Anthony barely raised a smile at that piece of outright flummery. He headed past the displays of foils and fencing shoes into the back of the house, where he deposited his coat, waistcoat and boots. It was early enough that the vast majority of his peers were still sleeping off the excesses of the night before. After an hour or two of mindless physical activity, he’d feel in a far better position to think about his next move. He walked back into the main salon and headed to the center of the room.

Angelo bowed low as Anthony stepped forward and the master presented Anthony with his favorite foil.

“En garde. Pret. Allez.”

Without thinking, Anthony settled into his fighting stance and crossed blades with the master. Luckily, fencing required his entire concentration, both in body and mind, in a lethal dance of attrition. It also sharpened his senses, made him calculate the risks, the parries, the potential blows.

After a long while, when his arm began to ache and his errors became more frequent, Angelo spoke again.

“Halte.”

Anthony disengaged his blade and bowed again, became aware of the spectators who had gathered around them. Angelo wiped his brow.

“That was excellent, my lord. If you practiced every day, you would be a worthy opponent.”

Anthony nodded. “Thank you.” He turned around and met the familiar derisive gaze of Lord Minshom.

“You are definitely improving, Sokorvsky.”

Anthony started to walk and kept moving, his eyes fixed at some point beyond Minshom. He made it to the deserted changing room, heard the door click shut behind him and spun around. Minshom leaned against the door, his foil dangling in his hand, his expression far too amiable.

“Angelo is right. You could be good at this if you tried. But then you never try, do you?”

Anthony ignored him and looked around for a cloth to wipe his face. He flinched as Minshom’s foil whipped past him, hooked into the white towel and whisked it away.

“I’m leaving, Minshom. Don’t you have anything better to do than annoy me?”

“Not really.” Minshom smiled, expertly flicked his wrist and drew his blade across Anthony’s cheek and the corner of his mouth. Stinging heat flowered over Anthony’s skin, and he tasted the warm coppery taint of his own blood.

“What the hell was that for?”

“To teach you to pay attention.”

Anthony set his jaw. “And what if I no longer want to pay attention to you? What if I have moved on?”

He winced as Minshom’s blade darted out again and sliced through his shirt, leaving a stark line of red on his chest.

“You haven’t moved on. I haven’t given you permission to.”

Anthony’s hand clenched on the handle of his blade. “Minshom, I’m not in a good mood this morning. I’m also quite sure that I don’t require your permission for anything.”

Minshom’s foil came up, but this time Anthony was ready. Metal rang together and their blades clashed. Too enraged to bother with the niceties of etiquette, Anthony shoved Minshom back against the wall and held him there with the weight of his body.

“I’m going to get changed, go home and have a bath. Now let me get on with it.”

Minshom met his gaze, leaned forward and licked at the blood on Anthony’s chin, then followed a slow salacious path along Anthony’s bloodied lower lip.

“Are you sure about that?”

Anthony dropped his foil and jerked his head away from Minshom. He froze as the other man ran his fingers down the wound in his chest. His blood was on Minshom’s fingers, in his mouth, on his tongue. He groaned as Minshom twisted his nipple and then sucked it into his mouth.

God, this was so wrong, yet so right. Bloodlust roared through him, and he struggled to avoid the trap of the familiar, the desiring, the wanting . . . the pain.

“No.” Anthony pulled back, yelping as Minshom’s teeth scraped over his nipple. “I don’t want this.”

Minshom raised his head. “Why not? I want it. You should stop saying words that mean nothing and use your mouth for a better purpose. I want your bloodied lips around my cock, sucking me dry.”

“No.” God, he could see it, him on his knees, Minshom over him, goading him on, laughing.

“You’re hard, you want it.”

Anthony stepped back, shaking his head, words beyond him. Minshom remained against the wall, stroked himself through his breeches.

“You want it, Sokorvsky. Kneel down and give it to me. Or is it true that you only fuck women these days?”

Anthony stilled. Did everyone think they had a right to rule him? Was he ever going to be allowed to be his own master? Cold fury filled him, replacing his anxiety and enhancing his arousal to the point of pain. He stared down at his fisted hands and then at Minshom.

With a curse, he grabbed Minshom by the throat, spun him around and shoved him over the nearest table. “You want it, Minshom? Then take it.”

He reached around, grabbed for Minshom’s cock and started to rub it hard through his breeches. Minshom groaned and tried to throw Anthony off. Furious now, Anthony ground his cock against Minshom’s arse, felt his swollen flesh expand and burn against the buckskin of his tight breeches.

Even through his clothing, Minshom’s big cock felt good in his hand—hot, wet with pre-cum and ready to explode. Anthony leaned harder on the man; bit his neck to hold him still like a stallion mounting a mare.

“You’re good at giving it out, Minshom, so how about taking it? How about my cock slamming into your arse for a change?”

Minshom bucked hard and writhed underneath him, caught Anthony off balance and the two of them rolled to the floor. Anthony kept his hand wrapped around the other man’s cock and gasped as Minshom grabbed for his, squeezing it painfully, making him want to come.

Side by side, they wrestled for dominance. Anthony managed to get his hand inside Minshom’s breeches and felt the metal piercing on the crown of the other man’s cock graze his palm. He closed his fist around Minshom’s shaft and pumped hard.

“Christ . . .” Minshom groaned as he shoved his tongue deep inside Anthony’s mouth, working him to the rhythm of their combined fingers, the rhythm of rough hard sex.

Minshom climaxed, his hot cum pouring out over Anthony’s still-working fingers, his shaft twitching and pulsing with every thick spurt. Anthony pulled his hand free and rolled away, got hold of Minshom’s wrist and ripped it away from his cock. He refused to let that man make him come ever again.

