Chapter 1

Five Months Later

Diana

Surrounded by masked men, Diana had no hope of escape, though not one of them truly appealed to her. Still, she had come to the masquerade this evening for a reason. There was a man she was trying very hard to put out of her mind. The Marquess of Camden hovered at the edges of her thoughts, regardless, the way he often did.

Exasperating man.

"May I fetch you a drink, my lady?" asked one of the masked men, beaming eagerly with dark, worshipful eyes, his hopefulness showing through the mask as if he wasn't wearing it. The powdered wig he was wearing hid his hair, and his mask covered most of his face.

If he was someone she'd previously met, she had no idea. Though, that was the point of the mask and the reason she was wearing both a wig and a mask as well. She'd also added a beauty mark to her cheek and rouge to her lips to help her look as different from herself as she could.

Though it was not the first time she'd attended a Society of Sin event, she never did so as herself, and she was most comfortable with events where everyone's identity was hidden. After all, she might one day be hired by one of the attendees, which could make things very awkward for everyone.

"May I fetch you something to eat, my lady?" Another man, wearing only a half mask, revealed him to be the younger son of the Earl of Chesterfield. Having met his very prim and proper mother, who was also a terrible gossip, Diana had to wonder at his choice to be so easily identified. The lack of circumspection on his part had her mentally crossing him off her list of possible partners for the evening.

Not that she was certain of what she intended for the evening. Though her hand itched to pick up a whip, she would only do so if she found a partner she truly felt would be worthwhile. There was always a risk when engaging in such scandalous conduct, especially for a woman making her own way in the world with a profession that relied on the ton but was outside of it. As much as Diana wanted to satisfy the urgent needs growing inside her, she would not risk her future for them.

"A drink and?—"

"She does not need anything." The voice that cut through the crowd around her was accompanied by a broad-shouldered man pushing his way through. Diana's breath caught in her throat, an unvoiced scream of despair that choked her airway, as the Marquess of Camden stepped in front of her.

Half a head taller than her, his dark eyes flashed through the mask he was wearing. His clothes might be plain, but the bearing he carried himself with was such that her admirers all stepped back, automatically giving way to his presumed authority.

"May I have this dance, my lady?" If she'd somehow hoped she'd gone unrecognized, the little emphasis he put on the last two words made it clear he knew she was no lady.

She was a mere miss, a spinster, from a good family, but certainly not a lady.

Lifting her chin, realizing she was going to have to indulge him if only to keep him from making a scene, she nodded her head.

"A dance does sound enjoyable," she replied, deliberately leaving off the ‘my lord' and not even giving him a ‘sir.' Regardless of their social stations, the masquerade not only gave her the excuse to pretend she did not know his title, but at the Society of Sin, she shed her social status entirely. Diana did not bow and scrape to any lord here. They did so to her and thanked her for the pleasure.

Well, except for those who were the dominant party in their own encounters, they did not bother with her at all. Something about a woman who was willing to command and torment willing men seemed to make most of them extremely uncomfortable, and they were nothing but respectful in their dealings. Far more respectful than the Marquess was being now.

She turned to the two admirers, who now looked crestfallen, and smiled sweetly at them.

"I am sure I will need both food and drink upon my return. Champagne, please, and some of the sandwiches." At her words, both of them perked up, and the rest of her circle looked unhappy at not having their own instructions. They all sighed, watching with longing and open curiosity as she took Camden's hand. It was the latter that sparked her temper. Eyeing him with displeasure as he led her to the dance floor, she kept her voice low as she admonished him. "I hope you remember that the Society requires discretion. I do not wish for the members to wonder who I am."

"Why not, if discretion is required?" he asked rather than acceding to her point. "They can hardly say anything."

"They can refuse to hire me." She turned toward him, facing him, her head held high as he put his arm around her. They had never stood this close before, his body nearly pressing against hers, her skirts shushing around his legs as he stepped forward and began to lead her in the waltz.

