Unfortunately, the Royleses had other, crueler reprimands in store for the girl.
“You would enjoy a tour of my palace, no?” Madame Venna inquired, touching the viscount on the arm in an intimate manner.
“I would be delighted,” her quarry exclaimed, rising from his chair.
One of her regular patrons, Lord Kearns, made a soft disgruntled noise. The poor gentleman was doomed to eternal disappointment, she thought without any sympathy. In truth, she had little interest in participating in a tryst with any of her companions.
Testing her nerve, Madame Venna stood and accepted Lord Chandler’s hand. Anna had given up on her, knowing that her friend would do as she pleased. She had moved to the other side of the ballroom and was chatting with a red-haired gentleman.
Anticipation thrummed throughout Madame V’s body as she envisioned her real mother learning later of her son’s unnatural coupling with his half sister. If the gossip reached the ton’s ears, marriage-minded mothers would keep their daughters away from Lord Chandler and his twisted desires. Somehow it seemed appropriate that he, too, should bear the taint of their mother’s sinful nature.
“Madame Venna, is it true that you never remove your half-mask?”
“Oui,” she said, her pulse quickening as they left the ballroom. “Never.”
The viscount appeared to choke. He covered his mouth with his fist and coughed discreetly. “Not even in bed?”
“Perhaps, one night, you will see for yourself,” she purred, her hooded gaze full of unspoken promises.
Lord Chandler swallowed audibly. Before he could string his words together to form a response, Madame Venna was roughly grabbed from behind and spun about until she was facing a very intense-looking Lord Sainthill.
“Unfortunately, it will have to be another evening, gent,” the marquess said to Lord Chandler, while his gaze rested on her face. “Madame V has other plans for the evening.”
* * *
Lord Chandler did not linger after Saint’s high-handed dismissal. From a distance, he and Madame Venna observed as Anna introduced the viscount to Hattie. He was not precisely certain what he had interrupted, but he could tell from his companion’s expression that she was up to something.
Saint was convinced that he would not have approved of her plans.
“It was rude to chase him off.”
Madame Venna did not appear to be angry. In fact, he could have sworn there was a moment when she seemed relieved to see him. However, it was difficult to tell with her half-mask firmly in place.
“Chandler is a puppy.”
This evening she was attired in a silk dress the color of red wine. Her blond tresses were concealed under an attractive dark-haired wig, and the upper portion of her face was hidden by a multicolored mask that reminded him of butterfly wings. She had painted her lips to draw attention to them.
Had she intended to lure Lord Chandler into a dark corner for a kiss?
The thought was maddening.
Saint had almost throttled one of his closest friends over an incident that had occurred several years ago. He had no qualms about snapping Chandler’s fingers one by one.
“I would wager the man is as old as you,” she said, distracting him from his dark musings.
“I don’t care. The man is still a puppy, and he has no business speaking to you without his mother.”
Madame Venna gaped at him, and then she began to laugh. “Mon ami, it appears that even I have my limits. Come, let us find a quiet place and you can show me how much you have missed me.”
Chapter Nineteen
There were different times in Saint’s life when he juggled wenches as carelessly as apples. He never worried about bruising their tender feelings when he made a misstep. If one mistress found out about the other, and stomped off in a fit of temper, there was always another pretty miss to replace her. He loved his life, and no woman was worth drinking and brawling.
It was difficult to admit it, but Saint had been cruel to Madame Venna as well. Enraged over her rejection, had he not deliberately shagged most of the female residents of the Golden Pearl to hurt her? These women were more than flesh peddlers to the proprietress, they were her friends. He bedded them all to prove to himself and Madame Venna that she meant nothing to him. If he was honest with himself, his intention had been to hurt her as much as she had wounded him.
