“Put me down!” she yelled, struggling to free herself.
Witnesses to the spectacle pointed and laughed. Mulcaster kept his distance, but he did not look pleased by Saint’s interruption.
He carried her out of the opera house as if she were a grain sack, and hurried into the night as he searched for his coach. If he was lucky, Madame V would not geld him with one of her furious kicks.
* * *
“Damn you, Sainthill!”
The man had abducted her. Madame Venna cursed him and the generations that came before him. Breathing heavily, she twisted her body in an attempt to unbalance his gait.
“Quit squirming.” He gave her a hard slap on the buttocks. “You will only hurt yourself if I drop you.”
She gulped in fresh air as he weaved in between coaches and carriages in search of his own. “You … are mad!” she said, deliberately thickening her accent as her brain began working again.
“No, you are, Madame,” he said, not even sounding breathless from his exertions. “I first encounter you arguing with Lord Greenshield. Do you care to tell me what it was about?”
Madame Venna could just imagine how Saint would react when learning that the earl was her father. He would assume Catherine was her sister. She groaned as more pins fell from her hair, freeing the heavy length. “I do not wish to discuss Lord Greenshield.”
“Very well. Then let us move on to your very unladylike reaction to Mulcaster.” He made a soft chiding sound, conveying his disappointment in her. “I rescued you from a very public altercation in a theater. It wasn’t very clever of you.”
Just thinking about Mulcaster made her want to kick something. If she could not have the earl, she was willing to settle on a brutish marquess. She cursed him when he avoided her foot.
He chuckled. “Did I mention that foulmouthed wenches arouse me?”
“Damn your stubbornness! Put me down, Sainthill,” she shouted at him. “Or—”
“Or what?” Saint suddenly halted, and a wave of dizziness silenced her as her feet touched cobblestone. He never gave her a chance to recover. Madame Venna gasped as he pulled her into his arms. Fighting him was pointless. His mouth roughly sealed hers, his lips devouring her until her lungs were starving for air. Just when she began to struggle in earnest he released her lips with a wet smack.
“Curse me, and I’ll kiss you again,” he said, his fingers like an iron shackle around her wrist. It wasn’t much of a threat, but he had managed to silence her, after all.
He dragged her across the street to a waiting coach.
“That’s no way to tame a fiery wench, milord,” the coachman said. The laughter in his voice revealed he had witnessed His Lordship’s rough handling and their kiss.
Saint gestured for the coachman to remain on his perch. He opened the coach door himself. “Some wenches need a firm hand.”
His large hand landed on her backside, and she cried out in surprise. She tugged her hand away and slapped him on the arm.
“If your hand falls again, I will not be responsible for my actions, Marquis de Sainthill!” she said, meaning every word.
Neither the marquess nor his servant seemed to take her threat seriously.
The servant nodded approvingly. “I like this one better than the last one. Are you keeping her?”
What last one? Madame Venna wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue. Tottering to keep her balance, she blew an annoying strand of hair from her face. “No one is keeping me, my good man.” With as much dignity as she could muster considering her disheveled condition, she said to Saint, “Take me to the Golden Pearl, or I shall find the way on my own.”
The coachman peered at her, squinting in disbelief. “That’s no place for a lady, miss. A palace of sin and debauchery, it is.”
“Oui,” she said crisply. “And it is mine.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Saint had not been lying when he told Madame Venna that her curses aroused him. Essentially, everything about the woman aroused him, and he longed to put his hands on her again.
Nothing intimidated her. He admired her courage, but as a man he was born to dominate his world. Somehow the woman glaring at him had become part of it.
“Get in the coach,” he ordered.
“Uh, Your Lordship,” his coachman said, watching Saint and Madame V as if they were two pugilists readying themselves for a fight.
His eyes rolled heavenward. “I’ve heard enough from you, Jakes. Mind the horses.”
The coachman blew air out from his cheeks in frustration, reminding Saint of the animals the man tended. “Aye, milord.”
“No more cheek from you, Madame V.”
The woman’s delicate chin jutted out. “And I’ve heard enough from you, monsieur le marquis.”
Saint grinned as anticipation hummed through his body. “Just the words I wanted to hear.” He tugged hard, pulling her up against his already aroused body. “I hope you will resist me.”
“A simple task,” she sneered.
Then the battle of wills began in earnest. Madame Venna was strong and agile for a woman, but Saint was bigger and meaner. The tug-of-war of limbs ended when he hooked her by the waist and unceremoniously lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the padded leather seat of the coach.
Madame Venna shrieked in outrage. Jakes muttered under his breath. The coachman was probably criticizing Saint for his callous treatment, but the woman glaring at him was no delicate bloom that needed tenderness. Like him, she was a fighter.
As she edged away, moving deeper into the dark compartment, her gray eyes glittering with defiance and anticipation, he realized that they had been behaving against their true natures. Secrets had a way of trussing an individual as efficiently as rope. Perhaps it was time to loosen each other’s tethers. The outcome could be rewarding.
