All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess

by Alexandra Hawkins

  “Mulcaster will never succeed,” Frost said, sneering at the notion. “Madame V is too perceptive to allow such a man into her bed. Besides, she knows that I am more than willing to satisfy any cravings, in or out of the bedchamber.”’

  Saint froze at his friend’s admission. His eyes narrowed menacingly.

  Hunter did not bother concealing his astonishment. “You bedded Madame V?”

  “Lower you voice,” Frost cautioned as several ladies glanced at them. “Since our good friend has a certain reputation to maintain, I saw no reason to gloat about my fortune.”

  “When?” Saint asked tersely.

  Hunter cast a worried glance at him. “Do yourself a favor, gent, and spare us the details.”

  “Naturally, she thought I was magnificent,” Frost said, preening like a proud peacock. “In fairness, I must return the compliment. It is rare for a lover to impress me, but that little thing she does with her tongue was almost my undo—”

  “When?”

  Frost seemed to finally notice Saint. He frowned at the interruption. “When, what, my friend?”

  Frost had bedded Madame Venna. Saint had a dozen questions, but his brain was as productive as a whirlpool. The words swirled in his head, putting a fine edge to his temper. “When did you fuck her, Frost?”

  Hunter winced, snatching the glass of brandy from Saint’s hand before he thought to grind the glass into the earl’s smug face.

  Frost’s mouth curved into a malicious grin. “Jealous?”

  The taunt provoked Saint into action. He did not recall moving, but suddenly his hands were around Frost’s throat. Several ladies shrieked in dismay as he marched his friend backward until they collided with the nearest wall.

  “When were you with her?”

  As the earl struggled to free Saint’s hands from his throat, a part of Saint prayed Frost would refuse to answer. It was reason enough to strangle him. God’s bones … Madame Venna and Frost. He could not believe the audacity of the bastard.

  “Release him. Frost can’t tell you anything when you are crushing his windpipe,” Hunter said in Saint’s ear. His grip felt like a damn vise.

  A gurgling sound bubbled from Frost’s throat. His face was turning red and his lips were peeled back into a sneer as he fought to free himself.

  In the distance, Saint thought he heard Sin curse. Hunter’s next words confirmed it.

  “About time you gents showed up,” the duke muttered. “Saint has a good grip and blood in his eye.”

  It was three against one. One of the sneaky bastards punched him in the right kidney, the sharp pain guaranteeing Frost’s freedom. Saint growled in frustration as he glared at Hunter, Sin, and Vane.

  “Which one of you hit me?” Saint demanded, shaking off Hunter’s hands on his shoulders.

  Vane’s gaze was unwavering. “You were killing him,” he said quietly.

  Saint’s fist clipped Vane along the side of his jaw, causing him to stagger back. “Then you will understand if I do not thank you for it.”

  Everyone was gaping at him as if he had sprouted two heads and horns.

  Sin was crouched next to Frost, who had slipped to the floor when their friends had pulled Saint off him. “Christ, Frost, what did you do to rile Saint into a murderous rage?”

  “Me?” the earl rasped, though his coloring had improved. “How is this my fault?”

  “He’s mad,” one of the elderly guests exclaimed.

  Another person said, “Someone should summon the watch.”

  Vane silenced the onlookers with a quelling glance. “Foxed is more like it,” he said, rubbing his sore jaw.

  Hunter was the only one who did not seem shocked by Saint’s attack. Then again, he knew the source of his friend’s rage. “No more than you. Frost just doesn’t know when to hold his tongue.”

  Sin offered his hand to the earl and helped him to his feet. “What the devil did you say to Saint?”

  “Nothing,” Frost protested, insulted that everyone thought he had done something to justify being throttled. “I was telling Hunter and Saint about my—” He halted midsentence as he sent Saint a sly glance.

  Suddenly he straightened and pointed a finger at the marquess. “This business between us isn’t finished.”

  His friends tensed at the verbal gauntlet Frost tossed at his friend’s feet.

