… Truly, there are few stars in this Season’s galaxy that shine even half as bright as our fair Lady G—. She grows ever more desired at public functions, and we have no doubt that the eligible bachelors of the ton desire her for functions that take place exclusively in chapels. As for Lord L—, however, as their company seems well-kept…
… In sad corners of ballrooms we have recently found poor, lost little lamb, Lady S—, once a welcome member of the Pitiless Pretties of the ton, now exiled for sins we cannot imagine. We have high hopes for her restoration, however, as she was seen dancing with the Marquess of E—…
The gossip pages of the Weekly Courant, May 1, 1833
His house was massive, gilded and gorgeous, every inch of it appointed in the height of fashion. She stood in the main marble foyer, turning slowly, looking at the high ceilings and the wide, curving staircase that led to the upper floors of the house.
“This is beautiful,” she said, turning to face him. “I’ve never seen a home so perfectly designed.”
He leaned against a marble column nearby, arms crossed, gaze focused on her. “It keeps rain from our heads.”
She laughed. “It does more than that.”
“It’s a house.”
“Give me a tour.”
He waved an arm to the doors on the far end of the foyer. “Receiving room, receiving room, breakfast room.” And to the ones behind her. “Cynthia’s morning room, another receiving room.” He paused. “I don’t entirely know why we need so many.” He indicated a long hallway that led to the back of the house. “The kitchens and swimming pool are that way. The dining room and ballroom are one flight up.” He returned his attention to her. “The bedchambers are lovely. They deserve personal inspection.”
She laughed at his impatience. “Swimming pool?”
“Yes.”
“You realize that a swimming pool is not precisely a common addition to a London town house.”
“It’s not precisely a common addition to London,” he said, lifting one shoulder. “But I like being clean, so it makes for excellent sport.”
“So do any number of men. They take baths.”
He raised a brow. “I take baths, as well.”
“I’d like to see it.”
“You’d like to see me take a bath?” He looked positively thrilled by the idea.
She laughed. “No. I’d like to see your swimming pool.”
He considered refusing – she could see it in his eyes. After all, a tour of his home was not part of their agreed agenda for the evening. But she stood firm, until he took her hand in his – warm and large and rough from years of work – and led her through the house, down the dark hallway and through the kitchens.
He came to a closed door, and set his hand to the handle, turning back to meet her gaze, he opened the door, and indicated that she should pass into the dimly lit room beyond.
She stepped inside, first noting the barely-there light that came from a half-dozen fireplaces on the far side of the room, and then noticing how very warm it was in the room.
“Stay here,” he said softly at her ear, pushing past her. “I shall light the lamps.”
She stood in the warm darkness, watching as he put a match to a lamp nearby, casting a small sphere of golden light in the massive room. The light was at the edge of the swimming pool, still and dark, and utterly compelling. She moved without even noticing, drawn to the mysterious water as Duncan followed the edge of the pool, lighting more lamps, until the room came into view.
It was magnificent.
The walls and floor of the room was tiled in the most beautiful blue and white mosaic, like sky and surf coming together. The lamps sat on beautifully wrought marble columns, each light made manifest as a golden orb of glass. She looked up to where the ceiling gave way to what must have been a hundred panels of glass, revealing the sky above London, darkness and stars.
She could look at that ceiling forever.
And that was without the swimming pool, reflecting the stars and lamps on the water, wine dark, like Odysseus’s seas. She met Duncan’s gaze where he stood several yards away, adjusting the brightness of one of the lamps. No, not Odysseus. He was Poseidon, god of this place, strong enough to bend water to his will.
“This is…” She paused, not knowing how to describe the room. The way it called to her. “… stunning.”
He came toward her. “It is my vice.”
“I thought your vice was the card tables.”
He shook his head, reaching out for her, brushing one of her curls back from her face. “That’s work. This is play.”
Play.
The word curled around them, a promise in the darkness. She wondered at it, wondered how long it had been since she’d thought it. Since she’d had it.
Wondered if he would give it to her. She smiled up at him. “It seems like glorious play.”
“Glorious play,” he repeated the words, refusing to release her gaze. “It does seem like that.”
She did not think the room could get warmer, but it did. “There are so many fireplaces.”
He looked over his shoulder, toward the wall of hearths. “I like to swim year-round, and the water gets cold if not for the fires.”
The whole room, the whole experience, it must have cost him a fortune – the heating, the lamps, the extravagance. The Angel prided itself on having a half-dozen expansive, utterly unnecessary rooms designed purely for members’ whims, but there was nothing like this at the club.