She could not fathom why the earl had not corrected her when she had called him by his brother’s name. Nor did she understand why he had followed her and offered comfort to someone he considered beneath his notice.
Perhaps it was cruel of her to view his charitable actions with suspicion, but Lord Kempthorn rarely did anything that did not benefit him.
It was a puzzle that kept her amused throughout the rest of their journey together.
Chapter Ten
London
“Rainbault, did you lose a bet with St. Lyon during our absence?” the Marquess of Fairlamb complained as he deliberately selected the most uncomfortable chair in the private room their friend had procured for the evening.
Thorn could sympathize with his cousin’s discomfort. The Acropolis was one of the more notorious clubs in Town. Its origins were murky, but it was generally accepted the building was built after the Great Fire of 1666. Over the decades, the ownership changed numerous times and had even gained some respectability as a gentleman’s residence. However, one of the heirs turned it into a gambling hell and some enterprising proprietor began to rent rooms to the famous courtesans of the day. Its notoriety was established long before Thorn and his friends were born when the Acropolis became a private gentleman’s club that excelled in decadence and perverse pleasures of the flesh.
It was not much of a stretch to assume that generations of young gentlemen had strolled through the club’s doors in search of adventure and the forbidden. Thorn had been seventeen years old when he and Gideon had joined Chance, St. Lyon, and Rainbault for a memorable evening of drunken revelry. There were newer, more refined establishments scattered about London that were more aligned to his and his friend’s tastes, but the Acropolis was a part of London’s wicked past. Old traditions could not be ignored.
“You disapprove of the Acropolis’s Bird Room?” Antoine Sevard, Duke of Rainbault and exiled prince of Galien, said in mocking tones as he looked very much like royalty in the mahogany throne chair with its scrolling gilt and a dark blue velvet cushions. At six foot one, their friend wore his straight blond hair unfashionably long and untethered. Dressed in black evening attire, his white linen shirt and intricately tied cravat lightened the severity of his unadorned coat and emphasized his muscled chest. Eschewing formal evening pumps for leather boots, and with a sheathed dagger secured near his hip, Rainbault looked like a handsome privateer rather than a gentleman who had blood ties to multiple royal houses. “I will grant you, the bird décor has not improved much with age, but it was one of the first rooms we rented and I seem to recall you enjoyed the enthusiastic wench dressed only in feathers.”
A slow sheepish grin banished Chance’s brooding expression. “It wasn’t her lack of dress that impressed me. It was how she employed those feathers.” His cousin glanced at Viscount Bastrell, or St. Lyon as he preferred, who was reclining on a red sofa with green, gold, and blue silk pillows. “It was St. Lyon who spent the evening trying to pluck her.”
Gideon laughed and handed the viscount a glass of the Acropolis’s best brandy. “By night’s end, the carpet was littered with feathers. I thought St. Lyon had murdered the poor girl.” His twin nodded in his direction. “Brandy?”
Thorn raised the glass of wine in his hand. “This will do for now.”
“There was no cause for violence, though the wench was willing,” St. Lyon replied, too used to their teasing. “She was running about the rooms naked with those leather straps crisscrossing her body. Her breasts were plump and bounced in a delightful way.”
“I thought it was Chance who bedded the little bird.” Rainbault interrupted the viscount’s musings. “After all, his ears are quite red at the moment, and then there is his fondness for her skills with a feather.”
Chance laughed. “I might have caged her a few times in the bedchamber, but she fluttered away and landed in St. Lyon’s lap.”
The viscount sent him an apologetic look. “Your little chick was impressed with my cock.”
All four men sputtered and heartily laughed at St. Lyon’s quip.
“The wench ended up in my lap as well,” Gideon admitted as he poured more brandy into Rainbault’s glass. “Though I ended up spending the evening with one of her non-feathered companions. I believe she was a brunette.”
“I was the one who put those leather straps to good use,” Thorn said with a hint of a sly grin. At her urging, he had bound her wrists and ankles to the bed and with her encouragement had pleasured her with a hard spanking, and later with his cock. She had been the first woman he had bedded who required pain to be thoroughly pleasured.
