Shameless

by Annie Stuart

  “No, your ladyship,” Raffaella said promptly.

  The rest of them answered, as well, and she turned back to Rohan, cool and cheerful. “Of course, they may be lying because they’re so terrified by my brutish nature, but I expect they mean it. The life of a prostitute isn’t a kind one, my lord. It’s a world of disease and despair, being forced to lie supine beneath men they don’t know and allow them their brutish lusts. They age quickly and end up on the streets, and most of them are dead by forty, of disease or accident or murder.”

  There was a glint in his eye. “In fact, Lady Carstairs, in most brothels the women are rarely on the bottom.”

  She eyed him steadily. “No, I imagine not. My assistant and friend has been very thorough in detailing the lives of these poor women, and I doubt being astride has much to recommend it.”

  “I gathered you’ve been married. Don’t you know?”

  “I hardly think that’s your business.”

  “I’m merely curious that a widow who enjoyed the marriage bed is unaware of all the infinite varieties of making love. Or didn’t Sir Thomas manage to perform his husbandly duty? I collect the match was uneven—your youth for his fortune. In fact, that would put you on the same par with some of your charming gaggle. Sexual congress in return for financial remuneration.”

  He was trying to goad her, and managing to succeed, when she considered herself relatively even tempered. She repressed a well-deserved growl. “Are you asking me if all women are whores due to the strictures of society? I won’t disagree with you. And while it is none of your business, Sir Thomas certainly fulfilled his marital obligations, but only in the most proper and respectful fashion. Which would hardly include…variations.” Why in the world was she discussing such intimacies with him, she wondered.

  “Pity.”

  He was trying to annoy her. Or at least provoke an unmannerly reaction from her, and succeeding to an alarming degree. “I beg pardon,” she said, aiming for sweetness and falling short of the mark. “This is hardly an appropriate topic of conversation. At times my passion for my project can cause me to speak intemperately. Perhaps we should leave. You may assure your betrothed that we will do our best not to sully her eyes with our presence. We will walk in the mornings rather than the afternoons.”

  Oh, holy hell, she thought at the gleam in his eye. Now he knew she’d been asking about him, as well. She braced herself for his mockery, but he let the opportunity go, deliberately, she suspected. And not permanently.

  “Miss Pennington is not my betrothed,” he said mildly enough. “And I would prefer you walk in the afternoon. Depending on my…debauches of the night before I may be abed until late morning, and I would hate to miss such a decorative addition to the park.”

  He was talking about the girls, of course, but he was looking at her, and for the first time in her life Melisande understood why a woman might take off her clothes and lie down for someone. With his deep, caressing voice, intense eyes and handsome face he was a prime example of a rake, the scion of a family of hellions. She was playing with fire. He could talk a nun into an orgy.

  She mentally slapped herself. She wasn’t a nun, and he wasn’t referring to her. “The answer to that, my lord, is to avoid debauchery in the first place. Rising early is good for both the body and the soul.”

  There was a very definite stir behind her, one of profound disagreement, and she expected Rohan to remark on that. Instead he stayed focused on her, and she felt like a butterfly pinned to a wall with that gaze. No, a moth, she reminded herself, brutally honest.

  “Staying in bed can be very good for the body and quite possibly the soul, as well,” he said, his voice low and almost irresistible. “You should try it.”

  “I may remind you I’m a widow, Lord Rohan.”

  “So you are, my lady. A very wealthy one, I gather. You should beware of men who seek to marry you for that wealth.”

  “You’re in no need of a fortune.”

  He raised his eyebrows. “Did you think I was referring to myself? I don’t believe I’ve shown any particular partiality toward you, have I? At least, not yet.”

  At that point she wanted nothing more than a huge hole to appear in the manicured lawns of St. James Park and swallow either her or, even better, the Viscount Rohan.

  Did he know about Wilfred? God, she hoped not. That brief time of idiocy had been kept secret, thank heavens. Her one stupid fall from grace had only solidified her determination. But no, there was no reason to think he might know anything about it.

