Reckless (4 page)

Montague was up on the dais, an ironic smile on his lined, elegant face as he exhorted the motley crowd. He looked paler than usual, weaker, and Adrian knew with a sudden, sinking despair that Monty was getting sicker. He lifted a shaking hand to hold aloft the phallus-shaped goblet they were all supposed to drink from, some sort of profane communion. Adrian himself always avoided that part of the festivities—he was much too fastidious to share a cup with some of the worst degenerates in Europe, and he had no great faith in what exactly lay in the concoction of wine and herbs. On one occasion an
elixir of ergot rot had sent the entire party into hallucinations of sometimes horrific proportions. Pawlfrey had never recovered; he'd ended locked up in one of his family's country estates, raving mad.

Adrian had more faith in the strength of his own mind, but he preferred to make his own decisions when it came to the ingestion of drugs. He knew how well he tolerated absinthe or opium and regulated his use. The thought of someone else drugging his wine was unacceptable.

He could see Lady Whitmore on the other side of the avid group of nuns and monks, with the occasional bishop's miter thrown in. She was looking fetching, as always, in her habit. She was undoubtedly one of the great beauties, and she'd made it more than clear she was willing to lie with him. All he had to do was nod her way and she'd be on her back, or knees, in minutes.

Something stopped him. For all her flirtatiousness, her languid glances and casual touches, she left him with the feeling that she derived no real pleasure from the actual act. Even the well-paid courtesans he usually cavorted with expressed more enthusiasm.

No, he'd as soon bed her stiff-necked, virginal cousin, Miss Spenser. In fact, that particular fantasy had invaded his dreams recently. Only last night he'd been alone for a change, half asleep, and he felt his body harden at the thought of someone's mouth. The prim, serious mouth of Lina's cousin. He wanted to
see if her hair was the same rich copper between her legs. He wanted to see if the freckles covered her breasts, her belly, the insides of her thighs. He wanted to strip the unflattering clothes from her long body, to—

Montague's voice rose to a wavering crescendo, and he passed the goblet to the next acolyte, disappearing back into the shadows. Lady Whitmore was the third in line, clearly anxious to get started, and Adrian knew he was going to have to make up his mind. Evangelina Whitmore was beautiful, available, he'd never had her. He was a fool to even have second thoughts.

As she moved he noticed the tall monk who'd been shadowing her and frowned. Had she already chosen her partner for the next hour, or for the full three days ahead of them?

And then he saw the white ribbon on the monk's arm. A watcher. He had no particular problem with that—he'd found a number of women enjoyed an audience. It inspired them to new heights. Though he always wondered if their noisy pleasure wasn't then more for the audience and less the result of his own expertise.

Not that that was something that troubled him overmuch. He was quite gifted at the giving and receiving of pleasure. An audience had long since ceased to be a novelty for him—if Lina Whitmore
came equipped with a witness then he might look elsewhere.

But to his surprise he saw them part company, and he wondered if he'd been mistaken. He'd been very sure they were together, yet Evangelina was disappearing into the darkness, away from him, and he wondered if she'd gone after Montague. There'd be no joy from that union, for either of them, but that was hardly his problem.

It was the monk who suddenly interested him.

While he considered himself broad-minded when it came to the pursuit of pleasure, he found his own tastes ran to women exclusively. Monty had always chided him for his lack of imagination when it came to choosing partners thusly, but Adrian ignored his old friend. Women were such delightful creatures, so beautifully constructed, as if made for one reason and one alone.

He knew otherwise, but his blood was up and he was focused on that one thing alone. With Lina Whitmore gone, he needed to find someone equally enticing. It shouldn't be that difficult.

“Why the hesitation, my boy?” Etienne had sidled up to him, his monk's habit open to expose a burly chest thick with grizzled hair. Etienne was partial to group efforts, while in general Adrian preferred one woman at a time. There were too many people at an orgy—he tended to lose track of limbs and mouths, and sheer sensation had palled long ago.

Adrian gave him his charming smile. “My intended has gone off with another. I find I must regroup.”

“Can you not join them?”

