Powder of Love (I) (22 page)

His breath was hot on her neck and ear. “I’m going to spend,” he whispered. “I must stop.”

“No no no,” she keened and held tight around him as a powerful gust knocked her so hard, the dark hit her eyes, and she was gone.

When she came alive again, he had drawn away from her and was fumbling with her gown. She was still buzzing with need, but now could hear other voices too.

“Gideon.”

He glanced up into her face, an unreadable expression on his. She hiked herself onto her elbows and saw he’d already managed to draw down her ripped gown, put his cock away, and properly arrange his trousers. His cock. The word, once remembered, wouldn’t leave her mind. His neckcloth was ruined, his shirt untucked. He was a proper mess. And she wanted to reach for him again, make him even more undone and messy. Naked would be good.

He rose to his feet and held a hand down for her. She grabbed it and kissed his palm, smelling the musky scent of her own body on his fingers.

He grasped her and hauled her up, then wrenched his hand away, almost too quickly, as if he were disgusted. Or perhaps only in a hurry, for he was shoving his shirt in as if it were his enemy and tugging at his waistcoat. “Once again, I gave in to the chemical,” he growled. “I must—I have a job.”

She eyed him, watched his long fingers expertly twisting his cloth. She had to see past her yawning need, but oh, those hands should be on her.

No. She had to understand what he was saying. Anger. He always seemed so annoyed, though perhaps he had cause, because weren’t there other people? Out there? She tried a small laugh. “You have several jobs, as it turns out, just for me.”

He moved to a dark window. At first she thought he was gazing out into the night, but then she understood he was using it as a mirror to adjust the white tie at his throat. He gave up and turned from the window.

“The wretched powder. I hate that bloody chemical.” He’d found his gloves somewhere and was yanking them on, staring down at his hands as he shoved.

She wanted him against her body again, but she also wanted more than physical intimacy. If only he’d look at her, smile into her face. He wasn’t looking in her direction as he roughly pushed a hand through his hair, which had taken on its usual rumpled dark wave.

“I’m so very sorry. Are you all right?” he asked, still not looking in her eyes. At least he didn’t sound angry.

“Yes. I think so.”
I still need you. Take off your clothes. Give me your body.

“I didn’t want it to happen like this with us again, Rosalie, please believe me.”

“It didn’t feel good to you?”

“That’s not the point. I should have had more control.”

He was walking away from her. “I have to leave, Rosalie. I must hurry. Please, please stay here. I only hope it hasn’t got worse out there,” he said and left the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

When he left, he took most of the desire with him. She could still feel the hum of her body’s awareness. Every hint of a breeze or trail of a scent assaulted her and threatened to distract her with delight and yearning, but her brain had cleared enough for her to be able to think.

And she didn’t want to be alone with those thoughts.

“Of course,” she said softly. “Out there. Worse?” She’d only eaten some of her soup, and it had ravaged her senses. Something worse lay outside the door.

She had to calm her whirling brain and awakened body enough so she could go see what her mother had done.

Rosalie wasn’t certain her social standing would survive the wreck of this evening, but she would have to be certain none of the guests invited to her house went down with her.

Chapter Nine

Reed didn’t have the time or desire to indulge in self-loathing, but even as he hurried from the library, the rage engulfed him. The self-control he’d prided himself on for months, gone like a paper thrown on a roaring fire, gone the one moment he truly required it.

His behavior had been worse than anything he’d witnessed in his time with Clermont. He’d taken a woman infected with the terrible chemical. Reed was perhaps the only clearheaded man in the house, and he hadn’t managed to keep his prick in his pants because a lovely woman begged him.

Her face flushed, hot-eyed. Her sweet, cultured voice begging for his cock.

God forgive him, because he knew if it was played all over again, Rosalie in that blue gown, her hair in careful disorder, he’d still have been unable to keep off her.

Only five people remained in the dining room. Two men and a lady sat at the table. Thank God they were eating. Two footmen stood nearby.

