by Laura Landon
With a sad smile, he admitted that tonight he did not care. That just this once, he would allow himself to wallow in a mire of self-pity.
He lifted the decanter he’d set on the floor and tipped more of the liquid into his glass. He took another sip of the whiskey and lowered his arm.
“Did Your Grace wish for his carriage tonight?” Carver asked from the open doorway.
Vincent expelled a weary sigh. “What function am I supposed to be attending, Carver?”
“It’s Thursday, Your Grace.”
He dropped his head back against the cushion of the chair and smiled.
Thursday.
“Yes, Carver. Have my carriage sent round.”
Vincent set the glass on a nearby table and rose.
He was never in his life so glad for a Thursday.
Chapter 4
Raeborn stepped out of his carriage and maneuvered the walk and the five steps to the exclusive brothel he’d visited every Thursday night since his second wife’s death. His legs felt strangely relaxed from the excessive liquor he’d already consumed. He couldn’t remember ever losing such control except for the week after he’d buried his first wife. And another week after he’d buried his second. They were the only two weeks of self-pity he’d allowed himself before he stepped back into the ducal role he’d been born to live.
Tonight, his cousin and heir was responsible for his lapse of self-control. Bloody hell, but the boy had a lot to learn. If something happened to him tonight and Kevin became the next Duke of Raeborn, everything would be lost. The wastrel didn’t have the slightest idea of the responsibility that would be placed on his shoulders. He didn’t have the vaguest notion of the demands that would be thrust on his time. Vincent’s blood ran cold just thinking about it.
He looked at the stylish London town house that was his usual Thursday night destination. Yes, he needed to be here. Needed this release more tonight than he had for a long, long time.
He needed to be able to bury himself deep inside a soft feminine body and slake his passion until he could forget all he’d lost—all he would never have. He needed to visit the place where he was least likely to leave a woman pregnant.
This was why he’d never taken a mistress. Not every woman who gave her body to a man in exchange for clothes and jewels and a fine house knew how to prevent a man’s seed from taking root. So when he needed a release from this human side of his nature, there was only one place he felt comfortable going. One place he knew he could satisfy his physical needs without adding more emotional scars to his already riddled heart—Madam Genevieve’s.
Madam Genevieve catered to only the most selective clientele, and her girls were, without exception, from a higher class than any of the other London bordellos. Some of them were actually less fortunate members of the ton, he was sure. No matter what their reasons for being here, and he assumed there were many, the girls who gave their bodies for a man’s pleasure were here because they chose to be. They were eager and willing to satisfy a man’s every desire, yet knowledgeable concerning every method available of preventing a pregnancy. And that was his primary concern, his cardinal rule.
After the death of his second wife, he’d vowed never to plant his seed inside a woman again. That he would never let another woman die birthing his babe. To guarantee this, Vincent added another safeguard. He always found his release outside a woman’s body. It was a rule he’d made after Angeline’s death. One he always kept.
Raeborn’s body hardened in anticipation as his footsteps carried him toward the brothel. Before he reached the entrance, the thick oak door opened.
“Your Grace.” A man clad in dark maroon livery bowed regally.
“Good evening, Jenkins. Is your mistress in?”
“Yes, sir. She’s expecting you. In the Gardenia Room.”
Vincent smiled. Oh, yes. He needed to be here.
“Thank you, Jenkins. I can find my way.”
“As you wish,” the butler said, then walked across the tiled foyer and out of sight.
Vincent walked past the curved stairway that led to the private rooms upstairs, then past a half dozen sitting rooms—the Daffodil Room, the Hyacinth Room, the Azalea Room, the Daisy Room, the Marigold Room. The Gardenia Room. He knocked softly, then turned the knob.
As usual, the smell of fresh flowers assaulted his nose. A dozen or more bouquets from recent admirers sat on tabletops and pedestal stands scattered throughout the room. He had to search for her amid the arrangements, but finally found her standing by the window.
She turned and smiled when he entered the room.
“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying gracefully.
Raeborn let his appreciative gaze soak in her beauty. Genevieve was twenty-nine, perhaps thirty, with a small, voluptuous body he couldn’t imagine ever showing the ravages of age. Her gown was exquisite, made of the softest shade of yellow and cut in the latest fashion.
She wore her hair swept up to the top of her head, then left to cascade downward in a riot of thick curls. She wore very little makeup. Only a spot of rouge on her cheeks and a hint of red to her lips. She was lovely in the most elegant manner. A beauty beyond compare. When she lifted her gaze to greet him, he couldn’t help but smile. “Genevieve,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “You look lovely tonight.”
“Thank you. And you look...” She reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. “Ah. It has been a difficult day. Let me get you a glass of brandy.”
Vincent smiled. “I think tonight I’d rather stay with whiskey. It might not be wise to switch at this late hour.”
Genevieve raised her eyebrows and lifted the stopper on a crystal decanter of amber liquid. She poured each of them a drink. “You are late. I was afraid—” She cast a glance over her left shoulder and smiled. “The girls were afraid you would not come.”
Vincent sat on the plush floral settee and rested one ankle atop the opposite knee. He always felt so at ease here. So comfortable.