Concealing his dark thoughts, he smiled easily as Miss Deverall approached him, her arms full of wildflowers she had picked. Just when Madame Venna seemed willing to let him back into her life, he had started this relationship with Catherine. The passing weeks had deepened his affection and respect for the lady. Saint had told Lord Greenshield that his intentions were quite honorable, but now he was uncertain. Of late, he had been pondering her reaction if he tried to kiss her. Had she ever kissed a gent? She was such a shy little creature, Saint suspected he might be her first if he allowed their friendship to progress. With her father watching his natural daughter’s admirer from a distance, Saint was convinced a taste from her honeyed lips might be worth the risk of Greenshield’s wrath.
It was an unpleasant fact that he was juggling apples—uh, women—again, and this time he would prefer to sever his hand from his wrist than hurt either woman. Neither one of them deserved a gentleman with a conflicted heart. Unfortunately, he was a greedy, selfish man. He wanted both of them in his life.
“I am glad I joined you this afternoon,” Catherine admitted as he took her bouquet from her arms and helped her settle down beside him on the blanket he had shaken out on the ground while she hunted for her wildflowers.
She wore a green walking dress, the hue a few shades lighter than the tall grass near the water’s edge. Her gray eyes were as clear and guileless as the blue sky overhead. Saint was pleased he had thought to bring her here. The landscape was pleasing to admire, much like his companion.
Saint held his hand up to block the intensity of the afternoon sunlight. “I thought you were going to refuse me. Fortunately, most females cannot resist my charm.”
“Is that what you call it?” she teased.
His heart expanded with elation. Catherine was often guarded in his presence. Oh, it was apparent that she liked him. He had that effect on females. However, she clearly fretted over her speech and manners. His assurances to ease her mind often made things worse.
“Are you ready to talk about it?” he asked, recalling her earlier demeanor. Something or someone had upset her, and she refused to unburden herself to him.
Catherine reached out and plucked a purple flower from her collection, then proceeded to absently remove the leaves and petals. “I told you that I didn’t have any family.”
“On several occasions,” he replied, frowning as she reached for another hapless flower. “I recall telling you once that I understood. My father is dead, and my mother privately wishes that I was. Since I refuse to accommodate her, she pretends that I am not her son.”
She glanced up from her floral massacre. “It hurts you,” she said, her gray eyes full of understanding and something worse. Pity.
“I did not bring up my past to gain sympathy, Catherine,” he said mildly. “It was merely to demonstrate that I, too, am alone in this world. I understand some of what you are feeling.”
Catherine glanced down at the scattered petals and leaves on her skirt and bit her lip in consternation. “We have more in common than you know, my lord. I was not honest with you. I do have family. I just choose not to acknowledge any of them.”
“You speak of Lord Greenshield.”
Her jaw slackened and her lips parted at the name. “How did you know?”
“Isn’t it obvious? Your father warned me off.”
She seemed to flounder for the proper words to express her outrage. “How dare he? Lord Greenshield has no rights in who I see or wish to … to—” She seemed to gain control of her emotions. “When—when did he approach you?”
“Almost from the beginning,” Saint replied,
admiring how Catherine was able to compose herself so quickly. Another lady would have surrendered to her tears. “You may not want a father, Catherine, but it was obvious that he feels a certain responsibility toward you.”
Her full lips pursed into a petulant, almost childish pout. “As I told his solicitor this afternoon, I am well past the age that I require a father, although his concern is merely a ruse. I believe he feels my presence in London threatens Lady Eyre and her legitimate children. Though the why of it, I cannot fathom. I have not even tried to approach the woman, nor shall I ever.”
Another wildflower was shredded by her fingers.
Lord Greenshield and the very married Countess of Eyre? Saint was impressed with the older man’s daring. “Lady Eyre is your mother?”
Catherine huffed. “So I have been often told.”
“It must have been quite a scandal for the time,” he said thoughtfully.
Her face hardened as if she refused to feel any sympathy for her parents’ awkward predicament. “I do not believe so. My mo—the woman who raised me told me that the countess concealed her delicate condition from everyone. With the assistance of a midwife, she rid me from her body and had a servant deliver me to Lord Greenshield. He sold me to the first family who would accept his gold.”
