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  Copyright © 2016 by Amy Sandas

  Cover and internal design © 2016 by Sourcebooks, Inc.

  Cover art by Gregg Gulbronson

  Sourcebooks and the colophon are registered trademarks of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews—without permission in writing from its publisher, Sourcebooks, Inc.

  The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious or are used fictitiously. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental and not intended by the author.

  Published by Sourcebooks Casablanca, an imprint of Sourcebooks, Inc.

  P.O. Box 4410, Naperville, Illinois 60567-4410

  (630) 961-3900

  Fax: (630) 961-2168

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  Contents

  Front Cover

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Prologue

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Epilogue

  A Sneak Peek at The Lord of Lies

  One

  Two

  Three

  About the Author

  Back Cover

  This series is dedicated to my sisters. For all the late-night whispers and giggles, promises made, and secrets kept. For the dance routines, goofy skits, road trips, and Charmed nights.

  Prologue

  London, 1812

  The young, elegantly dressed gentleman sat in the darkness of his carriage, deftly turning a snuffbox over and over in his fingers. The snuffbox was the only personal item of his father’s he had kept, and he carried it with him always. It served as a reminder of a truth he could never allow himself to forget. Every now and then, he looked out the window at the building across the street. This was his third night coming to this spot. On each of the prior evenings, he had not been able to convince himself to leave the vehicle.

  Tonight he was resolute.

  He had heard much about Madam Pendragon’s Pleasure House. It was reputed to offer an extensive array of sexual diversions to anyone with the means to afford the exclusive rate and the proper sponsorship. Aside from the services provided by the ladies of the establishment—and more pertinent to his needs—was the fact that Pendragon was known to enforce strict rules of discretion for her clients’ protection.

  Discretion was vital to his purpose. Without a guarantee his activities would be kept entirely secret, he would never have considered becoming a client of the high-class bordello.

  As he sat slightly hunched forward, maneuvering the snuffbox in a constantly rolling pattern through his fingers, he acknowledged the restlessness traveling through him, like constantly shifting desert sands. It made his skin itch and his blood thrum. The agitation would only continue to increase.

  He could not go on in this manner much longer. He understood that much at least, even if he was at a disastrous loss as to how to rectify his situation. But that was why he was here. He intended to seek Pendragon’s assistance.

  If he could just bring himself to leave his carriage.

  With a growl of frustration, he curled his fist around the snuffbox and jammed it into his coat pocket. Allowing no further thought, he unfolded his lean body and pushed through the carriage door to the pavement. He crossed the silent street in long strides and took two steps at a time up to the door. A short, heavy knock prompted its opening.

  After producing the required letter of reference, he was immediately shown to a private sitting room. For once, he was grateful for the air of entitlement he had inherited from a long aristocratic line. His wealth and social standing were ever apparent in his manner and bearing. The deference he was afforded had never been as welcome as it was tonight as he waited in solitude for Madam Pendragon. Too agitated to sit, he stood with his back to the velvet-draped window as he watched the door.

  The woman arrived within a few minutes.

  She was much younger than he had expected—perhaps in her early thirties. Certainly not many years older than that. Blond and rather pretty if not for the assessing way she observed him as she crossed the threshold into the room. She was gowned in flashing red satin. Her figure was lush and rounded, and her smile, when she finally displayed it, held within its curves a wealth of knowledge and mystique.

  It was this woman’s reported knowledge that had brought him to her door.

  “My lord,” she said in a velvety tone. “It is a pleasure and delight to have you visit my modest establishment. Please take a seat. Would you like a drink?”

  “No, thank you,” he replied. “I do not drink in company.”

  Her laughter was melodious as she crossed to a liquor service. “I insist, my lord. I intend to have a brandy, and it would not be gentlemanly for you to allow me to drink alone.”

  He watched as she poured the liquor into two snifters and then turned to bring one to him. When she reached his side and extended the glass, he realized what he had initially thought was a bracelet winding around her forearm was in fact a tattoo. A black dragon adorned the pale skin of her inner arm, its serpent-like tail twisting around the delicate bones of her wrist, and the creature’s tiny green eyes stared at him as she waited for him to take the brandy.

  “Please, my lord. Accept the drink and come sit with me. We shall talk.”

  There was patience in her voice, as well as an odd note he struggled to identify. Whatever it was, it managed to soothe some of his initial discomfort. He took the snifter and brought his attention back to the woman’s face.

