The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

by Anne Lethbridge

  ‘He used to hunt,’ Tripp observed.

  Ignoring the lawyer’s attempt at delay, Christopher frowned. ‘What can I do about this will?’

  ‘Nothing.’

  ‘Bloody hell. What do you mean, nothing?’

  Tripp pursed his lips and lowered his brows.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Christopher said. ‘This all comes as rather a shock.’ He took a swig of his burgundy. At least Uncle John had kept an excellent cellar.

  ‘I imagine Mademoiselle Boisette is also surprised,’ Tripp said, his jowls drooping to his cravat. ‘A pleasant young woman. Always a very gracious hostess.’

  The revelation of unsavoury secrets held no appeal and Christopher pressed on. ‘Can I just sell the house and give her the money?’

  Tripp appeared to consider the question carefully. ‘Your uncle thought her too young. She needs a guardian.’

  ‘Too young?’ The words exploded from Christopher’s mouth. His uncle must have been nigh on sixty. He wanted to throttle Tripp. ‘How old is she?’

  Tripp stiffened. ‘Twenty-three. Your position of guardian is to continue until she’s twenty-five.’

  Dear God! Twenty-three and she had lived with his uncle for twelve years? No wonder the old man had locked himself away from society all these years. His stomach churned. The normally solid ground beneath him seemed to turn into a quagmire.

  ‘I must decline,’ Christopher said.

  Tripp sighed. ‘I feared as much. I told Mr Evernden the family wouldn’t like it. He set great store by you, Mr Christopher. He would have been sorry to learn of his mistake.’

  ‘At the risk of being rude, Mr Tripp, I must be brutally frank. I don’t care what you think or what my uncle thought. I refuse to be imposed upon. I want it sorted out. Now.’

  Tripp looked as affronted as Aunt Imogene. Christopher didn’t care.

  ‘The terms of the will are quite explicit, sir,’ Tripp said.

  ‘What about her mother’s family, or her father?’

  ‘She has no family of which I am aware. Her mother died in France. Mr Evernden did not reveal the name of her father. Anyway, since I gather her father refuses her recognition, it is of no consequence.’

  The thin straw of rescue drifted out of Christopher’s grasp. ‘Then there must be something I can do with her. Some institution where she can learn a skill, somewhere a woman like—’

  Tripp harrumphed. His eyebrows jumped on his crumpled forehead like rabbits on a ploughed field.

  ‘Somewhere for a woman like me, Mr Evernden?’ The cool tone from behind him held the slightest trace of a French accent.

  Hell. Apparently, the impertinent Mademoiselle Boisette had no qualms about eavesdropping. So be it. Beating around the bush only led to disappointed expectations, as he well knew from his business dealings. Christopher swung around to face her.

  Mr Tripp rushed between them. ‘Allow me to introduce Mademoiselle Boisette, Mr Evernden.’

  Still veiled, Mademoiselle Boisette held out a small, black-gloved hand. She curtsied as he took it, a fluid movement with all the easy grace of a self-assured woman.

  She turned to the lawyer. ‘Would you be good enough to leave us to speak alone, Mr Tripp? We have some issues of mutual concern to address.’

  To his relief, her tone sounded clipped and businesslike. No tears. At least, not yet.

  Tripp rubbed his hands together. ‘Certainly.’

  He had food on his mind, Christopher could tell.

  Tripp pulled out his calling card and handed it to Christopher with a flourish. ‘Mr Evernden, if it would not be too much trouble, I would appreciate it if you would call at my office later today. I have some documents requiring your signature.’

  Damned country solicitors. Why the hell hadn’t he brought the documents with him? Christopher tamped down his irritation. First, he had to depress any hopes Mademoiselle Boisette might have about continuing the connection with his family.

  The murmur of distant conversation and the clink of glasses briefly wafted through the open door as Tripp left and closed it behind him.

  Mademoiselle Boisette glided to the desk. Her graceful movements, her calmness, reminded Christopher of a slow and gentle river. Her impenetrable veil skimmed delicate sloping shoulders and he ran his gaze over her straight back and trim waist. An altogether pleasing picture.