  Saint rolled his right shoulder until it popped. “Unless you plan on offering up your traitorous neck again, I have nothing to say to you.”

  Saint’s forbidding expression would have deterred most of Lord and Lady Durrant’s guests, but the earl seemed unimpressed.

  From the corner of his eye, he noticed Reign’s hurried approach.

  “I do not know what is going on, but you are beginning to upset the ladies.” He nodded at Vane. “I had to practically tie Isabel to a chair when she witnessed Saint punching you. Your mother is trying to calm her down.”

  “I hope you told her that Saint hits like a light-heeled wench,” Vane said, still angry he had been punished for the earl’s mischief.

  Reign was too intelligent to allow himself to be pulled into the argument. “You can tell her yourself,” he said. His gaze shifted from Saint to Frost. “Might I suggest that you take your business outside, gents. Lord Durrant is gathering volunteers to have all of us tossed out on our arses.”

  “Let them try,” Saint said sullenly.

  “Agreed,” Frost concurred.

  Sin shook his head, clearly disgusted with both of his friends. “Is it too much to ask that we keep the petty arguing confined to Nox so we do not humiliate our wives?”

  “When you wedded Juliana, I was not aware that cutting off your hairy tallywags was part of the ceremony,” Frost softly taunted. “Does your wife keep them in a reticule from which she takes them out on special occasions, or did you simply toss them into the nearest hearth?”

  Hunter and Vane snorted.

  The marquess cursed and took a threatening step toward his friend. “Why do I bother? Perhaps I should have let Saint break your damn neck!”

  “The night is young,” Saint drawled lazily. “And Frost cannot seem to keep his mouth shut, even to save his own life.”

  In his mind, he could see Frost covering Madame Venna with his body. The notion was like a maggot burrowing through his brain. Rage simmered just beneath the civility Saint was struggling to maintain.

  Frost’s turquoise-blue eyes gleamed with the unspoken promise of retribution. “I prefer to live dangerously. Let’s see how far you’re willing to go.”

  No one expected that Frost was crazy enough to attack Saint in the Durrants’ elegant ballroom when it was apparent to everyone that the marquess’s temper was as explosive as a powder keg. Saint kept his balance as the two men fought for dominance. The sounds of dismay and fright bombarded them as they whirled around the ballroom like drunken dancers. Any attempts from their friends to separate them failed since no one could get a solid hold on either man.

  “Go to hell!” Saint snarled.

  Frost laughed. “Likewise.”

  They staggered through the open doorway and onto the terrace. Frost abruptly released his grip on the front of Saint’s evening coat, sending him flying. The earl turned his back on him to address Vane, Sin, Reign, and Hunter, who filled the doorway.

  “Don’t interfere. This is between us,” the earl said, his chest heaving from their struggle. “Leave us. Go back to your wives—and your brandy,” he added for Hunter’s benefit.

  Satisfied their friends would heed his demand, Frost turned his attention to Saint.

  “I have nothing to say to you.”

  Saint was out of breath as well. He brought his hand to his side, absently wondering if Vane’s punch had bruised his kidney.

  The paper lanterns bobbed merrily in the breeze. Within the ballroom, the orchestra played something whimsical. A few guests hovered near the doorway to see if the two men would engage in fisticuffs, but no one was brave enough to interfere.


  Frost’s expression was enigmatic. “Strange … that was not the impression I got when I felt your fingers at my throat.”

  “Cease the dramatics.” Saint scowled at him. “That fancy knot at your throat shielded you from any real damage I could have done.”

  “True.” He crossed his arms and stared at his friend. “However, it was your intent that concerns me. This goes far beyond our usual disagreements, and we have been friends too long to allow a misunderstanding to stand between us.”

  Saint remained quiet. On some level, he knew Frost was right. He just couldn’t get past his feelings of betrayal. Even though he and Madame Venna were no longer involved in a physical relationship, he had always thought of her as his. It was madness, really. He had no claim on her, and yet the thought of Frost touching her intimately made him want to slam his head into the nearest wall. Better still, he wanted to bash his friend’s head in.

