by Sharon Page
“Remember that men take mistresses because they want the sexual games they cannot expect from their proper wives.”
“What do you mean—wives?”
“You must know many men who take mistresses are married.”
Sophie swallowed hard. That was true. Her mother’s journals mentioned that some of her mother’s lovers had been married, but usually to wives they despised.
But could she do that—help to betray another woman?
“You aren’t married,” she pointed out.
“Give up on me, Miss Ashley,” he growled. “I couldn’t kiss you. I could not fuck you.”
She flinched at the word. “I don’t see why we couldn’t try. And if you won’t have me—there must be, somewhere in England, another man as wonderful as you. It’s the only hope for me.”
He made a strangled sound. “Damn it, why do you have to be so stubborn?” He grasped hold of her elbow.
“I have to know if you will try,” she said. “If not, you will have to return me to the ball, and I will have to find someone else.”
She hoped the thought of losing her might spur him to make an offer. She hated to manipulate, but she was desperate, and what else could she do?
“Would you tell me why you can’t kiss me? Why you can’t—make love to me?”
He hesitated. Then he growled, “No. I can’t talk about it. But I will show you one more thing.”
What would it be? It had to be more scandalous than a man with two women. “You won’t scare me.”
“Then you are a fool. But I don’t think you are. I know you are intelligent. Certainly intelligent enough to understand this is a dangerous game.”
Cary saw what he was looking for as soon as he and Miss Ashley left the brothel.
He drew her along the lane and stopped near the entrance to a small, dark alley. From there they had a view across the street to the front of a small pub.
Faint light eked out of the dirty windows of the corner pub. One street flare burned on a distant corner, and the halo of yellow light faded to gloom where they stood. But the light from the pubs and the doss-houses illuminated a short, broad woman who wore a dark velvet dress and a large dark bonnet.
“There’s a woman there, leaning against that brick wall,” Miss Ashley whispered. “She looks ill. We must help her.”
Impetuously, she launched forward, but Cary grasped her forearm and stopped her.
“Wait,” he said.
Laughter spilled out of the pub as the door opened. Voices shouted after the figure who stumbled out. A large man, bent over so he looked as ungainly as a large bear. He stumbled to-and-fro on the sidewalk, and screeching laughter flew out of the pub at his attempt to walk.
“Is that a man? I can’t tell, for his face is as dark as the night. Heavens, his skin is black with dirt and soot under his cap.”
“I believe so,” Cary answered.
Built like an ox, the man lumbered down the street. Then he stopped, lifted his head, and peered in the direction of the woman.
The woman crooked her finger. “Aren’t ye a strapping one?” she cooed. “Want a little company this evenin’? This is me price.” She named a figure—a few pennies.
Cary glanced at Miss Ashley. Her face had paled, and her eyes were wide.
“Here,” the woman coaxed, reaching for the man’s beefy hand. “We’ll slip around the side of the pub, in that little opening there, where it’s quietlike, and I’ll lift me skirts for ye.”
“She cannot do that! Out on the street!” Miss Ashley’s face grimaced with sympathy for the poor woman.
“She probably only wants enough for a glass of gin,” Cary said.
“Well, something should be done.”
Cary sighed. “I donate to charities that help women like her. But they are often in the grip of an addiction. No amount of help, caring, or kindness can save them then.”
“I will not end up this way. Not selling my body for pennies on the sidewalk.” She gazed at him. “I will be careful. Just because these other women fell into disaster, doesn’t mean I will. For a start, I won’t drink gin.”
“Gin is an escape, especially when you are doing something you have to do that torments your soul.”
“If you want to save me, all you have to do is make me yours.” Her eyes met his.
God, she was lovely. Her eyes were the most intriguing color he’d seen. Her irises were a deep green, but rimmed in paler green, which made them look as iridescent and ever-changing as a forest of sun-dappled leaves. Long dark lashes swept over them. She was no demure lady; she was tremendously expressive. And impetuous. And hard to shock.