Under Reed’s instructions, the servants had turned into grim-eyed jailers. During the few minutes he’d left Rosalie alone, he’d managed to toss the soup and gather the servants for a hurried meeting.

The twenty or so footmen and the housekeeper and maids all stood in the large kitchen.

Reed’s instructions had been simple. “
Don’t allow them to touch each other. Keep them apart, by force if necessary
.”

When one of the younger footmen sniggered, Reed had had to come down hard, responding with anger. In a few brief words, he described the drug as terrible, perhaps exaggerated its dangers. He sure as hell hoped so. He’d said, “
If we can’t keep ’em under control, the police might have to be summoned. Not what any of us want, hey
?”

Hawes had been in the kitchen then, dressed in the scarlet finery. Everyone had been drafted for this party, it seemed. The coachman had stood on a chair and roared at the group. “
Think how hard it would be to get work in service if word gets around you were part of something horrid
.”

Reed had left Hawes and Beels diplomatically sorting the guests as the musicians played on. About half the guests had eaten the soup, and they, along with their companions if they were young women, were to remain at the table, encouraged to finish the meal.

The others were politely, firmly, cheerily handed their wraps and pushed out the door, confused and ready to spread rumors. Ah well.

Reed had told Beels to keep the others eating. “Perhaps the food will help dull the effects. And if they grow restless, any who wish to may dance. No waltzes.”

After that, Reed went to check on Rosalie. And when he should have been out in the public rooms, working…he’d been working in Rosalie.

Yes, the three were eating, and their fingers, chins, and cheeks glistened with grease.

They were surrounded by plates, serving dishes from every course.

“Rosemary.” A man moaned, threw his head back, and closed his eyes. For a ghastly second, Reed wondered if he was talking about a woman under the table—or to the older lady near him.

The man brought his fingers to his mouth and licked them slowly. “Sharp. Mmm. Fragrance that fills the back of the throat. Rosemary, and I think a touch of French oregano.” The man mewed happily and opened his eyes. He leaned forward and examined the plates. After a moment, he picked up a large hunk of white fish between finger and thumb and shoved it into his mouth.

The lady was also gobbling, stopping occasionally to groan in pleasure.

“The seeds crunch so, so delicately.” She popped part of a strawberry into her mouth. Her lips and her cheeks were smeared red with berry juice. “You must try one. Really, you must.” But she didn’t push the tiered display of fruits and flowers toward her companions. She caught sight of Reed staring at her. “Do you have a dried fig, young man? Now
those
are seeds. Biting through that thick, lovely skin, and then the seeds clashing against your teeth. Oh, an orange.” She tapped the table with her finger in emphasis. “I’d want the whole thing, and I mean even that fleshy pith and skin. It has tang, you understand. I want my teeth to ache with it, now.”

The other man at the table wasn’t eating, Reed realized. He yawned and gave a vague smile. “Not in season, m’dear.” His fingers and face were far cleaner, though they also had a sheen of grease. “Tell her they’re not in season, or she’ll start talking about the membrane again.”

Reed obliged. “Oranges aren’t in season, ma’am. You didn’t eat as much soup, did you, sir?”

“None at all. Just keeping my wife company while she finishes up. You’re Mr. Reed, aren’t you? I’m Parker.”

“Please don’t get up, Mr. Parker,” Reed said. The less anyone wandered, the better.

Parker ignored him and pushed back his chair. He stood next to Reed, arms folded, and for a minute they watched the two eaters work their way through mounds of food.

Parker said, “I have to tell you, this is one of the most peculiar parties I’ve ever attended. The most peculiar. The hostesses have vanished, and everyone’s wandering around and laughing. The servants aren’t letting anyone leave. They say you’re the one who ordered it. Why are you in charge?”

“Miss Ambermere asked me to take on that duty because I have had some experience with this sort of problem. I’m sorry you’ve been inconvenienced.”

