by Lavinia Kent
That was certainly true. “But Sin was always much more agreeable. I think she likes following commands quite a bit.”
That silenced her.
She stared at him, her mind working to understand all the implications of his words. “Perhaps, but only on the surface. You know she has never been one for following rules. If she chooses to obey—to obey—your commands it is because she wishes to. There is no faster way to make her decide not to do something than to try to force her to do it.”
His mind filled with the image of Sin naked before him, following his every direction simply because she wished to, of her trembling flesh, of the scent of her desire. He felt his sex begin to swell, not at all what he wanted as he stood before his sister. And from the look on her face, she was quite aware of his feelings—and that was enough to cool him off. “Will you tell me where she is?”
Jasmine turned and walked away from him, staring out the window. “You are a hypocrite, you know? But then, most men are. You act like I committed some great sin, but your actions are no different. Or is it only women? Do you consider Cynthia to be fallen and loose?”
“Of course not. Although she does need to come to her senses and agree to wed me.”
A harsh laugh. “And you wonder that she does not wish to? I actually tried to persuade her of the same, but now I begin to think she is right. She would be a fool to tie herself to you without more thought. Although, if you find it any consolation, she has agreed that she will probably wed you if she finds herself with child. She is that much more sensible than I.”
“I am sorry I tried to take you without the baby.” He didn’t know where the words came from, but they had to be said. “I wasn’t thinking. I don’t know if that makes it better or worse, but if I thought of the baby I would have found a way to have her taken, too.”
“Just so you could then persuade me to give her away?” Her voice was so bitter.
“I admit that would have been my plan, but I probably could have been dissuaded with time. Sin insists that if I actually met your child, held her, I would feel differently.”
“My child’s name is Hope.”
“I know. It just makes it so much more real and I don’t want it to be. I want things to go back to the way they were. I need you to realize that this is not real.” He gestured about the room. “You are the daughter of a duke. This is not the place for you.”
Jasmine turned back to him, her face calm. “Actually, I am deciding it is very much the place for me. I would never have believed it, but I feel freer here than I ever have before. I have a purpose. It is good to no longer feel a pretty plaything.”
He waved an arm from her crown to her toes. “You’re dressed like that and you don’t think of yourself as a pretty plaything. Why do you think men come here, if not for pretty playthings?”
She released a long, slow breath. “I do understand your point, but I am in charge here. I would have thought you’d understand that—the desire to truly have control.”
That did hit a little close to home, but still…“You don’t sound completely confident.”
Her brow furrowed and for a moment he thought she would confide in him, but the moment passed. “That is irrelevant to our current discussion. I do think you need to talk with Sin. Come back tomorrow at three and I will see if I can get her to talk with you.”
“Then you do know where she is?”
“Tomorrow. And just so you make no mistakes, Sin is keeping with the story you created that she is visiting me during my illness. I would suggest you not say anything that would contradict that. She plans to speak to Father and get his agreement.”
What? “She plans to speak to Father? Why ever would she do that?”
“This will not work without him, and you know he does not like surprises—unless he is the one planning them.”
“That is true, but surely it would make more sense for me to talk to him.”
“I am not sure. He might be more inclined to argue with you. He is still partial to pretty girls and he always did have a soft spot for Sin. I never knew anyone else to get away with teasing him the way she did.”
“I don’t think he has any soft spots. He will tear her to shreds.”
“I think you do not give her enough credit. And are you afraid for her or for yourself? You have never been good with Scarlett.”
This was turning in circles. “I can handle Father fine. I just don’t choose to antagonize him when it is unnecessary.”
“Will you be here tomorrow?” Jasmine asked, seating herself again.
He did not wish to wait, but could see there was little choice. He did need Sin in a good mood if he was going to persuade her he was right. “Fine.”
“And you will say nothing until then.”
“Give me a little credit.” He turned and stalked from the room.
Chapter 20
Cynthia’s belly rumbled. The maid had brought up dinner, but her stomach had been tied in knots and she’d barely managed to pick at it. Now, however, true hunger was beginning to make itself known. She’d rung the bell again and again but there had been no answer.
She gazed about the small chamber. It was so plain and simple compared to the rest of the house and she had some understanding of why Jasmine kept it as her own. A woman could think here, all quiet colors and white walls, nothing to distract.
Only at present she wanted some distraction—distraction from her thoughts of James.
Her stomach gurgled again.
Food.
Food would both settle her so she could sleep and also provide some of that much-needed distraction. Maybe warm milk and a sweet pudding of some type. Her mouth watered at the thought. Warm and sweet.
Should she ring again?
The clock on the mantel ticked away. The house was certain to be busy at this hour and it was probable that none of the maids had a free moment. What exactly did maids do in a brothel? Well, there must be plenty of sheets that needed changing and certainly other messes that she didn’t wish to think of.
Still, she was curious. And not just about the maids. What did happen in a brothel at night?