She handed him a glass over his shoulder. When he took it, she rested her fingers on his shoulders and massaged his tense muscles.
“Do you remember the first time we met, Your Grace?”
“Of course.”
Vincent took a swallow of Genevieve’s excellent liquor and leaned back to let her work her magic.
“I was only nineteen and had just come to work for Madam Renée. You were a young man of what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”
“Twenty-two.”
“You’d lost your first wife the year before and were still grieving.”
“It was a difficult time for me,” he said, remembering how devastated he’d been. How hard it had been to get over his loss. Genevieve had been a true friend then. Listening when he needed to talk. Loving him when words no longer helped. “You always knew what was going on in my head, Genny. How did you do it?”
“I understood you only too well, Your Grace. We’re very much alike, you know. We both suffer from the same nightmares. Different in substance, yet the same—and equally terrifying.”
“And what is your nightmare, Genny? You know mine. But you’ve never told me what horrors have you in their clutches.”
Genevieve reached over his shoulder and took the empty glass from his hand. “My nightmares are best left where they are. Bringing them out in the open won’t help either you or me.”
She came around the settee and sat next to him. “We have been friends a long time, Raeborn. I want you to know how much I value your friendship. I would never intentionally do anything to risk losing it.”
“Nor I yours.” Her words confused him, but he wasn’t sure why.
She gave him her most brilliant smile. “However, you did not come to visit with me. Did you?”
Raeborn smiled. “So who have you chosen for me tonight? Corrine?”
“No, Your Grace. Tonight you will have...Deborah.”
A frown wrinkled his forehead. He realized he was far from sober, but that name was not familia
r to him.
“Is she new?”
“Yes. But you will not have to worry. You will find her most eager to please. It is quite shameless the way my girls fight over you.”
Raeborn shook his head. “I think what is shameless is the way you flatter me, Madam.”
Genevieve laughed, the sound clear and melodious.
“Ah. You have discovered my secret.” She rose and walked to the door. “I think it is time you met Deborah.”
Vincent sat forward to rise and stopped. A sudden rush of warmth engulfed him. It wasn’t the heat one associated with the warmth of the sun on a bright summer’s day, but an unusual heat creeping to every extremity in his body. Down his arms and legs, then settling deep in the pit of his stomach. It was not an uncomfortable warmth, but a euphoric sensation that seemed to lift away the troubles and worries he’d brought with him.
“Deborah is waiting upstairs for you,” Genevieve said, standing at his side. “In the Peach Room.”
“Then I’d best go. I wouldn’t want to keep the lady waiting.”
Genevieve walked with him to the bottom of the stairs and gifted him with an open smile before leaving him. He felt strange, but pleasantly so, and with each step he climbed toward the private rooms above, his anticipation grew stronger. The desire to find release in a woman’s warm, willing body grew more desperate with each footfall.
When he reached the Peach Room, he knocked quietly, then opened the door when a soft voice bade him enter.
The room was dimly lit, only the flames from the fireplace casting a light by which to see. He scanned the room.
His gaze stopped when he saw her sitting on a chair by the window. She rose when he entered.
He wasn’t sure exactly what he expected, but he was somewhat surprised by the girl facing him. She didn’t have the look most of Genevieve’s girls had. She seemed softer, even delicate.
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. She took a tentative step toward him, then stopped, her air of innocence taking him quite by surprise.
She was exquisitely shaped, exactly the paramour most men of society demanded from a high-class establishment like Madam Genevieve’s. But she did not seem as bold as most of Genevieve’s girls. This one seemed almost shy.
Her long blonde hair hung loosely around her shoulders and flowed in beautiful waves that cascaded down her back nearly to her waist. A sheer white chemise, so thin he could see the outline of her shapely legs in the glow of the firelight, covered her body. She wore nothing beneath it.
For someone so slender, her breasts were round and full. Her waist was narrow and her hips fanned out with the fullness of age, but not unseemly so. She was not so very tall, but he knew when he stood next to her the top of her head would reach nearly to his chin. He was glad. He hated how he towered over most females. Hated the way he dwarfed them.
She was older, perhaps twenty-eight or -nine.
He smiled. It had been a long time since he’d met someone who didn’t make him feel like he’d stolen her from a schoolroom.
He walked toward her, his fingers pulling his cravat loose. “Good evening, Deborah. Genevieve tells me you’re new.”
“Yes.” She smiled a shy greeting, then took another hesitant step forward.
Her timidity was endearingly sweet, and he smiled in hopes of relaxing her. “Would you prefer to talk a while first?”
Her eyes widened. “No. I mean...not unless that is what you prefer.”
He shook his head. “No. That is not what I prefer.” He shrugged out of his coat.
She stepped up behind him and took his jacket from his shoulders, then placed it over the back of the chair. He removed his waistcoat next and handed it to her. Then his cravat and finally his shirt. She placed each item on the chair and watched him closely as he sat on the edge of the bed to remove his boots.
“Please, allow me to do that,” she said, her voice soft and seductive.
