The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (10 page)

Slowly her heartbeat returned to normal and she felt calm enough to glance at her escort. Dressed in his evening clothes from the night before, the dissolute young lord had definitely not slept at home. In her youth, she’d seen too many men leaving at dawn in their evening clothes to question where he’d been.

Lord Stanford shot hera penetrating glance. ‘What on earth
are
you doing out here alone, Miss Boisette?’

A fair question, considering. ‘I returned a library book to Hookham’s for your mother.’

‘You should not go out alone.’

‘I could hardly ask a maid to go with me.’

‘Why not?’

She stared at him. Did he think she was not aware that her position in his home was under sufferance? The servants certainly knew it. ‘I’m not exactly a guest.’

His frown deepened, but he did not take issue with her statement. He glanced down the street in the direction the coach had disappeared. ‘Tell me who he was.’

She gave him a cold glance. ‘The man was a stranger.’

‘Then you should not have stopped to speak to him.’

This was beyond all. Now he was accusing her of wrong-doing. ‘Lord Stanford, I had no intention of getting into that
carriage,
je vous assure
; I was never more pleased to see anyone in my whole life as when you arrived just now.’

The expression in his dark eyes warmed. ‘I beg your pardon, Miss Boisette, I believe I mistook the matter. Come, a truce. Whoever the blackguard was, he is a coward. We will not give him another thought.’

If only it were that easy.

With only Sylvia for company at lunch, Lady Stanford toyed with the food on her plate. When she signalled to the footman to take it away, Sylvia noticed she had barely touched the roasted breast of pheasant or the aspic.

‘Miss Boisette,’ Lady Stanford said, while the footman poured coffee, ‘I have some good news for you. I meant to tell Christopher, but he left so precipitously this morning, he didn’t give me the opportunity.’ She paused and frowned as if puzzled. ‘Ah, well. A friend of mine knows of a family looking for a governess.’

At last. Now Sylvia could get on with her life. She put down her knife and fork. ‘That is good news.’

‘Yes. The family lives in Wiltshire and they are in London for a short stay. Apparently, they have sought a governess without success for quite some time. It seems as though I have hit on the perfect solution. Mrs Elston will come for tea at four this afternoon and interview you.’ She beamed. ‘Now, what do you think of that?’

‘My lady, I cannot express enough my appreciation for your help. I will do my best to make a good impression on Mrs Elston.’

Lady Stanford pursed her lips. ‘I sincerely hope you will.’

The murmur of men’s voices, interrupted by shouts of triumph or groans of despair, rumbled around White’s gaming room. Across the green baize table from Christopher, Garth
scribbled on a scrap of paper and dropped it on top of the pile of guineas. ‘I’ll raise you a pony.’

The dim light from the lantern above their heads did nothing to deaden the reckless glitter in Garth’s eyes. He seemed to be well on the way to half seas over.

A trifle warm himself, Christopher had drunk only half the quantity Garth had imbibed in the past two hours. Damn Garth for an idiot to bet another hundred on the single queen in his hand when she wasn’t even trumps.

He raised his eyebrows at the crumpled vowel. ‘Under the hatches again?’

Garth shrugged. ‘Is my note not good enough for you?’

Christopher gritted his teeth at the sarcasm. ‘Of course it is.’

His own hand wasn’t very good, but it would take the trick. His facility with numbers never let him down, no matter how much he imbibed, and he never relied on blind luck. Something Garth ought to know by now.

‘I need a drink.’ Garth signalled to a passing waiter for another bottle. ‘No mistake, though, she’s a diamond of the first water,’ he said, picking up their earlier conversation on the subject of Mademoiselle Boisette.

They’d been around this topic once. ‘Leave well enough alone.’

‘But a governess.’ Mock pain edged Garth’s tone. ‘What a waste of delicious womanhood.’

‘It’s what she wants.’

‘It’s what she says she wants. Women never say what they mean.’

Christopher felt the hackles rise on the back of his neck. A hot rush of something unpleasant closed his throat. He forced his words past it. ‘What the hell are you talking about?’

One side of Garth’s mouth curled in a sneer. ‘Women. They are all the same. You just have to find the key to unlock the gate. Usually jewels, or money.’ He chuckled.

