She opened her arms and gestured toward the bed. “Is it truly necessary?”
“It is for me.”
He joined her as she stood at the foot of the bed. Much like its owner, the custom-made bed was flamboyant and extraordinary. It was large enough to hold four or five people, which had Saint speculating once again about Madame Venna’s private life. Generous swags of crimson damask edged with gold fringe were draped over the ornately carved four-poster. Saint reached out to caress one of the posts. Upon closer inspection he realized that what he thought were thick vines were the entwined limbs of two lovers. The interior was too dark for him to inspect the finials overhead, but he suspected that he would not find the usual arrangement of wooden fruit and flora.
“A fascinating bed, Madame V,” he murmured.
“Just one of the many amusements my establishment provides, monsieur le marquis,” she said, casually stroking the bedpost within reach. Her fingers lingered on the male’s bare buttocks. “You approve, oui?”
“Very much,” he said, inching closer until his hand brushed against her hip. “What say you? Do you find me worthy to share your bed?”
Her slender shoulders straightened as if she was startled by his question. She moistened her lower lip, allowing her hand to slide down the carved bedpost. She reached for the front of his trousers and the prominent rigid flesh it concealed. His straining cock was as hard as the wooden carving she had been fondling.
“If you must ask, then I am not being a proper hostess.” With a delicate touch, she deftly unbuttoned his trousers and slipped her hand between the fabric and his hot flesh. “Magnifique! I see you do not require any encouragement from me. You are a fine male. Very fine. I shall enjoy this ride, no?” With her fingers, she lightly traced the defining sensitive edges of the head of his cock.
He inhaled sharply. “Yes.”
Saint tightly shut his eyes as Madame Venna peeled down his trousers, and he felt very much on display. Wordlessly, she explored him from the tip of his hard length to the firm stones hidden in the sac at its base. Her delicate, confident touch made him feel like he was fourteen again, and at the mercy of an experienced older woman. If she persisted, he was going to embarrass himself by releasing his hot seed into her eager hand.
He suddenly covered his hand over hers to still her actions. “That’s not what I want from you,” he said, his words sounding harsh even to his ears. Saint was not about to explain that he was too close to the edge, too out of control now that he was on the verge of bedding the woman who had haunted him for too long.
Madame Venna softly gasped when Saint spun her around and pushed her onto the bed. He was already reaching for the hem of her skirt when she glanced over her shoulder and offered him a knowing smile.
“Such impatience, mon ange!” she rebuked with a smile on her lips. “What do you plan to do with me now that you have me at your mercy?”
“I have no intention of showing you any mercy when I fuck you,” Saint replied, sounding rather menacing.
“Indeed.”
He doubted Madame Venna allowed anyone to get the upper hand unless it suited her purposes. He pushed her skirt and petticoat upward, revealing her stocking-clad legs. The layers of muslin were so fine, he could have ripped them with his hands.
“Why, Madame V, you astound me … you forgot to put on your drawers this morning.” His hand moved higher until he was caressing her bare inner thighs.
Her lips curled into a very catlike smile that made him want to forget about their little game and pounce. “Whoever told you that I wear drawers is mistaken. There is something very liberating about strutting around au naturel.”
Saint reached around until his splayed hand found her belly. He slowly slid his hand down until his fingers became entangled in the soft nest of hair between her legs. Madame Venna arched and rubbed her bare buttocks against his groin. His cock throbbed as she silently dared him to take her. He groaned as his fingers moved lower and deeper, finding the damp slit that the soft dewy curls concealed. Making an agreeable sound, she shifted and parted her legs, encouraging him to explore the most intimate part of her.
“Christ, you are ready for me!” he said, and the realization that she shared his desire was almost his undoing. Stiff and heavy as a sword, Saint moved his hips and his cock brushed against her inner thigh. “And by God, I will not deny us. You will not regret this surrender, Madame. I swear it!”
