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A low, amused chuckle answered.

“I am afraid it is not me he wants,” Madam Rebecca replied. “Best leave him be. He has made himself perfectly clear.”

“But why has he become so indifferent to us of late?” the woman asked, sounding genuinely perplexed. “He has not taken a lover in weeks. There is even a wager among the ladies as to who will be the first to tempt him into breaking his celibacy. The purse has reached fifty pounds! We have employed every seductive art at our disposal, yet he remains quite unmoved. He merely smiles, though his eyes are as cold as winter, and sends us away.” She sighed in frustration. “Surely we are not about to lose him as a patron?”

Cordelia's breath caught, and for a moment she could scarcely believe what she had overheard.

Weeks?

Had George not taken a lover in weeks? And the women of Aphrodite were wagering fifty pounds upon which of them might succeed in seducing him?

She pressed a hand against her chest, where her heart had begun to beat with the most alarming force. She had come here expecting to discover him indulging in precisely the sort of wickedness for which he was notorious. Instead, she had learned that he had been refusing the attentions of beautiful, experienced women who were apparently competing for the privilege of sharing his bed.

A bewildering rush of relief swept through her, followed by a warmth she scarcely dared examine.

Could it possibly mean something?

Had his indifference begun around the time they had met?

The thought was so astonishing, and so dangerously pleasing, that Cordelia hardly knew what to make of it. She wanted to dismiss it as foolish vanity, yet some small, hopeful part of her could not help wondering whether she might have something to do with his sudden lack of interest in other women.

The woman called Rebecca waved a dismissive hand, a charming smile curving her rouged lips. “Lord Templeton has been one of our most valued patrons for years, and I do not believe we are in any danger of losing him. A gentleman is entitled to his moods, after all.”

Cordelia moved forward, though she was entirely uncertain what she intended to do next. So distracted was she by what she had overheard that she nearly collided with a lady hurrying toward George’s room. The woman stopped abruptly, her eyes widening before narrowing in swift appraisal.

“You there,” she said briskly, evidently mistaking Cordelia for one of the masked attendants. She pressed a small decanter into her hands. “Lord Templeton has requested something to drink, but he is not to be disturbed unnecessarily. Leave it and go.”

Cordelia nodded mutely, scarcely daring to speak lest her voice betray her. She walked the short distance, her heart pounding so fiercely that she feared its frantic rhythm might be audible through the wood.

For a moment, she hesitated with her hand upon the latch.

Then she opened the door. The chamber beyond was dimly lit, a handful of lamps casting a warm glow over richly furnished walls adorned with paintings of such intimate abandon that Cordelia hastily averted her gaze.

Yet the sight awaiting her was not at all what she had expected.

The viscount reclined upon a chaise longue, his coat discarded and one arm resting above his head. His dark hair was slightly disheveled, and he stared at the ceiling with an expression of such weary distraction that she might have supposed him bored by the very pleasures for which the establishment was renowned.

He did not appear to have noticed her entrance.

“Leave the decanter on the mantel,” he said without turning his head.

Cordelia stepped inside and set the decanter upon the mantel as instructed. Though she turned with every intention of leaving, her attention was caught by the paintings adorning the walls. She had seen classical sculptures before, marble gods and goddesses displayed in unapologetic nakedness, their beauty elevated by antiquity and myth. Such works had once startled her, but never had they unsettled her quite as these did.

For these were altogether different.

A small, elegantly engraved brass plaque hung beside the entrance, bearing the words The Gallery of Forbidden Pleasures.

Cordelia stared at the inscription before allowing her gaze to travel around the chamber. More than twenty paintings adorned the walls, arranged with deliberate care and illuminated by discreet lamps. The sheer number astonished her, but their subject matter held her transfixed. Even from a distance, she understood that these were not depictions of ancient myths or allegorical figures. They portrayed men and women engaged in the most intimate acts imaginable, rendered with an astonishing frankness that left very little to the imagination.

She moved closer to the first painting.

It showed a lady lifting her face, her lips parted in expectation as a gentleman bent toward her. The anticipation in her expression was unmistakable, a mingling of nervousness, hope, and desire that the artist had captured with extraordinary tenderness. In the next painting, the same woman's eyes were closed, her features softened with pleasure as the gentleman's mouth met hers.

Cordelia swallowed.

The sequence continued, each painting revealing a little more of the lovers’ intimacy. In the third, the woman reclined upon a chaise, her gown artfully displaced, exposing the delicate curve of her thigh. The gentleman knelt before her, his head bowed, his mouth concealed beneath the cascade of her skirts.

For a moment, Cordelia could not comprehend what she was seeing.