Page 49 of Duke of Wickedness
Ariadne had been suitably impressed by Helen’s stash of novels, which had put their characters inhighlycompromising positions, even if they did occasionally use some creative metaphors to obscure the particulars.
These books…were not that.
These books wereillustrated.
“How did you even get these?” she asked, her eyes glued to an image in which a man lay on top of a piano, a robust young lady kneeling atop him. Unlike the real woman that Ariadne had witnessed at David’s party that night, this illustrated version was entirely naked, viewed from behind. The woman’s buttocks were centered on the page, emphasizing where the man beneath her was inserting his…his manhood.
The image was made all the more shocking because neither of the partners atop the piano was responsible for this insertion. Instead, it was another woman, wearing a dress that revealed more than it concealed, whose hand was occupied in abetting this act.
The drawing was titled A music master tuning his instrument.
Ariadne tapped at the title. It was the only part of the paper that she dared touch, which was frankly ridiculous, but alas.
“A bit of an understatement, don’t you think?”
David’s laughter came from right behind her, his breath ruffling her hair.
“Just so,” he said, placing his hands on her waist in a featherlight touch. He didn’t move closer, and she didn’t lean back. The scant inches of air between them felt charged.
“This collection here,” he said, indicating the erotic drawing, “is perhaps half a century old, maybe a little more. Laws about obscenity were looser then—as was the social attitude toward such things.” He sighed wistfully. “It was a glorious time.”
“Oh, I’m sorry, I forgot you were a hundred years old,” she commented lightly, turning the page gingerly. The next image was decidedly stranger, showing an undressed young woman putting what looked like…was that a wig? And why was she putting it on her derriere?
“Minx,” David accused, pecking a light kiss onto her neck. “I just… I know we think of ourselves as being in an enlightened age, and I think that’s true, in some ways. But it fascinates me to see how we have become decidedly less enlightened when it comes to matters of carnal pleasures, especially where ladies are concerned.”
“Yes, I can see how these ladies were a bit more…adventurous than we are meant to be these days,” Ariadne murmured, turning to another page in which a woman was… Well, Ariadne didn’t precisely know how to describe what was happening there, but the lines of the simple drawing werehighlysuggestive.
“Oh, and these relatively modern drawings are positively tame compared to what our ancient ancestors got up to,” David said, sounding almost innocent in his excitement, more like a scholar than a flirt—remarkable, given the subject of this particular bit of scholarship. He hurried over to another shelf, ran his finger down a few spines, then pulled one off the shelf.
“This one,” he said, rifling through pages, “tells about the rites of ancient fertility cults.”
Ariadne had been more focused on the book than on David, but at this, her head jerked up.
“Ancientwhat?”
His eyes gleamed with the excitement of finding an eager recipient for this information. He opened the book to a page that showed a group of women, all nude, lounging around in a temple while one man knelt in apparent adoration.
The image had only been reproduced in black and white, but even so, Ariadne could see that the women were painted almost lovingly, their expressions beatific in a manner that was only rivaled by that on the kneeling acolyte’s face.
“This was the temple dedicated to Aphrodite, the goddess of love,” he explained.
Her mouth twitched to the side.
“Might I remind you that my name isAriadne?” she said. “I know my classical myths, thank you very much.”
“Well,” he parried, “did you know that devotees of Aphrodite could dedicate themselves to sacred prostitution? That’s what is depicted here.”
This, she had not known.
“So, these women used to…” She blinked. “For their religion?”
“Just so,” he agreed. “It was considered a high honor to dedicate one’s body to the goddess thusly. And this—” He flipped the page. “—was a celebration to honor Dionysus.”
“The god ofwine?” she asked incredulously, fascinated by the image of a circle of joyous, scarcely dressed dancers.
“Wine, pleasure, theater—all the good things in life, really,” he said. “Devotees would celebrate him by indulging in all things hedonistic for days on end.”
“Days,” she echoed. “My goodness. And I assume that you named your house after this fellow as…pure coincidence?”
