The Rake's Inherited Courtesan (17 page)

He waggled his eyebrows. ‘Definitely up.’

‘I don’t mean that,’ she said, but couldn’t resist a peek.

He chuckled. ‘Garth has disembarked already, but I didn’t want to wake you. You’ve been through hell these past few days.’

She sat up. Grey light from the window showed a new day. The ship barely rocked.

She flung back the covers. ‘Goodness, I’m sorry to keep everyone waiting.’

Fire blazed in his hazel eyes as his gazed travelled her naked length. He leaned forward and kissed the rise of her breast.

Sun-gilded hair tickled her skin. She ran her fingers through the silky waves. ‘Are you sure you want me to get up?’

A groan rolled up from his chest. He raised his head and looked down at her with a rueful grin. ‘No, I don’t. Unfortunately, Captain Porter has to get the
Sea Witch
berthed further down the coast. So, milady, you needs must arise.’

Placing her palms either side of his wonderful face, his lean cheeks rough against her palms, she kissed him soundly on
the lips. Sandalwood and soap filled her nose. She loved the male smell of him. Clean and musky at the same time. She licked his bottom lip. ‘Then you must leave and send Jeannie to help me dress.’

He chuckled. ‘Then you must let me go.’

A sweet pang squeezed her heart. She never wanted to let him go. Moisture blurred her sight. She gave a shaky laugh and released him.

His expression turned serious, his eyes the colour of mysterious northern forests. ‘Don’t worry. I will take care of everything.’

She nodded, unable to speak for tears. What a mix, happiness that she’d found him, tears of losses to come. She flashed him a brilliant smile and hoped he didn’t notice.

With a last yearning glance, he got to his feet and strode for the door. ‘Do you think you can be ready in half an hour?’

‘If you want me to be,’ she murmured with an eyebrow raised.

‘Sylvia,’ he said, his warning voice full of laughter. ‘Be good.’

If she was good, she wouldn’t be here.

A half-hour later, she and Jeannie met him up on the gleaming mahogany-and-brass-fitted deck of the
Sea Witch
. She raised her eyes to the white cliffs guarding the English Channel. Somewhere up there, Cliff House clung to its rocky perch. The house where she had grown up and learned the truth about her life.

Captain Porter touched his hat. ‘Mr Evernden, a pleasure to have you on board again.’ A knowing look crossed his face as his gaze rested on her. ‘Ma’am.’

Inwardly, she squirmed. He knew, of course, what they’d done, what she was.

Christopher’s protective hand touched the hollow of her back and he moved closer, claiming her. She relaxed.

‘Thank you, Red,’ Christopher said.

‘Yes, sir. Good day.’

With Christopher’s help she and Jeannie clambered into the small boat waiting to take them to the post-chaise at the dockside, where a yellow liveried post-boy sprang to attention and opened the door.

Once inside, Sylvia snuggled against Christopher, his strong arm around her shoulders pressing her into his hard wall of chest. It was as if all her childish dreams of a noble knight who would rescue her from the dragon of her fears had come true.

Jeannie, on the other side of the carriage, smiled and nodded.

Life suddenly seemed unbearably wonderful. Dare she hold on to it?

After a leisurely lunch at Cobham and several short stops to change horses, the chaise came to a stop outside a curving terrace of Palladian town houses. Sylvia frowned. This was not London.

‘Why are we stopping here?’ she asked.

‘This is Blackheath. You are spending the night here.’

The house, fronted by a wrought-iron fence, looked over a green open space on the other side of the street.

‘Surely we can reach London in another hour or so?’

Embarrassment filled his expression and he glanced at Jeannie. ‘I thought you wouldn’t mind staying here. It belongs to Garth. He doesn’t actually live here, he…well, it’s where he lives some of the time.’

Disappointment emptied her heart. ‘It’s where he keeps his mistress,’ she uttered, her tone flat.

She couldn’t help her reaction. For some foolish reason, a glimmer of hope had sprung to life that there really might be more than this in her future.

Christopher opened the door. ‘Since there is no one living here at the moment, Garth is loaning it to us until we make other arrangements.’

Of course she couldn’t return to his mother’s house. Not now they were lovers. She forced calmness into her voice. ‘I see.’

‘Rafter won’t have a clue where to find you. If we go into town, there’s the risk of him ferreting you out. He’ll expect us to go to London.’

Christopher was carving out her future as surely as if it were set in stone and this the final lettering in the block.

The thought of parting with him tugged at her newly discovered heart. Why not accept? She could stay with him for a while, a month, a year. They’d make some happy memories together.

