by Annie Stuart
Brandon followed his gaze, oddly alert despite the whiskey he could smell on him. “Don’t look so worried,” he said in an irritable voice. “Did it myself.”
“Why?”
“None of your damned business, that’s why,” Brandon replied. He paused, looking around him, his eyes going out of focus. “I need my room,” he said abruptly.
“Are you going to be unwell, sir?” Richmond inquired anxiously. “I could bring you a basin.”
“No Rohan would cast up his accounts—we come from a long line of degenerates—” And then he’d proceeded to get violently ill all over Benedick.
Which was enough to put anyone off the idea of sleeping. They’d managed to get Brandon’s nearly unconscious form into his bedroom, and he’d left him in Richmond’s care, not bothering with instructions to clean him up and bandage the hand. Richmond had taken care of him very well over the years—he didn’t need his master telling him his business.
Fortunately the noise had already roused a number of the staff, and it didn’t take long to get a hot bath to wash off Brandon’s excesses. By the time he’d finished it was already growing light outside, and he gave up the thought of sleep entirely.
It was just as well. Lack of sleep sharpened his intellect and destroyed any semblance of courtesy. He’d doubtless be such a bear that sweet Charity would develop a total disgust of him, and look elsewhere for a confederate. He would be better off investigating Brandon’s possible connection to the Heavenly Host on his own, without having to worry about anyone else.
Not that it was in his nature to worry about anyone, with the possible exception of his siblings. And Brandon had managed to get himself into a totally disreputable state while he was nowhere near the Elsmeres or any of the other possible members he’d talked with the night before, which made the connection less likely.
Today should put an end to any speculation. He would give Lady Carstairs such a disgust of him that she would refuse to even speak to him in the future, which would be better for both of them. Because she’d kissed him back. Inexpertly, to be sure, but she’d responded, and the sweetness of her momentary, unexpected response had been…distracting. And he’d already been distracted enough from his main goal.
No, today would put an end to it. Thank God.
It was a good thing she managed very well on only a few hours of sleep, Melisande thought over her second cup of strong tea. Because last night had been distressing, indeed.
It had started with Viscount Rohan, of course. Try as she might, she couldn’t stop thinking about the feel of his body pressed against hers, between her legs, the same and yet so different from the two other men who had once lain there. Of course last night they’d both been fully clothed, so she’d been able to notice things without being in a high state of anxiety over the indignities that were about to follow. She could feel the hardness of his chest against her breasts, the heavy rhythm of his heart. The hand that had held her wrists over her head, the other hand sliding up her leg, unfastening her garter with the practiced ease of a rake.
She hadn’t wanted him to stop. That was the miserable, unacceptable truth, but she’d always prided herself on facing it, no matter how unpleasant. If they’d been somewhere else, if he’d been someone else, she would have succumbed faster than a leaf falls from a tree in autumn. His kiss, his vile, tonguing kiss, had been revelatory. Because she’d liked it. She could have gone on kissing him all night.
Not that he would have kissed her all night. She knew perfectly well that men kissed simply in order to inflict more indignities upon a woman, and that once they were done the best one could hope for was an affectionate pat on the cheek before the sod would roll over and fall asleep, dismissing her and her feelings from his consciousness….
She stopped herself, taking a deep breath. If she liked his kisses, more than she’d ever liked kisses before, did that mean she would also like what normally followed? She had the horrid suspicion that she might.
Which led her to an obvious conclusion. Celibacy might not be the best answer for every woman.
Oh, to be sure, someone like Benedick Rohan was the worst kind of choice a woman could make. Fortunately he was totally beyond her touch if she had any illusions in that direction. Her background was respectable but undistinguished, he was the scion of an old, if notorious, family. He would be a marquess eventually, and he would choose a very young virgin to be his marchioness, not a widow who was long in the tooth and most likely barren. Viscount Rohan was busy looking among the most beautiful of this year’s crop of marriageable ladies, and he didn’t have to consider fortune among his requirements. He could simply take the prettiest, most amenable one with a snap of the fingers, and she, and her parents, would come willingly. If she hadn’t distracted him with her charges’ problems, he probably would have already announced his engagement.
But she was hardly going to settle for a fortune hunter like Wilfred, if she did decide to marry again. Nor an old man like Thomas, no matter how dearly he’d loved her. No, she would want someone strong and young and yes, handsome. Someone to adore her, to devote himself to bringing her pleasure with the same kind of dedication Rohan brought to kissing. Was it too much to ask for?
Of course, men, even charming men, could turn into brutes. But surely not all of them? She needed to keep an open mind. She might have been hasty in dismissing the entire male gender. Perhaps there might be children in her future after all.
Emma Cadbury appeared in the door, worry creasing her beautiful face. She poured herself a cup of tea and sat down opposite Melisande, managing a distracted smile. “That’s a very pretty riding habit,” she observed.
“It’s seven years out-of-date,” Melisande said, kicking at the long skirt. “Which is one reason why it’s a little too…a little too…”
“Attractive? Flattering?” Emma supplied dryly. “I don’t understand why you refuse to wear clothes that show your figure. The habit looks lovely on you—it brings out the blue in your eyes. There’s no reason why you can’t enjoy pretty clothes, Melisande.”
