The Wicked House of Rohan by Anne Stuart Page B

of carousing. “Yes,” she managed to say in a low voice. “I’m in need of employment.”
    â€œI don’t like it,” her hero said flatly, forcing her to look at him again. He’d discarded his neckcloth and if he’d worn a wig it was long gone. His white shirt was open, exposing a quantity of beautiful golden skin, more skin than she’d ever seen on an adult male.
    And she really was losing her mind. She glanced back at Sir Wesley. The movement of her head was too swift, and for a moment blackness started to close in.
    â€œYou might get Miss Strong a seat if we’re going to continue with this nonsense,” the beautiful man said, and her heart sank. She’d already been judged not qualified for the position. She found herself settled into a large wooden chair, just moments before she took a header onto the none too clean marble floors of the Palazzo del Zaglia.
    And she drifted into the golden-honey-colored eyes, as the voices flowed around her.
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    Alistair Rohan was annoyed, at Wesley Marblethorpe, at his dozen or so drunken boon companions, fellow intellectuals and degenerates, but most of all with himself.
    He’d called this meeting of the nascent organization they’d dreamed up one drunken night. It was an organization dedicated to excess and debauchery, to questioning the status quo of faith, the existence of God and the devil, and the limits one could go to in search of pleasure. They’d taken their motto from the ancient Abbey of Theleme—DO WHAT THOU WILT—and Marblethorpe and the others were ready to jump in with enthusiasm.
    Alistair was already bored with the notion. But then, he grew bored easily, particularly nowadays. What had seemed like a brilliant idea when he was roaring drunk now seemed tawdry and childish by the light of day. He didn’t need the approval of his friends to plumb the depths or heights of his erotic nature. He wasn’t interested in dressing in costumes or playing at blasphemy. He believed in nothing, therefore there was nothing he needed to flout. In truth, he had always done what he wished, from the time his bastard of a father died and left him his sole heir. There was no title—his cousin was the English Viscount Rohan—and all he’d inherited had been a crumbling castle in Ireland and enough money not to have to live there. He’d rented this moldering palazzo and availed himself of the myriad pleasures Venice had to offer, and there had been an impressive number of them, and never looked back.
    In fact, it was because he’d finally run out of diversions that he and Marblethorpe and his friends had come up with this ludicrous idea of the Heavenly Host, and he hadn’t sobered up enough over the past few weeks to talk the others out of it.
    He looked at the girl—no, woman—who’d been ushered in. She looked as if she might faint, which would have been an annoyance. He’d gotten her a chair because he didn’t want her smashing her skull on the floor—the marble was cracked and stained already and blood was the very devil to clean up. At least, his servants had never managed it well.
    â€œSo who the hell is this, Marblethorpe?” His voice was lazy, though he already knew exactly what this pathetic creature was.
    â€œYou know perfectly well, Alistair,” Wesley said in a stiff voice. “Miss Strong can provide the one element we need to make our revels complete. Indeed, she’s probably the only one in Venice, unless you’re willing to involve children, and I believe you all overruled me on that?”
    â€œYou’re a sick bastard, Wesley,” Alistair said evenly, turning to look at the woman. She’d started at the mention of his name—clearly his reputation preceded him, even among little gray wrens. She seemed oddly familiar, but he was certain he’d never seen her before.
    â€œMiss Strong,” Wesley said, and the