Madame Venna froze at her words. Naturally, her girls had given her details about his encounters with them over the years. Had she not sent them to Nox? In her weariness, she had spoken thoughtlessly, and the tension in her body revealed she regretted it. Her next words confirmed it. “Forgive me, I did not intend—”
“An apology is unnecessary,” Saint said gruffly, interrupting her. “It is a little unsettling that you are familiar with pieces of my past, but I have few misgivings about the way I have lived my life.”
However, most of my regrets are tied to you, he thought.
“Nor should you.” She inched closer as if she was attempting to discern his expression. “There have always been women in your life. Then. Now. Tomorrow. It is the way of things, no? I accept this. My words were meant to flatter you.”
He sensed her smile in the darkness.
“Your attentions were highly recommended by several of the girls.”
Saint chuckled. “And yet this high praise did not entice you back into my bed,” he teased, slipping his arm under her head and tugging her closer.
“Oh, I was tempted. I just did not—no, what happened no longer matters, I suppose.”
Interesting. He never expected her to admit that she was attracted to him, even while she had shut him out of her life. His jaw tightened as he recalled the old rage and helplessness of that night. Nevertheless, his voice was tender when he said, “The past has no place here with us.”
She nodded, her nose brushing against his chin. “Or tomorrow.”
Saint swallowed his annoyance. Madame Venna was nothing but practical about her place in his world. She didn’t have one. The woman in his arms expected nothing from him beyond the hours that they had already shared.
Even if she was correct, it still stung that she was not willing to fight for them.
He thought of the lies that stood between them. A few pleasurable shags were not going to smooth over their differences.
“Or tomorrow,” he echoed, resigned that all Madame Venna had to offer him was her body.
And what of Catherine?
He shook his head. There were already too many people in their bed to invite another.
Chapter Twenty-eight
Why had she mentioned her girls? Worse, she had told Saint that he had tempted her for years. Grateful for the darkness, Madame Venna winced at her carelessness. This gentleman had too much power over her. She had recognized her weakness six years earlier and had done her best to banish it from her life.
And yet he was here in her bed, her damp, sated body molded against his and her cheek resting in the hollow of his shoulder. It felt right. With her finger she drew lazy circles around his nipple as her heart slowed and contentment filled her. Over the years, she had taken other lovers, but she had never felt such peace in the wake of a desperate coupling.
Despite her initial reluctance, she had savored the feel of his manhood within her. Saint had not treated her gently. His thrusts were demanding, claiming, and she had mindlessly clung to him as he had overwhelmed her senses.
It was rare for her to be out of control. She should have been worried about the effect he had on her, but she could not summon the energy to fight her feelings, or him.
Saint yawned. “Do you want to tell me what happened this evening?”
She had wondered if he would circle back to his earlier questions. “Do you wish me to tell you in words, or should I show you?” she teased, her fingers fluttering down his muscled abdomen until she brushed against his arousal.
Although he had spilled himself inside her, he was still hard. Her fingers curled possessively around the staff that had given her so much pleasure. Saint inhaled sharply as she squeezed him.
“Christ!” he hissed, his hand covering hers. “No, I was speaking of … what happened at the opera house.”
“A dull subject,” she said, sitting up as her hand stroked his manhood. If he could have glimpsed her expression, he would have known she was up to mischief. “I have something else in mind.”
Before he could object, she rolled over until she was on all fours and moved backward down his body.
“Madame V—”
She put her mouth on him. His groan pleased her immensely. Her tongue glided over the smooth velvet head of his cock. He tasted of salt and the unique flavoring of their coupling. She took more of him into her mouth as her fingers slid down his virile length to the delicate sac beneath. An hour had passed since Saint had spilled his seed, and the firmness she felt as she cupped him revealed that his control was tenuous.
Saint arched his narrow hips. “Have mercy on me, woman.”
Madame Venna slowly released him. “I think not,” she said, using her knees to keep her balance as her other hand circled his cock. She tormented him by finding his most sensitive areas and teasing them with her nimble tongue.
“You are a very wicked wench,” he panted, his hands reaching for her, but she gracefully shifted to avoid being captured.
She suckled and laved the head of his cock, capturing the dew of his arousal with a flick of her tongue. In truth, she usually preferred pleasuring men with her mouth. She could give them the fulfilling ecstasy they craved without surrendering her body. In her experience, most of the men who patronized a brothel did not care if the woman found satisfaction in the coupling. The encounter was about his pleasure.
Saint was one of those rare gentlemen who enjoyed giving pleasure as much as receiving it. Over the years, Madame Venna had secretly envied her girls when he had favored them with his attention, never imagining that he would ever share her bed again.
He arched his hips again as she teased another moan from him. She relished the power she wielded over him. Her breasts ached as her nipples rubbed against his legs. A part of her was astounded that she wanted to take him into her body again. By all rights, she should be sated by the releases he had wrung from her body. Sore, too. However, her body seemed in step with his. The closer he came to his release, the more she longed to join him.
“Enough!” Saint said abruptly. His fingers, already entwined in her hair, slipped to her shoulders as he encouraged her to free his cock from her mouth and climb up his torso until she was straddling his hips.
