Deliciously Debauched by the Rake

by Ann Lethbridge

  She inclined her head regally. A queen accepting homage from a courtier who just might be awarded the honor of her company.

  His friends hooted and made obviously lewd remarks. The young man grinned. He would call on her in the intermission. Of that she had no doubt. The curtain rose and Elizabeth kept her gaze fixed on the stage. Nothing more was required of her than to be seen alone. Her dress with its revealing scoop, the paint on her face, her come-hither smile affixed to her face provided all the information anyone needed.

  Yet she could not help watching the box opposite from the corner of her eye. Not once did John look her way as far as she could tell. Every nerve in her body tingled with awareness. Of him. But the party he was with was respectable. A man and his wife, two lovely young women, one dark, one fair, and both hanging on his lips.

  John wasn’t a fool. He knew where his duty lay and it seemed that all he’d needed was a bit of a push. She’d been right, they had been too comfortable.

  The pain around her heart was regret. Over time it would lessen.

  It must, for it made it very difficult to breathe.

  Chapter Two

  “Flowers for Lady Elizabeth,” Broom, her footman, said. The beefy young man had been presenting her with calling cards since the moment intermission started. For all Elizabeth knew there was a line outside her box of eager gentlemen, young and old. Some of the names she recognized. Some she did not.

  “Who on earth sent flowers?” Their heady perfume filled her box.

  He laid the bouquet on an empty chair and handed Elizabeth the accompanying card.

  “Well, are you going to let any of them in?” Barny’s corrugated lips pursed in disapproval and worry.

  Elizabeth glanced over at the opposite box. John was back, having brought refreshments to the young ladies, who seemed dazzled by his presence.

  She held the card up to the light from the candles suspended from the front of the box above. “‘George Francis,’” she read. She raised a brow. “Do you know anyone by the family name of Francis, Barny?”

  As a governess, it had been Barny’s job to know all the branches of noble families, first and second tier. The older lady shook her head. “Not that I recall. I will have to consult Debretts.”

  “Whoever he is, he is fast on his feet to find such a gorgeous display of roses at this time of night. Or at this time of year.” She picked up the bouquet and buried her face in the pale yellow blooms. The scent was delicious. “Such cleverness deserves some reward.”

  She glanced down into the pit where the young blond gentleman had been earlier. There was no sign of him. Was he Mr. Francis? “Is the gentleman who gave you the flowers waiting outside?” she asked Broom.

  “No, my lady. He asked permission to call on you tomorrow. I said it was not my place to say, as you instructed. He said to put the flowers in the window at the front of the house, if the answer was yes.”

  Her heart picked up speed. Anger. It had to be anger. “The gentleman is impertinent. Was he young or old?”

  The footman shifted from one foot to the other. “It’s a bit dark in the corridor, miss, and the candles just outside the door have gone out. I couldn’t see the gentleman none to clearly.”

  “And he left.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Puzzled, she stared at the blooms. Yellow roses. It was not someone who knew her, not John, though for some odd reason she had hoped… But he knew her expressed preference for red blooms. She glanced at the cards in her lap. “Let in Lord Samuel, Mr. Partinger—did you ever hear the name Partinger, Barny?”

  The sweet lady shook her head.

  Perhaps she would be wise to entertain the advances of some unknown gentleman. It would cause less of a stir when she disappeared.

  “And His Grace.” No advantage in snubbing the elderly Duke when everyone knew he preferred young men. She tucked the rest of the cards into her reticule. The footman would need instructions about all of them. No doubt they would be just as cheeky as the man who left the flowers. Put the bouquet in her window indeed. Whoever heard of such a thing? Whoever Mr. Francis was, when he arrived tomorrow, he would receive a set down of grand proportions.

  The three chosen gentlemen filed into her box and made their bows. Mr. Partinger was the young blond gentleman from the pit. So she was no closer to solving who her mystery admirer might be.

