At the time he’d been too intoxicated and careless of how he might appear, so he’d told the tiny madam how he’d not been able to bed a woman since that first night with Sarah.
Martín had not been surprised when she had laughed at him. He would have thought it was a laughable matter if it hadn’t been happening to him.
But then she had told him something he didn’t want to hear: that he was infatuated with the annoying missionary woman.
Well, Venetia had used the word “love,” as women were wont to do, but Martín had discarded that idea immediately. It wasn’t love; it was infatuation. And while that was almost as bad, he had hopes the affliction would eventually go away. Already he had a difficult time recalling Sarah’s face.
Well, except for the way she’d looked that time in the cabin, when he had given her pleasure and almost climaxed himself in the process. Or how she looked while teaching him to read. Or the cute way she scolded him for breaking another quill. Or the time when she’d held him at gunpoint on the deck of his ship.
“Enough,” he yelled at his treacherous mind, wincing at the pain in his pounding head. So he remembered more about her than he’d thought—what of it? The memories would fade.
The door opened, and a troop of servants with steaming buckets marched through the room. He turned his face to the wall until the door closed again.
“Captain?”
He rolled over and grunted, taking a deep breath and swinging his feet to the ground. “Mon Dieu.” He was too wobbly to stand.
Small hands grasped his arms and helped him to his feet. Francie, the little blonde, stood beside him. “Come on, Captain, you’ve not got too much time. You don’t want to keep the big gentleman waiting.”
Nicole giggled. “My goodness, he’s a big one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. He’s that pirate, isn’t he—One-Eyed Standish? I read about him in the paper a few years back. I heard he was handsome but . . . crikey!”
“No more giggling,” Martín ordered. The women pulled his shirt over his head and then shoved him toward the tub. He dipped a toe in the scalding water and recoiled. “Do you think I am a lobster?”
“Don’t be a big softie; it’ll feel good when you’re in it.” Francie pushed him with her small hands.
“Oh, is that true, mademoiselle? Perhaps you would like to join me?” He snaked his arm around her slim waist, and she squealed in his ear, causing him to jerk away. “In the name of God, Francie!” He slid into the tub, his head ringing from her high-pitched cry.
The women laughed, ignoring his complaints, scrubbing and soaping him while he lay like a corpse in the water.
“Lovely hair, isn’t it, Francie?”
“Oh, aye.” She massaged his scalp, almost making his headache disappear. Almost.
“Isn’t it interesting that it’s so much darker down here?” Nicole manipulated his flaccid member to show her friend his darker pubic hair.
“Enough,” Martín roared. “Get out, both of you, out.” He was pleased at the sound of their receding footsteps and giggling until he realized that now he’d need to finish bathing and dressing himself. Well, anything was better than a couple of nosy whores who poked and prodded him as if he were a side of beef. He gritted his teeth at the humiliation of his situation. And now here was Ramsay to poke his own big nose into Martín’s business. “I’ll bloody well tell him where to take his nose,” Martín said, soaping himself so hard he winced.
* * *
Martín reached the drawing room just as it struck the hour and found Ramsay in the process of getting to his feet, his face determined.
“What do you want?” Martín asked, not caring how ungracious he sounded.
Naturally the baron merely laughed at his rudeness.
Martín ignored him and poured himself a glass of Venetia’s fine brandy, exhaling with relief as the liquid burned its way down his throat. “Well?” he snapped, when the other man didn’t answer.
“My wife sent me to inquire as to when you will be returning to Davenport House?”
Martín looked at him to see if he was in jest. Lady Ramsay detested him. She would be over the moon he had left.
“Barring your return, she wonders if you have any plans to join any of her entertainments. You know how women are when it comes to having the right number for dinner and so forth.”
Martín couldn’t resist laughing at the blatant lie. Lady Ramsay could scarcely remember to dress herself for dinner. She was the last woman in the world to be interested in matters as mundane as seating charts and headcounts.
