In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa

       www.spice-books.co.uk

      To my dear friend and critique partner, Saskia Walker,

      who’s cheered me on throughout the writing of

      this story and many others

       CHAPTER ONE

       Eyes of the Devil

       London, 1890

      “WHO IS THAT MAN over there?” demanded Charlie. “See the one I mean? The tall impertinent-looking fellow by the ballroom door, talking to Sir Horace Rumbelow.”

      Beatrice Weatherly suppressed a sigh. Her brother could be a bit of a bear sometimes when he drank too fast, and the champagne was disappearing down his throat tonight at an alarming rate.

      “I asked you to wear a more conservative dress. Something dark and modest, maybe one of your mourning gowns,” Charlie went on. “But of course you wouldn’t, and now look what’s happened. I swear that if he doesn’t stop ogling you this very minute, I’ll go across there and box his ears for him!”

       I’d like to see you try, brother dear. He looks as if he could swat you like a gadfly with just one hand.

      “Please, ignore him, Charlie. He isn’t bothering me in the slightest, so I don’t see why he should bother you.” Keeping her face carefully averted, Beatrice sipped her own champagne. She was determined to make every glass last as long as she could tonight. Just look what had happened the last time she’d drunk fizz.

      But, truth be told, her bold scrutinizer across the reception room did bother her and it wasn’t an urge to box his ears she felt. No, it was something far more alarming. Her heart pounded and her entire body felt deliciously restive every time she caught his hot gaze on her. Something that seemed to happen every few moments or so because try as she might, she couldn’t help looking back at him. And he hadn’t taken his eyes off her since they’d entered the room.

      Of course, when she and Charlie had been announced, it seemed as though almost everybody had swiveled around to stare at them. Oh look, she imagined them all saying, There she is, Beatrice Weatherly, the Siren of South Mulberry Street, the shameless hussy who posed naked for those scandalous cabinet cards. Men who probably owned copies of said cards had eyed her with salacious interest when their wives weren’t looking. The women had frowned and pursed their lips as if worried that their men would be so overcome with lust that they’d flock around the indecent Siren, unable to help themselves. Even the discreet servants circulating with their trays had seemed to study her covertly.

      Now, though, the first reaction was over and the hubbub of gossip had returned to its normal clatter. Some wives had won the battle for propriety and a few groups had self-consciously cut her and Charlie, but most of the other guests seemed far more free and easy.

      I suppose a fast set like this is more forgiving of transgression, sexual or otherwise, and scandals are two a’ penny, something new every day, she thought.

      But the tall man with dark eyes and blond hair continued to stare.

      The temptation to glance around at him again was a physical force. It bore down on Beatrice’s chest, making her breathless, and it seemed to be affecting other parts of her anatomy, too. It was as if she’d suddenly appeared in Lady Southern’s salon dressed exactly as she’d been in one of her ex-sweetheart Eustace’s racy photographs.

      That was, in nothing but her birthday suit.

      Trying to appear not to be moving, she inched her head around, then blushed crimson when he nodded his head in acknowledgement.

       Hateful man! I’ve had enough of this!

      Beatrice glared back at him, adding a curt nod of her own for courtesy’s sake. He looked vaguely familiar to her somehow, as if she’d seen his image recently, too. An artist’s impression in some periodical or other, although obviously not a nude study. Her face and chest turned rosy pink at the thought of that, too. Especially as the elegant cut of his suit couldn’t entirely mask the rangy power of his body, making the job of her imagination dangerously easy.

      Her oppressor gave her a smile. A dazzling, daring smile, so much more arresting than a mortal man’s should be. A smile that had her gulping her champagne as if it were lemonade, regardless of her resolve to be cautious.

      His lips were sultry. In a clean-shaven face that was neither young nor older, but somehow strangely both, they were strong and firmly outlined, hinting at voracious appetites never denied. Beatrice imagined him savoring rich food and fine wine, but always in moderation, appreciating every pleasure without going to excess. Lips like that would kiss a woman just as hungrily and with equal calculation. Lips like that would kiss a woman until she gasped.

       Lips like that would kiss a woman into doing anything.

      Across the room, it was impossible to see the color of the man’s eyes, but they were dark, dark as night, glittering with mystery and menace, his stare unwavering.

      Almost suffocated, Beatrice had to look away, barely able to breathe. Had Polly laced her too tight? Much as she disliked corsets, hers hadn’t seemed excessively oppressive tonight, not until she’d arrived here and set eyes on him. Now she wanted to rip open her bodice and wrench the entire miserable thing asunder, laces and all.

      Taking small breaths so she didn’t appear to be panting over the strange, aggravating man, she turned smartly toward Charlie and found him frowning at an alternative source of vexation.

      Their recently acquired friends, Monsieur and Madame Chamfleur, were talking and laughing with a small but rather animated group, a few feet away. Watching them discreetly, Beatrice envied the way Monsieur Chamfleur kissed his wife’s gloved hand with a decidedly French flair. It spoke of other kisses she’d imagined the two of them sharing, especially if the hot looks they kept exchanging were anything to go by.

      “My God, those two are a rum couple, aren’t they?” Charlie swigged down his champagne and took another glass from a passing waiter. “When you first introduced them, I thought them to be persons of quality, but there’s something decidedly fishy about the way they look at each other. Don’t you think so?”

      Sometimes Beatrice wanted to give her brother a good shaking. She loved him dearly, because he was a sweet man in his own way and she knew he loved her, but he could act like a towering hypocrite at times. “Well, I think they’re charming, and the way they exhibit fondness for each other is most refreshing. If more couples were as tender in their affections toward each other the world would be a far happier place.”

      Charlie clucked in irritation, the expression far too stuffy for his twenty-five years. “I think the less you talk loudly about ‘exhibiting’ and ‘affections,’ the better.

      We’re trying to retrieve your reputation here, sister dearest, not damage it further.”

      “Don’t be such a stick-in-the-mud, Charlie!” Nerves atwitter, Beatrice tossed back the rest of her champagne and took another glass, too. Better