was the one to boldly lift her skirts in the theater, or suckle her breasts in a carriage or even—and it was delicious madness to think of it—to tie her to her own bed, arms and legs spread, prisoner to his pleasure.
But here he was, in the flesh, winking at her!
And dressed in his usual shocking fashion—entirely in black.
He caught her staring and gave her a most wicked grin. Enticing lines bracketed his firm, wide mouth, and adorable dimples shadowed his cheeks. “You came in here to seduce me, didn’t you?”
With a crook of his fingers, he motioned her to move toward him.
She stayed at the door. “N—no.”
The Oriental motif had not ventured past the door. This was an Englishman’s study, resplendent with wood and leather, comfortable yet austere.
Both settings suited Lord Swansborough.
“Who are you?” he asked, and he tipped the decanter—the entire decanter—to his lips and took a swallow. He quaffed the drink—likely brandy—the way men in the country drank ale. Some spilled down his chiseled jaw, and he lowered the lovely glass thing and wiped at his beautiful mouth with his shirtsleeves.
His lordship was the first man here who was interested in her name. And she floundered helplessly—she had a creative mind, but all she could do was stare in astonishment.
He settled himself on the back of a chair, one booted foot dirtying the arm. The position displayed the long, lean, muscular power of his legs.
“Your name, puss,” he prompted.
She knew men used that name to describe a woman’s quim, and she knew she must suggest another name. But what did she want to suggest? Availability or the truth—that she was not allowed to touch a man like he? “Verity.”
Truth. Why had she thought of to call herself that—the opposite of what she would speak?
He saluted her with the decanter. “Imaginative. Where is your partner, Verity?”
“I don’t have one.” Which was, at least, the truth.
“I see.” Amusement, chilling amusement, showed in his rakish grin. “If I ravish you and make you explode in the most intense climax, will you give me my next clue?”
A jolt of shock raced, cold and startling, through her veins.
He thought she was a courtesan, employed to work in this bizarre scavenger hunt. She’d heard couples speaking of clues and hunting in the salon. “I came here to find a friend.”
The brandy decanter was almost empty. Had he truly drank that much? How could he still be conscious if he had? Her two glasses of champagne and that sickly drink had left her disorientated, and the giddy feeling was now a pounding inside her skull.
“Did you indeed?” he asked. His tone spoke ominously of a man’s awareness that he had a trapped female in his possession. But there was a teasing note underneath, and she knew she would much rather be trapped in this study with Swansborough than out in the rest of the house with the other scavenger hunters.
Tearstains itched on her cheeks, and she was certain she looked disheveled. How much did her mask obscure?
“Come here, Verity.” His voice had sobered, and it rumbled with bewitching erotic promise.
Verity. Which sounded like her sister’s name, Venetia. Had she thought of the name because her sister had had adventures and she had yearned for her own?
But Venetia had told her that Swansborough was exactly like the men who had surrounded her. And he was drunk, therefore dangerous. Logic told her that, but her heart skittered at the gentleness in his black eyes. They were hazy with drink, but not wild with lust.
“Come.”
A confident, autocratic command. She knew the other meaning of the word, and a shiver of anticipation, hot, electric, weakening, shot down her spine.
Her feet obeyed, and she closed the distance between them, and with each step, her heart tightened. Sweat trickled down her bodice, and her throat felt aflame. She felt exactly the way she did when reading erotic manuscripts.
She