Positioning himself, he parted the folds between her legs with one hand as he used the other to guide the head of his cock to her waiting heat.
Madame Venna moaned and arched her back, attempting to aid him to hasten their joining. “Within the drawer”—she moaned—“there are skin sheaths for your pleasure.”
“All in good time, my lovely wench.” Saint dipped the broad head of his cock into her liquid heat, coating his arousal with quick, short thrusts. She shuddered, straining to take more of him. “Greedy, eh? I like a woman who isn’t afraid of her body, or the pleasure I can give her.”
For reasons he could not fathom, his declaration caused her to stiffen in his embrace. Madame Venna tried to push herself up off the mattress with the palms of her hands. The movement only drove his cock deeper into her wet sheath. Craving more, Saint pulled her buttocks against him, using fingers buried into the downy tuft of hair between her legs to guide him until he filled her completely.
They moaned in unison.
The single stroke was perfection. Deliberately, Saint held himself still. Deep within her clinging, drenched sheath, his cock expanded and pulsed, while his instincts urged him to thrust powerfully until his seed was called forth to complete the claiming.
He bowed over her, covering her with his body as his fingers blindly sought out the small nubbin of flesh hidden within her feminine folds.
Madame Venna gasped at his intimate caress. Perhaps she was startled that a man could think beyond his own selfish needs.
With his lips against her right ear, he said, “First your pleasure, then mine. Over and over. You will discover that my stamina is quite extraordinary. Let’s see if I can impress the proprietress of the Golden Pearl.”
* * *
She should have known that she could not trust a man named Saint.
Lord Sainthill was wrong, Madame Venna thought tiredly as she adjusted her gold half-mask. She was already berating herself for giving in to temptation. She should have never allowed the handsome rake to touch her.
While the marquess snored softly under the rumpled sheets, she slipped from the bed. Unconcerned about her nudity, she gathered up her dress, petticoat, chemise, stockings, and shoes. She also picked up the two discarded skin sheaths Saint had pulled off his unflagging member, determined to get rid of all evidence of their carnal mischief.
Madame Venna tiptoed across the room to the wall that displayed several panels of a tapestry depicting a medieval unicorn hunt. The mythical beast had fallen on its knees, its head bowed in defeat, before a scantily clad maiden. The tip of the unicorn’s horn was poised between her virginal thighs while a dozen lords and ladies watched with interest.
She lifted the edge of one of the tapestry panels to reveal the hidden door it concealed. Very few people knew of its existence, and she intended to keep it that way. With a final parting glance at the marquess, Madame Venna quietly opened the door and entered her private sitting room. The bedchamber where Saint slept belonged to the proprietress of the Golden Pearl. It had been opulently decorated to satisfy the expectations of the gentlemen who were granted entry. This room, however, belonged only to her.
Suddenly she heard a voice say, “You are playing with fire, Catherine.”
Chapter Four
Madame Venna grimaced and raised a silencing hand to her uninvited guest. She finished shutting the door and with equal stealth turned the key in the lock.
“Anna, could you refrain from using my given name when there are sleeping patrons in the adjoining room?” she said crossly, the exotic
accent attributed to Madame Venna absent from her voice. The twenty-eight-year-old blonde had been part of her life in London almost from the beginning. She dumped her bundle of clothing onto a nearby chair. “Besides, I do not understand why you are scolding me for taking a lover. You have often told me that I am too particular when it comes to matters of the flesh. I thought you, Anna, of all people, would approve.”
Belatedly, she realized how ridiculous she must have appeared to her friend, rigid with indignation and without a stitch of clothing on her body. On a muttered oath, Madame Venna began to unravel the jumble of clothing to retrieve her chemise.
“I do applaud you taking a lover,” the young woman said as Madame Venna pulled the linen chemise over her head and smoothed the fabric over her hips. “You spend too many nights alone, and are too stingy with your pleasures.”
Anna brought her finger up to her cheek and tapped twice, reminding Madame Venna of the gold half-mask she wore.
