What You Propose (Anything for Love #2)
Read What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) Online
Authors: Adele Clee
WHAT YOU PROPOSE
Anything for Love
Book 2
Adele Clee
This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. All characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
No part of this book may be copied, reproduced or distributed in any manner without the author's permission.
Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
ISBN-13: 978-0-9935291-0-8
What You Deserve
(excerpt)
Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee
All rights reserved.
Cover designed by
Jay Aheer
Also by Adele Clee
To Save a Sinner
A Curse of the Heart
Anything for Love Series
What You Desire
What You Propose
The Brotherhood Series
Lost to the Night
Slave to the Night
Abandoned to the Night
Chapter 1
A village northeast of Saint-Brieuc, France, 1820
Marcus Danbury raced through the cloisters, the clip of his boots echoing along the ancient corridors.
"Tristan." He stormed through the arched doorway out into the courtyard. The usually peaceful recreation area provided little comfort today. "Tristan."
Where the bloody hell had he got to?
Marcus placed his fists on his hips as he scanned the row of small windows set into the stone wall. He would wager twenty gold francs his friend still lay snoring in his bed.
They had drunk far too much wine last night. So much so, Marcus had been forced to dunk his head into the gardener's barrel in the hope the cold water would waken his numb brain.
Despite his frustration, he had to chuckle at the irony of his situation.
One would expect a monastery to be a haven from the trials and temptations of loose women. Who would ever have thought he'd offer sanctuary to the madam of a bawdy house? Although he hadn't exactly offered to play host; the request had been more akin to bribery, and he'd had less than a day's notice to get used to the idea. Had it not been for the debt he owed to the Marquess of Danesfield, he would storm down to the rusty gate and inform Dane's coachman to turn around and take the strumpet straight back to England.
An image of a well-rounded woman with a huge powdered wig and heavily rouged cheeks flashed into his mind. She would have a fake mole, of course, close to the lips, which would alter in size depending on how drunk she was when she applied it. No doubt her generous bosom would be bursting out from the strict confines of her dress, wobbling and jiggling about when she walked, just to torment him.
God, it had been weeks since he'd last settled between a pair of soft thighs, which was why he supposed he should be grateful to Dane. After numerous years in service, he was confident this Madame Labelle possessed all the necessary skills needed when it came to giving pleasure. Should her countenance be so dreadfully unappealing, he would just have to close his eyes.
"Tristan."
The sound of a window opening caught his attention, and he spotted a mop of golden hair and a pair of beady eyes peering out of the tiny gap.
"What is it?" Tristan shouted. With his bare arm hanging from the handle, Marcus knew he had only just dragged himself out of bed.
"The carriage is waiting at the gate."
"What carriage?"
"Madame Labelle's or Miss Labelle's or whatever the hell her name is."
In his letter, Dane mentioned the woman had been in partnership with a Frenchman yet they'd never married. In the eyes of the Lord, she must be as good as wed to a hundred men. Marcus shook his head. Hypocrisy was a trait he despised; no one deemed him virtuous or moral and so he could hardly cast aspersions. Indeed, he had often wondered if living in an abandoned monastery was a form of penance.
Tristan opened the window fully. "So why haven't you sent someone down to let her in?"
"I thought you could go."
Most of the servants had gone to the market and on Thursdays Andre distributed alms in the village. Selene would be busy in the kitchen, and he'd be damned if he'd go.
In London, Madame Labelle might be the ruler of her domain, but he refused to pander to her whims. Here, she would answer to him. Here, he was the master and as such he refused to do anything to weaken his position — including acting as the hired help.
Madame Labelle could sit in her carriage for the rest of the day for all he cared.
Perhaps living in a monastery might provide enlightenment, might make her reconsider her disreputable ways. To be virtuous one must first learn patience. Thirty minutes sitting in a stationary carriage would certainly help her do that.
"Give me a few minutes," Tristan sighed. "I need to dress."
"There might be a reward in it." Marcus chuckled to himself.
One look at Tristan's handsome features and the bawd would be offering to pay him for his services, although he had yet to see Tristan succumb to any woman. He didn't hold out much hope for a haggard, middle-aged matron of a brothel.
After waiting for fifteen minutes, Tristan met him in the chapter house. Marcus had stripped away all decorative objects and used the room as a study, a library, and a private sanctuary.
"Perhaps it is wise I do go down and let them in," Tristan said scanning Marcus' relaxed attire. "You do realise your shirt is wet around the collar, and your breeches look as though a donkey has slept on them. Will you not at least wear a coat?"
