The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (13 page)

He maintained his nonchalant expression as her avaricious eyes took in his dress, his jewellery and his physique. He resisted the temptation to tug at his cravat.

He obviously passed muster, because she smiled coquettishly. ‘I am Madame Gilbert. How can we be of service to you,
monsieur
?’

He waved a languid hand. ‘I was told you have some of the best women this side of Paris. I find myself in need of some female company.’

‘You were informed correctly,
monsieur
. Most of my girls used to work in Paris before the troubles and well know the taste of aristos. Do you have any preferences? They are all excellent, clean and experienced in all the arts. The
vice Anglais
, if you desire?’

Christopher kept his expression bland at the mention of an aberration favoured by Englishmen who had developed a taste for the birch switch at public school. He had never gone away to school.

‘I prefer blondes,’ he said. ‘Slim and young.’

The
madame
nodded and waddled out.

Christopher leaned back against the sofa and forced himself to appear nonchalant as he imagined Sylvia’s surprise, or anger. Hell, perhaps this wasn’t such a good idea.

A hunched-up witch of a servant arrived with wine. Christopher refused it. He needed his wits about him and he had no faith in the cleanliness of the down-at-heel place. She departed, muttering under her breath.

Two buxom females slouched into the room followed by the
madame
, her eyes greedy.

‘This is Berthé,’ the woman announced, pointing to the one with rouged lips and straw-coloured hair. She wore a tawdry red velvet gown that skimmed her nipples and knees.

‘And this is Yvette.’ A slighter and younger version of Berthé with light brown hair and brown eyes had on a black lacy corset and filmy yellow skirt. The women flaunted their attributes and batted their eyelashes. Worn and tired, neither of them were Sylvia.

He shook his head at the fat woman. ‘Nice enough in their way. But I want something fresher, more innocent in appearance, younger.’

Avaricious eyes gleamed from between rolls of fat. ‘A virgin,
monsieur
?’

‘A virgin would be a special treat,’ he replied, trying to hide his disgust. ‘But younger, smaller and…’ he curled his lip as his gaze ran over the two women who postured before him ‘…a true blonde.’

The woman licked her red lips. ‘If I had such a girl, she would be very expensive.’

Christopher pulled out a handful of gold. ‘But,
madame
,’ he said in an icy voice, ‘do not presume to think to cheat me.’ His hand moved suggestively to the cane at his side. ‘I am as accomplished with one sword as I am with the other.’

She eyed his crotch and then his swordstick. She nodded as if coming to a decision. ‘I have a girl who might suit you. I would as soon let you be her first as some fat merchant. You will teach her well, I think.’

‘If I’m to be her tutor, perhaps you should pay me?’

Her fat face reddened.

Christopher put up a placating hand and smiled. ‘I jest,
madame
.’

‘Ah, a jest,’ she said. ‘So English to jest about business.’ A suspicious expression crossed her face. ‘Your name,
monsieur
?’

‘Lord Albert, at your service.’ He inclined his head. The name of the obnoxious dandy had jumped into his mind and the woman seemed satisfied. Christopher breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t ask for his calling card.

The pudgy hands slapped together. ‘Yvette, go. Berthé, make sure
mon petit chou
is ready for milor’.’

‘Surely the gentleman would prefer a more experienced woman?’ Berthé said in surly tones.

The
madame
glared. ‘Do as I tell you.’

With dragging steps, Berthé left the room. Jealous rivalry amongst whores seemed ludicrous.

‘Where is she?’ Christopher asked. ‘Am I to approve of her first?’

‘This one is special. You will see. But first we must conclude our business.’

The exorbitant price to which he agreed seemed all the worse since he strongly suspected he wouldn’t get his money’s worth. Deep in his heart, he wouldn’t believe Sylvia had stooped to this.

Cane swinging, he followed the wheezing
madame
out to the dingy hall and up the staircase.

At the end of the second-floor passage she flung open a door and ushered him in.

Christopher froze at the sight of the naked woman on the bed.

T
he scene, lit by one candle on a rickety nightstand, burned indelibly into his mind. The wanton Sylvia of his dreams waiting for him, naked, creamy skin on a silky white sheet, slender legs sprawled wide.

