The Courtesan's Bed

by Sandrine O'Shea

  Régine was staring at Darius as if he were a ghost, but he concentrated on her torturer.

  “Release her,” he said. “Start with her feet.”

  “You are very stupid, Englishman.” Dragomilov bent down and unbuckled the cuff that held Régine’s left ankle. “My friends are downstairs. You will never get out of here alive.” He undid the right cuff and straightened.

  Régine brought her legs together.

  “Now her wrists.” Darius kept far enough away from the Russian in case he lunged and tried to disarm him.

  Dragomilov unbuckled Régine’s right wrist. The minute her arm was free, she suddenly turned as quick as a striking cobra and, despite suffering in obvious pain, swung her arm, smashing her fist into his face with a sickening crack of flesh hitting more flesh and bone. His head snapped to the side. Before he could recover and step out of her way, Régine uttered a chilling feral snarl and followed up the disorienting blow with a vicious kick to his balls that made Darius wince.

  Dragomilov gasped in astonishment and agony, turned green and clutched his groin. He doubled over and sank to the floor in a helpless pile, groaning and writhing in pain.

  “How do you like it?” Régine freed her own left wrist. “You sadistic son of a bitch.”

  When she was finally free, she just stood there staring at Darius in wide-eyed shock. “I can’t believe you came back.”

  “Why? I told you I’d always protect you.” He took a deep, shuddering breath. “I have a lot to say to you, Régine, but now’s not the time. Hold this gun on him while I put our friend here out of commission.”

  He handed Régine the pistol, then smashed his own balled fist into Dragomilov’s jaw. Satisfied that he’d knocked him out cold, he dragged the incapacitated man over to his own device and bound his wrists with the cuffs that had once restrained Régine’s ankles. Then he took his handkerchief, stuffed it in Dragomilov’s mouth and secured it in place with the man’s own belt. “The prick doesn’t look particularly fearsome now, does he?”

  “Rather pathetic.” She kicked him in the ribs for good measure.

  Darius removed his coat. “Beaucaire is standing guard outside the door. We’ve got to get away before any Russians see us. I don’t particularly want to have to shoot our way out like some damned cowboy in an American dime novel.”

  Régine walked around Dragomilov, grimacing with every step, and gave Darius back his gun. She was trembling, and he felt red-hot rage when he noticed her jaw was bruised where the Russian must’ve struck her. He set the pistol on a nearby table and helped her slip into his coat to cover her nakedness. Then he couldn’t help himself. He had to take her in his arms and kiss her, if only on the forehead.

  When he released her, he said, “If it hadn’t been for Mademoiselle Doucette…”

  “So she did help me in spite of being terrified of Serge.” She looked at the connecting door. “Where is she?”

  “I don’t know, and we don’t have time to find her. She’s an enterprising young lady who can take care of herself quite nicely.”

  “I’m sure she can.” Régine looked up at him with love shining in her eyes. “Then let’s get out of here.”

  When she saw Beaucaire, she smiled. “You’re a sight for sore eyes, my friend.”

  “So are you.” He made a gallant bow. “I’ve always wanted to rescue a damsel in distress.”

  “Save the reunion speeches for later, you two,” Darius said. “We’re not out of the woods yet.”

  No one accosted them in the hallway, or on the servants’ stairs. When they reached the kitchen, Darius opened the door a crack and saw one of the other Russians talking to the cook. He waited and readied his pistol. A minute later the man left. They emerged slowly and carefully, looking to their right and left. When Régine saw the cook, her eyes widened in fear and panic, but the woman turned her back and deliberately ignored them, allowing them to leave the house unnoticed.

  Outside in the moonlit darkness, Darius slipped his arm around Régine’s waist and supported her as they ran for the main gate. She hobbled along, obviously in great pain, but managed to keep up.

  Darius was relieved to see Beaucaire’s carriage still standing where they’d left it.

  Once they were inside, Darius slid across the seat to the farthest corner. “I suspect it’s painful for you to sit,” he told Régine, “so lie across the seat on your stomach.”

