by Regan Walker
“You are Sir Martin Powell?”
“Yes, ma’am. And you would be…Miss Abby?”
A genuine smile spread across the woman’s face, and Martin relaxed. She might have been a treasured aunt, this woman with the twinkling eyes, someone you might tell all your secrets. A comforting presence. Not at all what he’d expected.
“I am Miss Abby, and this is Willow House. Lord Eustace commends you to me as one who has the trust of the Prince himself. That is a high honor. Welcome. How may I serve you, Sir Martin?”
“Well…I was hoping to meet one of your girls this evening. You come highly recommended by Eustace in return. I have been away from London for many years, and have no…attachments.”
“You speak with a slight accent, Sir Martin.”
“Ah, yes. My mother is French and I’ve been living in Paris.”
“Of course,” the woman said as she poured him a brandy. He accepted the drink and took a healthy swallow, appreciating the gesture and the fact she asked no further questions. The war had been over for more than a year, but he was reticent to speak of his time in France. Even to a favorite aunt with twinkling eyes.
“You may stay the night if you like,” Miss Abby continued, “and even stay for breakfast. Or, you can leave earlier. As you desire. We are very flexible and very discreet. No questions will be asked.”
“Right, then.” Martin was suddenly anxious to move forward. He set down his half-empty glass.
“Do you have any preferences, sir?”
“Ah…no.” He felt himself smiling. “Just ‘beautiful,’ but then I’ve heard that is never an issue at Willow House.”
The madam returned his smile. “If that is your only requirement, I believe we can meet your needs rather well.”
Martin was done with polite conversation. “If you will just tell me where to go?”
“Upstairs, the next to the last door on the right. If you need assistance, the rather large Scot in the entry can assist you.”
Martin thanked her and left the room, thinking he heard a soft chuckle behind him. Had it been so long since he’d been with a woman that he appeared anxious? The thought was disconcerting. After many years of serving the Crown, he was no randy youth.
He headed quickly in the direction he’d come. In the entry he passed the large blond man standing guard. The Scot, Martin guessed. Up the carpeted stairs he went, but at the top he struggled to remember what exactly Miss Abby said. The end of the corridor was dark. Which door on the right? The last door? Yes, that was it.
Martin slowly opened the door and moved into the shadows. Inside, a young woman stood before the room’s only window, the light of the fire behind her dancing in waves of long auburn hair that fell nearly to her waist. Moonlight from the window cast pale rays of light across her profile, revealing delicate features, a slim neck and ivory skin. He was surprised to find such a treasure in a brothel, even a high-class brothel. The girl appeared otherworldly, ethereal, like something out of a dream.
He was drawn to her as if summoned.
* * *
Kit stood at the window, lost in thought and staring out into the night. What had happened to her life, to her dream of a husband and family? How had it come to this? She and Anne had been raised as daughters of an earl!
Anger rose within her, an anger that caused her teeth to clench. It was the fault of her father, who, lost in grief upon her mother’s death, gave himself to gambling and drink. Caring little for life, he had not survived to provide for his daughters, abandoning them to husbands he would never have chosen. Kit had determined she would never lose herself in a love like that, nor would she cling so desperately to a memory that she would welcome her own demise. She had been strong for both herself and Anne. But she wasn’t feeling very strong tonight. Just weary and alone.
Oh, God. What’s to become of me? If only someone would hold me and tell me it will be all right.
As if in answer, a deep voice came out of the darkness. “Come to me,” it said.
Kit spun, her blood running cold. A tall figure stood in the shadows. Deep in her thoughts, she’d failed to hear the door open or close.
“Who are you?” she asked, her voice quavering.
The figure took a step forward. Firelight cast a warm glow onto the sculpted features of the tall man, and sooty black hair framed a handsome face with high cheekbones, a strong nose, and curving, sensuous lips. To Kit’s artist’s mind, the man was very nearly beautiful. Like a painting by Thomas Lawrence. Like the knight she’d dreamt would one day come for her.