He was a powerful lead, moving with a surety that nearly took her breath away all over again. She could not remember the last time she had danced a waltz with anyone, though she and her sisters had all learned how. At one point, her parents had hoped to debut all of them. Diana had been the third of five daughters, though, and she had decided she would rather train in a profession, and her parents had allowed it.

"You do not need them to hire you. You have a job."

Diana rolled her eyes.

"Clearly, you are fully recovered." She nodded her head at the way he was confidently leading her around the ballroom.

"Likely, I am being foolishly overactive, as you are fond of warning me against, and will be bedridden tomorrow."

She snorted. The Marquess was fully recovered and had been for some time, though he liked to pretend otherwise. She still did not know why. Sometimes, she thought perhaps he enjoyed her company… and she had allowed herself to be persuaded to stay because she enjoyed not only his but the rest of his family's. They lived very exciting lives. Far more exciting than searching for a new client would be. The steady income from watching over him was also money she could send back to her family. Her youngest sister, Amanda, was debuting next year. They needed the funds.

Tomorrow, she would have to leave, though. It was time. This felt like a sign from the fates that she had overstayed her welcome, regardless of the Marquess' manipulations. She may never discover why he'd insisted on her remaining after he'd recovered from being shot.

Wondering why might have been another reason she'd stayed. A fondness had developed between the two of them. A friendship.

An attraction.

She ignored the whisper in her mind. She was too old for such things. Their stations too different. And it would be wildly inappropriate to feel such things for a patient. A client.

Other gentlemen had tried their hand at seducing her when she was under their employ, for themselves or a family member. Diana had never had any trouble putting them down with an icy rebuff. Only once had one tried to force the issue and had swiftly discovered that accosting a woman who knew where the most painful spots on the human body were was unwise. Before leaving that house, she'd made certain that his mother knew exactly what he'd gotten up to. The last she'd heard, he was now living on his own on Jermyn Street with only a manservant for staff.

The Marquess' arm shifted, bringing her closer to him, and Diana's breath stuttered.

"What are you doing?" she sputtered as they continued to revolve around the room, moving at such a pace that his leg now stepped between hers, so she could not help but feel the press of his body against hers.

"You were not paying attention to me." There was a touch of petulance to his tone, almost a pout on his lips.

Diana pressed her own lips together, her heart racing as she shook her head.

"You should feel blessed I am not because if I were, I would have to flog you for impertinence." The threat came automatically to her lips, a surefire way of putting off any of the Sin of Society men who preferred to dominate their partners. They did not enjoy the reversal of roles.

"Then flog me." His eyes gleamed, and before she could ascertain his intentions, he had them at the edge of the dance floor—on the opposite side of the room from where her circle waited for her return. The doorways were open, leading into the dimly lit hallway.

"You cannot be serious," she said as he led her off the dance floor toward the hallway.

"Very. There are plenty of rooms open. Come and flog me for impertinence, my lady." Again, that little emphasis on ‘my lady,' and this time, it felt like mockery.

He must be mocking her, and Diana did not appreciate it. Fine. If this was the game he wanted to play, she would call his bluff and take it as far as he allowed.

Oliver

She's too young for me.

The idea that she might be too innocent had been thoroughly eradicated upon discovering her at a Society of Sin event. Innocents did not know such secret gatherings existed, much less attend them. From the way she comported herself, it was clear she was no stranger to the perversions practiced by the members.

Otherwise, she would not have threatened to flog him.

His back tingled in anticipation. It had been years since the last time he'd felt the kiss of the leather, since he'd allowed himself such an indulgence. And she knew the terms. She knew what a flogger was. How skilled she would be at it… he didn't care.

Once she'd made the threat, he had to know.

He'd approached her with no real plan, which was hardly like him, but he did not object to the way the interaction had gone. He'd wanted to know what she was doing here, how much she knew, and… well, he'd wanted to get her away from those fawning puppies.