  The wayward thought stilled him. He leaned his hip against a rickety table and sipped his wine. Nothing she could say would make him change his mind.

  With her back to him, Mademoiselle Boisette set her wineglass amid the clutter of papers. A lioness’s head leaned against one corner of the desk and her hand brushed reverently over its tufted ears.

  She spoke over her shoulder. ‘I feared these creatures so much when I first came to live here, I asked Monsieur Jean to remove them from the walls.’ A breathy sigh, as light as a summer wind, shimmered the secretive veil. ‘We both know there are far more dangerous creatures than these in the world, don’t we?’

  Reaching up, she pulled the pearl-headed pin from her bonnet. Her slender back stretched as she removed the hat in a fluid motion. She placed it on the desk.

  A crown of braided gold encircled her head. Curling tendrils at the nape of her long neck brushed her collar.

  As regal as a queen, she revolved to face him, her hands clasped in front of her. ‘And that is why we need to talk.’

  Christopher’s breath hooked in his throat. She had the face of an angel.

  Fringed by golden lashes, forget-me-not blue eyes gazed out of a heart-shaped face. Not a single blemish marred the perfection of her creamy complexion or peach-blushed cheeks. His mouth longed to taste the lushness of full ripe lips. A banquet offered to a starving man.

  Like a callow youth faced with his first view of a woman’s bare breast, his palms dampened. He resisted the temptation to wipe them on his pantaloons. By God, he’d seen many lovely women in the salons of London, but beautiful did not begin to describe this vision.

  Since when did his appetites control his reactions?

  As if reading his thoughts, her mouth curved in a smile, the small space in the centre of her pearl-white top teeth an enchanting fault amid celestial perfection.

  She was no seraph. Pure devilment gleamed in the cerulean gaze locked with his.

  Placing her gloved fingertip between her teeth, she glanced at him. Her lashes lowered and then swept up again. A lingering question lurked in her eyes.

  Eve biting the apple.

  He swallowed.

  She tugged the tip of her glove free and then released it.

  An indrawn breath lifted the swell of her bosom beneath her close-fitting gown. He imagined rose-tipped globes peaking to his touch.

  His collar tightened. Sweat trickled down his spine.

  Transfixed, he stared as she repeated the manoeuvre with each remaining slender finger. In all his years on the town, he’d never seen such wanton sensuality. Blood stirred and pulsed in his loins. He shifted, spreading his thighs to ease the burgeoning pressure.

  Head tipped to one side, she focused her gaze on his mouth and licked her bottom lip with a moist, pink tongue.

  An unendurable desire to echo that touch on his mouth, to trace the path of her glance, tingled his tongue.

  As graceful as a ballet dancer and with agonising slowness, she drew off the glove, baring the white skin of her wrist, her knuckles, her slender fine-boned fingers.

  Visions of white, naked flesh writhing beneath him shortened his breath. Sensations of silky skin, slick and wet and hot for him, closing around him as he drove them both to mindless bliss, tightened his groin. He fought the deep shimmer of pleasure.

  She laid the wisp of black silk across the big cat’s tawny muzzle.

  He curled his lip. A brazen wanton indeed.

  He enjoyed the warmth of a willing woman, but had no need of a professional courtesan. And no matter how beautiful or sensual, he had no interest in a woman who had brought scandal to the
name of Evernden.

  A dimple appeared at the corner of her curving mouth.

  Taste her. Caress her full lips with his mouth, duel with her moist, soft tongue and press her slender form hard against him. Take what she offered with brazen abandon. Here. Now. The words matched the rhythm of his pulsing blood.

  Damn. This little witch wouldn’t play him for a fool as she had his dotard uncle. Lust never controlled him.

  He slammed his glass amid the documents on the table, ignored the red stain spreading over the jumbled papers and folded his arms across his chest.

  Seconds felt like minutes as, one finger at a time, she freed the other glove and slid it off. She ran the garment through her fingers, a torturous stroking of silk against bare skin. She dropped it beside its partner.

  He remembered to breathe.

  ‘Mr Evernden.’ Her husky, accented voice caressed his skin the way a lioness rubbed in adoration against her mate. ‘I have a proposition for you.’

