Chapter 24
Positioned at the red velvet dais at the center of Forbidden Pleasures, Argyll took in his kingdom of sin.
Barely clad beauties carried trays of champagne flutes high above their heads and squeezed in narrow openings to deliver drinks to those in need of a second. Or third or fourth. Spirits flowed freely to keep the coins flowing even more freely.
From faro, hazard, and whist, to vingt-et-un, macau table, and piquet, there wasn’t a spare seat.
Flushed, drunken gentlemen deep into their cups tossed down—and lost—fortunes.
Behind them, ladies and noblemen with champagne flutes dangling from their fingers waited for the next vacant seat.
Everyone merrily vied at the chance to lose a fortune to the house.
It was a very good sight.
And yet, his gaze continued drifting not to the action—as it should—but to the small clock on his podium, so he could determine how much time was left until he could join Daria.
The memory of Daria as she’d been, draped in sapphire, his greatest temptation, distracted more than any forbidden fruit.
That deep blue silk shimmered like water, his wife, a veritable siren of the sea.
God, she’d been bloody exquisite.
“… I had it made for you …”
And while Argyll monitored his club, there were other rakes circling his wife, no doubt.
Prey draped in blue silk satin.
“… I had it made for you …”
It was a thought he’d not considered, and why he hadn’t—
Gritting his teeth, Argyll tossed back a dram. He grimaced at the fiery burn and welcomed the sting. But it didn’t have any more effect than water for how much it distracted.
He, the bloody Debauched Duke of Argyll, had imagined the worst fate to befall him in marriage was being so gauche as to lust after his wife.
But this? What’d become of Argyll, sinner of all sinners, had been something he couldn’t have foreseen.
He…cared about his wife more than he ought.
There it was.
With her gone and Argyll monitoring the club, he bloody missed her—not just her exquisite body, though his cock ached to have her now—but by the way she spoke to him as if he weren’t a duke, but simply a man.
The macabre little folksongs she sang, while lying across his chest—in the morning.
In the afternoon. She wanted to know how his business operated, and suggested improvements.
And he’d never known…a man and woman could do those things together. That there could be a relationship where passion raged, but quiet moments carried an even deeper level of intimacy.
Daria didn’t see in Argyll his title, club, or the luxuries he could bestow. The gowns.
She’d looked close enough to see the Poussin above his wall and pull stories from him about his past before he’d even realized what he was sharing.
And it was so bloody easy to speak with her.
And he didn’t know what to do with that.
He could acknowledge she was the only woman he wanted in his bed. That what if in time that changed? What if, as life had proven before, the novelty wore off, and ennui set in, and then…then, he’d truly become his father.
All Argyll’s late mother wanted, more than even her own children, was her husband’s love.
And to hurt Daria that way…?
He’d rather tug his own teeth out.
Argyll rubbed at the back of his neck.
“…I am in love with you for the man you are, Gregory…”
Why? Why should she love him?
“…You are a good man. A man who had a terrible father, but who became a great man because of it. Not a wastrel…”
He signaled the nearest server, the newest girl, a recent hire vetted by Kilburn.
Argyll himself was behind her costume and role here at Forbidden Pleasures.
As he’d anticipated, the plunging decolletage, sheer sleeves, and knee-length cut to the gold silk fabric put her at her best advantage.
She approached with an invitation in her eyes and a sway to her hips that invited as much as promised.
“Hello, Your Grace,” she purred. “Another dram?” The voluptuous beauty drew the bottle of rum between the crevice of her breasts, drawing his gaze to brown areolas peaking above the fabric.
Impatient and too damned frustrated to bother with his usual charm, he held up his glass.
Obliging as he liked his women, the russet-haired courtesan arched her body forward as she poured, her show deliberate.
And as she’d sought with her display, Argyll considered her.
He assessed her as he had all the paramours or potential paramours in his life.
With big breasts, narrow waist, and generous arse, the newest girl possessed just the manner of buxom figure he hungered for.
He waited for the familiar rush of lust—that did not come.
Ruined. In every way.
Only it doesn’t feel like ruin, a voice in his head gleefully pointed out.
Growling, he snatched the drink from her fingers and finished off another. “Leave the bottle.” And just bloody go. He bit back the rude order he really wished to give.
The woman, whose name he couldn’t even remember in this blasted minute, said, “Is there anything else I may entice you—?”
