Chapter One
London, England
“How much?”
Madame Delacroix tapped a finger to her rouged lips. “Your request is unique.”
“I don’t believe I’m the first man to make such a request. Certainly there is some precedent.”
“Of course.” The madam tucked an errant strand of auburn hair behind her ear. “But in a situation such as yours, one man is not interchangeable for another. That it is your request makes it unique.”
Her falsely aristocratic tone held a confidence that made Lord Oliver Marsden shift uncomfortably in the crimson leather chair. He avoided this woman whenever possible, preferring to deal directly with her employees, but tonight he had no choice. After gathering his courage, he had come to this office and voiced the fantasy that haunted his dreams and most every waking moment. He would find a way to pay whatever price she named, and the madam who sat behind the satinwood desk clearly knew it. He could only hope his father, the Marquess of Campden, had a reputation that preceded him, and that she would not inflate the price overmuch for fear of going beyond Oliver’s means.
But there was no reason to make it too easy for her. Oliver squared his shoulders. “You will receive payment from Lord Vincent as well. You will earn double, and your employee will be free to see to another client.”
“That is correct.” Delacroix stood. The soft swoosh of her crimson silk gown broke the silence as she walked to a console table along the wall. She glanced over her shoulder. “Would you care for a drink?”
Even a bottle of whiskey couldn’t unravel the knots in his stomach. “No, thank you.”
A scowl flickered across her brow. Likely the woman was unaccustomed to hearing the word no. She half filled a short, plain glass with clear liquid. The scent just made its way to his nose. Glass clinked as she replaced the stopper in the tall narrow bottle. Her choice of drink belied the contrived elegance of the room and of her appearance. She did, however, manage to take a very demure sip of the gin.
“You have requested the use of my establishment.”
Oliver tipped his head then hastily pushed up his spectacles, which had slid down the bridge of his nose. “It is a necessity. He frequents your establishment on the first Thursday of every month, not another’s.”
Resting a hip against the console table, she swirled the contents of her glass. “You wish to deceive one of my clients. A faithful, reliable, well-paying client. Lord Vincent Prescot would not be pleased if he learns of my role in your scheme.”
“He will never find out.”
“He could,” she said, with a casual lift of one shoulder.
“You assured me the whore will keep her silence. I will never tell him, and I will take every precaution to ensure he does not discover it is me.”
She arched an eyebrow. “Lord Vincent is an astute man. He will recognize you. The stubble from a three-day-old beard will not fool him.”
Oliver passed a hand over his bristly jaw. “Nor am I fool enough to believe it will. At least not by itself. The room will be dark, and Lord Vincent will have no reason to even suspect my true identity. He will believe what the whore will tell him—that I am simply a replacement for the man he usually hires.”
He had known Vincent since childhood. Both second sons to marquesses, they had met on the first day of boarding school, and for reasons Oliver still couldn’t explain, the stiff and proper eleven-year-old boy had gravitated to him. Oliver had been an average student at the best of times, and he only kept from getting expelled on numerous occasions because Vincent tutored him. In return, Oliver had been the first person to congratulate Vincent whenever he received top marks, which happened more often than not. Nearly inseparable, they even spent holidays together at Vincent’s grandfather’s Dorset estate. For a space of about four years, Oliver didn’t return home once. Based on the lack of letters, it seemed no one had missed him. With a father who practically lived at the gambling tables and an elder brother who never bothered with him, Oliver doubted they even noticed his absence. Those holidays spent fishing, swimming, and hunting with Vincent were the most treasured of his youth. Then Vincent had gone onto Cambridge and Oliver…had not.
Though they were no longer as close, in their thirteen years of friendship, Vincent never once hinted at an interest in men. Apparently it was something he never wished to share, never wished to reveal—a reluctance Oliver understood, as he hadn’t confided his own preferences to Vincent. And if Vincent found out what he planned to do tomorrow night, he knew without a doubt Vincent would see it as a betrayal of the utmost proportions. It was one thing to indulge secret desires in the safety and obscurity of a brothel, quite another to take a friend as a lover.
