A Seduction in Scarlet (Aphrodite's Club 1)

“No, I won’t hush!” Aunt Jane was able to hear perfectly when she chose to. “When you are as old as me you’ll understand the importance of keeping time. This might be the last opera I go to. The last time I partake of refreshments.”

Below and around them opera goers were making their way through the vast interior, seeking their own refreshments, although some were content to remain in their seats, gazing up admiringly at the enormous chandelier and ogling the occupants of the private boxes for entertainment.

“My lady?”

One of the opera house staff had slipped in behind them and was bowing stiffly to Portia. He held out a folded piece of paper in his gloved hand. She murmured her thanks as she took it and unfolded it.

The writing was a menacing scrawl, and it seemed as if the words jumped up at her.

Meet me outside. Now. Marcus.

Her breath seemed to stop. She felt light-headed. Aunt Jane’s complaints and Lara’s impatient replies receded into a dull humming.

It couldn’t be. It was impossible. How could he know? Even if he saw her, he would not have recognized her. She’d been wearing a veil. She’d been so careful, had taken every precaution.

No, no, no…

Portia stood up, the note crumpling in her hand. Lara and Aunt Jane stopped their mild bickering and looked up at her in surprise. Arnold raised an elegant eyebrow.

“I’ll go and see what has happened to our refreshments,” she said, which was the first thing that came into her head. She had not realized it was so easy to be untruthful.

Aunt Jane nodded. “Good girl. And tell them—”

But Portia didn’t wait for Aunt Jane’s instructions. She stepped outside the door of their box, into the corridor that led to the Grand Staircase. Just for a moment she was tempted to pick up her skirts and run. But where would she run to? There was nowhere. She was trapped by who and what she was. Her only hope was that it was some kind of mistake and she could bluff her way out of it.

There was a step behind her.

“Lady Ellerslie.”

The deep lazy drawl was as familiar to her as her own face. She had been fantasizing about it only moments before, while the Swedish Nightingale sang. Portia took a sharp breath, her mind suddenly cold and clear. She must brazen it out, pretend he was mistaken, convince him that he had the wrong woman.

She straightened her back and turned to face him.

Marcus Worthorne was leaning his shoulder against the wall, watching her. His eyes, more gold than hazel, were gleaming with unholy glee. As if, she thought, he had just won a fortune at cards. He looked very pleased with himself indeed, and she knew with a sinking heart that it did not bode well for her.

She looked as if she didn’t know whether to stay and fight or run for the Grand Staircase. God, she was beautiful. He would have been content with passing pretty, but this woman was an angel. Blazing blue eyes and golden hair and perfect features. He wanted to tear every stitch off her and have her naked in his arms.

He hadn’t been able to see her properly from his box across the theater, but during the time it took for the first act to run its course, he’d seen enough to know it was her. The way she moved, the way she held herself, the set of her shoulders. The truth was, he’d known her the instant he lifted his gaze and saw her arrival—something clicked in his brain—and the rest of the time he’d just been enjoying the view.

It was Fran who’d arranged for him to borrow her sister Vivianna’s opera box. He’d come along early, all togged out in evening dress, and sat in the corner, half shielded by the draperies, and waited. The Ellerslie party was late. As they took their seats, every eye was upon them. Then the murmurs began. “It’s Lady Ellerslie.”

“Portia.”

“It’s Portia.”

There was a smattering of applause. She heard, smiling and bowing her head, as regal as a queen.

And that was when he knew who his mystery lady was. It was Portia, the Portia, Lady Ellerslie,

Widow of the Nation’s Hero.

It made perfect sense, far more than if she’d been some poor, put-upon relative. No wonder she was afraid of her identity being discovered. No bloody wonder! If it was known that such a pure and angelic model of widowhood was visiting a brothel to spend her time with a wastrel like him, she’d be finished. Destroyed utterly. Good Lord, he could hardly believe it himself. But yes, it was her. Distractedly, his mind had filled with images of her body clinging to his, the sound of her soft cries of pleasure and moans of passion. The scent of her; the taste of her.

Oh yes, his mystery goddess was definitely Portia, Lady Ellerslie!

And knowing who she was just made everything much more exciting. He felt wicked, as if he had done something bad, but he didn’t want to stop. Thinking about it made him want to do it all over again.

“Do I know you?”