  “Though Wilfred Hunnicut is, of course, another matter.” And with that bland statement he drove a stake through her fond assumption. “It is a great deal too bad no one warned you about him.”

  Before she could gather her wits to respond he bowed. “Since you have no need of my accompanying you, I will bid you farewell, Lady Carstairs. I’m certain we shall meet again, and soon.”

  “Not if you stay away from my girls,” she said, completely truthful.

  His smile curved his mouth. “But what, dear lady, if I can’t stay away from you?”

  6

  In all, Benedick had been perversely pleased with his day’s work. He’d paid back the interfering Lady Carstairs in full. The expression on her face was such unflattering horror that he’d almost laughed out loud, and she’d taken her bevy of reclaimed doves out of the park at something close to a run. Sir Thomas Carstairs must have been even more of an ogre than was generally suspected, to give her such a disgust of men.

  He wondered if she forced the girls to sit through endless sermons, poor things. She’d marry again, despite her disdain for his sex. She was too plump and luscious not to, and sooner or later someone, probably another fortune hunter, would overcome her scruples and pay dearly for it. She’d probably make him pray before he bedded her, lights out, nightgown lifted primly to her waist in the darkness.

  Though chances were, the Honorable Miss Pennington might not have been much better. At least Lady Carstairs had compassion for her gaggle, if not for the male half of the world’s population.

  Clearly he needed to set his sights on someone younger, more amenable than Miss Dorothea Pennington. He ran the risk of being cuckolded, he supposed, though with no false modesty he counted that unlikely. Women had an unfortunate tendency to love him. Unfortunate, as they tended to die.

  Even Barbara had loved him in her way. At least someone like Dorothea Pennington wouldn’t mourn him overmuch—she was much too practical.

  But that glimpse into her ice-cold soul in the park that day had been more than sufficient, and in the following weeks he had cast his eye around the ton, sorting through the eligible maidens and discarding each one, though he found any number that would have done for Brandon. Not that Brandon ever made an appearance at any of the functions created to parade nubile and marriageable flesh in front of jaded male eyes. In truth, his stray comment, meant to enflame, had struck close to the truth. The marriage mart wasn’t much better than a brothel, he mused, staring into the fire one rainy afternoon. Lady Carstairs ought to direct her energy there, preserving the virgins from a life of sexual indebtedness. There might be more freedom in being a whore.

  He watched the flames, abstracted. So far, each of the contenders for the role of Viscountess Rohan had failed for one issue or another. One was too pretty, another too plain. One was too lively, another too drab. One had a shrill laugh, another had a vitriolic temper, yet another embraced too much religiosity. None of them would do.

  He was having an equally difficult time with the more congenial form of feminine companionship. Despite Lady Carstairs’s best efforts there were still any number of available females eager for his attention, but so far the few who had managed to engage his interest for even a short amount of time were rare, indeed. Even Brandon might have noticed, had he ever been home. He was hollow-eyed, so thin a wind might blow him away, bad-tempered and mocking. His sweet, enthusiastic little brother was now an even greater cynic than he was, th
ough in truth Brandon had more reason. He had seen death on a staggering scale; his body had been ripped to pieces in a foolish war, though Benedick was of the unpopular opinion that all wars were foolish. It was little wonder that Brandon appeared to be burning the candle at both ends, though God knew where he was doing so. Certainly not anywhere Benedick was aware of.

  He’d come to the uneasy conclusion that he was not his brother’s keeper, and forced himself to stop worrying. It was no longer in his nature to fuss about his siblings. His brother Charles was so well settled into such a boring life in Cornwall that he had seemed to disappear, and as for his wild and brave sister, Miranda, she had married a man of such unforgivable treachery that his mind still reeled. He kept waiting for her call for help, and he was more than prepared to jump in a carriage and rescue her from the monster she’d married. Instead she kept popping out children and being blissfully happy, which annoyed him no end.

  Not that he wanted her to suffer. He just wanted her away from the Scorpion.