  “Damn me, you have feelings for her,” Frost said, his voice infused with grim amazement.

  He saw no reason to deny it. The bruises on his friend’s throat proved that burying his feelings for Madame Venna had not banished them from his heart. Saint shuffled over to one of the benches and sat down.

  Frost sat down next to him. “How long?”

  Saint figured he owed his friend some explanation, since he had tried to strangle him. “Six years.”

  He wearily sighed, his thoughts drifting to his first evening at the Golden Pearl. It had taken one smile from Madame Venna to muddle his usually agile tongue. It hadn’t helped that the extraordinarily sheer white dress she had worn to greet her guests had provided teasing glimpses of the dark blue bows she had tied just above her knees. Every inconsequential detail about the bewitching proprietress was burned into his brain, but the name of the woman he had eventually bedded that night was forgotten. “Maybe longer … from the moment I saw her, I wanted her.”

  The earl took a few minutes to digest the admission. “I hate to point out the obvious, but the woman runs a brothel. Why aren’t you pounding out your frustration between her thighs?”

  “You wouldn’t understand.”

  “Credit me with some intelligence when it comes to women. It’s apparent that you are overthinking this.” He gestured with his hand. “You are not seducing an innocent. Despite her reputation, Madame V takes lovers when it pleases her to do so. If you are worried that your face is too ugly to entice her—”

  Saint grunted, torn between amusement and annoyance. “My looks are passable.”

  “Then appeal to her basic greed,” Frost said bluntly. “Offer her a small fortune, and she will overlook your numerous flaws.”

  “Is that how you convinced her to bed you?” he asked, the question slipping out before he could censure it.

  Frost grabbed his heart as if it pained him. “Now you are simply being spiteful because women adore me, while you, on the other hand, must haggle women into bedding you like a merchant.”

  A bitter laugh escaped his lips. “I truly despise you, Frost,” Saint said, his declaration lacking venom.

  “No, you don’t,” the earl replied with his usual confidence. “Heightened passions, whether they be inspirational or violent, rarely last. Any more than my fascination with a particular lady. If you must know, what I shared with Madame V occurred two years ago. Our dalliance was brief and purely physical.”

  Saint glanced away, feeling relieved and ashamed. He was not in a position to judge Frost. Had he not taken countless lovers over the years since that night with Madame Venna? It was arrogant to assume that she had not taken another lover, even a dozen lovers in these past six years. The woman’s celibacy was akin to the half-masks she favored. She donned and discarded it as she pleased.

  “I should not have attacked you,” Saint grudgingly conceded. “I have little to offer in my defense, except to say that I was not prepared for my feelings on the matter.”

  “Apology accepted,” Frost said decisively.

  He was never one to hold a grudge. At one point or another, the marquess had said or done something to cause discord within the ranks of the Lords of Vice. When they were younger, it was fairly common for all of them to settle disagreements with their fists rather than their heads.

  “However, I wish to offer you a word of advice. Madame Venna is a beautiful and exotic woman. You are not the first man to confuse his head with his cock.”

  Saint was not confused about anything. “Frost—” he began, annoyed that he was being lectured by a man who rarely took the time to learn the name of the woman he was shagging.

  The marquess grabbed the sleeve of Saint’s evening coat before he could move away. “These feelings you have for Madame V are the path to heartache, my friend. Be grateful that the woman knows her place and chose not to take advantage of your affection for her.”

  “What the hell does that mean?”

  Frost’s brow furrowed with annoyance. “Christ, you are thickheaded! The owner of a brothel has no place in the Marquess of Sainthill’s life. Fuck her, if her body pleases you, but do not delude yourself into believing that you can offer her more.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Catherine strode down London’s narrow streets as if she had prowled them during her youth. Thanks to Mrs. Sweete, she knew which areas were relatively safe for a lady, and those to avoid. She had also come to know many of the people who dwelled there, offering aid and friendship when it was possible. Kindness and loyalty were qualities absent from her childhood, so she probably valued them more than other people.

