Hollywood movies. His combed-back dark hair revealed a face that bore so many shades of handsome that I couldn’t stop looking at him. His sultry eyes gleamed back at mine, hijacking reality.
“I have to sit down. These shoes are killing me,” I said.
Blake led me to a silk-covered chair. “I’ll go and get us another drink.” He looked around and then back at me. “Will you be okay here for a moment?”
“Of course. I’ll do my best to fight off the suitors.” I giggled.
Blake returned a faint smile. “I won’t be long.”
He strode off, leaving in his wake an audience of salivating women. Blake’s animal magnetism was on fine display with that tall and upright bearing, which, although dignified, radiated the promise of something wild and untamed. Or maybe that was just my oversexed mind?
Lilly came over and plonked herself down. “There you are,” she said, breathlessly.
“Have you been running?” I asked.
She shook her head with a smile. “No. James took me for a roam around. There’s this Dark Room.” She fanned her face. “Oh my God.”
“What do you mean?”
She cupped her mouth. “It’s more of an orgy room, I think.”
“Really?” I recalled art history lessons about the wanton behavior of the upper classes as depicted in erotic Victorian art. I pictured masked guests with bare asses and women with their bodices ripped open, bosoms spilling out, and their stocking-clad legs apart. No detail spared.
“Apparently, it’s a secret. There’s a dungeon. And getting there is kind of creepy in that haunted-house way.” She grimaced. “It was like something out of a movie. It even had a bookshelf that turned into a secret doorway.”
My mouth gaped with wonder. “I’m dying to see it.” I looked for Blake but couldn’t spot him. “I’d better wait for Blake.”
James handed Lilly a glass of champagne and whispered something in her ear. Lilly, who was already tipsy, giggled.
After they wandered off, I went looking for Blake. I spied him in conversation with a man, who pointed rather aggressively into his face.
Blake pushed him against the wall, and the other man sneered in return.
Having noticed me there, Blake turned his back to the creepy man and left him alone.
Rubbing his neck, Blake said, “I haven’t managed to get that drink.”
“Who was that guy? That didn’t look friendly. Is something the matter?”
“Forget about him. Come.” He led me away.
As questions mounted, Blake managed to distract me by taking me on a tour of the fascinating castle and its endless chambers.
Designed in different themes, each room boasted a luxury of detail, from tapestries depicting historical events, to walls painted in rich colors and fringed with scrolled gold leaf. There was plenty to see, not least the fireplaces the size of small rooms, which were flanked by statues of goddesses.
With phone in hand, I photographed as much as I could. The detailed cornices of angels and griffins were my primary focus.
Blake, who had a fine eye for detail, enjoyed pointing out subtle elements. All that earlier cloak-and-dagger shit had vanished, and we sauntered from room to room as one would in a gallery. I loved discussing art with Blake. He was so attentive, informed, and deeply involved.
We finally settled in a room I chose for its fine fresco of Narcissus gazing into a pond. Reclining on a chaise lounge, I said, “Lilly mentioned a Dark Room in a dungeon.”
Standing by the fireplace, Blake’s face darkened. “That room’s not for you.”
“And it’s okay for you?”
He shook his head. “No. It’s a secret chamber for deviants to get their rocks off.”
“An orgy, you mean?”
“Penelope, let’s just enjoy being here and leave the dirty bits out.”
“Even later?” I raised a brow.
He came to me and lowered himself close. His hand slid over my naked arm. “No.”
“Who was that guy?”
“A nasty, rotten piece of work, who I once knew.”
“From Raven Abbey?” I asked.
He nodded mechanically.
“I’d love to know about your life there,” I said.
“It’s not a pretty story. Not for here and now.”
“But I will want to know.”
His gaze went beyond my eyes piercing my soul. “I’m all for the present. The past doesn’t interest me.”
“But why this shroud of mystery?”
“A shroud of mystery? You should write poetry, Penelope.” He ran his hand over my arm again. “This past month with you has changed me. I’m not sure who I am anymore.”
“That doesn’t sound good, does it?” I asked, wishing he’d remove his mask, my eyes flitting between his eyes and that mouth that my lips hankered after.
“My past is dirty. And you’re