Virginia Henley

His voice was imperious; his face as proud as a Roman eagle. Her anger flared immediately. “And have I not told you that I will not willingly become your slave!”

He stood up and pointed to her. “You
are
my slave, as you. Will soon learn!”

“Perhaps I am your slave, Roman”—she lifted her chin defiantly—“but I am not your
bed
slave. Not without a flogging! Are you savage enough to enjoy me after you have whipped me bloody?”

He descended the steps to her. Though she knew not how, Diana did not retreat from him. Marcus Magnus came so close, they were almost touching.… His black eyes bored into hers, mastering her with his dominant presence.

Pick me up and carry me to your bed,
a wicked voice inside her cried.

He could smell the Egyptian musk and something else, far headier. His mouth descended upon hers in a kiss that was brutal in its intensity, designed to prove to her that he was the master, she the slave.…

VIRGINIA HENLEY

and her highly acclaimed previous novels

DESIRED

ENTICED

SEDUCED

TEMPTED

Books by Virginia Henley:

THE RAVEN AND THE ROSE

THE HAWK AND THE DOVE,
winner of the 1988
Romantic Times
award for Best Elizabethan Historical Romance

THE PIRATE AND THE PAGAN

THE FALCON AND THE FLOWER

THE DRAGON AND THE JEWEL

TEMPTED

SEDUCED

ENTICED

DESIRED

ENSLAVED

DREAM LOVER

A YEAR AND A DAY

A WOMAN OF PASSION

THE MARRIAGE PRIZE

THE BORDER HOSTAGE

I’ve always had the best editors in the
business—Page Cuddy, Maggie Lichota,
and Tina Moskow.

This book is dedicated to Marjorie Braman.
Once again I’ve been blessed!

With special thanks to college English
instructor Evelyn Finklea, who provided
me with such marvelous research books.

Lady Diana was becoming slowly aroused. Though the hour was shockingly early, she had once again been lured between the sheets to indulge in her favorite pastime. Her behavior had recently undergone a drastic change and she had begun to kick over the traces.

A delicious gasp escaped her lips as the man’s sexual intent became clear. He would not take
no
for an answer, and a sensual thrill ran through Diana because he would not be denied. He was dark and dominant and dangerous, exactly the way a man should be, and she felt her very bones melting from his bold advances.

Diana’s nipples tightened and began to ache. Her woman’s center began to tingle in a most pleasurable way. The hand beneath her nightgown cupped her tender young breast so that her breathing quickened. Though Diana felt very wicked at that moment, she pushed away the tiny pang of guilt, curled on her side, and arched her mons at the pure titillation he aroused in her.

A curse escaped her lips as the candle suddenly went out. Damn, she was right in the middle of the best part of the chapter. She removed her hand from her aching breast and snapped closed the book she had been reading about the intimate sex life of King Charles II.

Diana relit the candle, finished the chapter, then sighed
with longing. She would have preferred living in any other period of history to Georgian times. In this day and age all the men were fops, sporting ridiculous powdered wigs, fans, and lip rouge. Why couldn’t she have been born in medieval times when brawny knights stormed castles and abducted the women within, or Elizabethan times when the queen’s bold seafarers pirated women along with treasure? During the Restoration, swaggering cavaliers emulated King Charles’s devilish way with women, so that life for a young lady of seventeen was exhilarating, exciting, and exceedingly worth the living!

Now the dandies emulated Prince George, or Prinny as he was nicknamed. What the hell sort of a name was Prinny? Actually, the name said it all … soft, silly, and stoopid with two o’s!

As Diana leaned over to blow out the candle, she caught a glimpse of herself in the cheval glass. She was fair as an English rose ready to bloom. Her pale gold hair fell to her hips in silken curls, her violet eyes were brilliant with expectancy, her body was graceful with long legs and high, thrusting breasts, yet all she saw when she looked in the mirror was the voluminous nightgown she wore. Diana pulled a face, not because the nightdress was hideous, but because it was such a
respectable
garment.

Lord above, how she had begun to loathe anything and everything
respectable!
Respectability was the force that ruled her Aunt Prudence and the measuring stick she used for everything connected with Diana’s life.

Two years ago when Sir Thomas Davenport died, he left his daughter, Diana, his fortune, his magnificent library, and his house in Grosvenor Square. It was in trust until she turned eighteen, of course, and her guardians were her father’s younger brother, Richard, and his wife, Prudence, who immediately moved into Grosvenor Square to care for her. At fifteen Diana had been a biddable child who never had her nose out of a book. But by the time she
turned seventeen, a wide streak of wilfulness had developed which clearly alarmed Diana’s prudish guardian.

