A Wild Night's Bride (The Devil DeVere #1)(11)

Phoebe nodded and donned her domino.

“Best to wait a bit, duckie,” the wardrobe mistress advised, straightening Phoebe’s headdress. “The gents’ll be done soon enough. They’ll rest and drink and then go at it fresh. Let the frenzy die down. And when you go out there,” she counseled, “you must move about like a woman of the world turning a blind eye to the goings-on. They’ll take you for a guest by your dress, but they’ll still be little better than wild rutting beasts, so don’t enter any private rooms.”

After a short interval, Phoebe slipped into the receiving chamber. The scene, much as Mrs. Andrews described it, was no less an assault to both her senses and her sensibilities. Redolent of the pungent scent of sex and sweat, it was as if the room itself was alive with undulating bodies entangled in coition, an act she’d once ascribed to feelings of love and intimacy. Now she knew only revulsion.

Phoebe strolled the room, affecting a jaded detachment to the shocking displays, as if they were all merely players on a stage. She moved about with circumspection whilst taking in the selection of lechers—her would-be protectors—with clothing discarded, wigs askew, sprawled out in depleted satiation, caught up in the throes of fellatio, or engrossed in various stages of copulation.

Her stomach turned to think of giving her body to any of them. Weaving and skirting the moaning, panting, and writhing human obstacles in her path, Phoebe began the search for her quarry until startled by a firm hand on her arm.

“What have we here? Fresh game perhaps?” asked the voice of George Capel-Coningsby, Viscount Malden, a close adherent of the prince and one of several men Phoebe had wished to avoid. She only hoped he would not recognize her in turn.

Hiding her apprehension with hauteur, she answered with a jut of her chin. “I fear to disappoint, but I am not part of the entertainment.”

Nevertheless, his hungry eyes lingered on her breasts. “If you are here to be entertained, I assure you I have ample means to accommodate you.”

The boast of his manhood was clear. She smiled tightly. “Perhaps you don’t possess what I desire.”

His brows lifted to his hairline. “A Sapphist, are you?”

Her half-smile neither confirmed nor denied the statement.

“Perhaps we might share some carnal delights after all? I find three can be a very cozy number,” he said.

Seeking escape, Phoebe scanned the room until hitting upon a lone gentleman, nearly hidden behind a large palm, nursing what looked like a coconut, and looking conspicuously out of place.

“I’m afraid I have no interest. Pray, excuse me, a companion awaits.” She wondered briefly if her would-be savior was perhaps one of those voyeurs, those sexually incited by watching others, but the more she considered him, the less she thought so. In the end, she decided he looked the least debauched and, therefore, the least dangerous of the lot. She shrugged out of Lord Malden’s grasp and boldly advanced across the room.

***

Abandoned to his own devices by the disgusted DeVere when he’d refused to join in the ongoing orgy, Ned had called for another drink, which he now regarded with a scowl. The first had done much to ease his discomfort, filling him with a pleasant languor. Perhaps a second round of the poisonous potion would allow him to get through the rest of the evening. Deciding the soothing effects of the vile brew would be well worth the sacrifice, he gave a half-shrug, took a large breath, and downed the second bowl in a bitter choking draught.

“Is it really that bad?” inquired a sultry, feminine voice.

“Yeth, horrendouthly bad,” he answered. Ned looked up from his drink, immediately taken aback by the lovely form that accompanied the voice and then cursed his tongue for making him sound like the village idiot.

She laughed, a delightful sound. “Then why on earth do you drink it?”

“When in Rome,” he answered with a half-smile, pleased with himself for having responded without any S words this time. Who was she? He wondered if the warm sensation that had overtaken him was due to the beautiful and mysterious woman or the drink.

“Indeed,” she answered. “It is much like Rome. Caligula’s Rome, is it not?” He noted the wry twist to her lips, lovely lips at that. Her tone clearly indicated little fascination with the scene of decadent debauchery. “You don’t find it entertaining either?” she asked, confirming his thoughts.

“Not particularly.” Taking care with the Ls, he managed another brief but intelligible response. “I am no Sybarite and, thus, have no taste for such things.”

“Truly?” Blue eyes behind the feathered mask raked over him with renewed interest. “Then why have you come?”

“I am with a friend.”

“On the contrary, you are quite alone,” she observed with a hint of wit that made him smile.

“My friend is otherwise...engaged.” There now, progress at last, almost a complete sentence. The numbness in his mouth had begun to dissipate. His body felt light and his spirit languid and more at ease than he’d felt since his arrival. “Would you care to take some air?” he asked, suddenly emboldened. “The west side of this house has quite a lovely garden.”

She seemed to consider his proffered arm with hesitation. “I am not what you think...”

“For hire?” he volunteered. “I had no such thoughts. Pray, disabuse yourself that I have designs on your person, madam. I only desire a companion for a brief escape out of doors.” Escape was right. The drink had gone completely to his head. He felt queasy, slightly woozy, and suddenly stifled by the perfumed scent of flowers and the jungle of greenery.