A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2) Page 2

  She’d refrained from asking him about it again.

  Now that they’d arrived in London, they had obligations to fulfill, friends to call upon, and soirées to attend. The second morning after their arrival, she paid a morning call to her best friend, Penelope Hunt, stepdaughter of the Marquis of Hartford.

  “Cecily, darling!” Penelope exclaimed as she was shown into the drawing room. “How good it is to see you. I vow, London has been so dreadfully dull without you. Though, I suppose I can hardly begrudge your husband the honor of your company.”

  Cecily swept forward and wrapped her arms around Penelope. “Oh, you cannot know how happy I am. Being married is simply … oh, it has just been wonderful!”

  Her friend smiled and ushered her toward a loveseat before which a silver tea service and Wedgewood china had been placed. She rang for the butler, ordered a plate of biscuits, then turned to face Cecily once they were alone.

  “You and Mr. Cranfield have been the talk of the town since your wedding in Bath. Everyone, oh absolutely everyone, has hailed your match as the romance of the season!”

  “I do not know if I’d go so far as to call it that,” she demurred.

  “Oh, but it is,” Penelope insisted as the biscuits were delivered. She poured tea for them both and laced Cecily’s with sugar and milk—exactly the way she liked it. “And just think, if Margaret Seymour had not tossed him over, he might never have found you in Bath. Ah, but such is the beauty of Fate, is it not?”

  “I believe it is Margaret Rycroft now. Her Grace, the duchess of Avonleah.”

  “Quite a surprise, that match,” Penelope remarked with raised eyebrows. “Perhaps even more so than you and Mr. Cranfield. Tell me, darling, is he good to you?”

  She sighed, feeling a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. “He is perfect, Penelope. I know you are of the opinion that there is no such thing, but Sherry is simply … he loves me, you know.”

  “I do not doubt that he does, my dear. I do hope this happy phase of your marriage lasts.”

  Her friend’s comment should not have surprised her. Approaching her third season without nabbing a husband, Penelope had become a bit jaded. There had been a romance during her first season that had ended bitterly, though her friend never liked to speak of it. The man had broken her heart and she’d hardened herself, convinced no man would be worth having.

  To become a spinster seemed her aim, and in a few more years, Penelope would be firmly—and quite happily—on the shelf.

  Despite her knowledge of this, Cecily’s smile faded as she lowered her teacup into the saucer. “Whatever do you mean?”

  Penelope shrugged. “I do not mean to alarm you, darling, but Mr. Cranfield is a man like any other. They all have their vices. Men of the ton are known to be slaves to those vices, and that includes their whores and mistresses.”

  Her mouth fell open at her friend’s crass language.

  “Good heavens,” she gasped.

  “I so hate to infringe upon your happiness, dear, but surely, your father kept a mistress?”

  Her mind raced as she tried to remember any details from her adolescence that might shed some light on that particular mystery. If her father had kept a mistress, he must have been the most discreet man in all of London. She’d had no inkling.

  “I do not know,” she replied. “But surely, not all of them keep mistresses.”

  Penelope shrugged again, taking a bite of her biscuit. “Those who can afford them do. Those who can’t … well, there are always the brothels for them.”

  Shock rippled through her, turning her stomach. She’d never known her friend to be so worldly about such things.

  “Sheridan would never …” She lowered her gaze and swallowed past the lump in her throat. “He loves me.”

  Penelope set her hand upon her knee, a sympathetic smile upon her face.

  “I do not doubt that he does,” she murmured, “but men have carnal appetites they do not fulfill with their wives. Wives bear children and manage the home. Mistresses and whores please them sexually. It does not mean they do not love us.”

  “Us?” she snapped. “You have never even been married.”

  Instead of being insulted, Penelope laughed. “No, thank heavens, but my mother has … twice. My father—God rest his soul—kept a mistress, and, I do believe the Marquis still keeps a bit of skirt here in town.”