Her recounting of the events did cast her parents in a very unpleasant light. He was uncertain whether she would accept any comfort on a subject that still hurt her—yet perhaps from one of the few people who understood her anger. Capturing her hands with his, he spared another wretched flower from decapitation.
Catherine’s gray eyes filled with unshed tears.
His throat felt dry as he swallowed. “I offer no defense for your parents’ actions, since you were an innocent child cast aside. However, I am intimately acquainted with the polite society your parents belong to, and it can be rather harsh. I offer no defense for their actions, but they may have believed you would have been better off with another family.”
Catherine shuddered and gave him a brittle, watery smile. “They were wrong, my lord. And I shall never forgive them for it.”
Chapter Twenty
Saint’s gaze was indulgent as he discreetly observed Catherine listening attentively to the ongoing conversation taking place on the other side of the drawing room. She was surrounded by Sophia, Regan, Juliana, and Isabel. To his relief, the ladies were quite willing to take the newcomer under their collective wing.
Catherine had been reluctant to join him this evening. She had argued that the secret bastard daughter of Lord Greenshield would not be welcome in the house of Lord and Lady Sinclair, and she’d berated him for attempting to place her in a situation that would end with her humiliation.
Her tears were almost his undoing.
Saint might have yielded to her pleas if the evening had not been so important to him. Catherine was so adamant that she did not belong in his world. He wanted to prove her wrong, and give her a taste of the life she was rejecting by not accepting Lord Greenshield’s claim. It infuriated him because her rejection of the ton and its extravagant trappings, as she had once called them, was in itself a casual dismissal of his life.
Her opinion stung him more than he was willing to admit.
Saint had another reason for persuading her to join him at the Sinclairs’ house. He wanted to see her in the comfortable setting socializing with his friends. Well, all of them with the exception of Frost. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Hunter’s days as a bachelor were numbered. There was a lady waiting for him. Frost, on the other hand, was staring at Catherine so intently that Saint was itching to punch him in the jaw.
“She’s lovely, Saint,” Reign said, handing him a glass of brandy. “You mentioned Greenshield was her sire. Who is the mother?”
Saint took a sip of his brandy and stared at her from over the rim of the glass. “Greenshield refuses to name the lady.”
“Married, most likely,” Dare said, his arm stretched across the chaise longue he was reclining on. He glanced over his shoulder to admire the women. “More to the point, not to Lord Greenshield.”
“He’s taking a risk,” Sin murmured. He smiled as his wife rejoined the ladies, her arms burdened with what appeared to be several dresses and accessories.
Regan stood to assist, her right hand splayed protectively over the gentle swell of her belly. Saint watched as Dare’s gaze softened with open pleasure and boundless love for his wife and unborn child. They were his friend’s future.
He was not the only one watching Regan. Her brother, Frost, was studying her, concern shadowing his expression. His sister had already lost one babe in the early months of her pregnancy. Frost had been the last to know, which did not sit well with their friend. The slight had not been intentional. At first, the couple had wanted to be certain that Regan was indeed pregnant. Later, there did not seem any point in worrying Frost. Dare was feeling guilty enough, believing he had failed Regan by not taking better care of her. Whether he liked it or not, Dare would not have to shoulder his concerns by himself.
“What has the ladies so excited?” Hunter asked, drawing the men’s attention away from the women.
“Earlier, Sophia and Juliana were discussing a visit to Vauxhall,” Reign said.
“No,” Dare and Frost said in unison.
Saint chuckled. “Fifty pounds the ladies get their way.”
Hunter raised a finger. “I— Oh, never mind,” he said, his brain catching up with his mouth.
“A fool’s wager” was Sin’s reply.
“Agreed.” Reign nodded at the dresses Regan and Isabel were holding up for Catherine to admire. “It appears we will have another lady to watch over.”
