Taming of the Rake (The Gentleman Courtesans Book 4)

by Victoria Vale

  He peered up at the woman riding his face as if she sat astride a bucking stallion, clawing the headboard as she screamed her release. David refused to let up, even when she insisted she couldn’t take anymore. They all said that, and he was always happy to show them otherwise. It was another one of those things about women he found so utterly fascinating—their ability to reach climax over and over again, when someone actually took the time to learn what made them tick. As it happened, puzzling them out was his favorite past-time, which made his present efforts more fun than work.

  Lady Rebecca Grant fell from atop him with one last moan, which melted into a satisfied sigh as she went limp at his side. Raising up on his elbows, David peered at the two others awaiting their turn with him. Lady Frances Beeton was the one working his cock, a knowing smile curving her lips as she observed the state her friend was in.

  “Didn’t I tell you, Becky?” she purred before bending her head to run her tongue along his shaft. “He’s exquisite.”

  David hissed at the velvet wetness stroking the length of his cock, biting back a grumble of regret when it was gone. Frances had always been a little tease; it was what he liked most about her. That, and her adventurous nature.

  The lady had hired him as her courtesan while between marriages. Her first husband died a mere six months after the wedding, leaving Frances a grand fortune. In the year that followed, she kept David as her personal plaything, parting with an exorbitant sum to have him at her beck and call. Frances cut him loose upon getting engaged to her second husband, who had been thirty years her senior. Predictably, he had also died, freeing her to once more live her life as she pleased.

  Thanks to her, David could now indulge in one last round of debauchery before he was obliged to face the reality of his situation. Being forced to leave London was a dire prospect, but Frances and her friends were giving him one hell of a sendoff. He had been paid to entertain Frances and her friends for three days and nights, but David would never tell them he might have done it for free had they only asked. Benedict would insist that simply wasn’t good business.

  “He’s the best present I could have asked for,” Rebecca managed between labored breaths.

  David cupped the nape of her neck, drawing her to him for a kiss. “Happy birthday, sweet.”

  She whimpered against his mouth, arching and writhing as he plunged his tongue in deep. The taste of champagne mingled with the flavor of her juices on his palate.

  His attention was quickly stolen by the third woman, who moved up his body to have her turn. He flopped to his back and licked his lips, offering Lady Elinor Howe a welcoming grin.

  “My lady … your saddle awaits.”

  She giggled, then moaned when his tongue darted into the seam of her mons. Just as he found her clit and began teasing it in a playful prelude, Frances fit her mouth around his cock, and David fell headlong into hedonistic paradise.

  Time seemed suspended as the cares of the outside world became a distant afterthought. David had never been one to take anything too seriously. However, present circumstances left him with no choice but to confront the responsibilities he’d been outrunning his entire adult life. There were some things he simply had not been ready to face, so if he could immerse himself in the delights of the moment a bit longer, he certainly wasn’t going to turn down the chance.

  Frances had just sheathed him with a condom and tied its ribbons when a sudden knock on the door echoed through the room. David gripped Elinor’s thighs to keep her from rolling off him, then raised his hips to encourage Frances to go on. She had made it clear they weren’t to be disturbed, so David saw no reason to stop. The tight clench of France’s cunt enveloped him, and Elinor’s moans came muffled from behind the hand she held over her mouth. Rebecca lay in repose beside them, content to watch as she absently reached out to fondle one of Elinor’s breasts. The distraction of the knock faded away as David thrust up into the welcoming grip of Frances, who had begun to ride him with slow, agonizing surges of her hips.

  The three of them had been toying with him for the past hour, and he was so near to spending it was almost embarrassing. Nevertheless, he had a reputation to uphold, so he fought off climax with a great deal of effort, concentrating his energies on Elinor.

  The knock came again, more insistent this time, followed by the voice of a servant. Frances pulled away, leaving him hovering on the edge of near release.

  “Oh, for the love of Christ,” she grumbled, the mattress shifting as she shot up from the bed. “When I say I do not wish to be disturbed …”

  Then, Elinor was gone, she and Rebecca reaching for dressing gowns while muffling their giggles. David draped himself with the bed sheet, though he needn’t have bothered. Once properly covered, Frances merely pried the door open a crack. Curiosity mingled with his annoyance as David listened in, catching only snatches of her conversation with a servant.

  “Apologies, my lady … insisted it was urgent …”

  “I don’t care how urgent, my orders were quite clear …”

  “… must speak with Mr. Graham right away …”

  He frowned, realizing there was only one person who would have known to come here looking for him. Dread poured through him like ice water, snuffing out his arousal. Benedict was the consummate professional, and would never interrupt a courtesan on the job unless he felt it necessary. Something must be very wrong.

  By the time Frances returned, David was on his feet and searching for his clothes. Elinor and Rebecca looked on in silent disappointment, while Frances gave him a look filled with equal parts irritation and curiosity.

  “Mr. Sterling has come here looking for you,” she said while he stepped into his breeches. “He insists the matter is of the utmost importance, and will not leave until he’s spoken with you.”

