Berridge Downs, Essex – April, 1810
Lord Simon Berridge winked at the pretty thing, lying sated in his bed. Anna? Alice? Something like that. Not that her name mattered anymore. “I have to get back to my guests,” he said, tucking his white linen shirt into his trousers. “But do feel free to recuperate here, I’m sure you need it.” He had, after all, been quite rigorous with her.
Anna/ Alice, whoever she was, rolled onto her side, sighed and pulled one of his pillows into her embrace. “You don’t mind if I wait for you, my lord?”
Oh, God. She didn’t intend to truly wait for him, did she? Simon retrieved his domino from the bedside table, not that he really had use for the mask. Everyone knew he was here. He did, after all, live here. But as the rest of Le Débauché attendees would be hiding their identity, he’d don the mask just to avoid sticking out unnecessarily.
“Oh… you ,” he said, wishing her name would pop to his mind. It didn’t. “Don’t be silly. I may not be back until the morning. Have to entertain the guests, you know.”
“Next time, then?” she said over a yawn.
Simon inwardly winced. The little whore had better not fall asleep in his bed. He’d be quite put out if she was snoring away in the middle of his four-poster whenever he returned to his chambers.
What was it with light skirts these days? A simple tumble did not mean he had plans to draw up a contract and give the girl carte-blanche, for God’s sake. “We’ll see,” he replied, as he turned on his heel and started for his door.
Once he ’d escaped into the safety of the corridor, Simon started towards the public rooms, wondering where the devil his brother had found this particular crop of girls tonight. Wanting to wait for him. Completely ridiculous. As he started for the steps, a feminine voice cried out, “Oh, James!” most passionately from a nearby bedchamber.
James? Simon stopped and stared at the door – the one belonging to the Earl of Haswell for the night - as though it was a portal to another realm. A bemused smile lit his lips. If he hadn’t heard the girl’s voice himself, he wouldn’t have believed it. Haswell had told some chit his Christian name? Very unlike him. Very. James Armstrong was one of the more secretive members of the club and always had been. The chit, whoever she was, must have some sort of magical powers between her legs. He couldn’t think of another reason why the depraved Earl of Haswell would be inspired to divulge his name to some doxy. Maybe that was it. Maybe she wasn’t a doxy. Haswell had been quite tight lipped about his plans for the evening. Had he brought someone with him instead of selecting one of the purchased girls?
What a very odd nigh t this was shaping up to be.
Simon shook his head as he continued towards the staircase before him. Music from the ballroom filtered up the stairs, but it only drowned out some of the sounds coming from the nearby parlors. He could clearly still hear cries of ecstasy, the slapping of flesh upon flesh, and more than one guttural moan.
Standing i n front of the ballroom, a young man caught Simon’s attention. The new Baron Garwood, whom Simon and Julian had met in the village the previous week. The poor fellow seemed immobile or perhaps dumbfounded by what he saw before him. He wasn’t even wearing his mask, and Julian had been quite clear about that particular bit of protocol.
Still it was the fellow’s first meeting. Taking pity on the green lad, Simon descended the last step, crossed the floor and clapped a hand to Garwood’s back. “Do close your mouth, or you’ll attract unwanted attention. And where’s your mask before my brother sees you?”
Garwood turned his head, his dark eyes focusing on Simon. “I hadn’t believed you.”
And in retrospect, perhaps Simon shouldn’t have invited the young lord to this meeting of Le Débauché , but…Well, Garwood did seem eager to lose his virginity . So it
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