Each slow breath lifted her tawny-tipped perfect breasts. Fascinated, he imagined them hardening, responding to his tongue, peaking beneath his palms. A mental image of his hands on her body tingled his fingers and his gaze followed the lines of her tiny waist, the flare of her gently curved thighs crested by the fine, pale blonde curls of her mound and the hint of what lay beneath.

Roses perfumed the air. A vision of loveliness filled his gaze. He didn’t want to believe she was here, waiting for him like this, but she was truly lovely and completely irresistible, when he had done nothing but imagine her like this for days.

His loins grew hard and heavy with need. Hunger ached deep in his bones. Never had he felt such driving, urgent need. He slipped out of his coat and waistcoat and pulled his shirt free of his waistband. One taste and he’d leave. He dragged off his shirt and stared at Sylvia.

Her eyes remained closed.

The abbess caught his questioning glance. ‘A little
laudanum laced with cantharides,’ she whispered. ‘You will find her most grateful for your gift.’ She gestured at Christopher’s groin, where his erection strained against the tight fabric of his pantaloons.

Drugged? Was she then not here of her own free will? He needed to get rid of the
madame
to find out.

His body burned to lie down beside her, to cover her, flesh to flesh, to feel her heat against his skin, explore her depths, join with her. Ruthlessly, he stamped out the fire. He bit back a groan and glared at the
madame
. ‘I don’t want an audience.’

Regret twisted her mouth. ‘Too bad.’ She wagged a finger. ‘Teach her well, milor’. If she gives you trouble, call me and she will be punished. She is a wilful girl, but she will learn.’

The thought of Sylvia servicing men to this woman’s command dampened his ardour. He stared pointedly at the door, hiding his revulsion, and she waddled out.

He listened to her heavy tread on the stairs. Certain she had gone, he placed a chair against the door in case she returned and set his swordstick alongside.

Forcing himself not to look at the tempting sight on the bed, he pulled the sheet from its foot up to her neck. He shook her shoulder. ‘Sylvia. Wake up.’

After several repeated shakings, her eyelids fluttered open. She stared at him without comprehension, then smiled the blindingly beautiful smile he had seen at Dover and once for Garth.

‘Christopher,’ she murmured huskily, her French accent more pronounced than usual.

The pulse in his groin beat a wild tattoo at the sultry sound of his name on her lips.

Languidly, she snaked out a hand, reaching for him. The sheet slipped, revealing the rise of her breasts. Her fingertips dragged across his naked chest. ‘Ummm. Soft,’ she murmured. ‘I wondered if you had hair there.’ She giggled.

He shuddered on an indrawn breath. How much of the
sultry seduction in her gaze was Sylvia and how much the drugs? She’d tormented him like this once before, in Dover. Clearly she wanted him and not for the first time.

Her gaze slid from his chest to his face like a hot caress. A frown furrowed her brow. Confusion darkened her eyes. ‘Please. I need…’

Beneath the sheet, her hands caressed her body, over her breast, hardening her nipples to points against the sheer fabric. A flush blossomed on her delicate cheeks and travelled down her neck. Perspiration pearled on her upper lip and forehead. A picture of blatant sensuality.

Hard and ready, his blood a river of fire, he reached for the sheet, aching once more to fully feast his gaze on her glorious, slender body. He’d imagined this so often in his mind, he could taste her sweet flesh. He bit back a curse and stopped.

‘Christopher,’ she moaned. ‘Help me.’ She shifted restlessly.

There was only one thing that would ease her. Only a cur would take advantage of the situation. ‘They’ve given you drugs,’ he rasped in a last-ditch battle for control.

With a moan deep in her throat, she arched towards him, rose up and wrapped her arms around his waist, then drew back with a gasp. ‘So hot. I want…’

He closed his eyes. The torment of denial ached in every nerve. His chest shuddered on a breath. ‘Where are your clothes?’

He flung open the wardrobe in the far corner of the room. A blue creation, like those the girls downstairs had worn, tumbled out. Useless. What had they done with the clothes she arrived in? He tried the lid of the press at the end of the bed. Padlocked. Damn them.

Again she stretched out her slender white arms. ‘I want you to hold me,’ she murmured, her accented voice husky.

