The Historical Collection. Stephanie Laurens
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pleasure.
Even at a distance, his eyes said, I. Want. You.
Rather than walk away, as she normally did when a guest took interest in her, she stayed where she was. The distance between them closed, bit by bit, her heartbeat picking up speed the nearer he came.
And then he stood less than two feet away. He bowed, pressing a hand to his chest. She nodded her head in acknowledgment.
This close, she could see that his garments were exceptionally well made, clearly the work of an expert tailor, because only the finest needlecraft could create a suit of clothing that fitted his athletic form with such grace. His shining boots also had to be custom from Jermyn Street. Yet in contrast to this elegant appearance, dark stubble covered his cheeks and angled jaw, and he smelled slightly of gunpowder.
That, combined with his roguish grin, made her think of a buccaneer.
“Madam.”
“Sir.” She gave him a polite but shallow nod.
“You keep to yourself.”
He had a faint Irish brogue, making his words gently musical. She had learned many years ago to repress her own Neapolitan accent. There were many in Britain who viewed foreigners with suspicion, and it had been a matter of survival to sound as English as possible.
“I choose to,” she said.
He moved to stand beside her. His nearness was an intoxicant, making her slightly dizzy. Together they watched the swaying mass of bodies on the dance floor.
“I do as well, it seems,” he said, as if faintly puzzled by his own behavior. “This is my first time here and I find myself more content to observe than participate.”
“Some prefer it that way. They derive sensual gratification from watching.” She nodded toward a man who stood by himself, his eyes fastened on the spectacle of two other men kissing passionately, while his hand was down the front of his breeches.
“Usually,” the buccaneer said wryly, “I choose doing rather than watching.”
His grin flashed again, and her stomach gave a quick jump. She could imagine that he wasn’t the sort to sit idly by and let someone else devour an experience.
“What makes tonight different?” she asked. “I hope the establishment meets your expectations.”
“I had no expectations,” he said. “The friend who brought me here kept the nature of this place a secret until I stepped inside.”
She turned to him. “And now that you are within its walls, what are your thoughts on the place?” It was always a good idea to talk to guests, learn what pleased them and what they didn’t care for. Yes, that’s why she kept talking with him rather than moving on to other duties—to ascertain whether or not the club satisfied him. That was the only reason.
He looked thoughtful. Interesting that he would turn pensive, when, not several yards away, people engaged in acts of unrestrained eroticism.
After a moment, he said, “What’s here is joyous exuberance, a celebration of bodily pleasure and letting go. Aside from the code of conduct outlined in the vestibule, rules have no place in this establishment. People can fully express themselves without fear. That’s something to celebrate.”
She looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were the blue of the skies above Napoli, and they gleamed not just with sensuality, but sensitivity and intelligence, as well.
“Uncommon to hear a man articulate himself so well,” she said, “particularly when it relates to the act of fucking.”
His smile was genuine and devilish. “Madam, I can wax rhapsodic about fucking. But,” he added, “this place is about more than sex. It’s about …” He searched for the right words. “Living without limitations, liberated from censure and disapproval. That’s something that everyone desires. Even you, I’d wager.”
Instinctively, she stiffened and mentally reached for her unseen shield, protecting herself from any man’s attempt to delve beneath the surface of her carefully crafted persona.
“A moment’s acquaintance, and you feel you know me,” she said drily.
Undisguised fascination gleamed in his eyes when he looked at her. “You’re clever and aware. Always assessing the situation. But that’s merely one part of who you are. There’s passion there as well, though you try to keep it at a distance.”
Her mouth went dry, and she tried to swallow. How could he discern all this about her? From head to toe, she was swathed in her professional identity. She might be a different person with Kitty and Elspeth, but here on the floor of the club, she was Amina the Untouchable.
She pushed out a laugh. “Mercy,” she said, “you ought to set up a booth at Bartholomew Fair and tell fortunes. People would pay good money to have their characters delineated so incisively.”
“Learning about other people doesn’t interest me.” His gaze held hers. “Learning about you does.”
Her breath caught as they stared at each other.
He stepped closer, and warmth radiated from his body into hers. “Will you join me for a dance?”
There was no mistaking the intention in his low, seductive words, especially as almost no one on the dance floor was actually dancing.
Could I? More to the point, should I?
Guests propositioned her nearly every night the house was open, and that clearly hadn’t changed since she’d become proprietress. Her breathing had never quickened with those guests. When she’d fielded their offers, she hadn’t felt the heat of the room pressing against her sensitized flesh.
She had never been tempted, not enough to neglect her duties.
But this buccaneer—with his Irish accent and his wicked lips and his burning blue eyes—he enticed her. To hell with all her rules and caution. She could lose herself in heat and sensation. Without a doubt, he could give her an abundance of pleasure.
But the club, and her dream, came first. Entangling herself with a guest led to complications, and any complication—such as an importunate or jealous lover—would throw yet more obstacles in her path. He would demand her time, her attention, and neither could be spared. She couldn’t afford to be distracted by a man. And this man would assuredly be a distraction.
She struggled to lock away her reaction to him, like a keeper of wild beasts trying to urge a tiger back into its cage.
“There are so many available partners,” she said.
“I want to dance with you.”
Her heart took up a fast rhythm. “I cannot.” Regret tinged her words. She held out her hand. “I’m Amina, the manager.”
His brow above the mask creased with surprise, but like a gentleman, he took her hand and bent over it. Instead of kissing the air above her knuckles, his lips touched her skin.
Fire shot through her body. From the simplest, smallest contact.
He murmured, “I’d introduce myself—”
“But you can’t.” Her voice was breathless. She withdrew her hand, though her skin continued to radiate with his warmth. “For the safety of my guests, I know nothing about them, not even their names.”
“A good precaution.”
“Policy dictates that I don’t get involved with guests.”
His full lips shaped into a frown, and she braced herself for him to ask for an exception, or cajole her, the way other clients had done. Men did not like to hear a woman tell them no.
A moment later, he said, “Understood. I must respect your choice. Everything here is consensual, after all.”
She