After refilling her glass, Delacroix sat back down behind her desk. She was silent for a long moment. It took all of Oliver’s willpower to hold her unwavering gaze.
“You have specifically asked for my discretion in this matter,” she said.
They had reached the true basis for her price, and he had, in a roundabout way, told her how important it was to him that Vincent remain ignorant of his deception. He resisted the urge to shake his head in self-disgust. Christ, if Vincent were in his place, he would have convinced the madam to pay him for the night. Vincent excelled at everything he did whereas Oliver always fell short. Fell considerably short, and tonight it may very well cost him a chance with Vincent.
He dragged a hand through his hair. “Yes. Again, it is a necessity,” he said, unable to keep the defeat from his tone.
Her kohl-rimmed eyes glinted with unmistakable triumph. She had him by the ballocks and he could only hope she wouldn’t twist too hard.
She pulled a square of white paper from her desk drawer, dipped her pen in the silver inkwell, and contemplated the blank paper. Pulse pounding in his ears, Oliver sat perfectly still as she tapped the nib against the inkwell. Please, don’t turn me into a eunuch. The soft scratch of the pen seemed unnaturally loud when she finally began writing.
“Given the uniqueness of your request, you will find the price to be within reason,” she said, sliding the paper across her desk.
Leaning forward, he picked up the paper. He closed his eyes, praying he had enough to compensate the madam for her discretion. He had assumed his request would cost him far more than the usual rate to hire one of her employees. The income from the small inheritance he’d received from his mother covered his expenses but left little to spare, and as such, he had been spending quite a bit of time in smoke-filled gambling hells of late. It had taken him months to win big at the gaming tables. If the sum exceeded the fold of pound notes in his pocket, it might be many more long months before he could return to this office and voice his request again.
Holding his breath, he slowly opened one eye. His shoulders sagged with relief. The two remaining paintings gracing the walls of his meager bachelor apartments would need to be sold, but combined with his winnings, he could afford one night with Vincent.
He pulled the pound notes from his coat pocket. “The remainder will be delivered later tonight.”
She tipped her head, accepting his offer. The edges of her rouged lips curved in gloating satisfaction. Experienced madam that she was, she had somehow known just how far she could inflate the price. She took another sip of gin. “When Holly brings Lord Vincent to the room, she will inform him his usual man is unavailable,” she said, referring to the blonde girl Vincent always selected in view of the brothel’s other clients.
“What if he protests?”
“If he does, Holly will manage the situation. Hence why it’s necessary she’s informed of your scheme. But he won’t protest. He comes here for a man. As long as the individual is passably handsome, Lord Vincent will bugger him.”
Her blunt answer lanced his heart. Somehow he kept the wince from marring his brow. All Vincent sought was a man to warm a bed, when all Oliver wanted was Vincent. Tomorrow night would mean everything to him and nothing at all to the man he loved.
“There is a backdoor that leads out to the courtyard,” she said. “Be there at eleven tomorrow evening. A servant will greet you and bring you to the room.”
He nodded.
Her efficient tone vanished to be replaced with firm command. “This establishment is renowned for the quality of its services. All of my employees are expected to leave their clients with a very big smile on their faces. Since you will be standing in the place of one of my employees, I expect the same from you.”
“Of course,” he muttered. By the way she was looking at him, he wouldn’t be surprised if she told him to drop his trousers to see if he measured up to her other employees. He quickly stood and gave her a short bow. “Thank you and good day.”
Smiling, she leaned back in her chair, completely at ease when all he wanted to do was run from this office. “It has been a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Oliver. It is my greatest joy to fulfill my clients’ desires, whatever they may be. May Lord Vincent fulfill yours tomorrow.”
* * *
“You’re new, aren’t ye?”
“Ah…yes,” Oliver said to the servant’s back as he followed her up the stairs, relieved she didn’t recognize him as a former client. Though he rarely saw the brothel’s servants during previous visits, a house this large couldn’t run efficiently without a small army’s worth. And if this one assumed he was another of Delacroix’s employees, then he was not about to correct her. The fewer who were aware of his identity this evening, the better.
