by Lavinia Kent
Derek turned toward her. “I wish I could not see where this is going.”
“Yes, at this point you probably can guess.” If only the whole scene were not still so vivid in her mind. “My father was furious that I had not only ruined myself, but caused an incident. For some reason, he was convinced my actions would reflect on his good name. And he was horrified that I would ever have expected marriage. He would have helped me find a protector if only I had waited. I should have known my place!” Her voice rose at the end against her will. She opened her eyes and stared at Derek. How should she have known her place when nobody had ever taught her?
“And then he sent you away?”
“Again, it was more complicated. I think if I had fallen on my knees and begged his forgiveness things might have been different, but I was too angry. I wanted the father who loved me, who I thought would always be there for me. I was not prepared to feel his disdain. And he did not send me away—I continued to live with my mother. I was simply treated as if I did not exist if he did happen to see me in a hallway or slipping up the stairs. I am sure that he thought he did well to offer me anything at all when my mother died, much less such a generous amount. I have wondered sometimes if he did not react in anger as much as I. Did he feel powerless for once and not know how to behave? Even if he had wanted to, I doubt he could have forced the marriage. It was easier for him to pretend I did not exist and never think of it again.”
“I have known such men.”
“And you are not one?” She narrowed her eyes, her remembered pain and fury showing through.
“I do not think so. Years at sea make all men seem equal—and women too, on the few occasions I’ve been at sea with them on board. In the middle of a squall it does not matter who you are or what your past. And the foreign shores I’ve visited have only increased the belief. Some of the greatest men I’ve known would be scorned by society. And the warmest-hearted women have rarely been those held in high esteem.”
“And is it a warm heart you look for in a woman?” she asked flirtatiously, regaining some of her composure.
He stared straight into her eyes. “Yes. I would admit that in those first hours after I come ashore after a long journey I have little interest beyond that she is willing, even be it for a price, but I would rather a warm heart and pleasant air than beauty any day. Although”—he ran a finger down her cheek and lower to the peak of bosom showing through the open neckline of the robe—”I do not mind beauty when it is part of the package.”
“You think I am warmhearted, do you?”
He pulled in a breath and continued to hold her gaze. “Do you deny it? I have seen how you care for your girls. And your porter clearly thinks you are a goddess. And we will not even talk of my own reception.”
“I do not think that my reception of you has anything to do with my heart. I believe other body parts were involved. And as for Simms and my girls, you have not had time to make a judgment.”
“I would have to differ. I fancy myself a fair judge of men, and women, and I do believe that every small action you take speaks for you.”
There was not much she could say to that. And it would be hard to dispute that she did do her best for her girls. It might be impossible to change their lives, but she could certainly make them easier. “We are drifting away from my story.”
“And I do want to hear.”
Taking another sip of wine, she continued, “My mother had been a friend of Madame Noir for some years. They were not the best of friends. I believe Madame Noir was of higher birth than my mother, the daughter of some minor aristocrat. Madame Noir never looked down upon my mother, but my mother was conscious of the difference all the same.”
“I can understand that. It is often thus. Men are always afraid that their ‘betters’ truly are better—or at least think that they are.”
“You do understand. In any case, at the time of my mother’s death Madame Noir was tired of the life. It had been more than a decade since her duke had died and she wished to retire quietly to the country—perhaps there was a man involved. I’ve always wondered. In any case, this was very soon after my father’s man had come to me and given me the money and my father’s conditions. You can imagine the effect this had on my already bruised heart. It also, as I have said, made me angry. Very, very angry. I wanted to spite him as no other had ever done.” She laughed then, but not easily.
“And you thought becoming a madam would be that revenge. You would create a great scandal that he could never live down.” Derek nodded with understanding.
“Yes. It is perhaps more simple than my feelings, but yes. Unfortunately—or more likely, fortunately—nobody took any notice. I don’t think anyone realized who I was or if they did, they didn’t care. Perhaps my father was right that my earlier actions might have caused a scandal, but the scandal would not have been in my taking a lover, but in my ever having dreamed of marriage. Do you want to know what the true irony of the situation was?”
“What?”
“He gave me close to the same portion he would have given a legitimate daughter upon her marriage. His other daughter has not yet married—so it is impossible to know how generous he will be, but I have heard of many a great man giving his daughters less.”
“Giving girls money does take away from the family holdings.” It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic.
“In any case, my father gave me the money and I bought a brothel. It is a simple story.”
“And are you still happy with the choice that you made?” He sounded genuinely curious.
“Most days. I do sometimes think that I should have retired to a cottage on the cliffs in Cornwall, kept a garden, and surrounded myself with cats and kittens.”
“It sounds lonely for one so young.”