The idea of having sex with his oldest friend was entirely unappealing. He remained close with Montague, whose tastes had made themselves evident later in life, by keeping the question of physical affection at a distance. To put it bluntly, he didn't care who or what Montague fucked, as long as it wasn't him.

“I'll look elsewhere, I think,” he said casually, his eyes still on the new monk. He could tell by the way he walked that he was quite young, and he moved farther into the gardens decorated with impressively explicit statues. Adrian could tell by the rigidity in the young monk's shoulders that he had never seen or considered what was going on between the carved participants, and—

A slow smile curved his mouth. “I believe I've found my muse.”

Etienne followed his gaze. “You've changed your habits,
mon cousin.
I thought you didn't care for your own sex.”

“She's female,” Adrian said briefly, watching as she moved away, deeper into the Garden of Delights. She hadn't screamed or fainted—perhaps he'd underestimated her. She must be far more experienced than he'd guessed.

“Ah, I see. And you've chosen her? Enjoy yourself, then. If she's game, come find us.”

Adrian's only response was a faint smile. He started after her, moving silently with the shadows so as not to alarm her, only to find her starting up at the coup de grâce, the undeniably lovely and undeniably pornographic statue of the
Rape of the Sabine
s.

In this case, rape seemed to hold the more common meaning rather than the classical one of simple abduction, as the ever-ready marble Roman was in the midst of mounting his new bride while on horseback.

He'd always found that particular move highly unlikely—even the most reliable animal would have a difficult time not responding to his master's rhythmic movements. He'd tried it once with his most recent mistress during his stay in Italy. After a great deal of tumult, they had retired to a bed, laughing, and he hadn't attempted it again.

The young monk had frozen, and Adrian knew she was staring at the exaggerated member of the Roman soldier, yet another historical inaccuracy that in no way detracted from the erotic power of the statue. Adrian could sense dismay in the set of her shoulders, and he chuckled. Poor innocent lamb.

She was walking into the torch-lit gardens, away from the crowds. The Heavenly Host was dividing now, in pairs, in groups, and occasionally voices called to her, inviting her to take off the white ribbon
and join them, either to watch or partake, but she shook her cowled head, moving on.

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.

B
loody 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 her 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.”

At the ominous, enticing sound of that single word she tried to scramble to her feet, but he caught her, pulling her up against his hard, strong body, one hand around her waist, imprisoning her quite easily. “Are you going to speak, or is this vow of silence permanent? Not that I'm not enjoying this game tremendously, but sooner or later it's going to come down to my bedding you, and you know it. Otherwise you wouldn't be here.”

She could push back her hood and declare herself, and he'd release her, horrified at his mistake. He had no interest in plain, virginal Charlotte Spenser—he was here looking for a talented playmate.

But then everyone would know. He'd scarcely keep quiet about it, and doubtless everyone in London society would find it vastly entertaining. She'd never be able to show her face in town again.

Which wouldn't be a terrible fate, but she couldn't abandon Lina. No, her best bet was to go along with him, keep her head down and say nothing and wait for her next chance to run. She'd gotten away from him once, and would have succeeded if it hadn't been for the wretched sandal. Barefoot, she could be fleet and determined—she was used to running through the meadows at home, barefoot. He'd be no match for her.

She calmed her struggles, and his grip loosened. He released her, and she knew a totally mad moment of regret. There had been something undeniably wonderful about being held in Adrian Rohan's arms.

It was hardly the stuff of her fantasies, she tried to remind herself briskly. For one thing, he thought she was a man. For another, this was a place of unbridled licentiousness. He'd probably shag a goat if one wandered by.

“You've decided to be agreeable?” Rohan said. “How mysterious. Either you've taken a vow of silence, young friar, or I know you. That, or perhaps your voice might betray a less than patrician upbringing. Let me assure you I'm wonderfully democratic when it comes to sex. But not to worry—I have far better things for your mouth to be doing.”

Charlotte thought of that statue, the one where the female had actually put her mouth on the sculpted male. If he wanted someone so do
that
he was going to have to look elsewhere.

He held out his hand, and she surprised herself by taking it, using it to balance herself as she took off her recalcitrant sandal. She needed every advantage she could get. He took it from her hand before she could drop it on the ground.

