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Almack Assemblies were certainly the most practical way to meet prospective brides: the
Beau Monde's
trade in marriageable flesh was as efficiently and heartlessly managed as the traffic in less respectable flesh conducted at its fringes. The only trouble was…
    But here he stopped, yawned, and glanced at the clock. Absurd, it was after three in the morning. In the country he often woke at four.
    Confess it, David. You've spent hours avoiding the crux of the matter.
    The
only trouble
was that if he attended the next Almack ball he might encounter that young man again.
    Marston.
    He stared into the low fire, but what he saw among the brilliant reds and yellows, the dead-white embers and tiny hot slivers of blue flame, was the proud set of a young man's torso, the energy rising from his hips and waist. And a pair of hungry gray eyes with strange golden lights in them.
    I think he wanted me as much as I wanted
—as I want—
him. And we could both burn in hell for it
.
    Of course, such liaisons happened all the time, at least in London. David had heard the rumors about Lord Crashaw, who would be his chief rival in Parliament later this week. Too bad you couldn't discredit a gentleman's political arguments on the basis of his sexual preferences. Well maybe it's not so bad after all, he thought with a wry turn to his mouth, if it turns out that I share the same sinful desires.
    But desire was one thing. Action was quite another. And David knew that he'd never act upon whatever it was he'd felt for the young gentleman—even if he'd quite understood what one actually
did
under the circumstances. After all, he thought, life presents opportunities for many different sorts of desire. One simply learns to control one's feelings and move on, as he had when he'd ceased using prostitutes.
    And it wasn't as though he'd be running into Marston every day in London. Those dandies had their own haunts, their own paths through Town. Fascinating ones, perhaps, but not David's. They certainly weren't interested in debating the future of British agriculture, for example.
    And now it
was
time to go to bed. He'd sleep until noon, he told himself, and then he'd spend the entire afternoon on his speech. Crashaw was a decent orator: a fat, slow-moving gentleman, he used his bulk to put force and presence behind his orotund rhetoric. Somebody needed to make the opposing arguments with clarity, and with all the eloquence and persuasiveness that this critical issue required.
    And if, next time he came to Town, he wished to attend another of those assemblies at Almack's, he'd certainly go. He'd go wherever he pleased, dammit.
    Because it would be craven, silly, and an insult to his own self-respect to let a strangely attractive young gentleman stop him.
    ----
Chapter 3

     
    Phoebe had been as gentle as she could when she told Billy that she wouldn't be requiring his services this evening. But his pretty face fell nonetheless, his sunny blue eyes wide and stricken.
    Quietly, he asked her if he hadn't pleased her on his last visit.
    "Of course you did, dear," she protested. "Oh bless me no, it's not on
your
account that I'm refusing." Hardly. Billy was tall and well built, with a seraph's face atop a strong, column-like neck and plowman's torso. And he was obedient as well: skillful, compliant, and eager to please.
    A gentleman need only send a note to Mr. Talbot's discreet establishment and Billy—or someone equally lovely—would be delivered to his doorstep like a well-wrapped Christmas present.
    Phoebe had learned about Mr. Talbot from cronies at White's. As such topics were discussed largely through hints, winks, and innuendo, it had taken her a while to master this private coded language. She bent her skills to it, though, and had finally come into possession of one of Talbot's pasteboard business cards, along with an assurance that the boys were clean and healthy.
    "And I take it he's to be trusted with one's silly secrets—those absurd tastes and