In bed, she would be amazing. He could tell. She had sexual curiosity—which would make her a superb sexual partner.
But he didn’t debauch innocents.
It made him angry with himself that he felt desire for her.
He, of all people, should not behave like a lust-driven animal.
“Why can’t you kiss me? I can’t understand why a young and healthy gentleman cannot make love. It makes no sense? Or—oh, is it that you prefer other men?”
“No, that isn’t it,” he said sharply. “I have made love to plenty of women in my life. But then—then something happened to me that changed me.”
“You were a prisoner of war. But why would that make you not want to kiss?”
“Stop.”
But she gripped the sleeves of his jacket and launched up onto her toes. “I know you desire me. I felt your desire for me when you were pressed against me on the wall, when I was watching through the peephole.”
“I don’t ravish virgins,” he said sharply.
“Then you are in luck because I am not a virgin.”
The duke’s brows shot up. “I don’t believe it. You screamed your innocence in the way you kissed me.”
Sophie flinched. Had she been so terrible? “But it’s true! I—I was married.” It was an awful lie, especially since Samuel was killed before he could marry her.
But she had to go on and make the duke believe her. “So you see, I was married, and I had . . . relations with my husband.”
He raked his hand through his hair. “But you are still innocent. Innocence isn’t a physical thing. Having a husband gave you some sexual experience, but it didn’t dim your starry-eyed sweetness. Angel, this isn’t a game of semantics. You had a husband—what happened to him? He didn’t desert you, did he? I’ll have his head on a platter if he did.”
He sounded so angry. “He died. At Waterloo.” That was the truth. It made it easier to forget the bald-faced lie she’d just given him.
“I’m sorry.”
“So you don’t have to worry about ruining me.” She went up to him, then squirmed right up against him and put her arms around his neck. He pulled them off.
“I’m not going to have sex with you,” he said flatly. “Desecrate the wife of a noble soldier? I could never do that.”
She was confused. Somehow she had made everything worse by her revelation that she wasn’t a virgin.
“You said you won’t do it because of terrible memories. I could heal you.”
“God, no, you can’t—”
He broke off. Tensed. The duke stood utterly still. He reminded her of an animal scenting prey—she had lived all her life in the country. He had the same expectant stillness, the same coiled tension, of an animal ready to attack. “But I know you are hurting,” she went on. “I want to help.” She did. It was more than just becoming his mistress. He’d saved her, and he was obviously in pain, like a lion with a thorn in its paw.
She wanted to pull out the thorn.
Caradon hadn’t answered. He’d cocked his head as if listening to the breathing of the stews.
“I want to help you—” she began again.
“Quiet. Get back, behind me,” Caradon growled quietly. He was staring at the dark alley lane a few feet away from them.
“What is it?” she whispered, but the duke grabbed her
and hauled her off her feet, forcing her to stand behind him.
Then Sophie heard a muted, shuffling sound. Footsteps coming from the shadows of the alley.
4
Here I was, a courtesan who had snared a most handsome marquis, yet I was slipping away from my lovely new house to meet an arrogant viscount who had done nothing for me except give me physical pleasure.
He was a most irritating man. I did not even like him.
He would tie my wrists together with a white silken cord, and I would wait on the bed while he undressed before me. I would be utterly nude beneath my cloak (though I did wear stockings, for to don slippers without stockings seemed quite wrong).
The Marquis of N——was without flaw. My desire to flit away from the charming nest he had provided this pretty bird was without explanation. Goodness, on the first night he came to me, he brought me a necklace of twenty diamonds. I counted each one, doubting his claim. Of course, it was an offering of apology.
But I was like a poor opium eater—the pleasure in bed I received from the viscount was a habit and a need I could not conquer.
And even though I knew he would be the architect of my downfall, I continued to return to him. . . .
