Lady Charlotte's First Love Page 2

  “Not yet.” Julian let his gaze wander back to the fourth lady. “I think I’d like a drink, after all.”

  Mary shrugged. “All right, then.”

  He led her to a dark corner of the room, to another red velvet divan where they were cast in shadows, but which still afforded a clear view of the four ladies, who now sat, as prim as a quartet of governesses, sipping at the whiskey the footman had delivered and occasionally touching their cheroots to their lips. No one approached them despite the earlier burst of excitement at their arrival, for by this time it was obvious they weren’t here for the gentlemen’s amusement.

  Why precisely they were here—well, that was anyone’s guess. They weren’t whores. They were ladies—ton, if one could judge by their fine gowns and jeweled masques.

  Julian’s lips stretched into a mocking smile. Four bored aristocratic ladies out on a whorehouse adventure. It wasn’t unheard of—more than one titled lady had set out to test the ton’s limits for scandal—and yet a clandestine visit to a west end whorehouse was more than enough to leave a lady’s reputation in tatters. Nothing but four silk masques stood between these four and social ruin.

  Quite a risk for a bit of fun.

  Julian leaned back against the divan, let a healthy swallow of whiskey burn a trail of fire down his throat and studied the fourth lady. Her masque covered the entire upper part of her face, just as the other ladies’ did, and yet…

  A masque couldn’t cover everything.

  She had dark hair, coiled into a mass of heavy curls at the base of her long, slender neck, red lips, an elegant body, too slim, but still curved where a man wanted curves. No wan, indistinct beauty here, but a lush, glorious explosion of warmth and color, like a blazing sun in a pure blue sky.

  The kind of sun it hurt to look at.

  Masque or no masque—it made no difference. He’d have recognize her anywhere.

  Charlotte Sutherland.

  No, not Sutherland. Not anymore. She was the Marchioness of Hadley now.

  Now what would make a marchioness abandon her grand country estate for a Covent Garden whorehouse? Wilted roses in the flower gardens, perhaps, or lazy servants? Whatever it might be, it hadn’t anything to do with him. She looked perfectly content to stay where she was. Despite his promise to Cam, Julian decided he’d leave her here, teetering on the edge of scandal.

  He tipped the rest of his whiskey into his mouth and turned to Mary. “I’m ready. Shall we go upstairs?”

  She rose to her feet. “Whatever you say, guv.”

  He was halfway to the stairs when it happened.

  Charlotte laughed. Soft—a titter more than a laugh. No one else in the noisy room noticed it. Well, no one would, would they? No one, that is, who hadn’t heard that laugh before, low and suggestive, her red lips pressed to his ear. Her laugh pulled him back at once, back into the dimly lit room, away from Mary and the sweet release her body promised.

  As little as a year ago he’d dreamed of that laugh, dreams of such exquisite yearning he couldn’t tell whether they were dreams at all, or nightmares. Odd, how much could change in a year. Dreams faded. A man traded one nightmare for another. Brides became widows, and widows became whores.

  What the devil was she doing here? She should be tucked away in Hampshire like a proper little widow, mourning her late husband, not in some whorehouse in the west end, drinking whiskey and blithely courting ruin with every draw on her cheroot. Courting ruin and laughing about it, as if her family’s reputation were of no consequence. As if Cam and Ellie weren’t at this very moment torturing themselves with visions of her disgrace.

  Julian dropped his empty glass onto the table with a dull thud. Very well, he’d escort the marchioness out of here just as he’d promised he would, but he’d be damned if he’d be a gentleman about it. After all, a marchioness who entered a whorehouse shouldn’t expect to be treated like a lady.

  “Here. Take this.” He took Mary’s wrist, turned her hand up, then reached into his pocket, grabbed a fistful of coins, and dropped them into her open palm. “I won’t need your company tonight, after all, but I do need a room. Which one is yours?”

  Mary gaped at the pile of coins in her palm for a moment; then her hand snapped closed. “Top of the stairs, last room on the left.”

  “Stay out of it for a time, until you see me leave the house. Can you do that for me, Mary?”

  She gave him a curious look, but she knew better than to ask questions. “Whatever you say, guv.”

