“I have a vested interest in keeping you healthy, Charlotte.” He kept pace with her, both of them moving purposefully as the weight of the rain grew.
“You are playing a role tonight and your part is to see me as something to be used and forgotten.” By the time they reached the front steps of Rostine’s, Charlotte could feel water dripping down her back, soaking through her dress, ruining it. The wet silk trapped the cold against her skin. She had to hold her body rigid to keep from shivering.
“Not afraid to show her success, is she?” Gabriel said as they hurried up the wide rise of steps leading to the portico that framed the front door.
Yes, it was an elegant house, with columns, marble, brass and windows. It was more grand than anything else on the street. Rather like Madame Rostine herself.
Charlotte ignored the brass knocker, shaped like a naked fairy, and found the familiar spot she knew would echo best.
The door opened quickly and the porter stepped back without speaking. Charlotte hurried in out of the rain, as the downpour worsened.
The servant stepped away as Madame Rostine herself came down the stairs, dressed as though she were still welcoming business, complete to the feathers rising from an elaborate coiffeur.
“Charlotte,” she said with surprise, “I had not expected to see you this evening.” She gestured to the porter and he moved from the door and up the stairs. “Come into the salon and warm yourself. I will have your room ready in a moment.”
Charlotte swept ahead of them and into the drawing room, well aware that Madame was doing her best to flirt with Lord Gabriel. She could only hope that he would be tempted by Madame’s robust beauty. She gave them a moment and then turned as they followed her into the room. He moved from the door to the fire, glancing at her with more exasperation than interest.
“I think we will be here for most of the day and perhaps into the evening.”
“You have paid for the room, Charlotte. It is yours for as long as you wish.” With a nod, Madame Rostine made to leave.
“Will you have someone bring Charlotte a robe so that she can change out of her wet clothes? They are an invitation to illness.”
“But of course, monsieur. I will send a maid immediately.” She glanced at Charlotte and with a slight tilt of her head conveyed amusement at his solicitude.
Charlotte shrugged. “He is a physician and given to detail.”
“Lucky you.” With that, Madame Rostine swept out, taking her cloying scent with her, leaving her cynicism behind.
Charlotte walked quickly to the fire. Gabriel went to the table and poured two brandies. Handing her a glass, he raised his to his lips.
“Drink it slowly,” she said.
“Shall I call you nurse as well as jailer?”
She watched as he took one sip and then another. He closed his eyes and breathed a long, slow “Ahhhh.” He took one more taste and set the glass aside.
“I am well aware that it has been months since I have had anything but watered ale.”
She had been reminding herself as much as speaking to him. This situation was ripe enough for folly without fueling it with spirits. Charlotte bent to put her glass of brandy on the table, but the fabric of her dress pulled across her back, the cold of it making her gasp. A convulsive shiver overcame her, and instead of setting the glass aside, she took the brandy like medicine in one long swallow. Oh, it felt wonderful, burning its way through her, calming the chattering of her teeth against the glass.
“Let me free myself from this,” he said, as he struggled out of his coat, “and I will pour you some more.”
Standing with her back to him, Charlotte held her hands out to the fire. She toed off her shoes. That was a mistake. Without shoes she felt even more vulnerable.
There was a tap at the door and Lord Gabriel answered it. Charlotte glanced over her shoulder. A woman, older and leaning heavily on a stick, handed him a robe. He thanked her with quiet gravity, closed the door, strode to the fireplace and, without asking, began to work the laces arrowing down the back of the blue dress.
Charlotte stiffened, but could not deny it was the only way. It proved to be slow work. The feel of his fingers at her neck made her shiver as much as the cold did. “Rip it off,” she said. “It is ruined anyway.”
He hesitated only a minute and then did as she ordered. The sound of the tearing fabric brought a memory, a child crying as she was pulled from her mother’s arms, the woman’s dress tearing as the child refused to let go. Charlotte blamed the brandy for the image. It was one of her dreams and, please God, nowhere near the truth of what had happened.
