The Pleasure Seekers

by Melanie George

  But as the third day moved into the fourth, then the fifth and sixth, she realized she had to stop deluding herself. Caine had used her and forgotten about her, just as he said he would.

  That should have been enough to make her hate him, but her emotions wouldn’t allow her the benefit of catching up to her common sense. She found herself shedding tears without provocation, which nearly threw poor François into a panic, as he had never seen her cry.

  She had never believed she would become the kind of woman who loved a man so much she was willing to overlook his sins, or allow herself to believe that he cared when he had told her he didn’t. But that was exactly the woman she had turned into. Only time would make a difference. Only distance. And Caine was surely long gone from Paris by now.

  A scratch sounded at her door, but Bliss felt too listless to answer the summons. The door swung open a moment later, the clatter of dishes telling Bliss someone had come with her supper tray, the heavy tread and even heavier sigh telling her it was François.

  “I’ve brought your food,” he said, sounding put out with her.

  “Thank you,” she murmured, watching the windmill on the Moulin de la Galette slowly turn.

  François muttered an expletive and thunked the tray down, making his displeasure known. “There are two full plates still sitting here. Mon Dieu, you must eat! You are wasting away to nothing.”

  “I’m not hungry.”

  “This I have heard before, and I am most tired of it. You will eat if I have to force every bite down your throat.”

  Bliss was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t hear him come up behind her. She jerked when he laid his hands on her shoulders.

  “Relax, ma belle. You are too tense.” He began to gently knead her shoulders, and Bliss waited for his reproach, but only a companionable silence stretched out around them.

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said. “I know I’ve not been myself lately.”

  “I understand, and I do not like to see you hurting.”

  “I know.”

  He paused, then said, “The Englishman, you still care for him?”

  Though it was foolish and transparent to lie, Bliss did so anyway. “No, he’s long been forgotten. I’m just…tired.” It seemed her whole world had become an ache of weariness. But she would get over this. She had no choice.

  “That is because you do not eat and have not gotten any fresh air. You have locked yourself away in this tower room like a melancholy princess. This is not like you. You are a woman of spirit and fire.”

  Bliss turned to face him, a dreaded tear coursing down her cheek. “What’s happened to me?” she whispered, her voice trembling.

  François cupped her cheek, brushing away the tear. “Love, my girl. Love is what has happened to you. I know, as I have felt it many times, and each time I’m sure the pain will not be as great, but it is. It does not get any easier. But it will subside.”

  “When?”

  “Much of that depends on you. You must take yourself in hand and force yourself to go forward. Before you know it, things will be as they were before. And there is no time like the present to start. We will go to the moulin this very evening.”

  “No.” Bliss shook her head. “No, I couldn’t. Not tonight. Not yet.”

  “Oui, tonight.”

  “It’s too soon.”

  “Nonsense. It will do you good.”

  “But—”

  “I was going to keep this a secret, but now you have forced my hand. Manet will be painting there tonight, and he has specifically asked that you come.”

  Bliss momentarily forgot her troubles. “Manet asked for me?” To be extended an invitation by the artist was not only rare, but coveted. He was an intensely private man who associated with only a select few.

  François nodded. “He has seen some of your work and thinks you show a great deal of promise. Now, do you want to miss the opportunity to watch him paint?”

  She had been an admirer of Manet’s for many years, and one of the thousands to crowd into the Salon to view a showing of his work.

  Somewhere deep inside her, the old fire flickered back to life. Perhaps François was right. Maybe she needed to force herself to get out, to forget. Caine had most likely forgotten all about her. In fact, he was probably toasting his good fortune by bedding some pert-breasted, doe-eyed trull, who would offer him no trouble, no lectures, nothing but pleasure. Endless hours of pleasure.

  “Oh, sweet God, not the tears again!” François said with a mixture of exasperation and concern as he gathered her into his arms.

  “I hate him,” Bliss whispered in an emotion-clogged voice, angrily swiping at her tears.

