The Rakehell Regency Romance Series Boxed Set 6

by Sorcha MacMurrough

  But as he strode down the street, he turned to look back up at the back window. Then he had to admit he knew exactly why. The thought of Miranda naked, or clad in the delicate lawn night dress decorated with roses, her long wavy brown hair billowing down her back gloriously unbound, was like a caress to his manhood. He had all to do not to redirect his steps up the secret staircase and beg her to let him in.

  He realised with a start that she had opened the shutters. The room was like a bright gold cavern amid the mountainous tenements which loomed oppressively all around him. Her gorgeous figure was silhouetted against the fire and candle light. Thus limned, he could see the breathtaking curve of her breasts, the cascade of her hair. She seemed to be raising her hand to close the shutters. But no, she was actually waving to him.

  Astonished, moved, and ashamed of being caught doing something so absurd as to pine for a harlot under her bedroom window as if he were a modern Romeo seeking his Juliet, he scowled and ignored her gesture.

  Shaking his head, telling himself she was no different from a hundred other women, he stalked back to his lonely bachelor’s establishment, and tried without success to get some sleep.

  Miranda, alone in the garrett room, had watched the lonely figure turn to look up at her window. She had raised her hand in acknowledgement, but he’d simply pivotted on his heel and strode off. She was sure he had seen her from the way he had stiffened. She wondered why he had acted so offended.

  No, not offended. Embarrassed. Irritated at having been caught out. One thing was certain. He was not all he pretended to be. Certainly nothing which she had seen here tonight had given her the least indication of his fearsome criminal reputation.

  He most certainly was enthralling. A genuine puzzle. Tall, classically handsome, well-educated, with refined tastes. His room, clothes, brandy, cigars, were all high quality, though not ostentatiously so. Many of her brother’s Town friends did nothing but pose, preen and posture like peacocks. Here was a man who could put most of them to shame, yet he disparaged and denigrated himself. His manners too had been impeccable.

  If Miranda were being completely honest, she doubted she would have been safe with more than one or two of Matthew’s ‘sporting’ friends given her precarious state after the attack. George had been so gentlemanly, if she didn’t know better she would have said he was one of her brothers gentlemanly Rakehell set.

  True, he had kissed her, smelled her in the odd but wonderfully thrilling manner. Had suckled her back as though she had been made of honey, had sniffed her like a blossoming rose. But for all their strangeness, his attentions had not been repellent to her.

  His conversation had not been objectionable, apart from when he was trying to shock her on purpose in order to dissuade her for her own good from becoming a whore. A most unusual pimp, then.

  His looks had not made her feel any degree of alarm or discomposure. His every touch had been gentle, tender, loverlike, without her feeling trapped or violated.

  Miranda moved to the table to wash her face and hands in the warm water he had so thoughtfully provided. She nibbled on the bread and cheese, drank the milk, and put the fire guard in front of the hearth.

  What a nurturing man he was, she reflected as she gazed into the fireplace at the warm, glowing embers. Why on earth was a man as fine as he not married? Had no children?

  She shook her head. She couldn’t be sure—what had made her jump to those conclusions?

  Then she thought back to the neat orderliness of his room, its loneliness. His profound air of solitude and self-containment which draped over him like a mantle. The narrow day bed, his rooms without a hint of a feminine presence, or that of a child. It was clear he lived there all the time, ran the theatre with an iron hand. A man of business, then, with no time for family commitments? But then why did he seem so…alone. Bereft? They said terrible things about him, but surely they couldn't be true….

  Miranda abandoned her fruitless musings and got into the bed at last, slipping in between the fresh-smelling soft sheets, which she took note of gratefully. She wondered how many other waifs and strays he had brought to this room.

  The thought made her smile, but gave her a little pang too. She was no one special; to George Davenant she was just another charity case.

  But he most certainly was kind. He had actually offered her a job and a place to live without even knowing the least thing about her. He had seen her in trouble and helped without expecting anything in return. In fact, George had brushed aside her thanks as if the help he had rendered her had been nothing.

  But it was everything to her. Insane though the idea might seem, she had a deep instinctual sense that she could help him in return. Pay him back for all the assistance he had given her. And in the process, she could get enough material for her novel, and the bit of adventure she had craved.

  Working so closely to George, she felt confident she would not be allowed to fall into the fire again. Where would be the harm? It might even be fun. She adored the theatre, and he really was the most handsome man.

  Oh no you don’t, Miranda, she reprimanded herself, reining in her desires before she allowed that train of thought to carry her away. The last man you should let yourself fall in love with was the king of the criminal underworld on the south bank of the Thames.

  If she was to go ahead with her madcap plan, she could not allow herself to be distracted. One way or the other she had a job to do. As a theatre dresser, and novelist.

  With that happy thought she blew out the candle. She settled into the comfortable bed and slept, her dreams filled with visions of deep brown eyes and George’s handsome if sombre face.

