by Anna Bradley
“Yes. It’ll be a bit more complicated than simply strolling up to Draven’s front door and questioning his servants. It’s going to be dangerous, Georgiana.” Benedict paused, then went on in a softer voice, “Back there, you told Brixton you wanted to come with me, but it’s not too late to change your—”
“No.” The word was out of Georgiana’s mouth before she’d even considered the question. “I…that is, the duchess hired me to find Clara Beauchamp. I told her I would do so, and I don’t intend to go back on my word. Do we go to Oxfordshire tonight?”
“No. We need to get rid of this coach. The duke’s men will be looking for it, and we need fresh horses. I know of a place outside London we can spend the night where no one will think to look for us. Grigg is taking us there now.”
He hadn’t meant they’d spend the night together, so there was no reason her heart should have given that ridiculous, pathetic thump. Georgiana withdrew her hand from his, and kept her nose pressed to the window after that, watching the darkness fly past.
They seemed to drive on for such an interminable length of time she thought they must be halfway to Oxfordshire when the carriage came to a stop at last. “We’re here,” Benedict murmured. Grigg appeared at the coach’s door, and Benedict jumped down, muttering a few words to his coachman before turning to help Georgiana.
“What is this place?” Georgiana took the hand he offered and stepped down onto the drive, glancing around. If it was an inn, it was a particularly grand one, faced with cream-colored stone and a series of pretty balconies under each enormous bow window. “It looks like a private home. Is it an inn?”
“Er…not exactly.” Benedict didn’t elaborate, but took her arm and led her toward a pair of tall, handsome double doors protected by a generous portico and gently illuminated by an ornate gas lantern suspended from the ceiling. He reached for the heavy brass door knocker, but before he could knock a distinguished-looking butler in smart, dark blue livery appeared, and with a formal bow, ushered them into a lavish entryway with green and gilt paper on the walls.
“Lord Haslemere, for Madame Célestine.”
“Very good, my lord.” The butler offered another smooth bow, then disappeared down a hallway.
Georgiana watched him go, then turned to Benedict, her confusion growing by the minute. “Madame Célestine? That name almost sounds like…” She trailed off as the painting over Benedict’s shoulder caught her attention. “Is that a…” Her eyes widened, and she stepped closer to get a better look. No, surely not—
“It’s nothing of any import.” Benedict stepped in front of her, blocking the painting. “There’s a settee behind you. Will you have a seat? You must be fatigued.”
“Dear God, it is.” Some sort of noise leapt to Georgiana’s lips. She couldn’t say whether it was a gasp or a laugh, but she slapped a hand over her mouth to stifle it.
Benedict braced his hands on her shoulders and tried to urge her away from the painting, but she’d seen too much, and by now she’d also noticed there were another half dozen of the same sort of paintings in the entryway alone.
He might prod her all he liked, but he couldn’t prevent her from seeing all of them.
She let him guide her to the settee, but once he thought he’d gotten his way and relaxed his grip, she twisted away from him and hurried to the other side of the room where another one of the paintings was hanging.
“God in heaven.” Georgiana gaped at it with rounded eyes.
A pair of heavily lashed painted dark eyes stared back at her from the canvas. Whoever the lady was, she was beautiful, with masses of loose dark hair falling around her white shoulders and the most alluring, inviting smile on her red, red lips.
But it wasn’t her hair, her smile, or her eyes that caught Georgiana’s attention.
It was her breasts.
Not because Georgiana was particularly enamored of breasts, but because this lady’s breasts were…well, they weren’t bare, precisely, but it was a near thing. Her unlaced corset dangled from her delicate fingertips, leaving her clad in only a transparent chemise, which—if one could judge by the playful glint in her eyes—was a mere breath from being ripped from her body by some unknown gentleman and flung unceremoniously to the floor.
The other painted ladies were in similarly provocative poses. Fair, dark, and red-haired beauties; blue, brown, or green-eyed; each with those same red lips, that same inviting smile. One was clad only in a petticoat, her arms crossed over her bare breasts. Another stood in her chemise, a full-length looking glass behind her, one stockinged leg balanced on a chair. She appeared to be, ah…removing her garters?