  Tomorrow would be soon enough. She set about making the gentlemen callers welcome, making them laugh and flirting outrageously. Just as she would if she were seeking a new protector.

  Despite the offers of escort, she’d left the theater as she’d arrived, alone except for Barny and Broom. The next afternoon, sitting in the drawing room, embroidery in hand, she smiled across the room at Barny on the other side of the hearth. The small house she’d purchased for the governess some three years ago was perfect for two single women. “It all went very well last night.”

  Then why did she feel so miserable?

  “If you say so, my dear,” Barny said, a twinkle in her hazel eyes. “You certainly garnered lots of attention.”

  She had. And all night long in her lonely bed she’d seen images of John with the two young ladies. So courteous. So polite. So ready to fall in love.

  The needle missed the fabric and pierced her finger. “Ouch.”

  “Would you like my thimble?” Barny asked.

  Elizabeth inspected her digit, then sucked at the little bead of blood at its tip. “No, thank you.” She put the embroidery hoop down with a sigh. “Perhaps a trip to Bond Street will get rid of my fidgets.”

  “Another chance to be seen, you mean,” Barny said with disapproval. “There are too many quizzes abroad in the afternoon. Go tomorrow morning.”

  The bouquet on the sofa table caught Elizabeth’s eye. Put it in the window indeed. The gentleman would be disappointed. Or not. Men who courted the demimonde for entertainment rarely cared if their chosen ladybird said yea or nay. There were plenty more to be had for the price of a dozen yellow roses. She ought to have tossed them out. It would be a dreadful waste, though. An insult to the flowers themselves. And their perfume was lovely.

  A knock sounded on the door.

  She glanced at the clock. Yes, it was indeed the time for morning calls. Broom entered the room a moment or two later. “Mr. Francis,” he said.

  She frowned. “I’m not at home.” She’d already told Broom she would not see him. Money. No doubt the man had greased her footman’s palm. He would have to—

  “Good day, Lady Elizabeth.”

  The beautiful man who stood looking at her had a bad boy smile on his face.

  Her jaw dropped. “John?” Her voice was a squeak. A mouse would have been louder. Her glance shot to the footman. “You said it was Mr. Francis.”

  The footman went scarlet. “That’s what it says on his card, my lady.”

  “Oh, my goodness,” Barny said, leaping to her feet with an agility Elizabeth hadn’t seen in years. “I just remembered I needed to…to speak with Cook. Come along, Broom.”

  The two of them disappeared from the room so fast Elizabeth could feel a swirl of air pass her cheek.

  She rose to her feet. “What are you doing here?”

  John grinned at her. “Throwing my hat into the ring, so to speak.”

  Dreadful canting talk. But she knew exactly what he meant. He was taking up the challenge. He looked lovely. Smiling. Handsome. Her heart lifted so high it was only now she realized how low it had sunk.

  “No.”

  “No?” he asked in a low, seductive murmur.

  He took her hand in his, kissed the back of it, his breath hot against her skin through the lace of her mitten, reminding her of all the passion they had shared.

  “I told you,” she said, struggling against the longing in her heart, in her very soul, to have him stay. “It is over between us.”

  “Us,” he said musingly. “There never was an us.”

  Was this some kind of horrid joke? Some s
ort of revenge? She would not have expected it of him. “We lived together for almost five years, remember?”

  “You lived with Lord Radthorn for five years. A young nobleman of means who wrote up a contract. A cold arrangement for money. I am his distant cousin. You and I never met before.”

  “I have no idea what you are talking about.” She spun away from him. Turned her back. Her heart pounded with fear. Her voice shook. The calmness with which she’d faced him only a few days before seemed beyond her grasp. “Please go.”

  The lack of sound behind her had her turning back. To her shock, he held a yellow bloom in his hand. He held it out to her.

  Frantic, she curled her lip. “You know I only like red roses.”

  “I know nothing about you,” he murmured

  “John, please.” The anguish in her voice shocked her.

