Henry's Bride (London Libertines Book 1)

by Emily Royal

  How different his manner was compared to the smooth demeanor of a practiced seducer. She could almost believe a different man sat before her to the one who’d ruined her.

  The bullet wound in her arm itched, the flare of pain reminding her of the role Oakville had played in her downfall, and she suppressed the involuntary smile which had formed on hearing his words of praise.

  Why could he not find reason to admire her?

  Thoughts of Henry cast a spell in her mind and his footsteps echoed in her ears.

  “You flatter me,” she said, “but that won’t exonerate you from showing disrespect toward a man you profess to be your friend.”

  “Oakville, what are you doing here?”

  Jeanette’s body jerked at the deep voice. Her teacup rattled in its saucer, almost toppling off before she caught it.

  Henry stood in the doorway. Jeanette’s body hummed to life at his voice. The familiar scent of him, which always intensified when he visited her at night, penetrated her senses as he claimed her body, her cries of pleasure uniting with his roar of finality as he poured his life into her. Afterward, for a brief moment, he would hold her as if he cherished her before he pulled away, the cold seeping into her body even before he left her to sleep alone.

  Shameful heat lingered between her thighs as he moved into the center of the room.

  “W-would you like some tea, husband?”

  Not responding, he sat beside his friend. Ignoring the slight, she reached for a cup and poured the tea, the crockery rattling as she fought to steady her hands.

  “That’s not your job.”

  Her fingers slipped at his sharp tones and hot liquid splashed onto her hand.

  Oakville cleared his throat. “Dray…”

  “My wife should understand that’s a job for servants.”

  “I have arms and legs the same as the next person,” she retorted. “Why put our servants to the bother of walking up two flights of stairs to perform a task I can do before they’ve even placed a foot on the first step?”

  “You see, Rupe,” Henry said, “servants grow lazy unless they stay active. In my opinion, those from the lower classes must be kept occupied. It prevents a descent into idleness and ensures they know their place.”

  “Then applying your logic, husband, I should continue to pour the tea.”

  Henry’s jaw twitched, and Oakville suppressed a snort.

  “Admit it, Dray, you’ve been bested.”

  Jeanette handed Henry the teacup, but he sat unmoving. A dull ache spread through her arm, the teacup rattling against the saucer as her hand shook.

  Oakville cleared his throat. “For heaven’s sake, Dray.”

  Henry took the teacup. Oakville nudged him and he sighed.

  “Thank you.”

  “Oh, you’re very welcome, husband.”

  His expression hardened, but she refused to break eye contact. Why should she be embarrassed by his lack of civility?

  He opened his mouth to respond, but Oakville interrupted him.

  “Oh, Dray! You wouldn’t believe who I saw today.”

  Henry focused his attention once more on his friend who continued to fill the silence with hurried words.

  “I saw Sir Daniel Winters and his wife.”

  “How is Lady Charlotte?”

  “Looking well. Business is prospering. Sir Daniel told me almost all of the premier modistes of London actively seek him out every time one of his ships docks.”

  “I’m astonished by his success. He never struck me as particularly shrewd. Charlotte, on the other hand, is the most intelligent woman of my acquaintance. I wouldn’t be surprised if she instructs him on how to manage his business.”

  Oakville chuckled. “I suspect she instructs him on everything. She’s often seen at the docks, conducting his business for him. Sir Daniel’s too smitten to attempt to control her behavior. There’s an inappropriate balance of power in that relationship.”

  “She’s too strong a woman for a man such as him to control.”

  “And you’d know. Why you and she…” Color rose in Oakville’s face and he cast a sidelong glance at Jeanette. “They asked me to give you their congratulations, Dray, and said they hope to see you and Lady Ravenwell at their country seat before the winter.”

  “I thought they had only a modest house in town.”

  Oakville shook his head. “He acquired Firbridge Park last month. Clearly he aspires to join the landed gentry.”