“How curious,” Georgiana murmured, glancing over her shoulder at Benedict, who was shifting awkwardly from one foot to the other. “I remove my own shoes and stockings before I take off my gown, and I’ve never needed a chair to remove my garters. Do you suppose I’ve been doing it wrong all these years?”
He seemed to be casting about for a reply, but just as he opened his mouth, footsteps tripped down the hallway, and with a grand swish of silk skirts, a fair-haired lady entered the room, a brilliant smile on her full lips. “Lord Haslemere.” She took both of Benedict’s hands in hers and rose to her tiptoes to kiss one of his cheeks, then the other. “Shame on you, my lord. It’s been much too long since you came to see me, n’est-ce pas?”
Georgiana watched this effusive welcome with raised eyebrows.
Benedict shot her an uneasy glance, but he bowed graciously over the lady’s hand. “Madame Célestine. It has indeed been a long time, but you remain as lovely as ever.”
Madame Célestine threw her head back in a merry laugh. “Such flattery! You have not changed either, monsieur. Do I dare hope you’ve come to see me, or will one of my young ladies be so fortunate as to enjoy your attentions this evening?”
Despite Georgiana’s vow not to show any reaction to the scenes playing out in front of her, her jaw dropped open, and another noise escaped her lips. Not a snort—certainly not something so unladylike as that—but, well…a noise that sounded rather like it.
Madame Célestine turned then, and seemed to notice for the first time that Georgiana was standing behind her. Her eyes widened in surprise, but then a wicked grin curved her lips. “Or have you brought your own entertainment, my lord?”
Benedict glanced from Madame Célestine to Georgiana, looking as if he wished himself at the bottom of the Thames. “I brought my own—”
“Lord Haslemere!” Georgiana gaped at him, her cheeks on fire.
“I mean to say, I brought a friend,” Benedict hastened to clarify. “That is, not a friend, at least, not in the, er…very friendly sense of the word. Not a chère amie, you understand, but rather a young lady. A pure, spotless, innocent young lady.”
Madame Célestine arched an eyebrow, but her lips were twitching, as if she were greatly enjoying Benedict’s discomfiture. “You brought a pure, spotless, innocent young lady to a brothel, my lord?”
“This is a brothel, then?” Georgiana shot Benedict an accusing look. “I thought it must be. I can’t think why I’m surprised, my lord, but this is taking it a bit far, even for you.”
“Indeed, mon chère, I’m afraid I must agree with your friend. My establishment is of the highest quality, as you know, but even so, it’s not a proper place for an innocent girl—”
“If you’d both do me the favor of ceasing your infernal chatter for one blessed moment,” Benedict huffed, “I’d be delighted to explain myself.”
“But of course, my lord.” Madame Célestine smiled sweetly at him, then shot Georgiana a mischievous wink.
Benedict turned to Georgiana. “I wouldn’t have brought you here if I’d had another choice, but Madame Célestine is an…an old friend, and her, er…this establishment is out of the way, and known only to a few select gentlemen in London. We may rely on Madame’s discretion to keep
our visit utterly private, may we not, Madame?”
Madame Célestine inclined her head. “Of course, you may, my lord.”
“We need a room for the night. Just tonight, preferably overlooking the front drive, so I can keep an eye on the gentlemen coming and going. Can you provide us with that, Madame?”
Madame Célestine inclined her elegant blonde head again. “I can provide you with whatever you wish, Lord Haslemere.”
Oh, there was little doubt of that. Georgiana snorted, and this time there was, alas, no denying it was indeed a snort.
“Thank you, Madame.” Benedict offered her a polite bow, then turned an impatient look on Georgiana. “You had a chance to return with Brixton, but you chose to come with me instead. I assumed that meant you trusted me to look out for you. If you’ve changed your mind, I’ll send a note to Lady Clifford at once, and have her send a carriage to fetch you.”
