Nothing.
“A pity.” He let his gaze run over her one last time, committing her to memory. “I think we would have enjoyed each other’s company.”
He bowed, sober now, but as he strolled away he struggled with a keen sense of disappointment. The veiled lady intrigued him. He wanted her. Marcus mocked
himself: Why was he seeking the unattainable? The room was full of women. He was being ridiculous and childish wanting the only one he couldn’t have. He drank a couple more glasses of champagne and watched as some of the women performed an elegant display behind a thin curtain, a naked rendition of the birth of Venus in a papier-mâché clamshell. He wasn’t particularly interested and found it all rather silly.
It was time to go, before he became drunk and belligerent and sorry for himself.
Marcus was collecting his hat and coat when Aphrodite came gliding toward him in her black silk, her jewels glittering at her throat, her beautiful face timeless.
“Marcus,” she said, “please do not leave yet.”
“I think I must, madame,” he said, polite but firm.
“Is my club not to your liking?”
“Your club is magnificent. Your girls are beautiful.”
“But you are not in the mood to be pleased by mere beauty, oui? You want something more. Would it change your mind if you knew that there is a certain lady who very much wishes for your company?”
“I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would be more appreciative than I—”
“I speak of the lady in the veil, Marcus.”
“The lady in scarlet?”
“You are surprised?” She smiled. “She was very taken with you, mon ami. This is a special commission. Her identity is a secret, and she will wear her veil while she is with you. One evening, Marcus, that is all she requires. Can you give her an evening to remember for the rest of her life?”
Marcus removed his hat and handed it to her with a droll look. “I think I can manage that, madame.”
Chapter 2
Portia couldn’t sit still. After she’d told Aphrodite which man she preferred, the courtesan led her to this luxurious little room to wait. For the tenth time her gaze flicked to the bed, placed discreetly in a shadowy corner, the plump cushions slyly peeping out from behind the lush draperies. The reason why she was here. And for the tenth time she thought about running away and forgetting the whole thing. But she conquered her fear. Because this was what she wanted, this was what she craved.
I want to feel like a woman again. I want to feel . And Marcus being here…it is as if it were meant to be.
Marcus Worthorne was perfect. Oh yes. She thought again of his eyes on her, burning her skin. She’d felt as if he was touching her, and a hot ache had ignited low in her belly. She had fantasized about him for so long, but even in her wildest dreams—some of them very wild indeed—she hadn’t expected him to grow into someone so perfect.
When she was seventeen, he’d seemed distant and unattainable. Perhaps that had been part of his attraction. He hadn’t known she existed, and even now probably wouldn’t recognize her as the shy girl he occasionally met in the lane while riding his horse, or the girl who embarrassed herself so dreadfully that day in church. But he’d certainly recognize her as Lady Ellerslie; all of England did.
Marcus the boy had shown promise of the handsome man he had become, the sort of man she’d always secretly admired. Tall and broad shouldered and slim hipped, with the arrogant good looks of someone who didn’t worry about anything overmuch. Oh no, he wasn’t concerned with what life might throw at him. In fact, Portia doubted that his life consisted of anything more than idleness and pleasure. Completely and totally her opposite, for she was very much a prisoner of her own conscience.
But what did that matter? It was the hot look in his eyes that was appealing to her senses, the sound of his voice that sent shivers skipping down her spine. Marcus was a man who knew how to please a woman, and he could give her the sort of pleasure she had been dreaming of. And then walk away without a second thought.
Perfect, Portia reminded herself. She didn’t require any empty promises, or any pretense that there would be a next meeting—in fact such things would be an insult. It was simple mindless pleasure she wanted. There would be time enough to remember the world outside this room when she left the club. But for now she wanted to forget everything, just for an hour or two, and Marcus Worthorne could help her to do that admirably.
The door opened.
He stood a moment, silhouetted against the gaslight from the salon, and she wondered if he did it on purpose, because he knew how good he looked. But then she realized he was more intent on watching her, seated on the sofa by the fireplace, than striking a pose.
“May I join you?” His voice held the same amused tone she remembered from before, only now it was deeper, with a hint of seduction. She shivered, unconsciously responding to him. A jumble of memories filled her mind, but she shut them out, reminding herself of who she was and her position in the world. She had risen high from her origins, and although he would not know it, the reminder helped to restore her calm.
“Yes, please do,” she murmured, her voice barely more than a whisper. Unrecognizable.
He closed the door behind him and strolled toward her with the graceful, loose-limbed walk she had noticed in the salon. Aphrodite’s protégés had noticed it, too. He was the sort of man who would always be noticed. Women would look at him and want him. Perhaps they would even dream of him falling in love with them, but Portia was quite certain he would never love them. Instead he would break their hearts.
“We haven’t been introduced,” he said, smiling down at her.