Making a wordless sound of disgust, Madame Venna peeled the mask from her face. This was the only room in the Golden Pearl where she could truly be herself.
Catherine Deverall.
A woman with secrets and numerous enemies. Being the proprietress of an infamous brothel was not for the fainthearted. While the establishment rewarded her with power and more wealth than she could have ever conjured in her mind as a young girl, there were risks in any lucrative venture.
It was one of the reasons why she’d decided Madame Venna would always be masked when she greeted her patrons. The eccentric accessory increased the reputation of the Golden Pearl literally overnight. Every rich nobleman wanted to be introduced to the mysterious Madame Venna and experience the carnal wonders of her pleasure palace. Her choice to wear a half-mask had been born of necessity, but it had been good for business as well.
In London, people knew of Madame Venna. Catherine Deverall was invisible, and she intended to keep it that way.
“But why Sainthill?” Anna pressed when Catherine seemed unwilling to offer explanations for her reckless actions. “At this very moment, there are a dozen gentlemen in the main ballroom who would have happily bedded you if you had given them any encouragement. Choosing a man like Sainthill is unwise.”
Catherine stared at the gold mask in her hands. She did not bother concealing her sadness from her friend. “I know.” Perhaps that had been part of the appeal. From their first meeting, she had desired him, had often thought of what it would feel like to be claimed by such a man. Although she had resisted him for months, both she and Saint had known that she would eventually relent.
Surrender.
It did not adequately describe what had transpired during the past three hours, but it would suffice.
Anna gracefully stretched as she rose from her chair and strode to her friend’s side. She was older than many of Madame Venna’s girls, but her beauty and skills in the bedchamber were in high demand. That was the business side of their relationship. Anna was also Catherine’s friend, one of only a handful of people whom she could wholly trust with her secrets.
“Then why?” Anna came up from behind and embraced her. “Though I’ll admit Sainthill is rather pretty to look at.”
Catherine softly snorted at the understatement. “His body is quite admirable, too. You never know until a man disrobes if one should thank God or the man’s expensive tailor.”
Anna laughed as she rested her cheek against Catherine’s shoulder. There was nothing sexual in the nature of the friends’ embrace. In their world of carnal excess, genuine intimacy and friendship was something to be treasured.
“So Sainthill pleased you?” Anna moved away and picked up Madame Venna’s discarded dress, her brow furrowing when she discovered that the bodice had been torn.
A coy smile brightened Catherine’s contemplative expression. “Yes, though I have no intention of sharing the details with you.”
Anna gave her friend a speculative look. “So this marquess means that much to you?” she teased.
“Not at all,” Catherine fiercely protested. She absently plucked at the lace on her chemise. “Rose is the one who enjoys the retelling of her exploits, not I. In fact, I have no inclination to see Lord Sainthill again.”
“Oh, really?”
The doubt she heard in Anna’s voice annoyed her. “Yes, really. This evening”—she made a vague gesture with her hand—“it will not be revisited.”
“And what if the marquess views things differently?”
“Sainthill has gotten what he wants,” Catherine said with less certainty than the subject warranted. “He will brag of his feat to his friends and move on to his next conquest.”
Lord Sainthill was not moonstruck over the proprietress of the Golden Pearl. The notion was laughable.
And yet, just before the marquess had drifted off to sleep, he had held her with a tenderness that almost had brought her to tears. Then he had brushed his lips against her ear and whispered words she had never expected from a man such as him to a woman like her. Words she did not believe existed beyond the pages of a book.
All men tell their lovers lies came the hoarse voice of Mrs. Sweete, the seventy-year-old brothel madam who had plucked Catherine off the streets when she’d arrived in London at fifteen, already intimately acquainted with the darker side of humanity.
Catherine lifted her gaze and finally noticed the concern shadowing her friend’s beautiful face. “It is nothing to worry about, Anna. I amused myself with Sainthill, and now that our mutual curiosity has been sated, we can go about our lives.”