  This afternoon, as she departed Mrs. Fennel’s little perfume shop, Powder & Fennel, Catherine was relieved her friend had recovered from her persistent cough. The eighty-two-year-old woman sold more than her unique scents—one of which she claimed had a royal patent. In addition, she sold beautifying creams and lotions, powders, scented water, salves, oils, pastes, and cosmetics. And though it wasn’t common knowledge, the elderly woman also offered herbal preparations, condoms, sponges, and douches to special clients who had need of her services. Mrs. Sweete used to send Catherine to Mrs. Fennel’s shop, and a friendship had developed over the years.

  The Golden Pearl patronized Powder & Fennel, and Catherine was pleased she could provide steady revenue for the dear woman. As she crossed the street, she could not shake the feeling that someone was watching her. A discreet glance around her revealed that the pedestrians were too caught up in their own thoughts to notice her.

  And yet this was not the first time she’d had the unsettling sensation that she was being observed. With a scowl, she quickened her pace.

  Perhaps she was still rattled by her meeting with Martin Royles. The money she had given him would buy her only a brief respite from his attentions. The man would return, demanding more from her until she put an end to his blackmail.

  Permanently.

  She had never murdered a man, but it seemed fitting that Royles might become her first.

  “Miss Deverall, how fortuitous to encounter you again!”

  Catherine started, and turned around to see the Marquess of Sainthill’s approach. She did not believe in coincidences. Sainthill had deliberately sought her out. How long had he been following her? While Madame Venna might have strolled by him without acknowledging his presence, good manners prevailed with Catherine Deverall.

  She curtsied. “Lord Sainthill. Why do I suspect your good fortune was the result of a well-placed bribe?”

  His attire was immaculate. Not a single wrinkle or hair out of place. He grinned at the suspicion she did not bother to conceal in her voice. “Have I mentioned that a woman’s keen intellect is almost as alluring as her beauty?” he said, falling into step with her as she was preparing to dismiss him.

  Sainthill was indeed a charming scoundrel.

  “Then I’m correct in assuming that you were waiting for me?”

  “Although I will not reveal my sources, I was told that every Tuesday you visit Mrs. Fennel’s shop. You are too y
oung to be slathering your skin with beautifying creams.”

  She wondered how Sainthill would react if she revealed the condoms she had tucked away in her wicker basket. “Although it is none of your business, I happen to be seven-and-twenty years old.”

  “That old? Truly?” Sainthill only laughed when she quickened her pace, and easily matched her stride. “Then you credit your beauty to Mrs. Fennel’s alchemy?”

  “Since you consider me long in the tooth, I will let you decide.”

  Without permission, he tangled his arm with hers, the friendly tactic forcing her to slow down. “I turned thirty this year. Perhaps you should introduce me to your friend?”

  She suddenly halted. “Lord Sainthill, how long have you been following me?”

  He was startled by the question. “I was not following you at all. I spoke to Mr. Lawrence at the subscription library. He was the one who told me about Mrs. Fennel’s shop. I was headed in that direction to join you when I saw you cross the street.” His expression darkened. “Has someone been following you?”

  Yes. “No,” she said, unwilling to burden him with her wild speculations. She was used to taking care of her own problems. “Why were you questioning Mr. Lawrence about me?”

  Sainthill’s blue eyes twinkled with amusement. “For the obvious reasons, Miss Deverall. You intrigue me, and I wish to learn more about you. I had hoped that I might entice you into joining me for refreshments at Gunter’s, or a carriage ride through Hyde Park.”

  The fluttering sensation of anticipation Sainthill’s presence always seemed to stir within her melted into sour bile as he stated his intentions. Sainthill wanted to spend time with her? Impossible. Catherine and Madame Venna lived separate lives, had different friends. If she agreed, she would be breaking one of her more important rules.

  “Why?”

  “Why?” he echoed, his dark brows coming together as he was seemingly perplexed by her question.

  He studied her face, and she tried not to squirm under his close scrutiny. Whatever, he saw, it was not Madame Venna. Catherine could not decide if she was relieved or insulted that he did not recognize her.