A Marriage Most Scandalous (Scandalous Ballroom Encounters Book 2) Read Online Free

through his chest.
    “Quite so,” agreed Bartholomew. “A quality mistress could set a man back several thousand pounds, whereas a whore can get the job done just as well for less money and no fear of her becoming overly attached.”
    Sheridan’s fingers tightened around the decanter of brandy they shared as he poured himself another snifter. He wanted to stand and dash his glass against the wall and rail at them that he did not need sexual release at the hands of a whore or mistress. He desired his wife; he loved her.
    Yet, he became acutely aware of the fact that he hadn’t slept for days, his body wound taut as a crossbow. Perhaps they—and his father—were right. If he spared Cecily the baser needs of his sexual urges, she’d likely thank him for it. The fantasies that would reduce her to nothing more than a tart … well, they’d be better enacted on a tart, wouldn’t they?
    Guilt seemed an unnecessary emotion. He was a man, and this was the sort of thing he’d been raised believing to be proper.
    Then, why did he feel nauseous at just the thought of touching someone who wasn’t Cecily?
    By the time he’d finished his drink, he’d resolved himself not to do it—to cry off and go home after the brandy ran out and they all grew tired of cards.
    But then came the drink after that, and then he really became quite foxed and unable to think past the pulsating vein filling his cock with blood and reminding him of his unfulfilled urges. Which just caused him to drink more. When at last he stumbled from Brooks’ flanked by three equally foxed, randy men, he’d quite forgotten that he’d decided accompanying them to a brothel would be a terrible idea.
    It wasn’t until they stood in the parlor of the famous Madame Petra’s bordello that he remembered.
    He should never have come here.
    However, the Madame had come into the vestibule to take their coats and greet them, and it really would have been quite rude of him to leave now. Of all the brothels in London, Madame Petra’s had been hailed as the best. It boasted the softest beds in the most opulent settings, the cleanest, most beautiful women, and a Madame who was the consummate hostess.
    Not to mention ravishingly beautiful.
    To call her pretty would have been an injustice to the lady. Indeed, she appeared quite fair of face but he could think of many ladies of the ton who possessed equal attractiveness. There existed something about the woman—a sort of decadence and inherent sensuality no man could resist. She remained well-known among the men of London for the girls she hand-selected to work in her brothel, in addition to services provided behind the closed doors of the city’s most elite residences.
    Sheridan did not know specifically what services she provided, but rumors of men who hired her to lay with both them and their wives abounded, along with other scintillating whispers he’d never paid much attention to. As he stood in the vestibule, inclining his head to her in greeting, he thought of her in his massive four-poster bed, a writhing, moaning Cecily between them. A fresh surge of blood filled his cock. He bit his lower lip to suppress a groan and tried not to stare.
    It had become bloody hard not to. She stood tall, with endless legs showcased by the high-waisted gown clinging to her every curve. A lithe and lean figure, with breasts that would fill a man’s palms and hips that would, as well. Her skin glowed an exotic, olive shade, and her dark, sable hair had been cut in a short, fashionable style to frame her face in loose waves. She wore light cosmetics—rouge stained her lips red, and kohl made her brown eyes even more dark and fathomless.
    “Gentlemen,” she purred in a deep, lightly-accented voice.
    No one quite knew where the Madame came from, but tales of her background varied. She was Italian—no, Greek—no, half English, half Egyptian. Her father had been a merchant—no, an exotic sultan—no, a duke who had borne her