“But—”
Anna swallowed her argument at her friend’s hardened gaze. This room might belong to Catherine; nevertheless, Madame Venna was just beneath the surface.
“Summon Abram,” she said, speaking of the former pugilist she had hired to oversee the footmen who used their positions to watch over her girls and the patrons. Abram and his handpicked men ensured that the opulent fantasy of the Golden Pearl was not shattered by the stark violence of the London streets or the foolishness of a belligerent nobleman in his cups. “Let him know of Lord Sainthill’s whereabouts. Tell him when His Lordship awakens, I want him escorted downstairs.”
“What if Lord Sainthill requests to see you?”
Catherine’s heart pounded at the thought. No, she would not invite him upstairs again. “Offer him my apologies, but have Abram explain that another patron requires my personal attention.”
Anna winced in sympathy for the marquess, but did not debate her decision to use such a ruthless tactic. Catherine expected Sainthill would be furious at her casual dismissal, but if he had any pride, he would let the matter quietly drop. After all, he would not want to call the attention of his friends and acquaintances to the fact that Madame Venna had found him somewhat lacking.
“Very well.” Anna hesitated, clasping Madame Venna’s torn dress to the front of her bodice. “Shall I send for your maid? Perhaps a warm bath will relax you.”
“Mayhap in a few hours,” Catherine said, a wave of weariness washing over her. In its wake was sorrow. She glanced at the chaise longue. “I want to close my eyes for a while and rest.”
“Catherine?”
“I’m fine. Just tired, I suppose,” she assured her concerned friend. “Anna, I was aware of the risks and the price that might be paid. Still, I do not regret what I did.”
Even if Saint will. He might even come to despise her.
There was one way to guarantee it. “One more thing. Tell Abram to send Mina to awaken Lord Sainthill. She—” Catherine blinked rapidly and swallowed as her throat suddenly constricted. “She is to see to all his needs, compliments of the Golden Pearl. Whatever he desires.”
Anything or anyone but me.
“Yes, Madame Venna,” Anna said, reminding Catherine not to be beguiled by the illusions created within the walls of the Golden Pearl.
After Anna’s departure, Catherine sat down on the chaise longue and stared at the locked door that stood betw
een her and Saint. It might as well have been an entire continent that separated them, because she had no intention of unlocking that door again.
* * *
“Where is she?”
Catherine awoke, momentarily uncertain if the angry voice was real or part of her unsettling dreams. The walls and doors of the Golden Pearl were reinforced to protect her patrons’ privacy. Someone would have to be very loud indeed to wake her.
“On whose orders?” Saint demanded from the bedchamber.
Catherine sat up from the chaise longue and shook her head to clear it. Clearly Abram had tried to evict the marquess from her bedchamber. She quietly moved from the chaise longue to the door when she could not hear the servant’s calm reply.
“And I am to take your word for it? Summon your mistress. I want to hear the orders from her lips.”
“Oh, Saint,” she whispered sadly. He was supposed to be relieved to be rid of her. “Take your small victory and leave me in peace.”
Though it was doubtful the peace she craved would be easily won.
Catherine pressed her ear against the narrow crack of the door, but she still could not hear what Abram was saying to Lord Sainthill. She had hired him for his intimidating stature and bulk. However, Abram’s imposing figure was probably lost on the marquess, since the two men were similar in height. Abram’s advantage was his added muscle and his useful pugilist skills.
A woman’s voice interrupted Abram, startling Catherine. She had forgotten that she’d told Anna to send Mina along to soothe Lord Sainthill’s bruised pride. Why was he being so stubborn? She pressed her fingers to her brow and sighed.
This was all her fault.
She knew better than to become personally involved with a patron. How many times had her former madam and partner warned her about not tangling her feelings with business? She was the twenty-one-year-old proprietress of one of the most popular brothels in Town. A man like Sainthill could ruin her.
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 3
