Regency Seduction: The Captain's Courtesan / The Outrageous Belle Marchmain. Lucy Ashford
jaw that her fingers ached to touch …
‘Let me tell you,’ he was saying softly, ‘that on closer inspection I’d have paid twice the usual rate—for this.’ His eyes never leaving hers, he lowered his head and brushed her lips with his.
It was a fleeting caress, but even so Rosalie had never experienced anything like it. A sweet, melting sensation was pouring through her nerve ends. A moment later his strong arms were cradling her even more securely and he was kissing her properly, his mouth possessing hers, his tongue stroking her soft inner moistness in a sensual dance that stirred the blood in her veins to white heat.
He was masterful. Dangerous. Exquisitely provocative. The worst of it was that she wanted more and he knew it. She felt one of his strong hands slide up to cup the back of her head so his tongue could continue its rhythmic thrust, the slight roughness of his stubbled jaw providing a sensuous counterpoint to the silken sweetness of his mouth. His other hand slid tighter round her waist, pulling her closer against the hardness of his powerful body, his chest, his thighs. The urge to succumb to this dark magic and open herself to his potent masculinity was irresistible. Her hands crept upwards of their own volition to cling to his shoulders, feeling and savouring the vital force of his body.
This should not be happening. She’d sworn to let no man touch her again, yet her body was melting to his every caress.
He let out some sort of sigh and pulled her still closer. Now his right hand was sliding over the thin muslin that covered her breasts and, as her nipples peaked beneath his touch, she shuddered. The liquid warmth in her lower abdomen was like a burning ache of need; her mouth opened wider to his relentless plundering, and for Rosalie, for that space of time, nothing else existed. The fighting, the clattering of furniture up above, the bursts of raucous shouting, all receded into a meaningless background noise. There was no one else in the whole wide world but her and him.
Until he let her go. She felt bereft. Her legs were so weak that she could almost have sunk on to that blasted sofa in the corner.
Alec stepped back. Damn. He knew he’d come to his senses a little too late. It was a long time since he’d been so tempted by a woman. Too long, if he was feeling like this about one of Dr Barnard’s wenches. And he certainly wasn’t prepared for what this one’s melting pink lips did to him.
Shy. Delicate. God, it was almost as if she’d never experienced a man’s kiss! Yet at the same time she was so sweetly, wonderingly responsive that sheer lust had for a moment gripped his loins …
Damn it. She was a bewitching little hoyden, feigning innocence when the rouge was still fresh on her face—hoping, perhaps, to lure him into making some sort of offer for her, because she sure as hell wasn’t going to be working here again. Gazing down at her, he held up his five-shilling ticket for the dancing that he’d drawn from his pocket and, tearing it into tiny pieces, let it flutter to the floor.
‘Well worth it, for that kiss,’ he said flatly. ‘You’re surprisingly good at what you do.’
Rosalie felt, suddenly, as if her heated blood had turned to ice in her veins. Of course. He thought her a whore.
‘Do you know,’ she said steadily, ‘I was a fool to come to your rescue earlier. Doubtless you thoroughly deserved the beating you were about to get. Will you let me past, please?’
‘Feel free to go.’ He shrugged. ‘And I hope you find a new job soon. You’ll certainly need to. Remember what I told you. They’re watching for you down at the main exits.’
He saw the colour leave her face beneath that rouge. ‘The main exits …’
He jerked a finger towards the far door, the one she’d already tried to make a run for. ‘One of the first rules of warfare, blue-eyed Athena: always plan your escape before the battle begins. If this house runs true to form, through there is a flight of stairs that leads down to the back of the house, where you should find an unguarded door.’
‘And—and you?’ Curse the man, thought Rosalie. Why did she ask that?
He lifted his eyebrows as if the same thought had struck him. ‘You still care? I’ll go and check that Harry and his friends aren’t doing too much damage. Then I’ll leave, too.’
He held the door open to show her the stairwell. Head high, she marched past him.
‘Remember,’ he called out softly, ‘watch out for Maybury.’
She made no acknowledgement. But halfway down, where the staircase turned so he could see her no more, she leaned her back against the wall. Oh—fiddlesticks. The man called Lord Stephen Maybury posed no threat whatsoever as far as she was concerned. But dear God, the Captain was another matter altogether.
She felt dazed. She’d been out of her mind, to let him caress her like that. She had been pressed so close to his body that the potent force of his manhood had been all too evident in the heat of their embrace—and he had been the one to move away first!
She felt shattered. She felt bereft.
And his kiss had been the most magical moment of her life.
She hurried on down the stairs, ashamed because her legs were shaking. If those brutes caught her … But he was right. None of Dr Barnard’s men were to be seen in the back room she emerged into.
The dressing room first. No time to get changed, so she thrust the clothes she’d arrived in into a bag, rammed on her cloak and bonnet, and stole into Dr Barnard’s silent office. Back to business, you fool. Reaching up, she heaved down that heavy tome—The Myths of Apollodorus—then laid it on the desk and opened it.
As Helen had said, the pages had been carved away to form a cavity. Inside was a book bound in green morocco, where the names of Dr Barnard’s many customers were listed by the dates of their visits, together with their addresses.
But the name her dying sister had whispered was not here. She flicked to and fro, her agitation increasing. She checked all through the spring and early summer of 1813, but there was no sign of it at all. All this effort, all this risk, and she was no nearer in her search. For a few moments the disappointment crushed her.
But towards the back of the book, she found a list of the girls who’d been employed here. June 1813. Linette Lavalle. She caught her breath. That was the name Linette had used at Marchmont’s theatre. Their mother’s maiden name. She read on hurriedly. From the country … The girl has fancy ideas above her station. Refused to do anything except the stage show—then one day just didn’t turn up. Found herself a rich protector, I suspect …
Her throat aching with sadness, Rosalie carefully replaced the book in its hiding place, then stole from the house, using the door the Captain had told her was unguarded. Outside it was starting to rain, heavily. Rosalie hailed a hackney cab—her one concession to Helen’s concern for her safety—and the driver gave her a look indicating what he thought of young women out on their own at this time of night. She tossed her head defiantly as she gave him directions.
But all the way back to Clerkenwell the usual questions tormented her. When had Linette realised that she was pregnant? Was that when her—protector discarded her? Had her poor sister lived for a while in the agonised hope that her seducer might marry her?
Oh, Linette.
Alec Stewart rode back to Two Crows Castle as the rain poured down on London’s dark streets. Those damned footmen would have been paid to attack him by his brother, as Stephen’s cowardly revenge for Alec’s ultimatum tonight.
As revenge on Alec for existing.
When Stephen went away to boarding school, distance had temporarily eased their relationship. But Alec’s arrival at the same school two years later had sparked off the old jealousy, especially since Alec, as ever, had excelled at sports and had a light-hearted manner that made him friends far more easily than Stephen did.
A crisis came when Stephen, aged fifteen,