  Yes, his body roared in feral triumph.

  Chapter Two

  D isgust roiled in his gut, both at his unprecedented lack of control and the thought of his ancient uncle with his hands on this delicate creature. ‘There is no proposal you could offer that would interest me, madam.’

  Raising an eyebrow, she perused his person from heel to head, her gaze lingering on his chest before sliding up to meet his eyes. She smiled approval.

  Molten lava coursed through his veins at the studied invitation.

  Damn her impudence. Even the most audacious of the demi-monde made their desires known with more discretion. He didn’t deal in money for flesh. The few women with whom he’d established mutually enjoyable relationships preferred gifts of jewellery, subtle tokens of appreciation and respect.

  A seductive sway to her hips, she drifted to the centre of the room, her modestly cut gown intriguingly at odds with her aura of raw sensuality.

  Once more, her gaze rested on his mouth and she moistened her lush lips. ‘You sound quite sure of yourself.’

  The only thing he knew for certain was his body’s demands in response to her blatant allure. He forced his expression to remain impassive. ‘We are discussing you, not me.’

  She inclined her head to one side. ‘Really? What is it to be then, Mr Evernden? Not an orphanage, for I am too old. A parish workhouse, perhaps?’

  Her husky, French-laced voice called to him like a siren’s song. He clenched his jaw.

  Tapping one slender, oval-nailed finger against her rather determined chin, she nodded slowly. ‘You will take your uncle’s money and leave me to the tender mercies of the town.’

  Bloody hell. She made him sound like a thief. Only he had no need of his uncle’s pitiful estate and no reason for guilt. He knew where his duty lay. It did not include taking his uncle’s bit of muslin home. ‘Nothing of the sort. You have to live somewhere suitable.’

  Something hard and bright flashed in her eyes. Swept away by fair lashes, it was replaced by a mischievous gleam. ‘Anywhere except your home, of course.’

  The deuce. Could she read minds? ‘Exactly.’

  She dropped her bold stare to the floor and her imperfect top teeth nibbled her lower lip. ‘Excuse me, Mr Evernden. I do not wish to be at odds with you, but I do request a fair hearing before you reach a final decision.’

  ‘There is nothing to discuss.’

  Her eyes flashed. ‘There is your family name.’

  A lump of lead settled on Christopher’s chest. More scandal. His mother had enough misery to contend with as Garth debauched his way through life, without this female causing her anguish. ‘My family is nothing to do with you.’

  She turned and picked up her gloves and hat. ‘Perhaps this is not the best place to discuss such a delicate matter.’

  He followed the direction of her gaze around the cluttered, dirty room and shrugged.

  ‘We would occasion far less remark in my private apartments, once the other guests have departed,’ she urged.

  Blast. He’d forgotten the reception. And Aunt Imogene. She would chew his ear off if she learned he’d been alone with this female. Not to mention what she would report to his poor, benighted mother. ‘Very well.’

  ‘I will ask the butler to bring you to my drawing room at the first possible opportunity.’

  Christopher nodded.

  Her hat clutched against her bosom, she peered out of the door, then slipped out.

  Christopher raised his eyes to the smoke-grimed ceiling. He’d fallen into a madhouse.

  He followed her into the hallway in time to see a swirl of black skirt disappear up the servants’ narrow staircase at the other end of the passage. At least she showed a modicum of decorum.

  Christopher straightened his shoulders and sauntered back to the reception. The company had thinned in his absence and Tripp was nowhere to be seen. Nursing his wine, Christopher wandered over to the window and glanced out. A privet hedge bordered the lane leading to the wrought-iron gates at the end of the sweeping drive where a knot of coachmen smoked pipes and chatted at the head of the four waiting carriages. Beyond them, a down-at-heel fellow in a battered black hat perused the front of the house. A prospective buyer?

  The ramshackle condition of the property would not attract a wealthy purchaser despite the magnificent view of alabaster cliffs, the English Channel and, on a rare fine day like today, the faint smudge of the French coast on the horizon. Small vessels, their white sails billowing, scurried towards Dover harbour behind the headland. Mid-channel, larger ships plied their trade on white-tipped waves. No wonder his uncle had hermited himself away here with his fille de joie.

