A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(10)

She gestured to the young women sprawled about on woven mats making a great production of drying and displaying themselves. With the curl of a finger, she beckoned a voluptuous, dark-haired siren to her side. “Such a lovely, lush mouth.” She traced the girl’s lips. “Made for lascivious pleasures.” She cupped and caressed the girl’s breasts, circling the nipples until they stood taut and erect.

While some in the room self-consciously shifted in an attempt to hide burgeoning erections, to Ned’s growing discomfort, others openly masturbated or cavorted with the few bemasked female guests whose presence revealed decidedly voyeuristic inclinations. Gauging the growing interest of her guests, the hostess surveyed the room with a self-satisfied smile.

“For those unfamiliar with our Otaheitian customs, cleanliness and frequent and energetic copulation are believed essential to good health and vitality...as is the ceremonial inspection of every female’s...Garden of Eden...prior her to first sexual encounter.

DeVere smirked. “First encounter, my arse.”

The madam turned the girl around, back to her guests, and bent her at the waist to thrust forth the shapely globes of her buttocks. Licking a finger, the madam traced it along the glistening pink labia and then spread the lips to reveal an enlarged clitoris. “Observe the Otaheitian mark of beauty.”

“Good God!” Ned gasped.

DeVere roared with laughter. “The bawd’s brazenness surpasses even my jaded expectations!”

“As a mark of honor,” the hostess continued, unaffected, “I shall now bestow the privilege of that sacrament upon my esteemed guests.” Releasing the girl, Queen Oberea took up a scepter shaped like a giant phallus, assumed a commanding seat on a throne bedecked with orchids, clapped her hands, and cried out, “Let the rites of Venus begin!”





CHAPTER FIVE




After they had dressed Madam Hayes in her Otaheitian regalia and were certain of the company’s preoccupation with the festivities, Mrs. Andrews turned her attention to Phoebe. From her simply dressed hair, earlier concealed by a modest cap, she let loose a number of thick, golden strands to cascade over one shoulder and topped the rest with a wreath of flowers. The gown was diaphanous and classically inspired, a seductively modified remnant from last season’s production of Shakespeare’s Cleopatra.

“What if I am recognized?” Phoebe asked.

“You will hide your face as any so-called woman of virtue,” the wardrobe mistress scoffed. “You’d be surprised how many of them visit brothels incognito.”

Peeping through the door crack, Phoebe noted several well-dressed and bemasked women among the revelers. “Why do they come?” she asked.

“Do you really wish to know?”

“Yes, if I am to go amongst them,” Phoebe said.

“There are, of course, Sapphists.”

“What is a Sapphist?”

Mrs. Andrews’ voice lowered to a whisper. “An unnatural creature. A woman who enjoys other women.”

Phoebe frowned. “You don’t mean...”

“I do, indeed.” The wardrobe mistress raised a brow in a meaningful look.

“Oh.” Phoebe covered her mouth. “I had no idea of such things...”

“Of course, others come for the services of well-endowed men,” the elder woman confided. “Much like mares in season seeking the prize stallion.”

“There are men who prostitute themselves? And women who actually seek such gratification?”

“Some do, duckie, and many men offer their services for free. Then again, there are those of both sexes who are sexually excited just by watching others fornicate. There be much that goes on in these places that will surely shock the likes of an innocent duckling like you.” She draped a fleshy arm around the younger woman with a look of maternal concern. “Are you certain you still wish to go amongst the vile reprobates?”

While Phoebe was no longer innocent in acts of physical intimacy, this new information was alarming and placed all in an entirely new and disconcerting context. She found her courage wavering. She swallowed hard, marshaling her nerve. “Perhaps you should remind me again why I am doing this?”

“To find a protector who will promote you on stage and keep you in style, luvie. If it is your will, the power of all England is, at present, rutting in the next room.” She grinned, attempting to make light of the situation. “Look at the bright side. You’ll have ample opportunity to inspect your prospective gent’s...er...equipment.”

“But can they be so very different? Men’s...equipment?” Phoebe asked.

Her companion chuckled. “Aye, but how they use it really makes all the difference.”

“How do you mean?”

“Whether they use their...gifts...solely for their own pleasure or their partner’s, of course.”

“Of course.” Phoebe digested this with a frown. She had never considered the act of coupling all that pleasurable. Ridiculous and messy, perhaps, but never pleasurable. “The Viscount DeVere, what does he look like?” she asked.

“His member or his person, luvie?” The wardrobe mistress cackled.

Heat rose instantly to Phoebe’s cheeks. “I meant his person, of course.”

“Of course you did.” The wardrobe mistress winked. “But either way, I durst say he’ll not be too hard to spot, as he’s the kind of gent wont to spread his favors. As to his person, he’s midthirtyish, tall, with blazing blue eyes. Devilishly handsome. Find the women, and you’ll no doubt find DeVere.”