“How serious are you about Miss Deverall?” Hunter asked.
You can’t have her! Saint thought, his upper lip curling. He was about to warn his friend off until he noticed Hunter was grinning at him. Christ, he was such an arse. Thankfully, the others were too interested in the ladies as they debated over which costume Catherine should wear.
Feeling overwhelmed by the attention, she appealed silently to Saint. He shrugged and gave her an encouraging smile. She rolled her eyes and gave up on him.
“You’re smitten.”
Saint took his time responding to Hunter’s question. He took a sip of his brandy to hide his smile. “Of course. Though she’s skittish around gentlemen.”
“Who could blame her with the likes of you sniffing at her skirts,” quipped Vane.
Before Saint could respond, his gaze shifted to the activity across the room, and he froze with the edge of the glass touching his lips. His vision narrowed and the world slowed as Isabel took the half-mask decorated with white feathers and held it up to Catherine’s face.
Saint choked on the brandy filling his throat.
No.
It wasn’t possible.
Catherine immediately turned her face away, making some excuse to Isabel so her feelings were not injured. However, the damage was done.
How had she fooled him for so long?
The sound of breaking glass distracted Saint momentarily. Frost had dropped his empty glass. Their gazes abruptly locked. Saint assumed his friend was equally flabbergasted. He was not the only one who’d figured out that Catherine had a damn good reason not to accept Lord Greenshield’s claim.
Catherine was Madame Venna.
* * *
From the corner of her eye, Catherine watched Saint clap his hand on Lord Chillingworth’s shoulder. The two men left the room.
“Something amiss?” Juliana raised her voice so the gentlemen heard her from the other side of the long drawing room.
“Frost’s foxed,” her husband replied, shrugging apologetically.
Juliana seemed amused by her husband’s explanation. To her companions, she said, “That’s a relief. When I heard the glass shatter, I thought a fight was brewing.”
Relieved by the distraction, Catherine set the half-mask aside. “Why? I thought they were friends?”
Little did Juliana know that she was correct about the fight, but she had picked the wrong side of the drawing room. Catherine had not expected Isabel to hold the feathered half-mask to her face. She’d averted her face and took the mask from the startled woman’s hands. Thankfully, Saint and his friends were too distracted by the earl’s drunken antics to notice.
Juliana gave her a sympathetic look. Saint must have told her husband that she had no family. “Oh, they are. More like brothers than friends, really.”
“And like all brothers, they have disagreements,” Regan explained.
Sophia added, “Occasionally, they break furniture.”
Isabel scowled. “Not to mention their thick skulls.”
Juliana sighed. “Our gents earned their reputations honestly.” She noticed Catherine’s distress and patted her hand. “I know they can be intimidating, but they are good men. You do not have to worry about Saint—”
Catherine’s mouth went dry as she gazed at the ladies’ knowing expressions. “Oh, all of you are mistaken. Saint isn’t courting me. We are just friends.”
“I have known these men for most of my life,” Regan said, draping the dress she had been holding across the nearest chair. “And Juliana has been married to Sin for—?” She looked askance at the marchioness.
“Four years.”
“Four years,” Regan echoed. “And in all this time, not one of these men has ever brought a lady home to meet the family who did not end up getting leg-shackled to a Lord of Vice herself.”
“Dear heavens!” Catherine exclaimed, her knees giving out as she sank into the chair behind her.
* * *
He managed to drag Frost down the hall before the man blurted out his next incriminating words.
“Damn me, do you know who that woman is?”
“Yes,” Saint hissed, resisting the urge to stuff the nearby floral bouquet down his friend’s gullet to prevent him from speaking another damning word. “And the entire house will know it, too, if you do not lower your voice!”
Frost tossed back his head and laughed. “Oh, this is rich. Quite rich. Lord Greenshield’s bastard daughter is the proprietress of one of the most exclusive and notorious—”
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 12