“I don’t want to attract unwanted male attention.”
“What about wanted male attention?”
Melisande flushed, hoping Emma couldn’t read her recent thoughts. “Is there such a thing?”
“Yes,” Emma said firmly. “And I suspect you’re beginning to realize it. You still haven’t told me how last evening went.”
She would have given anything to have poured out what had happened in that little closet off the Elsmeres’ ballroom, but something stopped her. She wasn’t sure whether it was embarrassment or something else, but she wasn’t ready to share.
“I’m more interested in how Maudie is.” She’d just managed to drift off to sleep when Maudie had showed up, covered in blood, with bruises on her throat, wrists and ankles, another victim of the Heavenly Host’s brutal games. She hadn’t spoken much since they’d managed to clean her up and bandage her, but her blackened eyes were filled with suffering, a suffering that should only have increased Melisande’s disgust for all mankind. Unfortunately it only increased her disgust with the base aristocrats responsible and the worthless examples of human-kind who found pleasure in hurting the helpless.
And Benedick, Viscount Rohan, was her ally in stopping them. She had no choice—she couldn’t do it on her own. At least she was secure in the knowledge that without good reason he would have no interest in touching her. And when she survived without sleep she became, as Emma had frankly informed her, a captious shrew. She would give Viscount Rohan such a disgust of her that he wouldn’t want to venture any closer than strictly necessary.
“Maudie’s sleeping,” Emma said. “She’s lost a bit of blood, but she doesn’t seem to have suffered any permanent injury.”
“With any luck this might work out for the best.” Melisande roused herself. “She’s come and gone from here three times already, each time drifting back into the life of a whore. This time she may have finally had enough.”
“Perhaps,” Emma said doubtfully. “But there are some who never learn. And God knows, it’s easier work than hauling coal to an upstairs bedroom and working in a dressmaker’s shop. You’re off your feet and it’s all over and done with quick enough.”
Melisande frowned. “That reminds me. Lord Rohan said that…that physical encounters can take an hour or longer. I presume he was lying, but…”
“What were you doing discussing lovemaking with Viscount Rohan?”
Melisande picked up the newspaper, endeavoring to look matter-of-fact. “It was an intellectual discussion.”
“Hmmph,” said Emma, clearly not convinced. “If you want to have intellectual discussions about lovemaking then you should come to us. If you put all our years of experience together our wealth of knowledge rivals that contained in the British Museum.”
“Does the British Museum contain knowledge of lovemaking?” she asked. “I’ll have to go in search of it instead of wasting my time learning from the gaggle.”
“Don’t try to distract me. You know I worry about you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said in a meek voice. “Then is it true? Does it take longer than five or ten minutes?”
Emma surveyed her judiciously. “It all depends. With experienced lovers it can last the entire night. When money changes hands it’s usually over quickly. The provider of the service wishes to end it quickly, and, being a professional skilled in her craft, she can do any number of things to speed the process along. The purchaser usually wants it over quickly as well, since he’s more than likely ashamed of needing to pay money for it in the first place or concerned that he might be discovered by a wife or friend.
“Among lovers it’s a different matter. In that case the longer it takes the more exquisite the pleasure. There are any number of tricks for prolonging things, bringing someone to the very edge of climax and then falling back, only to approach it again.”
“Climax?”
Emma’s smile was rueful. “Clearly we haven’t been nearly instructive enough. I’m talking about that moment of exquisite bliss that occasionally blesses women. For men it’s simple enough—a matter of biology, and almost any aperture will do for them. For a woman it requires care and skill from the man, and usually deep feeling from the woman, or so I’ve been told.”
Melisande stared at her, momentarily confused. “So you’ve been told?” she repeated. “But you were the most notorious madam in the city, as well as the youngest. How could you not know…?”
“Prolonging a man’s pleasure is a fairly simple matter. Prolonging a female’s release is, for my part, merely theoretical. There are very few men who specialize in providing pleasure for females, and I have never been troubled by tender feelings about anyone. Most of the men who worked for me were there for other men to enjoy. Yes, I know, you don’t want to hear about it, and you don’t need to, though I assure you most of those young men are in as great a need as the women who live here. But as it is, even professionally speaking, a woman’s pleasure is of little value. Occasionally a really good lover can make it last for his partner, but I gather either such men are very rare or, once discovered by wife or partner, they’re never given the chance to stray. So Lord Rohan estimates that his usual lovemaking takes an hour?”
“Including the removal of all clothing.”
A slow smile curved Emma’s gorgeous mouth. “No wonder the whores fought over him. If I’d known I would have investigated myself, just to see if it were true.”
Melisande frowned. “You didn’t, did you?”
“Sleep with Lord Rohan? No, I did not. Does it matter?”
“Why should it matter?” Melisande said, picking up her newspaper and then setting it down again, distracted. “Besides, I already knew that Violet and others had…er…serviced him on a number of occasions.”
