The Rake's Inherited Courtesan. Ann LethbridgeЧитать онлайн книгу.
Another pose designed to drive a man to lustful madness. He tightened the rein on his self-control and waited in silence.
She pressed a hand to her throat, fingering the trinket suspended at her beautiful throat, then turned to face him full on.
He squinted against the light, straining to see her expression.
‘Your uncle made no complaints,’ she murmured. ‘Are you sure you do not wish to take his place?’
Once more, unruly blood stirred at the suggestion in her husky voice. For a moment, he considered her blatant offer. Blast her. He was no cup-shot, idle rake like his brother. ‘Quite sure.’
She remained silent for a moment, thoughtful, then smiled and raised one hand, palm up. ‘Then give me two hundred pounds from the sale of Cliff House and I swear the Evernden family will never hear from me again. Nor will I ever mention my connection with your uncle.’
Blackmail. A brief pang of disappointment twisted in his chest, instantly obliterated by a flood of relief. Two hundred pounds was a pittance to rid his family of this blot on their good name. If he could only trust her word. ‘Where will you go?’
The sultry coquette evaporated, leaving a haughty young woman staring down her nose. ‘That, sir, is none of your concern.’
If she thought to bleed him dry a few hundred pounds at a time, she’d come to the wrong door. ‘If you want money from me, I will make it my concern.’
She hesitated, then dropped her gaze. ‘I am going to Tunbridge Wells.’
‘Tunbridge Wells?’ The nearest town of any significance to the Darbys’ estate where he planned to spend the next fortnight. He’d arranged to pick up his curricle at the Sussex Hotel and send the town carriage back to London. ‘And how do you intend to support yourself?’
While her face remained a blank page, storms swirled in the depths of her eyes. ‘A friend owns a small, but exclusive, ladies’ dress shop in the town. I plan to invest in her business.’
With short sharp steps, she returned to her seat. The heavy scent of roses thickened the air. ‘Would you care for some more tea?’ She picked up the teapot. ‘I have grown fond of the English thé.’
Christopher placed his cup on the tray. ‘No. Thank you.’
She began to fill her cup.
A conniving woman of her sort needed careful handling. They lived by their wits and their bodies. Their stock in trade relied on a man’s brain residing in his breeches. ‘I will drive you to Tunbridge Wells.’
Tea splashed into the saucer and rattled the spoon. ‘What?’
Not quite so self-assured, then.
‘I want to see you safely delivered to your destination.’
She glared at him, then her lips curved in her sensuous smile.
God, his lungs ceased to work every time she did that.
‘You wish to make sure I speak the truth?’ she asked.
He inclined his head. ‘As you say.’
She returned the teapot to the tray. Her low husky chuckle filled the silence and she cast him a sly glance. ‘Are you sure that is your only reason for wishing to remain in my company?’
Smouldering annoyance flared to anger. The little hussy delighted in tormenting him. ‘Mademoiselle Boisette, the sooner I wash my hands of you, the better I will like it.’
Her gaze dropped from his, her hand creeping to touch her gold locket. When she replied, her smile seemed forced. ‘The feeling is mutual, Mr Evernden.’
She rose and he followed suit. The top of her golden head barely reached his shoulder.
‘I assume we have nothing left to say to each other,’ she said. ‘I would like to leave for Tunbridge Wells in the morning.’
‘I will let you know my decision after I have spoken to Mr Tripp.’
She hesitated, then narrowed her eyes. ‘I am going to join my friend tomorrow, Mr Evernden, with or without your escort. I expect two hundred pounds to be delivered to me before I leave. If not, I will apply to Lord Stanford or perhaps your mother, Lady Stanford. Your uncle promised me that money.’
Next she’d be claiming a child by the poor old man. Well, Christopher would damned well make sure she never troubled any member of his family again. She might not yet realise it, but she had met her match.
Tripp had one more task this afternoon, drawing up a settlement. ‘You will have my answer after dinner, mademoiselle. I wish you good day.’
He executed a courteous, shallow bow and headed for the door. An urgent craving to rid the cloying scent of roses from his lungs lengthened his stride.
From the arched window on the landing, Sylvia stared down at the athletic figure in the swirling greatcoat as he climbed into a shiny black coach emblazoned with the Evernden coat of arms.
The sharp point of her locket dug into her palm. Relaxing her fingers, she tried to still her trembles and leaned her forehead against the cool glass. Had he believed her? Why would he not? The thought curdled in her stomach.
He seemed to be the solemn, honourable Englishman described by Monsieur Jean on his return from London. The disgust curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.
Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.
She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.
A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.
Non. The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.
She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.
‘Mademoiselle?’ Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.
With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.
‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’
An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I will become a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’
Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’
A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.
On the wharf,