He had arrived at the backdoor of the brothel, just as the madam had instructed him yesterday afternoon, and had been greeted by this servant. The last thirty-four hours had passed slower than he could have imagined. But he was finally here. The time had arrived. Tugging on his coat, he did his best to keep his excitement under wraps.
The narrow staircase let up into an equally narrow hall. He must be in the servants’ area of the house. The girl opened a door and motioned for Oliver to enter. The room was small and bare with only a straight-back wooden chair and square spindle-legged table.
“Where’d Delacroix find you?” she asked.
He opened his mouth then promptly shut it. Where did madams find men to stock their brothels?
The girl shrugged, seeming to understand an answer would not be forthcoming. “You’re different than her usual sort, that’s all.”
Studying his boots, he shoved his hands in his pockets. He didn’t need her to remind him he fell short. Over the years, he, too, had hired his fair share of men at Madame Delacroix’s. Each one had been a prime example of their gender. Yet none had come close to what he imagined Vincent to be like in bed. Their shoulders were not quite broad enough, even the few with blue eyes lacked the pure saturated hue that rivaled a clear summer sky, and not one of them possessed a deep cultured voice that swept over his skin like fine aged whiskey.
“Ye can leave yer clothes in here.” The girl motioned to the pegs lining one wall. She was dressed plainly in a serviceable brown dress and had a white cap over her mousy brown hair. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen years of age, yet her manner indicated she was well accustomed to the inner workings of the brothel.
Hooking her arm under one of the rungs on the back of the chair, she opened a narrow door then carried the chair into the next room.
Uncertain what to do, Oliver followed. Someone had already lit the candles and stoked the fire. The mahogany furnishings and floorboards gleamed from diligent care. Muted tan and cream paper covered the walls and a pair of comfortable black leather armchairs flanked a marble fireplace. The bedchamber would appeal to Vincent. Neat, tidy yet masculine—everything in its place, except for the straight-back chair positioned a few feet from the foot of the bed.
The clank of metal drew his attention to the chest of drawers. Bent at the waist, the servant searched through the bottom drawer. She turned and crossed to the chair.
His eyes widened at the object in her small hands. Apprehension rushed over his skin, pricking the hairs on his nape. Standing on the chair, she reached up and hung the middle of the length of chain from a hook in the ceiling. The contraption formed a triangle—chain on top with a three-foot iron bar connecting the ends. Pursing her lips, the girl adjusted the chain until the iron bar hung horizontal to the floor.
His heart thumped against his ribs. That contraption was meant for him. He knew it without a doubt.
She went back to the chest of drawers. Opening and closing drawers, she pulled out objects and set them on top. Four thick leather cuffs adorned with metal rings, two smaller cuffs and two slightly larger. Another iron bar with hooks on each end. Two glass bottles filled with golden liquid he suspected was oil. A white length of towel. A metal ring a couple inches in diameter. Marble dildos and anal plugs in various sizes. A coiled leather bullwhip. A cat-o’-nine with braided leather tails. A wooden paddle, the type favored by the headmaster at his old boarding school. He took a step closer and pushed his spectacles higher on his nose. Was that a dog’s collar?
Christ. It was all for him. He had to be in the wrong room. Discovering Vincent had a secret penchant for male partners had been shocking enough. Fortunate for Oliver, but unexpected nonetheless. But this? It absolutely did not fit the conservative man Oliver had known since childhood.
The girl hadn’t asked Oliver’s name. Perhaps she mistook him for someone else. He cleared his constricted throat. “Pardon, miss. I am here for a lord.”
“Yes.” She slipped one of the bottles of oil into her pocket and walked to the washstand next to the narrow door.
“A Lord Vincent Prescot.”
She poured water from a pitcher into the basin. “Yes, his lordship should be along shortly.”
His heart skipped a beat. Holy Mother of God. His attention snapped to the chest of drawers, to those leather cuffs. A frisson of unexpected anticipation raced up his spine at the prospect of submitting to Vincent. Then dread dropped into his stomach like a deadweight. What if Vincent restrained him then lit the candles? He’d be powerless to prevent Vincent from discovering his identity. Rolling his shoulders, he dragged his hand through his hair.