The dress dropped in a pool around her feet. He turned her to face him, his fingers leaving a warm imprint on her cold shoulders. It was all she could do to keep from stepping into his embrace, the warmth of him almost worth the risk. She hated being this cold.
He began to undo the front-fastening corset. Charlotte raised a hand to stop him. He pulled his fingers from under hers. “Yours are still shaking,” he said, his eyes kinder than his tone. “Let me help you. Or is this another way you have of courting death?”
She returned his look while she considered a choice that should have been easy. Finally, she gave up the debate, dropped her hand and looked over his shoulder.
“I’ve never seen stays that lace in the front,” he said as he made quick work of the closure. “From the same modiste who made your gowns?”
“Yes,” Charlotte said, smiling a little, still avoiding his eye. “She is quite inventive. I expect someday every whore will own one.”
He finished and the unlaced stays slipped down her arms. His chest brushed against her breasts and she pressed closer.
Lord Gabriel shook his head as he stepped back. “I know your game now, Charlotte.” His smile was not lecherous, not even appreciative. “And I am immune to it.”
She looked down his body to where the evidence of his arousal made a liar of him.
“I correct myself,” he laughed, “my mind is immune. My body is all male. And you are not a jailer but a witch.”
She wore only her chemise now. It was no more than damp in spots, but wherever it touched her the cold came back. He bent down to take the edge of it. She ended that with a firm “Non.” When she had his attention, she added, “I am not a child. This much I can manage.”
With a nod, he went back to the table and finished refilling their glasses.
“My lord?” She timed her question so that when he turned to her she was beginning to cover herself with the robe, naked except for her stockings and the black embroidered garters that were her favorite.
He came closer, but merely handed her the refilled glass. “This is not about sex, Charlotte. This is about keeping you from an inflammation of the lungs.”
“You lie.” She spoke without rancor. “Between a man and woman it is always about sex.”
“Is that so, Charlotte? Then your world is much too small and I feel sorry for you.”
“Sorry for me? You self-righteous prig.” She did not even try to control the rush of fury. “Your privilege is no more than an accident of birth. Don’t you dare judge me.”
He smiled and she knew the anger was a mistake.
“You misunderstand me,” he said, lifting her chemise from the back of the chair, folding it carefully. “You are quite right. My birth was a lucky accident, but there are men who have made their own opportunity, many of them from humble circumstances. I am not self-righteous, only disappointed the choices women have are so limited.”
Charlotte nodded, regretting the anger more than the misjudgment. She belted the robe but did not button it closed.
He pulled a chair closer to the fire and gestured for her to sit.
“Do you think you are the one in charge now?” She took a seat, cradling the brandy between her palms. “Need I remind you that you remain in mortal danger and I am still the only one who can lead you from it?”
“I have not forgotten. All the more reason fo
r me to see that you are not taken by illness.”
He knelt down beside her and took her foot in his hand.
“My stockings are already dry,” she said, pulling her foot out of his hand.
“Maybe, but your feet are as icy as the Thames in January.” He cradled first one foot and then the other, and began massaging warmth back into them.
It felt so good. She took more than a sip of brandy.
“The cold was the most persistent discomfort in prison,” he began. “I came up with a list of ways to describe it. ‘The Thames in January’ was one. ‘A privy in Scotland’ was another.” He smiled at her.
Charlotte Parnell smiled back at him. “As cold as Austria in the winter.” She swallowed more brandy and rested her head on the back of the chair. “I know this has everything to do with power and nothing to do with seduction.” Having said it, Charlotte let herself relax enough to lose herself in the pleasure of it.
He did not answer her. Continuing his massage, he ran his fingers down the center of her foot. She closed her eyes. He used his thumb on the pad of flesh under her toes, stroking the skin, pressing harder and harder.
