“That’s all right, love,” he said cheerfully. “I trust you.”
She had to laugh. “At least no one is going to know about this,” she said, unfastening her damp boots and kicking them toward the fire. “Even if they did, they wouldn’t believe it of two sober creatures like ourselves.”
He glanced over at her. “I don’t know that you’re at all sober, Ellen Fitzwater. As a matter of fact, I think you’ve had a sadly debilitating effect on my sober nature. Too much time spent in your company and I’m becoming quite alarmingly madcap. Have some brandy.”
She glanced at the silver flask he held out to her, too bemused by his bantering tone to quite remember that drinking brandy was definitely not the thing. She’d had some once before, with Gilly, and she’d gotten so silly that her friend had informed her with some severity that she had no head for spirits and should avoid them at all costs. She reached for the flask.
“I shouldn’t be drinking this,” she said, still hesitating.
“There’s nothing better for a chill,” he said. “Don’t worry—if you drink too much you’ll simply fall asleep. Nothing shocking in that.”
It seemed to her that her previous excursion into the world of spirits had involved a great deal of giggling, a fair amount of dizziness, and even a surfeit of tears. At least she hadn’t cast up her accounts. If she was spared that ignominious complication, then she could certainly take just a sip or two with equanimity. After all, Tony had heard her giggle before.
It burned all the way down her throat, forming a nice warm pool in her stomach, spreading out her limbs and then back up into her brain. “It’s very nice,” she said politely, tipping back the flask to take another solid gulp. She cast a surreptitious glance at Tony, wondering if he was going to warn her about the dangers of imbibing excessive brandy. He didn’t make a move, merely watched her from his seat nearby, an unreadable expression on his handsome face.
So be it, she thought, taking a third gulp. “Are you certain you don’t want any?” she asked politely.
“Were you planning on drinking it all?” he countered lazily.
“I was considering it.” She said it with some dignity. It seemed to her that dignity was called for. She was sitting on a bed out in the middle of nowhere, her stockinged feet curled up underneath her, her hair tumbling down around her shoulders, and no respectable person in sight, except, of course, for the very respectable Sir Antony Wilton-Greening. She told him so.
“I can’t imagine why you keep informing me how staid and respectable I am,” he murmured, not the slightest bit incensed by the thought. “You’ve gone out of your way to mention it to me on several occasions. Why?”
Ellen was feeling very warm indeed. Her bright silk gown was a demure enough affair, with tiny buttons reaching up to her neck. She unfastened the first two, stretching her long legs out on the bed. “Don’t you think you’re respectable?”
“Not particularly. A trifle set in my ways, but they are my ways, not society’s. I do what I please.” He leaned back in his chair, watching her out of faintly hooded eyes.
“I wish I could,” she said mournfully, taking another sip of the delightful brandy before reaching for her hair. Since it was already escaping its pins, she might as well let it down completely. After all, she had no witness but Tony, and he certainly wouldn’t care. “Would you?”
“Would I what?”
“Care if I let my hair down.” She was already intent on doing so, an intricate enough affair to manage with one hand, while the other held on to the flask. Binnie had used an inordinate amount of pins that morning, causing Ellen to suffer the headache through most of the day. One more pin, and her hair was free, falling over her shoulders in a silken wave.
“Not at all,” Tony said politely. “Where did you put the hairpins?”
“In the bed.”
“I was afraid of that. I imagine Miss Binnerston has put a curse on them. If I forget myself in my sleep and offer you an insult, they’ll probably come to life and attack me.”
Ellen giggled. “I doubt it.”
“Doubt what?”
“Either. That you’ll offer me an insult or that they’ll come to life. I’m completely safe with you,” she said happily, sliding down into the sagging bed, the flask of brandy still clutched in one hand.
He rose then, crossing the room to look down at her, and his face was in shadows, unreadable. She could imagine his expression. Benign, tolerant, parental. “I think you’ve had enough of this,” he said, plucking the brandy bottle from her hand. “I have never seen anyone get quite so drunk quite so fast.”
