Free RendezvousWithYou by Cecily French Page B

the note before tucking it back in
place. Her silken skin and the luscious swell of her breasts made his mouth
water and it took every ounce of his self-control not to let his fingers creep
past the neckline and tweak her nipples into hardness.
    Damn all. He had to taste them—now. He had to taste all of her now. “What am I to call you, my lady?”
    “Isabell.” The beat of her fan picked up tempo. “And how am
I to call you?"
    “Ian. You may call me Ian.”
    Her twinkling eyes were an invitation to wantonness. “Very
well. Ian it is.”
    “If I may have your attention, please.” A light-hued tenor
rang over the room and the assembly turned their attention to a slender man in
a simple black mask. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “I am
Allesandro, your host.”
    The guests exchanged glances. “Allesandro” was known to
everyone and no one—famed for arranging private parties where anything could
happen and usually did. His identity was debated and discussed from Carlton
House to Boodles to every Mayfair hostess’s drawing room. Invitations to his
events were as coveted as vouchers to Almack’s and no one had the least clue as
to whom he really was. Any attempts to discover and reveal his identity ensured
no more invitations from him. Ever.
    “You all know why you are here tonight.” Allesandro bowed to
the assembly. “For—”
    “Fucking ourselves silly,” shouted a man wearing a puce
brocade coat and a shirt with far too many ruffles.
    The auburn-haired woman standing next to him rapped his arm
with her closed fan. “If you’re going to be silly, I’m leaving right now.”
    “Not even a little bit silly?” he pleaded. “After
all, screwing should be fun.”
    “That depends on what you have to show me.” She placed her
fan against his groin. “And it better be good.”
    He grinned, took her gloved hand and kissed it. “You’re in
for a wonderful surprise, my dear.”
    “I was going to say we are assembled to celebrate pleasure,”
Allesandro said cheerfully. “Pure carnal pleasure in all its forms. The only
limitations are those set by your imagination or lack thereof. But you
gentlemen should be flattered. The ladies present have all declared to me that
each of you is the best lover in London. So your indulgences tonight have the
added challenge of proving your so-called reputations. Who shall be our victor?
The couple who can keep it up until midnight, pardon the expression, wins this
evening’s purse of one thousand pounds, with the lone gentleman winning the
accolade of ‘Best Lover in London’. How you divide your winnings is up to you.”
    “You mean we have to share it?” Isabell pointed at Ian. “I
have to divide it with him?”
    “My dear lady,” Ian drawled. “You make it sound as though
you’re going to be doing all the work.”
    “If I’m to be forced to share the money with you, you had
better do more than just lie there,” she retorted. “I want my money’s worth.”
    Allesandro bowed in her direction. “If the length of a man’s
prick is judged by his height, I think you’ll get it, my lady.”
    “Good,” Isabell said primly and the other guests laughed.
    “As to the rest of the rules,” a grinning Allesandro said,
“we are not responsible for torn clothing or any injury that might result from
your excursions. Enthusiasm and vigor is one thing. Bodily harm is quite
another. I only ask you try not to break any of the furniture. If you have not
already made arrangements for refreshments, they are available by sending down
the dumbwaiter in each of your chambers.
    “Your honesty in reporting is depended upon. Throughout the
evening, bells will ring to signal a couple’s retirement from the competition.
The last couple to reenter this room will take home the prize.”
    “What about our masks?” a man called. “Do we leave them on
or take them off?”
    “That is up to you. But remember, if you and your partner
did not know each other