All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (8 page)

“A business meeting?” His left eyebrow arched. “We both know any business between us ended six years ago when you had me dragged out of your bed. Why did you let Mulcaster leave here, believing my lie?”

Chapter Nine

The last time they had been alone, she had been slipping out of her warm bed while he had slept, blissfully unaware that she viewed their coupling as one of the worst mistakes of her life.

Lord Sainthill had seemed to agree. He had taken other lovers, some she considered friends and other women from the exclusive world of the
ton.
There had been months when she had not seen him at all, and when he did resurface, he behaved as if that night had never taken place.

And yet here he was standing in front of her, and the safety and distance the passing six years had provided seemed to have vanished.

Madame Venna shrugged. “It was an expedient way to end what was turning into an awkward situation. Gentlemen like Lord Mulcaster believe every woman desires their attentions.”

“He sought you out with only one purpose—to fuck you,” Saint said bluntly. “Mulcaster has boasted to more than one man that you were ripe for a tumble.”

If she had been capable of the feat, she might have blushed. However, life in a brothel stripped her of such charming feminine reactions.

“I was aware of Mulcaster’s plans. Most men who enter the Golden Pearl do not bother with subtlety.” Since it seemed ridiculous to remain partially hidden by the curtains, she walked to the center of the small parlor. Closer to him. “While I take pride in satisfying the whims of our patrons, Lord Mulcaster would have left the Golden Pearl disappointed this evening.”

The marquess shot her a look of disbelief. Crossing his wrists behind his back, he slowly walked to the center of the room until the tip of his shoes brushed the hem of her skirt. “The bastard had you pinned against the balustrade, Madame. His fingers have left marks on your breasts,” he remarked as her gaze dropped down to the soft, rounded flesh spilling from the top of her bodice.

Evidence of Lord Mulcaster’s ambush was plainly visible.

“Bruises can be concealed,” she murmured to herself.

“One more thing.”

Madame Venna glanced up when he fell silent. She almost took an instinctive step backward. He was standing too close.

“Oui?”
she said faintly.

Instead of explaining, Lord Sainthill slowly raised his hands. He wiggled his fingers and smiled reassuringly at her. “I promise. This won’t hurt a bit.”

Madame Venna flinched as he reached for her half-mask. “No,” she whispered, her throat drying at the realization that he intended to remove her mask.

“Hush. If I wanted to tear off your pretty mask, I would have done so six years ago while I had you naked and screaming my name.”

Heat bloomed in her chest. Her pulse quickened as memories from that night assailed her. “That was not—”

His beautiful mouth quirked. “Subtle?”

She licked her lips. “You are usually graceful with your words.” Her body tensed as his fingers traced the outer edge of the half-mask.

“So kind of you to notice.” He frowned as he exhaled. “Breathe. You can trust me. All I want to do is—” Lord Sainthill lifted the edges of her mask and repositioned it. “There. Now I don’t have to worry about you walking into walls. Mulcaster must have knocked it askew when he grabbed you.”

Madame Venna swallowed, surprised how touched she was by his tender gesture. “Thank you,” she said softly.

“You seem amazed that I can be chivalrous.”

She shook her head. “Not at all. You have always been kind and respectful to the staff and my girls. I just did not expect…”

“Kindness from me?” He nodded as if her expression confirmed his suspicions. “What do you expect from me?”

Madame Venna was unprepared for this particular conversation. She had grown accustomed to the polite distance they had erected years ago. Why was he suddenly changing the rules?

“How did you know I was here?” She could not fathom anyone in her employ revealing her whereabouts to the marquess. “Were you following me?”

“Now, why would I do that, Madame V?” he asked, caressing her cheek with his knuckles.

It was then that she noticed that he had not stepped away from her, and she had done nothing to rectify the oversight. She lowered her gaze and willed her feet to move. With his gloved hand touching her face, she caught a whiff of his scent. He rarely wore fragrances. His was just a clean, masculine scent that made her want to lean in and burrow her nose into his black evening coat.