Ellen giggled. “Shameful.”
“I disagree,” he murmured, kneeling down by the bed, and his face swam into her vision. “You’re quite, quite shameless.”
It must have been the brandy, she decided. He didn’t look the slightest bit benign, or parental for that matter. He looked down at her with an odd, possessive light in his eyes, and for such a respectable gentleman he looked very dangerous indeed.
“I’m going to go to sleep now,” she announced placidly, her voice softly slurred. “Don’t wake me when you come to bed.”
Tony stared down at her. She was instantly asleep, her breathing noisy, her lips parted, her eyelids closed. She had quite magnificent eyelashes, fanning out against the whiteness of her cheeks, and he knew those eyelashes, unlike the ones belonging to the Divine Carlotta, owed nothing to a paint pot. She was drunk, was his Ellen, passed out, her hand curled underneath her willful chin, oblivious to the danger she might run from the staid and respectable male kneeling by the bed.
He wondered just how drunk she was. He rose, finishing the brandy with one swallow, not regretting that it had gone to a better use. He wanted Ellen cupshot and complacent. He wanted just a taste, of her, not the brandy.
He took his time, savoring the anticipation. He built the fire into a respectable blaze, flooding the room with heat. He stripped off his coat, not without difficulty, and untied his neckcloth. When he slid into the bed beside Ellen she barely moved.
He lay on his side, watching her, feeling like a starving man at a feast, unsure of what delight to sample first. He decided the silken fall of hair would be a good place to begin. He picked up a strand, running it through his fingers, and it was soft and luxurious. He brought one thick lock to his face, inhaling the flowery fragrance of it, and ran it against his cheek. She probably had no idea how beautiful her hair was. If she did, she wouldn’t keep it bundled behind her.
He let the hair slide out of his fingers, reaching forward to touch her parted lips. They were warm against his skin, the ebb and flow of her breath stirring something deep inside him. He wanted to drink in her breath, her sweetness. He wanted to pull her into his arms and into his heart. He wanted to join with her in every sense of the word.
He brushed his lips against hers, very lightly. She sighed then, a soft, seductive sound, and edged closer to him in the shadowy room. He kissed her again, his lips clinging to hers for a moment longer, and when he drew away she made a soft, sleepy sound of protest.
For a moment he didn’t move. A man had certain standards, a code of honor he upheld all his life. Right now his code of honor seemed to have vanished.
It must be Nicholas Blackthorne’s pernicious influence, he decided. He would have sported on this very bed with Ellen’s friend, and the atmosphere must reek of illicit sex.
And yet he knew very well the raging desire he felt had absolutely nothing to do with Nicholas Blackthorne’s shoddy example, and everything to do with his sudden, irrational weakness for the woman lying next to him. For some reason she’d come to matter to him more than anyone in the world. And while part of that caring involved a sheer animal lust that positively shook his bones, another part involved his most protective instincts.
He could strip off her clothes and be inside her before she even realized that staid old Tony was compromising her. While that would solve a great many problems, it would create
its own set of difficulties.
One more kiss, just to see whether he could do it. One touch, one stroke, to see if he’d survive. He put his mouth on her, pressing hers open, as his hand cupped her breast.
This time he was the one who moaned. Her breast fit perfectly in his hand, soft and round, the nipple hardening against his gently questing fingers. Her mouth opened beneath his, sweetly acquiescent, and he used his tongue, stroking and tasting her to the fullest, kissing her as he’d never kissed a woman of quality, kissing her as he’d never kissed anyone before.
When he broke the kiss this time he was panting, his body shaking with the desperate need to control himself. Her eyes flew open, staring up at him with dazed surprise. And then she smiled, a slow, sexy, slightly drunken smile, and her hand reached out to touch his mouth, still damp from hers.
And then it dropped back to the pallet, her eyes closed, and she began to snore.