  Henry snorted. “He’ll never secure his position in society through trade. Birth is what matters, my friend. Birth is everything. It cannot be bought…” He looked at Jeanette before continuing, “…or married into. The stain of the shop can never be scrubbed clean.”

  Jeanette could bear it no longer and she stood, her cheeks flaming. “It’s time I spoke to Jenkins about supper. Will Lord Oakville be joining us?”

  “No,” Henry replied. “We’re dining out.”

  “Then please excuse me.”

  Before she reached the door, Henry called out. “Do you not ask when I shall return?”

  “No, Henry,” she said. “I know better than to ask you such a question.”

  Oakville rose to his feet. “I must thank you for the pleasure of your company, Lady Ravenwell.”

  She nodded at him before leaving the room, not glancing at her husband.

  *

  After his wife left the room, Henry snorted. “I must thank you for the pleasure of your company, indeed! Rupe, are you trying to seduce my wife?”

  Oakville’s face darkened, his normally mild eyes glittering with anger. “What if I was trying to seduce her? You care less than nothing for her. For once I must say I’m utterly ashamed to be your friend.”

  “My wife is a fortune hunter. She’ll taint my family’s heritage with her blood…”

  “…blood which includes that of the French aristocracy. On her mother’s side, she’s as much a lady as you are a gentleman.”

  “She’ll never be a lady.”

  “Good God, man, didn’t you see her just now? Despite your attempts to humiliate her in front of company, she acted every part the lady. Whereas you were far from acting the gentleman. Birth may define a gentleman, but so does behavior.”

  Rupert’s words couldn’t attack Henry any more than his own conscience, which had begun to war with his suspicions that she’d tricked him into marrying her.

  Rupert snorted. “You don’t fool me. I see the way you look at her.”

  “How do I look at her?”

  “Like a toper trying to convince himself he doesn’t crave the brandy.”

  “Don’t be a simpleton.”

  “She’s your wife, Dray. Why deny your craving? It’s in your eyes. I can hear it in your voice, and I definitely see it in your breeches.”

  Since when had Oakville found such powers of observation?

  Henry’s groin had tightened as soon as he’d heard her voice. The faint scent of her lingered in the house, heating his blood. Blood which had surged through him at the sight of her leaning forward to pour the tea, her cleavage spilling over the lace of her gown. Her creamy flesh formed two smooth curves, the valley between promising a land of pleasure. Below her lace tuck, two little dents poked at the silk of her gown—delectable flower buds which only last night he’d devoured, his body wild with need.

  Each night he pushed his conscience aside as he thrust into her tight, welcoming body. Each time she drew him to her more powerfully than the last. The deep green of her eyes, which promised such earthly pleasures, was beginning to capture his soul.

  What the devil was she doing to him? Unless he continued to force the invisible barrier between them to stay thick and strong, he’d find himself succumbing to her spell.

  Chapter Sixteen

  “When will your ladyship require dinner?”

  Jenkins had the uncanny ability to be everywhere at all times. But his omnipresence, rather than lending an air of oppression, gave Jeanette comfort.
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  “Tell the cook to take the rest of the day off,” she said. “I’ll see to my own supper.”

  The sharp intake of breath betrayed the dent she had inflicted on the butler’s sensibilities.

  “My lady, that’s not how things are done. We run the household properly.”

  “I’m sure my husband has told you, Jenkins, I’ve no understanding of propriety.”

  He raised an eyebrow at her bitter words. Unlike Henry, Jenkins had tried to make her feel at ease. The least she could do was repay him with respect.

  “Forgive me, Jenkins. When I’m—tired—I cannot guard my tongue. I’m afraid it’ll be some time before I understand what’s expected of me.”

  “I’d be honored if you’d let me help you, my lady.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  “And I’ll send word to Mr. and Mrs. Barnes.”

  “Mr. and Mrs. Barnes?”

  “The steward and the housekeeper at the Ravenwell Hall, the master’s country seat. Mrs. Barnes will be delighted it’s finally in possession of a lady.”

