"She's female," Adrian said briefly, watching as she moved away, deeper into the Garden of Delights. She hadn't screamed or fainted—perhaps he'd underestimated her. She must be far more experienced than he'd guessed.
"Ah, I see. And you've chosen her? Enjoy yourself, then. If she's game, come find us. ”
Adrian's only response was a faint smile. He started after her, moving silently with the shadows so as not to alarm her, only to find her starting up at the coup de grace, the undeniably lovely and undeniably pornographic statue of the Rape of the Sabines.
In this case, rape seemed to hold the more common meaning rather than the classical one of simple abduction, as the ever-ready marble Roman was in the midst of mounting his new bride while on horseback.
He'd always found that particular move highly unlikely—even the most reliable animal would have a difficult time not responding to his master's rhythmic movements. He'd tried it once with his most recent mistress during his stay in Italy. After a great deal of tumult, they had retired to a bed, laughing, and he hadn't attempted it again.
The young monk had frozen, and Adrian knew she was staring at the exaggerated member of the Roman soldier, yet another historical inaccuracy that in no way detracted from the erotic power of the statue. Adrian could sense dismay in the set of her shoulders, and he chuckled. Poor innocent lamb.
She was walking into the torch-lit gardens, away from the crowds. The Heavenly Host was dividing now, in pairs, in groups, and occasionally voices called to her, inviting her to take off the white ribbon and join them, either to watch or partake, but she shook her cowled head, moving on.
Author: Anne Stuart
She hadn't taken any of the communal wine as far as he could tell, and there was nothing to ease her fears. How well had Lina advised her? Did she know enough not to pass through the Portal of Venus? Once a celebrant chose to pass through that enchantingly landscaped orifice she would be fair game unless already claimed by another.
What the hell was she doing here anyway? He could think of no earthly reason why a well-bred, disapproving, virginal spinster would come to observe the haute ton at their most libidinous. Nor could he imagine why Evangelina Whitmore would have agreed to bring her.
He strolled after the young adventuress, similarly ignoring the invitations that came his way. She was moving inexorably closer to the Portal, and she probably had no idea what the peculiar gate into the inner gardens signified, not unless she spent time naked with a mirror. Or unless she and Lina were a great deal closer than society suspected.
He chuckled again. As divine as that particular image was, it didn't have the ring of truth. Lina was too devotedly single-minded in her pursuit of men. And he suspected Charlotte Spenser could barely fathom such a pairing.
The ruins of the ancient abbey were growing quieter. Adrian glanced behind him. The Chapel of
Perpetual Erection, the newly built gathering place, was ablaze with activity, as most of the celebrants ended up there, at least for the first part of the night. Etienne had disappeared with his partners in that direction. Just as well. Etienne was occasionally a little too interested in his younger cousin's affairs, and no matter how fond Adrian was of him, he still preferred not to have everything he did subject for discussion.
Turning back, Charlotte had stopped beside another statue, this one of a willing young lady using her mouth on what appeared to be a troll. He tried to gauge her reaction, then realized he was getting too close. Close enough to see the distinguishing white tie coming loose. Close enough to sense that she was wishing she were a hundred miles away from here.
What was Lina thinking, bringing her here, he thought again, strangely annoyed. Abandoning her to the doubtful mercy of libertines like him?
Lina knew he had no mercy. He'd done his best to ignore the angry, veiled invitation in the little virgin's eyes, the one she didn't even know she'd issued. But now she'd delivered herself to him, he could hardly resist, now, could he?
“Rohan!" a voice called out. "Come join us. " He signaled no, but it was too late. ”
She whirled around at the sound of his name, and froze. What did she expect? He thought with a touch of irritation. She must have known he'd be there—where else would a young gentleman be when the Mad Monks were congregating?
He could almost hear her gasp from where he stood, thirty paces back. And then in her panic she made her fatal mistake. She pushed through the deliberately overgrown entrance of the Portal of Venus, passing point non plus. No turning back for Miss Charlotte Spenser. And the branches caught, pulling at her, so that when she disappeared into the inner sanctum the white tie remained behind, clinging to the overgrown branches.
By the time he reached the Portal there was no sign of her. He picked up the ribbon, letting the satin length trail against his fingers.
Then he followed her through the gate, smiling.
Bloody hell, Charlotte thought with commendable vehemence. When she'd first conceived this mad idea she'd thought there would be enough people that she would be unlikely to see Adrian Rohan—or if she did, he'd be dressed in the same enveloping robe and she wouldn't recognize him.
But not all the gentlemen and ladies wore religious habits. From her brief, nervous glance she'd seen that Rohan was dressed in simple breeches, a loose white shirt and a long, sleeveless coat. For a moment she wondered why he was dressed so informally, and then she realized it was in order to undress easily and quickly, without the aid of a valet.
She didn't even want to think about the beautiful viscount taking off his clothes. The thought of Adrian Rohan naked made her quite breathless, and she was already rattled enough by simply being here. She took another quick look behind her. He was alone, too close, and looking straight at her.
There was no way he could know who she was— her disguise was too good. And Lina had once casually told her that Rohan had never been part of the peculiar practice of male love, so he couldn't be looking in her direction. Could he?
But still he kept moving toward her, and she panicked, moving deeper into the shadows. The torches were spaced farther apart, the errant moon providing most of the fitful lighting. A temple rose in front of her, a crescent-shaped structure of white limestone, and past the columns she thought she spied a large, shallow pool.
For a moment she breathed a sigh of relief. This was peaceful, safe, lovely in the moonlight, hidden away from the insanity beyond, a haven. . .
"Demme, but I knew if I waited long enough I'd find someone young and fresh," a fruity voice said in her ear, and she jumped, panicked, ready to run.
The man was wearing a monk's robe, but his cowl was down and she recognized him. Sir Reginald Cowper, he of the obscenely large fortune, and the seven grandchildren, and the saintly reputation and avuncular charm. There was nothing avuncular about him now.