Had she changed her mind? Less than a week ago she’d been the sort of sane, rational being who would have changed her mind the moment some arrogant lord escorted her over the threshold of a brothel, but it seemed it took less than a week for Benedict Harcourt to scatter her wits.
Because the truth was, she hadn’t changed her mind.
She told herself it was because of the building on Mill Street—that she was doing it for her girls and Lady Clifford. That she’d come this far, and wouldn’t let it slip through her fingers now. But somehow, even in her own head, it sounded like a lie.
Still, she raised her chin. Perhaps she hadn’t quite figured out why she’d decided to come with Benedict, but she had decided it, and she had no intention of changing her mind now. “No, there’s no need to bother Lady Clifford. I’m perfectly happy to remain where I am, in…a brothel.”
With a rakish, irresistibly handsome earl. What could possibly go wrong?
“Very well.” A small smile played at the corner of Madame Célestine’s lips. “If you’ll be so good as to follow me, I’ll take you to your bedchamber for the night.”
They followed her to an extravagantly appointed anteroom, which boasted another handful of those salacious paintings. Georgiana promised herself she’d find a chance to get a closer look at them as she followed Madame Célestine up two flights of stairs to a spacious bedchamber tucked into the end of a hallway.
“Here we are. I’ll send hot water up with one of the housemaids.” Madame Célestine stood back and let them pass, then turned and left them alone, closing the door behind her.
The bedchamber was lovely and warm, with a handsome gold embroidered coverlet and matching bed hangings, and dozens of royal blue pillows scattered across the bed. The one enormous bed was placed in the dead center of the bedchamber, as if it were the only piece of furniture that mattered.
Which, this being a brothel, it was.
It was on the tip of Georgiana’s tongue to banish Benedict to the floor for the night, but one look at his exhausted face made the words freeze on her lips. She sighed, impatient with herself. She was alone in a sumptuous bedchamber with a massive bed and a wicked rake, and this was the moment she’d chosen to indulge her tender feelings?
It seemed so. She strode over to the bed, grabbed an armful of the pillows, and began arranging them down the middle. Once she’d finished the first layer, she added another until there was a wall of colorful silk pillows down the center of the bed.
Benedict watched these proceedings with a bemused expression. “What are you—”
“That’s your side.” Georgiana pointed to the side of the bed farthest from her. “This is mine. You will not, Lord Haslemere, venture to put so much as a single toe over the barrier. Is that understood?”
Benedict’s lips curved in a wicked grin. “Only my toes are forbidden? Does that mean other parts of me might be welcome?”
Georgiana eyed him. He blinked innocently at her, but that grin of his was…worrying. She couldn’t be certain he was teasing, so she snatched up another handful of pillows and piled them on top of the others.
He raised an eyebrow. “You do realize, princess, that if I’m seized with an uncontrollable urge to venture over the line, a dozen pillows won’t stop me?”
Georgiana ignored him, finished stacking her pillows, then stepped back to survey her handiwork. It wasn’t a very sturdy barrier, but short of rolling up the carpet and dragging it onto the bed, there wasn’t much else she could do. “Keep your uncontrollable urges to yourself, Lord Haslemere.”
To Georgiana’s surprise, he burst into a laugh. “That’s not nearly as much fun, but it won’t be the first time I’ve done so where you’re concerned, Miss Harley.”
She scowled at him. “I don’t see what’s so amusing about it, but I’ll have your word, Lord Haslemere.”
Benedict choked back his laughter and gave her a mocking salute. “Yes, ma’am. Not a single toe.”
Chapter Sixteen
The next morning Benedict woke to something soft tickling his chin.
He cracked an eye open and a drowsy smile curved his lips. He couldn’t have said what the soft thing was, but it smelled lovely, and it was attached to something warm, the weight of it pleasant against his chest.
It felt like…a woman.
Benedict’s brow furrowed as he considered that possibility. For all the rumors about his insatiability, he’d spent a long, lonely winter in Surrey without a woman to grace his bed.