He worked his hands up her leg, and she had to bite her lip to hold back a moan. When he reached the garter, he did not stop, moving an inch or two higher until she thought he must feel her heat as surely as she could feel the warmth of his fingers.
He pulled the garter down her leg quickly, bringing the stockings with it. He draped the bits of lingerie on the floor near the fire and left them to dry. He took one foot in his hand again.
She reminded herself at least three times that he was a spy and a traitor. She would spend the night with him as a means to a fortune that she and her family needed.
“Charlotte Parnell, you are no more a prostitute than I am.”
She opened her eyes with a start, realizing that she was almost asleep. Had she gone mad? This man was only one step away from being the enemy.
“Think what you will, my lord,” she said, pulling her foot from his hand. “I may not be a prostitute, but I am a whore.”
“Whore, prostitute. Is there a difference?” He stood up, towering over her. The robe was cinched in the middle but open to her waist from both the top and the bottom.
She did not cover herself, but kept her head resting on the high back of the chair. “Prostitution is a profession.” She thought a moment, giving him a chance to see what she was offering. “A whore…you see a whore is rather like a man of science. Something you do for enjoyment, because it fascinates you, and only occasionally for money.”
Bending toward her, he began to button the robe. She pushed his hand away.
“Why do you make yourself to be of so little worth?”
His tone showed mild interest, but there was temper simmering in his eyes again. He took a step back to the table, picked up his glass of brandy and finished it quickly. Charlotte felt the power begin to shift her way.
“It is you who assign the worth,” she said as she tried to calculate how much he had drunk. “I prefer to think of myself as honest as I can be under the circumstances.”
“You mean the circumstances of coming to France in all manner of disguises? Deceiving everyone but a chosen few with half-truths and outright lies. Your brand of honesty is convenient,” he spoke as he refilled his glass.
“Yes, it is, my lord.” The last two words were an insult.
“You remind me that I am a spy.” He made a gesture as if to brush the insult away. “Tell me how we are different, for are you not a spy as well?”
“I have not been named a traitor.” She stood up, pulled the robe closed and faced him. “And you have. That, Gabriel Pennistan, is the real difference between our stations in life.”
Any dominance she had lost in allowing him to undress her and massage her feet, she had regained with that truth.
“Are you convinced a death sentence awaits me? If so, why should I even go back to England?”
“You have no other choice. No money, no clothes, none of the papers the French are so fond of.” She could see the reality of her words strike him. “Your brother sits in the House of Lords. Perhaps his influence will save you.”
There was a tap at the door as she was about to mention the possibility of prison. Instead she called out, “Entrez.” The door opened a crack. No one came in, but a man’s voice carried across to them, “Your bedchamber is ready, madame.”
“Merci bien, monsieur.”
The servant closed the door. Charlotte considered Lord Gabriel, looking belligerent rather than loverlike. “I remind you, my lord, whether I be prostitute or whore, for now the play continues.”
8
THE ROOM WAS on the third floor, and by the time Gabriel had followed Charlotte up the stairs, fatigue pulled at him. Made him wonder if he had the strength to take off his clothes before he fell across the bed.
His muddled brain was still trying to sort out the difference between whore and prostitute. What did it matter? Even slightly drunk he understood that she was the kind of woman willing to share her body and nothing more. What made him think he wanted more than her legs wrapped around him, her body welcoming his?
The door to the room was ajar. Charlotte pushed it open farther and went in. Gabriel tripped through and grabbed the frame to steady himself, then pushed the door closed until he heard it click shut. He leaned against it, trying to take in his surroundings, lit by the fire and two candles. One thing he could see quite clearly: a bed, large enough for two. He stepped toward it. He might be drunk, but he knew what that bed meant.
She used a key to lock the door, and the sound of it grating shut sent a bolt of panic through him. Gabriel grabbed her wrist. “Do not lock the door.”
“You do not want privacy?” Her surprise gave way to understanding. “I will put the key on that table so neither one of us feels trapped.”
