Page 7
Author: Anne Stuart
She hadn't taken any of the communal wine as far as he could tell, and there was nothing to ease her fears. How well had Lina advised her? Did she know enough not to pass through the Portal of Venus? Once a celebrant chose to pass through that enchantingly landscaped orifice she would be fair game unless already claimed by another.
What the hell was she doing here anyway? He could think of no earthly reason why a well-bred, disapproving, virginal spinster would come to observe the haute ton at their most libidinous. Nor could he imagine why Evangelina Whitmore would have agreed to bring her.
He strolled after the young adventuress, similarly ignoring the invitations that came his way. She was moving inexorably closer to the Portal, and she probably had no idea what the peculiar gate into the inner gardens signified, not unless she spent time naked with a mirror. Or unless she and Lina were a great deal closer than society suspected.
He chuckled again. As divine as that particular image was, it didn't have the ring of truth. Lina was too devotedly single-minded in her pursuit of men. And he suspected Charlotte Spenser could barely fathom such a pairing.
The ruins of the ancient abbey were growing quieter. Adrian glanced behind him. The Chapel of
Perpetual Erection, the newly built gathering place, was ablaze with activity, as most of the celebrants ended up there, at least for the first part of the night. Etienne had disappeared with his partners in that direction. Just as well. Etienne was occasionally a little too interested in his younger cousin's affairs, and no matter how fond Adrian was of him, he still preferred not to have everything he did subject for discussion.
Turning back, Charlotte had stopped beside another statue, this one of a willing young lady using her mouth on what appeared to be a troll. He tried to gauge her reaction, then realized he was getting too close. Close enough to see the distinguishing white tie coming loose. Close enough to sense that she was wishing she were a hundred miles away from here.
What was Lina thinking, bringing her here, he thought again, strangely annoyed. Abandoning her to the doubtful mercy of libertines like him?
Lina knew he had no mercy. He'd done his best to ignore the angry, veiled invitation in the little virgin's eyes, the one she didn't even know she'd issued. But now she'd delivered herself to him, he could hardly resist, now, could he?
“Rohan!" a voice called out. "Come join us. " He signaled no, but it was too late. ”
She whirled around at the sound of his name, and froze. What did she expect? He thought with a touch of irritation. She must have known he'd be there—where else would a young gentleman be when the Mad Monks were congregating?
He could almost hear her gasp from where he stood, thirty paces back. And then in her panic she made her fatal mistake. She pushed through the deliberately overgrown entrance of the Portal of Venus, passing point non plus. No turning back for Miss Charlotte Spenser. And the branches caught, pulling at her, so that when she disappeared into the inner sanctum the white tie remained behind, clinging to the overgrown branches.
By the time he reached the Portal there was no sign of her. He picked up the ribbon, letting the satin length trail against his fingers.
Then he followed her through the gate, smiling.
Bloody hell, Charlotte thought with commendable vehemence. When she'd first conceived this mad idea she'd thought there would be enough people that she would be unlikely to see Adrian Rohan—or if she did, he'd be dressed in the same enveloping robe and she wouldn't recognize him.
But not all the gentlemen and ladies wore religious habits. From her brief, nervous glance she'd seen that Rohan was dressed in simple breeches, a loose white shirt and a long, sleeveless coat. For a moment she wondered why he was dressed so informally, and then she realized it was in order to undress easily and quickly, without the aid of a valet.
She didn't even want to think about the beautiful viscount taking off his clothes. The thought of Adrian Rohan naked made her quite breathless, and she was already rattled enough by simply being here. She took another quick look behind her. He was alone, too close, and looking straight at her.
There was no way he could know who she was— her disguise was too good. And Lina had once casually told her that Rohan had never been part of the peculiar practice of male love, so he couldn't be looking in her direction. Could he?
But still he kept moving toward her, and she panicked, moving deeper into the shadows. The torches were spaced farther apart, the errant moon providing most of the fitful lighting. A temple rose in front of her, a crescent-shaped structure of white limestone, and past the columns she thought she spied a large, shallow pool.
For a moment she breathed a sigh of relief. This was peaceful, safe, lovely in the moonlight, hidden away from the insanity beyond, a haven. . .
"Demme, but I knew if I waited long enough I'd find someone young and fresh," a fruity voice said in her ear, and she jumped, panicked, ready to run.
The man was wearing a monk's robe, but his cowl was down and she recognized him. Sir Reginald Cowper, he of the obscenely large fortune, and the seven grandchildren, and the saintly reputation and avuncular charm. There was nothing avuncular about him now.
