Suddenly Saint wanted to be that lucky gent.
The woman was fashioned for sin. At five feet, six inches, she wore a white muslin dress with tiny bouquets embroidered into the fabric. The skirt was so sheer that, at certain angles, he could see enticing glimpses of the dark blue bows that secured her stockings. Her breasts were high and firm, and a diamond-and-gold brooch was pinned between them to draw a gentleman’s eye. She had a dark blue cashmere shawl draped over one of her shoulders to add color to her costume rather than modesty. Long white kid gloves sheathed her arms. As for her hair, golden blond tresses formed enchanting ringlets around her face. The back was braided and entwined with gold ribbons and pearls.
Noting his steady regard, the proprietress excused herself from her group of admirers and headed toward him. With her head held high, and a hint of a smile teasing her lips, the woman who had ensnared his attention was no shy wallflower who would wait patiently for him to approach her.
She came to him and inclined her head as she curtsied.
Her manners were as refined as the silk she wore. “Good evening, monsieur,” she said in a distinctly accented voice that settled in his belly like warmed brandy.
The woman was not French; nor did she speak with an accent he had come to expect from an English noblewoman. From her lips, her voice was exotic and seductive. He held himself still, waiting for her to speak again.
She did not disappoint him. “I am Madame Venna. I saw you admiring my Golden Pearl. You are pleased with my humble efforts, oui?”
Saint could not recall a time when a female had tangled his tongue and thoughts so thoroughly. Even with the half-mask concealing the upper portion of her face, her beauty was evident. Pale flawless skin was smoothed over delicate bones that might have marked her as a noblewoman if not for her profession. Her lips were full and the hint of scarlet was designed to draw a man’s eye to her mouth, which was quirked in amusement since he had not replied to her question.
He bowed. “Forgive me. I was being rude. I am Simon Jefferes, Marquess of Sainthill. And yes, I am very pleased with what the Golden Pearl has to offer.”
Madame Venna smiled, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Merci. You are too kind.”
She glanced over his shoulder and raised her gloved hand. Before Saint could turn, one of the footmen was at his side with a glass of brandy.
This was a woman who could anticipate his desires before he uttered them. A man could fall in love with such a beautiful and insightful creature.
“How did you know?”
“It is my business to anticipate my patrons’ needs,” she said simply. “Whatever you require, the Golden Pearl will attempt to grant it.”
Saint stepped closer. “And if my fondest desire is you?” he asked, feeling emboldened by her frank perusal.
A gent sensed when he had captured a woman’s interest, and he suspected that the woman before him rarely denied her own carnal appetites.
Madame Venna’s smile dimmed. “I must regretfully decline. The Golden Pearl places many demands on me. It would be foolish of me to place my needs above those of my patrons, no?”
“What if I was willing to generously compensate you?”
She sighed and shook her head. “You tempt me, monsieur le marquis. Still, I must decline. Now if you will excuse me, there are other tasks that need my attention.” She curtsied. “With your permission, I will send several of my best girls to amuse you.”
Without thinking, Saint caught Madame Venna by the elbow to prevent her from dismissing him. Immediately he felt the narrowed gazes of the two burly footmen who were probably striding toward them with the intention of breaking his fingers for touching their mistress. He abruptly released her and stepped back. Over the years, the Lords of Vice had been tossed out of several respectable establishments for brawling. It would be a pity if they had to add a brothel, albeit a fancy one, to the list.
He bowed his head. “The brandy will suffice, Madame Venna. I can find my own amusements.”
“Of this, I have little doubt.” She hesitated and offered him an endearingly coy smile. “Enjoy your evening, Marquis de Sainthill.”
Saint watched as Madame Venna approached her guards and assured them that all was well. One of the fake footmen glared at him, but he returned to his post with his companion.
The heavy clap of a palm against his upper back managed to startle him out of his stupor. His mouth flattened into a grim line as he turned to confront his unwelcome companion.