  “Always so thoughtful.” She eased herself down with a hiss of pain, resting her head in his lap. She uttered a grateful sigh. “That’s better.”

  Beaucaire crossed his arms and scowled. “You should’ve let me shoot the bastard. No French court would ever convict me.”

  “At least we got her away from him.” Darius stroked her damp hair and longed for the moment when they could finally be alone. “That’s more humiliating than death for a proud man like Dragomilov.”

  “Good point,” Beaucaire said.

  As the carriage got underway, Beaucaire leaned forward toward Régine. “I know this has been a terrible night for you, and all you want to do is go home and put this behind you, but I think we should drive to the nearest police station and file charges against Dragomilov for kidnapping and assault.”

  She nodded. “I will. For Odile. For myself. For all of the courtesans of Paris.”

  Ivy stood with her ear pressed to the connecting door, expecting to hear more raised, angry voices.

  Nothing but silence.

  She opened the door just a crack. She peered through it, relieved to see the boudoir was empty. Lord Clarridge had come for the woman he loved, and despite the danger to himself, rescued Régine from her horrible fate. Since she hadn’t heard any shouts or gunshots, she assumed they had escaped the notice of Serge’s three friends downstairs.

  Feeling more confident, she opened the door all the way and strode into the boudoir.

  She was startled to see the powerful Russian lying helpless and unconscious on the floor, his wrists bound to the foot of the device and a gag in his mouth.

  She tried to muster a grain of sympathy for him, but after the way he’d tortured Régine and so callously cast Ivy aside, not one ounce of compassion remained in her heart.

  She didn’t even stop to untie and revive him, but eagerly went to the very bureau where he’d kept the amber jewelry. She opened the drawer, praying her hunch was right.

  There lay the same flat jewel case that had been in his desk at the townhouse. He hadn’t locked it in a safe. He had brought it to his boudoir and stuck it in the bureau drawer as if the stones were worthless paste, intending to fasten the jewels about Régine Laflamme’s neck after he’d broken her spirit.

  Her heart hammering with anticipation, she opened the case.

  The glittering fire of diamonds cooled with large green emeralds blazed up at her.

  She snapped the case shut and hugged it to her chest like a lover. Taking the jewels was not stealing. She had earned them. They were payment for services rendered.

  Ivy turned, blew the unconscious Serge a contemptuous kiss, and left him to his well-deserved humiliation.

  Ivy had Serge’s driver drop her off at the townhouse, and when he had driven away, out of sight, she came back out and hailed a cab to take her to a small, unfashionable hotel where no one would ever think to look for her, should Serge decide to hunt her down for taking the jewels.

  He had given her enough gold Louis to buy a transatlantic ticket to New York City, where she’d sell off the diamonds and emeralds stone by stone to finance her exciting new high life in the New World.

  Never again would she let any man control and debase her. She would rather live alone as her own woman, enjoying her wealth.

  The following morning at the crack of dawn, she left Paris and never looked back.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  A week later Régine still couldn’t believe she was safe in her own home, imprisoned not in Dragomilov’s country house, but in the warm, protective circle of Darius’
s arms as they lay propped up against a bank of pillows in the courtesan’s bed. All of her physical wounds had finally healed.

  During her convalescence, Darius had spread her soothing salve on the painful welts until they faded and lost their sting. He fed her Molly’s hot, nourishing beef soup, and let her sleep for as long as she wished, saying nothing about the events leading up to their parting.

  Until now.

  He tucked her head beneath his chin and drew her as close as he could. “Why didn’t you tell me that Kate had come to see you?”

  “She convinced me that if you knew, you’d dismiss her concerns and refuse to leave me. And if that happened, her chances with the Duke of Sefton would be ruined. She was so upset, she was crying her heart out. I couldn’t bear to think that my little Katie would lose the man she loved because of my selfishness.”

  “She had no right to ask you to make such a sacrifice without consulting me,” he said.