He laughed then, at his unromantic beloved, at his dishonorable self, at the mess they’d gotten into. If they found Ghislaine tomorrow, as he certainly expected them to, then they’d have no choice but to head back to Ainsley Hall the next day. And he’d been shockingly slow at getting Ellen to see him in a romantic light.
He sank down on the mattress beside her, staring at the ceiling, trying to will his unruly body to behave itself. He’d handled this all wrong, but then, it hadn’t been entirely his fault. If it had been up to him, he would have left Ellen behind at Ainsley Hall, applied to Carmichael in the accepted manner, and set about wooing Ellen in a restrained, polite courtship. He could have taught her about passion later.
The problem was, she was teaching him about passion. Teaching him things he’d never known, all by her irresistible presence. One thing was for certain: if he didn’t get her wed within the shortest time possible, his recently shaky sense of honor was going to collapse entirely.
He turned his head to watch her. Her long blond hair had drifted over his arm, and he wanted to bury his face in it. Sleeping next to her without making love to her was going to be its own form of hell. Not sleeping next to her would be even worse.
She came easily, gracefully at his gentle tug, settling in his arms with a weary sigh. She felt warm, solid, and utterly delectable. He stroked her arm with the lightest of touches, controlling his desperate need to pull her hard against him.
It was going to be a very long night.
The Continent
Chapter 17
She’d lied to him. Ghislaine hadn’t realized it until later, much later, when she’d had time to think about it. She’d lied to herself as well, and believed it. There was no way she could have killed herself, much as she might have wanted to. His hands on her body stripped her mind of sanity, stripped her soul of hope, and yet she couldn’t do it. Even the fantasy of it was denied her. She couldn’t contemplate throwing herself from the fast-moving carriage; she couldn’t dream about jumping from the ship as it crossed the North Sea. Even if it took her to the most dreaded place of all, back to France, she simply couldn’t do it.
She’d confronted the specter of taking her own life that night so long ago, with Malviver’s blood on her hands. She’d turned back from it. Now that calming, serene release was forever denied her. Thinking about suicide had always been her ultimate revenge. She’d lost that, and never noticed the loss until things grew untenable once more.
Absurd, that she should consider her current situation to be as bad as the dark abyss her soul had slipped into some ten years ago. She’d gone to meet Malviver. Gone to meet the architect of her destruction, gone to meet him with the ostensible purpose of giving her body to him in return for money to feed her brother, for safety from the ever-powerful neighborhood committee. She’d done it before and survived. The trick was simple, turned her mind and her emotions inward, to the dark place where her heart once beat, and everything else ceased to exist.
But she’d overestimated her powers. Underestimated the emotions she thought she’d killed. Rage. Hatred. Revenge. This was no gentle, clumsy butcher, looking for twenty minutes’ release. It wasn’t even a drunken, dissolute British nobleman with a taste for pain and virgins.
This man was sober, powerful, and beyond cruel. He was waiting for her at the butcher’s shop, but already there was little sign of M. Porcin’s presence. The rancid meats had been cleared, and the furnishings were not those of the working class. Malviver was already well-paid by those in power.
He’d sat in the dimly lit room, awaiting her, a bottle of Porcin’s wine beside him. “Close the door behind you,” he’d ordered in the coarse, guttural voice she remembered from her nightmares.
She did so, stepping into the darkness, the light from the fire barely reaching her. She wondered whether he remembered her. Or whether selling young girls into prostitution was a frequent occurrence in his rise to power.
His next words dispelled the notion. “You prefer being on the streets to Madame Claude’s establishment? I thought you had better sense. Come closer.”
She still said nothing, obeying his orders, her feet leaden. “Into the light,” he said. “That’s right. You’re still pretty enough. If you didn’t have someone like Old Bones to watch out for you you’d have been dead by now. I’ve thought about you often since last summer. I regretted letting a fat English aristo have you first, but money was a consideration. It always is. Besides, I knew my time would come.”
Her hand closed in a fist around the knife in her pocket, the knife she always carried with her. The feel of the cool wooden handle soothed her for a moment. The more he talked, the tighter her hand clenched.