It was Sin.
The gent’s cravat appeared to be hastily tied, and his black hair was slightly disheveled. “Where the devil have you been? Frost procured several of the private rooms and managed to invite half of the brothel’s occupants. It’s quite a crush. Are you joining us or did you happen to settle on a wench?”
Saint glanced about the ballroom and saw no sign of the mysterious proprietress of the Golden Pearl. Oh, he had found the woman he wanted, and whether or not she was willing to admit it, the attraction was mutual. He was confident that in time he would coax her into his bed, but this evening he accepted his defeat.
Not one to sulk, he said, “Half the brothel, you say?”
Sin tipped back his head and laughed. The young marquess’s eyes were full of mirth and mischief. “And most of them female. It will be an evening you shall not forget.”
“Of this, I have no doubt,” Saint replied, deliberately echoing Madame Venna’s words. Whatever was between him and the proprietress, it was only the beginning.
* * *
From one of the balconies, Madame Venna observed Lord Sainthill and his friend’s departure. Her interest in the marquess did not go unnoticed by her companion.
Anna Walters leaned forward, giving anyone who was glancing heavenward a revealing glimpse of her breasts. “Very handsome. Perhaps I should join their private celebration and introduce myself. Either one would suit me. Or both, if they prefer.”
Madame Venna’s stomach clenched at the thought of her friend offering herself to the marquess. It took her a second to ascribe a proper word to her feelings.
Jealousy.
Had she gone mad? Anna was one of her closest friends. No man had ever come between them, and she refused to start with the marquess. After all, she had barely spoken to the man. Appalled at her reaction, she acknowledged her friend’s comment with a monosyllable, “Hmm.”
“Abram tells me they are connected to a club called Nox. The fancy even have a name for these men. They are the Lords of Vice.”
Madame Venna shrugged, pretending the information meant little to her, even though she longed to hear more details about Sainthill and his friends. Since it was possible that someone might overhear their conversation, it would be reckless to drop her guard. “With such a sobriquet, they will be regular patrons of the Golden Pearl, no?” she said, her mind already considering the possibilities of forming some kind of business arrangement with the gentlemen. Perhaps Nox had use of her girls, just as she had use of the Lords of Vice’s abundant wealth.
“What are you planning to do about Lord Sainthill?”
So Anna knew the marquess’s name. The half-mask she was wearing managed to conceal her surprise. “Why, nothing at all,” she said coolly.
Anna shook her head in disappointment. Madame Venna should have known her friend would see through such an obvious lie. “I saw how Sainthill was staring at you. If he could have gotten you alone, he would have done more than touched you on the arm. The man looked as if he wanted to devour you.” She grinned. “And for once, you wouldn’t have had to pretend to enjoy it.”
“You exaggerate,” Madame Venna said, her accent thickening as her throat tightened at the thought of the marquess pushing her into the nearest alcove and thoroughly ravishing her.
The brief moment his hand had gripped her arm, she’d felt the heat and strength emanating from him. It shamed her to admit that if they had been alone, she would have encouraged him to caress other parts of her body.
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“And I saw how you were looking at him, Catherine,” Anna said quietly.
Madame Venna bowed her head and closed her eyes. “It makes little difference. To indulge in an affair with Lord Sainthill or any patron invites scrutiny, and I have invested too much into the Golden Pearl to toss it away to satisfy my—curiosity.” Her lips softened at her friend’s concerned expression. “Do not fret, Anna. Men like the marquess are only thinking of their next conquest. Make certain our girls keep him and his friends distracted. Sainthill will seek his amusements elsewhere.”
Even as she uttered the assurance, Madame Venna knew that she was lying to her friend.
Her instincts were warning her that Lord Sainthill was definitely going to be a problem.
Chapter Three
August 6, 1818, London
She was finally his. The merry chase was over, and he wanted to explore every delectable inch of her.