It was her turn to reach out and stroke his cheek. “Yes, but then this life can be lonely, too. I am not on the same footing with my other girls and while there are certainly other women in my profession, I find we often do not have much in common or that competition becomes a troubling factor. We meet often enough to be helpful, to apprise each other of difficulties, but not so often as to form friendships. I do have some female friends in positions similar to my mother’s, but I find I suffer, as did Madame Noir. It is hard to find one’s footing in such a sliding world of fancy and attraction. And many such women rarely enter any type of society at all, even one such as my own.”
“It is all too confusing for me, I am afraid, my dear houri.” Derek leaned back further.
“Is that a sign that you would like to play again, dear sultan?”
“Give me a few more minutes, although my mind and body begin to notice how well you fill, or perhaps overfill, that robe. It is a wonderful silk.” He reached out and fingered the heavy fabric. “I’ve seen ball gowns made of fabrics less costly. You must know someone—or perhaps you frequent the secondhand markets and know when the best maids are getting rid of things not wanted.”
She smiled. “I am surprised you know of such places. My girls frequent them often. As for myself, yes, I have an inside track.”
“And you shall not say more. Never fear. I well know the value of a secret contact. I would imagine your brandy and French wine may also find their way to your door in such a fashion.”
For a moment she wanted to laugh, her fabrics all came through her grandfather, who never asked what they were for, and sometimes a very elderly modiste who made her gowns in return for a steep discount and first pick of textiles as they came in. Ruby had never quite understood how her grandfather justified this to himself. Surely he could not think an elderly woman’s companion needed so much fabric, but from the first he had offered this small accommodation in a quiet, dignified, and unquestioning manner. In contrast, the gentleman—if one could call him that—who supplied her brandy and other spirits, was wild and rakish, and always flirtatious. It was hard to imagine two men with less in common. “I would not quite say that. But I would admit I settle for no
thing but the best of quality, be it textiles or spirits.”
“I could imagine coming here for nothing but a good bed and some fine refreshment.”
“Perhaps I should become an innkeeper, but I fear the profits are not as fine.”
“You are probably correct in that, not that I would dare to imagine the margins on an establishment such as this.”
“I will admit I do well, although not as well as some would imagine. And it is a great deal of work. I think some of my patrons think I do nothing but drink tea and eat cherry tarts all day.”
“Is that meant as a reminder that I implied you were not busy on our first meeting, simply because I found you with your tea and novel?”
A light chuckle. “I had forgotten that. You were quite insulting and I had only just that moment sat down. It was the day of the month a local midwife comes to check over the girls and that is never a pleasant time. I often feel like a Scottish collie rounding up my flock.”
“And what a flock it is. I imagine that it can be quite difficult with such a group.”
From any other she might have taken insult. She quirked her lips in question.
“I mean only that they are mostly young. The young have a habit of thinking the rules do not apply to them.”
Ahh, she was correct. He did understand. “You speak as if from experience.”
He released a true guffaw. “You could say that. I could claim it comes from having charge of the Dawn’s Light, being a captain certainly exposes one to those who must learn the way. If I could only hire experienced hands it would be a far different task.”
“Yes, I would say I find that much the same.”
“But, I must confess I was thinking of myself and the hard time I had learning to follow authority. It began with my father and only got worse from there. My life would have been very different if I had learned to follow my father’s dictates at an earlier age.” He looked troubled as he spoke the words, his furrowed brow speaking of the present, not the past.
“Is there something I should know, some distress I could ease?”
His face grew strangely calm. “No, it is merely a family matter. I find that I am no happier obeying now than in the past, simply less willful. I now know that my own needs are not of most import.”
“How can you sound so genuine and like the worst type of bore in the same moment?”
“I know not, fair houri. And I have not even talked of learning to obey after leaving my family’s kind embrace and finding His Majesty’s. Those were lessons not easily won.”
Her mind flashed to the scars on his back—and his start when she’d brushed his nether hole. He did still need to keep his promise and tell her the full tale, but those were dark thoughts and she was in no mood for further darkness. Sitting upright, she let the robe fall open so that only her still-budded nipples kept it from sliding fully to her sides. A slow, practiced smile spread across her face, her eyes swept his partially clothed body. “Do you think it’s time we played it your way, my sultan?”
He raised a brow.
“How would you care for that sweet, simple fuck?” Her legs drifted open and his eyes followed.
Chapter 12
It was morning. Normally the words were merely fact, but this morning they brought a hint of dread to Derek as he stretched across the scattered pillows. Pale light gleamed through the silken drapes from some hidden skylight.
He rolled over.
Ruby was gone. This time he felt no surprise. He had expected no less. No matter how lightly he slept, his little houri seemed to slip away on silent feet.
He stretched, the rich silk bedding sliding easily against his skin, his body aching in quiet, satisfied fashion. He could get used to being a sultan. Ruby’s imagination had quite surpassed even his boyhood fantasies—and she enjoyed a simple fuck as well.
