by Liz Carlyle
Suddenly, Cecilia spoke. “Do you know, darling, I’ve changed my mind,” she said, her voice deep, throaty, and cleverly disguised. Then she turned to Mrs. Derbin. “Do send us that extra girl. But please, let us have a more private place at once.”
“But of course,” said the hostess smoothly. Immediately, she left the room and entered the vestibule to speak to the man who’d let them in. As soon as she was out of earshot, David wheeled on Cecilia, incredulous. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he whispered.
Cecilia’s eyes flashed impatiently. “But we have learned nothing yet! Nothing at all which helps us!”
David barely resisted the urge to shake her until her teeth rattled. “You, madam, may have learned nothing. But I have learned that you are daft. Moreover, I’ve seen what I came to see, and I’m ready to get out.”
Unfortunately, he could say nothing further, for Mrs. Derbin was returning. In her hand, she held a key. “Angeline will not disappoint, my lord,” she whispered, sliding the key through her fingers with a slow, suggestive motion. “You may go up to room number seven at your leisure, and she will join you there.”
She pressed her fingers into his hand, and reluctantly, David took the key, closing his fist about it, letting it dig deep into his flesh. By God, Cecilia was going to pay for this one. He had half a mind to haul her upstairs and spank her soundly, or tie her to the bedposts and tease her till she begged, or otherwise avail himself of whatever perversion room number seven afforded. Surely, there would be many, and a rude education was precisely what Cecilia deserved for disobeying an order which had been solely designed to protect her.
Ruthlessly, he dragged her upstairs. The room was the last on their right. Along the way, Cecilia stared up and down the dimly lit corridors. The air was filled with a cloying scent and the muted sounds of masculine laughter.
Along the passageway, vulgar paintings adorned the walls, and explicit plaster statues were tucked into niches throughout. Beneath a flickering wall sconce, a recumbent statue of some pseudo-Grecian god was being enthusiastically fellated by a water nymph on her knees. As he dragged her past it, Cecilia craned her head halfway around to stare.
Then it got worse. In an alcove by the door of number seven, a hoofed-and-horned statue of Pan had managed to bend a scantily clad shepherdess rather artfully over a rock and was impaling her crudely from the rear.
Cecilia jerked to a halt. “Good heavens, is that—” She bent a little closer, peering at the woman’s white plaster buttocks. “Is that s-sodomy?” she finally managed.
David wanted to sink through the floor in mortification. “Not quite,” he hissed, dragging her away by the arm. “Sodomy is something rather different—and don’t even ask!”
By the time he unlocked the door, the room had already begun to feel like a sanctuary. Roughly, he shoved open the door and dragged Cecilia inside. In the hearth, a pile of coal blazed hotly, clearly kindled in anticipation of a customer. Unfortunately, the heat only managed to heighten the stale smell of sex and the sweet, cloying scent which had pervaded the corridors. At once, David lifted Cecilia’s cloak from her shoulders and slid out of his greatcoat. As there were no chairs, he draped them across the footboard.
By West End standards, the room was abominably tasteless. In the center sat a sagging four-poster bed with the obligatory leather strappings tied to the bedposts. Covering it was a red velvet spread slashed with black. A selection of black leather whips was mounted on one wall, but for the more faint of heart, red silk ropes were twined about their handles. In the corner stood a crooked wicker screen, and behind it sat a close-stool and a washstand. David felt a shudder run through him. Yes, a man would definitely want a wash upon leaving a place like this.
Cecilia was already staring around the room, her mouth agape. David could only pray that she did not begin rifling through the armoire. God only knew what Mother Derbin kept hidden there, and he was not in the mood to answer any more of Cecilia’s probing questions. Good Lord, the woman was going to try his fortitude in the worst sort of way.
Just then, a light knock sounded at the door, and a voluptuous girl with dark hair entered. “Well, good evenin’, ducks,” she announced the moment her eyes lit upon David. Then she saw Cecilia, and her expression faded a bit. “Wot’s yer pleasure?”
David strolled slowly forward. “That’s an impressive accent you’ve got there,” he said dryly, “for a girl named Angeline.”