“The mask. Remove it,” Saint commanded as he not-so-gently pushed the infamous proprietress of the Golden Pearl against the door of her bedchamber. Too ensure their privacy, he leaned closer and twisted the key in the lock. Very few were permitted entrance into Madame Venna’s sanctuary, and if Saint had his way, he would be the only male from now on who had the pleasure of viewing the room.
Not that his attention was focused on the interior of her bedchamber or its furnishings, he mused as his fingers brushed the edges of the gold mask she had donned for the evening. He had been patronizing the Golden Pearl for more than a year, and Saint had never seen Madame Venna without a half-mask. The ornate and often jewel-encrusted masks were a clever accessory that stirred speculation about the beautiful face she concealed. Every gentleman in London yearned for the privilege of removing the half-mask, but the young woman was frustratingly elusive and resistant to all overtures of a carnal nature.
A chaste whore. If Saint had not been so aroused by the contrary combination, he might have been applauded the woman’s ability to understand a man’s needs, perverse as they may be. Like a consummate stage player, Madame Venna portrayed her role to perfection, leaving her countless admirers willing to settle for scraps. A smile. A few words of praise. Perhaps, a brief conversation about the gossip for that day.
Until this evening.
No one had been more surprised than Saint when Madame Venna had discreetly invited him to walk with her. He still could not believe his good fortune when their casual tour of the Golden Pearl ended at her bedchamber.
He was one lucky bastard, he mused, and would be the envy of his friends when they learned that he had unmasked and most thoroughly shagged one of London’s most notorious brothel madams.
Impatient, he hastily peeled off his kid gloves and allowed them to fall to the floor. Saint cared little about the gloves. He needed to touch her, flesh against flesh. With his fingertips, he gently lifted the bottom edge of her mask.
“No,” she said. Her husky, accented voice stilled his actions.
It was the proprietress’s favorite word, and he was getting tired of hearing it.
His brows lifted at her soft, adamant refusal, but it did not prevent him from lowering his face to the curve of Madame Venna’s bare right shoulder. He pressed his lips against the scented flesh and inhaled. For the past hour, he had been whispering in the lady’s ear all the tempting and naughty plans he had in store for her. The removal of her distinctive ornamentation seemed minor when he had every intention of stripping her naked and committing all sorts of wanton sensual acts until they were too exhausted to move.
His tongue licked the small indentation behind her ear, causing her to shiver. “Are you worried that I will not find you beautiful if you remove it?”
Madame Venna might be scarred beneath her half-mask, but it was unimportant to him. A few inches of marred flesh could not diminish the woman in his arms.
“Not at all, mon chéri,” she said with a trace of arrogance in her tone. Her full lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Besides, I thought you liked my masks.”
“I do,” Saint replied, amused that this woman could ignite his baser instincts with so little effort.
If Madame Venna glanced down, the proof of his desire was on prominent display. He had been lusting after this woman from their first meeting. While he respected the sentiment that this was her house, her rules, Saint was growing weary of the restraints that she had placed on him and every male who patronized the Golden Pearl.
“I thought we had moved beyond games, Madame V.”
He lightly stroked her bare throat with his fingers.
Through the almond-shaped holes in her half-mask, her shadowed gaze took on a melancholy cast. “This is the Golden Pearl. I have nothing to offer you but games, Marquis de Sainthill.” She sighed, turning her face away and offering him her profile. “Perhaps this … was a mistake.” Before he could anticipate her next move, she ducked under the arm he had braced against the door and strode to her dressing table. “Give me a moment, and I shall return you to your friends.”
Saint was being dismissed. May a plague strike the beguiling wench, he silently cursed as indignation blossomed in his chest. He was a twenty-five-year-old man in his prime, not some callow lad.
He was the Marquess of Sainthill. No one turned him away!
Ever.
He moved away from the door, watching her as she leaned down and critically studied her reflection in the small mirror on the table. With slow deliberation, she repositioned several ringlets framing her face.
“We are not finished,” he said silkily.
