated little fascination with the scene of decadent debauchery. “You don’t find it entertaining either?” she asked, confirming his thoughts.

“Not particularly.” Taking care with the Ls, he managed another brief but intelligible response. “I am no Sybarite and, thus, have no taste for such things.”

“Truly?” Blue eyes behind the feathered mask raked over him with renewed interest. “Then why have you come?”

“I am with a friend.”

“On the contrary, you are quite alone,” she observed with a hint of wit that made him smile.

“My friend is otherwise...engaged.” There now, progress at last,
almost
a complete sentence. The numbness in his mouth had begun to dissipate. His body felt light and his spirit languid and more at ease than he’d felt since his arrival. “Would you care to take some air?” he asked, suddenly emboldened. “The west side of this house has quite a lovely garden.”

She seemed to consider his proffered arm with hesitation. “I am not what you think...”

“For hire?” he volunteered. “I had no such thoughts. Pray, disabuse yourself that I have designs on your person, madam. I only desire a companion for a brief escape out of doors.” Escape was right. The drink had gone completely to his head. He felt queasy, slightly woozy, and suddenly stifled by the perfumed scent of flowers and the jungle of greenery.

***

Tilting her head, Phoebe assessed the large gentleman with greater scrutiny, deciding he was quite handsome in an unassuming sort of way. She guessed his age in the midthirties. His clothing was plain but well-cut with minimal ornamentation. He also displayed no outward signs of debauchery. His manners were impeccable, unusual enough under the circumstances, but moreover, he had addressed her with respect, most surprising in these circumstances. “In that case...” She smiled. “Perhaps just a short stroll.”

“It would be my honor.” He bowed formally and placed her hand on his sleeve. Phoebe didn’t know what had compelled her to accept his invitation to go outside when her entire purpose was to find DeVere who was certainly inside, but she found his lack of guile and self-deprecating demeanor both charming and disarming. Perhaps it was also that he looked so much like a fish out of water, much the way she felt.

She accepted his arm and exited the house into an enclosed courtyard that while well lit with flambeaux, appeared deserted. They perambulated the moonlit path for an extended time, the strangely companionable silence punctuated only by the crunch of gravel beneath their feet.

Phoebe couldn’t help slanting frequent glances at his face, a kind face, yet with a strong profile she found unusually attractive. “You must understand that I am not accustomed to private interludes with strangers. I am not a harlot, but an actress, you see.” She added cynically, “Though many deem there is little difference between the two.”

“I do not judge,” he said.

“No?” His words were welcoming, the timbre of his voice low and smooth, soothing to her frazzled nerves. His quiet presence seemed to encourage confession but then, perhaps, it was just that it had been so long since she’d had any confidante at all. Her eyes met his hazel ones and held. He had very nice eyes. Sensitive eyes, but she reminded herself she’d been fooled before. “Perhaps you will change your mind when you learn why I am here.” His genteel manner made her feel guilty, as if she had somehow deceived him. “I came for a decided purpose,” she blurted before she could stop herself.