“This is Sadie, beside me,” he said. He ran his finger around his cravat as he looked at Sadie.
“Miss Sadie?”
“Miss Bradshaw, I guess,” he said, looking at her in confusion.
But oddly, it bothered her that Sadie, even though she did look scandalous, did not even merit a proper introduction. Then she got rather a good look at Sadie and her dress.
The bodice was . . . well, as good as transparent. The filmy red lace barely covered her large, tawny nipples, not that it mattered, since one could see the nipples’ shape and color through the fabric.
Portia knew this was supposed to be an orgy, and she shouldn’t look disapproving if she was going to be disguised as Sinclair’s mistress. But she couldn’t help it.
And deep down inside, she couldn’t stop remembering what Sadie’s breasts looked like naked, for she’d seen them engulfing the face of the Earl of Rutledge. Now she was putting them on display for everyone, even strangers.
Portia felt disapproving, as one would expect.
But she felt something surprising. She felt rather hot and tingling about the idea of sensuality being so open and free.
What would it be like to be so bold?
Exciting? It seemed frightening, yet that made her heart beat faster and it made her feel . . . hot and squishy. The same way she used to feel when Julian—Sinclair kissed her.
Sadie was young—perhaps nineteen—with fluffy blond curls. As the course was cleared, Sadie leaned over toward the Viscount Sandhurst, lifted his hand, and slipped it somewhere down in her lap.
He went red as a beetroot.
A few moments later more food came, so Sandhurst had to use both his hands to eat. Sadie turned to her food, so Portia, blushing fiercely too, leaned to him. “What about the other women? Who are they?”
She was squirming with embarrassment, but she had a mission. To find her kidnapper. To find out who had sent those eerie notes.
“The older courtesan sitting beside the Duke of Sinclair is Harriet Barker.” The lad blushed even redder, now looking like a prize tomato.
Harriet Barker wore so many diamonds, Portia was surprised she didn’t fall over from the weight. She wore black—pure black satin, cut low to reveal a cleavage like two plump pillows. Her hair was henna red. She had a beautiful face, but it was lined, and she wore rather a lot of rouge and lip color.
“She looks like a madam,” Portia said. In the stews of London, She had seen a few madams trying to steal hapless young women off the streets.
“She is a madam. I lost my virginity at her establishment.”
Wine sputtered from Portia’s lips. Really, she thought she was naïve in this world. He was even worse.
Across from the young courtesan Sadie, sat the elegant young woman who had spanked Rutledge. Portia thought she must be a lady, but her position at the table belied it. She was exotic and beautiful with dark eyes and she swept her lashes over them in a sultry way. Yet she could not be a lady, or she would be sitting much nearer to the dukes. Portia had heard of women called Incognitas. They were courtesans but were as well-dressed and well-mannered as ladies of the ton. So this woman was the Elegant Incognita.
“She is Clarissa Carrington,” Sandhurst whispered. “And across from her is a courtesan I don’t know. I’ve never seen her before.”
The courtesan Sandhurst didn’t know had brunette ringlets, and a darker complexion—a light caramel color. The young woman’s eyes were almond shaped and exotic. She wore not a gown but a silk wrapper in a stunning turquoise color, belted tight around her.
At that moment, Sadie leaned over toward Rutledge, so her bosom pressed to the table. Portia couldn’t see, but she suspected the breasts had almost popped up and out of Sadie’s bodice. Rutledge was staring. In her mind, Portia named her the Brash Courtesan.
The Brash Courtesan giggled at the earl. “I think we should have a competition. Are you really as generously endowed as the rumors say? I think we should view the delightful pricks on offer and award those that please us best. Perhaps it’s time that women chose the gentlemen as opposed to the other way around.”
Portia sat stunned. How could she be that brash?
Naughtiness gleamed in Sadie’s eyes. “You claim to have thirteen inches, Rutledge. But is it true? Is there anyone here to beat you? Perhaps it’s not the length, but the thickness. Perhaps fatter is more pleasing?”
“It’s not size,” cooed the sultry dark-haired woman, the Elegant Incognita. “It is skill.”
“A large man can be like a bull, and make a woman cry out in pain, not pleasure,” declared the Old Madam. “But any lightskirt will take that man again, fascinated by his fearsome size, certain that the next time such a huge club will give her the orgasm that lets her see heaven. We’re all searching for that. The exquisite little death where we do indeed glimpse heaven.” She laughed loudly, riotously after this.