His mouth twitched up on one side, almost a smile. “Miss Abby sent me.”
What was Abby thinking, sending such a man to her door? But before Kit could think of what to say, he took another step forward.
“Come to me,” he repeated.
Perhaps it was the two glasses of brandy she’d had, or perhaps it was the man himself who drew her. He was a stranger, but his voice, so warm and soothing, was hypnotic. Her doubts slipped away and she went to stand before him. His hands caressed her arms as he slowly drew her to his warm chest. Eyes like blue flames held her gaze, so intense she could feel them reaching into her soul.
“What’s your name, beauty?”
Still in a daze, she responded. “Kit.”
“Well…mon chaton, my kitten, we will take this slow. It has been a long time for me. You need do nothing. Just let me love you.”
He inclined his head, and his lips touched hers ever so softly. His arms wrapped around her. The embrace promised every comfort Kit desired. For a brief moment she allowed herself to melt like wax before a flame.
The man pulled away and looked at her, his eyes falling to her curves barely disguised in the thin silk wrapper she wore. “So beautiful…are you real?” His indigo eyes glowed in the soft light of the fire as he ran his fingers through her hair sending shivers down her spine. His throaty whisper came to her as if across a great gulf. All she could do was stare.
His warm lips soon nuzzled her neck, brushing over the rapid pulse at the base of her throat. Kit closed her eyes, and a long sigh escaped as she lifted her hands to his shoulders then entwined her fingers in the waves of his ebony hair. She had never been with a man like this. The old baron never excited her, and Rutledge terrified her. The responsible thing would be to send him away. Obviously he thought her to be someone else. But perhaps for once she could follow her own desires; she could let this man continue to kiss her. Like a drug, he was taking away all of her pain.
The touch of his warm lips on her throat sent another shiver up her spine. His hands roamed her wrapper, gently cupping her breasts, and it was as if he touched her bare skin, leaving tingling heat in the tracks of his fingers. He offered warmth and comforting words, everything she wanted. Perhaps that was why she did not turn away. Why not let him love her as he intended?
His lips returned to her mouth. She responded, opening to him. His tongue slipped inside to stroke hers, slowly, erotically. She had never been kissed like this. Once again he was gentle, handling her as if she were precious, and Kit responded with a passion she did not understand. She had dreamt of being touched like this: by a gentle man, by a knight with eyes of blue flame. Was it wrong to let it happen?
As if reading her mind, he picked her up and carried her across the room. Another vague thought to protest quickly faded. She would not deny herself what she desperately wanted. Not tonight. Perhaps just once she could pretend she lived a fairy tale.
Dark blue velvet curtains were drawn back at the four posters of the large bed where he laid her. The soft down cover rose up to cradle her body, embracing her like a welcoming cloud. She sat with half open eyes as the man undid her robe, sliding it from her shoulders, and the garment fell away to reveal her naked form. Quickly he shed his clothing, returning and covering her with his body as if he knew instinctively that she craved his warmth.
His rigid manhood, ready for her, pressed into her thigh. She was surprised she felt no alarm.
No, she wanted this man, needed him like her very next breath. The overwhelming passion rising within her was new.
He kissed her again, this time deeply, and then shifted to one side, bracing himself on an elbow as his warm hand traveled from her neck to her breasts. His leg slipped between hers, and the warm skin of his leg pressed against her inner thigh. She reached for his nape, pulled his mouth back to hers and turned in toward his body. When his palm caressed her nipple, she pressed her breast into his hand, wanting more.
He bent his head to her breast, gently licking, and then he took the sensitive tip into his mouth. Heart beating faster, Kit entwined her fingers in his hair and held him close. A moan escaped her when he brought his lips back to hers, wooing her with kisses and roaming hands. His manner proclaimed she was his. She reveled in that possession, for she wanted to be his if only for this one night. He could take away the terrible memories, the loss, the pain.