His erection jerked to full attention at the raw need in her voice. He hauled in a deep breath, seeking control. He had to
get her dressed and away, then he’d find a way to help her recover. He laid the flimsy garment on the bed—even with his coat over the top, it wouldn’t cover much, but it was better than nothing.

Forcing a snake into a stocking presented an easier task than squeezing the wiggling Sylvia into the snug garment. While he pulled the gown over her head, she pressed her slim length against his body, begging for his help.

Once he had her vaguely inside it, he rolled her on to her stomach and knelt astride her. Pinned beneath his thighs, she moaned and struggled to turn over, her legs grazing the insides of his thighs. His breath hitched. The fires in his blood raged higher. Fingers trembling, he worked at the strings of the ridiculous froth of blue.

‘Lie still and let me lace you.’

She lifted her hips and circled her plump
derrière
against him. ‘I don’t want a dress. I want you.’

Sweet agony. Desire built to raging proportion, a flaming conflagration, pushing him to the edges of reason, where lust warred for supremacy. His blood pulsed and his breath rasped in his ears. He hung to sanity by a thread. Sweat rolled off his forehead and down his cheek. With a groan he pressed her back to the bed with his knee.

She arched her back, her gaze desperate when she looked over her shoulder. ‘Christopher. Can’t you…? I need…you.’

The appeal in her eyes snapped the rope of hard-fought resistance. The pressure of her hips at his groin poured sweet agony through every nerve. She wanted this. Nay, she needed it, desperately. And God help him, so did he.

He groaned and pressed a kiss to her nape. She shivered. He cupped her cheek with a hand that looked large and tanned on her pale complexion. Her soft skin burned his flesh. She turned her fiery mouth to kiss his palm. A lightning jolt of pleasure shot through his body. He hardened to rock.

She sighed. ‘Love me, Christopher.’

When had an invitation ever been this sweet? He fumbled with the buttons and pushed his pantaloons over his hips. Stiff and pulsing, he pushed against her silken thigh. A glorious sensation.

She moaned her pleasure and her desire. Gently, with one hand under her stomach, he lifted her. The other cupped the swollen flesh of her. She rubbed against his palm, hot and moist. Ready for him.

Sweet heaven. It felt so good.

‘Sylvia,’ he whispered. ‘Tell me you want me to do this.’

She whimpered.

‘Sylvia, please. Tell me.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Oh yes.’

He massaged the delicate, hot female folds, slid a finger along her swollen heated cleft. She shuddered and moaned. His fingers sought her tiny nub of pleasure, circled and pressed. God, she was sweet and hot and slick with dew for him. He stroked her rhythmically, preparing her for his entry.

She cried out, shuddered and collapsed beneath him.

He almost howled his frustration. The cantharides had made her so ready, she had climaxed from his touch.

She lay still and limp beneath him. With a savage curse at the hell of unsatisfied lust, he hung above her, his chest heaving, and waited for his body to accept his will.

After what seemed like minutes of agony, he refastened his pantaloon over his rigid protesting flesh and scrambled back into his shirt and waistcoat. God knew how long it would take to cease its rampant demand for satisfaction, but cease it would. Once free of the slavery of the drug, she would remember this and then she would surely hate him for humbling her. He swallowed his regret. Better she hate him, than remain under this roof. What if it happened again? Bloody hell. They had to leave before the drugs took hold again, before he did something he would regret.

Regret? A wry smile twisted his lips. He regretted not having her. He took a deep breath and returned to the task of dressing her.

The chair scraped across the carpet.

He jerked his head around. The hunchback maid glowered at him from the doorway. In her hand, a wicked kitchen knife glinted. ‘Get away from her, before I cut your balls off.’

Christopher glanced at his cane beside the chair. The maid stood between him and it, waving the knife. A trick to get more money? ‘I paid my gold to your mistress. Get out.’

The old eyes raked his body.
‘Cochon
.’

A hot flush rushed to his face at her scornful sneer.

Her gaze darted to the inert figure on the bed, her expression softening with sorrow. ‘What filthy perversion are you forcing on her?’

‘I haven’t touched her.’

‘Liar. You’ve had her. Bastard.’