“Not so bad, really. I heard doctors were summoned. I was expecting hideous illness and basins. So in truth, this is an agreeable surprise. Just makes m’wife a little silly and hungry, I’d say. What was the stuff that got into the soup? Locoweed?”

He sounded mildly interested, not upset.

“I’m not entirely certain, Mr. Parker, but I know it should wear off soon, and you and your wife will be able to leave.”

“I’m all right. Peculiar music’s playing, but the servants say we ought to take a turn around the floor. Maybe we’ll do just that. Usually have a dreadful time getting m’wife to dance, and she promises she will once she’s done with the fruit.”

He smiled at the berry-smeared lady, who smiled back. “It’s a joy seeing m’wife having fun for a change. I only hope she doesn’t make herself sick with food.”

The footmen stared straight ahead. Reed imagined that when he left the room, they’d lapse into smirks and perhaps laughter. At least two of the people at the table wouldn’t notice.

He backed out of the room. Parker was right; the music was peculiar. Behind the red curtain, all the musicians had fallen silent except one—a violinist. He stood swaying and tapping a foot as he played a strange tune, howling and melodic at the same time. The man drawing the bow across the strings had his eyes shut and a look of ecstasy on his face.

Reed waved to another violinist, the one he thought was in charge. The man with the thick dark mustache padded over, still holding his violin and a large handkerchief.

“You should play dance tunes,” Reed said. “Something that will tire the guests out.” He craned his neck, trying to see if anyone was attempting to dance. They’d be too close together if they were. Disaster would strike if this slow, sad music continued.

“I don’t know how he managed it, but the fool ate some of the soup and seems to have come all over deranged,” the man said. “He can’t stop playing whatever that is. Nothing I’ve ever heard. Gotta admit, it’ll stick with me, though. I didn’t know he was a composer.”

“You’d best get some familiar tunes playing. Dance music.”

The violinist next to him shrugged and blew at his mustache. “I tell you, we can’t get him to stop. At any rate, our time’s up in an hour.”

“I’m sure you’re tired, but please continue to play until I ask you to stop. You’ll get double the money you were promised if you can just play country reels. Something lively. No blasted waltzes.”

The mustached man started to protest when Reed went to the player and gently laid a hand on his shoulder. The violinist started. The bow jumped on the strings.

“I’m not finished,” he snapped. “I need to keep going, damn you.”

“Come on,” Reed said. “You can start again in a minute. Better acoustics, how’s that?”

The thin, pale man breathed hard through his nose. His fingers twitched, but he allowed Reed to lead him down the hall, through a parlor, and out into the garden, where two more footmen, even more grim-faced than the ones in the dining room, stood at the door.

The violinist trembled and leaned against a stone pillar near the door.

Reed envied and rather admired him. The powder hadn’t turned the musician into a rutting, ravenous animal. For a moment the man rested and blinked, but then he raised his bow and more of the haunting music drifted out over the trees, covering the sounds of the city beyond and perhaps some of the activity in the garden.

“That’s what I’d call night music,” one of the footmen said, and his face softened.

“Is everything all right in the garden?” Reed knew it wasn’t but had to ask.

“Maybe it is. The coachman’s keeping watch at the back. He dragged a lady with him, didn’t see who. But he said he’d make sure no one tried to slip out that way. He ordered us to go out in the garden, stroll about and make sure no one called for help. Not used to taking orders from the likes of him, but you made him a kind of deputy, right?”

“I did.”

“We haven’t heard no calls for help. But, er…”

The older, plump one shifted uncomfortably. “But other things. Shameful,” he muttered.

No more shameful than what had gone on in the library less than a half hour ago.

“How many are out there?” Reed asked.

“Maybe seven, eight people.” A grin flashed across the young footman’s face. He licked his lips. “With a few of them, hard to tell how many. Group, you know.”

Reed crossed the terrace and went down the two stone steps. He’d at least extinguish some of the lights. If they couldn’t stop the activity, they could at least shroud it in darkness.

