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as she recalled the familiarity of the name. This was the club that had almost toppled Sally’s marriage when she learned her husband of a few days was a member of a secret sex club. Whitney leaned back in her chair, needing the support of something solid as she launched into the abyss of the unknown.
    “I’ll help you.” Such simple words, but the implications were anything but. Somehow, she would have to make sure not to run into Drake, however much her heart longed for that very thing. Avoiding him should be simple. After all, it wasn’t as if Drake would ever be at a secret sex club. She nearly snorted at the thought. “Tell me everything you know,” she said, her mind racing with worry and concern.
     

     
    Drake tilted his head to look at the black sky. He had a very clear memory of gazing at the stars with Whitney one night, her silk hair fanned over his arm, their legs pressed together as they lay in the fresh grass. With a grunt, he pushed the memory into the black hole she had left in his heart. The boat rocked beneath him, and the swoosh of oars gliding through the water whispered in his ears. A cool breeze surrounded him, soothed him, and for a moment he could almost feel Whitney’s warm lips on his, her taste of honey in his mouth.
    The feel of her lips faded, but the ever-present longing in the pit of his stomach remained. He would never taste her lips again or feel her heat against his fingertips. He crossed his ankles and stared into the shadowy water, uncomfortably aware of Rutherford’s scalding stare radiating from across the boat. The man sat under a blazing torch, his face set in lines of concern. No doubt he was contemplating whether Drake would have a repeat performance of madness and once again barge into one of the other Saint’s rooms and throw a blanket over the woman entertaining the man.
    Drake wondered, too. Two weeks ago, he could have sworn the dancing woman had been Whitney. And last week’s debacle of still not being able to perform with his appointed woman… What could he say? The flaxen-haired wench had smelled of lavender like Whitney used to smell. He had told them no more golden-haired women. Was it his fault he couldn’t perform under such circumstances or was it their fault for not listening to him? Pompous Englishmen never wanted to take the blame.
    “I hope you’re not thinking about my cousin again.” The boat creaked and dipped as Rutherford stood and moved across the space to sit beside Drake. The cloaked servants scrambled to resituate themselves to keep the craft in perfect balance.
    “I’m not,” he lied, impressed with how smoothly the lie came out. Maybe if he kept saying the falsehood, it would become reality. He hoped so.
    “Good, because it was deuced hard to get Cadogan to allow you another chance. He thinks you’re a raving lunatic. Lucky for you that amuses him. Apparently, the man wants a Bedlam candidate in the Sainted Order.” Rutherford leaned close, his blazing eyes illuminated by the orange glow of the torch held beside him. “Don’t be fooled by Cadogan. He appears a harmless rake, but I’ve long suspected he’s anything but. Having said all that, you still have to fulfill the last requirement to become a member. This is your
last
chance, Sutherland. Do you think you can manage it tonight?”
    Drake chuckled at the absurdity of the situation he was in. If anyone had ever told him he would have trouble bedding a woman, a beautiful woman, a woman whose sole purpose was to bring him pleasure, he would have called him a liar and given him a black eye.
    “I’ll perform,” he stated confidently, but averted his gaze in case he betrayed the sliver of doubt he held. Drake concentrated on the flashes of shimmering silver scales appearing above the water rather than his own fears.
    “Are you certain, Sutherland? These men, the Saints, are unpredictable.” Rutherford’s sigh joined the dry rattle of the dragonflies’ wings filling the