  “As you should. He’s a scoundrel of the lowest order.”

  “But I love him.”

  “Of course,” he sighed, waving a handkerchief in front of her tear-blurred vision.

  Bliss glanced up at him through wet-clumped eyelashes and murmured a weak, “Thank you.” Then she straightened, determined that would be the last time she would shed a single tear for a self-proclaimed hedonist. With a final sniff, she lifted her chin and said, “Give me a few minutes to get ready.”

  Caine had lost track of the days, having been fairly hammered with drink for most of them. But he greatly preferred his new role as Montmartre’s town lush to his old role as England’s biggest bastard and prime jackass.

  At least when he was drunk, the images of Bliss were not so piercingly clear, those blue eyes not so hurt and confused, that chin not so stubborn and proud, those lips not trembling from the pain he’d caused.

  He had been so immersed in liquor and despondency that he hadn’t been able to lift a single damn finger to pummel that stupid Frog into the floor when the man had boldly sat down at the tavern table Caine had occupied nearly continuously since leaving Bliss standing in the street.

  The Frog had had the balls to stare Caine in the face and tell him what a profound fool he was and that he didn’t deserve Bliss, and that half the men in Paris were in love with her. Caine had managed to summon up a belligerent glare, but the blighter was right. Yet if even one of those bloody fops laid a hand on her, he would cut it off.

  He stared down at his drink and then lifted it to his lips, wondering, as he had for the past week, if at the bottom of this glass he would finally find the oblivion he sought.

  Bliss looked out the hackney window as it rumbled down the rutted street. The weather was thickening, gray showers scudding across the horizon that would leave the city with muddied lanes and glistening treetops by morning.

  She had brought along her pad and charcoals, thinking to do a few sketches of her own. The nightlife of Montmartre was replete with the most unusual characters, many of whom meandered right outside her window as the hired conveyance trudged up the hill.

  She watched a rag picker searching through discarded items in the gutter. The woman raised her head as a light mist began to fall, her face revealed in the yellow glow of her lantern. Isabelle Boudreaux, a well-known figure about the boulevard.

  Beneath her tattered scarf, her skin was pale, crepe-thin and seamed, a toothless hole for her mouth and inflamed bruises for eyes. A gust of wind whipped at hair that used to be like spun silk.

  Isabelle had been a beautiful woman once, an elite among the demimonde, and all of Paris had been taken with her. But her admirers were long gone. Disease and an addiction to absinthe had stolen everything from her.

  Bliss called out to her, wanting to take the woman out of the drizzling rain. But when Isabelle looked up, a hunted expression clouded her face. It was the look of someone who had seen too much hardship and abuse. She scurried off into the darkness of the surrounding alleys.

  With a defeated sigh, Bliss sat back against the squabs. Women like Isabelle were the reason she painted. Her face, like so many, was a canvas of the harsh life she lived, the daily struggle for survival.

  Perhaps it was for Isabelle and her kind that Bliss traveled to such a licenti
ous nightspot to meet with Manet. Caine has been right: she needed to take the next step, to show her art. If she could gain Manet’s interest, she might be able to get her paintings viewed at the next Grand Exhibit.

  The hackney came to a rattling halt in front of the Moulin de la Galette, whose windmill Bliss often watched from her window. The establishment sat atop an incline, its façade beaten down around the edges. Yet its haphazard appearance took nothing away from its welcoming allure.

  Amid the din of voices spilling out the open doors arose a throatily sung musette about a fallen girl who comes to a tragic and untimely end. The tune was an all-too-accurate portrayal, Bliss thought as she spied a homeless pierreuse offering herself to a passerby.

  A thin veil of smoke wreathed Bliss as she and François entered the pump room. On the stage, dancers in multilayered petticoats flared out their skirts, showing glimpses of ankles and calves.