  With a sheepish smile, he yanked his waistcoat on, not bothering with a cravat or coat. “Sorry, sweet. I’m sure we will only be a moment. I’ll see what he wants, and then …”

  Frances preened beneath his promising gaze. “We’ll be waiting.”

  The titters of the women followed him into the corridor. His irritation had been replaced by a sinking feeling that turned his stomach, making his footsteps slow and heavy. The last time he met with Benedict, David had been told to quit London and lay low. Ben had even informed him of his intention to stay away to keep from incriminating him. That his friend now chose to act against his own plan couldn’t mean anything good.

  He told himself he was being ridiculous. Benedict had only come to him for lack of anyone else to turn to. Two of the courtesans were gone on wedding trips with their wives, and the other was busy painting portraits. It was simply a fact that whenever someone needed a problem solved or a sympathetic ear, David was the last person they would consider. It didn’t bother him to be the most frivolous and lighthearted of their set, because it was how he preferred things. If someone needed to be distracted from their melancholy with a night of drinking or cards, David was their man. His skills included being able to break through tension with jokes and innuendo, and making people forget their troubles for as long as they were in his company. He did not deal well with conflict or adversity, and had a penchant for making matters worse.

  Benedict must be truly desperate.

  The footman awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. The man kept his expression stoic, giving no hint that he knew what had gone on in Frances’s bedchamber. He simply extended a hand toward the drawing room door, keeping his gaze averted.

  David entered to find not only Benedict, but two other men. One of them was Warin Lyons, the young man who worked as Benedict’s apprentice. With the demand for gentleman courtesans growing by the day, Ben had hired Lyons to learn the ins and outs of his job as proprietor and orchestrator of contracts. David didn’t encounter him often, but he had always seemed out of place among the other courtesans. His looks were sharp and severe, his frame slender, and his bearing could only be described as cold. He was the last man Da
vid would have pegged as courtesan material. But who was he to question Benedict, who had an uncanny skill for this business?

  David frowned when he noticed the third man lingering near the window, wearing a grave expression. It was Gilbert Wren, steward of his father’s estate in Lancashire. For the past few years, David had ensured the family country pile received an influx of funds through Mr. Wren—who assured him they would be put to good use. Typically, the steward wrote if he needed more money. The sight of him in a London drawing room heightened David’s anxiety.

  “What’s going on?” he asked, tearing his gaze from Wren and fixing it on Benedict.

  His friend had an odd expression on his face, one David didn’t think he had ever seen before. The hard slash of his mouth was softened into something like pity.

  “David …”

  “What are you doing here?” he added to Wren, who flinched at the sharpness in his tone.

  “Perhaps you ought to sit down,” said Lyons, his dark eyes betraying nothing. But then, the man was always as somber as an undertaker.

  “I don’t want to sit. Ben?”

  Benedict approached, resting a bolstering hand on David’s shoulder. “Mr. Wren came looking for you last night. When he found you weren’t at home, a servant was sent to fetch me.”

  David’s throat clenched as he glanced about the room, as if the walls might speak and offer some insight into this mystery. But then, David realized he already knew. He hadn’t wanted to acknowledge Mr. Wren’s grim expression, or the stark black band wrapped around the man’s upper arm—standing out against the gray worsted of his coat.

  “It’s your father,” Ben said.

  David blinked and gave his head a little shake, certain he must now be in Hell. The Heaven of a few minutes ago seemed to have happened to someone else entirely. The world tilted beneath his feet.

  “My father?”

  “I’m so sorry, David. He’s dead.”

  A week later, David sat across from Mr. Wren in the carriage that had been sent to fetch him to Lancashire. The conveyance was an ancient one that had given them trouble and delayed their journey by two days. Making matters worse, the wheels seemed to find every rut and bump in the road, exacerbating the pounding sensation between his eyes.

  Gritting his teeth, he stared through the parted curtains at the bleak countryside covered in gray, misty fog. They had been on Graham lands for some time now, and David did not like what he’d seen thus far. He hadn’t visited home in over a year, and it would seem the family estate had fallen even further into disrepair in that time.

  He was by no means an expert on anything having to do with farming or the care of sheep, but the sorry state of cattle enclosures and barren fields were certainly a sign that something was amiss. It made no sense. David had sent thousands of pounds into the care of his family, to be used for revitalizing their heap-of-shite farm and breathe new life into a house that had fallen into disrepair. Even without being able to see every acre from the carriage, it was plain to David that the money had been mismanaged.

  The house. That was it. Perhaps his father and Mr. Wren had decided to put the money toward renovating the manor and updating the wardrobes of his mother and sisters. But even that made no sense when David considered the amount of time that had passed and the fortune he’d parted with.

  As they neared the house, David pinned Wren with his gaze, suspicion narrowing his eyes.

  “What happened here? I sent money each month without fail, and I was assured it would be used for the benefit of the estate.”