A nagging doubt, a memory of her mother, skittered across her mind like a spider scuttling out of a dark corner. She pushed it aside. If she wanted him, this was her only option.

With Jeannie trailing behind her, she alighted and followed Christopher up the two steps and in through the front door held open by the butler.

They were obviously expected.

On the outside, the town house looked unremarkable. Inside told a different story. Appalled, Sylvia gazed at the opulent marble staircase with its Turkey runner. Marble and plaster statues of Greek gods and goddesses filled elegant niches; paintings of nude women adorned the walls. Frolicking nymphs leered down from the ceiling.

Disappointment washed through her and extinguished her hopes. She was a fool to expect something less garish, more genteel. After all she had become her mother.

It suddenly seemed difficult to breathe.

‘If you would step in to the drawing room, Mr Evernden, I’ll arrange for tea,’ the butler said.

‘No tea for me, thank you, Bates,’ Christopher said.

She followed Christopher into the drawing room, while Jeannie disappeared into the nether regions of the house with Bates. A sense of unreality numbed her.

She glanced around the room, at the rose-coloured walls and gilt furniture, at the satisfied expression on Christopher’s face.

‘At least Delia didn’t get started on this room,’ he said.

‘Delia?’

‘Garth’s last lady. She had a thing about decorating. The entrance hall was her handiwork. It was as far as she got before she was handed her
congé
.’

The ease with which he accepted the departure of a woman who had made this place her home sent a chill down Sylvia’s spine. ‘Oh.’

‘Eventually, we will go to my house in Kent. I haven’t been there since my grandmother left it to me, so it will take a couple of days to make it ready for us. This will be perfect until then.’

‘Perfect.’ Her lips felt stiff.

He pulled her into his arms and pressed his lips against hers, firm and warm and so tempting. He ran his fingers through her hair and deepened the kiss.

The feel of him, his large body hard against her, his passion, his heat, his strength, drove her thoughts and fears into the far reaches of her mind. She melted into him. She wanted this with him.

She reached up and curled her hand around his strong column of neck, arching into him. She nibbled at his lower lip, felt his desire rise, a hard ridge of arousal pressed against her stomach.

Desire flooded her, rushing through her veins in hot rivers. She ground her hips against him and revelled in his sharp indrawn breath.

She never imagined wanting a man like this. It went against everything she thought she knew about herself, everything she believed.

He groaned and pulled away. ‘I’ll be back first thing tomorrow.’

Panic gripped her. ‘You aren’t staying?’

‘I have business requiring my attention, people relying on me.’

She couldn’t stay in this place without him. ‘Don’t go.’
She hated the begging note in her voice. ‘Or take me with you.’

He smiled down at her and gave her a squeeze. ‘I can’t. My ships can’t sail until I sign the manifest, and I have nowhere to take you in London except a hotel, and it would be too easy to find you.’

Pain pierced her heart. It was starting already. Him leaving her for his other world. His real world. A world to which she could never belong. ‘Can you not go tomorrow?’

‘I wish I could.’ He nuzzled her neck, sending a delicious shiver all the way to her core. ‘But I have already delayed this sailing by several days. We will start to lose our crew.’

Releasing her, he took her hands. ‘Come, sit with me a moment.’ He led her to the sofa and drew her down, his arm around her shoulder. ‘Everything will be all right, you will see.’

She desperately wanted to believe him, but the spider crawled out of the dark and completed a web of doubt in her mind. Doubt about Christopher and, worst of all, about herself. She sought escape. ‘What if Rafter comes looking for me again? Perhaps it would be better if I disappeared, went somewhere alone.’

His mouth flattened. ‘Where else can you go where you will be safe? Not to London or France. This is the perfect solution.’ He tipped her chin with one finger and gazed into her eyes. ‘Don’t you want to be with me?’

Every particle in her body and her heart said yes, but her mind knew better. ‘How long must I remain in hiding?’

His expression darkened. He sighed. ‘I don’t really have the time to discuss this now. Bates will see to your needs until I get back. You don’t have to worry, he’s very discreet.’

He would have to be. She drew in a breath. Without Christopher to tempt her, to overcome her reason, she would be able to think. Perhaps it was better if he left. She fought the tears threatening to spill over and nodded.

He smiled and kissed her forehead. ‘That’s better. Rest now. You’ve been through a lot. We will talk tomorrow.’

She flung her arms around his neck, abandoning her lips to the pleasure of his for an all-too-brief moment.

Tomorrow she might not be here.