  “For your father’s plan to succeed, Kate had to convince me not to tell you. And much to my shame and regret, she played on my sympathies and succeeded.” She snuggled even closer, treasuring the reassuring warmth of his skin against hers.

  “I was furious with her for letting our father use her as a pawn,” he said, “especially since Sefton ultimately asked her to marry him in spite of her brother’s liaison with a notorious Parisian courtesan.”

  “So her fears turned out to be groundless. That’s wonderful. I’m so happy for her.”

  “When she realized how much I was suffering without you, she confessed everything.” He chuckled. “Sefton’s marriage proposal didn’t hurt, either.”

  She rested her head against his chest. “I’m so thankful your father’s plan didn’t succeed because I love you with all my heart, Darius Granger, and I can’t live without you.”

  “The afternoon that I saw you and Villemessant together in your drawing room, my world ended.”

  “I had to flaunt my new protector to convince you that I was cold and heartless, unworthy of you. By letting you catch me embracing Villemessant—”

  “You were very convincing. Too convincing. I knew I had lost you.”

  “I’m so glad you didn’t give up on me.”

  He kissed the top of her head. “I do love you, my Queen of Fire.” He gently disengaged her, sat up and turned to face her. “I want to be more than your protector, Régine, and I want you to be more than my mistress.” He gazed so deeply into her eyes, he reached all the way to her soul. “I want you to become my wife.”

  Her heart sank. “You’re an English peer, and I’m a harlot.” Her frank words made him stiffen. “Don’t scowl and dismiss it. That’s exactly what I am. I’m not respectable and wouldn’t fit into your world.”

  He ran his fingers down her silken cheek. “You won’t have to worry about that because I won’t be living in England. I’m selling my townhouse and moving to Paris. Permanently.”

  Shock caused her to rear back. “But what about Kate and Emma?”

  “As long as they respect my wife, they may visit as often as they like.”

  “What about any children we might have?” she said anxiously. “How would your heirs feel knowing their mother once was a notorious courtesan?”

  “They would love and admire their mother as much as their father does.”

  “My heart would break if my children regarded me with contempt for my past.”

  “There are no guarantees in life, for any of us. All we can do is try our damnedest and hope for the best.”

  Her gaze slid away. “I feel as though I’m being pulled in two.”

  He caught her chin. “Look at me.”

  She did, and saw sincerity and solid abiding love shining from his eyes.

  “Do you love me?”

  She took a deep breath. “With all my heart.”

  “Then we can overcome any obstacle. Besides, you know that the French are more forgiving of a grand horizontal’s past than the straitlaced English.”

  “That is true. Several of my sisters in sin have married respectable men, even noblemen, and now live lives of exemplary virtue.”

  Darius grinned. “As Lady Clarridge, you would be above reproach, like Caesar’s wife. Except, of course, when you’re in my bed. Then I’ll expect you to practice your passionate courtesan’s wiles on me.”

  Hope filled her for the first time. “Do you think we could have a future together?”

  “As long as we love each other, I don’t care about the rest of the world.”

  She closed her eyes. “Oh, Darius…”

  “Say yes, Régine. Just say yes. I promise you won’t be sorry.”

  She took his face in her hands and stared deeply into those expressive winter eyes. “I do love you so.”

  “Then prove it by becoming my wife.”

  Seven years ago, she had dreamed that she would one day marry Penbry, her first love. Now she was grateful that she hadn’t, because his son was the far better man. Darius wasn’t arrogant or selfish, and he would never torment her with infidelities. He would protect and cherish her and their children. If only she had the courage to take her destiny in hand as she once had seven years ago.

  Then, in the deepest recesses of her mind, came Odile’s voice as clearly as if her friend were standing right beside her. “You can’t live this life of sin forever. You love each other. What else is there but amour? The rest of life will fall into place. You’ll see. So accept his proposal, chérie, otherwise you’ll regret it for the rest of your life.”

  You’ll regret it for the rest of your life.