The lure of the forbidden and the ache in her stomach had her standing by the door. She glanced down at her borrowed dress, blue silk, not too low, but with a tight bodice. It would pass. It belonged to one of the girls. Jasmine’s clothing would never have fit her.
The handle was cold beneath her touch.
No, she could not be foolish, could not be recognized. It was one thing to visit during the day, covered in her veils. It would be another entirely to be seen here at night.
Turning away, her eyes fell upon Jasmine’s dressing table and the small scattering of cosmetics. What if she disguised herself? She’d never played with cosmetics, but it shouldn’t be hard. She’d always had a talent for painting.
She seated herself at the table and picked up the white powder Jasmine used to give herself that unnatural pale.
A few fluffs of the brush. Yes, that was good.
A little kohl at the eyes. Well, that was probably too much, but it did make her look different.
Red on lips and cheeks. No, that was not quite what she’d meant to do.
She looked like a corpse with a strawberry for a mouth.
On the other hand, she didn’t look at all like herself. Nobody would ever look at this woman and think, Oh, she’s the daughter of a duke. Of course, she might completely ruin the reputation of Madame Blanche’s. She certainly did not look attractive and she’d always heard rumors of the beauty of the girls here.
So…
She did want to go out, to see what was happening.
Another rumble—and there was that. She would never manage to rest, as hungry as she was. Perhaps she could just sneak down the back stair to the kitchen. Jasmine had told her there was one, even if she had not actually shown her. That was what she would do—and if she couldn’t find it she would come back here and try ringing again.
And b
esides it would be fun to see the kitchen, to see what sort of treats were demanded at night.
First, however, she would wash her face.
And then she saw it, one of Jasmine’s pearly white masks. Lifting it, she held it over the top half of her face. Now, that made all the difference. Suddenly the red lips were mysterious, the dark eyes deep and hidden beneath the mask. Nobody would ever know her—and she did fit, or at least she thought she did. Even though she’d visited Madame Blanche’s several times she had to admit that she didn’t really know what Jasmine’s girls looked like when they worked. She did hope they didn’t walk about naked—or draped in whips and chains.
With a small grin, she strode to the door and stepped into the hallway and down the stairs that led to the main part of the house. A strange thrill coursed through her.
She heard laughter, male and female, and the light buzz of conversation. It sounded like an evening soiree, not a brothel. Shouldn’t there be bawdy song or music? Groans of passion?
She came to a long hallway of doors, all firmly closed. Were these the main rooms of the house? Is this where people…? She placed a hand on one of the handles, tempted to peek in and see what it looked like. There would be a bed, but what else? Jasmine had hinted at more, but Cynthia wasn’t sure she believed her. What more could there really be?
What if someone was in there already? Now, that would be embarrassing. What would she do if she caught somebody in the middle of…And what would they think of her? Would they think she was one of the girls? Would they want her to join? If the painting had shown two men, surely it would be possible with two women.
She pressed an ear to the door. There was not a peep from within. But would she hear? The hall was silent save for the laughter and chatter from downstairs. Surely not all the rooms were empty at this hour?
Her fingers tightened on the door handle, but then she pulled back. She could not risk it. There might be something very slightly titillating about the fantasy of being asked to join in—yes, she would admit that—but it would be a horror to actually be asked.
And then the decision was made.
Loud footsteps, definitely boots, sounded on the stairs, coming up the stairs.
All her confidence that she would not be recognized fled and in a single motion she pressed down on the handle and stepped in.
The room was almost dark and from what she could see not that different than any other bedchamber she had ever been in. A single candle burned on a high mantel, filling the room with shadows.
Before she could let out a sigh of relief, a voice sounded from the far side of the room. “You’re new, aren’t you? I was beginning to think Madame Blanche had forgotten me. I assume that she’s instructed you on what I require. My tastes are very simple. If you’ll just take off your dress and lie down on the bed, I will do the rest. And take off that horrid mask. I may not want to know who you are, don’t need your name, but I don’t wish to fuck a doll. I come here for the small bit of human contact I do desire.”
She froze. What? He did think she was one of the girls. There was no mistaking that—and he expected her to…No. That was impossible, but her whole body seemed frozen. The worst of it was she knew exactly who he was, the Duke of Starton. He’d come home with her father on several occasions and that deep, somber voice was unmistakable.
Without thought she stepped back, opened the door, and fled into the hallway.
“Oh, do that again, Percy. I do love it when you bite my neck. I am tempted to drop to my knees right here,” a female voice giggled.
Cynthia flattened herself back against the door.
Another giggle.
Why didn’t they just go into a room?
“Really, Percy, I want to do it right here.”
A male voice. “What if somebody sees us?”
“The very thought makes me excited. I am so wet, I may come all on my own if you don’t…”
Well, Cynthia certainly didn’t want to see—and there was no way she was going back into the room she’d just come out of. Wishing she could shut her ears to the moans that were echoing down the hall—had she really been thinking the place needed such sounds? Definitely not.