“I do not know,” she confessed, her honestly born from confusion. “You’d mentioned that Lord Mulcaster had boasted to others. Did you follow me out of concern?”

“An admirable reason, is it not?”

She exhaled noisily, growing increasingly frustrated as the marquess evaded the issue. “You have not answered my question.”

Lord Sainthill chuckled. “No, I have not.” He bent his head down until his lips brushed her ear. “Something tells me a lie would please you more than the truth.”

What is the truth?
She turned her face toward his, the question on the tip of her tongue. Lord Sainthill had once called her a coward. The accusation had stung, and she refused to give him another reason to insult her. “Wha—hmph!” she mumbled as the marquess’s mouth covered hers.

It was a very sly ambush.

Madame Venna raised her arms up as she prepared to push him away. Instead her fingers curled into her palms as his lips softly teased hers with a tenderness that she had not experienced in years.

Six years.

The sweetness of it made her want to weep.

Unlike Lord Mulcaster, he did not put his hands on her. No demands were infused in the kiss. Madame Venna closed her eyes and trembled as she felt the fluid caress of his lips against hers all the way down to her knees.

Her exhale came out as a gentle sigh as her lips parted for his. Never had a kiss warmed her thusly, or reminded her how cold she had become. It was the kind of kiss that made someone, even as cynical as she, almost believe in love.

When Lord Sainthill pulled away, her heart ached for the loss.

Of course the vulnerability she was feeling was evident in her expression. Madame Venna tilted her head and offered him a brilliant smile. “Some skills improve with age, no?” She touched her lips so he would not misunderstand the direction of her thoughts.

Instead of grinning, he wore a serious look as he studied her face. “I’ve had many occasions to practice.”

“And I reap the benefits. I am indeed fortunate.” She let her hand fall to her side as she inclined her head toward the door. “I have detained you long enough, and there are always business matters that require my attention.”

Madame Venna managed to reach the door before Lord Sainthill spoke.

“I never gave you a proper answer to your question.”

She glanced back. “It matters not, milord. I have decided that you are right. The lie will suffice. The truth will only lead to trouble.”

Chapter Ten

Kissing her had been a revelation.

Whether she was willing to admit it or not, Madame Venna was attracted to him. Time had made him question his recollections of the passionate night they had shared. Of the flirtations and friendship that had come before that night, but were lost because he had been too damn clumsy.

Too eager.

He had assumed early on that he had frightened her, but later he had discarded that notion. Madame Venna was a woman of experience. A woman in the dangerous world of the flesh trade and sin. He doubted many things rattled her.

I do.

Saint took comfort in the thought. It was a sign that she was aware of him. He had the ability to ruffle her composure, and he hoped to use that knowledge to his advantage.

Instead of returning right away, Saint had deliberately stayed away from the Golden Pearl for a few days. He wanted to give her a chance to convince herself that she was immune to his charms. That she could resist him and the attraction they were both denying.

Except that Saint had stopped fighting.

The woman had haunted him for six long years. It was time to do something about it. He suspected that once he had seduced her back into his bed and their mutual lust was sated, his obsession with the striking, albeit unusual brothel owner would end.

“Milord, my apologies for intruding.”

Saint glanced up from the pile of mail he was supposed to be reading. “Is there a problem, Thomas?”

The butler hesitated, which did not bode well for the news that brought him to Saint’s library. “You have a visitor. I know you requested that you not be disturbed this afternoon. However, it is Lady Cockrell, and she insists that her predicament is dire.”

Damn. The situation had to be dire indeed for his mother to come calling.

“Did you invite her into the house?”

His manservant appeared affronted by the question. “Naturally, I escorted Her Ladyship upstairs to the drawing room.”

“Of course you did,” Saint said glumly. It was too late for Thomas to tell her that her son had already departed. “Very well. I will attend to her.”

Retrieving his lordship’s frock coat from the armchair closest to the desk, the butler said, “You are very generous to your family, milord.”

His mother would probably disagree. “Do not bother sending up a tray. Lady Cockrell will not be staying long.”