  CHAPTER THREE

  George would have liked to have dreamed about Miranda. The truth was she was battering so much against his consciousness, clamouring for attention, that he barely got a wink of sleep.

  At length he dragged himself out of bed, grabbed a better change of clothes, one usually only reserved for special occasions, and headed to the bath house. Once there, he filled the tub, stripped off, and let the hot water steam some of his tension away.

  The water sliding over his skin sensually put him in mind of her small, slender hands, her silken hair. From there he let his own hand soothe and arouse himself. George’s fantasies were surprisingly chaste, though he knew he was still going to be embarrassed when he saw Miranda again.

  Visions of sharing a meal with her, strolling down a country lane, sitting on a sofa with her as she put her head on his shoulder, were in themselves not especially risque. In most of the scenarios he envisaged, she was even fully and by no means scantily clad.

  No, it was the warmth, the sheer nearness of her. Her softness. Gentle voice. Remarkable deep blue eyes. Eyes he would give anything to have look at him with love, not horror.

  Miranda was a brave little thing, he had to give her that. But even she would run fleeing from his rapacious lust if she had even the tiniest inkling of what he wanted from her. A man like him… But the vision of her giving herself to him willingly, stroking his cheek and hair, was a balm to his tormented soul.

  No, it was unthinkable. Even if she was as low as her two companions, he did not dare… They might be the most loose and immoderate women in the world, but they were still human beings, and he could never forget his mission. Well, three missions, really. But whatever work he did for his employer was tertiary compared with finding what he sought, and protecting all the people who, for whatever reasons, had fallen under the blanket of his protection.

  That now included Miranda, he reminded himself for the hundredth time as he at last released his still throbbing but at least finally flaccid flesh and began to scrub himself all over with a hard sponge. Still not at ease with his own quiveringly needy body, he pulled the plug and filled it with cold. He forced himself to sit in it up to his hips until he couldn’t even feel his toes any more. George shaved as he sat, years of practice without a mirror during the war rendering him a closer shave than many a man achiev
ed even with the use of a pierglass. Though with all of his thoughts about Miranda, it was a wonder he wasn’t so distracted that he cut his own throat.

  When at last he was finished and calm, he pulled himself out of the tub, dried himself with a couple of business-like pats to ensure that no chance arousing contact took place once more, and dressed with unusual care. The laundresses he employed had starched his shirt to perfection. His breeches were well-fitting, his waist coat enhanced his broad chest and lean hips. Even his stockings were soft against his skin. There were a great many things he missed about his old life, but he was determined to keep as many of them as he could, defiant to the last.

  He put on his jacket, adjusted his cuffs deftly, and was satisfied that he looked like a successful man of the world, not a whoremonger.

  It was still very early, not even seven so far as he could tell, though he had to admit he might have lost track of the time in his flights of fancy filled with nothing but the luscious young brunette.

  He went back into The Three Bells and sought the linen cupboard next. He fetched out some clean under things for Miranda and a change of shoes, more practical ones than those she had had on last evening. He made a pretty good guess as to the size, having leaned early on to observed even the most insignificant details about a person in case they should come in handy later. He reproached himself for not having thought to bring more clothes with him from the costume pile in his digs, but he still felt uneasy about where his friend Viola might have gathered some of them. He was reminded of one of the most famous courtesans in Paris he had met after the war, whose clothes had been an absolute disgrace.

  So he went to the common wardrobe he provided for the women, which ranged from the demure to the debauched, and selected a few gowns he knew would fit, but would also be appropriate for what were supposed to be Miranda’s new duties.

  Then he whittled them down even further, based on her colouring, and his own notions of modesty. He was not going to have everyone in The New Rose starting at her bosom if he could help it. Besides, he stared enough at them when they were fully clad without putting temptation in his own way, let alone anyone else’s.

  He was about to seek out Tom to take the clothes up to her when to his surprise she appeared in the hall. He was instantly worried. Most people never used the back passage, but all the same, if there had been some lingering clients she might have run into one.

  "Good morning. Did you sleep well?" she asked quietly, still fiddling with the last of her buttons up the back.

  "Yes," he lied. "You?"

  "Yes," she fibbed, and blushed prettily. "For the most part. I have to admit, all the noise was a bit, well, disconcerting."

  He assumed she was referring to the usual amatory activity of the brothel, but she said instead by way of clarification, "The milk man, bread man, everyone calling at the back door shouting their wares in the street. London is certainly a most noisy city."

  He smiled in relief. She had not been shocked after all? Though shy, she seemed perfectly composed. On the one hand he felt relieved that she was not a prude. On the other, should she not have been distressed? Was it not a worse sign that she wasn’t?

  But he had little time to ponder this. Miranda moved forward now and lifted her fall of hair.

