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“The Moon and Stars have arrived.” Selene glided into the main alcove, a dozen women trailing her in various states of shocking dishabille: transparent peignoirs, dresses that pushed their bare breasts over the neckline, a man’s frock coat tailored to perfection with nothing but silk stockings beneath. There were three men, one rouged, one oiled, and one as perfectly and fashionably attired as any duke.

“You’re late,” the butler sniffed. It was quite the feat to look so lofty when the valet was licking the spot behind his ear.

“A queen is never late,” Selene declared. Her lips were even redder than they had been before, painted so brightly they gleamed even in the torchlight.

“You’ll need to be set up and ready much earlier for the Devil’s Night,” the butler said tersely, even though his cheeks were flushing. “This is just the preamble for a select few gentlemen.”

Selene patted his red cheek. “I know, Whiskers.”

“That’s not my name.”

“But it suits you.” The valet grinned, pulling on the butler’s very neatly trimmed sideburns. The butler’s grumble was good-natured after that point.

And then the other gentlemen arrived.

Meanwhile, Clara was still trapped, still aware of every single inch of Bram’s body against hers. He was solid muscle and heat, holding her securely but not too tightly, even as she knew there would be no escaping his grip.

It didn’t occur to her to want to.

Selene was holding court already, flirting, explaining the rules: words that granted the speaker, guest or demimonde, complete autonomy and immediate cessation of any activity, no matter how seemingly innocuous. Curtained niches in the wall for those who preferred to watch privately. Wine, music, food available. Which alcoves catered to which vices and virtues.

And here was Miss Vinegar, secretly lurking uninvited in the sex caves. With Captain Bram Thorn.

And no exit to be had.

Chapter Sixteen

There was a certain order of things, wasn’t there?

Flirting, kissing—something before this kind of incendiary nearness. Long walks in Hyde Park or dancing at Almack’s more than twice in one night. Chaperones and lukewarm lemonade on the veranda.

Instead, a grotto filled with incense and writhing bodies, torchlight, and Bram taking up every available breath of air to be had.

But this was not courting, she reminded herself. This was something else entirely.

His hand was still over her mouth, and it awakened a glimmer inside of her. She wasn’t offended or scared, though he threatened to overwhelm her with very little effort. She felt safe. Reckless. Miss Vinegar had been well and truly expelled, if only for the moment.

It was enough.

Hadn’t she left London for adventure? To explore her own life before it degraded entirely into the excitement of lichen growing on trees? To embrace the Nightingale in a way she could never have before? She would never have the opportunity to do it again. Not like this. Not here. Not with this man.

There were moments for bravery and moments for pride.

This was a moment for wild abandon.

She pressed back slightly against him, gasping when she encountered his hardness stiffening against her. His fingers tightened slightly over her mouth. “You’re playing with fire, lass,” he murmured.

She had never been the type to play with fire. She was proper, reserved.

Not tonight.

Not when he called her lass in that way, voice stroking her roughly. No one had ever called her that before. She tucked it away. One day when she was old, she would remember this handsome captain calling her lass as though it meant something. It didn’t, of course. But that did not diminish it for her.

She pressed harder, grinding over him. It sent liquid heat through her. She could have sworn he growled in her ear.

And she liked it. Very much.

“Clara.” A warning threaded through his voice this time, just as delicious. He gripped her hip, digging his fingers softly into her skin. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”