by Lavinia Kent
“I can understand the dilemma, although I am sure not as deeply as you. I have never been anything other than who I am.”
“Never?”
He considered. “I suppose when I first returned from the East, determined to redeem myself, there was an element of pretending to be a better man than I thought I was, but then I found out that man was me, that the careless man I had been portraying was far more the false one.”
“I think perhaps you understand far more than I would have credited. When I first became Madame Rouge, when I first put on the wig, it was all a game to me, although a far more real one than we have played these past nights. I would dress for the night, but it all seemed an act, such a calculated pretense. And yet now, I think I am Ruby. It is when I visit my grandparents as Emma that I feel out of place.”
“I do not see why you cannot be both.”
“I always thought I could be, in the proper time and place, but now I wonder. It is not as easy as it once was, each requires something that makes the other imposs—difficult.”
“Why?” He ran a finger down her troubled cheek.
She shook her head. “Roll over. Let me see your back.”
He still wanted the answer to his question, but sensed it would not be forthcoming. With some reluctance, he rolled onto his stomach. Her hands traced over him, heaven’s sweet touch, but as he had known they would, they moved to the scars that marked him just beneath the blades of his shoulders.
“I have never noticed these before,” she said.
“I do not know why. You have seen my back before.”
She ran a single finger over each of the raised ridges. He knew from looking in the mirror that they were still noticeable, although their redness had long since faded.
“Perhaps the shower bath was too steamy, or the candlelight not bright enough. Although the light is not bright here.” He could feel her looking about. “They look old. A whip?”
“Yes and yes.”
“Do you mind talking about them?”
“No. It was long ago. You will find few sailors without some mark of the lash. Mine came courtesy of His Majesty when I had a brief stint in the British Navy. I believe that some are from an occasion when I drank too much grog and did not mind my captain’s orders. He was in a foul mood over some other matter and I was foolish enough to draw his attention. The others were mostly gotten by chance. I had a bad habit of coming between the stroke and other men. But they are old and faded now, of little consequence.”
—
How could he pretend that such scars did not matter? And Ruby did not believe for a moment that chance had set him between another man’s back and the whip. But he would say no more, of that she was sure. Secrets. Secrets. With all they both withheld it was a wonder there were any words between them.
“And what of this?” she asked, running her hand down to an almost invisible line set just below his ribs and curving around his torso. “This does not seem to be a whip line, although I reckon the age about the same.”
“A knife—and over a woman. A more foolish thing I never did.” He did not sound like it had been a fun encounter. “I do not even remember why I was convinced she should be mine instead of the first mate’s, but he quickly persuaded me he had the better claim. I didn’t leave my berth for a week.”
“Should I be jealous?” Ruby tried to lighten the moment.
“I never even knew her name. She was just the prettiest girl in the group that met the ship when we came to harbor—and I was convinced I was entitled to the best of everything, despite being at the time a second son of mediocre expectations.”
“You do not seem to have done so badly.”
“Nor do you.”
“I suppose it is all a matter of perspective.” She turned back to stare up at the dimly lit ceiling. Perhaps she should have more scarves hung, creating a more tentlike effect.
“I did not mean to make you melancholy,” Derek said, moving closer to her until she could feel his warmth against her hip.
“No. I just sometimes wonder if I made the right choices in life, not that I can think of better action.” Why could her grandfather not have found her a husband all those years ago when Lord Percy deserted her—and then her father did the same? Would she have been happier as the wife of some rich tradesman? She was not sure she would have. The freedom of her current life was intoxicating for all the restrictions it placed upon her. Within the confines of her place in life she could do whatever she wanted, be whomever she wanted.
He reached up and brushed her hair aside. “Is that not the question for us all?”
Perhaps she should have worn a wig. The mask it provided was a wall against this deep-set vulnerability. “You are not wrong.”
“I feel that I should say something, but I have never been a man who knows the right words. And I have no rights. You said that you never lay with a man without affection first, and yet we have not had the time to develop any such feelings. There is more than just desire between us, is there not?”
Did he sound insecure? The first she had heard such an inflection in his tone. And how did she answer such a question? Was there an answer? “I do not know what this thing we have is. I can think of no other reason than desire that I came to you that first night—we had done little more than argue. But I would never have acted in such a manner strictly from desire and boredom, so I do not have an answer. Can we not just let what is between us be for a while? You will leave and my life will go on. We know there will be no lasting ties between us.”
“Do we?” he asked, and yet even as he spoke the question, she saw the doubt flicker in his eyes.
She ignored his question. “Let us enjoy what time we have.”
“You’re not proposing…already?”
“I’ve seen enough of your stamina to know that nothing would stop you, but I was actually thinking of the wine and dainties. I find I’ve a bit of a hunger. Dancing leaves me famished.”
“Dancing, is it?” He pushed up to sitting, then standing, and held out a hand.
