“I screwed her first, Darius.”
He curled his lip in disdain. “You screwed her, and I make love to her. That’s the difference between us.”
The marquess lowered his head, balled his hands into fists and took a threatening step forward.
Darius put his weight on the balls of his feet, ready to give his own father a good, sound thrashing. “Don’t even think about taking a swing at me, old man.”
His father folded his arms across his chest, a sly look narrowing his eyes. “Why did you lie to me, son? Why didn’t you tell me the truth right away, that you’d found her? I’ll tell you why. You were afraid she still cared for me, and if I got her first, she would reject you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself,” he scoffed. “You’re her past, and I’m her present.” He smiled. “And her future. She made that quite clear last night.”
“We’ll just see about that.”
Before Darius could say another word, his father stormed out of the room and slammed the door behind him.
Darius waited until the echo died away, leaving deafening silence in its wake. “Selfish, thoughtless old prick.”
Penbry Granger, Marquess of Blackwall, thought of no one but himself. Not his son. Not his daughters. Not Régine. All that mattered was what he wanted. Always. He was a peer of the realm and could blithely waltz through life, scattering chaos in his wake without a second thought. Let someone else pick up the pieces. Consequences were for lesser mortals to suffer.
“Well, not this time, dear Father.”
Darius sat back down. Was his father right? Had he lied about Régine’s whereabouts so he could get to her before the marquess? Did he fear she still had feelings for her charming seducer?
She couldn’t still desire Blackwall, not after the way she’d made love to him last night with intensity and such abandon. He remembered those rose petals strewn around her bed, and the game she’d made of plucking them from his groin’s curlies. He had stopped her from playing the game to completion because he was afraid the last petal she removed would be “he loves me not”, and that would’ve killed him.
He intended to be the victor in this war for Régine’s heart.
He rose. Even though he wasn’t due at her house for another hour, he had to get there before his father tracked her down. Blackwall would make a few inquiries of the hotel staff and grease a few palms with gold Louis until he got the information he sought.
Darius had to warn Régine before it was too late.
He stood on her stoop, looking right and left for any sign of his father as he rang the doorbell.
Molly answered it. “Why, Lord Clarridge…”
“I apologize for coming so early.”
She smiled and stood aside. “You’re always welcome, sir, late or early.” She locked the door behind him. “I’m taking precautions in case Count Dragomilov shows up here again, demanding to see the mistress.”
“You’re two women living alone. You can’t be too careful with men like Dragomilov.” Or the Marquess of Blackwall.
“I’ll tell her you’re here.”
Régine was in her dressing room, sitting at her dressing table, putting on the same diamond earrings she’d worn to Maxim’s. She turned on her bench and welcomed him with a warm smile as if he were not an hour early. “Darius.”
He kissed her on the cheek. “I couldn’t stay away for one minute longer.”
She laughed in delight. “Charmingly done.”
He rocked back on his heels. “I have something to tell you, and it’s rather upsetting.”
She raised one brow. “Oh?”
“My father’s here. In Paris.”
She froze, the second earring halfway to her ear. Her eyes widened in disbelief and alarm. “Penbry?” The word stuck in her throat, for she coughed. “Here? In Paris?”
“He followed me from London and asked me if I’d found you. I told him I hadn’t.”
“Then how did he find me?”
“You have your friend Beaucaire to thank for that.”
“Of course. Anatole’s column. I haven’t read it yet.” She appeared calm and self-possessed. “Dare I ask why your father is looking for me?” But her fingers trembled ever so slightly as she turned back to her mirror and set her second earring in her left earlobe. “Don’t tell me he’s looking for a new wife.”
Did she honestly believe his father was here to offer her marriage? Not the independent Régine, who controlled her own destiny.
“He says he still cares for you.” He watched her face’s reflection. “I think he wants you for his mistress again.”
