On the other side of the room, a collection of masked women draped over a large circular seat upholstered in lush sapphire velvet, watching the performer above them, who used the center of their seating as a stage. She was an acrobat, in diaphanous trousers and a shirt that wrapped tightly about her body, and she bent and twisted, inverting herself in impossible ways, with a slow speed that only served to underscore her remarkable strength.

As she held herself up by one hand, her legs pointing straight to the ceiling, the women watching burst into applause, and Ewan struggled to resist joining in.

A tray laden with champagne passed in front of him, a half-dozen gloved hands in myriad silks and satins reaching out to lift glasses from it, and the woman holding it didn’t miss a step, delivering precisely what the partygoers asked. Once they were all satisfied, she turned to look up at him, a welcoming smile on her bright face, as though she’d known he was there the whole time.

“Champagne, sir?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“What then?”

She disappeared the moment he asked for bourbon, and Ewan wondered if he’d ever see her again; certainly the wild crush of people would prohibit anything like her finding him.

He turned away, heading for a small antechamber, door open. Inside, an unmasked woman stood behind a table in the corner—a handful of other revelers lingering, watching. She smiled and beckoned him closer. “Join us, good sir,” she said in a thick Italian accent.

He approached, unable to contain his curiosity as the woman, who introduced herself as Fortuna, extracted a stack of cups from beneath the table, each painted with Venetian masks.

She named the empty cups as she set them to the table.

La Tragedia.

La Commedia.

Gli Innamorati.

And then, using tight red rosebuds, she proceeded to dazzle her audience with a collection of impossible tricks, passing the flowers through the ceramic, all while telling the story of star-crossed lovers, who found happiness and sorrow and ultimately, each other.

The cups flew across the table. “. . . fated to be . . .”

The buds appeared and reappeared. “. . . taking love for granted . . .”

And then, disappeared altogether as she showed the audience the empty cup bearing the portrait of two lovers in wild embrace. “. . . heartbreak,” she said, softly, before setting it to the table, upside down.

“But!” Fortuna said, after letting disappointed silence hang around her. “Tonight is not for heartbreak, is it?” She looked to a woman nearby. “Is it, my lady?”

The woman shook her head. “No.”

Fortuna looked to him. “Sir?”

He couldn’t help his smile. “No.”

“Allora . . .” she intoned with glee. “Perhaps, it is true what they say. In love, hope.”

She lifted the seemingly empty cup, to reveal a rose, blooming vibrant red. A collective gasp rose from the audience, and Ewan’s smile widened, even as Fortuna lifted the rose, bright and beautiful, dipped her head, and extended it to him. “For your innamorata. Piacere.”

He reached for the rose, but before he could take it, her gaze passed by him, over his shoulder. “Unless . . .” She paused. “A rose is not correct?”

And then, before the eyes of everyone assembled, she waved a hand over the bloom in her palm, and damned if it didn’t become something else altogether.

A stunning pink dahlia.

He laughed, knowing what he would find when he turned around. “As a matter of fact,” he said, loud enough that she would hear him. “That is perfect.”

Fortuna’s secret smile turned wide, and she tipped the bloom into his hand. She said something else in Italian, but Ewan was already turning to find Grace, and his breath was gone from his lungs at the sight of her.

She was in gold.

The spools of gold thread he’d promised her as children, they were here, woven into her magnificent gown, a rich dupioni silk that glittered in the candlelight. To an outsider, the dress was no doubt considered demure—particularly in relationship to the other frocks in attendance—perfectly fitted to her shoulders and down her arms, where the silk ended in a crisp point at the back of her hand.

But there was nothing demure about the neckline—low and scooped, revealing the swell of her breasts, and a stunning expanse of smooth, freckled skin. Her copper curls tumbled down around her shoulders, catching on the fabric and teasing at the line of the frock, one errant curl caught inside the fabric like a wild temptation.

The combination of gold and copper turned her into the sun, and surely, that was the reason he was so damn hot all of a sudden.

She ought to take it off or she was going to set this building ablaze.

A smile passed over her lips, and something flashed in her eyes, as though she knew what he was thinking. She nodded in the direction of his hand, where he had barely refrained from crushing the magician’s bloom.

“Fortuna’s favorite trick.”

“It’s an excellent one,” he said, his voice coming out low and graveled, as though he hadn’t used it for weeks. “I particularly enjoyed the bit where she manifested you.”

“That bit doesn’t always happen.” Her smile widened, and he had a wild urge to puff out his chest. He would make her smile forever if she’d let him.

“Even better,” he said. “She’s very good.”

“What is a circus without a magician?” she replied. “Shall we trade? My prize for yours?”

She extended a glass toward him, two fingers of bourbon within, and he raised a brow, his gaze tracking over the room, looking for the servant with the tray of champagne. “How did she . . .”

“Dominion is designed to provide you with your pleasure, sir. You think a bit of bourbon is a challenge?” He heard the triumph and pride in her words, and they made him want to kiss her.

“To provide me with pleasure, is it?”

“To provide attendees with pleasure,” she laughed.

“And what of you?” he asked. “Do you partake in it?”

She shook her head once, instantly. “No.”

“Why not?”

She paused, and he saw the answer go through her, but she didn’t speak it. And he’d never wanted an answer more than he wanted this one.

He waited. Tell me.

“Because it is business,” she said, finally, and it might be true, but it wasn’t the answer she’d wanted to give. “Because it is my building and my business and my commodity. I don’t partake because my pleasure comes in giving others access to it.”

He nodded. “Like me.”

She looked down at that. Was she blushing? Christ, he loved that. He wanted that blush forever. “If you would like it, tonight, yes.”

Tonight.

“I would like it, tonight and every night.”

She was blushing.

“I only offer tonight.”

He was through with one nights. He wanted them all. “Then I shall take it. And spend the evening convincing you to give me more.”

She raised a brow. “We shall see.”

“It’s not a no.”

She rolled her eyes, but he saw the smile playing across her lips as she turned away, leading him out of Fortuna’s room, back through the larger space, where a second fiddler had joined the first, and a collection of couples had joined the original dancer, twirling and twirling in abandon.

Tags: Sarah MacLean The Bareknuckle Bastards Romance
Source: readsnovelonline.net