The Courtesan's Courtship. Gail Ranstrom
hazel eyes closed in slumber. Her breathing deepened and her heartbeat skipped. His lordship had an intangible air of danger and darkness about him that made her other beaux seem almost effeminate. She’d certainly never pictured any of them in a bed.
But this was foolishness! She had no intention of allowing herself to waste time in such utter nonsense as dreaming of that scheming devil. She untied the belt of her robe and shrugged out of it. A whiff of masculine shaving soap floated up to her from the discarded heap on the floor, and her knees weakened. What was wrong with her?
Geoffrey Morgan was everything she disliked in a man. He was arrogant, unscrupulous, ill-mannered, ruthless, cold, demanding and autocratic. Everything about him set her teeth on edge.
Then why couldn’t she stop thinking about him?
She closed her eyes and saw his face as he’d stood in her doorway. His eyes had burned into her and caused an answering heat to rise from somewhere near her belly. When he’d taken three steps into the bedroom, she’d wondered if he’d come to ravage her. And she was distressed to realize that thought did not trouble her much.
Or was it guilt that gnawed at her? Yes. That had to be it. Willingly or not, he’d given her shelter when she’d been desperate. He’d made certain his staff would see to all of her needs, and had given her relative independence. And she had repaid him with churlishness. Though he wouldn’t know it, she really had better manners than she’d shown him.
Yes. Henceforth, she’d give him no cause for complaint. She’d show him the respect he’d asked for. She’d be as civil to him as she would to any polite stranger. She’d be the very model of decorum and ladylike calm. She wouldn’t allow him to rankle her, no matter what he said or did.
Dawn was spreading a pink glow over rooftops and chimney pots when Geoff finally arrived at his house on Salisbury Street. The day servants had not arrived yet, and only his valet, Giles, and Hanson, the cook, lived in. Although the house was certainly large enough to warrant a live-in staff of five or so servants, he did not like the intrusion upon his privacy. Giles and Hanson, though, had come with him from his estate in Devon, and their absolute loyalty and discretion could be trusted.
He let himself in, tossed his jacket and vest on the foyer table and headed for the ballroom, rolling up his shirt-sleeves as he went. He was too restless to sleep. First there’d been that absurd confrontation gone awry with Miss Lovejoy, and then he’d actually lost at vingt-et-un. It wasn’t the loss of the money that bothered him—he’d lost more in an evening. It was the fact that he hadn’t been able to concentrate. His mind had been too full of blond hair and blue eyes—and an edge of transparent lace peeking from the V of his dressing robe.
Clearly, he needed to get rid of Dianthe Lovejoy as quickly as possible. Was there any point in sending a letter to her cousin in Italy? No. Certainly someone else had done that already.
Instinctively in tune with Geoffrey’s moods, Giles had left chandeliers alight in the ballroom, and the fireplaces lit at each end of the room. Light glittered off the mirrored walls and the crystal prisms of the chandelier, setting the room ablaze with reflected brilliance. Geoffrey walked the length of the room, trailing his index finger along the rack holding everything from lances to swords. He selected a claymore, savoring its weight and length. He needed something taxing tonight. Something to banish the memory of his robe draping a delicate frame.
He hefted the claymore and sliced vertically, then horizontally through the air. The whoosh of the blade satisfied something deep in his soul, and he smiled. He worked through a routine of standard moves, then offensive moves, then defensive ones. The echo of his boots on the marble floor and his heavy breathing from the exertion were the only sounds to rupture the silence. By the time he was done, a fine sheen of sweat dampened his skin and his white shirt, but he was not yet fatigued enough to sleep. He replaced the claymore in its slot and picked a deadly rapier—light in weight, sleek in build, treacherous at its point. Ah, yes. This blade sang as it slashed the air.
With an edge vertically to his forehead, he saluted his reflection in the mirrors. Working through a different routine, watching his form for mistakes or openings that an opponent could pierce, he found the lighter, more familiar blade almost became an extension of his arm. Only when the rising sun penetrated the French doors along one wall did Geoff replace the rapier in the rack. He hesitantly caressed the hilt of his cutlass, but turned away in exhaustion.
Now, perhaps, he’d sleep. Spent as he was, the guilt, the memories of Constance, Charlotte, Nell and the other women he’d failed, would not rise to haunt his dreams. Worse, he might dream of Dianthe Lovejoy. Her steadfast defiance amused him. Her beauty drew him. Her instinctive intelligence intrigued him. And his hunger for her was reaching a fever pitch. If he started seducing her in his dreams, would he be able to resist her in his waking moments?
Ah, but he’d have to claim Dianthe in his dreams, because he’d never claim her anywhere else. He’d make love to her there because, awake, he’d never risk loving her. He’d hold her close in his dreams, because he’d never allow her to rely upon him in life. He’d never take that risk of failing again. Never.
And when the isolation and solitude became too much to bear, he’d shut himself away with Flora Denton or one of the other lovelies of the demimonde again, for a few days or weeks, until that particular monster had been tamed enough to lock away for another term of penance.
He climbed the long curve of the staircase to his room, hardening his heart, reducing his hunger and need to a mere physical act. That’s all it was. That’s all he’d ever let it be.
The summons from Harry Richardson several hours later came as a surprise. Geoff hadn’t expected to hear from him for several days. Information packets from Tangier were slow in coming—at least during the summer months.
When he opened the door of the rented room, Harry jumped to his feet. “Glad you could come so quickly, Morgan.”
Geoff glanced at the small wooden table where charts, maps, pen and ink were laid out in waiting. “El-Daibul is on the move?” he guessed.
“We think so,” Harry replied.
“Think? You don’t know?” Geoff crossed to the table and looked down at the charts. Tangier, Gibraltar, Spain, Portugal. What was going on?
Harry shrugged. “We’ve lost him.”
Geoff fastened the man with an asking stare. How could an experienced operative lose a man of el-Daibul’s infamy and importance?
“He has disappeared,” Harry explained, looking a bit pale from Geoff’s study.
“When?”
Harry went to the small table beside the cot where the whiskey bottle was waiting. He poured himself a glass and quirked an eyebrow at Geoff.
Since he’d only risen an hour ago, that would be like drinking whiskey for breakfast. He hadn’t sunk to that level yet. “Too early,” Geoff said, though he had no doubt the male half of London was drinking by teatime.
After a swallow, Harry met Geoff’s gaze again. “We don’t know when, exactly. It just came to our attention that no one has seen el-Daibul for a month or more.”
“Christ! A month! Where can he have gone?”
“Don’t know. We haven’t been able to pick up his trail. We’ve got operatives searching Algiers to see if he went back there. So far, no luck.”
“Any word from the desert?” Geoff pointed to the Sahara on the map.
“No one has reported him moving overland.”
“Has the political climate changed? Any clues there?”
“Nothing new. The Americans are still harrying the Corsairs, but the underground market is still good for white slavery.”
“Always,” Geoff murmured. “Have you tried tracking his men?”
“They are all in place. Nothing unusual there, and one of the reasons it