Angeline screwed up her mouth and narrowed one eye. “Mother Derbin says it’s good for business,” she retorted. “Now, wot’s your pleasure? You want ter watch me awhile with her?” she asked softly, inclining her head toward Cecilia. “Or would you be man enough ter do us both?”
David smiled tightly. “I daresay I could manage, though I don’t make a habit of it,” he answered lightly.
Beneath the black veil, Cecilia gasped in outrage. Before he could say anything further, she darted forward and produced a banknote from her reticule. “All we want,” she hastily interjected, “is to ask you some questions.”
Angeline drew back in alarm, but her eyes never left the banknote. “Yeah? And o’ wot sort?” she asked.
“We’re searching for information about three girls who used to work here,” Cecilia explained.
“Three—!” Angeline eyed David up and down again. “G’orn!”
Impatiently, Cecilia shook her head while David tried not to laugh. “Not like that,” Cecilia insisted. “Two sisters, Mary and Kathleen O’Gavin, and a friend of theirs, Meg McNamara. Did you know them?”
Uncertainly, Angeline licked her lips. “No—” She stopped, then eyed the banknote once again. “Might ‘ave ‘eard a little something about ‘em, though. But they don’t work ‘ere n’more.”
David stepped forward, crossing his arms over his chest. “What we’d really like to know,” he said softly,”is why they left. Was there some sort of unpleasantness? Are you women being abused? Made to do something you don’t wish to do?”
Angeline seemed to take umbrage at his implication. “Now, look ‘ere, mate—I likes me job just fine. And as to whatever we get, why, we get paid well enough ter take it, I’d say.”
David smiled crookedly. “I see,” he said quietly. “I’m glad you find satisfaction in your chosen career, but pardon me if I assume that the other three ladies did not. They fled this place in the middle of the night, and I should like very much to know why.”
“Well, they weren’t roughed up by no customer, if that’s wot yer sayin’,” Angeline warned. “Like as not, they’d all still be here, if it weren’t for Meg and Mary a-pokin’ their nose where it had no business.”
“What do you mean?” asked Cecilia. Stubbornly, Angeline dropped her eyes to the floor.
In response, Cecilia boldly rattled the banknote. No withering violet, his Cecilia. “Madam,” she continued quite ruthlessly, “this is more than you’ll earn in a month. And all we want for it is information. You tell us what you know, and we’ll go happily back downstairs and tell Mother Derbin what a stellar performance you’ve given us.”
Angeline looked up, shifting her gaze from Cecilia to David and back again. “It all happened afore I got here,” she reluctantly began. “But I heard as how they went sneakin’ down in’ter the cellars to give away a little tickle-tail to a couple o’ Frog sailors they’d got a soft spot for. Everybody knows you don’t do that around here.”
Cecilia frowned. “You mean—do it with a Frenchman?”
Angeline let out a loud snort. “Ol’ Derbin don’t care if yer does it with a lamppost, long as somebody’s payin’. But them cellars, now—we particular ain’t ter go down there.”
Abruptly, David stepped forward. “Why not?” he demanded.
The prostitute shot him a withering glance. “Have yerself a guess. We’re sittin’ pretty amongst ‘alf the dockyards in London. But me—” Angeline paused to shake her head violently. “I don’t need ter know nuffin’ about it.”
&
nbsp; “Does Mrs. Derbin know what goes on in the cellars?” asked David pointedly. “Or is there someone else involved?”
Again, she shrugged. “There’s a Mr. Smith what comes weekly to collect the rent. She’s afraid o’ him. And he’s got a key to the cellars. That’s all I know.”
Mr. Smith? David rolled his eyes. “This Mr. Smith, is he a young coxcomb of a fellow with black hair and brown eyes?”
Angeline laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. “Not hardly. I’ve given ‘im a tumble or two, and he’s a big buck of a man. A nasty piece of work, too. Likes it rough, yer knows wot I mean? But young he ain’t.”
It was clear they had learned all that the prostitute was willing to tell. Cecilia passed her the money. “Angeline,” she said, her voice suddenly softening. “If ever there comes a time when you are no longer happy in this work, I hope you know that there are places you can go.”