"No. This Madame Labelle creature can take me as she finds me." He brushed his hand through his hair in a bid to tame the wild, unruly locks. After spending years servicing the aristocracy, the woman would probably find him rather crude and uncouth, which pleased him greatly and he snorted with amusement.
"Well, she will find you have the clothes of a beggar and the look of a libertine."
"Good." He waved his hand down the front of his friend's fitted coat and pristine cravat. "You will more than make up for my inferior apparel and shoddy manners."
Tristan chuckled. "Did Dane tell you why he's sent her here?"
"He was somewhat vague. He said the woman offered him assistance."
"I'm sure she did."
"He wants to keep her out of London for a while."
"Yes, but for how long?"
Marcus shrugged. "I have no idea. But if she's staying here, she can damn well earn her keep."
Tristan's eyes grew wide. "You don't mean to—"
"I mean she can work in the kitchen," he interjected with a grin. "She will learn that there are no airs and graces here. She cannot flash her fleshy wares in the hope of securing a warm bed and a hot meal for the evening. If she wants to eat, she works. Just as we all do."
"Andre could do with some help in the garden."
Marcus grabbed his friend's shoulder. "Well, there you have it. Madame Labelle will be the new gardener. We shall see if the woman's fingers are as nimble as her profession demands."
Marcus spent the next ten minutes pacing the floor. A strange feeling settled in his chest. The woman's presence would create a shift, unsettle the equilibrium; it would involve them all making changes, certain allowances. She may have experience running a bawdy house, but she would play no part in running his house.
Should he greet her at the door, let her feel the sharpness of his tongue, let her know of his indifference to her plight? Should he sit behind his large desk, busy scratching away with quill pen and ink and pay her no heed?
Damn it.
He could hear the carriage wheels rattling over the stone bridge.
Madame Labelle needed to feel the weight of his authority. She needed to know he would not tolerate any interference.
With that in mind, he strode out through the cloisters and crossed the garth to the entrance located in the west wing. With the bar already raised, Marcus pushed the reinforced oak doors just as the carriage rumbled to a halt outside. His gaze darted to the box seat of the conveyance, to see Tristan perched on top sporting a wide grin.
"Look who's here," Tristan cried with genuine excitement.
As the coachman removed his hat, Marcus sucked in a breath. "Haines." He rushed forward. "By God, I'm surprised Dane sent you. How was your journey?"
Marcus expected him to raise a weary brow and offer a grim expression as he jerked his head towards the carriage.
"It was a good crossing," he said without showing the slightest sign of irritation. "Spent the time playing cards and supping too much ale. The lady kept to her cabin mostly. I don't think the motion suited her stomach, if you take my meaning."
More like she'd decided to earn a few guineas and used sickness as an excuse to stay abed.
"How long will you stay with us?"
"Only for a day or two. Just until the lady's all settled."
Marcus could not recall a time when he'd heard a man refer to a whore as a lady. Haines was probably just being polite. The man had a heart as large as his stocky frame. Either that or he had developed a
tendre
for the woman during the journey.
"Talking of which," Tristan said. "I should get down and help her out."
Tristan wore a smug grin. Or perhaps Marcus was mistaken. Perhaps his friend was simply pleased to be reunited with the man who had once saved both their lives.
Marcus took a few steps back, squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He may dress as a peasant, but he knew how to convey the countenance of a duke.
Tristan opened the carriage door and let down the steps before offering his hand to the occupant.
As Madame Labelle descended the three tiny steps with all the demureness of a duchess, Marcus almost expired from a distinct lack of air. He sucked in a breath in an attempt to inflate his gasping lungs, fought hard to maintain his arrogant facade.
Bloody hell!
For all that was holy. He considered rushing into the chapel, dropping to his knees and giving thanks. Indeed, it took a tremendous amount of effort not to look to the heavens and give a knowing wink.
Madame Labelle was certainly no middle-aged hag. The woman could be no more than five-and-twenty.
There were no hideous moles or warts. Her pure porcelain skin needed no paints or powders. His gaze drifted up to her honey-gold hair. It hung loosely around her shoulders, and he imagined the ends were long enough to brush against the base of her spine. An image of her lying naked in his bed flashed into his mind. He cursed Dane for not warning him he would be giving sanctuary to the goddess Venus.
The woman ran a bawdy house he reminded himself, mentally shaking his head. Although looking at her plain, simple gown, she looked more like a vestal virgin. Oh, he had no doubt she could keep the sacred flame in his hearth alight.