Before she could move, his heavy hand clamped onto her arm. "Shy, are you?" The old man chuckled.
"Well, I like a timid young lad in my bed. You're new here. . . "
A myriad of emotions assailed her. Astonishment that Sir Reginald, he of the numerous descendants, preferred. . . this. Annoyance at the grip on her arm. She shook her head vehemently, trying to pull away, but his thick fingers tightened. Lina had promised her that no one was ever forced, that her strip of white riband was a safe passage. But Sir Reginald didn't seem to remember the rules. She tried to twist in his grasp to show him her badge, but it was gone.
"No need to be so shy, me lad," Sir Reginald said, slurring slightly, and she realized he was very drunk. "I won't hurt you. I'll let you be the one to—"
"No poaching, Reggie. " A familiar, mocking voice broke through her struggles, and she froze.
"I saw him first, Rohan," Sir Reginald wheezed. "He came through the Portal of Venus—that makes him fair game. Besides, I know full well you're only interested in cunt. ”
That was a new word for her, but Charlotte had little doubt that it was extremely crude. She glanced up at Rohan's face from beneath her enveloping cowl. He looked the same as always, as if this were a formal ball and he was bored to tears. "Perhaps I'm growing broad-minded," he said in a lazy voice. “I’m in search of novelty and this young monk is perfect. My sainted father has always insisted I treat my elders with exquisite respect, and I would regret having to floor you, but I'm afraid you'll simply have to take no for an answer. ”
Astonishment was assailing Charlotte from all directions as she listened to this interchange. But Sir Reginald hadn't released her arm, and his lower lip stuck out in a sulky glower. "I'm not giving him up," the old man said mutinously.
Rohan lifted his hand, and there was a strand of white ribbon wrapped around his long, elegant fingers.
Sir Reginald's response was suitably profane, but the grip on her arm loosened, then released her. "Very well. I cede to your earlier interest, and to the sign of favor you hold. Gentlemen must follow the rules of order. . . " he muttered half to himself. "But listen to me, young man," he added, leaning over and breathing alcoholic fumes on her shrouded face. "Next time, don't come through the portal alone, or I might be tempted to ignore those rules. "
She wasn't sure what to do. Rohan was watching them, and she knew there was amusement in his eyes. She didn't know whether she ought to nod or shake her head, all she knew was she had to make her way back to Hensley Court, back to the safety of her rooms, before some other gentleman decided he was interested in shy young men.
Sir Reginald wandered off, mumbling to himself, and a
moment later he disappeared back through the hedge, back the way she and Rohan had come. She heard a score of ragged cheers on the other side as he emerged, but she had more important things on her mind. Such as getting away from the too-beautiful Viscount Rohan.
She knew of no universal gesture to signal thank-you, so she hoped a gracious nod of her head would be sufficient. His eyes glittered in the moonlight, but there was no sign of confusion or doubt on his face. Just the usual courteous cynicism.
She started to turn, but he caught her hand. "I think not, young friar," he said softly.
She shook her head as she tried to pull her hand free, but he simply followed. "Didn't Lady Whitmore warn you about the Portal of Venus? Yes, I know you were with her. One of young lovers, I assume. Do you have any idea why she abandoned you to the tender mercies of the Mad Monks?"
She yanked harder, still backing away, but he simply followed her, his grip sure but not as painful as Sir Reginald's had been.
"No answer?" Rohan murmured. "Well, it doesn't matter. We're here now, and my cell is nearby. "
She yanked her arm in earnest now, shaking her head, but he simply laughed. A charming, infuriating laugh. "Oh, no, young friar. Not a jail cell. I have no intention of imprisoning you, though I'd be more than happy to teach you other, more pleasurable forms of restraint. No, I'm speaking of my own personal monk's cell. I've paid very good money to ensure that it's a bit more luxurious than the usual, and blessedly private among this circus of sinners. You'll come to like it. "
She managed to pull free, and he let her go, laughing, as she ran from him, racing toward the pseudotemple, her sandaled feet clumsy. She kicked off one of the sandals as she ran, then tried to kick off the second, but her foot caught and she went sprawling, flat out on the hard ground.
He was standing over her. She knew he was, even though the cowl had dropped around her head, obliterating everything. And thank God—if it had fallen back on her shoulders he'd know who she was. No one else had curly hair her particular color.
"No need to do penance," he said in that wicked, dancing voice. "You haven't sinned. Yet. "