  Ah, but he wasn’t his sister’s keeper, either. He needed to concentrate on his own concerns, and he was having a devil of a time fulfilling either of his two objectives. The women were accommodating, the virgins were lovely, and he had no taste for either.

  Indeed, perhaps he ought to go back to Somerset, where at least…

  He heard the commotion at the front door, and he dropped his feet to the floor. Richmond and the footmen should be more than capable of dealing with any disturbance, particularly after their previous failure in letting Lady Carstairs storm into the house, but he was bored and in the mood for a fight. Perhaps he ought to see what was disturbing a gentleman’s peace.

  He didn’t have to go anywhere. The door to his library was flung open, and the virago stood there, breathing heavily, her bonnet askew, her eyes blazing, and for a moment he wondered if she had had a brawl with his servants. A moment later an unruffled Richmond appeared behind her, announced in quite unnecessary accents, “Lady Carstairs,” and then closed the door behind her, sealing her in the room with him.

  He rose—his mother had raised him to be a gentleman—and raised an eyebrow. It had been more than three weeks since he’d seen her in the park, and he had sincerely hoped she was plainer than he remembered. Unfortunately, the opposite was true. Melisande, Lady Carstairs, was a surprisingly pretty creature despite the dowdy clothes and shadowing bonnet. “What a charming surprise!” he murmured, the correct social lie. “To what do I owe this pleasure, Lady Carstairs?”

  For a moment she looked nonplussed. Clearly she’d been expecting a battle, and instead found him on his best behavior. How delightful that being polite was even more upsetting to her than his customary rudeness.

  But she was a worthy opponent, and her eyes narrowed, surveying him. “I’ve come to ask for your help,” she said abruptly. She was nervous, he noticed, which surprised him. She hadn’t struck him as the kind of woman to be afraid of anything or anyone.

  “I would be delighted to be of service, Lady Carstairs, but if you think I would be of any assistance in persuading women to forego the pleasures of the flesh then I must tell you that you’ve chosen the wrong—”

  She let out an exasperated sigh. “Aren’t you going to invite me to sit? I practically ran from Carstairs House.”

  He frowned then. “You should have taken a carriage. There are some less than savory areas in between King Street and Bury Street. And I presume your abigail or your footman is waiting outside?”

  “I seldom bother with the absurd trappings of convention, Lord Rohan, and I employ neither of them. Besides, I was in too much of a hurry.” She didn’t wait for his invitation, stripping off her bonnet and sinking down on the chair by the fire, fixing her fierce blue gaze on him.

  He was, for a moment, startled. Lady Carstairs was prettier than he’d realized, with soft wings of tawny hair framing an oval face, a wide, mobile mouth, straight nose and those piercing eyes. Combined with her luscious body, the total of her assets caused him to mentally reevaluate his timeline. She’d be wed by the end of the season. Some wise man simply wouldn’t take no for an answer.

  He realized he was staring at her, and he quickly pulled himself together. “The trappings of convention are there for a reason. If we are shut up alone together for any length of time people might surmise that I compromised you.”

  “Stuff and nonsense,” she said. “I’m hardly the sort of woman who catches your eye. They’re more likely to think I compromised you, and I assure you, you’re safe from any claims on my part.”

  “And I assure you, Lady Carstairs, that there are very few women who don’t catch my eye, and you underestimate your charms.”

  She blushed. Charity Carstairs, the Virago of King Street, actually blushed, and for a moment he was enchanted. And then she recovered, fixing him with a stern gaze. “Don’t waste your time, Rohan,” she said, using the familiar form of his name simply to put him in his place. It didn’t work, he thought with amusement. “I’m beyond such flummery. And no, I’m not an idiot. I don’t want you anywhere near my girls—you’re far too great a distraction as it is. I have a far greater problem, and you have reason to share in the blame, given your family’s history.”

