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.
There was nothing like this anywhere in London.
She looked to him. “Why?”
He looked away, to the water, black and tempting. “I told you. I like to swim.”
He hadn’t said that. He’d said he liked being clean. “There are other ways to swim.”
“It is best at night,” he said, ignoring the question. “When there is nothing but water and stars. Most of the time, I don’t light the lamps.”
“You feel your way,” she said.
He ran his hand down her arm, taking her hand in his. “Feeling is underrated.” He pulled her close and wrapped one arm around her waist. He kissed her, deep and lush, and she didn’t know if it was the heat of the room or the caress that made her lose thought.
No, she knew. It was the caress.
He pulled back. “Do you know how?”
It took a moment for her to understand. “I do.”
He watched her for a long moment, as though gauging the response to his inevitable question. As though wondering if he should risk her saying no.
As though she would ever say no.
“Would you like to swim, my lady?”
The honorific swirled around her, soft and full of promise. How much did it tempt her? How much did it make her wish for a moment, for this night, that she was his lady?
More than it should.
“This evening is going quite differently than I expected,” she said.
“And I.” He kissed her, quick and rough. “Discard the damn wig.”
Her hands were doing his bidding even as he moved away, to the wall of fireplaces, crouching down to stoke the flames of first one, and then the next. His instructions followed, she calculated that it would take him several minutes to set fires blazing in each of the six hearths, and so she sat, removing her shoes, her stockings, her drawers, setting each neatly to the side, until all that was left was the dress.
The dress she wore was designed for Anna, not Georgiana, and it did not require a maid for removing. It was structured with hidden catches and ties and an interior corset, all designed for ease of donning and doffing.
Though she wondered if the dressmaker who had performed this feat of fashionable engineering had ever imagined this particular moment, when the dress would find itself at the side of a swimming pool.
If all went well.
He turned from the last fire, facing her across the massive room, and she stood, watching as he returned to her, thoroughly focused on her, hunting her. She noticed his bare feet, and realized he’d taken a moment to remove his boots while he stoked the fire. He removed his jacket on the way, tossing it to the side, forgotten as he worked on his cravat, unraveling the long length of linen and letting it fall away. He did not take his gaze from her, and she did feel like prey.
No prey had ever wanted to be caught so well.
He reached her as he pulled his shirttails from his trousers, and she wondered at the comfort he had with the process. “Have you ever entertained here?” The question was out before she could stop it, and she wished to God she could have stopped it.