Sarcastically, Angeline snorted. “Yeah, like a bleedin’ workhouse? Or one of them Methody-missions?” Slowly, she shook her head. “Not in this lifetime, ducks. I’ll take me chances with the Mr. Smiths o’ this world.”
Clearly, Angeline knew her own mind. Deep in thought, David slid his fingers through his hair. “Look here, Angeline,” he said slowly. “This is what I want you to do. Go back to your room, or to someplace you can hide for a while. When you hear the bells at St. George’s toll six, return to this room and make it appear as if it has been used.”
“Sure,” the prostitute agreed, turning to go.
Suddenly, David held up a staying hand. Good God, what an idiot he’d been! “One more thing—have we any peepholes in this room?”
“Peepholes!” Cecilia said, horrified.
Angeline tossed her a scornful glance, then jerked her head toward the armoire. “On the left side of that clothes cupboard, but there ain’t nobody wot’s paid to watch ternight.” And then the prostitute shoved Cecilia’s banknote into her bosom, gave it a little shake, and strolled out the door.
At once, David moved to the wall, easily locating the peep. Drawing out his handkerchief, he wadded up the corner and stuffed it inside the hole.
“David?” asked Cecilia uncertainly. “Wh-why are there holes in the walls?”
Another question. Damned if she wasn’t full of them. Reluctantly, he turned away from the armoire. “Because there are a great many perverted people in this world, my dear,” he said roughly. “And places like this cater to them. Do you understand now why I did not want you here?”
At that, Cecilia lost a little of her color, and, unable to restrain himself, David went to her, gathering her into his arms. Cecilia did not resist, and only then did he truly appreciate the toll which her bold act with Angeline had taken. Cecilia could be daring, but it was not, precisely, her nature to be so. In this case, no doubt she’d done what she thought necessary. But now, in his arms, she trembled.
Just then, Cecilia drew a long, shuddering breath against his shirtfront and let her hands—those perfect, sweet hands—slide up his back. The fact that she wore gloves, and that his bare skin was covered by three layers of Bond Street tailoring, in no way mitigated the pleasure which coursed through him. And her next words were not helpful.
“David,” she said quietly, “while we wait, will you make love to me?”
“No.” He said the word firmly and swiftly, his eyes taking in the tawdry room, the wall hung with whips and ropes.
Cecilia realized at once what David was thinking. He thought her too pure, too innocent. He still saw her as Lord Walrafen’s virginal wife, not as she was: a woman with needs and desires. A woman who was willing—no, eager—to learn how to give and receive physical pleasure. And since David’s sexual appetites were perhaps too sophisticated to be pleased by anyone’s virginal wife, Cecilia would have to become the sort of woman who could hold his interest long-term. And she could do it.
Steadily, she held his gaze, willing herself to stop shaking. “Don’t treat me as if I were a child, David,” she said quietly. “If last night was enough for you, then say so. But if not, don’t make me play the innocent. I’m not. Not in any way that matters.”
David gave a soft, exasperated hiss from between his teeth. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he insisted.
“I wish us to be lovers,” she clarified. “There. I have said it. Now, you may accept my offer, or you may laugh in my face as you choose. All I ask is that if you accept, you give me the courtesy of your fidelity until you tire of me.”
“Oh?” David’s expression darkened, and his mouth turned up into a sneer. “And where shall we conduct this illicit liaison?” he demanded, dropping his hands and turning away from her. “Am I to come to your home and strut about as if I had paid for it? As if I had paid for you?”
Despite his bitter tone, it was at base a reasonable question. Cecilia had never considered the how and where of her offer. Yes, she was a widow, and entitled to some moral latitude. Still, the thought of entertaining him in her home gave her pause. And David... well, David lived with his mother and sister. That was worse.
At least her servants were loyal and discreet. But suddenly, she realized that if David could not be persuaded to wed her, she would likely never marry again. Therefore, she did not have a pristine reputation to maintain. “Yes,” she said abruptly.
He spun about on one heel and looked at her.