Until the night I met the perfect duke. Suddenly, I had a choice—the fulfillment of all my dreams and hopes and plans in the person of the duke, or the fleeting physical satisfaction provided by my glorious auburn-haired viscount. An easy choice to make . . .
Yet I could not do it.
—From an unfinished manuscript entitled A Courtesan Confesses by Anonymous
His soldier’s instincts knew something was approaching even before Cary heard the footsteps or saw the flicker of movement in the shadows.
Miss—he still thought of her as a “Miss”—Ashley’s face went white. She began to gasp. “De—” Then she broke off and whispered low as if reassuring herself. “It’s not. It couldn’t be.”
Interesting, but there was no time to pursue.
Bouncing lightly on his feet, Cary wished he had a damned weapon. He’d brought nothing. No pistol. No blade. Not even his walking stick with its secreted sword.
Three men emerged from the dark alley.
The center man was short, fat, potbellied, and bowlegged, with missing teeth and a smug smile. The flanking one on the right was tall and built like a pugilist, with arms that bulged in tight sleeves, and a head that merged into shoulders because his neck was so thick. The last one had a ferrety look, small and lithe. All three stank of smoke and foul sweat.
All were armed with blades. Dangerous, but at least it meant they had to engage in combat and not just shoot him with a pistol.
Cary smiled. He had his fingers on his cravat, working at its knot.
“Ye won’t be grinning for long,” spat the fat one in the center.
In a split second, Cary pulled his cravat loose, then tore it free of his collar.
The fat footpad lunged, sending his bulk forward with surprising speed. The blade glinted as the footpad swiped. Cary had wound the cravat around his wrists and held it as taut as a leather strap. He caught the footpad’s forearm in it, stopped the blow, and used the man’s momentum and the strained cravat to throw the man backward.
But the fat assailant was back in a heartbeat, staggering forward. He slashed, but Cary feinted and moved, avoiding the thrusts.
One slice went into his coat. Cary knew the man would stab him eventually if he shoved the knife out long enough. It was just the odds. Maybe three blows in a hundred would be what he needed.
So don’t let him get in one hundred blows, he told himself.
Cary’s leg swung up as he darted from another thrust, and his momentum sent his boot into the man’s jaw. Howling with pain, the man flew backward.
Hulking like a gorilla, the second one came forward. Gorilla Man circled, moving slowly and clumsily. He lunged and slashed, but Cary moved like lightning. He had noticed a pile of discarded barrels in the alley—mostly ripped apart by children in search of wood to burn for their families. There were a few pieces left. Cary jumped around the second villain—Gorilla Man—and grabbed one of the nail-studded slats. Holding it in two hands, he blocked thrust after thrust.
He knew he had let himself get on the side of the alley, away from Miss Ashley.
He had to get to her. But the first bastard—Fat One—was back in the midst. With his feeble weapon, Cary fended off the blows from Gorilla Man and Fat One.
Where was the third? Cary landed a kick to the chest of Gorilla Man, and the bulky footpad went down with a thud.
Then Cary heard it—a sound that paralyzed him. A woman’s scream. A cry of pure fear and shock. Miss Ashley. Cary had found the third bastard.
He shoved Fat One back and jumped over Gorilla Man. The blade came up and caught his inner thigh. Pain shot through him.
Cary had been to war. He knew damn well how to fight through pain.
The third villain, a small man who looked like a weasel, had grabbed Miss Ashley and dragged her toward the alley.
Miss Ashley was kicking and attempting to punch the man. She cried out in a sound that sounded like frustration, not terror now, and she bit the man’s arm.
That bought her freedom, and she hauled up a piece of the same barrel. She rose to strike—
Cary ran toward her, his leg ice-cold but also burning with pain. Miss Ashley suddenly made a strange whimpering sound. She staggered back from the third weasel-like villain and let the wood drop.
She looked horrified. Was it because she was just about to hit him?