She reached another door and slipped in, holding her breath as she prayed for this one to be empty.
There was no light at all, not a single candle or lit fire. The air left her body and she sagged against the wall in the dark. Her lips quirked in self-deprecating humor. So much for her earlier bravado. The very thought of being caught, or for that matter catching someone else, was clearly far beyond her sensibilities.
Feeling her way, she crossed the room, wanting to be as far as possible from the door. Her knees rammed into something. A settee or chaise? It was hard to be sure without proper light. Whatever it was, she could sit while she decided on the best course of action. The problem with the soundproof doors was that she couldn’t hear out either. For all she knew the woman and Percy were leaning against this very door doing whatever it was they were doing.
On her knees?
The words had not fully penetrated before. She could only speculate on exactly what they meant, but her gut told her she was right. Her mind filled with the image of James kneeling before her, of his lips on her thigh, moving ever higher. Her inner muscles clenched as she remembered how it had felt, how her body had clenched with need as his lips moved up her leg. Would he feel the same if she did it to him?
She shouldn’t be thinking this way. Her body was heating and she could feel the need begin to rise. And given that she never wanted to see James again in her life, that was hopeless and would only lead to frustration.
What would his skin taste like? She was sure there’d be salt and musk and cinnamon. She wasn’t sure why the cinnamon, perhaps something in his smell?
No. No. No.
That was not what she needed to think about.
She pulled her knees up, tucking her feet beneath her. Wrapping her arms about her legs, she let her head fall forward.
The dark enveloped her. She couldn’t stay here for long. Every second she was here increased the chance that somebody would come in and then what would she do? Hide under the chaise?
It had worked on her visit to Madame Blanche’s. James had not seen her and she’d gotten a good look at his…Well, on that occasion it had only been his profile, but now her mind was actively filling in all the more enticing bits.
No. No. No.
She stood. Staying here served no purpose.
Sliding her feet over the smooth boards of the floor, arms out in front of her, she made her way back to the door.
It took several deep breaths and moments with her ears pressed tight against the door, trying to hear, before she found the courage to ease it open.
Again she held her breath as she slipped out, mentally crossing her fingers and toes, praying that her luck would hold.
It did not.
She found herself face-first in a male chest—and not the one she had come to know so well. There was no smell of cinnamon here.
She stepped back, startled.
The gentlemen stared at her, lips thinning. “You need to be more careful, girl.”
“I am sorry,” she whispered, glad that the mask still hid her features.
“I thought Ruby let things grow too lax, but Madame Blanche doesn’t even seem to know there should be rules. I cannot believe that Ruby refused to sell to me. I would have been a much better proprietor, much stricter.”
Cynthia nodded.
“And I would not have allowed any of this foolishness.” He reached out and in a single movement jerked the mask from her face, baring her features.
All she could do was stare back at him, her mind blank.
“Who are you?” the man demanded as his gaze raked her features. “There is something familiar…” His voice trailed off and his eyes narrowed. “I know you.”
“No, I am sure you don’t,” she squeaked. Even without the mask surely he couldn’t recog
nize her beneath the powder and kohl. She didn’t look at all like herself. And although she had to admit that he was vaguely familiar, that was all. An ache in the pit of her stomach warned her they must have been introduced at some point.
He reached out and his fingers bit into her arms. “You’re one of the actual young ladies that Ruby and now Madame Blanche have been foolish enough to allow here. I don’t know why they don’t stop this nonsense. This is no place for a lady. And don’t bother to deny it, the very tone of your voice spoke of who you are. I think I’ll just bring you downstairs. Somebody will know exactly who you are and then we can return you to your husband or family.” He stopped, his fingers digging into her tender flesh. “Or did he bring you here, your husband. I daresay that is another of Madame Blanche’s games. It must be stopped.”
Cynthia bit down on her lip, afraid that saying anything further would reveal even more of her identity. How could her few words have betrayed her? It had never occurred to her that her voice might give her away. She certainly knew that ladies spoke differently than their maids, and that maids spoke differently than shopkeepers, and that…Oh, it didn’t matter. She had to get away.
The man—and suddenly she knew who he was—tried to pull her forward, to pull her toward the end of the hall and the stairs that must lead down to the entrance.
Lord Thorton. Cynthia had been introduced to him after she had first come out and she’d seen him several times since. He was the man Jasmine had talked about that first day she had come here, the man who had made threats because Madame Blanche had not sold the house to him. Jasmine had pretended unconcern, but Cynthia had sensed her fear.
She struggled to stay put. It was impossible to say whether anybody below would know who she was, but that was one risk she could not take. If she were discovered here, even marriage to James would not save her from ruin. She could not do that to her father. She could not do that to herself.
She began to struggle.
Lord Thorton did not seem to notice her struggle. He kept pulling her toward the stairs.