“Yes, you will come to my home,” Cecilia firmly clarified. “I would be in no way ashamed to have my association with you known.”
In the blink of an eye, he had closed the distance between them. “Perhaps you should be, you fool,” he growled, taking her by the shoulders and giving her a good, swift shake. It was a response which was becoming increasingly familiar.
“I’ve asked you to be my lover. There’s no shame in that.”
“Is that what we are, Cecilia?” he whispered. “Are we lovers? And if so, for how long?”
“I think I’m waiting for you tell me,” Cecilia softly replied.
At once, David seemed to collapse inwardly, his shoulders sagging and his eyes closing. To her shock, he drew her into his arms and onto the tawdry bed. Together, they tumbled onto it. David rolled to her side, opened his eyes, and levered himself up on to one elbow.
But other than sliding one hand about her waist, he made no effort to touch her. For long moments, he merely held her, studying her face, her hair, his arm where it encircled the turn of her waist.
“Do you not wish for something more out of life than a lover, Cecilia?” he finally asked, his voice infinitely weary. “And why a rogue like me? You should have children. Beautiful blond babies.” Gently, he skimmed the palm of his hand down her belly and around her hip. “If ever a body was made to bear children, my dear, it is yours. You should marry again.”
Cecilia knew that he spoke of another man, not himself. Clearly, the thought of anything serious between them had not crossed his mind. Or perhaps he had rejected such a notion. Perhaps the idea of being faithful to one woman was loathsome to him, no matter who the woman was. Men often were terrified by the very thought of love and commitment. Was that the source of the unease which she sensed behind David’s façade?
But instinctively, she knew that if David should ever commit himself to a marriage, he would be committed for life. And by heaven, she meant to convince him. Seduce him. Tempt him. Beyond restraint, until she melted his reason and splintered his resistance. Somehow, she would become the one woman with whom fidelity would seem worth the sacrifice. The one woman with whom he could share himself—and his darkness.
But with David, a woman would be wise to move slowly. Still, there was no time like the present to get started. Tentatively, she reached up and slid her fingers through the heavy curtain of hair which had fallen forward to shadow his face. Then, unable to resist, she slid the ball of her thumb across his full lower lip. At once, his eyes fell shut and he softly kissed her finger.
“Kiss me, David,” she whispered. “Kiss my mouth, as you
did last night.”
“Not here,” he rasped, nuzzling his lips against the palm of her hand.
“Yes, here,” she insisted, rising up to take his mouth.
At first, David indulged her, dipping his head and allowing hers to fall back against the bed. Lightly, his lips pushed against hers, molding warmly over her mouth. But when Cecilia tried to deepen the kiss, opening beneath him and sliding her tongue across his lower lip, David drew away.
“Do not push me, Cecilia,” he said, opening his eyes. “And don’t try that trick of accusing me of not wanting you. I do, and you know it. But this place... it disgusts me. Besides, you are merely trying to avoid a serious conversation.”
“And what conversation would that be?”
David rolled to her side and dragged one arm across his eyes. “I believe we were speaking of your unborn children,” he said quietly. “And in my heart, I was praying to God one isn’t already in the making.”
Cecilia shifted onto one elbow and stared down at him. She had not missed the solemnity in his voice. She thought again of Etta’s advice—advice she didn’t want. In an attempt to forestall the blue devils, Cecilia let her hands trail playfully down his chest. “Oh, perhaps someday I will marry again,” she admitted lightly. “If the perfect man ever asks. Because yes, I would very much like to have children. Lots of them.”
On the bed beside her, it sounded as if David laughed, but the sound was muffled by the coat sleeve drawn over his face. “Lots of them? You sound very brave, Cecilia. How many would you like?”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Cecilia confessed, toying with the folds of his cravat. “Four or five? Does that sound a great many? I collect you have some experience with children. Your friend Lady Kildermore has five, does she not?”
David seemed to ignore her question, but at least he dragged his arm off his face. “And this man—this father of your children—he would have to be a pattern of rectitude, would he not?” he lightly responded. “A man of flawless breeding, with indisputable bloodlines.”