It had been hard enough with Porcin. It would be impossible with this monster, if he continued to bait her. “I need to get back,” she said, keeping her voice cool and bored. “Could we get this over with?”
“Such eagerness!” Malviver mocked. “And that lovely little aristo voice. I’ve never heard it, of course, but people have told me about it. The Duchess of the Streets, they call you. I want you to talk to me while I do you. I want to listen to that elegant voice when I come.”
Ghislaine shivered. She took an instinctive step backward in recoil, but he made no move to come after her. “Besides,” he said, “you have nothing to go back to.”
She stopped her retreat, waiting.
“I am desolate to inform you, my dear, that your brother has gone. Apparently the poor little simpleton realized you were whoring yourself for him. I expect the shame was too much for him. No one knows for certain, but I imagine he threw himself in the Seine.”
“You’re lying,” she said, her voice shaking with sudden uncertainty. “I left him less than an hour ago.”
“My men work fast. Your brother is gone, Duchess, never to return. And you will stay with me, and do exactly as I tell you, or you will follow him. Let me see, how shall we begin?” He sat back in the chair, an evil smile on his swarthy face.
“Why don’t you get down on your knees in front of me? We can go from there.”
She didn’t move. “On your knees, bitch!” Malviver roared suddenly.
She never remembered how it happened. The knife was in her hand, there was blood everywhere, and he was screaming, a shrill, high-pitched sound, like a butchered pig. And then all was silent, and she was running through the streets, running, running.
He hadn’t lied to her. He brother was gone. Old Bones lay in the dirt-crusted snow, and she was beyond caring whether he was still alive. Her one reason for living had been taken from her, and nothing else mattered.
Still, it took countless hours for the last few traces of hope to die. Hours during which she stumbled through the winter-chill streets of Paris, calling for Charles-Louis, no longer caring if her gently bred voice signaled a hated aristo. No longer caring that peasant children weren’t named Charles-Louis.
No one touched her, no one answered her desperate cries. People shuttled out of her way as she careened down the alleyways, some making the sign of the devil, some just burrow
ing deeper in their rags. The poor of Paris had no emotions to spare for another lost soul.
She ended on the bridge, looking down into the swirling muddy depths of the Seine. “Charles-Louis,” she’d whispered for the last time, her voice cracked and broken.
She never knew what had stopped her from jumping. It hadn’t been hope—her last trace of it had been wiped out with her brother’s disappearance. It wasn’t a voice from the fog, the merciful act she’d performed later when she found Ellen Fitzwater ready to do the very same thing. It wasn’t any belated religious conviction or fear of hell.
The closest she could come to understanding what had stopped her that endless night was the sudden, burning conviction that they shouldn’t win. That the forces of evil that seemed to conspire to destroy her shouldn’t triumph. They’d killed her parents and stolen her brother. Those forces had taken every ounce of comfort and security, starting with Nicholas Blackthorne and her childish infatuation and trampling that in the mud, through hunger and bitter cold and loneliness and despair, ending with the worst ignominy of all. She had sold her body for money, and there would be no retrieving the innocence that was lost.
She could die now, one more lost soul trampled by a vicious fate. Or she could rise, phoenix-like, from the ashes of a lost life. She could fight, and continue to fight, and never give in.
The small, seedy inn had been nearby, its fitful light piercing the foggy darkness. She’d stumbled in, oblivious of her bloody clothes, and for the first time luck was with her. The Red Hen was run by a husband and wife, but the husband was mercifully free from lustful urges, and Marthe was as kind as she was stout. Ghislaine was given a warm pallet and a bowl of soup, and in the morning she’d started work in the kitchens.
She saw Old Bones twice, once when she went to retrieve her few shabby possessions. He didn’t ask what happened with Malviver, and she didn’t tell him. One more death in Paris would be noticed by no one. She’d left him without a word, their shared grief over Charles-Louis needing no comment.