“Well, that explains the screams,” Rainbault said dryly, who often dabbled in dark carnal pleasures.
After all, out of the five of them, the duke held an exclusive membership at the Acropolis.
“And all of the scattered feathers,” Chance teased. He held up his hand. “Have mercy on me, gents. I am a married fellow now. Any recollections of me shagging a wench that is not my wife shall be forgotten.” He shook his head. “If Tempest ever learned of a woman dressing in nothing but leather straps and feathers—”
“She would wish to make a sketch of her,” Chance, Thorn, St. Lyon, and Rainbault uttered in unison.
Gideon seemed stunned by the suggestion. His next statement clarified his concern. “Chance, you are not thinking of bringing your wife here. No respectable lady should walk the halls of this establishment.”
Fairlamb grimaced. “I shudder at the mere thought. It is bad enough that her mentor at the Royal Academy has hinted that her skills with a pencil could be improved if she were to attend classes where male and female models would be present.”
“Would these models be naked?” St. Lyons arched an inquiring brow.
“Naturally,” Chance replied, sounding mildly annoyed.
The viscount peered over his glass of brandy. “Fascinating. Well, if you need someone to escort your lady, I will happily volunteer for the task.”
His cousin was not amused. “So you can seduce the female models while my wife and the other artists sketch your debauchery? I think not.”
Before St. Lyons could protest, Rainbault said, “Respectability is making you tense, Chance. If your wife wishes to sketch naked models, you should not discourage her. However, I do agree with you on this point. St. Lyons should not be the one to escort her.”
Thorn and others murmured their agreement. There was nothing wrong with St. Lyons. He was a loyal friend and fierce in a fight. However, he was too handsome for his own good. Ladies of all ages were attracted to him and the rogue often accepted their invitations, which inevitably led to broken hearts and unfortunate incidents.
“All of you call yourself my friends. I resent your lack of faith in me,” the viscount said, scowling at them.
“I am capable of escorting my own wife,” his cousin announced. He finished his wine and set down the fragile glass on a small round table.
“True,” Rainbault said soothingly as he turned to Gideon in a halfhearted attempt to change the subject. “Since we have been without your refined company for numerous years, Netherwood, you may be unaware that the club enjoys the patronage of several notable ladies of the ton. These individuals carry full privileges, so it would be unwise to view all of the females you encounter here as common stock.”
From Gideon’s expression, Thorn deduced his twin was intrigued about the possibilities of encountering a respectable widow or matron whose carnal appetites were as insatiable as a man’s. He sent the duke a meaningful glance, but the other man rejected the unspoken warning with an elegant shrug. Already frustrated by his brother’s secrecy, Thorn did not want Rainbault and St. Lyons to lure his brother into their shadowy world of overindulgence and vice.
“How do you tell the difference between a patron and a whore?” Gideon asked.
Thorn scowled at his twin but he remained silent.
Rainbault gestured broadly with his glass of brandy. “There is no ru
le to forbid someone from being both patron and whore.”
Gideon’s face was impassive but it was obvious he was considering the duke’s words. “The next time we attend the same ball, I hope you will introduce me to these ladies.”
“Gideon,” Thorn snapped.
His friends chuckled, amused by Thorn’s need to protect his twin rather than Gideon’s undisguised curiosity.
“Perhaps I will,” the duke said magnanimously. “Although, it would be more entertaining to watch you discover them without my assistance.”
Chance bowed his head and pressed his fingers into his forehead as he shook his head. “Tell me again, Your Grace, why I gave up an evening with my beautiful wife to spend it with you lusty sots.” His hand fell away as he glanced at his surroundings. “Not to mention at the Acropolis.”
“We always celebrate the first night in Town together,” St. Lyon said, raising his glass to gain Gideon’s attention.
Not always, Thorn thought as he watched Gideon refill the viscount’s glass. His twin had missed many of their first nights and he appeared to have few regrets about his decision.