“Such a small sandal. You have very delicate feet,” he observed. “And lovely hands as well. I think I'm going to enjoy the next three days immensely.”

Three days? Good God, what could he possibly find to do with someone for three whole days?

She'd been a fool to attempt this, she thought, sick with misery. She couldn't afford to waste time berating herself now—it would have to wait until she got back to the safety of her room. In the meantime, she had to concentrate on getting away from Rohan and any other degenerates roaming these grounds in search of a victim.

“Are you ready, Brother Silence?” he murmured, his voice mocking, as if he knew very well she wasn't who she pretended to be. Well, of course—he knew she was but someone masquerading as a monk, and he was playing along, barely.

But why hadn't he demanded to see her face? He'd made no effort to push the cowl back, thank God, but wasn't that slightly odd? Wouldn't he want to know
what the person he planned on bedding looked like? Apparently not, and she could only count her blessings. There was still a chance she might pull this off, escape before he found out her identity.

Adrian was still holding her hand. She simply nodded and let him lead her toward the temple.

 

Evangelina picked up her heavy skirts and followed the servant out into the darkness lit only by the lantern the footman was carrying. The festivities had already begun—she could hear the sounds of carnal delight fill the evening air, and she suddenly thought of Charlotte. She'd meant to keep a close eye on her innocent cousin, perhaps enlist a few friends to make certain she was safe. One of those friends had been Montague.

She hadn't even noticed his collapse, his sudden disappearance, too intent on her twin purposes of keeping Charlotte safe and getting Adrian Rohan into her bed. Once the servant had found her and whispered in her ear, all Lina's plans had vanished, and she had taken off with the man.

As she climbed back into one of the flat-bottomed boats that were used to carry the revelers to and from the abbey ruins she knew a moment's misgivings. This wasn't beyond the realm of the Mad Monks—one of them could have dressed in Monty's livery to lure her away. Games like this one were simply part of the frivolity.

If that were indeed the case, she wasn't sure whether she'd be pleased or angry. But no, the man holding the torch wasn't anyone she knew, and he carried himself like a servant, not an aristocrat. Monty must truly be ill.

“Hurry,” she said in a sharp voice.

“Yes, miss. Mr. Dodson told me I was to get you there as quick as can be. His lordship won't take his medicine and is insisting on returning to the party, and Mr. Dodson's that worried.”

“Won't take his medicine?” Lina said grimly. “I'll see to that.”

By the time the boat pulled up back at the quay by Hensley Court she was half-frantic, and she didn't wait for the footman to tie up and help her out, she scrambled onto the riverbank and took off across the wide lawn.

Dodson, Monty's devoted manservant, was waiting for her, wringing his hands and pacing. “Oh, your ladyship,” he said, his voice shaken. “Thank goodness you've come. I'm at my wits' end.”

“How is he, Dodson?”

He was already leading her into the house. “Not good, my lady, though he could be worse. If I could just convince him to retire for the night, to take his medication and rest, but he insists he must return.”

“Insists, does he? I don't think so. He'll have me to reckon with.”

Dodson paused outside the salon door. “It's just
for tonight, my lady. By tomorrow Mr. Pagett should arrive, and he should be able to help the master…”

“What did you say?” came a roar from the room beyond.

Lina pushed the door all the way open. “You always did have devilishly good hearing, Monty.”

She smiled. “Now stop being a prima donna and let Dodson look after you properly.”

In truth, Montague looked awful. His color was gray, and despite the coolness of the night his thin, powdered and patched face was covered in sweat. Nevertheless, he still managed to fix Dodson with a ferocious glare. “What's this about Simon coming early?” he demanded in awful tones.

Dodson had served Montague for too long to be cowed. “I thought it would be for the best, sir. You're getting weaker, you won't listen to your doctor or to me. Perhaps Mr. Pagett will be able to make you see reason.”

“The vicar? Pah!” he said in disgust, his voice breathless as he struggled not to cough. “He's a demmed parson! All he'll do is ring a peal over me, preach to me about the error of my ways. I tell you, Lina, there's nothing worse than a reformed hellion. Just because they've found God or some such nonsense doesn't mean everyone else has to.”