Unease churned in Christopher’s gut as he took his hat and coat from the imperturbable Bates. Beneath Sylvia’s impassioned kiss, he’d sensed tension.

Fear of her father? He stepped outside. Not fear, she was too full of courage for that, yet he sensed a brittleness, like a delicate vessel ready to break at a touch, the way she’d been the first day he had met her at Cliff House.

Something prodded him to turn back.

Bates raised his brows.

‘Please see that Miss Boisette has everything she needs.’ Christopher flicked the man one of the guineas he’d borrowed from Garth.

‘As you wish, sir.’

A tension gripped him. Twice now she’d tipped him the double. He didn’t want to risk her leaving again. ‘Bates, I would prefer it if Miss Boisette did not leave the house. Not for any reason.’

The door hesitated in its swing. A frown puckered Bates’s forehead, then smoothed. ‘As you wish, Mr Evernden.’

Christopher turned and strode to the waiting post-chaise.

L
ight blazed from every window at the Mount Street house. A carriage disgorged a couple in evening attire. Christopher frowned. It seemed that Mother had gone all out for this birthday party. Damn lucky he’d remembered once he arrived in town. His brain still wasn’t working right. Anxiety about Sylvia had haunted him all the way to London and through most of his meeting with his man of business. Something about his leavetaking felt wrong.

With a roll of his shoulders, he handed his rumpled driving coat to the butler on his way past. He headed for the stairs. Garth cast a laconic glance at him through the open drawing-room door, then looked pointedly at his watch. Things really had gone to hell if Garth needed to remind him about the time.

Studiously ignoring Reeves’s darkling glances and tongue-clickings over the state of his raiment, he bathed, shaved and changed at breakneck speed and went downstairs. He joined a bored-looking Garth.

‘I didn’t think you’d leave her,’ Garth murmured out of the side of his mouth.

His sly wink added to Christopher’s sense of unease. ‘I must have more control than you.’

Garth laughed.

‘Christopher, darling.’

His mother bore down on him like a frigate about to deliver a broadside. He gave Garth a don’t-you-dare-say-a-word stare and went to greet her.

‘Here you are at last, dear,’ Lady Stanford announced, clearly in high spirits and her best looks. ‘I was beginning to think you had forgotten.’

Somehow she made him feel guilty even when he wasn’t. Perhaps Garth was right to be so offhand. ‘I’m sorry I’m late. I was delayed on the road.’

‘Blackheath, wasn’t it?’ Garth put in with a grin.

His mother fluttered her handkerchief in question.

‘It doesn’t matter where,’ Christopher said.

‘No, indeed,’ his mother said. ‘You are here now and that is what is important.’ In a swirl of silk and a waft of lavender, she sailed away to greet the Molesbys. Even from here Christopher could hear Aunt Imogene protesting about the rudeness of the hackney driver who had brought them from their friend’s house in Golden Square and grossly overcharged them.

Over her shoulder, George Molesby raised an eyebrow. Christopher could guess the question on his mind. Sylvia. Damn the man. Still, he was glad to have his mother’s attention diverted. He glowered at Garth. ‘Can’t you be serious for a moment?’

Garth’s brow shot up, but a smile lurked in his eyes. ‘Apparently not.’

Christopher took a good look at him. ‘You’re foxed.’

‘Not yet,’ Garth replied with utter good cheer. ‘Soon, I hope.’

The gentlemen gathered around their ladies, who reclined on sofas or perched on chairs. The butler circulated with glasses of madeira.

Garth stepped forward and raised his glass. ‘To Mother.’

‘Lady Stanford,’ the company chorused.

With a gracious incline of her head, Mother accepted their good wishes. It warmed Christopher’s heart to see her so
happy, something that had not occurred when their father lived. Christopher’s earlier irritation dissipated.

He grinned when he saw Garth’s thunderstruck expression as first one guest, then another presented a gift: handkerchiefs from the Molesbys, a miniature from Lord Angleforth, her latest flirt, some perfume from one of the other couples. Garth had obviously only just realised gifts were expected.

Christopher took pity on him and sauntered to his side. ‘I bought something from both of us when I first learned she planned this party.’ It seemed like aeons ago. Before he had gone chasing off to Dover, when his life had been ordered and organised and totally in his control. Strangely he didn’t miss it at all.

‘I’m in your debt again,’ Garth muttered under his breath. ‘I will pay you back.’

Christopher slapped him on his broad shoulder. ‘Indeed you will.’

He pulled a slender red velvet pouch from his pocket and placed it in his mother’s lap. ‘From your sons.’ She squealed and fumbled with the ribbon around its throat.

