The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

He caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle as she followed the maid up the stairs. Even worn to the bone, she radiated female sensuality. No wonder men rushed to her aid, lust burning in their eyes.

The low-beamed room with overstuffed chairs and easy country atmosphere comforted Christopher like hot punch on a cold night. Half-empty serving dishes cluttered the sideboard against the wall.

Pleasantly full, he set down his knife and fork and stared at the woman across from him. The warmth of the fire and her few sips of red wine had dispelled her earlier pallor. The faint glow in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes rendered her utterly lovely.

Mrs Dorkin hadn’t asked him any pointed questions about Miss Boisette’s presence under his protection. No doubt she’d seen and heard enough about the Evernden men and their dissolute ways not to be surprised at Christopher’s arrival with one of the world’s most beautiful women on his arm.

Despite her assertions, Miss Boisette needed proper male protection. The scene at the Sussex proved it.

He ran an appraising glance over her and frowned. Her severe brown gown couldn’t be drearier. Come to think of it, the nondescript grey cloak and black poke bonnet she wore to travel in were also exceedingly dowdy. To all intents and purposes, she dressed like a governess or lady’s maid.

Christopher wanted to see her in something more elegant, lighter, perhaps the colour of sapphires to match her brilliant eyes. Something lacy and filmy that left little to the imagination. Something like Lady Delia, Garth’s last fling, had worn when Christopher had dropped in on their love nest one afternoon.

The image of Sylvia Boisette’s curvaceous form clothed in a wisp of silk stirred his blood.

Her small white teeth, with their adorable tiny space in the centre, bit into a petit-four. What would that moist, soft mouth feel like against his lips or on his…?

Bloody hell. He didn’t need this. He pushed his plate away.

Her wanton behaviour yesterday and in Tunbridge Wells had his thoughts in the gutter. If she had stayed where he had left her, they wouldn’t be in this fix. If she had dressed like a lady, the young lordling might not have been so ready with his insults and the landlord might have given her a room without question.

‘Don’t you have something smarter to wear?’ he asked.

Blue heat flashed in her eyes. Quickly repressed, it hinted at higher passions beneath her cool distant beauty. His groin tightened. Mentally, he cursed.

‘Why would I?’ she asked. ‘I plan to become a shopkeeper, not a courtesan.’

Her flat tone delivered a dash of cold water to his lust. He watched an expression of satisfaction dawn on her face. She intended to disgust him. What game was she playing?

He’d been billed enough for expensive clothes by the last woman in his life to know quality when he saw it. ‘The mourning gown you wore to my uncle’s funeral was well cut and in the height of fashion. Made from the finest silk, if I’m not mistaken.’ He waved his glass in her general direction. ‘I’m sure my uncle preferred you in something more attractive.’

Pain shadowed her eyes before she shuttered her gaze. ‘That part of my life is over.’

He took a deep swallow of wine. ‘Really? Then what were you doing at the Sussex Hotel?’

‘Seeking a room for the night.’

‘With Lord Albert, no doubt.’

Outwardly unruffled, she did not shrink from his gaze, but her hand clutched the locket at her throat. ‘No.’

A low blow, he silently acknowledged, remembering the panic in her eyes when Lord Albert slobbered over her hand. Damn it, every time he thought about it, he wanted to throttle the snivelling fribble.

What the hell was the matter with him? He never let a woman distract him. Miss Boisette had caused him nothing but anxious moments. ‘While we are on the subject, perhaps you would like to explain why you tipped me the double?’

‘Tipped you the double?’ She wrinkled her nose.

The urge to kiss away the furrow on her brow swept through him. He wanted to do more than that. Even with a frown, her incredible beauty numbed his mind and shortened his breath. His blood thickened. Never had a woman tempted him like this one.

He drew in a deep breath, crushing his desire. Dalliance with his uncle’s ward or mistress—which he no longer believed—remained out of the question if he wanted to preserve a grain of family honour.

Hell. He needed to get rid of her and continue on his way to the Darbys’. He set his glass down, the chink loud in the quiet room. ‘Come clean, Miss Boisette. Why did you not stay with your friend? You took money to go into business and within an hour of my leaving you, I find you at a common inn hanging on the arm of some young coxcomb.’

Arctic chill frosted her gaze. ‘Are you implying that I took the money under false pretences?’

‘I demand an explanation.’

‘You have no right to demand anything. You brought me here against my will and if you try to touch me, I will scream bloody murder.’

It seemed he now had her full attention. This beautiful young woman, who behaved like a trollop one moment and an ice queen the next, needed a good shaking. ‘Do you really think the Dorkins will pay any attention?’

Stark terror leaped into her eyes, bleakness invading their clear, cold depths like a plea for help. Fear hung in the air as thick and choking as smoke.

What did a woman like her have to fear from him? She had tossed more lures at him than a falconer to an ill-trained hawk. And he’d almost come to her fist, jessied and hooded.

Enough. He would do his duty and see her settled and he would see it done his way. Calmly, logically. The methods he used in his business dealings.

He poured a glass of wine from the decanter at his elbow and schooled his face into pleasant cheerfulness. ‘I must apologise. My anger is directed at Lord Albert and that damn innkeeper.’ Hell, the recollection caused his blood to simmer all over again. ‘However, we did have an agreement, one you proposed and appear to have broken.’

She didn’t speak, but stared at her empty plate as if trying to weave some new web of lies.

He pushed a plate of comfits in her direction. ‘Here.’

A pathetic peace offering, yet it eased the palpable tension.

Sylvia gazed from the heaped pink-and-white sugared almonds on the blue dish to his face. Emerald fires burned deep in his hazel eyes, not the usual blaze of a lusty male, but a deep slow burn that fanned the embers in the pit of her own stomach to flame.

A tremor she could only identify as fear quivered in the region of her heart. Without him she was stranded. All her money, apart from the few coins in her reticule, had been left behind in Tunbridge Wells.

Trapped. A shiver shot up her spine. And he was right. She did owe him an explanation. She took a deep breath. ‘My friend, Mary Jensen, moved her business to London.’ She hoped he did not hear the hitch in her voice at her lie.

He frowned at his glass, then stared her straight in the eye. ‘I thought she expected you?’

She sighed. Obviously, he had paid attention. ‘There was some error in our communication. She left a forwarding address with the new tenant. The woman forgot to mail on my letters, therefore Mary did not know about your uncle’s unexpected demise.’

His intense scrutiny made her shift in her seat. She had the strong sense he did not believe her.

‘And?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I must now go to London.’

‘You have her address?’

‘I do.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t see why—’