‘I don’t much like your sense of humour.’

Garth flashed him a grin. ‘I thought we’d agreed never to argue over the fairer sex. They aren’t worth it.’

They had. Years ago, when they had come to blows over the milkmaid at their grandmother’s house. They’d agreed to let the woman choose and she’d decided on the older, far more experienced Garth. They’d never competed for a female again. Until now. The thought didn’t sit well in Christopher’s stomach. ‘Then stay away from Miss Boisette.’

‘Bloody hell, don’t be such a dog in the manger. You don’t want her, therefore she’s fair game.’

Want
was far too weak a word to describe the insistent throb low in his groin each time he saw or thought about her. ‘She wants to be a governess.’ Now he sounded like a sulky schoolboy denied a treat. He tossed off his brandy, then stared at his glass. Damn. At this rate he’d be under the table before the end of the evening.

‘You’re a damned fool.’ Garth threw an impatient glance at the money on the table. ‘Are you in or not?’

Christopher wanted to be inside Sylvia’s slender body. Buried to the hilt in her hot, sweet flesh. He pushed one hundred guineas into the pile. ‘I’m in.’

Garth scrawled on another slip of paper with a flourish. ‘Two hundred.’ He flicked the paper on to the growing pile.

Christopher stared at it. The raving idiot.

Garth leaned forward. ‘If you think I’m going to let an Incomparable hie off to be a drudge in Wiltshire with a parcel of brats instead of warming my bed, you are more of a bloody fool than I thought.’

It was all Christopher could do to stop from reaching out and choking Garth with his bare hands. His brother would love that. ‘She’s not interested. She’s as cold as a mountain stream.’

The waiter arrived with a bottle of brandy, filled both glasses and set the bottle at Garth’s elbow.

With a deep sigh of contentment, Garth leaned back. ‘Now that’s where you are wrong.’ He raised his glass in a toast, then took a deep swig. ‘Take it from an expert. There’s a hot spring beneath the frigid waters waiting for a man to dive in. Haven’t you seen that smile?’

Rarely. A vivid image of her performance at Cliff House filled his mind, the teasing way she removed her gloves, her tempting smile with its fascinating tiny fault. The same smile she had bestowed on Garth a week ago, after the theater.

The thought of Sylvia with Garth sent sparks of anger chasing through his veins. He snapped his cards face down on the table. ‘You bastard. If you go anywhere near her, I’ll murder you.’

Garth’s inscrutable gaze rose from contemplating the dregs of brandy in the bottom of his glass. His sneer deepened. ‘Do you really think you can?’

Probably not. Garth was a crack shot and an expert duellist, but Christopher, with his greater bulk, might have a chance at his own sport, boxing. He glared across at his brother. Tension crackled across the table, palpable in the thick air.

Two men playing chess across the aisle from them perked up in their deep armchairs. An argument always attracted a crowd.

Christopher lowered his voice. ‘Don’t think I won’t. Stay away from her.’

‘Don’t let that angelic face fool you. If you want her, take her. Otherwise, get off the pot,’ Garth said crudely. He gestured at Christopher’s cards. ‘Your play.’

Garth deserved to lose. Christopher closed the fanned cards. ‘Your trick.’

A frown on his face, Garth reached for the discarded hand.

Lurching to his feet, Christopher nudged the table. Cards and guineas and promises to pay tumbled to the floor.

Garth glared at him. ‘Don’t play me for an ass, brother.’

Christopher bowed. ‘I wouldn’t dare now, would I? I’ll see you later.’

Garth slanted him a wry look. ‘Not if I see you first.’ He reached for the brandy bottle. ‘I’ll give you one day and then it’s open season.’

The desire to plant his knuckles in Garth’s leering face made Christopher clench his fists. He took a deep breath to steady himself, nodded and sauntered off to find his hat and coat. He needed to talk to Miss Boisette about her smile.

Tonight.

‘C
ome in,’ Sylvia called out at the rap on her chamber door. At last, the scullery maid with her supper. The only sure way to prevent another encounter with Lord Stanford. She hastened to clear the clutter from the writing desk.

‘Good evening, Miss Boisette.’

She jerked around, hand at her throat.

