The ClubSharon Page

A D E L L B O O K

If you purchased this book without a cover, you should be aware that thisbook is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the

publisher, and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”

THE CLUBA Dell Book / March 2009

Published byBantam Dell

A Division of Random House, Inc.New York, New York

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are theproduct of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to

actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

All rights reservedCopyright © 2009 by Sharon Page

Cover illustration © by tk

Dell is a registered trademark of Random House, Inc., and the colophon is atrademark of Random House, Inc.

ISBN 978-0-440-24490-5

Printed in the United States of AmericaPublished simultaneously in Canada

www.bantamdell.com

(Printer’s ID - tk) 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Acknowledgements

Many, many thanks to my editor Shauna Summers forseeing the promise in this book and for being so enthusi-astic as I developed the story into what it is here. Thankyou, also, to her wonderful assistant Jessica Sebor for themany details she smoothed for me. And, of course,thank you to the art department for the breathtakingcover on The Club.

Much gratitude as always to my agent Jessica Faust,who said the right things at the right times and who as-tutely commented on the story as it evolved, and to mywonderful critique partners—Candice, Teresa, Vanessa,and Sandra—who looked at this book in its early stages.

Thank you to my husband for all his help and sup-port, and to my children for giving me smiles that alwaysmake me smile, too.

H ow am I going to explain to a man I’ve paidthat I do not actually want him to make love to me?”

Jane St. Giles, Lady Sherringham, asked the questionof her image in the cheval mirror, but her reflectioncould provide no answers, obviously, that she could notthink of herself.

So speaking aloud to it was quite pointless.Groaning, Jane stalked around the brothel’s bed-

chamber, biting her thumbnail, and dreading the knockthat was soon to come.

She had come here searching for her best friendDelphina, Lady Treyworth. She had come for answers. She’dpaid a veritable fortune for the services of one of the youngmen employed by Mrs. Brougham, the woman who ranthis Georgian house on the fringe of Mayfair, known simplyas the “The Club.” But since it had been a ruse, she nowhad to convince the man to leave without touching her.

Would he be angry?She shivered.

Chapter One

London, May 1818

Would he come to her aroused? Fear coiled, tight andcold, around her heart. She knew—though she hadnever experienced it with her own late husband—a mancould become belligerent when he was aroused and thewoman refused to play.

With Sherringham, she’d never had the courage to re-fuse to play. She had always toed his line, terrified howbrutal he would be if she pushed him too far. But he hadnow been dead for thirteen months, and she no longerhad to endure the nights he came to her bedroom. Sheno longer had to fight to find the nerve to send himaway, then despise herself when she couldn’t.

Jane paced, hugging her chest.Surely a large tip would soothe any ruffled . . . well, what-

ever might be ruffled on a randy young man. The man she’dhired ahd intimate relations for money, so wasn’t moneythe most important thing? And there were dozens of soci-ety ladies in attendance. Any reasonably attractive, healthy,and erect young man wouldn’t be frustrated for long.

Oh, dear God, she thought, and she took hold of oneof the bedposts for support.

The ostentatious bed almost filled the entire room.Shackles of iron—lined with velvet—hung from the carvedgilt bedposts. Jane’s stomach roiled as she stared at the reliefcrafted on the posts: entwined serpents and something thatmight be a sword, or could be the male privy part.

She remembered the afternoon two months ago whenher two dearest friends had told her their husbands broughtthem to this club. Despite the sun pouring into her morn-ing room and the cheery promise of the early spring day, ashiver of dread had rippled down her spine. “But ladies donot join a gentleman’s club,” she had said slowly.

“This one, they do,” Charlotte had breathed. Her

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eyes had been wide and in their cornflower blue depths,Jane had read surprising horror and shame.

“That is the novelty of this club,” Del had explained,her voice as demure as if she were speaking of a success-ful rout. “The gentlemen bring their wives—in costume.Every Friday evening, the ladies are required to dress asnuns.” Then her voice had lowered and her lashes haddropped. “I still have the marks on my derriere from thespankings with the crop.”

Jane had felt her mouth form a soundless O of horror.She’d endured Sherringham’s punishments with the flatof his hand, but he’d never dared touch her with a crop.

Now, she shuddered as she gazed around the bed-chamber. Del, is this horrible club the reason that you’vedisappeared?

A sharp rap echoed on the door and Jane jolted soabruptly she stubbed her toe on the post. “Madam? MayI enter?”

Her hired man possessed a seductive voice— low- timbered, not entirely cultured, but with a growling notethat sent a shiver of fear . . . it must be fear . . . down herspine. What did it signify that he spoke so politely?Would the sort of prostitute who had an educated voicebe easier to manage or more difficult?

“Y—yes,” she answered shakily.She had not even removed her cloak and she had cho-

sen to wear her widow’s weeds, with the veil lowered toshroud her face. But still, as the door opened, she turnedher face so no one would see her, and waited with rigidshoulders for the door to click, the signal her male pros-titute had shut it behind him.

While her husband had generally smelled of sweat,drink, and other women’s perfume, this man was preceded

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by a combination of citrusy bergamot and sultry sandal-wood. She certainly couldn’t smell his perspiration, andoddly, he didn’t smell as though he had come to her fromanother woman.

But really, that didn’t matter. All she had to do was getrid of him. There was no reason to feel so unnerved.She’d survived a whole half hour so far in this wretchedclub, after all.

But before she could force herself to face him, heasked, “Is—is there something wrong, love?”

Concern laced his gentle voice, and there was a sur-prising vulnerability in his hesitation. Obviously hewasn’t accustomed to a woman who looked as thoughshe wanted to hide from him.

Jane glanced to the cheval mirror to see what helooked like, but the glass only reflected part of his side.She saw a large hand clad in a black leather glove, and along, long leg in well- tailored trousers. A lean line of hipthat vanished into a tailcoat, a glimpse of a very broadshoulder, and that was all.

Big. He was big and male. Panic flared in her chestand she struggled to breathe. He can’t hurt you. Here youcan scream. You can scream and bring help and he has noright to hurt you.

She must search inside to find greater strength. She’dvowed to herself that this time—finally—she would takeaction. How many times had she made that promise be-fore, then taken the easy path, and slipped back into be-ing a coward? And because she had been a coward,Delphina had disappeared. Del was in trouble.

“Turn around, love.”Grasping for that courage, Jane did. “I am so sorry,

but—”

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