  “George.” The rose remained steady, while his lips curved in an encouraging smile. “You can’t despise yellow entirely, my lady, if you kept them by you.”

  Unable to resist the appeal in his eyes, she reached for the bloom. He captured her hand in his the moment she clasped the stem. He stepped closer, only the blossom standing between them. He touched the petals to his lips and then pressed the flower gently to hers. It was a heady sensation to be kissed by a rose. On a shuddering breath she stepped away. He dropped her hand and she immediately felt the loss.

  She moved to the window, looking out into the quiet street. “Why are you here? What is this game you are playing?”

  “No game. I understand you found your last lover lacking. I am here to see if I can improve upon his performance.”

  Startled, she turned to stare at him. The sight of him, his physical presence, was pure temptation and torture. The warmth in his gaze a tug at her heart. “I—No. This is nonsense.”

  He watched her gravely. “Am I so unworthy, you will not give me a chance?”

  Was that hurt she heard in his voice? Possibly. She could imagine she’d hurt his pride. But she did have one last arrow left in her quiver. She drew herself up straight. “You have an obligation to your family to marry. To produce the next heir, whatever name you go by.”

  At that he laughed, and his eyes gleamed wickedly. “Are you saying that any relationship we might have is an impediment to my being married?”

  Trust John to see right to the heart of the matter. But how could she tell him it would break her heart? “No,” she said stiffly, hoping he would not see the lie in her eyes. “No impediment.”

  He stepped close and this time when he took her hand, she offered no resistance. His gaze holding hers, he kissed her hand. “Then you find me unattractive.”

  “No,” she whispered. “Never that.”

  “Then why do you hesitate?” he murmured. “Give me leave to call on you. It is all I ask.”

  “All?”

  “To begin with.”

  “John—”

  “John is driving in the park with some empty-headed debutante in fulfilment of his duties. I am all yours.”

  Moisture burned in her throat and behind her eyes. Her heart would no longer hold out against him. But for all her surrender, she must have his agreement to the boundaries of this madness. A way to protect her heart. “For the nonce, then,” she said with a careless flick of her fingers. “Until I make my final choice.”

  He flashed a small smile. A little too triumphant for her liking. “For the nonce it is.” He drew her over to the sofa and gestured she should sit. She sank into the soft upholstery. He lounged beside her, his big, strong body clearly at ease.

  “Would you like some refreshment?” she asked. “Some wine. Brandy? You will have to tell me what it is George prefers.”

  “Mmmm,” he said considering, thoughtful. “I prefer you.”

  Her stomach gave a little sensual hop at the heat in his voice and the flame of desire in his eyes. Her heart began to flutter in her chest. Her body to respond to his nearness with heat, the way it always did. “That was not quite what I meant.”

  He picked up her gloved hand and played with her fingers, stroking and massaging and, she realized, slowly removing her lacy glove. She really should deny him the liberty. But why? Years before she’d decided that becoming a courtesan was the only way out of her financial difficulties. Those difficulties were gone now. She could choose for herself.

  He wanted to be her lover. They were adults, not children. And besides, his touch felt absolutely delicious. Strong and firm yet gentle. The lace slid from off and his fingers stroked her bare palm. Her skin shivered all over with pleasure.

  She’d always loved his hands. Long fingers, capable yet elegant whether handling the reins or the laces of her gown.

  She’d loved everything about him, after her initial shame and fear.

  He turned her hand over and pressed his lips to the inside of her wrist. Her pulse jumped so hard he must have felt it against his mouth.

  “You taste delicious,” he murmured against her skin. He swirled his tongue in her palm.

  Her insides melted. She felt loose and open and thoroughly weak.

  But she wasn’t the naive and terrified widow she’d been when she first met him. She was a woman who could give as good as she got. She ran the rose down the side of his face. A whispering brush of petals. His eyes closed in obvious pleasure, she brushed the petals across his flickering eyelid and he smiled. She swooshed it around the shell of his ear and he hissed in a breath.

