Black Silk. Sharon Page

being ruined. Think about being pregnant, possibly.

      Think about how gloriously she had thrown away her life.

      He had promised her the clue, and now he must live up to his promise. Besides, he needed the clue, too.

      The brandy began to taste sour in Dash’s mouth, and his head buzzed with the descent from lust and alcoholic madness.

      He’d thought his cousin hadn’t known.

      Murderer.

      The word still rang in his head. His cousin Robert thought he was responsible for an innocent man’s death—for the death of Robert’s older brother, Simon.

      He needed to shove aside those thoughts. He wished he could go back to Verity to obliterate his memories with ecstasy. To obliterate his mind.

      There was drink to be found everywhere—carried on silver trays by half-naked footmen. He threw two glasses of champagne into his belly. The dull roar in his head focused once more.

      The couplets of the clue that brought him here danced in his head:

      Dark pleasures on the fringes of Mayfair for the daring, the bold

      Bindings at slim wrist and ankle fair, the flick of a lash to behold

      ’Til torment and ecstasy shatter the voluptuous lass

      And willing wenches use clever tongues to pleasure a gentleman’s ass

      The last line was raw, blunt, designed to titillate. He enjoyed anal play, especially from a woman’s tongue—it was a treat rarely bestowed. A soak in the tub followed by a woman lying between his thighs, licking cock, ballocks, and anus. Such a rare boon, he had to admit he’d be almost tempted to take Verity to the dungeon, if she were to enjoy the same fun and avoid the whipping. But genuine horror had shown in her brown eyes at the thought of birch work.

      Scavenger hunters—in couples—held the clue cards and raced toward a plain wooden door set in the wall of one of the back rooms of the town house. He’d been here months ago—Dante’s Dungeon was famed amongst those who sought dark pleasures.

      As he followed the crowd down the narrow, twisting staircase, he overheard snippets of conversation. All the women expressed the same fear: “Am I really to be bound? To be whipped?” And the men laughed about their fate with the wicked jades awaiting them—a pretty pink tongue thrusting in their asses.

      Dash joined the crowd that stood in the shadows of the punishment cell. One nude auburn beauty was being shackled in place. She gave her partner a fetching smile. A proper little submissive, she would accept her whipping with pretty grace.

      The men who bound her were footmen dressed only in black breeches, with massive codpieces of gold. Two attended her, one on each side, locking the iron bracelets around her wrists. They bent, locked up her slim ankles. Her back was to the expectant crowd—full hips, large derriere, small waist.

      She sighed delightedly as the footmen pinched her nipples and spanked her bottom. “Oh, yes. I have been naughty. I do need to be punished.” She half turned, face enraptured.

      He scanned the crowd. Craven stood with a buxom blonde on his arm. Hell, he wanted to break Craven’s nose. No sign of Barrett, Craven’s partner.

      And, damn, Robert was there—he saw the back of his cousin’s head, candlelight touching the curls as black as his own. A man stood beside him, a man who drew pensively on his cheroot—Jack Tate, the gaming hell proprietor who owed him twenty thousand pounds.

      A woman walked forward, dressed in only a dyed-black corset and Hessians tailored to fit her shapely legs. The Queen of Dark Pleasure. She wore a mask, of course, with feathers of purple, the face encrusted with diamonds. Her lips were smeared with creamy crimson paint, her smile superior and cruel. A towering powdered wig disguised her hair.

      Many speculated she was the Dowager Duchess of Derby.

      All around him, the waiting women caught their breath. The Queen flicked the whip, sending the tail snapping against the stone flags on the floor. All jumped. One woman squealed. The victim, the auburn woman, tipped her head back, letting her curls spill down to her lower back. She then bent forward, exposing the line of her spine. Her hands fisted, and she betrayed herself with a flinch that sent the chains rattling.

      Though he’d been in the same position himself, naked and spread-eagled, he had to fight the urge to free the auburn girl. He knew he could tolerate any pain, any torture—he had before. But a delicate, innocent, trusting woman…

      He saw them then. A woman with a robe tossed around her, loose and flowing. A gentleman walked at her side, holding her hand and speaking in soothing tones.

      Dash followed them back to the stairs.

      “A thousand for your clue.”

      Startled, the man paused and halted his lady, who held the robe and gaped. The woman gave a small gasp, a flutter of her lashes.

      Had he made love to her one night? He couldn’t remember. He did recognize the man now. Viscount Braxton.

      Braxton give a high-pitched laugh. “The prize is twenty thousand and a private harem trained in the erotic arts at Eden Manor.”

      Eden Manor was a notorious country estate. Rosalyn Rose ran the place and taught her girls not to shy away from any sexual game—no matter how perverse. Reputedly the girls were innocents when they began, from impoverished gentility, desperate enough to go willingly to their fates. These were prostitutes who could not be purchased for money. Rosalyn knew her trade—she had made this “harem” exclusive and legendary.

      Did it mean Rosalyn was involved in the disappearances of the Lady F and the other? Dash’s throat knotted as he remembered that Eden Manor was only a dozen miles north of his family seat.

      “But you have to win to claim the twenty.” Coolly Dash let his tone remind Braxton that he would likely not win. “But I will pay five.”

      The girl trembled. Her back must be stinging and raw. Her eyes spoke volumes, yet she dutifully did not speak.

      “Five, eh?”

      Braxton was in dun territory, close to having his credit refused.

      With a shrug, Braxton pulled a card from a breast pocket.

      “What does this mean?” Frowning, Maryanne again read the four-line clue.

      Ascend to heaven to find true delight

      But as you each take on orgasmic flight, you must remember to hold on tight.

      The clue will be won if lovers find the position that lets them soar

      And below, serpent’s river and thundering horse will hear the roar.

      “You truly only paid for this—you didn’t do those things?”

      “No, sweetheart. No whippings. No clever tongues pleasuring my arse.”

      She knew her cheeks were flaming. “How much did it cost you?”

      “Enough, love.” Swansborough lounged on the chaise again. His eyes were shut, his long legs sprawled off the end of the ivory silk cushions.

      “How does one ascend to heaven?”

      “One comes, love.”

      “There must be more to the clue than that.” Suddenly Maryanne realized she had spoken to him the way she would to her sisters. She had forgotten who he was, his status, his station. Quickly she added, “My lord.”

      He laid his hands on his chest, fingers entwined. Black curls peeked out in the open vee of his white shirt.

      “To what would you hold on tight…?” she mused.

      “In orgasmic flight? Depending on the position, your lovely plump tits, your sweet derriere, your slim ankles…ah, I could go on.”

      “You are not helping.”