“No. Get back to the patrons,” he said dismissively, focused on the sizeable crowd that merited his complete attention.
Since word of his marriage reached the newspapers and gossips, attendance had picked up once more.
Patrons paid more attention to Argyll’s position on the floors than they did their hands.
Very good for business, that—albeit annoying, if one chose to acknowledge it at all.
Accustomed to being the room’s focus since his boyhood days, those stares merely glanced off him.
“…I don’t want to go alone…I want to be there with you...”
Argyll’s stomach tipped sharply.
His new wife, former wallflower, now duchess, who’d stared with a lonely little expression from the carriage window and lifted her fingers in a parting wave.
And I packed her off into a carriage. Like a lamb to the bloody slaughter.
Something heavy lodged in his chest and refused to ease.
“Oh, Christ,” he whispered.
“Argyll?”
Snapped to attention, Argyll found himself joined by DuMond. He exchanged brief greetings with his friend.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, sentries at the heart of the action. Only one of their gazes fully alert and fixed where it ought to be.
Damn it, focus man!
What a bloody arse. The blade of guilt kept sawing away at his chest.
DuMond’s gaze caught on one of the club’s men filtering among guests. Tall and spindly and brightly dressed as a dandy, no one would dare suspect the heavy weaponry strapped under the gentleman’s jacket or his skill in using them.
DuMond smoothed a hand over his cuff. Observe.
The gentleman at play shifted course and joined a pair of newer members standing for a game of vingt-et-un.
Clubs—where even the most powerful grew desperate and the doors were always opening and closing with new patrons—relied on a system of quick, discreet communication.
And still Argyll’s observation remained not in the present, but in the recent past.
“…You needn’t say it back. I’m only saying it because I love you.”
“Uh…” A flush hit his high, noble cheekbones, “Good evening.” He shut the door.
She spoke so clear and so true. As always, this time and always, she spoke what was immediate and real in her mind.
“…Just the opposite. I didn’t find you dashing. I found you despicable…”
A grin curved his lips.
“Anything out of the ordinary?” DuMond inquired, his mouth didn’t move, but his gaze remained hard at work.
Argyll flattened his mouth.
Yes, me.
The gilded mirrors across the floor revealed DuMond’s queer look; it reminded Argyll to answer.
“There has been no disturbance worth remark.” Yet.
Argyll recommitted himself to attending the floors: London’s finest courtesans in their revealing gowns seduced lords—and ladies—with sultry stares and bold touches.
The clink and tinkle of coins striking coins.
The clink and eventual wobble of the roly-poly ball as it landed in its home, and the celebratory shouts of winning players—and groans of the losers. The sights and sounds were predictable.
But they all knew what was coming—not the depraved patrons embroiled in all seven vices, but rather the men who ruled this house of sin.
And Argyll couldn’t keep his thoughts from dragging back to Daria, before she’d gone out—and even earlier.
When she’d been sprawled boldly and unabashedly open among bolts of fabric; their sated bodies slick with sweat.
That first vision of her, all bright-eyed, desire-flushed, and smiling like he’d taken her to the stars.
Argyll took a breath in slowly through his nose and exhaled through tense lips.
And the latter, as she’d professed her love, her expression fallen.
His jaw rolled, his teeth knocking so hard it was a wonder he didn’t break a damned bone.
“Kilburn’s turned his residence into a fortress,” DuMond announced, his voice hushed. “Per our discussion, he has a guard for every window and two to each door. There’s no way in and no way out, without an entire alarm going up. My wife, your sisters? They are secure.”
Argyll stole another furtive glance at the clock. “I am relieved to know they are in Kilburn’s hands,” he said.
This time, the gaze DuMond bore into Argyll not only judged; it condemned.
He narrowed his eyes. “Do you have something to say, DuMond?”
His partner didn’t mince words. “Your wife should be with Kilburn.”
“Do you doubt my ability to—”
They were interrupted mid-exchange.
From the corner of his eye, Argyll spied two patrons get too close.
Argyll pulled his gloves off quick in signal to the house bullies. He and DuMond had hands on their pistols.
Before the first shouts went up, Bendor, one of the house bullies was already descending on the pair.
An all-out argument erupted between two men: one old and greying, the other young and spoiling for a fight. The smartly dressed fellow found a coveted spot that’d opened at a hazard table.
Normal club action.
Argyll relaxed his hold on his weapon.