Anger now darkened her fair complexion and tightened her lips into a thin, bloodless line. “Still cares for me?” Her laugh was so brittle, one tap and it would shatter. “That is amusing, considering that he never cared for me in the first place.”
She rose and placed a hand on his arm. “I know he’s your father, but kindly keep him away from me. I have no desire to become his mistress again, for all the jewels in Cartier’s. I feel only contempt for him and fear what my reaction would be if I ever did see him.”
He squeezed her hand. “With good reason.”
“I assume he knows we’re together now.”
“And he is not pleased.”
She flicked her fingers in a dismissive gesture. “His opinion is of no consequence to me.”
Darius raised her hand to his lips, needing to touch her, to feel reassured that his charming, determined father wasn’t going to woo her away.
“Does he know what I am?” she asked.
“I told him. He was shocked.”
“Shocked! What a hypocrite. I had no choice, because of him.”
“In his defense, his wife told him you’d gotten another position as a governess.”
Régine rolled her eyes.
Molly popped her head into the doorway. “Miss, a Marquess of Blackwall is here, and he insists upon seeing you.”
Régine exchanged glances with Darius. “Best we get this over with.”
He nodded. “Otherwise you’ll just be postponing the inevitable.”
“Show him to the drawing room,” she told Molly. “We’ll be down in a moment.”
The moment Régine had yearned for had finally arrived.
When she’d first embarked on her new life as a courtesan, she dreamed of the day she would see Penbry Granger again. She would be wealthy and independent by that time, and when he laid eyes on her, he would desire her as badly as he had when she was a naïve young governess living under his roof.
She would have the ultimate revenge by denying him what he wanted most—her.
She and Darius walked downstairs together. “I’m with you because I wish to be, not to spite your father and have my ultimate revenge.”
“I know that.” He smiled. “You don’t have a spiteful bone in your lovely body, Régine.”
Not spiteful perhaps, but vengeful.
Darius didn’t know about all the nights she’d whipped Luc and imagined Penbry standing in his place, groaning and jerking in agony with every stroke of the lash, and how good she felt afterward. Cleansed. Redeemed. Made whole again.
They stopped before the closed drawing room door. Régine took a deep breath.
She gave a curt nod. Darius flung open the doors, and she took his arm and entered the drawing room.
Penbry was studying the Toulouse-Lautrec portrait of Odile just as his son had the first time he’d called on her. Then the marquess turned. He carried a tissue paper cone filled with perhaps two dozen white roses.
To her surprise and chagrin, he hadn’t lost his hair, grown wiggly jowls or developed a paunch. He looked as handsome and devil-may-care as the first day she’d laid eyes on the dynamic master of Blackwall Manor. Those compelling gray eyes, lighter than his son’s, still shone with youthful zest. And lust, judging by the way he was raking over every inch of her body, lingering on her breasts a fraction too long for politeness.
“Re
gina,” he said softly. “You’re as beautiful as I remember.”
She didn’t return his smile. “Blackwall. What an unpleasant surprise.”
He looked taken aback by the cool reception but recovered himself beautifully. He stepped forward. “These are for you. White roses. Your favorites.”
She regarded them with a disdain that she reserved for roadside weeds. “When men try to win my favor,” she drawled, “they usually give me diamonds.” She tapped one of her earrings so the stone swung and sparkled.
Penbry scowled and tossed the roses on a nearby chair. “And what did my son give you?”
Régine sat on the settee, and Darius stood off to the side, his arms crossed. She looked over at him and smiled. “An unusual jeweled crown and a very, very generous monthly allowance.”
Penbry took the chair across from her, placed his elbows on his knees and leaned forward. “I’m so sorry things ended badly between us, Regina, and—”
“No one ever calls me Regina anymore, because that young woman no longer exists. My name is Régine now. Régine Laflamme.”
He looked irritated by the interruption. “Régine. I had to give you up. I had no choice. I was married, with two dear little girls.”