  “I’m no…”

  “Yes, you are.” He spoke sternly. “Doubt yourself and others will also. Mrs. Barnes will help you. She’s a kind-hearted woman and, if you don’t mind me being so bold, she will cure your loneliness.”

  “I’m not lonely.”

  “Your eyes say otherwise. But occupation is the best cure. A lady is expected to entertain. Why not host a supper party to establish your position in society?”

  “I couldn’t imagine a more miserable way to spend an evening. Besides, there’s too much to learn.”

  “Then we’ll start now, beginning with the cook, Mrs. Pratt. I’ll summon her now to discuss menus with you. She’s one of the best cooks in London. I daresay she could rival the chefs of France. She’ll accompany you to Sussex and would relish the chance to demonstrate her skills.”

  *

  After an hour’s discussion with Mrs. Pratt, Jeanette sank back into her chair and closed her eyes. The cook was well versed in many of the French dishes Jeanette had enjoyed at home under Mama’s direction. Like Jenkins, Mrs. Pratt had at first seemed overly formal, but she’d soon warmed to Jeanette and had been eager to help her new mistress.

  The rattle of porcelain interrupted her thoughts.

  “Your tea, my lady.” Jenkins stood over her, his eyes twinkling with pleasure.

  “Is everything all right, Jenkins?”

  “Couldn’t be more so, my lady. You’ve given Mrs. Pratt a purpose. Lord Ravenwell has in his possession the finest cook in England but doesn’t value her as she deserves.”

  “Hush, Jenkins. I won’t hear a word against my husband.”

  The butler’s eyes widened a fraction, then he nodded.

  “Of course. But if I may take one more opportunity to speak boldly, I’d venture to note that the same could be said for his wife.”

  He tilted his head to one side, the almost imperceptible movement so like Papa in those quiet moments when he used to tell Jeanette how much he loved her.

  “You’re very sweet, Jenkins.”

  He bowed and withdrew to the door. “Dinner will be ready at eight.”

  *

  Henry rapped on the bawdyhouse door. It opened a fraction, and a face appeared. Eyes glittered with seduction, red lips parted, showing the pink tip of a tongue. The woman smiled.

  “Lord Ravenwell! I thought you’d abandoned us after your marriage.”

  Despite her age, Betty still possessed that unknown factor seen in few women. A woman might have perfectly proportioned features and a body trained for seduction, and she might be experienced in the arts of pleasure, of taking a man into her mouth or her body until he burst with life, but without that missing piece, the mysterious allure which cannot be defined, her appeal wouldn’t last forever.

  Betty had made a fine enough living from her talents, tutoring her protégées in the arts of seduction. She had put her allure to good use and earned enough as a courtesan to establish one of the finest bawdyhouses in London. She had no need to work herself, but occasionally serviced a small number of her favorite clients, Henry included.

  Had Charlotte Winters not secured the heart, and hand, of Sir Daniel, it might have been her opening the door tonight. But Charlotte, now respectably married, preferred to pretend the past did not exist. Sadly, society had a long memory.

  “Don’t stand there in the cold,” Betty purred. “Come inside and we’ll warm you up.”

  The timbre of her voice had always set his body on fire, but tonight, there was no telltale twitch in his breeches, and Betty was experienced enough to notice. His body no longer desired her. She wasn’t the only woman of his acquaintance who possessed that indefinable magnetism. Another existed.

  Jeanette.

  Since encountering his wife taking tea with Oakville, Henry had dined out each night. But absence from her company had only heightened his need for her. She’d seemed indifferent to his neglect. Last night he’d returned early while she was still dining. After issuing a cool greeting, she had resumed her meal as if he were merely a casual visitor. She’d mentioned something about dinner guests at which point he’d nodded and retired to his study.

  He should have rejoiced at her behavior, but her indifference pierced his heart. Where had her passion gone?

  Betty opened the door more fully. Her smile disappeared as he slipped inside.

  “Betty, what’s wrong?”

  “Mary’s missing. That’s six girls I’ve lost now.”

