A Seduction in Scarlet

The Aphrodite's Club Series ~ Book #1

PORTIA + MARCUS'S STORY

EXCERPT

 1850
Aprhodite’s Club, London

Portia felt as if everyone in the room was staring at her; not directly, but with curious darting glances. But they couldn’t see her; the veil covering her face made certain of that. She may as well have been invisible.

The knowledge gave her power, and a sense of security. She was free to look and judge and make her choice, and no one would know. For someone who had spent much of her grown life with the eyes of others upon her, watching and judging her, it was incredibly liberating.

She almost hadn’t come tonight.

Victoria—Her Majesty the Queen—was feeling poorly and Portia had been expecting a summons to the palace to sit with her. Fortunately it hadn’t come. Portia felt equal parts of relief and guilt over that. Victoria was increasing again, and it frustrated her that she could not do all the things she wished to. She relied upon her friends and ladies-in-waiting to take her mind off her thickening body. But tonight Prince Albert had stayed at her side, and Portia was not required.

After supper she went early to bed, pleading a headache. Her mother, whose own headaches were infamous, did not need to be convinced and let her go without a quibble. Hettie, her faithful maid and only confidante, had been waiting. Her plain, good-natured face was creased with concern.

“Are you sure, lieben? You can change your mind.”

“Hettie, you said you would help!”

Hettie took her hand, squeezing it. “And so I will. As long as you are not expecting to find love.”

“Love?” Portia raised an eyebrow. “I am seeking passion, Hettie. A warm body holding mine. I want to feel like a woman instead of a monument. Is that so wrong?”

“No, lieben, of course it isn’t. Come and let me help you dress . . .”

When she was ready, Hettie wrapped her closely in a dark cloak, and Portia slipped out to the waiting hired coach.

Now here she was in Aphrodite’s sparkling salon.

There were plenty of gentlemen present. Some were good looking but most were not. Portia did not expect a god. She was looking for that certain something, that moment of attraction, that spark that said this was the one. Behind the veil her gaze traveled from man to man. This one too short, this one too fat, this one whose voice was too loud, this one glancing at his pocket watch as if he had to be somewhere else . . .

Was she seeking fault? What if she did not find him?

Portia moved a little restlessly, and the scarlet silk rustled about her. The dress was tight and low-cut, giving her slim body a new voluptuousness, and making her feel surprisingly sensual. It was a dress to wear to an assignation Hettie had announced, as if she knew, and no man would be able to resist her. And the brilliance of the color . . . it had been so long since Portia had worn anything other than mourning and half-mourning.

She dreamed about the dress last night. One of her restless, feverish dreams in which a man held and caressed her in the darkness. And then, just before the end, he turned to the window and the moonlight fell upon his face and she saw that it was him. Marcus Worthorne. Her seventeen year old fantasy from that summer long ago.

Portia sighed now, and wondered if that was her trouble. She didn‘t want just any man; she wanted someone who didn’t exist. Because of course the Marcus Worthorne who had grown and developed in her mind wasn’t the boy she’d known at seventeen. He wasn’t real. He couldn‘t possibly be.

When she arrived tonight, Aphrodite had greeted her and spoken to her discreetly. “Do not worry if there is no one here who catches your eye. There is always next time.”

But Portia knew it was quite possible there may not be another chance.

Ever.

She may not summon up the courage again, or circumstances may step in to prevent her. This was her moment and she must make the most of it. She must take whatever fate gave her.

So here she sat on her chair in her scarlet silk gown, with the ruffles of lace at the hem, and a scarlet veil covering her face and hair. The glass of champagne she held in her hand had been replaced three times. Or was it four? She no longer kept count. She was feeling lightheaded, but it was not an unpleasant sensation. Rather like floating in a warm, comfortable cloud, while all about her Aphrodite’s guests moved and conversed, making their choices. Surely this was far more honest than the dreadful debutante ball she remembered attending as a girl? If a woman was going to sell herself to the highest bidder then let it all be out in the open . . . 

She turned her head, just as he moved into her field of vision. Her spinning world came to an abrupt halt. The sights and sounds around her merged in a meaningless blur. 

Dear God it cannot be . . .

Was Aphrodite a witch, for how else could she have known? But of course Aphrodite didn’t know. Portia had placed herself in the hands of fate and fate had given her a strange and remarkable gift. Marcus Worthorne, the man of her dreams, was standing in the salon here at Aphrodite’s Club.

**********

Marcus hadn’t visited Aphrodite’s before. That was not to say he hadn’t visited houses of pleasure and bawdy houses, just not this particular one. He had made Aphrodite’s acquaintance, of course—the courtesan was his sister-in-law’s natural mother. But to visit her club . . . no, he hadn’t done that, hadn’t felt it was quite proper. Now, with the invitation in his pocket, the situation had changed.

Aphrodite, an older version of Francesca, had smiled at him as he entered the salon, but she had not shown him any particular favor. Good. Marcus preferred it that way. This was strictly private, nothing to do with family relationships.  

For a time he prowled about the glittering and gaudy salon, enjoying the company of the beautiful women, sipping his champagne. It was as if he’d stepped into a fairytale where the princesses wore very little and were prepared to make all his dreams come true—if his pockets were deep enough.

Well, and what was wrong with that? It wasn’t as if he was looking for a respectable wife, for God’s sake. Just a couple of hours pleasure with a companion seeking the same. They could enjoy each other and go their separate ways. But which woman, that was the difficult question. They were all lovely, all charming; it made it impossible to choose.

And then he saw her.