“You could take it the minute I fall asleep.”
“You may put it under your pillow.” She made to hand it to him, the word fool implicit in her tone. “The room is too small to hide it.”
“The table, then,” he said. “You are right, I am trusting you with my life while I sleep. Worry over the key is absurd in the face of that.” He stepped away from the door, barely able to stand on his own. “Did you drug me?”
“Stop being ridiculous. You were the one who poured the brandy, and my hands were shaking too much to do anything secretly. You are exhausted. I cannot credit how you have lasted this long.”
She took his still-damp coat from him and went behind a screen that must be used as a dressing area or for privacy. He undressed for the third time that day. He was out of his clothes before she could turn back the covers.
He watched her, busy at the small domestic task. “Whose bed is empty while you are with me?”
She came closer to him, her smile and half-closed eyes as seductive as her body. “My life is as I choose it. I am a widow. And committed to no one.” She put her hands around his neck and stood on tiptoe, pressing herself against him. She was still wearing her robe. He could feel the warmth of her nonetheless. “Come to bed with me.”
With the greatest sense of sacrifice, he took her arms from around his neck. He moved back a few steps. “Is there a need to maintain the charade, Charlotte? Unless there are peepholes in this room, I do believe we are now free to act as we wish.” He looked around the room as though he could spy a tiny eyehole, pleased that he could sound so practical when his body was screaming for hers.
“There are no eyes but ours, and half a day until it is safe to leave.” There was not the slightest hint of confrontation in her voice, but he could see it in her eyes. “The bed is the most comfortable place in this room. And we can make it even more comfortable together.”
She’d walked around the bed as she spoke, slipping off her robe, taking a moment to drape it across a nearby chair.
Her body was beautiful, not voluptuous so much as flawlessly proportioned from neck to lovel
y breasts to waist to hips. Legs that were trim to the ankles. Feet he now knew quite well. Her natural hair color was a summer blond. Did she ever remove her wig?
There were a hundred kinds of fool, he realized. He was man enough to know he would be the king of fools to decline what she offered. He knew what she was about. Wouldn’t that be protection enough? “So the whore offers herself to me?” he said as he climbed into the bed. The pillow was as comforting as his nurse’s arms. The mattress soft, the sheets as welcoming as the first blush of sleep. He counted the bed, and sharing it with her, the ultimate of the delights he had been forced to do without.
He leaned toward her, touching no part of her but her lips. It was enough to make them both want more.
“You are so wrong,” Gabriel whispered as he kissed her again and again, light kisses that were filled with frustration and temptation. “This is about sex as much as it’s about power.” To prove it, the next kiss was deep, and neither could deny the arousal.
“I do not care if you are prostitute or princess. Come to me as Charlotte Parnell.” He spoke softly. He was so close to her that he could feel her heartbeat.
“That much I can give you.” She blew out one of the candles on the table next to the bed. “Charlotte Parnell is yours.”
Even as she reached for him, he knew she was too easily convinced. Charlotte Parnell is not her true name, he thought as her hands found his chest and his shoulders, pulling him closer. It did not matter anymore. He was beyond the word no, spiraling into a world of want.
He kissed her mouth, her neck and then whispered in her ear, “You must know that you will have little pleasure from this. It has been months since I have been with a woman.”
“Perhaps,” she said, turning her head a little toward him. She wasn’t smiling, even if her eyes were warm with pleasure. “It may happen quickly, but it will be satisfying for both of us.”
He leaned toward her, pressing his chest to her, trailing kisses down the other side of her neck, the smell of her pulling him deeper into her thrall. He used his tongue to tease her breasts as he slipped his hand under her neck to pull her closer, cradling her body against his, moving his other hand down her back, over the sweet roundness of her hips, moving quickly. He knew he was being selfish, but his aching fullness found her wet and willing. Charlotte welcomed him, putting her arms around his neck, urging him to move so that he was more on top than beside her.
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