Suddenly, the grievous wrong Penbry had done to her no longer mattered. “I’m still puzzled as to why you’re here.”
He stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m free now, Regina, and I want us to be together.”
She burst out laughing. “That is the most preposterous thing I’ve ever heard. I don’t want you anymore, even if you offered to make me your marchioness. I pick my lovers very selectively and live my life as I please. And I choose to be with your son.”
“You’re only with him to hurt me and have your revenge for what I did to you.”
“Don’t flatter yourself, Pen.”
He sat back, glaring at Darius. “So that’s the way of it.”
“The lady has made her choice, sir,” Darius said. “Respect it.”
The marquess rose, towering over her, shaking, his anger barely controlled. “I will win you back one day, Regina. That’s a promise.”
With one final black look at his son, Penbry Granger, Marquess of Blackwall, her seducer and once the love of her life, stormed out of her drawing room, leaving his roses behind.
And she felt nothing. Not triumph. Not happiness. Not even satisfaction.
When the sound of the front door slamming died, Darius caressed her cheek with his fingertips. “You handled him splendidly, my dear.”
“I am accustomed to dealing with arrogant men who turn into petulant, spoiled little boys when they don’t get what they want.”
“Even though we’re together, he won’t leave you alone. He’s a very unrelenting man, accustomed to getting his own way. And since he is my own father, I can’t very well challenge him to a duel and kill him. Although I did grab him by the neck and fling him against a wall—twice.”
She smiled at that picture. “Perhaps he’ll give up and return to England.”
“Perhaps he will,” Darius said, but from his skeptical expression Régine didn’t think he believed his father would do any such thing.
Chapter Thirteen
The crush of carriages and riders in the Bois de Boulogne at the fashionable hours between three and five p.m. reminded Darius of London’s Hyde Park. Every Parisian present also promenaded about in their finery to see and be seen.
Darius, however, had eyes only for Régine sitting so close beside him in her open landau that their arms touched. She looked as enchanting as a woodland sprite in subdued fern green, and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat trimmed with fluttering ribbons and long, swooping pheasant feathers that touched her left shoulder. Unlike the other courtesans who drove by and nodded coolly at their rival while boldly giving Darius long, appraising stares and the occasional ribald wink, Régine wore no face paint and was not festooned with enough gaudy, sparkling jewelry to blind someone’s horses. Except for Régine’s diamond earrings, which were too elaborate for a respectable woman to wear during the day, one would never guess that she belonged to the same sinful sisterhood.
En route to the park, Darius had begun to discuss his father’s visit, but Régine placed her gloved fingertips gently against his lips and forbade him to mention the marquess.
“I have banished him from my thoughts,” she said, as her driver maneuvered the sleek matching bays along the promenade. “Today is a beautiful, warm spring day, and this is our special time together, so let us be happy and carefree and enjoy it.”
“I promise not to mention my father again.”
“Good. I dislike seeing you so troubled.” She smiled. “I hope you don’t mind being put on display, but I want everyone in Paris to know that we’re together.”
He kissed her hand and held it lightly in his lap. “So do I, though I would much prefer returning to your boudoir. One night was simply not enough for me.”
“Me, either.” She slipped her hand out of his, let it settle between his legs and quickly squeezed while she gave him a hot, smoldering look filled with promises of ecstasy to come. “Your patience will be rewarded all in good time.”
He gave a strangled gasp of surprise as the blood flooded his cock, making it ache unbearably and swell, but he managed to recover his composure just as a flashy carriage drew up alongside. The horse’s bridle and harness were trimmed with red and white carnations to announce to the world that its occupant was a grand horizontal whose favors were for sale.
A blonde porcelain doll of a woman dressed from head to toe in white virginal lace sat high in the driver’s seat, with two white French bulldogs as pampered passengers. “Yoo-hoo, Régine!” She wagged a disapproving finger. “Save such behavior for the boudoir, darlings.”