As if he heard her thoughts he whispered, “Kitten, you are mine tonight. I intend to love you well.”
His warm hand moved across her belly and down to the nest of dark red curls at the apex of her thighs. Gently he touched her there, parting the folds of her most sensitive flesh with his fingers, and she shivered but welcomed the caress of that responsive bud. She was already wet for him, the honey liquid having flowed unbidden in response to his first touches. It might have been a long time for him, but he must have once loved well.
“You are sweet innocence in your responses, Kitten, as if I’m your first man. I cannot wait much longer to be inside you.”
Kit knew little of lovemaking. The old baron she married had been kindly enough, though he was more like a grandfather, which made their wedding night a perfunctory affair. Then, a mere two weeks after they wed, the old lord died of heart failure. Never before had she experienced the feelings, the sensations or the response that this man drew so easily from her.
He rose above her, letting his erection settle into the cleft guarding her most intimate center. Her flesh was slick, sensitive and hungry for him, and when he rubbed himself over the opening it caused her breathing to speed. She lifted her hips in invitation.
He entered her slowly, as if savoring the feel. Though he was large, she was so wet that he slid forward unimpeded. Deep within her he stilled, and she responded to the fullness by gripping him with her inner muscles, imprisoning his warm hard flesh. Then, with a single thrust, he drove deeper still.
“Ah, God, Kitten,” he rasped as he started to move—slowly at first, rhythmically, then faster. The slight pain that had come with his first hard thrust quickly disappeared. She wasn’t a virgin, but she had only been taken twice by the old baron, and he had been small she now realized.
Who was this man who claimed her? What magic had he woven to take one who in her heart had never been taken before? She moved now in a dance so instinctive that she needed no instruction as she wrapped her legs around his. Her body responded to him as if he’d always been her lover, and Kit raised her hips to take him deeper, wanting all of him. He kissed her passionately—even, it seemed, desperately.
Her breathing came in pants as she raised her hips again, digging her fingers into his warm muscled shoulders. A tension had begun to build, one she’d never before experienced, pulling her to the crest of an unfamiliar mountaintop she yearned to reach. Wrapped in the throes of passion, they moved as one. Closing her eyes tightly, Kit willed the pleasure to continue as it swiftly built. Then, with a burst of stars, spasms welled up deep within her. They rolled over her as her muscles gripped his hardened flesh. Kit was infused by a pleasure she had never known.
A soft cry escaped her lips just as the stranger’s body stiffened and released a flood of warmth within her. Small echoes of pleasure radiated from where he was lodged deep inside. Sinking into a trancelike state of bliss, she clung to him, and he held her in return, whispering French words she recognized as words of love.
* * *
Martin had never before experienced any woman like the one he held now. Elise had died so young. Their lovemaking had been sweet and joyful, enthusiastic…but nothing like this. He told himself it was just because it had been a long while since he’d known a woman’s body. But he knew it was more. It was this woman. It was everything about her.
It was as if his body recognized hers. They had moved in tandem like two who had long been lovers, though in other ways she seemed so innocent. Because of that innocence, he had been most tender with her.
Moving to one side, he pulled her close, stroking her long hair that to his fingers felt like silk. He kissed her forehead as she rested her head on his shoulder, her full breasts pressed against him, warm pillows of pleasure. Through barely opened eyes, he glimpsed her pale skin and long limbs glowing in the dim moonlight. A goddess in repose. Drawn to that beauty, he began to stroke her, reveling in the warmth of her body and the softness of her rounded breasts with their soft, dusky nipples. And with each touch of her silken skin, his body responded.
He whispered in her ear, “Tu m’ensorceler.”
She had, indeed, bewitched him. She was an enigma: while seemingly innocent, still so passionate, so responsive. There was nothing practiced about her. Was she new to this life? As they lay together, he wondered. A fallen dove perhaps. Whatever she was, whoever she was, somewhere during this night she had become precious to him. She had become his kitten.
Finally, he could fight sleep no longer. Holding her close, his last thought before slumber was to make her his mistress.