Behind him, one of the footmen spoke. “Evening, miss.”

A rustle of skirts and Reed smelled her. Almost as if he’d taken a dose of the powder himself, he was that aware of her flower scent, and on top of that, the musk of what they’d done together. Why the hell hadn’t she stayed put? If she begged some other man, he’d have to kill him. If she begged him, he’d—No. He must do what he could to save the situation.

He didn’t turn around. “I’m sorry, Miss Ambermere; I can’t help you.”

“No, I understand, Mr. Reed.” Her voice was small and full of pain; it made his heart ache. “I am here to offer my help.”

He allowed himself to face her but avoided looking at her too-bright eyes and swollen lips. “I don’t know what I can do, so I have no suggestions for you. Except you return to a room,” he said as he gazed over her shoulder. Lanterns swayed as a breeze touched the tree behind her.
And lock the door
, he wanted to add.

“Do you recall what the doctor said about the effects lessening after he was rendered unconscious?” she asked. “I think it might be true. I believe I’ve fainted—twice.”

He risked a look. Her mouth remained curved into a smile, dreamy and hungry, yet her arms were crossed over her chest, and white spots showed on her upper arms where her fingers dug into her own flesh, holding herself back. She was still in the grip, but now she forced the fire to stay inside her body.

He wanted to touch her, reassure her, but there could be no contact without awakening the monster inside her. “I can’t knock all your guests to the floor in the hope they’ll be stunned. And I’m not sure alcohol is a good answer.”

She swallowed. “Didn’t you send for the doctor?”

He rubbed his face and nodded. “Yes, I ought to see if he’s here. I’m going to return to the front of the house. I had to make sure things were…not so bad.”

“Are they?”

He was mounting the steps again. “Ask me in the morning.”

Her low laugh was wild but hadn’t crossed the line into hysterical. “Mr. Reed. Gideon. Thank you for helping me. Because Mr. Clermont—after shepherding him, I mean—I know this isn’t an easy job for you.”

Oh indeed, fucking her had been a real hardship. He nodded and walked briskly through the hall, checking to see that the musicians had struck up something quick. Yes, the room held dancers, and only three pairs were too close together, swaying to a time that had nothing to do with the fast music. Three footmen watched as a man pushed a woman against the fabric-draped wall and began to rhythmically thrust his pelvis against her.

“Damn.” Reed crossed the room and shoved the two apart. A footman gripped the man’s upper arm and marched him to the door.

The woman looked into his face, befuddled as a woman awakened from a nap she hadn’t known she was taking.

Reed recognized her. She’d sat next to him at dinner. Miss Brock. But she too hadn’t eaten any soup, so why was she allowing anyone to treat her like a back-alley whore?

“Mr. Reed.” She put her hands on his shoulders and swayed. “Isn’t this the most delightful party? I’m so glad I decided to stay.” Her voice dropped. “Risqué is bound to be all the rage. I’d heard about Lady Williamsford but didn’t have any idea of what her set was like. Would you care to dance?”

He had thought her reasonably quick-witted, but perhaps the word
stupid
wasn’t correct either.
Naive
and
exuberant
would be more generous. “I would enjoy that, Miss Brock, but I have to delay our dance. Where are your parents?”

“They said they wanted to go see the fountain in the garden.”

“Ah. They ate the soup?”

“Yes, I think they did. You’re too busy to dance with me?”

“I’m, er, helping our hostess.”

“I saw Lady Williamsford go into the small parlor at the front of the house.” Miss Brock tried to pull him closer.

He carefully lifted her hands from his body and gave each a squeeze. “Thank you. I had wondered.”

“You are interested in her daughter, aren’t you?” She put her mouth near his ear, and a gust of wine-laden breath washed over his face. That explained a great deal. “You watched her through dinner. And then you jumped up and ran over to her when the trouble began. I don’t blame you. She is quite pretty, but I understand she’s not as open-minded as her mother, and more prudish and—”