Darius blushed like a schoolboy caught masturbating beneath the covers and fought to bring his fiercely independent erection under control.
Régine laughed, a rich, bawdy sound. “Playing the voyeur, are you, Alice? For shame. And where have you been keeping yourself? We haven’t seen you in weeks.”
“I’ve been losing a fortune in Monte Carlo, darling,” she replied blithely, with a charming little-girl lisp, “and the prince is so furious with me for being such a spendthrift, I fear I shall be in the market for a new protector soon.” She studied Darius as though she were measuring him for her own bed. “This must be your latest conquest that has all of Paris abuzz.”
“Alice d’Alençon, this is Darius Granger, Earl of Clarridge. Clarridge, meet Mademoiselle d’Alençon, an old friend.”
Darius tipped his hat. “A pleasure.”
“Poor Valendry.” She shook her head. “The old dog didn’t stand a chance against such a fine young pup.” She raised her whip. “Well, darlings, I can see I’m blocking traffic and must be off. I’m sure we’ll see each other in all the usual haunts.”
She lifted the reins, clucked her tongue and sent her white horse into a smooth, high-stepping trot.
Régine waved, and then settled back in her seat. “Alice is quite outrageous, but unlike some of our other sisters in vice, she doesn’t have a mean bone in her flighty body. She appeals to older men who fancy little girls.” She glanced at him. “I hope I didn’t embarrass you. I thought I was being very discreet.”
He chuckled and twisted toward her. “Naughty, brazen woman, touching me so intimately in public, where anyone could see.” He pushed aside her hat’s feathers so he could see her face more clearly.
She ran the tip of her tongue suggestively along her upper lip. “I did embarrass you.”
“You just made me want to unbutton my trousers and let you pump my naked cock.”
“Monsieur!” She pretended to be genuinely shocked.
He traced the band of lace running down the front of her dress. “Or perhaps I’ll undo your bodice and fondle your lovely bare breasts. And then I’ll lift your skirts and diddle you until you come.”
Régine fanned her face with her free hand.
“Now you’re making me blush, monsieur.”
“And you look so pretty when you do. Did you know your whole body blushes when I make love to you? And when you climax, a lovely flush spreads across your chest?”
“No man ever told me that.”
“Most aren’t as observant as I.”
Her intense gaze roved over his face as if every curve and angle had a secret just waiting for her to discover. “You say the most delightful, exciting things, Lord Clarridge.”
“I mean every word.”
She leaned back and opened her frilly green sunshade, which she twirled flirtatiously. “Most men don’t.”
“I’m not most men.”
“I can see that.”
Régine had her driver steer the landau off the main path and stop the horses so they could rest, and Darius could admire one of the park’s several lakes, as still as glass on the beautiful spring afternoon.
Régine closed her sunshade. “That’s better.”
They were so engrossed in their warm, flirtatious banter that Darius didn’t immediately notice a large black horse galloping out of the crush toward their carriage. Régine turned to see the snorting, wild-eyed animal pull up at the last minute and rear, its flailing front hooves a mere three feet from her door. She inhaled sharply as she automatically leaned away from danger and closer to Darius. When the horse landed with a thud of its steel-shod hooves, Darius opened his mouth to give the careless rider a good tongue-lashing.
And then he saw the rider’s face.
“Count Dragomilov,” he said with barely controlled anger. “You frightened Mademoiselle Laflamme.”
The dueling scar darkened on the Russian’s coarse, florid face as he stared at Darius with all the animosity of a resentful rival. “She was in no danger. I know what I’m doing. I rode my first horse before I could walk and am an exceptional rider.” To prove his point, he touched his heel to his mount’s ribs, making the spirited steed arch its neck and dance in place. “You are this Earl of Clarridge everyone is talking about?”
Darius nodded coolly. “The very same.”
“I’ve seen you at Maxim’s, with that journalist fellow.”
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