Emma’s expression was far too calculating, if only in the nicest way. “If I were you I wouldn’t think about who had taken care of Viscount Rohan and concentrate more on the man himself.”
“Why?”
There was a small, secret smile around Emma’s mouth. “Why don’t we wait and see what happens?”
“Nothing’s going to happen. You know how fractious and unpleasant I can be if I don’t have enough sleep, and I barely managed an hour last night. After a few hours in my company he won’t want to be anywhere near me.”
Before Emma could reply young Betsey barreled into the room. “There’s a cove what’s outside, waiting for you. Sez to hurry up or he’ll leave without you. Right pretty, he is,” she added judiciously. “I’d hurry if I were you.”
It took all of Melisande’s strength of character not to jump to her feet. She rose slowly, glancing at Emma. “I’ll leave Betsey up to you,” she said. “Apparently my presence is demanded.”
She heard Emma’s words trail after her. “Give him hell, Melisande.” And Melisande grinned sourly.
She intended to do just that.
14
It was a ride of close to two hours from the Dovecote on King Street to the ruins of Kersley Hall in Kent, and it was a ride conducted in silence. He waited, just waited, for her to come up with something inflammatory to set his barely banked temper into a roaring blaze, but she barely said a word, damn her.
And he couldn’t summon the energy to engage her. After the first few minutes he settled back into an exhausted semistupor. He should have cried off, but one didn’t stand up a lady, even as big a hoyden as Charity Carstairs, and besides, he despised giving in to weakness. He should have been able to sleep, at least until Brandon had come home, and instead he’d lain awake reliving those disturbing moments in the Elsmeres’ closet.
He was still uncomfortable thinking about it, physically so, and he shifted in the saddle, glancing at his companion. Her eyes were shuttered, her face expressionless, so he let his gaze roam down the rest of her. The habit was deplorably out-of-date, but it fit her better than most of her clothes, with the exception of that wicked gown of hers last night, and the color made her skin luminous. She rode well, which surprised him, and her mare was a beautiful piece of horseflesh, well trained and responding to her slightest gesture.
“Where did you learn to ride?” he asked abruptly, making it sound more like a demand than polite conversation.
“Why? Do you think I lack skill?” she said in a voice bordering on annoyed.
That was what he was looking for, he thought. A fight, to keep him awake, and to remind him of how totally inappropriate she was on every level. “You’re adequate,” he drawled, giving her an insolent look. “I’m afraid I remember very little of your past, apart from your marriage to Sir Thomas Carstairs. You come from an old Lincolnshire family, do you not?”
“If you’re asking me if my parents were wealthy enough to provide a horse for their only child then the answer is no. My father was a baronet addicted to gaming, my mother was devoted to her ill health, and they had neither the inclination nor the money to spend on their ill-favored daughter. I didn’t learn to ride until after I was married.”
He didn’t respond to her “ill-favored” remark—it was simply fishing for compliments and he wasn’t about to react. “If they were so poor and uncaring how did they manage to provide you with a season in London? Or were they that desperate to get rid of you?”
She flashed a dangerous smile at him. “They died. My father from a drunken fall, my mother from a fever. My aunt offered to give me one season to come up to scratch, and after that… In fact, I have no idea what my future would have been if Sir Thomas hadn’t offered for me. I’d probably be a governess somewhere.”
“Terrorizing small children,” he murmured. “Was yours a happy marriage?”
She slowed her mount, turning to look at him. “And which of your marriages did you prefer, Lord Rohan? Were they both equally satisfying to your carnal appetites?”
“And why should you care about my carnal appetites?”
A slight flush tinted her cheekbones.
Rather nice ones, he thought absently, and they set off her intense blue eyes. “I don’t. My point was that your questions were discourteously intimate.”
“I’ve never been known for my courtesy,” he said with simple truth. “My first wife, Annis, was the love of my life. She was strong-minded but passionate, and if she hadn’t died in childbirth I imagine we’d still be very happy. My second wife, Lady Barbara, also died in childbirth, though in that case I doubt the child was mine. She was headstrong and sexually voracious, and she fed those appetites with rare conviction. I’d rather not be tied to marriage again—I find it smothering, but I suppose I must eventually come up with an heir. Which is why, for a change, I’m looking for a docile young wife with no interest in anything other than pleasing me.”
Melisande snorted inelegantly. “I’m certain you’ll have your pick of them, my lord. I hope you don’t grow tired of your eventual choice. Docility can be very wearing after a while.”
“I’m surprised you even know the meaning of the word. Clearly it’s something you’ve eschewed. And as for being bored, I will, of course, look elsewhere for stimulation.”
He could almost hear her grind her teeth, and his mood lightened. Astonishing how entertaining it was to annoy his unwanted confederate.
“That’s hardly surprising. Most men have mistresses. Unfortunately that means you’re in search of two women, not one, and with your exacting standards that might be rather difficult. Particularly since I’ve removed a fair number of candidates for the second position.”
“The sad truth about whores and Cyprians and demimondaines,” Rohan began, “is that there are always more where they came from.”