  “Do you suspect anyone?”

  “I trust my patrons.”

  “Perhaps a spurned client?”

  “I’ve never had to send a client away, not even that lecher de Blanchard.”

  “Is he here tonight?”

  “Yes, in the scarlet room.”

  The venue for Betty’s orgies, where Henry had enjoyed many a party, often sharing Betty with Rupert and Dominic, her legendary stamina able to satisfy all three at once.

  “I must pay it a visit.”

  She held out her hand. “You’re overdressed. Let me help. I found a replacement for Lydia yesterday. Rosaline. A sweet little thing. You’ll like her.”

  *

  Ten minutes later, Henry stood on the threshold of the scarlet room. The party was in full swing. But Betty’s services and those of her employees no longer held any interest for him. Not only was his wife’s body the only physical pleasure he craved, but he yearned for something else—a connection of mind and soul.

  What the devil was happening to him?

  A bony hand curled around his wrist and a voice purred in his ear.

  “A new god to worship!”

  A young woman stood before him. Thin for a prostitute, her voice still held that lightness of youth. The image of Jeanette’s face burned into his mind’s eye, and he pushed the woman away.

  “Ah, there you are. Delectable goddess!”

  The slurred words could not disguise the voice, boorish, pompous, and accompanied by the stench of sweat and tobacco.

  A pale body stumbled toward him, folds of white flesh dusted with black hair. The mask obscured his eyes, but Henry knew them to be pale brown, set close together, surrounded by fleshy features reminiscent of an over-fed hog. The bulbous nose, reddened through too much port, bore a slight kink and a bruise which had yet to fade.

  De Blanchard.

  “Come here, delightful creature,” De Blanchard said. “Let me show you the god between my legs.”

  Her fingers tightened on Henry’s wrist and she whispered in his ear. “Please…”

  Henry pulled her to him and crushed his mouth against hers.

  “I say old chap, that one’s mine!”

  Pushing the woman behind him, Henry drew himself to full height. Though drunk, De Blanchard had the wit to recognize the challenge. Cursing, he retreated.

  Henry released the girl’s hand and moved toward the door.

  “Don’t leave me! He’ll only find me
again!”

  “Then deny him.”

  “What doxy can say no? Someone must service him. The other girls said it’s my turn unless another patron takes me for the night.”

  Visions of dead women crossed his mind. What if it was De Blanchard? This thin, naïve little creature would be easy prey for one such as him. But tonight, Henry could ensure she remained safe.

  “Very well,” he said. “I’ll keep you safe for the night. Come, let’s find a private room for you to stay in.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  “I trust you’ve not forgotten we’re attending the opera next week.”

  Other than the occasional remark, they were the first words Henry had spoken to Jeanette for two days. She had begun to crave him, the air thickening with her desire whenever he entered the room, but his desire for her must have cooled. Two nights ago, he’d not returned until the morning, slamming the door on his arrival as if he wanted to wake her and let her know he’d been enjoying the pleasures of another.

  Jeanette lifted her eyes and met his gaze. He blinked, and the faint sheen of concern in his expression disappeared. A figment of her imagination, a product of hope.

  She forced a smile. “I’m fond of the opera.”

  He lifted an eyebrow.

  “Even commoners visit the opera,” she said. “One can enjoy music from any social position, and The Marriage of Figaro is one of my favorites. I know the story well.”

  His eyes darkened. “Enlighten me.”

  “A young couple of low station, very much in love, want to marry. An aristocratic lecher wants the woman for himself but his plans are thwarted. The story is about fidelity, a subject which I know is of particular interest to you.”

  “How do you know so much?”

  “It’s called an education,” she said crisply.

  “Education alone cannot atone for poor breeding,” he replied. “And I have made a start on addressing that. You are to attend Madame Dupont today. She’s expecting you.”

  “And who is she?”

  “The premier modiste in London. You need to be dressed in a manner which befits someone of my station.”

  “As opposed to someone of mine?”