  Bliss found a spot in the corner where she could watch everything, her eager gaze searching the room for a glimpse of Manet. “I don’t see him,” she said, glancing up at François, who appeared ill at ease. He had been acting odd since they had left her apartment.

  “He should be here any moment. Would you care for some refreshment?” Before Bliss could respond, he blended into the crowd, a path opening up behind his fleeing form.

  Her gaze suddenly collided with fierce blue eyes and her world shuddered on its axis. Caine sat directly across the room from her, slouched in a sprawl, brooding and savagely handsome, an empty glass clutched in his hand. He had stayed in Paris. In Montmartre. Why?

  The joy she felt at seeing him was eclipsed a moment later when a scantily clad barmaid sashayed toward him and boldly sat down on his lap, wrapping her arms brazenly around his neck, her ample bosom pressed against his chest. A group of onlookers hooted loudly at the spectacle.

  Bliss prayed he would push the woman away, but instead, he put his hands on her waist, and holding Bliss’s gaze, he pulled the barmaid close for a deep kiss that sent the revelers into gales of whooping.

  The blow was the worst he could have ever inflicted, and though she wanted to run from the sight, her feet would not move.

  A hand suddenly grasped her arm. Her gaze jerked up, thinking to find François—never expecting to see the Earl of St. Giles staring down at her.

  Twenty-two

  Thou tyrant, tyrant Jealousy…

  John Dryden

  “I’m sorry,” he said, smiling apologetically, his aristocratic features pronounced in the gilded light, silvery eyes intently regarding her. “I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

  Bliss took a steadying breath, remembering the story Caine had told her about the earl, how he had come into her room when she was asleep, intending to take advantage of her. Had that been true? Or simply one of his tales to make her believe he had come to her rescue?

  “What are you doing here, my lord?”

  The black and blue mark on his jaw was completely gone, and he was once more the charming rake with the angelic face that turned every female head in the room.

  “I’m sure you must be surprised, my lady, as was I. I never expected to come across you in such a place.”

  “I’m with a friend.” Where was François?

  Her gaze nervously shifted back to Caine. He had not moved, and neither had the barmaid, who was now boldly kissing his neck. The only thing that told Bliss he had even noticed the earl’s arrival was the violent glare he sent her way, the look a clear warning, which galvanized her anger.

  How dare he look at her as if she were the one in the wrong! He had told her in no uncertain terms that he no longer wanted her.

  The need to return the pain he had so willingly inflicted on her pushed in on Bliss, and she returned the earl’s smile with a warm one of her own.

  “You are a beautiful woman, my lady,” he said in an appreciative tone.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she murmured, lowering her lashes.

  He crooked his finger beneath her chin, tipping her face up. She saw the desire simmering in his eyes and knew she should be concerned, but she could not get the image of Caine and the serving girl out of her mind.

  “I will confess that coming upon you like this makes going out in this weather well worth the effort. I hope you’ll allow me to take this opportunity to further our acquaintance. There were things that impeded my ability to do so back in Devon.”

  Bliss didn’t need him to elaborate on what “things” he referred to. The biggest one was sitting across the room, the heat of his gaze like a weight on her back.

  Even as a voice told her not to allow the earl to think she harbored any interest, she said, “I’d like that.” A harmless flirtation would not amount to anything, and Caine was enjoying his dalliances. Why should she not do the same thing?

  Bliss spotted François striding across the room, a deep frown dragging his brows together, his displeasure obvious as he drew up beside her.

  “Come with me,” he said without preamble, clamping his fingers around her arm and dragging her toward a corner of the room.

  Bliss wrenched away and glared up at him. “What has come over you?” she demanded.

  “That man is a viper.”

  “You know nothing about him.”

  “I know enough to see that he only wants to get between your thighs.”

  “That seems to be a common flaw among you men,” she returned hotly. “Heaven forbid you should get to know a woman.”

  “Your anger is misplaced.”

  “Perhaps, but I’m getting heartily tired of men thinking they can dictate to me.”