He nodded and leaned back, bracing his hands behind him on the mattress. When she reached down to pull his boots from his feet, he noticed her hands shook slightly. That realization pleased him.
He stood when he was bare except for his trousers. “Should I light a candle?”
“Would you mind if we...didn’t?”
“Not at all.” He stepped closer to her and brushed the backs of his fingers down her cheek. “Making love in the moonlight is always more enjoyable.”
She lowered her head and stepped toward him. She lifted her chin slowly, her gaze taking in his features. She didn’t seem disappointed by what she saw, and Vincent felt an uncharacteristic warmth at the realization that he pleased her.
Their gazes locked and he couldn’t move, couldn’t turn away from her. For a moment they remained frozen until, in a slow, intimate gesture, she raised her hand and pressed her palm to his cheek.
Her movement was at first light and tentative. Her fingers trembled slightly as she traced the line of his jaw, then moved upward to lightly brush across his forehead. But in time she became more confident.
“You are a man who worries much,” she whispered, rubbing a finger over his brow.
He smiled, something he didn’t often do. But he’d had enough to drink that the smile came easily. Enough to drink that her touch affected him more than a woman’s touch usually did. Enough to drink that he was completely enamored of the innocent warmth of the woman giving herself to him. “Only occasionally,” he answered, forcing his hands to remain at his sides to keep from rushing ahead too quickly. His resolve didn’t last long.
Vincent reached for the hand pressed against his cheek. Her hand seared his flesh where she touched him. He turned it over, then pressed his lips to her palm.
The intake of her breath affected him. A need so powerful he could barely control it consumed him. He wanted her. Wanted to bury himself deep inside her and take out his needs and frustration until he could forget all he’d lost.
He placed his palms on her shoulders, then slowly ran his hands up and down her arms. With a heavy sigh, he lowered his head and rested his forehead against hers.
“You’re perfect.”
“As are you.”
She placed her hands on his chest and slowly moved them upward until her arms were wrapped tightly around his neck.
They shared a closeness he was loath to sever. He breathed in the clean smell of her, roses mixed with lilacs, then reached around her and pulled her into his embrace.
“I’m glad Genevieve gave you to me,” he whispered, his voice sounding unnaturally husky.
He felt her tremble in his arms and held her tighter. Her arms moved, her fingers touching him, searing his naked flesh. The desire building inside him erupted into a blazing inferno. He lowered his head and covered her mouth with a hungry, desperate kiss.
Bloody hell, but he needed her. Wanted her.
Grace thought she’d been prepared. Thought she’d known what it would be like when he touched her, when he kissed her. But nothing had prepared her for this. For the heat that enveloped her. For the bolts of energy that spiraled through her. For the liquid fire that weakened her, consuming her at an alarming speed.
Strange and violent sensations moved deep inside her and dropped lower and lower and lower until they reached the very core of her body. A secret place she didn’t even know was hidden deep inside her belly came alive. A shudder racked her body, and she leaned closer as if in search of something to which the man holding her held the secret.
She was on fire. Even though the only garment covering her body was a gown so thin and filmy she felt naked, it was too much. Too heavy. Too confining. Oh, heaven help her. She didn’t know it would be like this.
He moved his lips over hers, touching her in a way she’d never been touched.
His lips were firm and warm. A fire she couldn’t control ignited deep inside her. She prayed he’d never stop kissing her, never stop touching her. Never drop his arms from around her. And he didn’t. He held her closer an
d deepened his kisses.
He opened his mouth atop hers, his tongue skimming her lips, then invading her mouth.
A thousand blinding lights exploded behind her eyes. His tongue touched hers and a loud moan echoed deep inside her. Her heart thundered harder than it had ever pounded before. Raced faster than it had ever gone before. And he kissed her again, drinking deeply from her. Demanding more.
A whimper was the only sound she was capable of making, and she wrapped her arms around his neck and clung to him.
“Ah, what magic you possess,” he whispered, his fingers touching her face and his mouth following with tiny kisses. He worked his way down her neck to a tender spot at the base of her throat, then lower where a tiny satin ribbon held the front of her gown together. He pulled on the ribbon and pushed the silky material from her shoulders.
She barely noticed it falling to her feet.
He touched her breasts, molding them, lifting them, holding them in the palms of his hands. “You are beautiful,” he whispered, rubbing the sensitive tips.
Her knees buckled beneath her and she clung to him with greater ferocity. What he was doing to her nearly undid her. She cried out, then arched her back, desperate to give him more of herself.
She knew she should feel shame, knew he probably thought her actions were bold and brash, then shoved such a thought from her mind. It was too late to turn back from the course she’d decided to take. Too late to stop now. She was in a brothel, playing the part of a prostitute. He would expect her to be experienced. Expect her to accept his touch without hesitation. Then he moved his mouth to her breasts and she couldn’t have stopped him if she’d wanted.
“Touch me,” he ordered, and she moved her hands over him, kneading the muscles at his shoulders. Her fingers, tentative at first, then turning braver, played with the thick mat of hair on his chest. Oh, what a strange feel. Not soft. Yet not coarse. She let her hands roam over his torso, touching every inch of him.