  Cecily saw an opening and changed the subject to the events of the upcoming season and the latest fashions for the remainder of their visit. However, her mind could hardly get invested in the conversation.

  Could Penelope have been right? Now that their honeymoon had ended and they had returned to town for the season, would Sheridan keep a mistress? Would he visit her, and make love to her, and perhaps even … oh, it was too hard to think of. She’d heard of men who bore bastard children with their mistresses. Just the thought of him siring a child on another woman made her ill.

  By the time the visit ended and she set about her short walk home, she’d come to a decision. Her marriage would never come to that—secrets kept about mistresses and illegitimate children. She remained confident in Sheridan’s love, and her ability to please him.

  Did she please him? While the marriage bed had left her feeling a bit unfulfilled, her husband always seemed happy when they finished. Even if they made love almost exactly the same way every time. Even if there existed no variety, and very little passion.

  But what if Penelope had the right of it? If a man had deeper urges than the ones he fulfilled with his wife, then where would he go to satisfy them? Sherry certainly had made no such demands of her, even though she would have been ecstatic if he had. She often had wicked thoughts … thoughts she knew no gently bred lady ought to have. Yet, she’d been afraid that to tell Sheridan her secret desires would cause him to grow disgusted with her. He’d married a lady, not a whore.

  And yet … if she could fulfill his needs, he would have no need for mistresses or whores.

  Brow furrowed in concentration, she walked on, determination causing the wheels in her head to spin rapidly.

  Sheridan hadn’t been in London for all of two days before his bosom beaus came looking for him. They hadn’t all been able to attend his hasty ceremony in Bath, and so insisted that a proper celebration was to be had—men only—complete with drinks, women, and debauchery.

  While he’d insisted that he shouldn’t, they’d insisted otherwise. They’d even gone so far as to call on him at home and enlist Cecily’s aid in convincing him that a gentleman’s evening would be just the thing to celebrate their new marriage.

  His wife, of course, being an innocent lady with no knowledge of such evenings and all they entailed, had encouraged him to go and enjoy himself.

  “We’ve been in each other’s pockets since the wedding,” she’d said with one of her sweet smiles. “That old adage about absence making the heart grow fonder is quite true, my love. Go, and enjoy the evening with your friends. I shall be quite content to spend the evening at home.”

  “Very well,” he’d relented. “But only if you and I spend the entire afternoon together tomorrow. We can do whatever you like.”

  She’d given him a sly grin and declared she’d like to go shopping on Bond Street, where he was to walk beside her in silence and tote her purchases. He’d agreed, and after allowing his valet to dress him for the night, he’d joined three of his best friends from university in the coach that would carry them to Brooks’ for cards and drinks. He heard talk of visiting a brothel, but rather hoped they’d become so involved in their card game that all mention of such debauchery would be forgotten.

  No such luck.

  “Now that the honeymoon is over, have you grown quite bored, Sherry?” asked Tristan Coburn.

  The redheaded second son of an earl sat to his left, eyes focused on his cards with a cigar clenched between two teeth.

  Sheridan’s gaze flitted from his hand for a moment and he frowned. “Bored? Why the devil w
ould you ask such a question?”

  His reply came out a bit terser than he’d meant it to be, but weeks of holding back while making love to his wife had him on edge. The slight fulfillment he found in the marriage bed did very little to squelch the raging fire that had taken residence in his veins.

  “Oh, come now,” urged Bartholomew, Tristan’s elder brother and heir to the earldom. “I have been married for five years now, Sherry, so I know better than these numbskulls. You must be quite ready for a bit of fun.”

  He took a long swallow of brandy.

  “I’ll thank you to mind your own business, both of you,” he snapped as the liquor burned a path through him. He was slightly inebriated, and well on his way to being quite foxed. “Cecily and I happen to enjoy each other’s company. In fact, I’m rather unsure of why I chose to spend the evening with you rather than her at the moment.”

