Lord of the Masquerade by Erica Ridley
Chapter 14
On Saturday afternoon, Julian was not in his office managing his affairs or in the ballroom preparing for the upcoming masquerade.
He was seated at a long table in the front dining room whose tall, mullioned windows had the best vantage point of the front path.
Not that there was much to see at the moment. It had been alternately drizzly and foggy all morning, and a great cloud of white mist had settled over Grosvenor Square. The terraced homes of his neighbors were not visible in such conditions, but then again, Julian wasn’t stealing glances out of the front window in the hopes of glimpsing a neighbor.
He was thinking about Miss Thorne. He was always thinking about Miss Thorne. She wouldn’t arrive for hours. The mere fact that the sun had not yet set proved him ridiculously eager and early. Yet here he was, seated at an empty dinner table, pretending unsuccessfully to be concentrating on the correspondence before him.
Heath Grenville had sent another report.
Julian was dying to read it. The report was right there in his hands. Unopened. Waiting.
Because part of him regretted ever asking for it. He wanted to know everything there was to know about Miss Thorne, but not like this. It wasn’t even the reason he’d asked Grenville to investigate in the first place.
At the time, Julian had just wished to be certain that the beautiful, confounding stranger did not have questionable motives. If he’d learned anything so far, it was that the person with questionable motives was Julian himself.
He had employed her without any intention of putting her to work or taking her advice, and subsequently embarked on a campaign of passionate embraces that likewise were not destined to go anywhere at all.
In either case, what did it matter if he did not possess her precise street address? He didn’t plan on visiting. If she kept her private life secret and separate from him, who cared? He had no plans to become a part of her life, or to make her part of his.
Anything contained in the document beneath his fingertips was therefore superfluous and irrelevant.
He ripped open the seal anyway and devoured the text inside.
Miss Thorne, it seemed, frequented a gambling den called Eshu’s Altar, situated in a working-class section of town, and catering to that audience. Most of the clients were men, many of whom numbered among London’s twenty thousand Black citizens, and all of whom seemed to hold Miss Thorne in the utmost esteem.
Long-term customers greeted her by name. She seemed to enjoy a particularly personal connection with the owner, a Mr. Sampson Oakes, who not only kept a bottle of Miss Thorne’s favorite brandy at the ready, but she was also not charged for any refreshments consumed, nor required to pay the table fee when gambling.
It was not recommended to bet against her at whist.
Julian slammed the report closed and shoved it away. There. Did he feel better now? Perhaps this Mr. Oakes was a past or current lover. Perhaps Eshu’s Altar was Miss Thorne’s hunting ground, and the reason he hadn’t heard of her before was because she was a demimondaine who catered to a completely different neighborhood.
None of these things were in Julian’s control or, more to the point, any of his business. Just because he had the money and the connections to uncover her secrets without her consent did not mean he ought to be doing so. He crumpled the report into a ball.
Even if Miss Thorne appeared on his doorstep bearing an annotated history of her entire life for Julian’s perusal, what would it change?
From the moment she’d shown up uninvited with a calling card that read Miss Thorne, Courtesan, he’d known she was completely unsuitable. What’s more, amorous attention from him wasn’t even why she had come to his door.
Julian drew ink and paper toward him and quickly penned a response to Heath Grenville, thanking him for his attention to detail and informing him his services were no longer necessary.
Once this was dry and sealed with wax, Julian jotted another letter to his man of business, requesting Mr. Grenville to receive twice the agreed upon sum, in compensation for his efforts and to show that the abrupt dissolution of their agreement was not out of dissatisfaction with Grenville.
Julian was cross with himself.
He tossed the crumpled report into the fire, then rang the bell pull for a footman to deliver the pair of missives.
Nowhe should be able to concentrate on important matters.
He could not.
How much time remained before the masquerade? He swiveled to look. Four hours? He really ought to have someone service his clock. Clearly the minute hand was not progressing as quickly as it ought.
He’d told Miss Thorne to arrive an hour earlier than usual, which was somehow still three hours away, no matter how often he checked the time.
The rain started again. Fitting. Perhaps it would wash away this absurd obsession. That’s what this was. The only thing it could be. Julian was incapable of other emotions. He hadn’t used his heart in decades.
The fact that he could not get Miss Thorne out of his head, the galling way he counted down each second until he could see her again—it was a trick of the brain, nothing more. The allure of scarcity. Diamonds were expensive because they were rare. Young bucks angled for Almack’s subscriptions because they were difficult to obtain.
The solution, therefore, was to spend more time with her, not less. Once his muddled brain realized she was an ordinary person like any other, once he saw that every encounter was merely more of the same, the spell would be broken and he could move on.
Horses clopped outside the window. A hackney, in this neighborhood, in front of Julian’s home?
He shot out of the dining room and down the corridor to the primary entryway before the butler could turn the handle on the front door.
“At ease, Barnaby.” Julian plucked the umbrella from his butler’s hand and strode out into the rain to accompany Miss Thorne up the path.
“Why, Mr. Barnaby,” she said, her brown eyes twinkling. “You look unusually dapper today. Did you do something different with your hair?”
“It’s me,” Julian whispered. “Don’t tell anyone.”
He centered the umbrella over her bonnet to give her the most protection from the drizzle. This meant one of Julian’s coat sleeves was getting damp, but a coat could be exchanged for another.
He led her into the house. “I told you to arrive precisely one hour prior to the masquerade.”
She widened her eyes. “I assumed you meant four hours.”
“I meant eight,” he growled. “You’re late.”
He pulled her into the first open parlor, closed the door behind them, and claimed her mouth in a kiss.
The umbrella fell to the floor.
His hands were about her waist. Her fingers twined in his hair. They banged against the wainscoting, their bodies pressed together, Miss Thorne’s spine against the wall, and Julian’s chest and hips and thighs flush against her softness.
Her mouth was as hungry as his, her hands just as seeking. He had thought he had the position of power in pinning her against the wall, but in doing so he had blocked off access to half of her body. His was the one exposed to her fingers gliding over his shoulders, his upper arms, his back. Despite the many layers covering his flesh, he felt her touch all the way to the hot skin beneath.
He did not want to share her. Could not. Would not.
“While... this is happening between us,” he said between kisses, “your mouth is not to be engaged in this activity with anyone else. Understand? If this causes you a loss in income, tell me the number, and I will double it.”
She pulled back from his kiss with a bemused expression. “The king of one-night trysts with masked strangers is asking for mutual monogamy?”
He glared at her.
“Oh, not mutual. Just me, whilst you carry on as usual.” She wrinkled her nose. “I decline.”
His tone hardened. “What did you say?”
“I said, no thank you.” She lifted a shoulder. “Either we both kiss whomever we want, or we exclusively kiss each other.”
The person he wanted was her. Both choices were the same thing.
“I’ll triple your earnings,” he said. “Quadruple.”
“Use the money to clean out your ears,” she suggested. “Either we’re equal, or we’re nothing.”
“Fine,” he ground out. “We are both bound by the same rules. No liaisons of any sort with anyone else, until I say we’re done.”
“Unless I say it first.” She smiled up at him cheerfully. “Mutual monogamy it is, then.”
“Stop saying that word!”
She opened her mouth—likely to argue with him—and he caught her lips with his own to silence her.
Yes, yes, it was mutual monogamy. An agreement he had never contemplated entering until such time as he’d chosen a wife. That he should do so with Miss Thorne...
It meant nothing. He was a meticulous tactician, and this was the most efficient way to achieve his aim of being the only man in Miss Thorne’s life... For now.
Once he found the perfect bride, he would have to let her go.