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have thought, and now she was free to get on with her future, and get on with it she would.
    But it wasn’t her future that claimed her thoughts as she sank further into the warm caress of the bath, it was her past. And as she reluctantly remembered falling in love with Jack Friday, she began to fear that she’d never actually fallen out .

Chapter 3
    C hez Cherie’s might have sounded like a burlesque house, but it was one of, if not the , most exclusive brothel in all of London. It was also one of the most discreet, its location practically a national secret. It was known to stand somewhere between St. James’s and Covent Garden, in a pretty stone townhouse more fitting a respectable widow than a house of ill repute. The only indication of anything licentious happening there was apparently the suggestive knocker on the red door. No one ever revealed the details; to do so would result in being blacklisted, and no gentleman—at least not one who counted his prick as his best mate and wanted to keep said organ clean, healthy, and happy—wanted to be banned from Chez Cherie’s.
    The ladies of the house were beautiful, exotic, and from all over the globe. They were trained in every manner of sensual art, kept their bodies limber and strong. They came in all shapes and sizes, hues and temperaments, and they chose their clients, not the other way around. That was part of the appeal of the club—a gentlemancould pursue his fantasy if he so wished, but there was something to be said for being the pursued. It was the height of self-satisfaction to know a beautiful, talented, and educated woman with a healthy sexual appetite had chosen you, not because of the size of your purse (every gentleman who walked through the door had to prove he could afford the privilege), but because she believed you would be the most satisfying.
    Jack only managed to make it inside because he had a letter of introduction from Trystan. Being the younger brother of the Duke of Ryeton had its advantages, and being the friend of a brother of a duke obviously had its share as well.
    He was there to meet a client. He’d had meetings in less posh places, and he certainly wasn’t a stranger to associates trying to buy their way into his good graces with women—whether she be a charming wife whose cook made a delicious pie or a skilled lady for hire meant to cater to his other appetites.
    Jack would behave no differently than he had in all those other situations: he’d eat the pie, but sex had no place in business, no matter how delicious the lady in question might appear.
    He was told to wait in the foyer, so he did. The space was small, but welcoming—the cream-colored walls decorated with tasteful paintings, the wooden planks of the floor gleamed with fresh polish, the main walking area protected by a richly hued Morris carpet.
    The man who had opened the door, and taken his letter of reference, returned from whence he had goneand bestowed upon Jack a benevolent smile. “This way, Mr. Friday. May I take your coat and hat?”
    Jack removed both and handed them to the man before following him through a set of French doors into the main body of the house. Damn, but he’d seen upscale residences that had nothing on this place.
    Dark paneling, pale embossed wallpaper, plaster ceilings and carpets of the finest quality in shades of crimson, sage, cream, and gold. The space was divided by smooth oak pillars that matched the rest of the buffed woodwork. On one side there was a small smoking area where gentlemen could enjoy a cigar with their scotch or brandy while relaxing in large, wing-backed chairs or plush sofas. The other side had small round tables with chairs set up for dining or playing cards or chess. A good idea, keeping the horny bastards occupied while they waited for some nubile young thing to come sit on their lap.
    “Please wait here.” The majordomo gestured to the smoking side. There were several available, comfortable looking chairs.