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Gareth didn't want anyone to see his wife in the presence of London's fanciest whore, so he asked Lavinia to go on ahead of them, telling her they'd take their time in arriving. And take their time they did. Gareth took his time bringing his family back across town. He took his time finding mews in which to stable Crusader, rubbing the big animal down, feeding, watering, and making a fuss over him — anything to prolong the inevitable. Finally, when he could delay no longer, he chose narrow sidestreets so that no one would see them heading toward the brothel.
Juliet, walking beside him, was very quiet. He sensed her despair, her knowledge that she'd done something wrong coupled with an inability to put her finger on just what that something was. She probably thought he was upset because of pride; after all, no self-respecting nobleman would ever bring his lady to a brothel, let alone on their wedding night. But it was more than that. Much more. If she had married Charles, she never would have dishonored their marriage by spending their wedding night in a brothel. She would have wanted everything to be as perfect as he was.
She finally spoke. "Gareth?"
"What?"
"I don't know quite what it is I've done, but I do wish you'd tell me what is the matter."
"It shall pass."
"Are you angry because I didn't want us spending money unnecessarily?"
He winced. Unnecessarily. "No."
"Then is it because I took charge, and having a woman take charge does not sit well with your male pride?"
"No."
"Then what have I done?"
He shook his head. He didn't want to talk about it. What was he supposed to do, tell her he was angry with her because once again the inevitable comparison to Charles had been made — albeit in a roundabout way — and he had again been rated second-best? No. That sounded self-pitying.
"It's nothing, Juliet. I'll get over it."
She looked at him for a long moment, shrugged, and fell back into quiet once more.
The brothel was in sight now, standing unobtrusively on the corner. Gareth avoided the main entrance and discreetly took his family around to the back one, terrified that someone of consequence might see them, horrified that his wife's name and reputation would be in shreds before he even had the chance to properly introduce her to society.
By God, what a bloody, thundering mess!
He stood on the steps and rapped the knocker sharply. Moments later the door opened, emitting a cloud of smoky incense, a glimpse of the foyer's high ceiling, painted with its colorful orgy of naked, cavorting figures, and Mario, staring down at them from his height of six and a half feet. He was exquisite in a powdered wig and suit of gold satin, but such elegance did nothing to disguise the brute strength of a man hired only to toss anyone who didn't quite fulfill madam's standards of birth, breeding, and cleanliness out on their ear. He took one look at Gareth in his slightly rumpled suit and a face that begged for a razor, at the petite young woman standing behind him with a fussing babe in her arms, and his heavy black brows shot straight up to his hairline.
"My lord!" he gasped; then, with a clearing of his throat and a sudden yank at the knot of his cravat, in a more dignified, subdued voice: "My lord."
Gareth was unflappable. "Lavinia said we could stay here for the night, Mario."
"Yes — yes, of course. Come right this way, please."
"The Crimson Suite," Gareth said, greatly humiliated. "We are not to be disturbed."
"You will not be, my lord."
"No interruptions. I mean it."
"No interruptions, my lord."
Bowing, Mario ushered them inside. From somewhere inside the building, Gareth heard the tinkle of feminine laughter. He glanced at his wife. Her face was very pale but resolved. Determined. Strong. Behind them, Mario shut the door.
Once inside the warm, familiar surroundings, however, Gareth's anger faded to dismay, then awkwardness, and finally a stifling-hot embarrassment. Above their heads was Lavinia's famous painted ceiling, highly colorful, detailed, and lushly erotic, depicting an orgy of some eight or nine cavorting, sultry, full breasted women. They were all stark naked. Some were sucking on cherries and grapes, several were drinking from gold chalices, one was smearing wine over the nipples of another while a man crouched open-mouthed beneath, catching the droplets on his tongue as they ran off her creamy, wine-blushed breasts. He had a huge erection. Beneath him, another woman lay on her back, her hand, and tongue, hard at work on him.
Juliet was staring up at the painting.
Juliet was not saying a word.
And Juliet was turning pink. Scarlet. Marble-white.
Gareth wanted to die. He looked at the dark, panelled walls. At the ornate, gilt-framed mirror. He felt the plush burgundy rug beneath his boots, soft enough to pillow a bare foot, a bare bottom, a bare anything-else, while the sound of husky feminine laughter, male guffaws and tiny shrieks came from a distant room. The walls, hung with suggestively lewd paintings that complimented the masterpiece on the ceiling, began to close in. The erotic mix of scents — expensive perfumes, incense, the subtler, more discreet aroma of sex — began to make him faintly nauseous, and memories entered his brain that he suddenly blushed to remember. Oh, hell. Oh bloody, thundering hell! And beside him, his gentle, virtuous wife was drawing Charlotte protectively against her bosom, her face carved in stone, her gaze fixed straight ahead as several of Lavinia's choicest girls came gliding out from around corners and behind closed doors, watching them in curiosity and high amusement.
And then madam herself, resplendent in diamonds, shimmering mauve satin, and a bodice cut so low that her rouged nipples were in danger of popping fully free, came sweeping out of her salon in a cloud of heavy perfume. In her wake trailed her two famous redheads, Melissa and Melita.
Gareth knew them both well.
Too well.
Heat burned through his blood as their sultry gazes caressed his body, and he remembered certain unique pleasures each was capable of bringing. One with her mouth, the other with her toes.
God help him.
"Ah, you've made it," the abbess purred, all smiles, all charming hospitality. She touched Gareth's arm, then turned her smile on Juliet. "Come, now, follow me. I'll have Melita bring up supper, as well as soap, a razor, and some clean sheets to tear up for baby napkins. You'll be quite comfortable, I can assure you."
"And a cradle?" Juliet asked.
"I do believe it's already there."
Juliet nodded. "I guess that's all we need, then." She glanced uncertainly at her husband. "Right, Gareth?"
"Right," he muttered and, taking her arm, wordlessly led her upstairs.