  Her core pulsed at the sound.

  All around them the air was filled with sweet perfume, heavy and enticing.

  He drew back, his chest rising and falling with the obvious effort to regain control. “May I engage you to accompany me out this evening?” he asked, as was proper for a man with no prior claim. Her presence would cost him dearly. It would require a gift of jewels at the very least.

  A flirtatious considering tilt of her head elicited a quick smile. “Say yes,” he urged. “I promise you will not be sorry.”

  She had the feeling that when all this was over, she was going to be very sorry indeed. It had been hard enough to let him go once. But a second time? It would be hell. And yet he had brought her to the brink of excitement with his game, and regrets were in the future. She had been brusque at their separation. Like a surgeon with a knife. Perhaps she should have given them both time to get used to the idea. Let him down more gently.

  “Very well,” she said.

  To her dismay, he rose to his feet and strode for the door.

  “George,” she said quietly. “How did you know where to find me? Do I have to relieve Broom of his duties?”

  “Your man is a fortress, my dear lady.” He flashed a grin. “I followed you home.”

  “Oh.” Simple, logical, straightforward. Just like John. Only he was nothing like her John.

  “I will come for you at ten o’clock,” he said.

  “So late?”

  He shrugged. A devilish twinkle lurked in his eyes. “The real party does not start until later.”

  Later was always the time for the madness and the badness of the scurrilous side of the ton.

  Chapter Three

  Elizabeth regarded the black gown in the mirror. It had arrived just before dinner, along with the scarlet domino and mask. “Wear these for me, G.” had been scrawled on the accompanying note.

  He must be taking her to Vauxhall. In January. She heaved a sigh. She’d tired of the tawdry entertainments years ago. But the gown was shocking. Intriguing. A bodice gathered at the neck with a fine satin ribbon and made almost entirely of lace, skirts of the sheerest black silk and tied under the bust with gold. He’d even included the skimpiest chemise she’d ever seen and stays which fit her form to perfection. All in black. All in the finest sheerest fabric. The feel of them against her skin was heavenly. Sensual.

  Black silk stockings tied above the knee and black satin slippers completed the outfit. Except for jewellery. She chose pearls.

  A knock on the door below hu
rried her along. She threw the domino around her shoulders, fastening the hidden buttons down the front. A clever way of preventing anyone from seeing anything but the hem of the outrageous gown beneath. Thank heavens. Though why bother with the gown, if it was not to be seen? Mask in hand, she rushed downstairs.

  The silky gown clung to her legs, brushed the insides of her thighs in a most seductive sensation. She gasped at the shock of it, pausing on the stairs.

  Her escort glanced up at her, a wicked smile on his lips. “Ready, darling?” He also wore an enveloping domino. A black one. He looked incredibly dashing.

  “Yes.” She sounded breathless. As if she’d run a mile instead of descending the few stairs to the hallway. She slowed her steps, pleased to discover that although the gown still brushed against the bare skin above her stockings, it did not cling quite so much. She held out the mask with a smile. “Shall I put this on now?”

  “When we arrive,” he said.

  Broom opened the door with an impassive face and they stepped out into the night. It was cold. The wind stung her cheeks. Flakes of snow drifted down, settling on her domino, melting on her face. Would Vauxhall even be open on such a night?

  John—no George; she had decided to play his game—handed her into his town carriage. It provided protection from the wind, and there were warm bricks for their feet and an enormous fur lap rug draped across the other seat. He’d thought of everything. The carriage tilted with his weight as he climbed in, then settled on its springs when he sat beside her. He rapped on the roof and the vehicle moved off.

  He pulled the rug across them both, tucking it around her shoulders and his, like a soft cocoon. His thigh pressed against hers, warm and solid, and his shoulders seemed to take up more than their fair share of room. For all his gentleness, he was a large man.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  Vauxhall. There would be ham and dancing and fireworks, and probably a bit of slap and tickle in the back of the box. It would be fine.