  “Good girl.”

  Julian walked back across the parlor and resumed his seat on the divan. He signaled to the footman for another glass of whiskey and settled in to watch and wait.

  Chapter Two

  Red velvet divans, flocked silk paper on the walls, a fine Axminster carpet in shades of red, black and gold on the floor—if it weren’t for the cheroot and the whiskey, she might have been in Lady Sutton’s drawing-room.

  The cheroot, the whiskey, and the half-naked whores, that is.

  Charlotte blew a thin stream of smoke through her lips and tried to imagine the expression on Lady Sutton’s face if she found out her drawing-room resembled the inside of a whorehouse. A laugh bubbled up in her throat, trapped the smoke in her lungs, and sent her into a coughing fit that had her gasping and wiping her eyes.

  Wretched things, cheroots.

  “My goodness, Charlotte.” Lady Annabel gave her a disapproving look and drew expertly on her own cheroot. “Do be quiet. You’ll attract attention.”

  Lady Elizabeth snickered. “It’s a bit late for that, Annabel. We gave up being inconspicuous when we strolled into a whorehouse.”

  “Don’t inhale the smoke, Charlotte. Like this.” Aurelie Leblanc, the Comtesse de Lisle, touched the thin cheroot to her lips for a moment, then lowered it again without drawing on it. “See? No coughing.”

  Lady Annabel frowned. “That’s cheating, Aurelie. The wager is—”

  “Cheating?” Lady Elizabeth snorted. “What nonsense. The wager is we light the cheroots and stay in the brothel long enough for them to burn to the end. We never said we’d smoke the awful things.”

  “That’s splitting hairs, Lissie.” Lady Annabel took another draw on her cheroot to emphasize her point. “It’s the spirit of the thing that matters, and I never cheat on a wager.”

  Lady Elizabeth gave her an arch look. “Honor among thieves, Annabel?”

  “No. Honor among wicked widows.” Lady Annabel adopted a virtuous tone. “After all, my dears, if we don’t have our reputations, we don’t have anything at all.”

  A moment of stunned silence greeted this statement; then all four ladies laughed appreciatively.

  “A bit late for that as well, I’m afraid.” Lady Elizabeth downed the rest of her whiskey in one swallow, then indicated their surroundings with a wave of her empty glass. “Have you forgotten where we are?”

  Lady Annabel shrugged. “We’re wearing masques. If no one recognizes us, it’s just as if we weren’t here at all.”

  Aurelie giggled. “A convenient sort of morality, is it not?”

  “My dear.” Lady Annabel smiled through a thin curl of smoke. “Is there any other kind?”

  Charlotte studied her cheroot. It looked as long as it had when she’d first lit it, the blasted thing. “As far as the spirit of the wager is concerned, Annabel, I think our honor is safe, regardless of whether or not we smoke the cheroots. Lord Devon wagered we wouldn’t enter the whorehouse. The cheroots and whiskey are incidental.”

  Aurelie downed her whiskey and stubbed out her cheroot in the empty glass. “Certainment. We’ve won the wager already, and here’s the proof.” She held up the cheroot for their inspection, then threw the remains of it into her reticule. “Just as well, too, because that dreadful cheroot is staining my glove.”

  Lady Annabel continued to smoke her cheroot with
every appearance of enjoyment. “Lord Devon is terribly wicked, is he not? Imagine his challenging us to enter a whorehouse! We should cut his acquaintance, my dears.”

  “He’s no wickeder than we are.” Charlotte had no intention of cutting Lord Devon. Wicked or not, he’d proved most diverting at a time when she badly needed the distraction. “In any case, I confess I’ve always wanted to see the inside of a brothel.”

  Lady Elizabeth nodded. “Oh, I have, as well. I thought it would be different, though—more exciting, somehow.”

  Charlotte glanced around the room. “More exciting than bare-bosomed ladies being pawed at by sotted gentlemen? Yes, there’s nothing so unusual in that, I’m afraid.” One could see the same thing in many aristocratic ballrooms in London, though the ton did their best to hide their sins under a thin veneer of respectability. Failing that, they hid in secluded alcoves and behind the shrubbery in dimly lit gardens.