  Before she could change her mind, she clutched him by the shoulders. “Yes! Yes, I will marry you.”

  His smile lit up the room, and he let out a jubilant whoop. He pulled her against him and held her as if he’d never let her go. “You have made me the happiest man in the world.”

  “We should celebrate with champagne.”

  He gave her a hard, claiming kiss. “Later. I have a far better celebration planned.”

  She pulled away reluctantly. “Perhaps we should wait until our wedding night.”

  “Our wedding night?” His expression of dismay was comical to behold as he looked down at his stiff erection. “You couldn’t be that cruel to a desperate man in pain.”

  She giggled. “No, I couldn’t, but I do adore teasing you.”

  She lay back against the pillows and stared at Darius with a hunger that began in the depths of her heart. Soon, he would be her husband. His handsome face would be the first thing she saw in the morning and the last when she went to bed at night. They would have children together and grow old together, sharing life’s sunshine and shadows.

  All her other protectors had been lovers of her body, most forgotten as soon as they moved on, but Darius was the lover of her heart, the one she would never forget.

  Darius gazed raptly at her as if memorizing her features. He ran his fingertips lightly over her eyebrows, down her nose, caressing her lower lip with his thumb, then her chin.

  “I never get tired of looking at you,” he whispered, his face aglow with happiness.

  “Good, because you’re going to be looking at me for the rest of your life, even when I’m old and wrinkled.”

  “And making such sweet, transporting love to you for the rest of our lives.” He kissed everywhere his fingers had touched, her brows, nose and chin. He settled his warm, hard lips on hers, gently at first, then more demanding, teasing, insistent, his tongue seeking entrance.

  She parted her lips and welcomed him, stroking his sweet tongue with her own, back and forth, letting the first stirrings of excitement awaken and build.

  Darius flung back the covers with an impatient hand, baring them both to each other’s hungry gaze. He stroked her only with his lips, not his hands, from her neck, down her arms and down her body. He was claiming her, branding her as if his kisses could leave visible marks, telling the world that she belonged to him and him alone.

  She cl
osed her eyes, enjoying the light, soft tracks of his touch as he kissed her inner thighs, hovering perilously close to her thatch. After trailing down her legs and finishing at the base of her toes, first on the right foot, then the left, he retraced his sensuous path up her body to settle on her lips once again.

  When he finished kissing her, he stared deeply into her eyes. “I’m a very lucky man.”

  “And I am the luckiest woman.” She ran her fingertips along his hard, sculpted shoulder and down his arm. When she came to his hand, she drew it to her left breast.

  The minute his palm cupped her soft flesh, the bright light of lust softened the harsh planes of his face. He squeezed, raising the nipple into a long, hard button.

  Régine gasped and shivered in delight.

  “I love watching your expression change when I touch your breasts.” He cupped the right one. “Mustn’t neglect this one, or it will feel slighted and sulk.”

  “We can’t have a sulking breast.” She lay back, offering herself to him. “I love your touch.”

  He sat up and reached for them both, flicking the rosy, straining tips with his thumbs. He caught them between his fingers, his thumbs gently pulling and stretching while Régine groaned in enjoyment.

  He continued tormenting her until she thought she’d go mad from the pleasure clenching her insides.

  He stopped and inspected his handiwork. “Now they’re ripe and just the right size to bestow pleasure.” He took the swollen nipple into his mouth and sucked.

  A lightning bolt of bliss sizzled along her nerve endings, settling in her groin and growing, spreading throughout her lower body, turning her wet and ready for his possession. She reached down to thread her fingers through his thick, silken hair, encouraging him.

  He took his sweet time, licking, sucking, gently raking his teeth against her sensitive flesh, causing Régine to arch her back and cry out his name.

  Satisfied, he planted one kiss on each breast before stroking down her belly, his caresses as feather light and arousing as she’d ever experienced.

  A wicked smile lifted one corner of his mouth. “Is my bride-to-be ready for me?”