SHARE
click to expand

• Buy the Book

---

• Author Notes

---

• Connected Books

---

• International

---

One Night as a Woman

Excerpt

Chapter One

Leigh Rempleton had survived Eton and Oxford. One might have believed that was enough to prove one’s mettle among one’s peers, but no. Here came yet another challenge. 

Lord Somerfair, 

Being as you are a man in good standing and health, demonstrating all manner of loyalty, intelligence, and strength of character—

This accolade surprised Leigh, given the attention those who demonstrated none of those qualities seemed to earn. What exactly was this letter trying to sell?

—you are herewith and cordially invited to join the Knights of Ribaldry, a society dedicated to furthering the enlightenment and ambition of Great Britain’s finest. Fear not. This is not a dry evening. Ennui is the foe we combat at every gathering!

Your initiation test commences Friday hence at eight p.m. Present this letter at the Cocksblood Inn an hour beforehand. Instructions will await you. 

Sincerely, and with much anticipation of your joining our esteemed ranks, 

—Chancellor, Knights of Ribaldry

“Fuck me.” Leigh sighed, glancing to the smoldering fire with an urge to throw the letter onto it. 

There was no getting around it, though. Leigh had completed the epic poem of “school” by accepting two things: That any dismay or dissatisfaction Leigh felt with a system that awarded a title and fortune based on an accident of birth was irrelevant. And the dangling bit of flesh between the legs of the Viscount Somerfair’s issue awarded Leigh power and privilege that couldn’t be squandered, not when Leigh’s twin sister would kill to possess the same.

What was the alternative? Move to France for a life of penury as an artist? No, the whip of duty to birthright was one that Leigh wielded in self-flagellation, if only to ensure Devona would receive as much of an equal share as Leigh could squeeze from the entailment. 

Not that Devona was in dire straits. She had married well and held the title of duchess above even their father, but that was all she held. Her marriage settlement would come to her if her husband died. Ideally, her two sons would ensure she was comfortable in her old age, but if tragedy caused the title to slide to a distant cousin, Devona would look to her twin. She had every right to expect their father’s fortune to support her. She was older than Leigh by nearly an hour. Leigh must claim it for both of them. 

Thus the letter couldn’t go into the fire, even though Leigh already knew the ceremony would involve some humiliation or other with wine, whores, and other levels of fuckery, all in the name of promoting a fraternal bond. 

As tedious as that sounded, however, connections would be formed. Later, when a favor or support for a venture was needed, members of the club would be there. That’s how this worked. 

Leigh sent regrets to the evening of cards offered by a favorite cousin and, at the appointed time, turned up at the Cocksblood Inn where Leigh was conducted up the stairs to a guest chamber. 

Two other initiates were there, stammering with excitement. Leigh was acquainted with one, Alistair, the son of a baron who’d been a year ahead at Oxford. The other, Neville, was the son of a colonel stationed in Bath. 

They introduced themselves and poured glasses of the wine that had been left for them, speculating on what might await them. 

Soon, a woman entered. A prostitute, Leigh surmised, judging by the amount of stocking she showed and the way her bosom looked ready to spill over the wide neckline of her gown. Was she the test? Because Leigh wasn’t interested.

“I’m Kitty. I’ll help you dress.” She nudged Alistair off the trunk on which he sat and began pulling out women’s clothing. “Let’s see what fits.” 

“Oh fuck no,” Neville groaned, but he was already grinning at the adventure. 

Leigh sighed. So infantile, but fine. They were each made to strip behind a screen and come out in a chemise. Kitty named all the pieces as she directed them to put on a corset and then a petticoat over it, insisting they play ladies’ maid for one another. 

“You learn to put these on, you’ll know how to take them off—and how to put them on again in a hurry,” she added bawdily.

The other initiates laughed, but this was why a sense of being “one of the boys” eluded Leigh. For years, remarks on pretty tits and ploughing a particular furrow had hit Leigh’s ears without ever prompting similar fiery fantasies. Once or twice Leigh had considered visiting a prostitute to learn what all the fuss was about, but pox was rampant in London. Since a viscount’s heir did not sow oats in the fields at home, Leigh was a virgin, resigned to fumbling through the basics on some distant wedding night in hopes of producing the required future viscount. 

After stuffing the hollow cups of the corset, they pulled on gowns. Alistair wore green, Neville blue. Leigh was given a pale yellow with a pink overskirt that fluttered like a cape off the back of the high waist. It was very constrictive yet graceful, making Leigh feel sensual and conscious of standing tall and moving with fluid care. 

“You’ve quite a mane, don’t you?” Kitty pushed Leigh onto the corner of the bed to fiddle with the heavily waxed locks atop Leigh’s head. “We can do something nicer than a bonnet, I think.” A ribbon and pins were procured and the bulk of Leigh’s hair pulled back and up. Face-framing ringlets were formed with hot tongs. 

Leigh sat very still for a brush of white powder across brow and cheeks and jaw. Afflicted with a narrow chin, Leigh had tried growing a beard to broaden it, despite the fact beards were no longer in style. Mother Nature had not deigned to adorn Leigh with heavy whiskers, though. A fresh shave had been more affectation than necessary this morning. Even at twenty-two, when most of Leigh’s peers shaved daily, it was a once per week occupation for Leigh. Sideburns? Nothing of consequence had arrived, so the effort had been abandoned.

“Rouge,” Kitty said. “And lip salve. My, you are a pretty one.”