The servant took two more white towels from the bottom shelf of the washstand and placed one next to the basin. After setting the bottle of oil from her pocket and the other towel on the bedside table, she surveyed the room, clearly checking to see if all was in place. Her gaze stopped on Oliver, who lingered by one of the armchairs. She gave a little sigh. Her brown eyes softened with compassion. “No reason to be nervous. His lordship’s a good sort, and he don’t ’ave heavy hands. Won’t leave no permanent marks on ye. If it’s any help, he’s Cameron’s favorite. The man’s been sulkin’ since Delacroix told him ye were to take his place tonight.”
Oliver already knew Vincent was the blond Adonis’s favorite. It had been Cameron who had dropped enough hints about the ruggedly handsome lord whom he only got to see once a month for Oliver to guess the man’s identity. And hell, if anything, Oliver should be Cameron’s favorite. Likely Oliver was the only male patron who paid to be bent over. “I’m not nervous,” he said, fighting to keep from shifting his weight.
She shrugged. “Remove your clothes except for your breeches. If you’re wearing drawers, remove them, too. His lordship will expect you to be ready when he arrives.”
With that, she picked up the chair and left Oliver alone in the room.
What the hell had he gotten himself into? It would be worth it, though. This was his one chance to be with Vincent, and he wasn’t turning back now. He swallowed hard. No matter what.
Forcing his gaze from the iron bar suspended from the ceiling, he began undressing.
“Damn,” he muttered, struggling with the knot on his cravat. He never could tie the darn thing correctly, and now it wouldn’t come undone. Using the mirror above the washstand, he was finally able to remove his cravat. Dropping the rumpled linen, he studied his reflection.
He looked more unkempt than usual. Hopefully it and a lack of light would be enough to fool Vincent. He had also purposefully avoided Vincent since the man had returned from a long visit to the country—no reason to have Oliver’s image too clear in Vincent’s memory. A four-day-old beard covered Oliver’s jaw, and he was in sore need of a haircut. Dark waves, disheveled from his habit of running his hands through his hair, hung down to his jaw. Common brown eyes stared back at him from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He could well understand why Vincent had never shown a hint of interest beyond friendship. Everything about Oliver was unremarkable. Average height. Average build. Average intellect.
He let out a harrumph and unbuttoned his plain brown coat. Growing up with a man who excelled at everything he did, one couldn’t help but feel not quite up to snuff. Not that he’d ever been jealous of Vincent’s successes. He held nothing but admiration for the man.
Well, that wasn’t entirely true. Something considerably more than admiration had driven him to this room.
Using the bootjack by the fireplace, he removed his boots. After he finished undressing to the servant’s specification—or rather Vincent’s specification—he gathered his clothes and left them in a heap on the small table in the adjoining room. He took a step back into the bedchamber then turned around, removed his spectacles, and tucked them into his coat pocket.
Hopefully Vincent would be close enough for Oliver to see him clearly. He was quite looking forward to taking in Lord Vincent Prescot without his impeccably tailored clothes. The image would need to last a lifetime, and he didn’t want to miss anything.
One by one, he doused the candles until only the soft golden glow of the fire lit the bedchamber, the light so weak it couldn’t penetrate the dark corners of the room. The fabric of his breeches rubbed against his cock as he paced in front of the fireplace. It was oddly erotic to go about without drawers. The decadent sensation mixed with the anticipation and apprehension strumming his nerves.
His gaze kept straying to the chained iron bar and to the chest of drawers. Images flashed before his mind’s eye. His wrists locked to that iron bar, Vincent behind him slipping oil-slicked fingers up his arse, probing deep, preparing him. Lust shot through his body. His strides faltered. No, he wanted more than that. He wanted Vincent. He wanted the man to take him, and if that meant being restrained and collared, getting flogged until he sobbed for mercy, then he would do it.
A tinkling, feminine laugh seeped through the closed door. Oliver stopped in his tracks and strained to hear. There was a deep low rumble of a masculine voice.
He had arrived.
Oliver glanced quickly about the room, unsure what to do. Sit, stand, get on the bed? Excitement and nervousness clashed, forming a noxious mixture.
The knob clicked, and the door opened.