  “I am advising, not dictating. Though it is obvious you are not thinking clearly, or you would see this for yourself.”

  “You are the one who told me I must forget and move on.”

  “Oui, but you are going about it the wrong way. I must protect you when you are too pigheaded to protect yourself.”

  “I don’t need protecting. I’m perfectly capable of taking care of myself.”

  “Pigheaded, as I said. You refuse to believe you are as fallible as the next person.”

  “The next female, you mean.”

  “You will not draw me into that trap, chérie. I am going to be your friend whether you like it or not, and I will not allow you to make a mistake you will regret.”

  “You have no say.”

  “You are playing with fire, mon coeur. You are hurt over seeing the man you love with another woman. It is clouding your judgment.”

  A tiny screw of pain pricked her heart. “He is not the man I love.”

  François made a rude noise, but before he could retort, a voice interjected, “Is everything all right, my lady?”

  Bliss glanced up to find the earl standing at her shoulder, his gray eyes alight with concern.

  “Fine,” she lied, plucking the glass from François’s hand and saying in a voice only loud enough for him to hear, “Do not treat me like a child. And do not follow me.” Refusing to meet his warning gaze, she walked away.

  “Would you care to go someplace quieter to talk?” the earl asked gently, the look in his eyes sympathetic.

  Bliss stole a glance at Caine and found him disappearing through a door at the back of the taproom, impatiently tugging the barmaid behind him, who went more than willingly, grinning at her friends as she passed. They fanned themselves as though they were about to faint dead away at her good fortune.

  The last piece of Bliss’s battered heart broke irrevocably, but she willed back the tears as she looked up at the earl and nodded agreement.

  He smiled and took hold of her hand, leading her in the same direction Caine had just taken the buxom serving wench, then guiding her through an adjacent door.

  They moved along a narrow hallway, the muted sounds of revelry reaching them, dim sconces shrouding them in shadows. Bliss shut her eyes tight, trying to will away images of Caine and the pretty barmaid.

  A sudden heat washed over her and she jerked open he
r eyes. The earl held aside a red velvet drape leading to an anteroom. Flickering candlelight cast writhing shadows on the wall as Bliss’s shocked gaze took in the scene before her. Moans rose from the men and women shamelessly entwined upon garish damask sofas and satin cushions on the floor, proclaiming this part of the tavern for what it was. A bordello.

  A crash of thunder shook the floor, the power of it wrenching groans from the joined couples, as if the dynamics of the storm had infused their desires with the electricity of the lightning bolts stabbing at the earth.

  Before she had a moment to return to her senses, the earl led her to one of the adjoining rooms, his grip rough as he yanked her in front of him and notched back another curtain, forcing her to look in—to see Caine sprawled in a chair, his head resting on the back, his eyes closed…and the serving girl kneeling submissively before him, running her hands up his thighs.

  “See what a whoremonger he is,” the earl hissed in her ear. “This is his life, and you can’t change it.”

  The barmaid’s hands skimmed across Caine’s groin and a sound of despair spilled from Bliss’s lips. The small noise brought Caine’s head up, his eyes jerking open, a look of pain and regret passing fleetingly over his face before fury overtook him.

  With a strangled cry, Bliss turned and fled, Caine’s bellowing roar echoing after her, St. Giles dogging her heels. He hauled her to a stop and whirled her around to face him.

  “What did you think, my lady?” he jeered. “Quite a show, wasn’t it? Much better than that tripe on stage.”

  Bliss numbly stared up at him, and she could see her own foolishness in the gleam of his eyes. “I want to leave,” she said in a raw voice. “Take me out of here.”

  “Leave? But we just got here.”

  “I made a mistake.”

  “Yes,” he said with a snarl, “you made a mistake, and it started back in Devon when you allowed that swine to shove his cock into you, and you laid there panting for it like a bitch in heat.” He backed her up against the wall, his arousal grinding against her stomach, sickening her.