Christopher. Why now, after avoiding her all week? ‘Mr Evernden. I’m sorry, I thought you were Lucy with the tea tray.’

His shoulders spanned the doorway of her small chamber. ‘I am sorry to disappoint.’ The corners of his eyes crinkled as a charming smile curved his lips, the reserve of the past few days replaced by an expression of warm appreciation.

Awareness of his maleness, his aura of controlled strength, unfurled in a strangely pleasant flitter in her stomach. Warmth rushed up her body to heat her face. She retreated. ‘It is no disappointment. Indeed, I had wanted to seek your advice.’

‘Good. I wanted to talk to you.’ He strolled to the bed and with a sigh slouched back against the headboard. His weight dipped into the cream cotton bedspread as he hitched up one long leg.

Her breath caught in her throat. He looked so comfortable, so right, on her bed. The last place she ever expected to see him. The flitter turned into the wild beating of a bird trying to escape.

He grinned. ‘Won’t you sit down?’ He seemed unusually relaxed.

The straight-backed wooden chair at the writing desk offered safety and distance. After turning it to face him, she perched on its edge.

‘I expected to find you in the drawing room,’ he said. ‘I hope we haven’t made you feel so unwelcome you feel obliged to hide up here in the evening.’

Unable to voice her real reason, she avoided his frank gaze and gestured to the bedside table. ‘I borrowed a book from Hookham’s and hoped to finish it before I leave.’

‘You are leaving, then?’ His voice held regret.

She clenched her hands in her lap. ‘I have been offered a position.’

He nodded. ‘So I understand.’

The quiet murmur and calm expression gave her courage to go on. ‘The family lives in Wiltshire. There are four children, all rather young. I’m not sure it is exactly what I had hoped for and yet Lady Stanford is convinced it is the best offer I am likely to receive, given my lack of experience.’

The candle beside the bed bronzed the plains and valleys of his angled face and flickered in his eyes as he shot her a quizzical look. ‘You are asking my opinion?’

A tremor shook her hands and she fingered her locket. ‘It sounds foolish to hesitate, I know.’ She attempted a bright smile. ‘My only other option is to visit a friend in Paris.’ She’d written to Denise, but she hated the thought of returning to France. ‘I’m sure your mother is right. It is the best solution.’

His voice lowered, thickened. ‘There is another option.’

She’d half-expected this, half-dreaded the thought of refusing him. Her hands trembled. Unable to bear the tension of waiting for the words she despaired to hear, she rose and went to the window. Lamps twinkled along the street like diamonds on a necklace. ‘What option?’

The bed squeaked, then a wall of heat shimmered at her back. His hands, large, warm, dropped to her shoulders. His face, reflected ghostly in the glass, bent close to her cheek. ‘Stay with me.’ His breath tickled her ear.

At least he had the courage to ask for what he wanted. She could say nothing. Since the moment they had met, she’d denied and resisted his pull. She turned in his arms. Brandy scented his breath and mingled with sandalwood and musky male, a heady combination.

For long moments, she savoured the feel of him close, the correct words refusing to form in her mind, let alone on her tongue. ‘I must not,’ she forced out.

His gaze lowered to her mouth and his head angled down. ‘You must not or you do not want to?’

She stared at his full, sensual lips, glimpsed the dappled forest green of his eyes. Oh, she wanted, but not what he had to offer. He’d splintered the wall of ice around her heart, exposing it, vulnerable and raw, to his power to wound.

The heartbreak in her mother’s eyes grazed her memory. ‘I think it is best if you leave.’ The words tore her in two.

‘Don’t think,’ he murmured and captured her mouth with his.

The warm, moist touch of his lips branded her mouth. Shock waves of shivering heat tore through her chest and settled deep in the pit of her stomach.

Drowning in her blood’s molten heat, she clung to his solid form, melted against his hard body, her arms inching around his neck without permission. A hard thigh pressed between her legs and she angled her hips into it. Urgent need pulsed deep in her core.

His heart hammered against her chest. She yearned to open to him, to trust him. Insidious need had softened her heart and weakened her will. He had slipped past her guard.