She was wearing scarlet, a dress that clung to her curves, the bodice so low her bosom was barely covered. It could have appeared tacky but the woman’s posture was so regal, so assured, Marcus thought she might well have worn sackcloth and still have the bearing of a queen. He wished he could see her face, but the veil she wore over her head reached to her shoulders, and he could not see through it. The mystery woman was seated beside a gilt statue of Cupid, and she was so still that she might have been a statue herself. Although he couldn’t see her face or her eyes, Marcus had the oddest sensation that she was watching him.

He made another circuit of the room. The women were still beautiful and so obviously wanting to please, but now they all looked the same. Marcus didn‘t know what was wrong with him tonight, but his steps led him back to the lady in scarlet.

He was intrigued by her. She was sitting so still, but she wasn’t really like a thing of stone. Her skin looked too warm, too soft, too touchable. And Marcus wanted to touch her.

She moved.       

Just a slight shift of position, but enough to make him think that she was very aware of him. Perhaps she was as interested in him as he was in her? He thought it would be amusing to find out; to set her a little test . . .

Marcus began to prowl the room again, but this time he was keeping a surreptitious eye on her. Did the face beneath the veil turn a little to follow his progress? One of the beautiful demi monde wriggled up to him, smiling, stroking his arm as she spoke to him. He leaned down, giving her his full attention, and made a joke. She laughed and tapped him on the arm with her painted fan.

Marcus glanced over at the woman in scarlet. Oh yes, she was definitely watching him. Her head was turned toward him and she was leaning forward in her chair the better to observe him through the crowd. As if she did not want him to notice her interest, she turned quickly away, presenting him with the elegant curve of her shoulder, casually lifting her champagne glass to her lips.

Marcus strolled on, engaging another of the beautiful women in conversation, and then another, but the game palled when the lady in scarlet did not look again.

“Enough,” he murmured, suddenly impatient with her and himself. He set off toward her, cutting his way through the small clusters of guests, his gaze fixed on her like a hunting jungle cat.

She heard his approach, or perhaps she sensed it. She turned toward him just before he reached her. He saw her body stiffen, as if she was preparing herself. Was she shy? More probably she wasn’t familiar with her surroundings. A first time visitor. An innocent.

Marcus smiled. This grew better and better.

The view from where he stood was truly delightful. Her breasts swelled over the bodice of her dress, plump and flawless, her skin like milk. A lady then, and neither old nor wrinkled. He wondered whether she knew the effect she was having on the men in the room. Whether she realized how desperately he wanted to reach out and draw the scarlet neckline down that tiny bit, so that the peaks of her luscious breasts were disclosed to his gaze and his hands. And his mouth.

"Your glass is empty,” he said, his voice deep and soft and intimate. “Will you allow me to bring you another?”

The veil appeared flimsy but was in fact surprisingly impenetrable; he could only just see the pale blur of her features. She was hidden from him and he found it frustrating. He wanted to see into her eyes. He wanted to gaze at her mouth. He wanted to know her.

She said nothing.

“We seem to be unattached, you and I,” he went on, as if her silence didn’t matter to him. “We’re watchers while the world goes by. Do you prefer to watch, is that why you’re here? To watch?”

Still nothing.

“If you want to join me, I promise you I can be fascinating company.” He took a step closer, and her head tilted to keep him in view. Her perfume reached him, something musky and sweet, teasing his senses. Her hand lifted, hovering over her cleavage, as if to preserve her modesty. “No, don’t,” he murmured huskily. “You are the stuff dreams are made of, lady. Don’t spoil it by playing the prude.”

He thought he saw the flash of her eyes. She hesitated, and then her hand returned to her lap.

“Thank you.” He smiled as if they were lovers already, his eyes as hot as his need. “May I?” Before she could move again, he bent down and lifted her hand in his, raising it to his lips. She was wearing gloves, but her flesh was warm underneath the thin cloth. She didn’t want him this close, he could tell, and when he released her she folded her fingers tightly and dismissed him by turning her head away. Marcus stepped back.  

“You wish to be alone?”

Nothing.

“A pity.” He let his gaze run over her one last time, committing her to memory. “I think we would have enjoyed each other’s company.”

He bowed, sober now, but as he strolled away he was struggling with a keen sense of disappointment. The veiled lady intrigued him. He wanted her. Marcus mocked himself: Why was he seeking the unattainable? The room was full of women. He was being ridiculous and childish wanting the only one he couldn’t have. He drank a couple more glasses of champagne and watched as some of the women performed an elegant display behind a thin curtain, a naked rendition of the birth of Venus in a paper mache clam shell. He wasn’t particularly interested and found it all rather silly.

It was time to go, before he became drunk and belligerent and sorry for himself.

Marcus was collecting his hat and coat when Aphrodite came gliding toward him in her black silk, her jewels glittering at her throat, her beautiful face timeless.

“Marcus,” she said, “please do not leave yet.”

“I think I must, Madame,” he was polite but firm.

“Is my club not to your liking?”

“Your club is magnificent. Your girls are beautiful.”

“But you are not in the mood to be pleased by mere beauty, oui? You want something more. Would it change your mind if you knew that there is a certain lady who very much wishes for your company?”

“I’m sure there are other gentlemen who would be more appreciative than I—”

“I speak of the lady in the veil, Marcus.”

“The lady in scarlet?”

“You are surprised?” She smiled. “She was very taken with you, mon ami. This is a special commission. Her identity is a secret, and she will wear her veil while she is with you. One evening, Marcus, that is all she requires. Can you give her an evening to remember for the rest of her life?”

Marcus removed his hat and handed it to her with a droll look. “I think I can manage that, Madame.”