“Another game, monsieur le marquis?” She did not bother glancing at him while she rubbed her lower lip with her fingertip as if to check the tender flesh for any evidence of his kiss. “If so, I am in no mood to play.”
He silently wondered if she was planning to kiss anyone else this evening. The mere thought of another gent putting his hands on her was enough to spur him into action. Saint closed the distance between them and seized her by the upper arms.
“How dare you!” she said, her voice losing some of the sultry, exotic inflection that always seemed to go to his head quicker than Hunter’s first-rate brandy.
Saint whirled her around until her breasts were pressed against the front of his black evening coat. “Never challenge a member of the Lords of Vice, Madame V,” he said, desire and anger competing for dominance. “My friends and I have been shocking the ton since long before you decided to open your naughty establishment.”
Before she could curse his name or throw him out of her bedchamber, Saint covered his mouth over hers. Madame Venna squirmed against him in a feeble attempt to free herself, but his grip was as unyielding as his kiss.
Hard and punishing, his mouth ground against hers. He wanted to tame her, and the knowledge that she intended to fight him every step of the way only inflamed him. For the past year, he had joined the ranks of her numerous admirers, and he had carefully planned his strategy to gain her attention. Saint wanted her to see him as a man, and not just another of the fawning fobs she had to charm to ensure they returned to her decadent house of pleasure.
Her invitation this evening proved that victory was within his grasp.
Until she thought she could dismiss him.
Slightly breathless, Saint tore his mouth away from hers. The half-mask concealed the woman’s expression, but she was trembling in his rigid embrace, her lips reddened from his kiss.
“No more games,” he said roughly. “I want you. Will you deny me?”
His control was hanging by a thread. Although he had never forced himself on a woman, Madame Venna had the unique ability of challenging his immeasurable restraint. A part of him wondered if he could truly walk away if she ordered him from her bedchamber.
It was an unpleasant admission, but he could be a ruthless bastard when necessary.
“Marquis de Sainthill—” she began before grimacing at the faint tremor in her voice.
He had frightened her, and he could not say he was
sorry for it. If she was aware of how often she had occupied his thoughts, she might use the knowledge against him. “Saint,” he whispered, kissing her swollen lips, gently this time as a silent apology.
The gilt from her half-mask gleamed in the candlelight as she tilted back her head to stare into his eyes. “You are too wicked a man to be called Saint,” she teased, seeming to regain a small measure of control with her lighthearted banter.
He shifted his stance, but did not release her. With Madame Venna’s body pressed against his, his cock had swelled into an uncomfortable position that he longed to relieve. “I did not choose my name,” he said, tracing the edge of her half-mask. “Only the manner in which I live my life.”
At five-and-twenty, he and his friends had already acquired the reputation bestowed on debauched rakes and scoundrels.
“I am well aware of the adventurous life you lead, monsieur le marquis.”
Saint chuckled and lightly pinched her dainty chin. “Then you are also aware that you cannot distract me from what I desire. You have not given me an answer.”
Madame Venna slid her hand down the front of his evening coat, slipping it inside to caress his waistcoat. “How curious, when I am certain I already have.”
“And you trifle with my affections recklessly,” Saint replied coldly, bracing himself for her rejection. “What do you want from me? Money? Jewelry? Marriage?”
“Marriage?”
Madame Venna tossed her head back and laughed. Her genuine amusement cut him to the quick. While he had no intention of offering marriage to such a disreputable, ungrateful wench, he was insulted that she was not even mildly intrigued by his disingenuous offer.
“Oh, no!” She placed her hand on her bodice while she struggled to draw a breath. “Gentlemen like you, Saint, do not patronize the Golden Pearl because you hope to find your bride among my fallen doves.”
Saint’s lips thinned in anger. He released her abruptly, and she staggered back a step to regain her balance. “You are correct, Madame. I seek only one thing from you, and you have yet to give me your consent.”
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 2