“Have I displeased you?” she asked, tickling his face with her hair.
“Christ, no!” His intentions were clear when Saint reached between her legs and grasped his arousal, still damp from her ministrations. He positioned the hard, velvet head until it was flush with the opening of her womanly sheath. “Mount me. Now!”
To ensure that she did not misunderstand his meaning, his left hand found her hip and he lifted his hips. His cock parted her sensitive flesh, and she deepened the penetration by meeting his thrust. Both of them groaned. She lowered her body until her breasts pressed against his chest and her mouth could reach his.
“You are an insatiable beast,” she teased, nipping his chin with her teeth.
“Only for you.”
Saint caught her face with his hands and kissed her. Locked together, his thick, arousal throbbing within her wet sheath, his lips moved leisurely over hers as if they had all the time in the world.
Madame Venna, on the other hand, felt the evening slipping away from them. She had no expectations that he would remain the entire night. He had responsibilities, and a life beyond the walls of the Golden Pearl, and she had a business to run. Their time together was an aberration.
“Whatever you are thinking—banish it from your thoughts,” he said, giving her a hard kiss before he moved down to her neck.
She had not realized she had ceased her gentle rocking against him. “Forgive me,” she said, grasping the hair at the nape of his neck and drawing his face to her breasts. He lightly bit the soft curve of her right breast and suckled the tender flesh to leave a mark. Her womb fluttered at the notion that her body would bear evidence of his claiming. “I was … I was lamenting that the night is too short. We have so little time together.”
>
Now it was Saint’s turn to pause at her hesitant declaration. Finally, he said, “Then we will have to make the most of the hours we have left.”
She laughed as he wrapped his arms around her and reversed their positions in one smooth movement that did not sever their intimate connection.
“No regrets, Madame V,” he said, though she was not certain if he was warning her or making a promise.
In her thick, throaty accent, she replied, “No regrets.”
* * *
Saint awoke and blinked in sleepy puzzlement at his surroundings. The room was dark, but he knew immediately that he was not in his bedchamber. Nor was he alone.
The woman beside him moaned plaintively in her sleep.
Madame Venna.
He was still at the Golden Pearl.
The realization that he had fallen asleep surprised him. He had learned at an early age that lingering in a woman’s bed, long after the passion had waned, usually led to expectations and misunderstandings. Saint was careful to avoid both.
And yet he had spent most of the night in Madame Venna’s bed, pleasuring the maddening woman until she had begged for mercy. He had been inordinately pleased by her reaction. Saint recalled she had not protested when he pulled her body against his and covered the two of them with a sheet. He had closed his eyes while he waited for sleep to claim her. At some point, exhaustion and the quiet contentment in the darkness had lured him to sleep.
“No,” Madame Venna said; the rest of her words were incoherent. She rolled onto her stomach as her foot kicked away the sheet.
Saint stroked her lower back in an attempt to soothe her restlessness. He’d wager he was the only man in London who knew Madame Venna talked in her sleep.
“Please … don’t.” She slapped his hand away and shuddered.
Saint frowned, although he did not take her rejection personally. Whatever her dreams, it was clear that they were not pleasant. When she mewled in her sleep, he cursed the helpless feeling that washed over him.
Enough was enough.
“Madame V,” he said, kissing her on the shoulder. “Wake up, mon coeur.” He brushed her cheek with her fingers and was startled to find the flesh damp. She had been crying in her sleep.
“Catherine!” he said sharply, intentionally using her given name in the hope of banishing the nightmare that plagued her.
“Just leave—No!”
Madame Venna sat up abruptly. With her back to him, she dragged air into her lungs as she tried not to cry.
Saint had little patience for tears. Most women used them to manipulate a stronger opponent. However, Madame Venna’s quiet sobs were genuine. A truly appalling thought occurred to him. What if he was the source of her misery?
“If you will permit me—”
Madame Venna yelped in fright and scrambled away from him. She fell off the bed with a distinct thud.
Saint leaned forward and gripped the edge of the mattress. “Christ! Are you hurt? Damn it, enough of this darkness. I am lighting a candle.”
Sprawled out on the floor, Madame Venna began to laugh. “Oh, Saint … you took ten years off my life. I do not know if my heart will recover.”
There was a hint of hysteria to her laughter that worried him. “Let me see to the candle.”
“Stay where you are,” she said, and there were sounds of movement as she stood and made her way across the room. “You must forgive me. When I awoke, I thought I was alone.”
Saint listened to the soft scrape of a drawer being opened and shut. “Should I have left?
“Not at all,” she replied, moving about the other side of the room as if she could see. “I rarely have guests, and when I awoke in the darkness I was confused.”
Light flared, and Madame Venna’s naked body was suddenly bathed in candlelight. When she turned, Saint kept his face carefully blank as he noted that she had found a half-mask to replace the porcelain one he had broken. This one was created from delicate lace. Perhaps it was foolish of him to hope that one night of passion was strong enough to tear down the barriers between them.
