The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
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the popinjay at the inn.
Arms rigid, he placed her on the ground away from him, once more surprised by her small stature. For some reason, he imagined her taller. Something about her innate dignity and solemn demeanour added to her height. She had more pride than a duchess when she wasn’t playing the wanton.
‘Mr Christopher.’ Gladness rang in the voice calling out through the door and Christopher turned to greet the generously proportioned matron who burst into the courtyard. She wiped her hands on her snowy apron and held them out in welcome.
He winced. Heaven knew what she’d say about him turning up with an unchaperoned female. He smiled. ‘Mrs Dorkin. How are you?’
‘Why on earth didn’t you write and tell us you were coming?’ she said in mock-scolding tones and her forefinger wagging. ‘I would have aired the sheets special, just like your mother always ordered at the big house.’
Bloody hell. As if he needed more tender care than he’d suffered already. ‘Mrs Dorkin, this is a friend of the family, Miss Sylvia Boisette.’ He turned to Sylvia. ‘Mrs Dorkin cooked for my grandparents at their estate near here.’
‘I’m pleased to meet you,’ Sylvia murmured with a smile.
Relief washed through Christopher. At least she wasn’t giving dear old Mrs Dorkin her frosty face. In the old days, the cook had been his only ally against the army of doctors who insisted he eat nothing but gruel. Fortunately, she believed a lad needed his nourishment.
‘We were supposed to lodge at the Sussex Hotel tonight,’ he said, opening his arms in a gesture of regret. ‘But somehow they let our rooms go. I do hope you can accommodate us?’
Mrs Dorkin placed her hands on her ample hips. ‘The Sussex Hotel, is it? And you no more than a stone’s throw from the Bird? I’m surprised at you, Mr Christopher. Come in, do. It’s late and you must be tired.’
She waved a hand in the direction of the front door. ‘I’ve a nice bit of roast pork on the spit and there’s some cottage pie and I think a capon or two—cold, mind—left over from Sunday. Now then, Mr Christopher, I know that finicky appetite of yours, I’ll expect you to let me know if none of it takes your fancy.’ She shook her head. ‘Mercy me, I am sure to find some cheese somewhere and I baked bread this afternoon.’
The warm chatter eased his tension, the way it had calmed him as a boy racked by fever. He gestured for Miss Boisette to step inside. Shadows like bruises lay beneath her huge cornflower eyes. She looked exhausted and scared.
Damn it. The wench had been bold enough an hour ago in the face of the innkeeper’s rudeness and Lord Albert’s obviously dishonourable intentions.
Christopher clenched his jaw. He couldn’t entirely blame the young rakehell. He’d acted like any other hot-blooded male faced with an irresistible opportunity. And Miss Boisette certainly was all of that. Why the hell had she not stayed with her friend? Suspicion reared an ugly head. Perhaps she had followed him, thinking him an easy mark after his generosity.
Mrs Dorkin pitched her voice into the back of the house. ‘Pansy! Dratted girl, never around when you need her.’
A scrawny wench came at a run, her cheeks as red as if she’d been roasting her face instead of the pork.
‘Show the young lady up to the second-floor bedroom.’ Mrs Dorkin smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll find that’s the best room, miss. Quiet.’
‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
Christopher grinned at the plump matron, much as he had when he had lived at his grandmother’s house. ‘Mrs Dorkin, we are starving. Anything you could do to hurry dinner along will be much appreciated.’
‘Dinner in half an hour, don’t be late.’ Mrs Dorkin’s voice faded away as she travelled into the depths of the old inn. ‘Maybe I have some of the nice fruitcake I baked for the vicar last Sunday. You always liked fruitcake…’
Shoulders slumped, Sylvia started after the maid.
Christopher put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have warned you. She’s a dear, but she loves to talk.’
‘She seems very kind. I hadn’t realised just how famished I am. All that talk of food…’
The faintness of her voice, weary posture and attempted smile caused him a pang of guilt. Curse it. No wonder she looked ready to wilt, she’d eaten almost nothing at lunch.
Unwelcome sympathy stirred in his chest. This was the first time today he’d seen her control slip. His questions would wait until after dinner.
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?