Her lips parted and his tongue teased at the corners, plundered her mouth, drove her to a need so great, she arched her back. His
hands ran over her shoulders and down her spine, lighting fires of longing. Her body cried yes in sly encouragement.

A small sound escaped her throat.

He cupped her buttocks and pulled her hard against the ridge of his arousal with a soft groan.

By all the saints, he wanted her, Christopher acknowledged. She haunted his dreams. Warm and soft in his arms, she felt right, perfect in fact.

Damn Garth and his hints. Had she yielded to him? The thought crashed over him like cold surf. He broke the kiss and closed his eyes against the demands of his body. If he didn’t stop now, he’d take her right here, under his mother’s roof, and be damned.

Breath rasping in his throat, he grasped her shoulders and stepped back. Her beautiful blue eyes, hazy with passion, stared up at him; her lips rosy and moist from his kiss called him back. He would not share her. ‘I have a small house in Kent, less than a day’s drive from town. We can live there. I can stay at Grillon’s when I have business in London.’

Sorrow shadowed her face and her gaze dropped to the floor.

‘What?’ he asked.

A brittle laugh broke the silence ‘I thank you for your flattering offer, but I find I must decline.’

She made it sound as though he’d handed her a bouquet of poisonous weeds. Clearly, he’d missed something along the way. Damn the brandy he’d drunk. He recalled Garth’s mocking words. She must want more. ‘You will find me generous and, when we part, I promise you will never have to worry about money again.’

‘No. Thank you.’

The flat-out rejection hurt more than he wanted to acknowledge. ‘It can’t be worse than playing nursemaid to a pack of unruly brats.’

She raised a brow. ‘I disagree.’

An impression of tears in her crystalline eye panicked him. He never panicked. Damn drinking too much and damn her. One moment she played the Jezebel, the next her repertoire consisted of untouchable ice maiden. He didn’t like either role.

‘Oh, come on. We both know you are no gently bred female straight from the schoolroom.’

She averted her gaze. ‘I am not interested.’

Suspicion roiled through his gut. Garth had been just a little too smug. The demon leaped out of the abyss in his mind and into his mouth. ‘If you are seeking a man with a title, I can assure you my brother’s no green ’un to be taken in by that lovely face of yours.’

Her head jerked around. Shock, dismay and something far worse mirrored in her gaze. Guilt.

Hemmed in by the small chamber, he paced around the foot of the bed, logic slipping beyond the grip of his hazy mind.

She shrank back as he swung around to face her.

‘Don’t give me that innocent look,’ he said. ‘I saw your true colours in Dover. And I saw the way you smiled at my brother, while all I see are cold stares.’

Her face became wooden, her eyes remote. He’d hit a nerve.

With shock, Sylvia heard the slur in his words and saw the way he rocked on his feet. He was drunk. She’d been so pleased to see him, she hadn’t noticed. She swallowed. Men in their cups were hard to manage. Strong and heavy and mean.

He rubbed a hand over his chin. ‘Sylvia. Don’t hold out for Garth.’ His tone held a warning. ‘He knows I have first option.’

She gasped. They’d bargained for her between them. She eased around him and pulled open the door. ‘I want neither of you and you, sir, are sotted. You will oblige me by leaving immediately.’

He stared at her, stark disbelief in his face, then his lip curled in a sneer. ‘Oh, so now you play the prim and proper lady again.’ He laughed, low and bitter. ‘Well, let me tell you,
mademoiselle
, don’t hold out for marriage. Even Garth knows better than that.’

Lord Stanford’s proposal sprang into her mind and heat scalded her cheeks. Men only wanted beautiful women for one thing, and when they were satisfied they cast them aside.

How had she ever thought she could trust Christopher? Her throat burned with unshed tears; tremors shook her body. ‘Get out. I have no more interest in you than I have in your brother.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t know what game you are playing, but the sooner you find yourself a place away from this family, the better for all of us. I knew what you were the moment I set eyes on you.’

Her heart bled from his unjust words, but she would not let him see how he had wounded her. Shattered pride would not allow it. ‘Oh, and what is that?’

‘A trollop.’

Bloodless, her heart shrank into a cold hard lump. The need to fight back, to wound him in return, straightened her spine. ‘And Lord Stanford is exceptionally generous, I’m told, and very charming.’

