The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

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.