  A picture of her face danced in his mind. He shook his head. No one could be that beautiful. The dim light had fooled him.

  ‘Christopher?’

  Damn it. What now? He swung around. ‘Yes, Aunt?’

  Excitement gleamed in his aunt’s protuberant eyes. ‘I am so glad George brought me today. Lord and Lady Caldwell were my brother’s closest acquaintances.’

  She motioned in the direction of the well-dressed couple engaged in conversation with chubby Uncle George. ‘They have invited us to stay with them for a day or two.’

  ‘How delightful for you both.’

  Aunt Molesby dropped her penetrating voice to a whisper. ‘Caldwell says that John actually used that woman as his hostess. Can you credit it?’

  A veritable charger in the lists, nothing would stop his aunt at full tilt. Fortunately, she did not seem to expect an answer.

  ‘Yes, indeed,’ she continued. ‘The shame of it. Lady Caldwell never attended, of course. Only men friends were invited for the gambling parties.’ Her expression changed to disgruntlement. ‘That woman didn’t attend the gentlemen in any of their gambling pursuits. She always disappeared after dinner.’

  Thank heaven for small mercies.

  ‘You really should greet the Caldwells, you know,’ she said, urging him in their direction. ‘They were acquainted with your father.’

  By the time Christopher had accepted the Caldwells’ words of sympathy, said farewell to the Molesbys and spoken to the vicar, most of the food was gone and the guests had departed.

  The butler approached with a low bow. ‘If you’ll follow me, sir, Mademoiselle Boisette will see you now.’

  Quelling his irritation at the pompous tone, Christopher followed the butler up the curved staircase to the second floor. Ushered into what was obviously an antechamber, he surveyed the delicate furnishings and the walls decorated with trompe-l’oeil scenes of what he assumed to be the idyllic French countryside.

  Rather than risk the single fragile, gilt chair collapsing under him, Christopher declined the butler’s offer of a seat.

  ‘If you would wait here a moment, sir, I will inform Mademoiselle Boisette you are here.’

  Hell. Did she think he was here for an interview? He would make his position clear from the outset.

  The butler knocked on the white door beneath a p
ediment carved with cherubs. It opened just enough for him to enter.

  More moments passed and Christopher paced around the room. This situation became more tiresome by the minute. Finally, the butler returned and gestured for him to enter. ‘This way, sir, if you please.’

  A gaunt, middle-aged woman, her well-cut, severe gown proclaiming her to be some sort of companion, bobbed a curtsy as he passed and Christopher stepped into the lady’s bower, a room of light, with high ceilings and pale rose walls. A white rug adorned the centre of the highly polished light-oak planks. Mademoiselle Boisette, seated on the sofa in front of an oval rosewood table, glanced up from pouring tea from a silver teapot.

  Stunned by the full effect of her glorious countenance, Christopher blinked. His mind had not played tricks downstairs. With hair of spun gold and small, perfectly formed features, she seemed even more beautiful than he remembered. Unfortunately, she had spoiled the effect by applying rouge to her cheeks and lips since their first meeting.

  He took the hand she held out.

  She smiled with practised brilliance. ‘Mr Evernden, thank you for agreeing to talk to me. Denise, you may leave us. Mr Evernden and I have business to discuss.’

  The woman twisted her hands together. ‘I will be in the next room should you need me, mademoiselle.’

  Mademoiselle Boisette inclined her head. ‘Merci, Denise.’

  She indicated the striped rose-and-grey upholstered chair opposite her. ‘Please, do be seated.’

  Like the pieces in the antechamber, the delicate furniture seemed unsuited to the male frame. Careful to avoid knocking the table with his knees, he lowered himself onto the seat.

  Despite the damned awkwardness of the situation, Mademoiselle Boisette seemed perfectly at ease. She might not have attended his uncle’s card parties, but this young woman managed to hide her thoughts exceedingly well. Determined to remain impartial, he eyed her keenly. He would hear her out.

  Pouring tea into a white, bone-china cup, she moved with innate grace. Her fine-boned fingers were as white and delicate as the saucer in her hand.