*   *   *

Across town, Madame Venna was looking over next week’s menu. Beside her, her steward, Finney, was tallying figures. In anticipation of the morning deliveries, she had spent the night at the Golden Pearl. While Catherine’s reserved attire was preferable during the day, all she had available was Madame Venna’s vibrant evening dresses. The gold dress she had selected made her feel like a hothouse flower that had been tossed in the kitchen garden.

She should have gone home to her modest, albeit respectable residence. There, she could have retired Madame Venna for a few hours and freed Catherine from her mental and physical prison. It was a challenge to maintain the lives of two very different women, and poor Catherine suffered because of the constant demands of the Golden Pearl.

Even though her staff were perfectly capable of handling the unloading and storage of the coal, foodstuffs, wine and spirits, and meats required to keep the brothel well stocked, she still preferred to oversee the day-to-day activities. Her old partner, Mrs. Sweete, had often reminded her that even the most loyal servant would not be able to resist pinching an item or two if given the chance. To protect the staff from their own natures, it was prudent to keep a watchful eye on the cellar and books.

This was the quietest part of the day.

By morning, most of the Golden Pearl’s guests recalled they had obligations to address, and had found their way home to their own beds. There were always a few stragglers who slept the day away while the servants dusted and polished, putting down freshly laundered linens and removing all traces of the previous night’s revelry.

Mrs. Sweete had been a stickler for cleanliness. She believed a well-aired house was good for the health of the girls and the patrons. Madame Venna had concurred with this philosophy, and improved upon her old partner’s guidelines by ensuring that everyone in her employ was well fed, and all illnesses were treated by a physician. She did not wince at the extra expense. It was well worth it. These people were her responsibility. Most of them did not have family, and those who did had likely been sold into the flesh trade by their relatives.

She could not save them all; however, she tried to provide a decent life for the few that she could.

There was a heavy fist pounding on the door. Without waiting for her permission to enter, the hinges groaned and Abram’s face appeared through the opening. “Madame V, there is a man at the servants’ door. He is requesting an audience.”

She and Finney exchanged knowing glances. Of course there was a problem. There always was.

“Do you want me to handle it?” Finney asked. The thirty-five-year-old man had once worked as a prostitute in Mrs. Sweete’s brothel, servicing both males and females. He also possessed an uncanny talent for numbers.

When Madame Venna sold the old brothel, she asked Finney to be the Golden Pearl’s steward, and the man accepted. Occasionally, he spent his evenings upstairs with a male guest, but the decision was his. As far as she was concerned, Mrs. Sweete had been blind to the man’s true skills.

“No, you finish up here.”

“Then you will need this, love.” Finney plucked up her discarded half-mask. Velvet and lace. It was rather mundane compared with her other more elaborate ones. To Abram, she said, “Did the man give you his name?”

“No, Madame,” came the low baritone reply. “He told me this was his calling card.” Abram handed her a folded piece of paper.

Baffled, Madame Venna accepted the paper. “Did you open it?”

“No point. I’ve never had much luck with letters.”

Madame Venna parted the edges of the paper and read the name scrawled across its surface.

Catherine Deverall.

The man demanding an audience was from her past.

*   *   *

“Lady Cockrell, this is an unexpected honor,” Saint said, observing that his mother had not even bothered to sit. “How long has it been since our last visit? Two years?”

“Sainthill.”

If he had expected some small sign of affection from the woman who had given birth to him, he would have been disappointed. She did, however, recall her manners. The viscountess’s curtsy lacked the grace he had come to expect. Her face was averted, and he studied her with a critical eye. There were shadows under her eyes hinting that her nights were restless. A few weeks ago, he had heard that his mother had recently celebrated her fiftieth birthday. Lord Cockrell had held a ball in her honor, though no one had sent Saint an invitation.

“My apologies for intruding. I would not have insisted on an audience if it was not important.”

“A fact I am well aware of, Lady Cockrell.” Saint gestured for her to be seated. “What brings you to my door?”