Saint braced his palms against the edges of the open coach door as he glanced up at the coachman. “The Golden Pearl, Jakes. You have my permission to linger at the task,” he said, entering the coach and shutting the door behind him.
Through a hooded gaze, she observed him, her back pressed against the far wall of the compartment. Saint’s demeanor had changed this evening, and she considered that her angry encounter with Lord Greenshield could be blamed. She had been vulnerable. Frightened that the man who had sired her had deduced the truth about Madame Venna. Dozens of questions flitted about in her head.
What price would she have to pay to keep his silence?
Or worse, what danger did Lord Greenshield pose to her? If the ton learned that the earl’s baseborn daughter ran a brothel, he would be a laughingstock.
Was the secret worth killing for?
And then there was Saint. What would he demand if he learned Catherine Deverall was hidden beneath the half-mask?
Saint smiled down at her as he reached up and pounded once on the trapdoor, signaling the coachman that his passengers were settled.
Madame Venna was anything but settled.
Especially when the marquess shifted with a panther’s grace onto her side of the coach as the conveyance rolled forward.
“Now that we are alone, do you want to explain a few things to me?”
“Not particularly.”
He ignored her comment. “Let’s begin with something simple. Why were you at the theater this evening?”
She thought about moving to the other side, but immediately rejected the idea. Saint would choose to believe that she feared him. “A whim.”
“You’re lying,” he said flatly. “The Golden Pearl is your creation. You nurture it as if it were your child.”
Madame Venna thought of the evening she had spent with him at the Sinclairs. “I have been known to take an evening off.”
“Fascinating. So tell me, why did you choose this particular night? Why the opera house, rather than Vauxhall Gardens?”
She tilted her head. “Is this an inquisition? Perhaps we should wait until we reach our destination. The Golden Pearl has a
nice collection of flails, riding crops, and various restraints. There is a room dedicated to this revered vice.” The notion of taking a whip to the gentleman’s backside was almost irresistible.
Her admission managed to startle him, though he recovered his composure quickly. “An intriguing suggestion. However, I am an impatient gent. Tell me about Greenshield and Mulcaster.”
She shrugged. “I have nothing to confess.”
“A sinless brothel owner,” he marveled, sarcastically. “Unique—and a shameless liar.”
“It is your opinion, no?”
Without warning, Saint pounced, caging her against the coach’s wall with his body. One muscular leg was braced against the opposing seat. His left knee pinned her skirt to their seat while his right hand caressed the side of her face.
“It’s damaged.”
Confused, she said, “What is?”
“Your mask.” He traced the porcelain edge down to her cheek. He lightly tapped her cheekbone. “There are fine cracks and a tiny piece missing.”
Her hand fluttered up to her face until she found the sharp edges of the break. “With me bouncing over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I am fortunate the entire half-mask did not shatter.”
Although Saint had not moved, she could sense his stillness at her words. “And what if it had? What would you have lost?”
Everything. Madame Venna exhaled, her breath a soft sigh. “You might be surprised.”
“So might you … if, for once, you tried trusting me.”
She blinked at his sudden vehemence. “Quite an impossibility,” she said, her accent thickening as her mind silently considered the possibilities of telling him the truth about herself and Lord Greenshield. “I trust no one.”
Disappointment flickered in his gaze and was gone. “I pity you. You have chosen a lonely existence.”
Temper flared in her gray eyes. “Pity yourself, Sainthill. I do not see you putting your trust into the hands of another.”
How dare he pity her? She had made a few inquiries to learn about his life. Despite having family, he had little to do with his mother, stepfather, or half siblings.
He was alone. Just like her.
“Wrong,” he snapped. “I did once. Six years ago I gave it to you and you tossed it at my feet.”
Denial and shame bubbled in her throat. “I did no such—mmph!”
Saint silenced her denial with a hard, bruising kiss.
He drew back. “Forget it. I won’t let you distract me. I have made peace with the past. Besides, I am more intrigued with the present.”
His fingers trailed down her cheek to her lips. Although the compartment was warm, she trembled as his fingers traced the outline of her lips. The pad of his thumb rubbed her lower lip. She could smell the faint scent of brandy on his breath.
“This is—we should not.”
His smile was warm and full of humor. “Oh, yes, we should. Have we not danced around the issue long enough? Ignoring it has not weakened the one truth between us.”
“And that is?”
“The undeniable fact that a physical attraction pulls us closer to the edge.”
“The edge of what?”
“Inevitability.” His fingers brushed her neck and moved downward to her breasts. Even though he wore gloves, she could feel the heat radiating from his hands. “That we will be lovers.”
Again.
Her breasts tingled and her nipples tightened in anticipation that she had no business feeling. She bit her lower lip as she shook her head. “No.”
His finger traced the edge of her bodice. “Why are you so resistant to the idea of becoming my lover? Does my face offend? Did you not once find exquisite pleasure in my arms?”
Secret longing and denial warred with frustration. “I—I…” Staring at his handsome face was muddling her brain. Madame Venna lowered her gaze to her bodice. Six years of yearning for what she could not have threatened to burst her heart. “It is never good to mix business and pleasure.”