  “No. It looks rather like Lord Harrow’s ball last week.” Lady Elizabeth sounded disappointed. “Even the same people are here. Look, there’s Lord Dudley. Oh dear. I’m sorry for that poor woman he’s groping, for I suppose she has to have him, doesn’t she?”

  Aurelie observed the couple for a moment. “Not to worry, ma petite. He doesn’t look as if he’s in any condition to, ah…perform.”

  Lady Annabel snorted. “No, he doesn’t. With any luck he’ll lose consciousness. I hope she fleeces his pockets if he does.”

  Charlotte said nothing, but reached up to make sure her masque was securely tied. She hadn’t noticed Lord Dudley before. She scanned the room again to see who else she’d overlooked. For pity’s sake, half the ton was here. The male half. She knew, of course, that aristocratic gentlemen spent more time with whores and their mistresses than they did their own wives, but good heavens—weren’t there other bordellos in London?

  If any of these gentlemen were sober enough to focus, they’d recognize her easily, even with her masque on. Charlotte chewed on her lower lip. No, it wouldn’t do at all for Ellie and Cam to discover this latest escapade. She never should have promised her sister she’d give up her mad frolics, for she’d known even as the words left her mouth it was a promise she couldn’t keep.

  Wretched things, promises.

  She’d take care to avoid them in future. It was one thing to be a scandal, but quite another to be a scandal and a liar. She rose to her feet. “This was amusing enough for a time, but it grows dull. Shall we go find Devon?”

  Annabel took a final draw on her cheroot. “Dear me, Charlotte. Bored in a bordello? How jaded you are.”

  Charlotte shrugged. “Perhaps it’s more amusing for the prostitutes.”

  “Perhaps,” said Lady Elizabeth. “But I draw the line at finding out. Besides, I believe the cheroot has made Aurelie ill.” She held out a hand to help the Comtesse rise from the divan.

  Lady Annabel jumped to her feet. “Oh, dear. She looks quite green. We’d better hurry.”

  Every eye in the room turned in their direction as they made their way to the door, but this time the men’s scrutiny felt more ominous. No one said a word to her and no one approached, but Charlotte’s flesh prickled in warning. The sooner they rejoined Devon, the better—

  Oh, hell and damnation. She still had the blasted cheroot clutched between her fingers. It had burned to the end at last and now it threatened to singe her glove. She hurried back to the fireplace and tossed it into the flames. If some leering scoundrel got a peek under her masque because of that dratted cheroot, she was going to have Annabel’s head—

  “Leaving so soon, sweet?” A strong, muscular arm snaked around the middle of her body and jerked her to an abrupt halt. “But we haven’t yet been introduced.”

  For a moment Charlotte froze with shock—only a moment, but that was all it took for her friends to vanish into the crowd. “Unhand me, sir,” she ordered in the haughtiest, most marchioness-like tone she could muster.

  “Unhand you? Oh, no. I don’t think so.” The voice was low and so close she felt his breath tickle her ear. “What fun would that be?”

  He spoke pleasantly enough, but underneath the amusement was a thread of ice that made Charlotte squirm in his grasp. “Release me this instant. How dare you?”

  He jerked her back against a chest as hard and unyielding as a stone wall. “How dare I claim a whore in a whorehouse? I assure you, sweetheart, it takes no daring at all.”

  Charlotte could tell by the width of his chest and the hard muscles bulging in his forearm it would do no good to struggle, so she went still and tried to collect her wits. No doubt her friends thought she was right behind them. They’d return for her when they realized she wasn’t, and—

  “Not much of a challenge, I admit, to bed a whore,” he went on, “but sometimes a man wants his pleasures to come easy.” He ran a caressing hand over her hip and around the curve of her bottom, then pulled her tighter against him. “And you, sweetheart, are easy.”

  Charlotte’s eyes widened. Oh, no. His chest wasn’t the only hard thing pressed against her back. He was becoming…engorged. He’d soon lose all use of his mental faculties and she’d never be able to reason him out of this madness. She took a deep breath and forced herself to speak calmly. “Sir, you can’t possibly think to—”

  “Take you right here in the parlor, with every drunken scoundrel in London gaping at us? Tempting thought, but I’m a gentleman, sweetheart. I have a room upstairs.”