She took it, letting him pull her up. Glancing about, she saw the silk robe she’d left out for him and gathered it to wrap around herself. Sitting about naked would not be bad, the air was warm, but getting dressed meant she’d get to strip again. There was something about the way he looked at her as her clothing fell around her that she could never get enough of.
“May I pour for you?”
“You are a good houri,” he said, almost falling into the mound of pillows beside the table. He leaned back, fastening his buttons, a true sultan at his ease.
When they both had wine, she stared up at the ceiling, the edge of real life returning to her. “Did you have a successful day? I have never known you to fall asleep so quickly.”
“These last days have not been easy.”
That she could sympathize with. “I can imagine not. All the travel and then trying to get everything in place once in London—not that I know exactly what it is you do.”
“And yet you describe it rather well. It is a matter of trying to find all the pieces and then place them together.”
She took a sip of wine, the rich, mellow flavor filling her mouth. If only she could concentrate on nothing but this moment. It was so easy while they were having sex, while sensation overwhelmed her, but now thought began to intrude. “Do you want to talk more of your business or your travels? It seems with men they either need to vent their frustrations or they don’t wish to talk at all.”
He leaned forward, lowering the goblet from his lips. “I am not sure I like being lumped in with men, and I feel no need to avoid discussions of my business, if you wish to hear of weaving machines, and fabrics, and the fine muslins my family wishes to produce, but I must admit I also have no actual desire to discuss such matters.”
For a moment she wondered what he would say if she revealed just how much she knew of fabrics. She might know little of machines and their manufacturer, but she could judge the value
and weight of almost any bolt, tell American cotton from Indian. And that was not even talking of silks and brocades and fabrics with history. Would he be interested in hearing of the fabulous bolt of Venetian brocade? For a moment she almost spoke, but then realized how much she would have to explain. The matter of Emma and Ruby was too confusing already without any further muddling. “What do you wish to talk of, then?”
He leaned back, looking about the room. “This is an Arabian room, yes? Why don’t you tell me a story, then? Tell me something of your past that nobody knows.”
“I doubt there is anything that nobody knows, but there are some matters only known by a few. I could tell you of the kitten my father gave me for my seventh birthday, Galahad. I always did have a love of brave knights. He also gave me a wonderful illustrated volume of Tennyson. It is one of the few gifts that I retained after I left my mother’s house.”
“The kitten or the book?”
“Actually, both I suppose. Although poor Galahad did not live much longer. I’d always thought we’d have more years together, but it was not meant to be.”
“And you never got another cat?”
“It did not seem fitting. There are too many doors that open and close in this house and I would never have been able to keep track. Galahad was old enough that he desired little save to sit upon a pillow in the sun. A younger cat would have wished to roam.”
“That is not much of a tale.”
She pulled her feet up beneath her, relaxed after sex and wine. “Then what would you like to hear of?”
He turned and stared straight at her. “Tell me how Emma became Madame Rouge.”
Chapter 11
Ruby brought the wine to her lips and took a large swallow. He’d asked for a story that no one knew and that was near the top of the list. She’d never talked about it with anyone.
“You don’t have to tell me,” he said. “I am just indulging my curiosity. You are clearly far better bred than many in your profession—and educated too. I would not have expected to discuss Ivanhoe in a brothel.”
“I think you might be surprised. There are not many opportunities open to women and disgrace is easy to find. Often this is a place of last resort to even those born to the highest estates.” Another gulp of wine.
“Such as yourself?”
“Why do you care? It is not something I speak of.”
He was silent, sipping quietly at his own wine, a look of thought upon his face.
Looking away from him, she stared at the barely touched plate of food upon the table.
“It is mostly curiosity,” he said after a few moments. “There is no reason why you should tell me, but I find I do care and I can promise your story would go no further. Is it enough for me to say that I wish to know you better?”
“And you think my telling you this will help you to know me?”
“I certainly do not think it can hurt. I would like to understand you, Ruby. Perhaps if I understand who you are I will understand this thing between us.”
Was that possible? “And will you tell me a story in return so that I may know you better?”
He put the glass down and turned to stare at her. “I have already told you of my scars.”
“Not really. You avoided much of the issue or did not tell me all. Do you wish to answer more fully or have me answer with such half-truths?”
“Ask me something else.”
She leaned toward him, placed a hand upon his sleeve. “And you will answer?”
“I will try.”
That would have to do. Pulling a deep breath into her lungs, she considered. Could she actually tell him the story in full detail? What would it hurt? “I know I’ve told you some of this before, but when I was about eighteen my father said he wished never to see me again. He felt I had disgraced myself and he was through with me. My mother did not argue on my behalf, although she made it clear I would have a home with her always—and given that she was already quite ill I did not wish to distress her further. I merely avoided my father when he called upon her. And then she died just before I turned nineteen.”
“That must have been difficult.”