A general gasp greeted the glittering diamond-and-emerald bracelet as it spilled into her hand.

‘Gad, young Kit. Where’d you get the ready for a piece like that?’ Garth asked.

‘Investments.’ Christopher couldn’t keep the pride out of his voice. It might not be quite the thing for a noble gentleman, but his head for business had its uses.

‘I’ll have to take some advice from you.’

The respect in Garth’s face gave him a deep sense of satisfaction. ‘Any time, brother.’

‘Dinner is served, my lord,’ the butler announced and opened the double doors to the dining room.

‘Looks like we are on parade, old chap,’ Garth murmured. ‘Who has she got you tied to this evening?’

Christopher groaned. ‘The old Fanshawe trout.’

‘Hah. Well, as head of the family, I’ve got Mama.’ He didn’t sound any more pleased than Christopher. Whatever lay between Garth and their mother, it ran deep and always left Christopher with a vague sadness.

But as always, they presented a united front and turned to their respective duties. It was not until dinner was over and the ladies had withdrawn, leaving the gentlemen to their port and cigars, that Christopher contrived a quiet moment alone with Garth on the dining-room balcony. While the other men lingered at the table over their wine, they ignited their cigars in the comfortable dark.

‘So, did you get your little ladybird all nicely set up?’ Garth asked, blowing a ring of smoke at the sky.

It sounded so bloody tawdry. ‘Miss Boisette is not my ladybird.’

‘You could have fooled me, dear boy. The
Sea Witch
practically keeled over after you went to the stateroom, not to mention the cries of delight. There I was, thinking of you enjoying yourself.’

Palms moist and cheeks heated, he held off from strangling Garth. ‘Take a damper. I’ll have her out of your house in a day or so.’

‘What a bloody hypocrite you are.’ Deceptively lazy, the mocking tone lashed Christopher in a place he had not known was sensitive. ‘She’s a lovely armful. Keep her there as long as you want.’

‘The house is too close to London and, with all the traffic buzzing down to visit Princess Charlotte, someone is sure to recognise me.’

The cigar glowed in the dark and Garth leaned one elbow on the balustrade. ‘The truth now. What is this all about? What happened in France?’

‘I don’t think I should discuss it. It’s bad enough that I’m embroiled in it. It seems Miss Boisette has powerful enemies.’

‘Her father?’

‘Likely. Anyway, I am taking her to my house in Kent, just as soon as I can make the necessary arrangements with my man of business.’

A low whistle emanated from the dark. ‘You’re inviting a scandal. Even I wouldn’t install a woman like that in a family home.’

The hot rush of anger in defence of Sylvia surprised him. ‘She’s not
a woman like that
.’

‘Good God. Have you lost your mind? She was Uncle John’s paramour. Everyone said so.’

‘I can assure you, she was no such thing.’ He tossed his cigar on the stone floor and ground it out with his heel. ‘I’m taking her out of sight for a while.’

‘Take it from one who really knows women,’ Garth said with a harsh laugh, ‘she’ll bleed you dry and move on to the next victim. Don’t risk your precious reputation for a tumble in the hay.’

Christopher glanced over his shoulder. ‘Sylvia would never do that.’

‘You are a fool if you think so.’

‘Your cynicism is ill founded.’ Christopher reached for the door handle. He knew Sylvia, and she was nothing like the women Garth favoured. Just a few more hours, his business finished, and he would be back in her welcoming arms. ‘What is more,’ Christopher said. ‘I don’t give a damn what you or anyone thinks.’

The realisation burst like champagne bubbles in his blood, lifting him to dizzying happiness. He strode out of the room and left Garth to think whatever he pleased.

Sylvia pulled back the rose-coloured damask curtain from the window. The fading daylight revealed only a sky threatening rain, a few passers-by on the pavement beyond the
wrought-iron railings and the open common, where a small boy attempted to fly a yellow kite. No sign of Christopher.

With a sigh, she dropped the curtain and strode to the fireplace. A swift tug on the bell brought the butler within moments. She pressed her lips together, quelling the urge to say something cutting about him lurking outside the door.

Since it was Christopher who had earned her wrath, he would hear her opinions, not his instrument. ‘Tea, please, Bates.’

‘Yes, miss. Cook has prepared an early dinner for you. It is set out in the dining room, if you would care to partake?’

The thought of food nauseated her already churning stomach. Where was Christopher? She wanted to advise him of her decision to leave for Harrogate immediately.