He took his full glass to the seat farthest from the baron. “I like it here.”
“Yes, I can see why you would. Mrs. Hensleigh seems an excellent hostess. However, she did indicate that you might be—shall we say—lacking the requisite enthusiasm?”
Martín swore. “Am I not paying these whores good money to keep their mouths closed?”
Again the baron laughed. “Oh, come, Martín, she told me nothing. I guessed how it was. You do not look like a man who’s been well serviced. You look like a man who can hardly stand his own skin. Even my wife, who barely takes notice of events such as war, famine, or plague, commented that you were behaving oddly during your brief sojourn with us.”
“I do not know what you are talking about. I am behaving exactly as I usually do.” Martín gestured to his person with one hand. “You see me, here. It shouldn’t surprise you I am most at home in a whorehouse.”
“No, that does not surprise me. What does surprise me is that I should have to rescue you from one. Again.”
Martín was stunned. Never before had Ramsay mentioned the night they’d met.
“Come, my friend,” the older man said, his voice suddenly gentle. “You cannot be afraid of one small girl?”
“You do not know of what you speak, Lord Ramsay.” Martín threw back his drink and pondered the wisdom of having another.
“I know exactly of what I speak, although I can see you are somewhat confused. I came here today to tell you to act or miss your chance. Graaf has rarely left her side these past two weeks. He’s also ingratiated himself with her uncles. Naturally they share much in common.”
Martín felt as though he were looking through a veil of steam.
“Yes,” the baron continued, relentless. “Graaf runs tame in their London house. I understand he is even teaching Sarah to ride. In any event”—he shrugged, as if suddenly bored with the topic—“here are several invitations.” Ramsay stood and handed Martín a small bundle of cards. “One of those is from Lady Ramsay. She is hosting a dinner party, a small one. I expect she would appreciate a response from you if you can find the time.” He smiled down at Martín while pulling on his gloves. “My wife has indicated your room is ready and at your disposal. Or, if you prefer, I can direct you to more appropriate lodgings. Either way, I’m certain you will make the correct decision.”
Martín sat at the small desk after Ramsay took his leave. He looked at the cards he still held in his hand. Ramsay must have exerted pressure on his behalf. Who otherwise would invite a man like him to any function? Against his will, but too curious to resist, he opened the first card, a handwritten invitation from Lady Ramsay. The second, more formally printed, was an invitation to a ball in Miss Sarah Fisher’s honor, to be held at her uncle’s—Baron Danestoke’s—house. The third was an invitation from Mia, the Marchioness of Exley. Martín’s mouth twisted at the thought of being a guest of the Marquess of Exley. He wondered if the marchioness had told her starchy husband whom she’d invited to their house. Probably not.
Venetia entered without knocking. “Your friend has gone, I see.”
Martín stood as she entered the room. “Yes, he has delivered what he came to deliver.” He waved the stack of invitations at her.
Her lips twisted. “Oh, was that what he came to deliver?”
Martín resumed his seat after she’d taken hers, wondering what the woman wanted. He didn’t have long
to wonder.
“I’ve taken the liberty of having your bags packed.”
“What? Am I in arrears?”
“You know you are not. But I think it is time for you to move to more suitable accommodations.”
Martín shook his head. “Have I been such an unpleasant guest? Why would you cast away such a guaranteed source of income?”
“I have decided to put something else above profit.”
He snorted. “Is that wise?”
“I doubt it. Still, I find I like you very much, Captain.”
Martín raised his eyebrows. After all, he’d invited her to his bed numerous times. He’d told her she could name her own price, believing maybe she would be what he needed to break the wretched curse that held him. She’d rejected every offer.
“I do not mean as a lover,” she said, easily reading his thoughts. “We would never suit each other in that way. We are too much alike, our pasts and expectations too similar. We neither of us believe anything good will come our way. And both of us are suspicious of anyone who appears to care for us.” Martín met her gaze and saw the truth in her hard, doll-like eyes.