  Upstairs? Oh, for pity’s sake. Where were her friends? Why hadn’t they come back for her yet? If they returned and couldn’t find her…

  Charlotte gave an experimental kick and managed to land a blow to his shin. She heard a pained grunt behind her, but instead of loosening his grip he hitched her higher against his chest, so only the tips of her slippers touched the floor.

  “Come now, sweet,” he crooned into her ear. “I promise I’ll take good care of you.”

  Charlotte was rather alarmed by this point, but somehow his low rasp penetrated the fog of panic in her brain. His voice. For one wild moment she thought she recognized it, had heard it before, whispering in her ear, promising something. She stilled, trying to place it, but the memory danced just outside her grasp.

  “That’s better,” he murmured. “You don’t really want to give all these fine gentlemen a show, do you?”

  Fine gentlemen. Of course. She was in a whorehouse, wasn’t she?

  She was in a whorehouse, her friends had abandoned her and this large, amorous gentleman—who thought, quite reasonably, she was a whore—was about to drag her upstairs. The other fine gentlemen in question—all of whom also believed her to be a whore—ogled her with ill-concealed excitement. A number of them had staggered to their feet and edged closer to get a better look at the struggle, so she and her tormentor were now surrounded by a circle of drooling scoundrels.

  Any of whom could decide at any moment to tear off her masque.

  She let her body go limp against her captor’s hard chest. Her best alternative by far was to let him take her upstairs and then try to reason with him in private. If that didn’t work, she could always bash him over the head with the washbasin. Whorehouses did have washbasins, didn’t they? One would think they’d need them—

  “Wise choice, love.” The arm wrapped around the middle of her body eased a fraction when she made no move to flee. “You won’t regret it.”

  You will. Best not to say so aloud, though. She’d need the element of surprise to escape unscathed this time. She permitted him to maneuver her across the room toward the stairwell and up the stairs in front of him, his hand heavy against her lower back. Once they reached the second floor he hurried her down the hallway to the last door on the left and thrust her through it.

  The door thudded closed behind him and she heard the unmistakable scrape of the key as it turned in the lock.

  Charlotte scurried away
from him before he could grab her, toss her onto the bed and…well, do whatever gentlemen did with whores, which was, she guessed, not the same thing they did with their wives. She wasn’t certain, having never been mistaken for a whore before, but she had a vague notion gentlemen tended to skip the preliminaries where prostitutes were concerned, and she’d rather not reason with him while flat on her back.

  “I haven’t got all night, love.” His boots rang on the wooden floor and she felt the heat of his body close behind her, though he didn’t touch her. “Take off your clothing and lay down on the bed.”

  Charlotte took a quick survey of the room. Ah. There, on a table by the far side of the bed—a washbasin, old and chipped, to be sure, but if she couldn’t make him see reason it would do the job. She took a stealthy step toward it, drew a steadying breath into her lungs, and turned to face him. “I’m afraid, sir, you’ve made a rather unfortunate mistake—”

  She got no further. The words lodged in her throat and her sentence ended on a choked gasp. Every limb in her body went numb with shock, and for one horrible moment she was paralyzed, unable to think or do anything other than stare up at him.

  Oh God, she’d dreaded this moment—dreaded it and longed for it since his regiment returned to England. Now the moment was here. He was here.

  Julian.

  “It’s you who’s made the mistake, sweetheart, not me.”

  His voice. She had heard it before, soft in her ear, his whispered promises—he loved her, his heart was hers, always—and, oh, she’d believed him, she’d treasured his every word, and trusted him with the absolute trust of first love. It made her chest ache even now, more than a year later, to think of such a love.

  Maybe he had loved her. Maybe he’d meant to keep his promises, but it hadn’t made any difference then, and it made even less difference now.

  “Do you like what you see?”

  She jerked her gaze from his face and shoved the memories back into their secret places in the darkest corners of her mind. Such a question needed no answer. It was like asking if she preferred a sky obscured by thick, black clouds where once there’d been nothing but stars.