The answer had come to her at dawn. She would not stay here or anywhere else as his mistress, always anticipating her
congé
. She’d steel herself and make the break, right away, before she became accustomed to having him near. No one would ever look for her in a so unfashionably remote northern watering place.

The butler remained in the doorway, awaiting her answer. If her plan was to be successful, she didn’t need to faint from lack of nourishment. ‘Thank you. Something light would be most welcome.’

She followed him into the dining room. This household’s idea of a light repast exceeded expectations. A silver tureen filled the centre of the round walnut table. On the sideboard, several meat pies were set out along with a roast fowl, a large bowl of fruit and an assortment of cheeses and breads. Sparkling silverware on the white linen cloth, adjacent and intimate, waited for two people.

‘Are you expecting Mr Evernden?’ she asked.

The butler’s expression remained wooden. ‘The table is always set for two. Lord Stanford’s orders, miss.’

She winced, stung by the butler’s assumption she was the
same as all the other females who inhabited this house under Lord Stanford’s protection. What else would he think, since she had arrived here on Christopher’s arm? She clenched her jaw. She had to leave here while she still had a shred of self-esteem.

He pulled out one of the Sheraton chairs. ‘Please be seated.’

He filled the bowl in front of her with cream of mushroom soup. The delicate, delicious aroma filled her nostrils. He set a slice of wild pigeon pie on a plate beside it. When she refused his offer of burgundy, he filled her goblet with water.

‘Will there be anything else, miss?’

‘Just the tea, please.’

He bowed and left her in solitary state.

The soup was delicious, hot and creamy with a peppery tang. Lord Stanford employed an excellent chef for his
filles de joie
. Everything in this house was of the finest quality. He treated his women well. No doubt Christopher would follow his example. Her heart squeezed.

One mouthful of soup and her appetite fled. She poked at the pie with her fork, suddenly indecisive. This elegant existence would be hers with Christopher. A strange twist of fate had brought them together. Perhaps she should not fight it.

But she had always sworn she would not make her mother’s mistakes. If only he would offer more. Marriage? How could she ask him to stoop to her level? In the end, he would hate her and abandon her.

No. She had made the right decision. She had to disappear from his life. She would control her own destiny.

But would Christopher let her go right at this moment?

She set the fork down. Her heart ached too much to allow food to pass down her throat.

Behind her, the door opened with a creak.

‘Leave the tea on the sideboard. I’ll help myself,’ she said.

An amused chuckle made her swivel in her seat. ‘Lord Stanford.’

Hands raised and a wicked smile on his lips, he bowed. ‘Sorry. No tea.’

‘I beg your pardon. I thought you were the butler.’

‘Really? I told Weston this jacket fit me not at all well.’

She couldn’t resist a smile at his barb against one of London’s most fashionable tailors.

As lithe as a predator on the hunt, he sauntered to the sideboard and poured himself a glass of red wine. He spoke casually over his shoulder. ‘No Kit today?’

‘Mr Evernden has not yet returned. He had some business in town.’

A dark eyebrow winged up as he turned to face her. ‘Mr Evernden, is it?’ The appraising gaze that travelled from the top of her head to her bosom expressed his opinion. Once more, she felt the heat of embarrassment in her face and fought to remain calm.

‘I am expecting your brother soon, my lord.’

‘Please, call me Garth.’

He slid into the other chair. Beneath the table, his knee touched hers and she jerked away.

His mouth curled in a sardonic smile. ‘I expected him to dash straight back here to your welcoming arms last night. I can’t think why he would stay in town.’

He was trying to bedevil her for some reason. Beneath his insouciance, he seemed to care about his brother. But did he care enough to try to extract him from an unfortunate alliance? ‘He is making arrangements for us.’

‘Us?’ For once, his face reflected his serious tone of voice. ‘Just what sort of arrangements are you expecting, Miss Boisette?’

It took all her self-control not to throw his suspicions back in his face. Instead she curved her lips in a smile. ‘Your brother is an honourable man. I am sure he will provide everything I ask.’

‘And what will you request?’

She cocked her head to one side, tapping a finger against her lips. His eyes followed the movement. ‘A very permanent arrangement, I think.’

His eyes darkened and his brows drew together. ‘Christopher is not such a fool.’

This man despised her.

‘Your tea, miss.’ The butler had entered silently.

Garth rose to his feet, towering over her. ‘Miss Boisette will take it in the rose room. And,’ he said, leaning close and murmuring into her ear, ‘then you will tell me everything.’

This might be her only chance for escape. She rose to her feet and placed a trembling hand on his arm. She allowed him to escort her into the drawing room.