He stumbled to his feet, grabbed his clothes and stuffed his feet into his boots. Minshom lay on his back, looking up at him, his dark hair disordered, his pale blue eyes glinting. Anthony’s blood covered his face and chest, his own pre-cum darkened the buff color of his breeches around his groin.

“We’re not finished, Sokorvsky.”

Anthony buttoned his waistcoat, his fingers shaking and throbbing in time to his engorged cock.

“How many times do I have to say this? What will make you listen to me and leave me alone?”

Minshom laughed. “The fact that one day you won’t get hard the moment you see me? The announcement of your wedding, perhaps?”

“Damn you to the devil, Minshom.” Anthony shrugged into his coat and smoothed down his hair. The cut on his face had stopped bleeding, yet it still stung, much like Lord Minshom’s remarks. “Next time I won’t just bring you off—I’ll fuck you until you’re the one begging for mercy.”

“And you think I would mind?” Minshom licked his lips and shivered extravagantly.

“Yes, because you consider me beneath you, much like everyone else in this damned world.”

Minshom sat up and Anthony tensed. “But surely the balance of our relationship has just changed. Aren’t you proud of yourself?”

“Proud of myself for hurting you, for proving that I can behave like an animal?” Anthony shook his head. “It makes me want to puke. The last person I want to be like in this world is you.”

“What a pity. And I was hoping for so much more.”

Anthony put on his hat and bowed. “Good morning, Lord Minshom, and go to the devil.”

He walked out, ignoring the startled comments from Angelo about his face, and headed for the park. He couldn’t go home—his father might be waiting for him—and he couldn’t go to work because it seemed he was no longer employed. He sat down on a bench and stared at the hopeful sparrows gathering around his boots. He had nothing to give them, nothing to give Marguerite either, even though that was what he yearned for.

A sudden flurry of rain helped make his decision. Madame’s was also out of the question because he wanted sex too much. He set off back through the park gates. Perhaps David would be home and at least willing to let him in.

13

“How nice to see you, Maman.”

Marguerite smiled brightly at her mother, who was seated on the couch in her drawing room. Helene wore a dashing highpoke feathered bonnet and a blue pelisse that made her look as young as Marguerite. It was so unlike Helene to leave the pleasure house during the week that Marguerite was already wary.

“It is nice to see you too, my dear. I came to see how your love affair is progressing.” Helene smiled. “Although I hardly need to ask. You are glowing.”

Marguerite touched her cheek. So much for her mother keeping out of her love life. Whatever had happened to make Helene change her mind? Marguerite thought she looked pale, but perhaps her mother saw things differently. She was, after all, an expert in all things sexual and was never afraid to express an opinion.

“Everything is fine, Maman, thank you.”

Helene cocked her head to one side, her blue eyes considering. “But you do not intend to share the intimate details with me, do you?”

“Not really.”

Her mother’s smile faltered. “And so it should be. As Philip keeps reminding me, you are a grown woman. I just wanted to make sure that everything was all right. I always felt that I let you down over Justin.”

Marguerite tensed. “In what way?”

“In many ways. I wasn’t there to advise you. I wasn’t able to prepare you for your wedding night.”

“Justin prepared me quite well enough for that, Maman. I don’t think you should worry.”

Her mother sat forward, hands tightly clasped together. “When I met with you in Dover after the wedding, I was worried you had been forced to wed.”

“I knew that. I hope I convinced you it wasn’t the case.” She’d tried so hard to pretend to her mother that all was well, to make her leave so that she could get back to Justin and Harry.

“Indeed you did, but I was still unsure whether to tell you what I’d found out about Justin. With what happened with Sir Harry afterward, perhaps I should’ve been more direct.”

“What about him?”

Helene shrugged. “It is not important now, is it? Justin is dead, and I would hate to sully his memory.”

Marguerite gripped her hands together. “Maman, you came all this way to see me, you might as well tell me what you want to say. As we’ve already discussed, I am a grown woman.”

“All right.” Helene still hesitated. “You knew Justin came to the pleasure house as a guest of Sir Harry Jones?”

“Justin told me that.”

Helene nodded. “Did he ever share with you what he did there?”

Oh God, her mother knew, had known all along . . . Marguerite swallowed hard. “You forget, Sir Harry came with us on our honeymoon. It became obvious to me that his relationship with Justin was more complicated than perhaps it should’ve been.”

“That is what I thought too, although I never actually saw them doing anything indiscreet. From what I remember, they always slept with women.” Helene paused. “It seemed to me that Sir Harry was in love with Justin. Was that how it felt for you?”

Her mother’s voice was so soft, so understanding. Marguerite wrapped her arms around her waist. Could she share the truth with her mother or was it better to simply agree? Wouldn’t it be better to lay the blame on Justin, who was dead, rather than on Sir Harry, who was still alive and yet unable to defend himself?

“I wasn’t completely surprised when I heard that Sir Harry had challenged Justin to a duel,” Helene continued. “He was probably incredibly jealous of you.”

Marguerite closed her eyes. In truth, Harry had been the perfect gentleman. It was Justin who had proved to be the problem.

“Marguerite?”

She stood up and walked across to the window, presenting her mother with her back. “Maman, what exactly does all this reminiscing have to do with me embarking on a new affair?”

Helene sighed. “I just wanted to make sure you weren’t still blaming yourself over what happened. Justin couldn’t stop Sir Harry loving him and neither could you. Sometimes guilt and grief can affect how you choose a new partner.”