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earl. She’s left you alone. Now, tell me, have you enjoyed sexual sport with another woman?”

    Maryanne reeled back on her slippers. She had to grab the back of the chair beside her.

    Georgiana had left London! But what of her note? That desperate note? Had Georgiana written a plea for rescue yet left town with another man?

    It would be like Georgiana. To forget she’d begged for help, to forget she’d put a friend at risk when a man offered rescue. She’d strangle Georgiana. When she found her.

    Her heart twisted in her chest. Her friend had forgotten all about her. She was so very forgettable.

    “Other women?” Swansborough prompted.

    Startled, she looked up. His lips were parted, and his breath came fast. He was waiting on her answer as if he needed it to live. He was exquisite, beautiful, yearned for by unmarried ladies who dreamed of a charming husband and a stallion in their beds. And he wanted her answer.

    “N—no.”

    She saw his slight stumble, a reminder of how much liquor he must have drunk.

    “Any objections, though?” he went on. “I can think of several women who would love to nibble your breasts or suck the honey out of your quim.”

    She saw his cock jolt upward at his own words. The head glistened as though moist—in all the books she edited, the cocks were always dewy, or dripping, or slick. Lord Swansborough’s certainly was. She stared at it, unable to answer his question—she’d read Sapphic scenes, had been intrigued. What would it be like to suckle a woman’s breasts to please her? Or lick another woman’s wet cunny?

    But she wanted him. Only him.

    “Touch me.”

    Two simple words, spoken in a voice hoarse with desire. In a heartbeat, his teasing nature had dropped away.

    “I need you,” he said simply. “Make me forget. Touch me.”

    Tentatively she let her fingers brush—and touched the mythical velvet-over-steel she had read about so many times. Nothing could describe the marvelous sensation of his intimate warmth against her skin. And it was truly satin soft yet rigid, and it jumped beneath her touch with a mind of its own.

    Her heart leaped into a frantic rhythm.

    She clamped her hand around the shaft as he caught her in another kiss, a long, slow kiss that melted her like wax to a flame. She was gripping his poor cock to keep herself from pooling to the floor.

    Brandy taste tingled on her tongue as he broke the breathless kiss. Laughing, he took a staggering step. Terrified she’d hurt him, with her hand wrapped around his remarkably pulsing member, she moved back, too.

    His hands pulled up her skirts, and she gasped at the sight of satin wrinkled by his hands as her hem rose higher and higher.

    His hot breath danced against her ear. “I promise, Verity, when I want to use fucking to make me forget, I am very, very good.”

    What did he want so much to forget? His hand cupped her inner thigh, and she struggled to think. The roughness of his palm, the strength of his fingers, the reverence of his touch—all conspired to send her wits whirling, shattering.

    A man’s hand was on her thigh.

    Lord Swansborough’s hand was on her thigh.

    Sliding up, up to the juncture between. His palm cupped her hot, wet nether lips; his fingertips delved inside her cunny.

    His hand shifted; the heel pressed that magical place all the courtesans wrote of. The clitoris. Obviously Lord Swansborough knew exactly what he was—

    Oh, lord.

    Hazily, through shattering pleasure, she saw his smile, saw the roguish curve of his lips. She clung to his arm, to the chair beside her. Oh, it was so…so much. Beyond words…so far beyond her skill with words—

    She tried to back away as he flexed his hand and slowly, torturously increased the pressure and slipped his fingers between her damp nether lips. Her juices were lush, thick, bubbling from inside her.

    In her fantasies, she had gazed into his magnetic black eyes and shared the deepest intimacy. Never had she dreamed it