Deepest Desires of a Wicked Duke(123)

Portia sat up. She felt tiny in the huge, canopied, beautiful bed. It was heavenly and comfortable. “The duchess is very kind.”

“That, she is, miss,” the maid responded cheerfully.

The maid set down the tray over Portia’s legs. “Her Grace asked if you would be ready to receive her after your breakfast.”

“Of course.”

The duchess had loaned her clothing including a lovely shift of the softest fabric, a corset of luxurious, lace-trimmed satin, and a lovely pale day dress.

Now, being helped into her dress by the maid, Portia thought of the first time Sin had helped her dress. The mirror reflected her flaming blush.

To quell the flush in her cheeks, she put those thoughts out of her mind. Instead, she speculated on reasons the Duchess of Greybrooke wished to see her.

The real reason, she was not at all prepared for.

“Sin has told us he is a holding an enormous ball,” Helena said, as she poured tea in the drawing room. “Something rather shocking, even for him.”

Something shocking? Oh! Was he going to hold an orgy and want her to attend? She’d told him she was willing to go to orgies with him. Now that she was faced with the reality, she . . . wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know if I am ready—”

“Oh, you will do fine. Sin wishes me to take you out and ensure you find a proper gown for the event.”

“They wear gowns?”

Helena laughed and looked at her strangely. “Oh yes. Gowns will be worn.”

* * *

Portia spent the morning with two duchesses—Helena, the Duchess of Greybrooke, and Sophie, the Duchess of Caradon. Sophie’s husband, known by the nickname Cary, was also one of the Wicked Dukes.

Both women were not at all what Portia imagined. Not stuck up or snobby. Helena, who had been a governess, admired her work at the foundling home. Sophie had one child by her first husband, who had been killed in battle, and was expecting her first child with the Duke of Caradon, known as Cary. Helena had lovely blond hair, beautifully styled, and wore a gown of rich blue. Sophie had silky dark hair, with twinkling eyes and a ready smile. She exuded optimism.

“We’ll take you to Madame Latour,” Sophie said. “She is the most sought-after modiste in London at the moment.”

“I really am surprised clothes are so important,” Portia said. “Don’t they simply come off?”

“For this event, clothes are very important—or so Sin said,” Helena told her. “It is to be a masquerade.”

“Have either of you been to one of his parties?”

“After Grey married me, he never went again. And he wouldn’t allow me to go. Grey became a reformed Wicked Duke when he married me.” Helena had explained to her about the “Wicked Dukes,” but of course Portia knew about them already. She had devoured every item about Sin that she could in the gossip sheets.

“I saw one,” Sophie admitted. “It is rather a long story. But I went and I saw Cary there. It was before we married.”

“What . . . what was it like?” Portia asked.

“Oh. Rather what you would expect. Of an orgy.” Sophie blushed. Then she tapped her chin. “Do you think Sin needs you to be part of that world?”

She felt so comfortable with Helena and Sophie, Portia found it easy to be honest as the carriage rumbled onward.

“I knew I couldn’t bear to be married to him if he wasn’t faithful. I couldn’t accept knowing some other woman was having fun with him. But I thought if I went to the orgies too, perhaps I could accept them that way. I want to be with him. I don’t want to ask him to change. I like how sensual he is. And I don’t want him to lie to me.”

Helena nodded. “I see. That is very open-minded of you.” She looked out the carriage window. “We’ve arrived. It is time to acquire a gown for you.”

The other women looked so delighted. Portia was swept up in the fun. Exploring the fabrics—light-as-air silks, sensual velvets, shimmering satins—proved thrilling. The modiste described the design she had in mind as an assistant took careful measurements. Madame Latour was being paid a small fortune by Sin to finish the dress quickly.

Portia thought of some of the beautiful, tempting costumes she’d seen. “What of a peacock-inspired costume?” she began to suggest. “With a corset decorated in turquoise, blue, green, and gold thread and for the tail feathers—”

“No!” cried Madame Latour. “Monsieur le Duc has told me exactly what is desired. To match his costume, he said. He wished something beautiful for you. Worthy of his duchess.”

“To match his?” She hadn’t expected that and she consented, allowing Madame Latour to design what she wished. But Portia still couldn’t understand why so much attention would be paid to clothes at an orgy. From the modiste’s description, the design of the dress sounded as if it would be elegant and demure. Not at all what she expected.