“But perhaps we are wrong, Captain. You are not so dead to your feelings as you pretend. I know this is frightening to you because I know how much I should dislike it. But I believe you cannot rid yourself of your emotions by drinking and whoring. Well, particularly not by whoring,” she added, her smile mocking.
Heat crept up his neck. “What makes you think you understand me so well?”
She raised one delicate blond eyebrow. “You do not recall all you told me that night, do you?”
His face twitched at the memory of the night in question. Who knew the entirety of what he had said while in his cups? She did, apparently.
“I shall tell you what I did not tell you that night. I, too, was sold into this life.” She nodded at his startled look. “Yes, the English not only sell Africans into slavery, but their own kind, as well. The market for young girls and boys always flourishes, a fact my three sisters and I learned to our detriment.” She paused, her expression unreadable.
“My point in telling you this is to let you know that I do understand you. Better than anyone. You and I think we know what the world is, but we only know one dark corner of it. Your missionary isn’t from our corner. Perhaps she is what you need. Or maybe you will tire of her once you finally possess her.” Venetia shrugged, her outlook on the subject as practical as it would be on the matter of purchasing a joint of meat or a flagon of wine. “In either case, it ill behooves you to hide here, avoiding the situation. We might be whores, Captain, but we are neither of us cowards.”
Martín was too stunned to speak. Kicked out of a brothel by a madam. Who would have thought it possible? He looked at the decanter of brandy and then set down his glass without finishing what remained.
“Can you recommend a comfortable hotel?”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Sarah stared at her reflection in the glass as her maid applied the finishing touches to her hair. She wore the sky blue ball gown Lady Ramsay had insisted on buying for her. The heavenly hue made her freckled, sun-browned skin glow and turned her mousy hair a golden honey brown.
The neckline was rather lower than she liked, but she knew it was modest compared to those of the dresses her contemporaries wore. She felt that her uncles, both somewhat conservative, would not approve of many of the necklines she had seen.
Sarah smiled at the thought of her uncles. Who would have believed such dry countenances could conceal such generous hearts? The two old bachelors had never found time to marry. As a result, they took a close interest in their nieces and nephews, and Sarah was no exception.
Sarah had learned much about her father in the few weeks she’d lived with his older brothers. Michael Fisher had been born late in his parents’ lives, the youngest of six children.
“We all indulged him horribly, I’m afraid,” her uncle Septimus admitted.
“Our parents allowed him to pursue his medical studies even though they believed it no better than barbering. But they drew a line at his interest in Nonconformism and hoped Michael would grow away from such beliefs if given enough time,” her uncle Barnabus explained, describing the family schism.
“He might have if he hadn’t met your mother,” Septimus added.
The three of them were discussing the matter after dinner one night in her uncles’ vast house on Charles Street.
“Your mother strengthened his resolve. As a parson’s daughter she had the courage of her convictions, and it was just the motivation Michael needed.”
It was plain to see how much the two old men had cared for her father. Sarah also saw how much they blamed her mother for leading Michael Fisher into missionary work. She didn’t have the heart to tell her uncles she was of the same mind as her parents.
She could not live in England.
At first, she’d been afraid she would become so enamored of the sparkle and glamor of London that she’d forget all about the promises she’d made to her parents. But it had taken only a few weeks for her to see this was not the life she wanted.
Although it had felt treasonous toward her uncles, who’d welcomed her so warmly into their lives, she’d not been able to resist meeting with the head of the missionary society that had funded her parents so long ago.
She’d explained who she was and what had transpired in her village and had then presented her idea of returning to Africa and resuming her parents’ work.
The elderly man had looked at her with scorn on his haughty face before thoroughly rejecting both Sarah and her plans.
“I’m afraid we cannot help you, Miss Fisher. It is my opinion you’d do better to apply your misguided enthusiasm to some more suitable cause, like acquiring a husband and children.”