  Rather than squirm under his scrutiny, the steward drew himself up with a delicate sniff. “I’ve done my best, Mr. Graham. You must understand that your father—God rest his soul—hardly ever heeded my advice. As his steward, I could only counsel him as best I could. The managing of the funds themselves was left in his hands. As you can see …”

  David bit back a string of epithets at the evidence of his father’s negligence and lack of sense. While he wasn’t known as the most practical of men, he had at least learned to make the best of every situation. Upon realizing that the farm was no longer enough to support his family, David had become a courtesan to not only help them but cement his own future. He might have shunned learning anything substantial about the land he was to inherit, but he never forgot that it would all belong to him someday. ‘Someday’ had arrived far sooner than he’d anticipated. His father was gone, and it appeared that all David’s efforts had been for naught.

  The late Noel Graham had not been known for his business sense, but neither had he been a fool. How could he have squandered the opportunities that David’s money would have provided?

  Perhaps it isn’t as bad as you think. At least wait until you see the house before you decide all hope is lost.

  His optimism lasted as long as it took for the carriage to pull around the drive. Once the footman opened the door and placed the steps, David was confronted with the sorriest sight he’d ever beheld. The beloved family home, where he and his sisters had grown up—where he was expected to someday raise his future children—was in shambles.

  Overgrown hedges obscured the ground-floor windows, while those of the upper floors displayed dirty panes and shabby curtains. The stone was crumbling on the edifice of the west wing, and when he squinted he noticed a massive hole in the roof.

  “Bloody fucking hell,” he muttered under his breath as he stared up at what had once been one of the finest homes in Lancashire.

  He cringed when the front door creaked and groaned like an old man’s bones as it was pushed open, revealing Caruthers—who had been serving as the butler since David was in leading strings. He’d grown thin, and his gait was slower than David remembered. What hair remaining on his head had turned a snowy white, offering a stark contrast to his somber black attire.

  “Welcome home, sir,” the butler said with a stiff bow. “Mrs. Graham had begun to worry at the delay.”

  “There was trouble with the carriage and we had to stop for repairs,” he said, peering past the butler and into the entrance hall. Dark, dusty, and uninviting, it loomed like the maw of some hellish nightmare. There was an odor wafting from within—that of death and decay. “Where is she?”

  “In the blue salon with your sisters.”

  “Very good.” He had nearly made it inside before a sudden thought had him turning back to Caruthers. “We do still have footmen, do we not? No one’s come to see to my things.”

  “A few, sir. I will send for one right away.”

  Well, that was a good sign, he supposed. If they could still afford to pay servants, they might not be as bad off as he had first supposed.

  Yet again, his optimism was overshadowed by even more evidence that the Graham estate and house grounds were on the brink of complete ruin. Exhaustion made it difficult to manage a blank expression as he took it all in. With the housekeeper sweeping into a curtsy and watching him with an anxious expression, he studied every detail. Faded wallpaper and dull wood wainscoting. A checkered pattern of black and white tiles that could use a good polish. Tarnished brass sconces hanging askew, and the tell-tale patches on the walls showing where paintings had once hung.

  Craning his neck, he took stock of the skylight, which ought to allow in a great deal of natural light, even on a dreary day such as this. However, a thick coat of grime obscured the panes—which was probably for the best. More light would only better display the disgraceful state of the space. He was loath to take a step beyond the entrance hall, but the welcoming smile of the housekeeper bolstered him a bit.

  “Welcome home Master David!” gushed Mrs. Moffat. She was as much a fixture in this house as Caruthers, having served the family for as long as David had been living. “Oh, but it’s so difficult to remember that you aren’t a mischievous little boy anymore. Forgive me, Mr. Graham.”

  Plump and ruddy-cheeked, she had to gaze up to look him in the eye. Her endearing face and kindly brown eyes offered a modicum of succor as Dav
id took hold of her shoulders.

  “I’m not sure I like the sound of that,” he teased. “Mr. Graham sounds far too serious, and we both know I’m as much a mischievous boy as I ever was.”

  She giggled like a woman half her age, reaching up to cup his cheek with one doughy hand. “Still as incorrigible as ever, I see. Master David, it is.”

  “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

  Mrs. Moffat’s cheerful expression gave way to a pitying one, and she darted a look down the corridor. “I’m so glad you’re home. Your poor mother has been inconsolable, and your sisters … they need you.”

  He patted the housekeeper’s back as she began to blubber and sniffle. “I’m here now. I will take care of them.”

  Someone had to. He had done his part, thinking that the people he loved were secure because of his efforts and thoughtfulness. Now, it seemed that wasn’t the case. He would get to the bottom of the condition of the estate and what had been done with his money; but not before he had comforted his mother and sister.

  Clearing her throat, Mrs. Moffat inclined her head toward the door across the entrance hall, leading into the drawing room meant for receiving visitors. Its doors were fastened tight.

  “Mr. Graham is within, if you wish to see him.”

  David flinched, his gorge rising as he envisioned a shriveled corpse on the other side of the closed doors. Now he realized what that nostril-singeing smell was. “You mean to say he hasn’t been buried yet?”

  “Mrs. Graham wouldn’t allow it until you had arrived. Besides, as the man of the house, it falls to you to represent the family at the funeral since none of them can attend.”