Diana sighed, blew out the candle, and curled under her blankets, hoping that sleep would bring her dreams of the more lustful days of King George.

Aunt Prudence was readying herself for bed and bending her husband’s ear at the same time. Her frilled night rail was tied beneath her third chin while her starched nightcap sat just above her eyebrows. Which was just as well, thought Richard, repressing a shudder at the thought of her ever exposing her opulent flesh all at once.

“Far be it from me to criticize our ward, Richard, but once again Diana has passed up an invitation from Lady Sefton only to carry one of those infernal books to bed. All this reading cannot be good for a young girl. Heaven only knows what could be in some of those tomes. Reading could give her unsavory … notions.”

Richard decided it was no bad thing that Prudence was averse to intimacy and that sins of the flesh stood at the top of her list of taboos. As he eyed the ocean of white cotton enveloping his wife, he thought wryly,
It’s a wonder she doesn’t wear white gloves to bed, in case she has to handle the beastly thing!
His mind came back to the topic being discussed. “My brother’s collection is worth a fortune. I agree the books are a bad influence. I’m trying to find a buyer for the entire library.”

Sir Thomas Davenport had been a chief judge and baron of the exchequer, who was a learned scholar, knighted by the king. Richard knew that Diana had been well educated in the classics and tutored by her father in French, Italian, and Latin.

“My dear Richard, that is brilliant! Books will not help her catch the right sort of husband. If rumors get about that she is a bluestocking, she will sit on the shelf forever. I shall impress upon her again that she must hide her intelligence
at all costs. I don’t know what your brother was about, educating a girl beyond what is proper. It’s just not
respectable!”

At the mention of his brother, Richard’s mouth tightened. Life was so bloody unfair. How had Thomas risen so high, while he, Richard, remained a struggling solicitor? And why had he left everything to Diana and nothing to his only brother? Not one bloody sausage! He’d thought of a hundred schemes to separate Diana from some of her money, but the girl was so clever he’d have to come up with a plan subtle enough to prevent her suspicions from being aroused.

Prudence sailed toward the bed to turn back the covers. Richard undid his cravat. She eyed him with alarm. “You’re not coming to bed, are you?”

“No, no, m’dear. Just changing my neckcloth. I have to entertain a client tonight.”

Prudence let out a sigh of relief. Richard knew his wife was perfectly aware of just who would be the client and what sort of entertainment it would be and he also knew she was devoutly thankful he sought release elsewhere. She ought to be, and was, thankful that he was such a considerate husband.

Two hours later, Richard descended the stairs that led from the Vaulting Academy to the gaming house known as Pharaoh’s Tables. He had thoroughly enjoyed the services of a little dollymop whom he’d delighted in calling “Imprudence” while she called him “Dick.”

A well-heeled youth was descending the stairs at the same time, so Richard struck up a conversation. “That was a helluva racket going on in one of the rooms tonight. Quite put me off my stroke.”

The young gentleman flashed him a smile. “Shocking, wasn’t it?”

“Sounded like she was being tortured on the rack.”

The young noble shook his head. “Touched up with a riding crop.”

Richard eyed him speculatively. While he was not a heavy gambler, not addicted to the gaming tables in any way, he had begun to frequent the more expensive gaming houses where the stakes were high and the play deep. He was on the lookout for a young noble up to his eyebrows in debt. Someone who was already on Queer Street and well on his way to the Fleet.

When both men headed for the faro table, Richard held out his hand. “Richard Davenport, Solicitor at Law.”

“Peter Hardwick, one step ahead of the law,” he joked.

Richard searched his brain. He felt sure the name
Hardwick
belonged to the peerage. Prudence would know. She was an utter snob and a walking authority on England’s nobility. She could quote Burke’s Peerage backward.

As he watched Hardwick at the gaming table, Richard began to think he was wasting his time. Surely someone in dire straits wouldn’t hazard money with such abandon, nor win and lose with the same devil-may-care attitude. It was obvious to Richard that the young rogue was able to dip his fingers into someone’s fortune, if not his own. And yet Richard had a gut instinct that he had found his mark.

Hardwick was just the type who might appeal to Diana. Though his clothes were expensive, he was not a slave to fashion and the slant of his firm jaw showed he was no fop. He had a clean-cut look about him and an easy smile that would disarm the most suspicious nature. He was a well-made, handsome youth who would fit the bill to perfection if he turned out to be both noble and broke.