A shadow darkened his eyes from green to brown. ‘Then I wish you good luck.’ He walked past her and closed the door with a violent softness.

It was the worst day of her life. First the incident with the carriage, then the awful Elston woman had offered her hard work for little pay and now Christopher had shown exactly what he thought of her. He hadn’t wanted to kiss her; he had done it to prove she was the same as her mother. And she was. Just as weak and wanting.

Damn him to hell. Sylvia buried her face in her pillow and sobbed. And damn Mrs Elston and damn Lord Stanford. To the devil with them all. She dashed away the hot tears running down her face.

Merde
. She would not turn herself into a drudge for a
woman she could only describe as a harridan for the sake of respectability.

In her dreams, she had seen a different life, a comfortable home, laughing children, a man who would smile at her over his newspaper each morning with love and respect in his eyes. That dream would never be hers. She’d always known it. No decent man would marry her knowing her background and the sordid truth of her life in Paris.

Christopher Evernden and respectability were out of her reach.

…the sooner you find yourself a place away from this family, the better for all of us.
Wasn’t this what she wanted in the first place? To disgust him, so he would let her go? Then why this hollow sensation of loss? She rolled over on her back and stared at the sloping ceiling. Surely she had not expected him to be different? A pang twisted her heart. How foolish. How weak. She had actually started to trust him. Now she must get as far from him as possible.

She’d take up Denise’s offer and join her in Paris. First thing in the morning she’d leave for the coast.

Christopher pressed his shaking fingers against his thumping temple and cursed the brandy he had drunk after leaving Sylvia last night. Self-disgust gnawed at his entrails.

He strode across the library to the fireplace and pulled the bell again. Where the bloody hell was Sylvia? It didn’t take this long to find someone in this damned town house. At well past noon, she should be up and downstairs. It was bad enough that he had to face her to apologise without hanging around thinking about it.

‘Kit, old chap,’ Garth said, breezing in and picking up a newspaper. He glanced at the headlines as he spoke. ‘If you want to make Darbys’ place by nightfall, shouldn’t you be on your way?’

In his black riding coat, skintight buff riding breeches and
wearing his usual cynical expression, Garth epitomised the noble English rake about town.

Christopher nodded, then flinched at the pain the movement caused inside his skull.

Garth slouched into an armchair by the fireplace and turned to the racing page. ‘Well?’

He didn’t need Garth’s sharp eyes focussed on him. He’d never hear the last of it if Garth learned what ten kinds of idiot he’d been last night. He glared at Garth. ‘Well what?’

‘Why are you still hanging about here?’

All he wanted to do was apologise to Sylvia and get out of London. The hurt in her eyes had floated before his face from the moment he’d opened his eyes, like an accusing Banquo’s ghost. Shakespeare certainly knew how to portray a guilty conscience.

And why the hell was Garth so interested in his movements? For months, Garth hadn’t spent any time in Mount Street, until this week. It all came back to the same thing. Miss Boisette. He glowered. ‘I need to speak to Miss Boisette before I leave.’

Garth looked up from his paper. ‘Actually, I rather wanted to talk to you about that young lady. Something rather untoward happened yesterday.’

Untoward? Bloody hell. She’d told Garth about his behaviour last night. Christopher strode to the window and looked out. Bright daylight burned red-hot needles into the backs of his eyes. His brother’s flailing tongue could hardly make him feel any worse than he did, but he deserved it.

‘Yes,’ Garth continued, ‘she really shouldn’t be out on the streets on her own. She’s far too lovely for her own safety.’

Christopher swung around and grabbed at the curtain as a wave of giddiness made the room pitch worse than a galleon in a hurricane. He took a deep breath to steady himself. ‘What are you talking about?’

Frowning, Garth eyed him up and down. ‘Are you all right, Kit?’

Oh God, not more brotherly concern. ‘Yes. It’s just a headache.’

A slow smile spread over Garth’s face. ‘You young idiot, you’re jug-bitten.’

‘What about Miss Boisette?’

Garth tossed the newspaper on the table beside him and stretched out his long legs. ‘It was the oddest thing. A footman was pressing her to get into a carriage when I came along.’