“What business has transpired between us?” he asked, while she watched his hand move tenderly over her left breast. “You are quite aware that I have not bedded any of your girls in years.”
She smiled, trying to imagine a gentleman like Sainthill eschewing all pleasures. “You have not been celibate.”
“No,” he readily admitted. “I have taken mistresses over the years. However, the lust and excitement that lure me to their beds swiftly pale. More than a year has past since I bothered seeking a replacement for my last lover.”
“More than a year?” she said, her voice rich with disbelief. “It is a quite a while for a gentleman with your appetites.”
Saint’s grin was self-deprecating. “Agreed. It took me longer to come to the same conclusion you had years earlier.”
Madame Venna gasped as he seized the front of her bodice and tugged her closer until they were nose-to-nose.
“And what conclusion is that, monsieur le marquis?” she said breathlessly.
“A nameless lover will suffice for a night or two, but there is only one woman I want in my bed. You.”
She closed her eyes because she did not want him to see the joy his words gave her. “You make too much of the night we shared six years ago.”
“And you refuse to admit that it meant more to you than a fuck” was his crude response. “You had feelings for me. Just as I had feelings for you.”
“No.”
“Then prove it,” he said, tightening his grip when she struggled to escape. “Take me as your lover. Let me undress you. Caress you and learn every inch of you. I want to feel you beneath me, fill you with my cock, and thrust until you cry out my name.”
“Is that all?” she asked huskily.
He bowed his head until his lips reached her ear. “When the lust is sated, I want to hold you in my arms. If exhaustion claims you, you can trust me to guard you while you slumber. I promise you will not regret how I intend to wake you.”
Saint was demanding something from her that she was incapable of giving him. She knew so little of tenderness. Her innocence was taken from her in violence. It had placed her on a path where her body was something to be used to get what she wanted. She had taken lovers for profit, and later to fill the growing emptiness in her. Saint was the only man she had taken into her bed solely for her selfish pleasure.
And that had ended badly for both of them.
“You deserve better than a whore in your bed, mon chéri.” Her eyes welled up with unexpected tears. “A woman who can offer you more than just her body.”
The coach slowly came to a halt, spurring Madame Venna into action. With the help of the vehicle’s springs, she pushed Saint away and managed to unbalance him. As he fell against the seat, she scrambled over his legs and opened the door. She did not bother waiting for the coachman to assist her. Landing hard on her feet, she grabbed the front of her skirt and hurried for the side entrance of the Golden Pearl.
Madame Venna heard male voices behind her, but she ignored them. The only thought in her head was to put as much distance between her and Saint as physically possible. If she stayed, he might succeed in swaying her.
And where would that leave me?
Alone. Or worse, pining for a man who would go on to marry a lady befitting his title and wealth like Sinclair and some of the other Lords of Vice had.
She opened the door and nodded to the guard stationed near the door before rushing down the passageway. To avoid questions from Anna or anyone else, she took the servants’ stairs up to her private rooms. She was out of breath when she reached her bedchamber. Gasping for air, she made a choking sound of frustration as she realized that she had left her reticule behind in the coach.
Her key was inside that reticule.
She tugged on the door, but it was locked. How could I have been so careless? she thought wildly. Of course, she had a spare key, but that was hardly the point. Now Saint—
Sensing that she was being watched, Mad
ame Venna turned and came face-to-face with the gentleman she had just escaped. Her reticule dangled from his fingers.
Madame Venna frowned. How had he gotten by the guard? “How did— Where?”
“You seem surprised.” Saint held up her key. “Forget something?”
She inched backward until her back bumped against the door. He reached around, inserted the key into the lock, and twisted. With his gaze never leaving her face, he opened the door.
“You are not being wise,” she said hoarsely, wondering where she would find the strength to send him away.
“My choice, love,” he said, sounding not very lover-like in his fury at her. “Before your reckless departure, you and I reached an accord. Let’s get right to it, shall we?”
Chapter Twenty-six
It was rare from him to catch Madame Venna off guard, but there was no time to savor his victory. The guard he had managed to knock out would not remain unconscious for long. Once the alarm was raised, the Golden Pearl would be searched floor by floor.
Except for her private rooms.
No one gained entry unless he or she was invited.
Whether or not Madame Venna wanted to admit it, she had opened the door to her bedchamber.
Oh, he did not underestimate the woman’s temper. She was just as likely to revoke her invitation out of spite. However, Saint could be very persuasive when he wanted something.
And he wanted this woman.
Even if she had a few doubts about him.
He had never seen anyone disembark from a coach as quickly as Madame Venna had managed. She could have broken her ankle leaping out as she had. Initially, he had chased after her so he could scold her for her recklessness. When he did his best to crack the skull of one of her guards, he realized that he had already crossed the line.
There was no going back for either of them.
Saint backed her into the dark interior of the bedchamber. Removing the key from the lock, he closed the door. Then he reinserted the key and locked them in.
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 16