“You will have countless evenings with your lady, Chance,” Rainbault said, stretching his long legs in front of him. “You may be obliged to sit through every ball this season, but I have other plans.”
“Here, here.” St. Lyon raised his glass to toast the duke’s vague plans, while Gideon tried not to pour brandy on the carpet.
“All of us have obligations,” Chance said with a slight edge to his voice. “Even you, my friend.”
“True,” the exiled prince conceded. “Though like a swimmer in a large river, I prefer to float and savor my fated course rather than tire myself by going against the current.”
The neck of the decanter clanked against Rainbault’s glass. “You speak as if living a good life is simple,” Gideon said, filling the duke’s glass to the top.
Thorn envied his friend because nothing ever seemed to ruffle his composure.
Rainbault stared at him, and for an unsettling moment Thorn wondered if he had spoken his thoughts out loud. The gentleman gave him a smug knowing look and winked.
“For some, it is, Netherwood,” he said, replying to Gideon’s remark. He leaned back on his throne chair. “However, most of the ton would accuse us of living a wicked life, so it would be a lie to claim familiarity with goodness unless it applies to a well-filled stomach or a sated cock.
“You are an expert at both,” Chance said with a grin on his lips.
“I will drink to that too,” St. Lyon called out.
Thorn raised his empty glass as a tribute to Rainbault. With his other hand, he picked up the wine bottle and filled his glass. “‘Simple’ is too bland for the likes of us.”
The duke slammed his fist down on the carved armrest. “Agreed. Anything easily won has no value and is tossed aside. What we covet, we take!”
All five raised their glasses high and cheered as they had the first evening nine years earlier when they stood together and pledged their unfaltering loyalties to one another. None of them wanted to admit that their lives were already changing. For one evening, they could forget that time had made them wiser and fate was gradually placing them on different paths.
* * *
Six hours and countless bottles of wine and brandy later, Chance batted at Thorn’s knee. It took him three tries to land a blow.
“What?” Thorn grumbled. At some point, sitting in a chair had become too troublesome, so he was sitting on the floor reclining against the cushion.
Chance hit him again. “Wake up. I need to leave before Rainbault returns.”
Thorn blinked and stared blearily at the room. Over Chance’s shoulder, Gideon was lying on his stomach with his face buried in the cushions. He was snoring softly with an empty bottle clutched in his hand.
He rubbed the corner of his eye. “Where did Rainbault go? Did St. Lyon leave with him?”
“No,” the viscount said over his shoulder. On the other side of the room, he stood in front of the rosewood commode table as he relieved himself into the concealed chamber pot. “Still present. His Grace decided we needed a new amusement since you are too drunk for whist.”
“I am not drunk,” Thorn hastily denied before it struck him that his statement was precisely what an inebriated gentleman would say. “Well, not overly much. What time is it?”
“Late enough,” Chance said, using the sofa to assist him as he stood. He leaned over and slapped Gideon on the arse. “Wake up.”
His twin muttered something unintelligible.
His cousin held out his hand and wiggled it in front of Thorn’s face to gain his attention.
“Why are you in a rush to leave?” Thorn asked, and was rewarded with a hard slap on the cheek. “Stop that or I will hit back.”
“Drinking always makes Rainbault affectionate,” St. Lyon said, fastening his breeches. “He left in search of some females to join our gathering.”
Understanding seeped into Thorn’s wine-soaked brain. “Ah, I see. Did you remind His Grace that Fairlamb is married? I doubt his wife will approve of her husband committing debauchery.” He grabbed his cousin’s hand and was pulled until he could stand on his own.
“That’s adultery, you arse,” Chance said. He scrubbed his face in annoyance. “And, aye, Tempest will not approve of either one, so let us depart before he returns.”
“Did you even attempt to talk Rainbault out of this?” Thorn demanded. St. Lyon was close to their family, and he adored Lady Fairlamb and her sister.
