The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann Lethbridge
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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—’
His mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure you don’t. But you are mistaken if you think I am going to drop you off at a coaching house in the morning without knowing your proposed destination.’
‘You agreed to drive me to Tunbridge Wells. Your obligation ends there.’
‘I offered to drive you to the bosom of your friend and that is where my duty ends.’
The quiet emphasis in his voice made it clear he would not listen to further argument. She hesitated. It would do no harm to give him Mary’s directions. Once she reached London, she would never see him again.
‘Very well.’ She dived into her reticule and handed him the dog-eared paper with Mary’s new address.
He gazed at it silently for a moment. ‘Dear God. The Seven Dials. Do you have any idea what sort of place that is?’
Her stomach plummeted. ‘Not good, I assume.’
‘I wouldn’t worry if it were just not good, as you put it. It couldn’t be worse. It houses London’s worst slums and most dangerous criminals.’
‘Mary Jensen is of a perfect respectability,’ she flashed back. Incroyable. She’d lost her grip on her English.
‘Not living in that neighborhood, she isn’t.’ He tossed the paper on the table next to a hunk of fruitcake.
His innuendoes wearied her; the whole day had tried her patience, and the strange, nerve-stretching awareness between them exhausted her most of all. She was an idiot for leaving Tunbridge Wells in his carriage. She would have been much better off at the damned Hare and Hounds.
‘What does it matter? I am not of a respectableness enough for you or your most esteemed family. The sooner we make our own directions, the better, n’est ce pas?’
‘Do not raise your voice to me, mademoiselle.’
‘And do not dictate to me.’
She stood.
He followed suit with easy grace, looming over her, green pinpricks of anger dancing in his eyes. ‘I would not have to dictate to you, if you had been more forthright in your dealings with me. It is my duty to see you safely established somewhere and I will not brook an argument.’
Golden in the firelight, he stood like a knight of old surrounded by the armour of righteousness. Trust him, her heart murmured