The Rake's Inherited Courtesan

Enough. He would do his duty and see her settled and he would see it done his way. Calmly, logically. The methods he used in his business dealings.

He poured a glass of wine from the decanter at his elbow and schooled his face into pleasant cheerfulness. ‘I must apologise. My anger is directed at Lord Albert and that damn innkeeper.’ Hell, the recollection caused his blood to simmer all over again. ‘However, we did have an agreement, one you proposed and appear to have broken.’

She didn’t speak, but stared at her empty plate as if trying to weave some new web of lies.

He pushed a plate of comfits in her direction. ‘Here.’

A pathetic peace offering, yet it eased the palpable tension.

Sylvia gazed from the heaped pink-and-white sugared almonds on the blue dish to his face. Emerald fires burned deep in his hazel eyes, not the usual blaze of a lusty male, but a deep slow burn that fanned the embers in the pit of her own stomach to flame.

A tremor she could only identify as fear quivered in the region of her heart. Without him she was stranded. All her money, apart from the few coins in her reticule, had been left behind in Tunbridge Wells.

Trapped. A shiver shot up her spine. And he was right. She did owe him an explanation. She took a deep breath. ‘My friend, Mary Jensen, moved her business to London.’ She hoped he did not hear the hitch in her voice at her lie.

He frowned at his glass, then stared her straight in the eye. ‘I thought she expected you?’

She sighed. Obviously, he had paid attention. ‘There was some error in our communication. She left a forwarding address with the new tenant. The woman forgot to mail on my letters, therefore Mary did not know about your uncle’s unexpected demise.’

His intense scrutiny made her shift in her seat. She had the strong sense he did not believe her.

‘And?’ he said.

She shrugged. ‘I must now go to London.’

‘You have her address?’

‘I do.’

‘What is it?’

‘I don’t see why—’

His mouth turned down and his eyes narrowed. ‘I’m sure you don’t. But you are mistaken if you think I am going to drop you off at a coaching house in the morning without knowing your proposed destination.’

‘You agreed to drive me to Tunbridge Wells. Your obligation ends there.’

‘I offered to drive you to the bosom of your friend and that is where my duty ends.’

The quiet emphasis in his voice made it clear he would not listen to further argument. She hesitated. It would do no harm to give him Mary’s directions. Once she reached London, she would never see him again.

‘Very well.’ She dived into her reticule and handed him the dog-eared paper with Mary’s new address.

He gazed at it silently for a moment. ‘Dear God. The Seven Dials. Do you have any idea what sort of place that is?’

Her stomach plummeted. ‘Not good, I assume.’

‘I wouldn’t worry if it were just not good, as you put it. It couldn’t be worse. It houses London’s worst slums and most dangerous criminals.’

‘Mary Jensen is of a perfect respectability,’ she flashed back. Incroyable. She’d lost her grip on her English.

‘Not living in that neighborhood, she isn’t.’ He tossed the paper on the table next to a hunk of fruitcake.

His innuendoes wearied her; the whole day had tried her patience, and the strange, nerve-stretching awareness between them exhausted her most of all. She was an idiot for leaving Tunbridge Wells in his carriage. She would have been much better off at the damned Hare and Hounds.

‘What does it matter? I am not of a respectableness enough for you or your most esteemed family. The sooner we make our own directions, the better, n’est ce pas?’

‘Do not raise your voice to me, mademoiselle.’

‘And do not dictate to me.’

She stood.

He followed suit with easy grace, looming over her, green pinpricks of anger dancing in his eyes. ‘I would not have to dictate to you, if you had been more forthright in your dealings with me. It is my duty to see you safely established somewhere and I will not brook an argument.’

Golden in the firelight, he stood like a knight of old surrounded by the armour of righteousness. Trust him, her heart murmured with a little skip. Let him enfold you with his strength, urged her body with a delicious shiver. An urgent warning clamoured in her mind. You are no better than your mother.

‘I do not accept your right to give me orders.’

He bowed. ‘I suggest you go to bed. We will discuss what is to be done in the morning, when your nerves are less overset.’

She almost laughed in his face. Monsieur Jean must have lost his mind putting her in the hands of this dutiful and stuffy Evernden nephew.

‘Nerves, Mr Evernden, are for pampered darlings with fathers and husbands to protect them while they lie about on chaises with vinaigrettes and hartshorn complaining of headaches. I don’t have the luxury of nerves.’ She headed for the door. ‘We will certainly discuss this further en route to catch the mail in the morning.’

She turned in the doorway. ‘We will need to be up at five. I hope that is not too early for you?’

His open mouth gave her satisfaction enough as she swept out of the room and up the stairs.

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