Quickly, Lucia crossed herself. Now was the time. This was her moment.
She climbed the stairs, drawing strength and composure with each step. No matter how much fear or uncertainty she felt, she could never allow her guests to see any hint of apprehension. The Orchid Club relied upon its aura of unbridled sensual freedom to attract visitors again and again. Guests wanted to feel safe as they indulged their erotic desires. If there was any hint of the proprietress’s anxiety, the fantasy would shatter like brittle sugar sculpture.
By the time she reached the top step, Lucia had swathed herself in the cool serenity of her professional persona. She was a queen, benevolent but untouchable.
She hadn’t gotten this far in life by giving up, by being afraid. Poverty hadn’t stopped her, nor had losing her only parent, or undertaking a long, perilous voyage to a foreign land. Again and again, she’d pushed onward, as she would continue to do so. Until breath left her body.
Some might consider her achievements dubious, but to her, they were triumphs.
She opened the baize-covered door that stood at the head of the stairs and stepped into the hallway. Sounds of sex encircled her, as familiar as the sounds of seabirds over the Golfo di Napoli had once been. There was also the warm ripe scent of sweat-glossed skin, and the heat that came from dozens of bodies engaged in vigorous activity.
Bypassing the two main rooms in the club, she neared the entryway, where Elspeth stood awaiting the subsequent knock on the door from the next arrival. Tall and lean, Elspeth wore her peach-hued gown to perfection, and with her short hair, she looked every inch the noble gatekeeper.
Before Lucia said a word, Elspeth’s smile flashed.
“Fear not, Amina,” Elspeth said, using Lucia’s alias. She held up a pouch that jingled, heavy with coin. “The take’s as good as it’s ever been. Better.”
Lucia permitted herself a small exhalation. Perhaps this might work out. Perhaps she could allow herself a moment’s satisfaction.
She envisioned herself donning an invisible cloak that gave her strength and poise, standing straighter as its folds swathed her body. “Any troublemakers?”
“I turned away a pair of drunken Mayfair louts. Other than that, it’s been smooth as a dish of milk.”
“So long as no bothersome cats come along to tip that dish.”
The coded knock at the door sounded, and Lucia moved on as Elspeth went to admit the guests.
For the first time, she stepped into her empire as its rightful ruler. No cornets heralded her arrival, and no rose petals scattered across her path. It was, in all ways, unremarkable—except to her. She drew confidence from each footfall, rising up taller and taller.
This is mine because I fought for it and won it fairly. I belong here.
Within the two main rooms of the club, everything appeared satisfactory. The sight of people fucking in full view of others had long ago lost its ability to shock or even arouse her. It was simply business. So long as her guests were happy and kept returning, the spectacle remained merely a component of her work and nothing more.
The staff moved through the chambers with smooth efficiency, offering refreshments, righting any overturned furniture, and monitoring their guests. Lucia exchanged attentive nods with Will and Arthur before proceeding on to the ballroom.
Before this evening, there hadn’t been music, but now musicians she had personally selected for their ability and discretion played music that graced the finest assemblies in London and the Continent. The melodies provided an elegant background as guests gave free rein to their most primal desires in full view of everyone.
Lucia herself had never attended a fine assembly. This would be the closest she’d ever get to hearing the music meant for the elite, and she smiled to herself to think that what a conte or principessa heard in some august ballroom was currently performed for people of every rank as they fucked one another.
Surveying the room, her gaze lingered on the female guests, looking for signs that they were being coerced or pushed into doing things they didn’t want to do—a man’s hand gripping a woman too tightly, or a woman literally backed up against a wall. But her female guests seemed willing and eager to participate.
She released a long breath, permitting herself a moment’s relief. Fears that her first night as manager would result in disaster began to dissolve. Everything seemed attainable, and that potential rose up within her like the bubbles in sparkling wine.
I can do this. It’s possible. Everything is possible.
Her thoughts abruptly silenced. She sensed someone’s gaze on her like a velvet glove stroking down the back of her neck.
Lucia looked around to find the source of the sensation. Her breath stuttered and her pulse came in a quick flutter when she saw its origin.
A rangy, dark-haired man in a blue mask strode purposefully toward her. He moved with fluid, masculine grace, his body muscular and strapping. The direct way he approached captivated her—as though nothing could keep him from being near her.
Lucia’s pulse leapt again.
She shook her head, trying to dismiss her reaction to the guest’s approach. Clients often turned their interests toward her. Yet there was a palpable sensuality to the way he walked and the interest in his gaze. It held frank erotic intent, and the confidence that he could give her extraordinary pleasure.
Even at a distance, his eyes said, I. Want. You.
Rather than walk away, as she normally did when a guest took interest in her, she stayed where she was. The distance between them closed, bit by bit, her heartbeat picking up speed the nearer he came.
And then he stood less than two feet away. He bowed, pressing a hand to his chest. She nodded her head in acknowledgment.
This close, she could see that his garments were exceptionally well made, clearly the work of an expert tailor, because only the finest needlecraft could create a suit of clothing that fitted his athletic form with such grace. His shining boots also had to be custom from Jermyn Street. Yet in contrast to this elegant appearance, dark stubble covered his cheeks and angled jaw, and he smelled slightly of gunpowder.
That, combined with his roguish grin, made her think of a buccaneer.
“Madam.”
“Sir.” She gave him a polite but shallow nod.
“You keep to yourself.”
He had a faint Irish brogue, making his words gently musical. She had learned many years ago to repress her own Neapolitan accent. There were many in Britain who viewed foreigners with suspicion, and it had been a matter of survival to sound as English as possible.
“I choose to,” she said.
He moved to stand beside her. His nearness was an intoxicant, making her slightly dizzy. Together they watched the swaying mass of bodies on the dance floor.
“I do as well, it seems,” he said, as if faintly puzzled by his own behavior. “This is my first time here and I find myself
