Secrets of Seduction (Legendary Lovers 3)

The shock of Traherne’s admiring masculine perusal caught her off guard. Instinctively, Venetia took a step backward, swearing to herself. A mere glance should not have impacted her so powerfully, no matter how lascivious. He was simply being a man, after all.

She was also concerned that he would see through her disguise. Lord Traherne had witnessed firsthand the most humiliating, painful event of her life. Not only witnessed but actively participated. She was to blame for her own downfall, of course. But his actions had triggered the rash, prideful decision that had changed her fate forever. Moreover, she did not wish to give him the satisfaction of seeing her at such a disadvantage—forced to sneak around clandestinely, an outcast of decent society.

“May-yi have the honor of a dansh, my lovely?”

Venetia gave a start at the interruption. With her thoughts so fixed on the earl’s sinful character, she’d been unaware of another gentleman approaching, this one much shorter and somewhat younger than Traherne, with darker hair and more flamboyant garb. The dandy’s slurred words suggested that he was already half foxed.

Venetia hid a grimace at the unexpected annoyance. She needed no complications to divert her attention from her goal of saving her sister from the Earl of Traherne’s romantic pursuit.

With effort, she pasted an apologetic smile on her lips before answering sweetly. “Thank you, kind sir, but I will not be staying much longer this evening.”

Rather than accept her rebuff, the drunkard slipped an arm around her shoulders and drew her close.

With an inward sigh, Venetia set about the task of extricating herself from this unwanted predicament. She was not afraid of being assaulted in so public an arena. Even a notorious hell had rules of accepted behavior to follow, certainly one that catered to high-class clientele such as this. Any number of nobles and gentlemen of the ton were present tonight, as well as a few wellborn ladies attending incognito.

But this was simply one more damning demonstration that men were often led by their lustful urges rather than honor or common sense, and she was growing exceedingly weary of having to deal with their peccadilloes.

* * *

Distracted from his fruitless Faro game, Quinn narrowed his gaze on the masked beauty across the room. She had endeavored to remain unobtrusive, but she was far too noticeable.

Puzzled and curious as to why she was watching him so intently, Quinn absently played another card. Her familiarity nagged at him. She wore a demi-mask and feathered silk turban to hide her hair, but her feminine attractions were quite apparent. The graceful carriage, the ripe breasts, the lush mouth—

Quinn abruptly gave a mental start as his gaze shot back to her. She was indeed familiar. Miss Venetia Stratham.

What the devil?

He would have recognized her anywhere. She was the kind of woman a man never forgot. Not least because she had been engaged to marry a friend and peer.

She was one of the loveliest women he had ever encountered—luminous dark eyes, rich brown hair, creamy skin, with the most kissable mouth imaginable. Pure temptation even to a man of his jaded appetites. More than once he had fantasized about kissing those luscious lips. In truth, he’d wanted her from the first moment they met some four years ago during her coming-out Season. But he had carefully controlled his lust. Miss Stratham was strictly forbidden to him. A gentleman did not poach, particularly from a friend.

Quinn was taken aback—no, startled—to see her here at an elite gaming hell known more for its sexual sport than high stakes gambling. She was still every inch an elegant lady, despite being gowned in brazen red velvet that complemented her shapely figure and almost regal bearing.

His attention now riveted, Quinn watched as an obviously inebriated gamester tightened an arm around her bare shoulders.

The sight troubled him enough that he barely heard the silken voice whispering in his ear:

“How else may I serve you, m’lord?”

“I want for nothing, thank you,” Quinn replied, dismissing the high-flyer at his side with much less finesse than usual.

His mind was fixed solely on Venetia Stratham. Had she fallen so low that she was now offering her body for sale? The possibility fiercely disturbed him. Remorse sent his thoughts winging back two years ago, when he’d last laid eyes on her.

She had shocked the ton by jilting her noble fiancé on the church steps, creating a spectacle by boxing his ears and aborting the wedding ceremony in front of over two hundred guests. She’d then flung Quinn a scathing glance as she passed him on the way to her waiting carriage, no doubt despising him for the role he’d played in her bridegroom’s dissipation.

The very public denunciation of her betrothed had been the talk of London for weeks, until another titillating scandal had come along to supplant hers.

Quinn badly wanted to know what the devil she was doing in a high-class brothel. And why was she observing him so surreptitiously?

Her unexpected presence was enough to distract him from the task he’d set for himself—gaining leverage over his current opponent, Edmund Lisle, by winning overwhelmingly at Faro tonight.

And watching a young fop proposition her was downright unsettling.

Quinn voiced an oath under his breath as he recognized the young blade. Lord Knowlsbridge was in his cups, swaying as he embraced her. Evidently Miss Stratham was not welcoming his attention, though, for she had pasted a pained smile on her lips while trying to extricate herself from his grasp.

She was ill-equipped to fend off a drunken lecher, Quinn suspected, his protective instincts keenly aroused. And seeing the young lord attempt to kiss her was the last straw.

Experiencing a quiet swell of fury, Quinn tossed down his cards and surged to his feet, scattering the lightskirts surrounding him and surprising the pretty Faro dealer. It was poor-mannered of him to treat the pleasure club’s attendants so thoughtlessly, and supremely bad form to leave a game in mid-play. But even had his concentration not been shattered, he couldn’t sit still while a soused coxcomb pawed at Venetia Stratham.