Another four meetings with different organizations had yielded similar outcomes.
If Sarah was to get back to Africa, it would not be with the assistance of a missionary society.
“There you are, miss.” Cooper’s voice pulled Sarah’s thoughts from her failed ventures.
Sarah smiled at her maid in the mirror. “Thank you, Cooper, you are a miracle worker.” She adjusted her gauzy wrap and collected her reticule, wishing she viewed her first ball with more anticipation. It was no use lying about the reason for her lack of interest. It was six feet of stubborn male beauty that went by the name of Martín Bouchard.
She arrived downstairs to find her Aunt Anna—the oldest of her father’s sisters—waiting for her.
“You look lovely, Sarah,” her aunt said, and then commenced to chatter on about the evening ahead. Her aunt had already married off her own daughters and had gladly accepted the role of chaperone, no matter how foolish that might be given the fact that Sarah had been on her own for several years. Still, it made her uncles happy, so Sarah accepted her aunt’s offer, even though Anna was a rather frivolous woman and they had little in common.
Her uncles’ carriage waited to take them to Exley House, the town house of the Marquess of Exley. A footman helped them into the luxurious vehicle, and she relaxed against the squabs while her aunt conducted a conversation that required no responses from Sarah. Tonight was not only her first ball; it was also going to be the first time she danced in public. That was if anyone asked her.
Although Daphne would have rather spent her days reading, she’d been unflagging in her support of bringing Sarah into society, even going so far as to teach Sarah to dance.
Naturally the project had attracted the attention of Lord Ramsay, and the three of them had spent a good portion of the prior weeks in the large drawing room at Davenport House, which Daphne had converted into a ballroom. Daphne played the pianoforte while Lord Ramsay and Sarah danced. Ramsay was an exquisite dancer, particularly for such a large man.
“Years spent on board a ship,” he replied when Sarah complimented his grace.
“Don’t believe him, Sarah,” Daphne called from the pianoforte,
over which her fingers were moving smoothly even as she spoke. “He has all the skills of an accomplished rake.”
“My wife would have you believe I did nothing but pursue women and my own pleasure in the years before I met her.”
“I do not need your wife’s word to believe that,” Sarah assured the handsome baron, her acerbic comment drawing his wife’s laughter.
Sarah did not imagine she could ever enjoy a ball as much as she had those afternoons with her two friends.
“You will be the toast of the ball, Sarah,” the baron had assured her this afternoon after her last lesson, a particularly grueling session spent on the waltz.
“That is a well-intentioned exaggeration. Thanks to you and Lady Ramsay, I believe I will not shame myself, which is more than I ever hoped to achieve in such a short time.”
The ball this evening was considered a highlight of the Season. Sarah knew Mies would not be there. Apparently he was busy with some function at Carlton House. Sarah had been relieved to hear it as he’d been spending entirely too much time haunting her uncles’ house—and her.
Even though Mies was being feted by doting mamas and royalty alike, he was still intent on gaining Sarah’s attention. He’d even approached her uncles for permission to court her. Sarah had been furious and had told him so. She was almost five and twenty—she did not need anyone’s permission to marry.
Her uncles, not unnaturally, were thrilled that a member of the Dutch aristocracy wanted to marry their niece. She hated to disappoint them, but she would never marry Mies. She liked him well enough, but she could never admire him. It pained her to think that she had such an unforgiving nature, but she could never overlook his past.
As was always the case when she thought of slavery, or practically any subject of late, a pair of gold eyes flashed into her mind. Sarah tsked in disgust. She should be glad he’d left Davenport House before she made a fool of herself.
Their carriage was one of the first to arrive at the imposing Palladian mansion, and she’d just removed her wrap and handed it to a footman when the tiny Marchioness of Exley came rushing toward her, a taller woman hurrying to keep up with her.
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