  John Barrett, third son of a baron and naval officer home from sea for a short time, nudged Bartholomew and chuckled. “See how agitated he’s become? He’s positively bursting at the seams. Something must be done.”

  “Quite right, old chap,” Tristan slurred between gulps of brandy. “A visit to Madame Petra’s is in order, before he snaps and kills us all.”

  “A possibility that becomes more likely by the second,” Sheridan seethed from between clenched teeth.

  “I say, Sherry,” Bartholomew added, “do calm down. No one disputes that you love Mrs. Cranfield. Who wouldn’t feel affection for such a lovely, amiable woman? You can hardly be faulted for giving in to your baser urges. That’s the way of the male species.”

  “She never has to know if you’re discreet,” Tristan piped up. “A mistress tucked away out of sight is just the thing.”

  “I don’t want a mistress.” He’d started growling now, a knot of anger working its way through his chest.

  “Quite so,” agreed Bartholomew. “A quality mistress could set a man back several thousand pounds, whereas a whore can get the job done just as well for less money and no fear of her becoming overly attached.”

  Sheridan’s fingers tightened around the decanter of brandy they shared as he poured himself another snifter. He wanted to stand and dash his glass against the wall and rail at them that he did not need sexual release at the hands of a whore or mistress. He desired his wife; he loved her.

  Yet, he became acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t slept for days, his body wound taut as a crossbow. Perhaps they—and his father—were right. If he spared Cecily the baser needs of his sexual urges, she’d likely thank him for it. The fantasies that would reduce her to nothing more than a tart … well, they’d be better enacted on a tart, wouldn’t they?

  Guilt seemed an unnecessary emotion. He was a man, and this was the sort of thing he’d been raised believing to be proper.

  Then, why did he feel nauseous at just the thought of touching someone who wasn’t Cecily?

  By the time he’d finished his drink, he’d resolved himself not to do it—to cry off and go home after the brandy ran out and they all grew tired of cards.

  But then came the drink after that, and then he really became quite foxed and unable to think past the pulsating vein filling his cock with blood and reminding him of his unfulfilled urges. Which just caused him to drink more. When at last he stumbled from Brooks’ flanked by three equally foxed, randy men, he’d quite forgotten that he’d decided accompanying them to a brothel would be a terrible idea.

  It wasn’t until they stood in the parlor of the famous Madame Petra’s bordello that he remembered.

  He should never have come here.

  However, the Madame had come into the vestibule to take their coats and greet them, and it really would have been quite rude of him to leave now. Of all the brothels in London, Madame Petra’s had been hailed as the best. It boasted the softest beds in the most opulent settings, the cleanest, most beautiful women, and a Madame who was the consummate hostess.

  Not to mention ravishingly beautiful.

  To call her pretty would have been an injustice to the lady. Indeed, she appeared quite fair of face but he could think of many ladies of the ton who possessed equal attractiveness. There existed something about the woman—a sort of decadence and inherent sensuality no man could resist. She remained well-known among the men of London for the girls she hand-selected to work in her brothel, in addition to services provided behind the closed doors of the city’s most elite residences.

  Sheridan did not know specifically what services she provided, but rumors of men who hired her to lay with both them and their wives abounded, along with other scintillating whispers he’d never paid much attention to. As he stood in the vestibule, inclining his head to her in greeting, he thought of her in his massive four-poster bed, a writhing, moaning Cecily between them. A fresh surge of blood filled his cock. He bit his lower lip to suppress a groan and tried not to stare.

  It had become bloody hard not to. She stood tall, with endless legs showcased by the high-waisted gown clinging to her every curve. A lithe and lean figure, with breasts that would fill a man’s palms and hips that would, as well. Her skin glowed an exotic, olive shade, and her dark, sable hair had been cut in a short, fashionable style to frame her face in loose waves. She wore light cosmetics—rouge stained her lips red, and kohl made her brown eyes even more dark and fathomless.

  “Gentlemen,” she purred in a deep, lightly-accented voice.