The viscount turned around. “Why would I?” He reached out and grabbed a small towel to wipe his hands. “No one is expecting Chance to shag any of the wenches. Christ, the man is married and if Norgrave doesn’t geld him, Tempest surely will.”
Thorn glared at St. Lyon in disbelief. “You must be drunker than you look.” He grabbed Chance by the upper arm before he could cross the room and punch their friend. “You will feel bad if you hit him while he is cup-shot.”
His cousin glared at the viscount. “I can live with the guilt.”
Gideon rolled over and fell off the sofa. St. Lyon snorted as the three of them watched his twin sit up. “What happened? Did I miss anything?”
“Not yet, but you will,” Thorn said, hauling his brother up. “Say farewell to St. Lyon.”
“You’re leaving?” Gideon asked, stifling a yawn. “I thought we were leaving Acropolis for some new gambling hell Rainbault was telling us about.”
Thorn fought down the urge to throttle his sibling. “You have amassed a small fortune during your travels. Do you want to lose it all at cards when you are so drunk you can barely stand?”
“Am not,” Gideon said with a touch of defiance in his voice.
Chance grabbed the man’s other arm so he didn’t lose his balance. “Tell Rainbault I will call on him tomorrow when we can review some of the changes since last spring. Such as the small detail that I now have a wife!”
Immune to the marquess’s anger, St. Lyon scratched at the beard stubble under his jaw. “There is no cause to be upset with Rainbault. He knows you are married to a paragon.”
Thorn groaned. With a soft curse, he sensed his cousin had reached the end of his tether.
“Perhaps you are concerned that you cannot be faithful to your lady wife,” St. Lyon taunted.
Chance released his grip on Gideon and charged like a maddened bull at one of his closest friends. Too drunk to fully comprehend the danger, St. Lyon stood there like a wooden post until the marquess’s fist slammed into his jaw. Both men went down with a furious Chance on top.
“Bloody hell,” Thorn muttered as he let go of his brother’s arm.
Gideon sank to his knees and made no effort to stand as he watched Thorn march over to the two fighting men.
“Damn it, Chance.” Thorn bent down and wrapped his arms around his cousin and dragged him off the viscount before he could do any real damage. “Stop fighting me. You don’t rea
lly want to hurt him.”
“Aye, I do,” Chance growled, kicking at the prone man.
“He was baiting you and you fell for it,” Thorn said, tightening his hold as he laced his fingers together and pressed hard against the other man’s neck. He dragged his cousin backward another few steps.
The corner of St. Lyon’s mouth was bleeding. He dabbed at it with his thumb as he sat up. “Fill his belly with enough brandy and he would fight his own shadow.”
His cousin strained against Thorn’s hold while he glared at the viscount. “Stop baiting him, you arrogant arse, or I will let him beat you bloody.” He bowed his head until his lips were close to Chance’s ear. “If you behave, we can leave.”
“Aye, my thoughts exactly,” Chance said, his feverish gaze on St. Lyon. “He isn’t worth bruising my knuckles on his hard head.”
“I—” the viscount began.
“You have said enough for one evening,” Thorn said, cutting him man off. “You can convey my thanks to our royal friend for another unconventional evening.”
Simmering annoyance gleamed in St. Lyon’s dark blue gaze. “Such restraint, Thorn. You are an example for us all.”
“You and your caustic tongue can go to the devil,” he bit out. Once he was assured his cousin would not attack St. Lyon again, Thorn released his hold.
Chance stepped away from him and rubbed the stiffness out of his neck. “Are you coming with us, Gideon?”
“Of course he is,” Thorn replied.
“Let the man speak for himself,” St. Lyon advised. “You treat Gideon as if he is your son rather than your twin.”
Thorn glanced over at his brother, who sat listless on the sofa. “Now you are spouting rubbish. Gideon, Chance, and I arrived together, it only makes sense that he leaves with—”
“I’m staying.”
With a silent promise of retribution for his interference, Thorn turned his back on St. Lyon to deal with his stubborn twin. “I need you to help me get Chance safely home.”
Waiting for an Earl Like You Page 10