She did not try to cover herself as she returned to his side. Even with the mask firmly in place, he could tell that she enjoyed his gaze on her body.
“I am pleased that you stayed with me.” Her hand made a dismissive gesture. “Of course, now that I have disturbed your sleep, I do not expect you to—”
“You had a nightmare.”
Her breasts swayed as she leaned forward and placed the silver candleholder on the small side table beside the bed. “Oui.” She shrugged and began to sit down on the bed. Her knee pressed into the mattress as she hesitated. “Would you like some wine? I have an open bottle over—”
Saint caught her by the wrist before she could escape. “Tell me about the nightmare.”
Madame Venna wrinkled her nose. “It was just a silly dream.”
He tightened his fingers on her wrist when she attempted to pull away. “You were crying in your sleep.”
Madame Venna sighed. “It happened a long time ago, Saint.”
“Tell me.”
She bowed her head and kissed his knuckles. “Then let me pour a glass of wine. Something tells me one of us will need it.”
* * *
Madame Venna returned to the bed with the glass of wine in her hand. Saint was reclining on his side, the sheet barely covering his hips. She could see a glimpse of the short, curly dark thatch of hair that surrounded his genitals. Idly, she wondered if his cock was still hard. The man’s carnal appetites had seemed insatiable. She was pleasantly sore, but she would happily mount him again if it would distract him from their current discussion.
“Wine?”
His gaze was hooded as he accepted the glass from her and sipped. He nodded to the pillow next to him. “You were going to tell me about your nightmare.”
Madame Venna crawled closer and settled beside him. He offered her the glass of wine, and she gratefully accepted it. Once his hand was free, he lifted the sheet, giving her a tantalizing glimpse of his front before he flipped the sheet over her legs and hips. The heat of his body comforted her as she took a contemplative sip.
“I can think of more pleasant things to do in bed than talk, Saint.” She smiled at him, feeling confident now that her half-mask had been replaced. “What I saw under the sheet tells me that you would agree.”
“If I craved only the succulent flesh between your thighs, Madame V, you would have awakened alone,” he said bluntly. “Give me something more.”
Even though she was not thirsty, she emptied the glass and set it on the table next to the candleholder. She contemplated lying to him. Saint knew so little about her, he would believe anything she told him as long as she sounded sincere.
However, when she reluctantly met his gaze, his intensity burned away the clever lie that was on the tip of her tongue. She took a deep breath. “My dream—”
“Nightmare,” he corrected.
Madame Venna nodded. “Nightmare. It has haunted me since—” She noisily exhaled. “Oh, long before I arrived in London.”
“A memory?”
Was she truly prepared to tell him everything? How would he react? Would he turn away from her with revulsion? She brought her hand to her forehead and swept the hair obscuring her vision. “Oui. Parts of it, anyway. Some details have gotten lost in the retelling.” Or her mind chose to forget in a feeble attempt to protect her.
Saint touched her hip, gently rolling her toward him until they were face-to-face. “You are such a strong woman. I want to understand what could make you weep in the darkness.”
He thought her strong? She hastily blinked away the stinging moisture in her eyes. “Why would you care?”
“Can you just accept that I do?” he countered. “I want to make certain that I did nothing to hurt you.”
“Oh,” she said, understanding seeping into her expression. “What happened this evening … I was willing. You did not hurt me. As well you know, I enjoye
d myself immensely.”
“So much so, your slumber plunged you into nightmares.”
Saint was persistent. He was not going to be satisfied until she told him the truth. “You are not responsible.” She laughed. “Nor I, because I would have banished the memory from my brain years ago if it were within my power.”
“What happened?”
Madame Venna admired her well-appointed bedchamber. “I live quite well for a whore, do I not?”
“Madame V,” he said, his tone warning her that he was displeased with her attempt to change the subject.
She was not being evasive; she just was not certain how much to tell him. “I doubt any woman believes she will be desperate enough to sell her body to a stranger.” She paused, waiting for him to interrupt, but when he held his tongue, she continued. “There are those who believe destiny has a hand in the choices we make. My mother, or rather the woman who raised me, foretold that I would not come to a good end.”
“She sounds like a madwoman.”
“No, she would tell you that she was a good religious woman, and I…” She trailed off as she recalled the beatings she had endured from that pious woman. “And that I, the child she took in out of pity, was born with the mark of sin. For you see, my mother was married when she had an affair with my sire. I was proof of their affair. Instead of strangling me outright, my parents conspired to give me away. I was told that it was my father who paid quite handsomely to have me disappear. He did not care where I lived or if I died. However, if I survived, I was to have no knowledge of him or the lady who carried me in her womb.”
Saint’s hand on her hip tightened. “The bitch told you.”
She smiled, heartened by his fury on her behalf. “Naturally. As soon as I was old enough to understand the true meaning of my sins. Unwanted by my parents, bearing their tainted blood, the woman who raised me told me that no decent man would have me. I was born from a harlot, and I would fall from grace and become one, too.”
It was not lost on either her or Saint that Mrs. Royles had been correct about her fate.
“That woman would give me nightmares, too,” Saint muttered.
All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess Page 18