Yes, he would see Miss Abby about it in the morning.
Chapter 4
Kit woke before dawn. There was a misty quality to the room, a soft glow, a gray light, an unreal twilight. Then, instantly, she was fully awake.
Where was she?
Abby’s.
The heavy arm draped over her and the hand caressing her breast almost caused her to panic until she remembered the night before and its events. Remembered him. Feeling that warm wall of his chest behind her, she turned her head on the pillow and looked into his sleeping face framed by thick raven hair. The memory of their lovemaking flowed into her mind bringing heat to her cheeks. Happiness.
Shame followed. Oh God. What have I done? I’ve made love to a stranger in a brothel. Gripped by the reality of her situation, Kit was suddenly desperate to leave. She must escape before he awoke. She could not face him. She could not face Abby!
Carefully she lifted his arm from her chest. Lost to Morpheus, the stranger did not move, and Kit slipped from the bed and crept silently to the armoire where she had hung the new gown and underthings Abby gave her. She dressed hurriedly, thankful for the front-lacing corset Abby provided. Then, anxious to be away, she took her cloak and reticule and tiptoed from the room—and from Willow House.
* * *
It was the warm sun hitting his face that woke Martin from the deepest sleep he had experienced in a very long while, the first time in a fortnight he’d not had nightmares. He could still smell her scent of spring roses on the pillow, but he quickly realized the enchantress he’d held in his arms was no longer lying beside him.
Quelle beauté!
He sat up, letting his legs fall over the side of the bed and dragged his fingers through his hair. His body responded as he thought of having the beautiful redhead again, but where was she? Perhaps downstairs having breakfast.
Hurriedly he dressed and descended, anxious to see her. He had already begun to think of the enticing woman as his. He had not forgotten his plan of the night before. If anything, that need had grown stronger.
At the base of the stairs, a young woman with dark hair and wearing a yellow gown lingered briefly in the entry hall, giving him a long perusal before smiling and gliding away. Martin barely noticed. The big bruiser was missing, so no one stopped him as he hurried down the corridor where he’d first met the proprietress, searching until he found a room that appeared to be a study. Through the open door he saw Miss Abby sitting behind a desk poring over
papers.
“Where is she?” he blurted, forgetting his manners and not bothering to greet her.
Raising her head, Miss Abby looked surprised. “Who, Sir Martin?”
“The woman I was with last night. She said her name was Kit.”
A look of horror crossed the proprietress’s face. “Did you say Kit?”
“Why, yes. The girl with the auburn hair. I liked her very well and want to discuss terms of having her become my mistress. Taking her off the rolls, so to speak. I wanted to speak to her again before I did so.”
Miss Abby rose and covered her mouth with her hand, eyes frozen in shock. Without a word, she ran past him and out the door. Puzzled, Martin followed. He had to hurry to keep up. Miss Abby moved fleetly down the corridor, up the stairs and then into the last bedchamber on the right. Martin was intrigued to discover what she was about. Kit could not have returned so fast, could she? What necessitated this rush?
Kit had not returned. In the empty room, the proprietress did a full circle then dropped into a chair at the side of the fireplace, letting her face fall into her hands. “Oh, no. No, no.”
Martin remained puzzled but his instincts were on alert. Something was terribly wrong. “Miss Abby?”
She raised her head to stare pointedly at him, eyes still full of horror. “This was not the room I sent you to! It was the next to the last door on the right.” Her head fell back into her hands and she sobbed.
Martin shook his head. “I do not understand why you are so upset. It matters little to me which girl you intended. I like the one I had. Where is she, Miss Abby? Where is Kit?”
The proprietress sat up, straightened her back and let out a ragged sigh. “Not Kit, Sir Martin. She’s…”
Martin felt frustration well up inside, for the proprietress was clearly reticent to continue. “You can trust me, Miss Abby. I’ve kept the Crown’s secrets for many years. I can certainly keep yours.”