  “I have no intention of taking responsibility for my father or grandfather. They were two of the finest rakes England has ever known, and I could never hope to equal their feats. They were like gods, I, merely a godling. I only take responsibility for my own debaucheries, which are many.” Though not as many as he could have wished, he thought dejectedly.

  But she was undeterred. “And you’re proud of this?”

  He was spared having to respond by the appearance of Richmond carrying a tea tray, lavishly outfitted with cakes and trifles as well as the best china, the set his mother had picked out for him and which seldom saw the light of day. Richmond must approve of Lady Carstairs, for some as yet unfathomable reason. He would hardly approve of her visiting a gentleman’s house, and Richmond had very severe standards. There must be something else to make him overlook such a shocking breach of etiquette and signal his approval.

  She poured, of course, the ritual almost unconscious, and he was pleased to see she hadn’t forgotten that much in her devotion to good works. He took his with lemon only, and he sat back, holding his cup, as she filled hers with enough sugar and milk to destroy the taste completely. So Lady Carstairs had a fondness for sweets? Clearly she hadn’t given up all pleasures of the flesh.

  She took a cake, nibbled it, then devoured it, her movements quick and nervous. He waited, entirely at his ease. This was the most interesting thing that had happened in weeks. In fact, since he’d run into her in the park. It was a shame Brandon hadn’t returned last night. Then again, there was no telling how the new Brandon would act.

  The old Brandon would have been amused and polite, and probably defend her once she left. The new Brandon simply wouldn’t care.

  No, it was just as well he wasn’t here.

  Lady Carstairs took a second cake, not that he could blame her. He retained a most excellent kitchen staff, though he seldom paid attention to sweets. Apparently Lady Carstairs made up for his abstinence.

  She must have realized he was watching her, for she finished the cake, sat back and took a deep breath. “It concerns the Heavenly Host.”

  7

  Benedick looked at her for a long moment, marshalling his thoughts. “I would ask how you even know of the existence of that organization, but I assume you learned of it from your protégés. As far as I know the Heavenly Host has been disbanded for almost ten years. And even if they did still exist they’re hardly any of your concern, unless you now wish to rescue bored aristocrats from their sexual indulgences.”

  She was unfazed. “They’ve reconvened. Apparently there was some outrageous contretemps ten years ago that caused most of them to lose interest, but in the last three years they’ve re-formed and are far worse than they ever were before.”

  Most women of t
he ton had no knowledge of what went on with the Heavenly Host, not unless they were part of it. A surprisingly large number of outrageous sisters and wives of the original participants had joined in, lessening the need for paid companionship. He himself had attended a gathering of the Host when he was in his early twenties, more out of curiosity than anything else, and found their playacting tedious.

  “Perhaps you’d care to elaborate. How are they specifically different from the past?” He was hoping to make her blush again. The last one had stained her smooth cheeks. He wanted to see if it could travel down the neckline of her tasteless dress.

  But he’d underestimated her. “According to my resources, the Heavenly Host has always had a history of consensuality. Everyone must be agreeable to whatever depraved acts are committed.”

  “What sort of depraved acts?” he asked in his sweetest voice.

  “The sort of act you were about to perform with Violet Highstreet,” she said, unruffled.

  “In truth, she was the one who was going to perform it. I was simply the happy recipient….”

  She’d done a good job of keeping her color down until that point; he gave her credit, but her cheeks flamed once more. He decided to press his point. “So fellatio, which is the technical term for it, is one of the acts performed at gatherings of the Heavenly Host? I regret to inform you, Lady Carstairs, but that same act is performed in almost every bedroom in this city.”

  “And street corner and alleyway.”

  “Yes, well we know your opinion of that, and I’m not about to argue with you. So is your mission to stamp out oral pleasuring, or something else? Because I can assure you that convincing people to refrain from it is unlikely….”

  “Would you stop!” she cried, her sangfroid finally showing cracks. “I didn’t come here to talk about…about…”

  “Fellatio,” he supplied helpfully.

  “That. It’s the Heavenly Host that needs to be stopped. Their new mandate is total depravity, the kind that knows no limits.”