  Her head was slightly tilted, and her green eyes—much like the dragon’s—met his without judgment or expectation. She did not say anything more, just waited calmly for his decision.

  He experienced a rush of self-assurance. He had come this far. He had gone years in his current state and had no intention of continuing in the same manner for the rest of his life. It had not been easy to finally acknowledge he needed assistance, especially from a prostitute, however high-class.

  As if seeing his acquiescence in his expression, Pendragon allowed her smile to widen before she turned to take a seat in one of the plush chairs. He lowered himself into the chair beside her, holding the brandy snifter balanced on his knee.

  The burst of confidence gave way almost immediately to a trickle of uncertainty.

  He would need to explain what he wanted
.

  The heat of his frustration, which never seemed to be very far from the surface lately, began to stir. The old and familiar powerlessness spread through him as he considered his reason for being there. He hated acknowledging it had come to this. He hated knowing he would have to confess his weakness to this stranger if he was to ever find a way past it. He clenched the chair in a death grip.

  “My lord,” the madam murmured as she leaned forward to rest her hand over his.

  He wore gloves only to the most formal affairs, detesting the feel of them against his skin, but he wished he had them now. The moment he felt the warmth of her bare fingers, he flinched away—violently and uncontrollably. “Do not touch me,” he muttered through clenched teeth. He lowered his gaze. “I cannot bear it.”

  He waited tensely for her to denounce him and order him to leave. He had been foolish to come here. What did he expect to gain by coming to a pleasure house when he could not abide even the most casual touch?

  “My lord.”

  Something in the madam’s tone had him lifting his gaze to meet hers. She still leaned toward him. Her expression was calm, but he saw in her eyes something he had never observed in anyone else before—acceptance.

  She smiled.

  “I am beginning to get a sense of why you have come to me, my lord, and I shall endeavor to accommodate your needs. Why don’t we start with a few simple questions?”

  He gave a short nod, surprised she was willing to go on.

  “Excellent.” She leaned back in her chair and took a sip of brandy. “What is your age?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “Are you married?”

  “No.”

  “Your aversion to touch,” she began gently. “Is this something you have lived with for long, or is it relatively new?”

  His stomach twisted. His breathing spiked. But an iron will developed over years of practice came to his aid as he brought his traitorous body back under control. If he ever wanted to master it, he needed to learn how to talk about his…affliction…without a rush of near-debilitating anxiety. And if he wanted to be able to move about and do his duty in society without constant pain, he needed that mastery.

  He regulated his breath until it returned to a steady rhythm and the cramping in his muscles eased.

  Then he looked into the madam’s green eyes.

  “Since I was young,” he answered.

  “Interesting.”

  Madam Pendragon took another sip of her brandy. Her steady gaze never left his. Somehow, her unrelenting focus did not feel invasive. Just the opposite—the assessing nature of her manner, along with her lack of an emotional response, inspired an unusual sort of assurance.

  After several long moments, the madam eased the intensity of her regard and released a breath. She gave him a smile, her lips curving in a way that was both light and sensual.

  “Tell me, my lord, what do you hope to accomplish in coming to me?”

  He hesitated only a moment before giving his answer—it had been a weight in his soul for too long.

  “It is time I enter society. As you noticed, I am unable to manage even the most casual of social interactions without difficulty. I cannot allow my personal limitations to become fodder for ridicule and gossip.”

  The madam nodded, her smile never faltering.

  “I understand your establishment provides a wide variety of services to its members,” he continued, his voice lowering as he tried to find the right words. “And that you have very strict rules regarding privacy.”

  “That is quite true, my lord.”

  “I seek assistance—or perhaps training is the more appropriate word—in how to accept the touch, the proximity, of another person without the sort of reaction you just witnessed.”

  “I see.” The madam shifted slightly in the chair, stretching her lush body in a way that immediately drew his attention. “Now, my next question is rather prying, but as I am sure you will understand, your answer is also quite necessary for me to know if I am to properly assist you.”

  Distracted by the curves beneath her red satin gown, he nodded.

  “Have you ever been with a woman? In the full sense, of course.”

  His response came from a choked throat. “No.” He had never admitted as much to anyone, yet she barely reacted to the information, simply nodding. He realized this madam was not likely shocked by much of anything.

  “Are you able to achieve arousal?”

  His muscles tightened, and his fingers curled dangerously around the snifter.

  “Yes,” he said after a moment.

  Pendragon smiled and tipped her head. “Are you attracted to women, my lord, or do you find yourself drawn to other men?”

  The question surprised him, but was easy to answer. “I am interested in women.”