“I was still in a state of disbelief when my father’s man of business called upon me a few days later. He offered me five thousand pounds if I would leave the house and not bother my father again. Given that he owned the house and everything else except her jewelry I did not have much choice. Causing a fuss would not have accomplished anything. And so I took the money and sold most of the jewelry.”
“And of all things, you chose to open a brothel? Could you not have done something else?” His face clearly showed his confusion.
“It was, of course, more complicated than that.” She leaned back, her fingers trembling upon his arm. “There were not many options open to me and I knew Madame Noir, my predecessor, wished to retire. She was one of my mother’s friends. It seemed a reasonable choice to buy the house from her.”
“Surely marriage would have been the better option. With a dowry of five thousand pounds I would think half of London would have sought your hand—and that is not even considering the beauty you must have been at such an age.”
Was he right? She certainly had not thought so at the time. “I do not think at that point in my life I would have put myself under any man’s control. I had learned how unreliable they could be. I did not consider it an option, although you are right, I might have been able to find myself a man who would take me with all my faults. It has become clear to me these past days that I did not understand all the choices I had, but even if I had I would probably have made the same decision.”
He leaned toward her, placing a hand upon her knee, but in comfort rather than desire. “Clearly I do not understand.”
“You did not ask the obvious question, did not ask why a father would treat a daughter, and a daughter who had always believed she was beloved, in such a manner?”
“Will you tell me?”
She closed her eyes. “There is no reason not to. I cannot believe that you would know any of those concerned and even if you did, I will trust in your discretion.”
“No word shall pass my lips.”
Why was she telling him this? It made no sense—and yet it made complete sense. “My father is the Duke of Scarlett.”
He stiffened beside her. “Truly? I am surprised you are not a scandal still talked about, a duke’s daughter leaving society and becoming a madam—and a madam of such a name. I assume it is no coincidence.”
“No, no coincidence. But you must not forget, I am the illegitimate daughter of the Duke of Scarlett and a merchant’s daughter, hardly a girl for society to take notice of. My father never chose to recognize me and so I am no better than a nobody, perhaps worse.”
“There must be more to the story.”
“It is not much of a story, very much the usual. My parents met in a park, early one morning. Despite her upbringing my mother had a love of horses and would rise early to watch them exercise. Somehow my father came to be unhorsed and she came to offer aid. One thing led to another and he seduced her. I think she hoped for marriage, although she never said. By the time I was old enough to understand she seemed quite content with her way in life. Her parents cast her out when she would not give up her lover and so she turned to the duke for succor. He gave her the use of a grand house and they lived as family for the hours each day they were together.” It was strange how unemotional she felt as she recounted the tale. It all seemed so long ago.
“And you?”
“And I was not made to feel unwanted. I learned the rules of what could be discussed early, but otherwise I imagine my early life was not much different than if I had been the Duke of Scarlett’s daughter within the bonds of matrimony. His sons were raised differently, but that was more a matter of their sex than of their station. I know he had a daughter when I was about ten, but I never heard anything of her. My mother pretended she did not exist.”
“I understand.”
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“I doubt you can completely. Despite the rules I learned—never ask where Father is, never approach him outside of the house, don’t ask about his other family, for I did know they existed—I always felt I was his beloved daughter and that he saw me as no different than any other child. I suppose the few playmates that I visited on occasion were different than they might have been, being in similar circumstance to myself, but I was a child and never considered the matter. I was happy and loved and did not worry about anything else.”
He squeezed her knee again. “This does not explain how you came to be in your current position. I would have expected such a father to make more permanent arrangements for you.”
“And perhaps he would have if I had not made my own mistake.” She shut her eyes even tighter, trying to push away the memories of that first sweet love and the agony that followed. “I met a young man—or perhaps, in retrospect, a boy—just after my seventeenth birthday. Ironically, I met him at the park, as well. He was handsome and sweet and so well mannered. Lord Percy, son of the Marquess of Northdown. I thought my every dream had come true. He courted me gently with the smallest of trinkets and sweets, a single violet, a piece of candied fruit, a sonnet copied in his own hand. And then he began to persuade me to sneak out with him in the evenings. I was trusted and had no keeper, no one to watch over me. We went to Vauxhall, to a masquerade, even once to an evening at the opera. We sat in the shadows in the back of the box and mingled with no one, but I never questioned him.”
“And then he seduced you, as the duke had seduced your mother.”
“You do know this story. I was not difficult to persuade. I had been surrounded by a rather lax life and did not see a problem in anticipating our vows. Oh, he never mentioned marriage, but I was sure that was what he wanted.”
Derek’s voice was as flat as her own. “Only he didn’t.”
“No, he laughed at the idea. He told me he was happy to be my lover, but he offered no support. He had little wealth of his own at the time and certainly could not afford to keep me. I didn’t understand. God, I was so innocent. And then I went to my father. I knew he was powerful and was certain he would come to my aid.”