As she staggered backward, Fat One went for her. Even with his bulk, he was moving faster than Cary was with his wound.
So Cary ran at the fat bastard and drove his piece of wood hard into the base of the man’s spine. The man spasmed, jerking back. Cary grasped him and pulled him a few feet away from Miss Ashley. Her face was white—paler than moonlight. Her eyes were huge.
“Go!” he shouted. “Go for my carriage—”
A huge first slammed into his face, snapping his head back.
Lights exploded in front of his eyes.
He couldn’t see. Where was the bloody knife?
Even down in the muck of a battlefield, believing it was hopeless, Cary had fought for his life. And saved himself.
He slashed with his nail-strewn wood and heard a cry, then a clatter. But another blow and another sent him reeling, and he fell to the cobblestones.
Someone kicked him in the side of his body. Another boot slammed into his head.
He was being kicked. To death.
Cary put his arms up to protect his head. Where was his coachman? He hadn’t brought outriders with him, as he was going to a Cyprian ball. Like most men, he had his plain carriage and was being circumspect. But he had a coachman. He employed a coachman, and now would be a helpful time for the man to show up.
“Leave him alone! Let him go!”
A woman’s shout. Miss Ashley. She mustn’t have run for the safety of his carriage or to bring his driver. Damn it—
Heavy, hard, solid as a brick, something slammed into the side of his face.
A scream filled his ears. He was aware dimly of a white face, of a slim body flying toward him, then pain smashed into the side of his head.
It felt as if all of London had exploded like shattering glass.
A second explosion sounded close. A different, louder roar. Pistol shot! screamed his brain. One of them did have a blasted weapon. Cary struggled to get to his feet, but before he could, the street seemed to drop away from him, and he was . . .
Hell, falling?
Or bloody well passing out?
Oh God, Caradon was just lying there.
Sophie fought to get her breathing under control as she scrambled away from the wall and dropped down by the side of the unconscious duke. The cobblestones bit into her knees. Her heart hammered so fast—
As fast as it had done on the night she’d bludgeoned Lord Devars to escape him—whe
n she’d run off with the wretched diamond bracelet he’d forced onto her wrist.
She could have hit the villain who attacked her.
But just before delivering the blow, she’d remembered Devars and lost all her courage.
She couldn’t kill someone. Not even their attackers.
But this man had risked his life to protect her.
“Your Grace?” She touched the duke’s chest. His eyes were closed, his face turned to the side.
She let her fingers trail over his cheek. “Please, Your Grace, can you hear me?”
The fat villain and the one who was almost big as a gorilla had both set on him. He’d been distracted by coming to her rescue—because she couldn’t hit the man who had captured her—and he’d been felled by a horrible punch.
She’d heard bone crunch.
Sophie had grown up in a small village, and she’d seen many a boy launch into a fight with another boy outside the pub. But she’d never seen anything like this. Not three men with knives attacking one man. It was hardly fair. But she supposed criminals didn’t care.
But Sophie had never seen any man fight like the Duke of Caradon had. He’d fended off knife blows with his cravat, and then with a broken stave from a barrel.
He was the noblest, most remarkable hero she’d ever met.
“Don’t know who you are, miss, but you’d best get away from His Grace.”
She looked up. Standing over her was a coachman—a wiry, small man with a shock of gray hair sticking out from under his tricorne hat. He held a pistol—the one he’d fired to frighten the three fiends away.
Of course, it couldn’t fire again now.
She pushed her hair, which had tumbled down partially, out of the way, and put her ear close to the duke’s lips.
She heard faint breathing, and she sat up. She cupped the duke’s strong jaw. Stroked his high, sculpted cheekbones with her fingertips. Relief flowed through her, almost making her dizzy.
“What in Hades do ye think ye’re doing?”
“Checking to see if he’s breathing. And he is!” Thank God. Thank God. “But he’s knocked out. We must get him to a doctor.”