A dream, then? No, it felt too warm, too real to be a dream.
He cracked open the other eye and let his blurry gaze rove over the room. A marble fireplace, embers still glowing, a plush Aubusson carpet on the floor, heavily embroidered gold silk bed hangings, and—
Gold silk bed hangings?
His bedchamber in Surrey was done in shades of blue. He wasn’t in Surrey, nor was he in his bedchamber in Berkeley Square. Where the devil had he slept last night, then? More importantly, who had he slept with?
Lady Wylde? No, it couldn’t be. In a rare display of good sense, he’d decided against that entanglement. Who, then? Because there was most definitely a lady in his arms, one hand curled on his stomach and her long legs tangled with his.
Her body felt divine snuggled against him, and so utterly right he was tempted to close his eyes and lose himself in the sleep that still lingered, but instead he pulled his head back to get a better look at the delectable creature sprawled over his chest.
All he could make out was a mess of mahogany brown waves with dozens of useless hairpins scattered among the heavy tresses. He studied the wayward curls, his eyes narrowing. They looked familiar, but he was sure he’d never before seen them spread across his chest in such wild abandon before. He reached for one and let his fingers caress the long strands. The only lady he knew with hair like this was—
Benedict froze, the last vestiges of sleep falling away with a vengeance.
Georgiana Harley.
He threw his arm over his eyes, a low groan leaving his lips as the events of the night before came flooding back to him. Chasing after the coach, rescuing Jane and Freddy, then turning them over to Brixton. Their escape in the duke’s hired coach, and their arrival at Madame Célestine’s last night.
But none of this explained how Georgiana Harley came to be nestled in his arms. For God’s sake, she’d barricaded herself behind two dozen pillows in order to ensure not a single part of his body touched hers last night. If she’d had a suit of armor to hand, no doubt she would have donned it before allowing him to join her in the bed.
How, then, had she ended up with her head on his chest, her hair tickling his chin, her hand burrowed under his shirt and pressed against the bare skin of his stomach?
Her hand was pressed against the bare skin of his stomach.…
Another pitiful groan escaped Benedict’s lips as arousal flooded him, and his cock did what they tended to do when they discovered a warm female anywhere
in their vicinity.
It rose to the occasion.
Benedict lay there, afraid to move lest he wake her. Georgiana would go mad if she woke and found herself in his arms with his cock pressing insistently against his falls.
He was still dressed, at least, and so was she. Thank bloody heaven for that.
But how had this happened? Had he tossed aside the dozens of pillows between them while he’d been asleep, like some sort of savage intent on ravishing an innocent virgin? Had he rolled over to her side of the bed until she’d had no choice but to cling to him to keep herself from falling over the edge?
Christ, he was almost afraid to look, but this was no time to turn coward. He shifted cautiously onto one elbow and cast a wary glance over the bed.
The barrier Georgiana had erected between them had disappeared. He peered over the side, expecting to find confirmation of his guilt in a pile of pillows on the floor, but there was nothing there. Not a single pillow to be seen. Not only that, but he was right at the edge.
He hadn’t wriggled his way over to her side of the bed at all.
She’d wriggled her way over to his.
Well, that was…unexpected. But did this make his situation better or worse? Benedict eased himself back down onto the pillows and tried to decide. On the one hand, he hadn’t done anything wrong aside from open his arms to her, but on the other, she was an inexperienced virgin, and he was a known rake and debaucher. Everyone knew the rakish debaucher was always at fault in such situations, no matter the circumstances.
Yes, he was certain to be blamed for this, and since that was the case, the only rational solution was to enjoy the warm, drowsy body pressed against his while he had the chance. So, Benedict tightened his arms around her and closed his eyes, a contented sigh leaving his lips.
He didn’t fall back asleep, but lay quietly, dragging his fingertips over her back and breathing in her scent. They were safe enough for the moment, as well-hidden as they were, but he couldn’t let her sleep much longer. They needed to be on their way to Oxfordshire before the duke’s men began searching for them.
