Lyon by Elizabeth Amber

the one she held, she studied him, curious to gauge his reaction as he took in the decoration of the exotic room. Having already examined it in fascinated detail on her own, she knew precisely what it contained.
    For instance, she knew that above the fireplace, in the frescoed eyes of a lecherous soldier, was a set of hidden peepholes. She lifted two carafes of wine from the cart and set them there on the mantel, adjusting them so their necks blocked the soldier’s—and therefore any voyeur’s—view of the room. As an extra measure, she opened her fan and propped it behind them.
    â€œWhat is this chamber called?” Lyon asked at length, having finished stoking the fire. His voice was velvet, well suited to their sensual surroundings.
    â€œThe Pompeii Room. Its design is based on the excavations in the ancient Italian city of that name, near Naples.”
    â€œTell me what is done here in this room,” he prompted.
    â€œI think you know.”
    â€œBut I would enjoy hearing it from your lips.”
    She set her candle in an empty sconce and approached him. “Very well. Its design and the frescoes and statuary are meant to emulate the Lupanare , which are—”
    â€œâ€”the brothels of Pompeii.”
    â€œHave you been there?” she asked in surprise.
    â€œNo, only heard of it from my eldest brother. He—Nicholas—collects antiquities and delights in visiting ruins and the like. We rarely leave our estate simultaneously, so our pursuits are solitary. But, go on. You were describing the purposes of this room?”
    â€œWell, like the brothels, its decoration is intended to inspire lust as you might imagine. To encourage illicit intercourse and such.”
    When his eyes shaded with amusement, she stiffened in affront. “You have a strange sense of humor, monsieur.”
    â€œ Tu me comprends mal . I meant a more particular description. For instance, what is done with these?” He indicated a selection of wood and leather dildos set alongside a goatskin filled with olive oil lubricant. A riding crop, restraints, and other devices were hung on the wall above them.
    She gazed unwaveringly into those jeweled eyes of his. Once, her eyes had smiled as his did, but life had turned serious and she now guarded her laughter.
    â€œI suppose some might say they are instruments utilized in gratifying unnatural lusts.”
    â€œUnnatural?” His brows rose and his smile now seemed to mock her Catholic attitude. “But lust is one of the most natural instincts in Humankind is it not?”
    She tried not to notice that he was standing before a wall fresco depicting Priapus, the ancient Greco-Roman god of sex and fertility. He lorded over a garden and sported an extremely elongated penis, which was meant as a threat to frighten off would-be thieves.
    Lyon’s gaze followed hers and he studied the scene. “According to my brother, the ruins at Pompeii have been found to be full of erotic art, frescoes, symbols, and inscriptions regarded by its excavators as pornographic. Even many recovered household items were decorated with prurient themes. The ubiquity of such objects would indicate that the sexual mores of the time were more liberal than ours of today.”
    The sound of the lash cut the quiet in several staccato slashes. Gina whimpered.
    Juliette cleared her throat. “I suppose. Shall we visit another room now, monsieur?”
    â€œI’m content to hear more of this one.” He moved away from her along the wall, surveying the continuous fresco, which portrayed interconnected scenes of antiquity, each more debauched than the former. He paused before a painting of a low prostitute posing as if in wait for a customer. It was one of the oils from Valmont’s ancestral home.
    â€œA prostibula ,” he said, reading from the small gilt plate in the center of the frame’s bottom edge.
    â€œA ‘morue’ , we call her in France.