St. Raven by Jo Beverley Page B

horns and scarlet robes, still welcomed people to his sensual hell, but now she found him more suited to farce than drama. Lucifer could not have horns and tail. To trap sinners, the devil must be beautiful and seductive.
    Like the beautiful, seductive Duke of St. Raven.
    How many of these raucous characters were people she’d met at events in London? Most of the women must be whores. The strident laughter, the shocking costumes, and something in the way they moved marked them. No wonder St. Raven hadn’t believed her claim.
    Perhaps it was the whores who contributed the coarse perfume that hung so heavily in the air, though the smell of dirty bodies could be from anyone. She’d come across it in the best of society. Crofton was one who was careless in those matters.
    Crushed against St. Raven by the crowd, she caught that scent of sandalwood. It was a saving antidote as they worked their way toward the drawing room.
    He continued to be recognized, and he kissed three bold women who thrust themselves against him. Nothing to do with her, she reminded herself.
    While he chatted to people, his hold became tighter and his hand squeezed—her hip, her bottom. She understood why, but it was another sign of what he was. Then, when he was again fending off questions about her identity, he turned her head and kissed her through her veil, his hand, low on her back, pressing her hard against his side.
    Tired of being a puppet, she put her left hand on his silken hip and kissed him back.
    His lips stilled on hers.
    “Don’t worry, luv,” a woman said. “St. Raven don’t need rubbing up.”
    Cressida froze. She’d missed.
    The hard shape under her hand wasn’t his hip.
    Oh, Lord—it moved, and only a thin layer of silk lay between her hand and it! She knew she mustn’t snatch her hand away, but wished something, anything, would whisk her back to her real life. She felt, heard, his soft laughter as he broke the kiss.
    She opened her eyes to stare into his, silently begging for help. She could tell he was having as difficult a time as she was, but it was because he was fighting laughter.
    His hot hand covered hers. Thank heavens. He was going to move it. Instead he pressed. The hard shape moved again. Perhaps it grew.
    Her heart thundered, and a good part of it was fury. The swine was exploiting this. She couldn’t rebel, but she could glare, and she did.
    “So impatient,‘” he murmured, but somehow loud enough for others to hear and laugh. Then he gathered her hand in his and stroked it up his body to his lips, to kiss the palm. “Later, my houri…”
    “No need to wait, St. Raven!”
    Cressida felt her eyes stretch wide as panic swamped anger.
    Crofton!
    St. Raven held her attention, kissing her fingertips one by one, giving her time to gather herself, then turned them both to face their host.
    “I’m sure we’d all be most grateful for a display of your prowess, Duke.”
    The disgusting man was leering, but that wasn’t what made her feel sick. His attention was fixed on her. Would he
recognize
her?
    If her identity was exposed here, she would die. Literally and eternally. The respectable Cressida Mandeville, dead in a lewd costume after a lewd display at a lewd orgy. Matlock would be talking about it for the next fifty years.
    “I never give public displays, Crofton. And as I’m sure you know, pleasure is enhanced by the torture of exquisite anticipation.”
    Something in St. Raven’s tone killed Crofton’s bonhomie.
    “Later, then.” Leer turned to sneer. “Though I cannot guarantee a private room as the night grows wild. You might end up giving a public display anyway, Duke—if anticipation wins out. But you’re not drinking…”
    He snapped his fingers, and a horned imp hurried over with a tray of beakers. Crofton took one and pressed it into Cressida hand. “My devil’s brew.”
    She accepted it, but didn’t drink. It would be the height of folly to get drunk here. She watched St. Raven take a