Regency High Society Vol 7: A Reputable Rake / The Heart's Wager / The Venetian's Mistress / The Gambler's Heart. Diane Gaston
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masquerade is the perfect opportunity. Harriette Wilson says so.’
‘Harriette Wilson,’ spat Sloane. ‘Damn her for coming to your door.’
Amy gaped at them both.
‘I thought her very charming.’ Morgana’s voice was impudent. ‘In a way, she started the whole idea of the courtesan school. She was the inspiration, you might say. To me, it is fitting we use her idea of attending the masquerade.’
He snatched her hand. ‘Morgana, do not tell me you will attend this masquerade. I forbid it.’
She pulled it out of his grasp.
Forbid it? He had no right to tell her what she should and should not do. She was nothing to him. Nothing. Merely the cousin of his fiancée. ‘Of course I will attend. I am quite looking forward to it.’
He leaned towards her in the darkness, so close she could feel his breath on her face. ‘Morgana, it is bad enough that you allow those young women to become courtesans, but you must not attend this masquerade. You have no idea what happens at such events.’
She shrank back from him, but it was his proximity that disturbed her more than his warning. She knew enough of the world to realise the masquerade would be a raucous affair. She intended to be there to make sure her girls remained safe, that was all. He ought to understand her need to do so. But he could not understand the other emotions swirling inside her, the arousal of her senses caused by just sitting next to him.
‘This is not well done of you at all,’ he went on.
No, it was not well done to fall in love with the man affianced to her cousin. Nor was it well done of her to wish she could do with him all the things that Harriette Wilson and Madame Bisou hinted a woman might do to please a gentlemen.
‘I think it is very well done of me, sir.’ She faced him, anger rising inside her, piling on top of emotions that were no more than a jumble of pain twisting inside her. Loss, desire, loneliness—emotions that drove her to shock him further. ‘In fact, I think you are wrong about my girls becoming courtesans. I am quite convinced that this is exactly the life a woman should lead. Think of the independence. The excitement.’
He shook his head, looking contemptuous. ‘Be sensible, Morgana.’
Sensible? That was the last thing she could be right now. She could taste tears in the back of her throat. ‘Do you wish to hear more, Sloane? I have decided to join my girls. I will set up a business for myself. I am quite convinced it is the sort of life I would desire.’
Amy gasped.
Sloane grabbed Morgana’s arm. ‘You are not serious!’
Of course she was not serious. She was merely brokenhearted and trying so desperately not to reveal it.
‘I assure you, I am quite serious.’ This time his grasp was so firm she could not pull away.
The carriage came to a stop and Sloane turned to Amy. ‘Go on, Miss Jenkins. Miss Hart will be along directly.’
Amy scurried out of the carriage.
He turned back to Morgana and shook her. ‘I do not believe you, Morgana.’
‘I do not care what you believe, Sloane.’ Morgana was near hysteria now. ‘Do you think I wish to lead a life as dull as my cousin Hannah’s?’ She made herself laugh. ‘Oh, no. I desire excitement. I want to attract as many men as Harriette Wilson. I can do it, too.’
‘Do not be foolish.’ He was so close that her nostrils filled with the scent of him. She could almost taste his lips upon hers.
‘Do you not think I am able?’ Her voice wobbled.
‘I think you are being absurd.’ His face was inches away.
‘Harriette taught us well. I made you come to me, even though you have barely spoken to me for a month.’ Her breath quickened.
‘You did not.’
‘I can make you kiss me, too,’ she added.
He gaped at her. She lifted her eyes to his and slowly circled her mouth with her tongue. Then she parted her lips and closed her eyes.
She felt him crush her against him and press his lips to hers, tasting her as hungrily as if he were a man starved of food. She returned the kiss, every bit as ravenous, ignoring Harriette’s admonition about withholding her tongue. She wanted to fully savour him. One final time.
He abruptly drew her away from him. ‘Leave me, Morgana. Leave me now, before I do something we both will regret.’
‘I won’t regret it,’ she murmured, lost in the sensation of him. She kissed him again.
His hand rubbed up and down her back and circled around to her breast. She sighed, relishing the touch, wanting him to reach inside her dress, wanting to feel his hand upon her bare skin.
Instead, he pulled away. ‘No, Morgana.’ He opened the carriage door. He climbed out and extended his hand to her. She quickly straightened her dress and wrapped her shawl around her shoulders. She took his hand, but only for as long as it took to climb out of the vehicle. Without waiting to see what he would do next, she ran to her door and took refuge inside her house.
Sloane signalled the coachman to stable the horses, then slowly walked to his own door. How could something he wanted so desperately go so far awry? He barely refrained from jerking the door open and slamming it behind him. His footman jumped to his feet at his abrupt entrance. With only a nod to the man, Sloane tore up the stairs, still on fire for Morgana and furious at her for playing the coquette. If she acted like that with another man—a thought that made him see red—she’d indeed ruin herself. Did she not know that, once lost, she would never get her reputation back? A man might be forgiven his passionate indulgences, but never a woman.
His valet shot out of his chair nearly as high as had the footman. ‘Go!’ shouted Sloane.
As the man nearly tripped in his hurry to get out the door, Sloane scoured the drawers and cabinets, finally finding where his man had put his brandy. Not bothering with a glass, he drank directly from the bottle.
The next day proved that Morgana, Amy and Miss Moore were excellent costumers. With fabric hurriedly purchased at the linen drapers, the older woman and the young maid had fashioned each girl an alluring outfit according to Morgana’s design, complete with identity-disguising masks. The costumes were simple, draped gowns, all in classical white and fashioned with fabric attached to their arms so as to resemble wings. Their masks were created from white silk trimmed with feathers. The girls were garbed as the Sirens of Greek myth, winged creatures whose singing lured sailors to their doom. For their début into the world of courtesans, Harriette Wilson had arranged for them to enter the Argyle ballroom as a group, singing a song, with Rose as the soloist. It would be a grand entrance.
Morgana planned a quieter entrance for herself in the Argyle Rooms. She would dress in a voluminous gold domino she had found in an attic trunk. It came with a matching gold mask to further disguise her identity. No matter what she had declared to Sloane, she meant to attend the ball merely as a spectator, to watch her fledglings take their first flight. After this night she would see them set up in rooms of their own. She would pay the expenses, of course, until enough money came in from gentlemen. But whenever she thought that far in advance, a sick feeling settled in the pit of her stomach.
It was time to leave for the masquerade. She joined the girls in the hall, where a thin-lipped Cripps stood to assist them.
Katy’s spirits were so high, it was a surprise that her feet touched the floor. Miss Moore, who never in her life expected to be dressed in a grey domino bound for a masquerade, was nearly as excited as Katy. Mary, Rose, and Lucy were more subdued. They waited for Robert Duprey and Madame Bisou to collect them in one hackney coach and Mr Elliot in another.
‘Remember,’ Morgana whispered to the girls out of Cripps’s hearing. ‘You are not to give yourselves to any gentleman this night. You