She would understand the effects of the aphrodisiac, be aware that, without a climax, Sylvia would be all over him, trying to ease the effects of the drug. He deliberately kept his tone cool, all the while watching the knife. ‘I caressed her and she came.’

The maid stole closer to the bedside, gazing down at Sylvia, while her knife pointed at the mismatched buttons of his pantaloons and his still-evident arousal. ‘Poor little Sylvie. Damn all men. Taking, that’s all you know.’

Her sorrow seemed genuine. Hope flickered in his breast. ‘If you are any kind of friend to her, you’ll help me. I need to get her away.’ He gestured to the blue gown. ‘There’s nothing for her to wear but this.’

The old woman’s eyes narrowed on his face. ‘What is your name,
monsieur
?’

He hesitated. Instinct told him to trust the old Scot. ‘Christopher Evernden.’

‘I’ve heared of ye. I’m Jeannie. I served her mither. Are you her protector?’

‘Her guardian. I am responsible for her safety.’ And up to the moment, he’d made a damned fine mess of it.

Jeannie visibly relaxed. ‘Sylvie trusts you. But it is too late.
Madame
, even now, arranges the move back to Paris. After today she will be rich.’

Christopher swallowed sour bile. He would have no hope of rescuing Sylvia from a Paris brothel. But rich? ‘I didn’t pay that much for the privilege of having her.’

With a short hard laugh, she laid a gentle hand on Sylvia’s shoulder. ‘’Tis not you who makes
madame
rich, but her
cochon
of a father, the Duke. He paid
madame
to keep the mother, and now the daughter is back, he’ll pay a fortune to keep her here too.’

‘Why?’

She shrugged. ‘He always has.’

What father would want to force his child, even an illegitimate one, into so abhorrent a trade when he could simply pay her off? ‘It makes no sense.’

She smiled slyly. ‘There’s proof he’s her father.’

A bastard daughter had no rights, and unless one was royal, the ignominy was better kept hidden by the child as well as the parent. ‘It makes no difference.’

Her expression hardened. ‘It does, else why would he pay all those years?’ She made a cutting gesture across her throat and rolled her eyes. ‘My poor Marguerite died after a journey from hell.’

She hobbled to the window and pulled back the curtain, letting in a long shaft of dusty light to reveal the filthy bed hangings and shabby furniture in squalid starkness. Christopher grimaced.

With light outlining her crooked form, she continued in a soft regretful voice, ‘The
madame
blackmailed the Duke for
years, threatening to expose him to the world. Madame Gilbert used to laugh about it behind Marguerite’s back.’

‘Why did the
madame
let Sylvia go in the first place?’

She dropped the curtain and swung around.

Christopher blinked, adjusting his vision to the candlelight.

‘Your uncle came for the child the day before we fled Paris,’ she said. ‘Someone had a grudge against the
madame
. We left in such haste, she did not discover the child missing until we departed.’

With halting steps, she wandered to the bed and gazed down on the still-sleeping Sylvia. ‘We hid here, barely making a living and with no means to contact the Duke during the war with England.’

She lifted her sad brown gaze to meet his. ‘Until a year ago. The noble pig sent his Irishman. He almost killed
madame
for letting the girl go to England.’ Jeannie’s glance shifted to Christopher. ‘He promised to pay a fortune for the paper. The
madame
insisted he bring Sylvia back as part of the price. The hard-eyed Irish boggert found her and brought her back.’ A smile of triumph curved her corrugated lips. ‘But they don’t have the paper. I stole it back, to buy my way to Scotland.’

Bitterness turned the smile to a wry grimace. ‘Rafter’ll kill Sylvie if he learns it’s missing. The scandal, if it gets out, will ruin the Duke.’ Her face crumpled. ‘I’ll have to give it to him. I’ll no have the bairn killed.’

Bile churned in his gut. What sort of man would do this to his child? ‘Who is this Duke?’

Jeannie shook her head and stared at Sylvia. ‘The secret is the only thing keepin’ her alive.’

Clearly, the old woman believed it, and it really didn’t matter. ‘You have to help me get her away from here.’

Jeannie shivered.
‘Madame
will punish me if she found out I helped you.’

Christopher stifled his impatience. One cry from this
woman and the game would be up. He gave her an encouraging smile. ‘No one will know if we act quickly.’