She might be his perfect woman.
The wall of dread slammed down.
Blast.
Anne. His wife-to-be. Why could he not think of her in such a fashion?
He knew that ladies, and wives, could show talent in the bedchamber and he had no reason to think that she would not, but…He didn’t even know what the “but” was; he just knew there was one.
And marriage was far more than bed sport. He had a hard time imagining that his parent’s had ever indulged in such a manner, although they must have the few times that had produced himself and his siblings. Yet his parents had a good and solid marriage. His mother could cajole his father out of the most foul of moods and his father had endless patience and adoration for his sometimes goose-witted mother. No matter what befell them they seemed to muddle through together.
He would wish such a companion for himself.
And there was no reason that Anne could not be it.
Only…He just could not imagine sitting with her to discuss anything but the most practical or mundane of matters. She did have a head for business, most surprising in a woman—and one so young—but she could also discuss gowns and bonnets and balls for hours on end. Could he ever imagine discussing the loneliness of the long night at sea with her? Or discussing the books of the author of Waverley? Did she even read? He was quite sure that she could, but did she? And what of art or music? He knew she liked to dance, but would she enjoy a good jig played by a single fiddle or was it only that she liked the swirl of society and consequence?
How could he be planning to marry a woman who he did not know these things about?
And why deep in his soul did he know how he would answer for Ruby although they had never discussed such things? He could so easily imagine her lifting her skirts and twirling about the deck, her feet beating a merry rhythm as Jenkins plucked and stroked a tune.
But he must think of Anne. And did it matter if they knew each other? Theirs was not a love match and none, not even Anne, pretended that it was.
He gave another mighty stretch and heaved himself from the bed.
One lone stocking clung to a foot. How had that happened?
He grabbed the other from the floor before reaching for his trousers. It was time to face the day, his day.
—
Ruby gazed into the mirror and appraised her reddened cheek. She was going to have to make Derek shave when he arrived if he continued to visit each evening. Her cheeks were not the only place overly abraded by his stubble. If she was not careful, she’d be walking like she’d ridden for hours at a full gallop—and that might not be far wrong.
She had to be more careful. For a woman who’d always been the queen of discretion, she’d been quite careless these last days. Her staff almost certainly knew what was going on with Derek. She’d done her best to rumple her own bedding each morning, but her maid was not a fool. And while she had tried to sneak down the corridors it would be surprising if no one had noticed her.
And if she was honest, it was probable that even some of the patrons had their suspicions. And Lord Thorton certainly had more than suspicions. Despite his threats he had returned to her house, but he kept looking at her in the strangest fashion. And she also rather thought Lord Wilkes was beginning to catch on, and Lord Giddens, and Mr. Thachery. Hopefully that was all, but it was hard to be certain. There was nothing definite, but she’d caught a few glances when Derek came through the front door.
When Derek went back to sea she was going to have a problem. She could no longer simply say that she did not sleep with patrons. And saying that she didn’t charge him would not solve the problem.
She should be worried, be plotting and scheming how to correct the issue, but it was hard to do anything but smile, the man was just too damned good—and she wasn’t just thinking about the sex. He was genuinely likable, kind and caring and…
It would have been better if he had never returned from Manchester, having him here made her want things she should not, dream things she should not. And it made her careless.
The last she could manage. There was no excuse for the way she had been acting. She was not s
ome young thing experiencing her first season. She knew how to behave.
Now, she just needed to do it.
She would eye Derek coolly when he arrived, send him upstairs as she would any other client. She would keep her normal place in the parlor until late in the night and only then would she slip up the stairs to join Derek. And she would be sure to slip away once they were done. This time she would not fall asleep and risk being caught in the brutal light of morning.
And she would not talk to him more than was necessary. It was his body she lusted after, not his mind, not his soul.
They did not need to be friends in order to be lovers.
And lovers were what they were, but not in some deep, romantic way.
They were an unwed couple who liked to fuck.
It was simple.
Simple.
Simple.
Now if only she believed it.
Well, she did not need to believe it, only to act upon it—and that she could do. Pulling out a pot of pale powder, she began to dab at her cheeks, working to cover the red marks. Next came the rouge, to add red, but only to cheeks and lips. The kohl was the trickiest, exactly how she lined and shaded her eyes could determine who she was that evening: exotic, seductive, knowing. And tonight she needed to be all three.
What dress should she choose? The black. She did not wear it often, but its very starkness played up her coloring, highlighting red hair and blue eyes.
And the ear bobs, the same sapphires she wore each night.
She’d always considered that she truly became Madame Rouge in that moment when she put them on.
There, done.
She stopped and considered. The woman she saw before her would never be foolish. She knew exactly what she was doing and why. Men worshipped her.
She was no slave; she was a goddess.
Now, that was a ridiculous thought, but what better way to start the evening than with a silly smile?