  “Excellent,” she replied in a breathy murmur.

  He frowned. “I am not certain how such questions are relevant, madam.”

  “Oh, I think you know.” Her gaze then met his with a direct but gentle focus. “You could have gone to a physician for the kind of help you are requesting, but you came to me. Tell me, my lord, what else do you seek?”

  He hesitated. Not because he did not understand what she was asking, but because she had seen through to the exact point he had been afraid to admit outright.

  Anticipation dosed liberally with trepidation rolled down his spine. His voice was low and thick when he finally answered. “I’ve known pain almost all my life. I want to know what it is to feel pleasure.”

  His answer seemed to please the madam. Her smile turned sultry, and a light flickered to life in her eyes.

  “And so you shall, my lord.”

  In a move as subtle as he suspected it was contrived, the madam smoothed a hand over the curve of her hip and down the surface of her thigh as she leaned forward, revealing the deep shadow of her cleavage.

  “There is no better way to learn of pleasure than to discover all the ways to give it.” Her voice lowered to a husky murmur, and her green eyes stared into his. “If you put yourself into my hands, I promise, my lord, you shall attain both of your goals. You shall learn how to accept a variety of physical stimulation, from the most fleeting and casual to that which is more intimate. You shall have access to beautiful, sensual women. Their bodies will be yours to explore, to command, and to satisfy. When you know what it is to give pleasure to a woman, your own will naturally follow.”

  At her words, the yearning he had struggled for years to deny surged through him. His heartbeat raced, and his groin tightened. He had lived so long with a sense of powerlessness, believing he would never know what it was to be with anyone. The idea that he might finally experience more than pain and panic from the touch of another person was an intoxicating thought.

  Pendragon’s glance flickered to his lap before lifting again. She smiled, and her expression, which previously had been all business, now contained a hint of playfulness. “I can see the idea appeals to you.”

  He did not deny it. Her teasing made it easier for him to acknowledge the lust inspired by her suggestion. But still, he knew well his limitations, his total lack of experience.

  Meeting her gaze, he clenched his teeth against the apprehension still heavy in his gut. “I should hate to be a disappointment. To anyone.”

  The woman’s green eyes narrowed shrewdly. “You shall do quite well, my lord, have no doubt. I possess a particular sense about these things.”

  One

  London, May 1817

  Lily Chadwick knew there was something different about the fiercely scowling gentleman the first moment she saw him.

  She could feel it.

  The instant their gazes met, caught, held, something skittered across her skin like a rain of white sparks. It entered her bloodstream, heating her from the inside until her breath becam
e stilted and her knees went alarmingly weak.

  He stared at her from beneath a brow drawn low in a forbidding expression. His eyes were so dark, even the light of the glittering ballroom could not be reflected there. The angles of his face were hard, his jaw sharply defined, and he held his mouth in a harsh line that attempted to harden the full curve of his lower lip but didn’t quite manage it.

  Lily tried to glance away demurely, but she couldn’t seem to manage. She felt a flutter that became a tightening in her belly. Her heart stopped, skipped a few beats, then started up again in a frantic rhythm as he just kept watching her.

  Despite his severe, aloof appearance, something about him reached out to her, touching her with an intrinsic sort of recognition. It left her feeling as though she stood in the heart of a firestorm. She sensed with a certainty beyond rational explanation that his unyielding manner was a facade, as if he were a hero in some gothic novel. There was passion in him. She felt it in every quickened, prey-like breath she took while frozen under his intent stare.

  The silent interaction between them was becoming more inappropriate by the minute, yet she could not compel herself to break away. As though caught in an invisible trap, she stared back at him while her hands began to sweat and her stomach trembled.

  Finally, the stranger turned toward the gentleman at his side, releasing her.

  She sucked in a breath.

  Cast adrift, Lily fumbled to control her galloping heart. Desperately wanting to find a quiet place to absorb what she had just experienced, she returned her attention to the young ladies beside her, seeking an opportunity to interrupt their steady conversation so she could excuse herself.

  “He quite frankly terrifies me,” Lady Anne declared in a thready whisper.

  “Do not be so dramatic,” Miss Farindon chastised.

  “Some say he is a demon.”

  Miss Farindon laughed. “He is but a man. A moody, rude, and highly arrogant man, but certainly no demon.”

  Miss Farindon and Lady Anne, out in their first Season, like Lily, were making the most of a short break from the dance floor by gossiping about those still on it. Despite her unease, Lily’s attention was caught.