  No one quite knew where the Madame came from, but tales of her background varied. She was Italian—no, Greek—no, half English, half Egyptian. Her father had been a merchant—no, an exotic sultan—no, a duke who had borne her illegitimately with a foreign princess. Whatever the case, that accent of hers only added to her appeal.

  “Welcome. I am Madame Petra. What’s your pleasure this evening?”

  Sheridan kept his eyes on the Persian rug beneath his feet while his friends placed their orders. Tristan and John liked to share, redheads their favorites. Madame Petra knew just the girl, and placed them in the care of a maid who would take them to her.

  Bartholomew was greedy, and never shared. In fact, he often overindulged, the reason why the Madame had sent him off with a second maid to a pleasure room where three whores would await his delight. Shooting him a devilish grin, his friend left him standing there in the hall, with only the Madame for company.

  She studied him in silence for a long time before speaking. “You do not wish to be here, do you?”

  Her soft, low tone surprised him. He started, glancing up at her with undoubtedly bloodshot eyes.

  “I beg your pardon?” he slurred.

  She took his hand and lifted it, eyeing his wedding band. “You are a newlywed. Your ring shows no sign of age and you have the dazed look of a disillusioned husband about you.”

  He glowered at the Madame. She proved too perceptive by half, and her nearness set him on edge. The only woman he ever had such a visceral attraction to was Cecily. It must have been the brandy, he decided, and the sensual atmosphere of the brothel.

  “What business is it of yours?” he snapped, snatching his hand away.

  Instead of responding with irritation, she folded her hands before her and kept her cool eyes fixated on him.

  “It is my duty to ensure that the men who patronize this establishment leave happy. What can I do to make you happy, Lord …?”

  “Cranfield,” he supplied. “And I am not disillusioned. I love my wife.”

  She inclined her head and pursed her inviting lips. “I can see that you do. Your friends cajoled you into coming here because they can see you are sexually deprived. You need stimulation that your wife does not provide.”

  His hand shot out to grasp her arm in a bruising grip. She flinched, and if he wasn’t mistaken, shivered a bit in his hold.

  “I will not stand here and talk about my wife with a whore.”

  Despite his insult, she lifted her chin and fixed him with a haughty stare.

  “I go by ‘Madame,’ if y
ou please, my lord, not ‘whore.’ And we do not need to talk. I can see quite clearly what you need. Follow me.”

  She turned and began to walk, with his hand still wrapped around her arm, forcing him to let go as she sashayed toward a darkened corridor.

  “Where are you taking me?” he asked, his voice coming out a bit gruff. He hated that this woman inspired such lust in him when his beautiful wife waited for him at home. He hated the fact that no matter how wrong he knew it was, he wanted so very badly to go wherever she led him.

  She turned and smirked at him, her eyes dancing with amusement. “There is a way you can enjoy yourself here without being unfaithful to your wife. Don’t you wish to know what that is?”

  Curiosity, it had been said, killed the cat. And so, too, was he led toward absolute destruction by his own inquisitiveness.

  Where they went, he soon discovered, was a darkened hallway. The narrow corridor lay shrouded in blackness so thick, he had to hold his hands out and feel his way along. He could hear her breathing and the swish of her skirts as she preceded him.

  “Here we are,” she murmured, her voice no more than a whisper.

  He halted, his every muscle tensing when he brushed against her. The soft swell of her bottom fell against his crotch, the friction causing a primal reaction. He bit back a groan and fought the urge to lift her skirts and bend her over right there in the dark hall. A sliver of light appeared, slicing through the darkness. It shone on Petra’s face when she turned toward him, the dark eyes assessing.

  “If a man cannot touch, he is always free to watch,” she purred. The light increased as she swung open a door and preceded him inside. “Follow me.”

  He obeyed, and found himself in a small but opulent chamber decorated in sensual shades of red. The plush carpet beneath his feet, oversized furniture, and scent of jasmine served to further enhance the comfortable, downright sexual feel of the room.