  He could see she had only been able to comb her fingers though it when she had risen. There had to be a spare brush about somewhere, and more ribbons for her lovely dark chestnut tresses. He would ask Tom when he had a spare moment.

  "Do you mind?" she asked over her slender shoulder.

  "No, except that I was about to bring you a change of clothes and linens and apron for your new duties today. The bath house is this way."

  "Oh really? Thank you for going to so much trouble. Is that why you’re here? I thought you told me to meet you at the theatre."

  "I was here for a bath myself and was going to have breakfast in the kitchen, as is my wont. Then I planned to head on to the theatre. I had no idea you would be up so early, Miss Lyons. I’m sorry about all the noise."

  "Not your fault. In any case I’m always an early riser. Morning is the best part of the day, don’t you feel? However terrible things were the night before, each new dawn brings with it a whole host of wonderful new possibilities. Then you feel that surely something wonderful is going to happen. Something that will chase all the gloom of the night before away."

  He stared at her, awestruck and tongue-tied. He could not agree with her more, though he had never dared voice the thought aloud. In fact, it had been so long since he had been allowed to say what he really thought about anything in a completely unguarded and honest manner that he wasn’t even sure he knew how to express such feelings. He was noted for his taciturnity, and it was far too dangerous to change the essential habits of self-preservation now.

  But the comment and her earnest gaze seemed to warrant some sort of response, if only so the sweet young girl wouldn’t think him a complete churl.

  "Yes, it does, doesn’t it. I only hope you were not too wretched after your most distressing experiences last night."

  She patted his broad forearm. "My throat is a bit sore, but it could have been a great deal worse. I was most fortune in my rescuer. You’ve been the perfect gentleman. I must once again thank you for your assistance. And the fine clothes and food, and your thoughtfulness."

  He shrugged off her thanks once more. The last thing he wanted was her mere gratitude. "I shall take you to the baths now. Spend as along a time as you like, and then you may come back in here for breakfast."

  "May join you? For breakfast, I mean," she said with a blush. She assumed he had already bathed from the fact that his hair was still damp. But she had heard the patter of rain upon the slate roof as she’d been struggling into the gown, buttoning as many fastenings as she could reach, so could not be sure if he had or not. The gap in the frock as she preceded him reminded him now that some of the gowns he had selected might not be practical for a woman without assistance in dressing and undressing.

  He looked them over again, and tried to keep his eyes off the marvelous curve of her supple back.

  No, they all possessed front fastenings. In any event one of the girls or Tom would help, he was sure.

  "By all means come for breakfast. We run a fairly loose ship here. We all go in and help ourselves most of the time. Bill the chef is first rate and does have a general set of times. Breakfast at eight, dinner at two, supper at five, and a later one when I look in after the theatre. I’ll introduce you around after you’ve bathed.

  "Here is my favourite bathing chamber, right at the corner, nice and private. There are attendants here day and night, so if by any chance you should run into anyone who does not behave in an appropriate manner, you let them know. This is supposed to be a decent place. Occasionally the activity spills over into her from the brothel or into the pub, but for the most part I will not have any workers scandalised. There is a time and a place for everything, you understand."

  "You really are a most scrupulously moralistic person considering your stock in trade, aren’t you?" she said with a curious glint in her eyes.

  His face set like stone. "Just because a woman or man chooses this career does not mean they have to be brutalised by it."

  "No indeed, I never suggested-"

  "It is a career choice for a woman. They either enjoy it, or they are doing it in order to attain another goal. To set up their own shop, for example. Feed their family and themselves. None of the women or men are forced to work here, I’ve told you that."

  "And I believe you. Please, Mr. Davenant, you don’t have to keep defending yourself to me one minute and throwing the fact that you are a procurer in my face the next. I don’t care what you do for a living, really. You’re my, well, employer at the theatre now, and my, well, my friend," she said timidly.

  "I have no right to question you about your past, sir. Any more than I would have about any one else. Or you about me," she added hastily, fearful that he
might start to probe into her background before she had come up with a sensible and convincing story about how a woman with good manners and learning would have come to be here.

  He nodded. "If you see your two friends, do try to get them to come work here, so they can at least not have to settle for a brick-arse and never get any proper medical treatment. It’s a tough life out on the street. Since they evidently love the sport, they might as well do it in a decent bed for more money. But I don’t hold with anything rough, either. Nothing violent, and no toys which haven’t met with Emma’s inspection. Clear?"

  "Toys?" she asked in confusion.

  George had the grace to blush. "How well do you know those two?" he asked, once again trying to grasp where she fit into all of this.

  "Not well at all. I knew Kitty years ago, came to visit when, well, things got broken up at home," she improvised, trying to stick as closely to the truth as possible. "Georgina I have got to know a bit recently. I have to admit she has always been a bit notorious, but surely she can’t be as bad as you say."