St. Raven by Jo Beverley

and marked by scratches. It didn’t seem to bother her. She was laughing as Henry VIII—Pugh?—fed her some sort of long pastry.
    Cressida placed him. He attended some society events. Lord Pugh, fat, florid, and loud, but she’d never have guessed him debauched. She thought he was married.
    She’d foolishly assumed these entertainments were for bachelors, but clearly not. St. Raven was a bachelor, but she didn’t suppose he’d change when he married Lady Anne, which made a mockery of that lovely moment in the theater.
    And he recognized harlots by name.
    She looked again at Pugh, and the harlot called Miranda, and couldn’t help but notice that as the woman slowly ate the pastry, her hand played around that strange article of fashion called a codpiece.
    She’d always thought it peculiarly indecent. Even kings, such as Henry VIII, had worn it. She wondered what ladies had done in such times. They could hardly have pretended not to notice.
    Then Cressida’s mind made a connection between the long scarlet protuberance at the front of Lord Pugh’s puff breeches and the long pastry he was feeding to the woman…
    After a moment she tore her gaze away—and found St. Raven watching her, darkly inscrutable. He picked up something from the table and offered it to her. Something long and cylindrical.
    “No, thank you.” She hoped the words sounded like icicles.
    “It’s only a half cucumber filled with—” He scooped some of the pink stuff up with his finger and tasted it, sucked it. “—potted shrimp.”
    “Perhaps I don’t care for shrimp.”
    “But you are supposed to care for… shrimp, Roxelana.”
    She cast him a look she hoped
felt
like icicles. He was reminding her of her part—mistress of the harem, but also the sort of woman who would attend an orgy like this. A slight flick of her eyes made her aware that some people nearby were paying attention.
    “Do you fear poison, my love?” St. Raven asked. Eyes on her, he turned the cucumber and bit off the end.
    More outrageous images flooded into Cressida’s mind.
    “Ouch,” she said.
    He exploded with laughter, covering his mouth and almost choking. Grinning with victory, Cressida rescued the remains of the delicacy before he dropped it.
    They had the whole room’s amused attention now. She must play her part, but truth to tell, she was enjoying this. She was very partial to potted shrimp, so she raised her veil, and slowly licked the pink filling out of the scooped-out cucumber.
    Applause, but her attention was all on him.
    His eyes sparkled, but his look said,
Your move
. It seemed cruel to bite, so she put the end in her mouth and sucked the last of the shrimp off.
    Applause and even cheers burst out all around.
    Not knowing what she had done, Cressida stared at him for guidance. He stared back. Had sparkle turned to fire? Something tightened her throat, so she had to work hard to swallow.
    She pulled the cucumber out and turned away, turned to the table, pretending to study the selection of food, only too aware of the hubbub around her. Men were demanding to know who she was, and was she available. Henry VIII was bidding again.
    Then a big body pressed against her from behind. Hands appeared on the table on either side, caging her. Hot breath stirred at her nape. She tensed to fight, but then she knew him. Perhaps it was sandalwood, but perhaps it was a more secret sense than that.
    “Hungry?” he almost growled.
    Quivering, she looked down, and her eyes were caught by his right hand, the one with his large gold signet ring, bold declaration of identity, here among the masquerade.
    It was a hand, that was all. It melted her sinews and tightened her muscles, shortened her already unsteady breath. Long fingered, elegant, but nakedly strong and masculine. For the first time she noticed some scrapes on his knuckles and could imagine it as a fist.
    She breathed in cool sanity. Last night the Duke of St. Raven had held up a coach, then engaged in a