The complicated mix of envy and jealousy he'd felt upon seeing them, hearing their offers, had nearly bowled him over. Envy that they had her attention. Jealous she might choose one of them. The amount of possessiveness that had struck him was an emotion that had not struck him since before his late wife passed.

He'd wanted her attention.

He'd wanted her.

And now he had both.

Miss Rutherford—Diana—strode confidently into one of the rooms with an open door. He might have led her into the hallway, but once she'd taken the lead, she'd done so with alacrity. Oliver was happy to follow along. A large wooden frame in the shape of an X was set up in the middle of the room, currently unoccupied. Beside it was a table covered in various shapes and lengths of leather.

Ignoring him, she walked up to the table and looked it over, her head turning back and forth as she examined the options. It gave him an excuse to stand and study her, watching her inspection, seeing the way her gaze lingered longer over some implements while immediately dismissing others. She had a fondness for the whip, it seemed, and no interest in the paddles. She merely glanced at the crop.

Oliver's cock stirred as he watched her, a woman in her element, deciding what she was going to whip him with. It didn't matter that she was still too young; his attention and his body were both engaged. He wanted her. He wanted this. He hoped she was not a novice, though the more he watched her reactions, the more he felt she had experience he would have never guessed at.

Finally, she picked up a long leather flogger. The falls were about an inch wide and two feet long, the handle thin enough she was just able to get her fingers all the way around it. Hefting it in her palm, she turned to look at him.

Even in the dim candlelight, he could see her dark eyes flash. The mask made her expression harder to read, but he thought she was surprised to find him still standing there, waiting for her. Her chin lifted in a kind of challenge.

"Strip to your waist." Her cool, clear command was delivered in the same tone she'd often used to get him to pay attention when she was tending to his wound.

Perhaps he should have realized she had some tendencies before now, but he honestly had not considered it.

"I could just strip," he offered as he shrugged out of his coat, taking several steps to his left to place it over the back of a chair. She'd accused him of being a bad patient, which he was, but he was even worse when it came to following orders in the bedroom. It wasn't that he didn't want to, but he enjoyed the battle of wills… and he especially enjoyed losing. "No need to stop at the waist."

"The waist will be quite enough." Her gaze dropped as he began to unbutton his waistcoat, his hands moving down the middle of his front, drawing her attention to the prodigious bulge that had formed at the front of his breeches. Her eyes widened, breasts rising and falling as she sucked in a breath.

Oliver was very aware of a couple wandering into the room, moving to the side to watch what was happening. He wondered how Diana would react. He was not sure she remembered she'd left the door open. It was entirely possible she had forgotten and would request privacy. Since she was worried about discretion.

To his surprise, she glanced at them, then looked at him as if assessing his reaction. Oh my… did she think he was bluffing when he'd invited her to flog him? It would not be entirely surprising. Though he'd gone back and forth with Marianne about who was in control when she was alive, most people, upon meeting him, assumed he would rather lead.

However, he'd had to take the lead every day of his life. Not just when he'd been growing up, learning how to be a marquess, but after he'd become a spy and risen quickly through the ranks until he was the spymaster to the Crown. He'd literally held life and death in his hands every day, and sometimes, he'd wanted nothing more than to have someone else wrest control from him and let him float. Marianne had done it for him, though it had not come naturally to her—not the way it clearly did to Diana.

A smile curved his lips.

He was very much looking forward to her reaction when she realized how much he was enjoying himself. Though it would be dependent on her skill—the intent way she'd examined the implements and how easy the flogger seemed in her hand, he was fairly certain she knew exactly what she was doing.

Tossing his waistcoat on the chair, he jerked his shirt over his head. Of course, she'd seen him shirtless more than once—he'd been shot in the torso, and she'd been caring for him as his nurse since almost the beginning—but this was the first time she was looking at his body with anything other than clinical precision. Her gaze swept over him as though she was seeing him for the first time.

Oliver puffed out his chest. He might be too old for her, but he knew he was still in fine form, even compared with a man half his age. If she wanted to look, he was happy to pose for her viewing pleasure.