Alistair and Neville already had their final touches and looked exactly what they were, young men in ill-fitting gowns with garish cheeks and lips. They stopped knocking elbows and stared when Leigh stood.

“Do I look that dreadful?” Leigh asked, glancing for a mirror and finding none.

“You actually make a fine woman.” Neville sounded sincere but looked uncomfortable for having noticed. 

Leigh’s stomach took a swoop, the kind that was habitually suppressed and ignored. In response to Neville’s “compliment,” Leigh blew a kiss at him.

“Oy. I do the flirting here.” Kitty gave Leigh’s ass a dull thwack. “Sounds like your lot are arriving. Come on, then. Yer the barmaids ’til the meeting’s called to order.” 

* * *

Ulysses York, Earl of Mesterlyn, son of the Duke of Taymore, rarely attended these meetings anymore. He had come into the Knights of Ribaldry four years ago, believing the club would afford him a place where his political leanings would be supported. While he had formed good contacts and occasionally enjoyed enlightening conversation, the actual meetings were more often an excuse for young rakes to drink themselves into turning out their insides, failing to get it up for the prostitute they’d bought for the evening. 

With the season starting, however, there were new initiates to vote in, so he had his carriage drop him at the Cocksblood.

The meeting hadn’t been called to order yet. The noise from the top of the stairs was worse than the rabble in the common rooms below. 

As he climbed the stairs, Ulysses noticed a woman standing at the rail on the landing. She wasn’t so well dressed as a proper lady. She’d fallen down on her luck, perhaps. He noted her soiled slippers while admiring her slender ankles. Her gown looked worse for wear, too, but there was a definite air of quality about her. Something elegant yet delicate that kicked him in a place he made a point of keeping guarded, having learned caution with matters of the heart. 

She didn’t notice his ogling. She was staring across the well of the stairs to the uncovered window. It was dark outside. She couldn’t possibly see anything through it, but she was fixated. 

Ulysses was about to tell her she had wandered to a wrong floor when he noted the shocked look on her face. She’d either suffered a terrible turn of fortune or— 

Ulysses’s heart lurched. 

“Miss, has something happened?” He turned at the top of the stairs to face her. “Did one of those men upset you?” He pointed to the noise at the end of the hall. He would kill them. Each one of them, one by one. Slowly.

“What? Fuck.” She touched her trembling lips and blinked rapidly. “I’m such an idiot.” 

Ulysses didn’t know what took him aback more, the curse from a lady or the voice that was deep for a woman, masculine yet husked with so much emotion, the hairs on Ulysses’s arms stood up.

“I’m one of the initiates.” She pinched the bridge of her narrow nose. “I came out and saw myself in the window. Saw my sister…” She looked to the ceiling, revealing an Adam’s apple. 

He?

No initiate had ever turned himself out this well as a woman. This one was blessed with a slight build and a lack of bristly body hair on the upper chest. He made a very appealing woman, which was a strange thing for Ulysses to absorb when he had never been attracted to men. He was attracted right now, though. There was no denying that’s what this prickly curiosity was.

“You’re upset,” Ulysses said, protective instincts stirred by the femininity and genuine vulnerability on display. “Has she passed? I’m so sorry.” 

“No.” She shook her head, choking on a laugh. “She’s perfectly fine. It’s me. I’m—”

Still upset. 

Ulysses angled himself to provide them some privacy while trying to search out what was causing this pull. He appreciated beauty, same as anyone, but as a woman, she was tall and lithe, not curvy. Her nose was big and angular. Short, spiky lashes surrounded the direct blue gaze that met his own, causing a hard thump in his chest.

That was it, wasn’t it? It was that air of self-possession. Ulysses liked a woman with confidence. Despite clearly being overcome, there was no wailing for smelling salts or hysterical weeping. Only a tense smile with a narrow chin lifted in resolve. 

He had to smile in admiration. Couldn’t help it. 

Her eyes widened as though she suddenly saw him. Really saw him. In a blink, something fiery and exciting flared to life in her blue eyes, something that just as quickly made her drop her gaze and blush hard enough he saw the color rise despite her layer of powder. 

It was a reflection of this sexual awareness he was experiencing and it fed his own, filling him with further heat and a strange gratification.

“Why does it upset you to look like her? She must be beautiful.” It was supposed to be a tease but came out with a rumble of truth from deep in his chest. 

A determined throat clear, then, “We’re twins. I’m very protective of her and wind up doing things that I’ve just realized are more sacrifice than she would expect of me.”

That wasn’t the whole truth, Ulysses suspected, but that deep voice reminded him the gown was part of the initiation, not a choice. He also heard averseness to this silly test, which caused him genuine alarm, because he was growing more and more intrigued by the minute.

“You can’t leave. We haven’t all touched pricks yet. Or frigged into the collection plate.”

The cheeks beneath the powder blanched, the color that bloomed only moments ago fading. Painted lips made an O of horror. “Tell me that’s a joke.” 

“It is.” Ulysses couldn’t keep the corners of his mouth from curving. “But give us a chance before you decide we’re asking too much of our members.”

“Christ.” What was probably a very attractive smile that was firmly suppressed. “I knew there would be nothing but assholes here. Leigh Rempleton.” An ungloved hand came out. 

“Ulysses York.” Leigh’s hand was narrow but warm, with a firm grip. Ulysses wanted to keep hold of it but only nodded toward the main room. “Let me introduce you.”