Richard presented his card and said casually, “I specialize in money matters. I administer the estate of my niece, Lady Diana Davenport, among others. Feel free to call at Grosvenor Square anytime.”

Shortly after, Hardwick left with two friends. Richard immediately recognized Richard Barry, the Earl of Barrymore,
known as Hellgate. The Barrys were an infamous family. The brothers were all young bucks with more money than brains. Oh well, he’d dangled the bait, and if Hardwick nibbled, he’d reel him in hook, line, and sinker, providing of course Prudence approved him as a
respectable
parti!

Diana’s breath was almost gone. She knew if she was squeezed any tighter, she would lose consciousness. “Please, let go, I can’t breathe,” she begged.

Her pleas were ignored.

If this is what I must endure to be on the marriage market, I’d rather be a spinster,
Diana decided. Her breasts were being squashed flat, and she feared her ribs were about to be broken. Anger came to her rescue. “Stop!” she said, firmly pulling away from her tormentor.

The modiste let go of the corset strings and turned to Prudence for support.

“Diana, my dear, a firm foundation garment is absolutely necessary. All grown ladies must suffer these things.”

“But I prefer the first one I tried. It merely nipped in my waist and didn’t squash my breasts flat as pancakes.”

Prudence flushed unbecomingly. “Ladies don’t say that word. It’s not respectable.”

“Pancakes?” Diana couldn’t resist. Her eyes sparkled mischievously as she watched her aunt struggle for composure.

“The first one was totally inadequate. This is the one you need,” Prudence insisted.

“Why?” Diana asked stubbornly.

“I can see you are forcing me to be indelicate … so be it. Your bosom is full and when you dance it will … jiggle. And that is not the worst of it. Some dances these days are so scandalous a man actually is allowed to place
his hand upon your person. If you were not well corseted, he would think you naked beneath your gown!”

What a lovely idea,
Diana thought irreverently. She almost asked, “Is that an argument
for
or
against?”
She decided to bite her tongue.

“We’ll take a dozen,” said Prudence.

A dozen will last a lifetime,
thought Diana with dismay.

“You may have a few of the lighter ones,” Prudence conceded.

Diana’s hopes began to rise.

“To wear in bed beneath your nightgowns.”

Diana’s hopes sank deeper than Davy Jones’s locker. She pulled listlessly at the corset strings, digging a whalebone stay from beneath her top rib.

“Don’t dawdle, child. Dame Lightfoot will be here any moment to begin your dancing instruction.”

Diana could already dance. Her body swayed sensually whenever she heard music. She’d watched the Gypsies once when she’d been on holiday with her father and the fast, exotic gyrations had indelibly imprinted themselves on her impressionable young mind. She didn’t know the intricate steps to ballroom dancing, however, which were an absolute must for a young lady of the ton. She hoped Dame Light-foot would have music in her heart and passion in her soul. Surely someone who taught dancing for a living couldn’t be completely straightlaced.

Diana’s hopes were snuffed the moment she set eyes on Dame Lightfoot. She was Junoesque, well endowed in the upper story, but rigidly encased in whalebone. Her iron-gray wig was as severe as her countenance. She carried a tall stick with an ebony knob which she tapped on the floor whenever she wished to emphasize a point.

Obviously the dancing mistress had passed muster with her guardian for Prudence positively beamed upon her. “This is your charge, Dame Lightfoot. I have no qualms in placing Lady Diana in your capable hands. A few lessons in deportment and etiquette along with the dance steps would
not go amiss. My darling niece is rather bookish, I’m afraid. She needs drilling in the do’s and don’ts of a successful first season.”

The martinet tapped her stick upon the floor as she scanned Diana from nose to toes. Her hooded eyes were shrewd, they missed nothing.

“I shall leave you to get to know each other,” Prudence said, closing the French doors of the music room.

“How are you, young lady?” asked Dame Lightfoot with hauteur.

“Cynical,” replied Diana truthfully.

The dame let out a bark of laughter that made Diana think perhaps not all was lost.

Dame Lightfoot tapped her stick decisively. “We shall begin with the language of the fan.”

Diana wondered what in the world that had to do with dancing. When she dared to put the question to her teacher, the dame took on the stance of a military man. Her words came in staccato-like steel-tipped arrows. “The fan is more important than the feet. In fact, all things are more important than the feet: the hair, the eyes, the mouth, the figure, the manners, the conversation, the appetite, the gown.”