Come the Night (The Dangerous Delameres - Book 1) (17 page)

I called your mother Silver, too, did you know that, Susannah? There was a reason for it, but it was our secret. It may hold true for
you as well, but I cannot know that. Someday
you will discover it, if your heart is given to a man who loves you. I pray that it will be so.

Until then, choose carefully and well.

They are hidden here at Lavender Close, all the secrets that you need. I can write no more. You must find them for yourself.

Sir Charles Millbank studied his mistress’s lush form, swathed in a cloud of diaphanous silk. “Come here to me, temptress.”

The Frenchwoman battered her kohl-rimmed eyelids and giggled. “Not yet,
anglais.
Me, I wish to drink more wine.”

The baronet frowned, red with exasperation, but turned to fill a glass for his unpredictable companion.

“Not the pewter, my Charles. The crystal, if you please.”

Millbank muttered a low oath as he moved to obey this newest demand.

“Eh bien,
this one, she is very nice. I will drink me well of her.” Elegantly, Ang
é
lique tipped back the crystal goblet and let its contents spill down her throat. She managed to allow a speck to run onto her chin.
“Quelle bêtise.
I shall need a
serviette,
dear Charles,” she purred.

“No linen to touch your lips, hoyden. I’ll take the excess.” He bent across her and ran his tongue over the sherry. “Sweet. But not half so sweet as you are.” With a grunt the Englishman pulled into her arms and made to maneuver her into the elegant little chaise she had coerced from him on his last visit. The wood frame had come from Paris, and the embroidered silk all the way from China.

She gave him a calculated pout. “Not on my so elegant
chaise
, Charles. It is not at all
convenable.”
She saw the irritation sweep his face and immediately put on her most seductive smile. “Here, my silly one. On the nice settee before the window.” She patted an ample, if slightly fraying piece of furniture set before a curtained alcove that gave onto a second-story window above the main thoroughfare of Kingsdon Cross.

Nettled, Sir Charles did as directed. “I’ve been waiting half the night, Ang
é
lique. I begin to grow unamused with your games. I’m an important man, you know. A man with a vast amount of money.”

The blonde enchantress drew herself to her full, fluffy height of not quite five feet. “You overstep your place, monsieur. I am a courtesan of the highest rank. Such a woman deserves to be treated with a
delicatesse
that you do not possess. I only seek to teach you the arts of
l
’
amour.”
She cuffed him under the chin lightly to take the sting from her words. “But since you have been such a good boy tonight, I shall go to make myself more comfortable.” She gave him a melting look and then rose to her feet, at the same time sliding her white hands over her hips.

Sir Charles’s face turned a mottled red. He reached out for her, eager for the evening’s pleasures to begin, but was treated to naught but a teasing laugh.

“So impatient, are you? But not yet, my dear Charles.” The Frenchwoman tripped off into the adjoining room.

She was most careful to leave the door ajar, however, so her protector could see every tantalizing movement as she went about her disrobing. Every minute Millbank grew more heated.

“Ang
é
lique, are you not ready
yet?”

Silken laughter greeted him. “A drink, I believe,
mon amour.
Your choice grows more excellent by the day.” Since the wine had been of Ang
é
lique’s own selection and commandeered at vast expense all the way from Bordeaux, this praise was patently unearned.

But this did not rob Sir Charles of any of his pleasure. He preened himself, tugging proudly at the front of his protruding waistcoat, and cleared his throat. “Of course,
petite.”
He pronounced the word laboriously, managing to sound English in spite of all his effort. After filling another glass, he made to carry it to Ang
é
lique.

“No, no,
mon chou.
You must place it there by the window. Me, I shall be but a moment more. You like this,
non?”
Since she was wearing little more than a skim of transparent organdy and two pearl earrings at that moment, Sir Charles most decidedly
did
like.

In fact, he liked so much that the vein at his forehead looked as if it would burst any second.

With unsteady fingers he set down Ang
é
lique’s drink and went back to refill his own.

And in that brief interval a hand slid from behind the curtain. Catching up Ang
é
lique’s drink, gloved fingers emptied it through the window, then returned it empty to its resting place.

The Frenchwoman sailed through the door and bent to look for her drink, then pouted with displeasure. “Charles, you wicked one. Why do you give me no wine?”

“Wine? Slap me if I didn’t just fill you one, Ang
é
lique. Put it right there, so I did!”

“Well, I see me a goblet of glass but no wine inside it,
vraiement.”

Sir Charles shrugged, already more than a little fogged by the copious amount of wine he had consumed. Laboriously he refilled the goblet and set it by Ang
é
lique, who turned to study her carefully rouged face in the little mirror above the fireplace.

When she did, black-gloved fingers once again emptied the crystal, then returned it to its place.

The Frenchwoman looked down and stamped her feet. “She is one of your
plaisanteries,
no? Another of your English jokes?”

Sir Charles gaped at his mistress. “What the deuce are you talking about, Angel? Filled it up myself, I did!”

The Frenchwoman stamped her satin-shod foot again. “You know that I do not wish to be called by that word.”

“You mean Angel?”

“That
word,
exactement!
You will serve me well not to use it no more.”

“Anymore,” the Englishman muttered, increasingly confused.

“Eh bien,
so now you correct my English! I suppose I am not at all good enough for you. Me, Ang
é
lique, who have tasted the pleasures of Napoleon and the grand King Louis himself!” Her Gallic ire was rising with every word.

Sir Charles frowned. “Now, now, no need to put yourself into a taking, puss. I only meant—”

“That I am
stupide!
That I am the very hindquarters of a donkey,
non?”

“But I said nothing of the sort, Ang
é
l — er, Ang
é
lique. I only meant—”

“Tiens,
what you meant was of the most perfect clear. And me, I feel no more in the mood for company. So you will go.
Now,
before I throw this glass at you.”

Sir Charles blanched, recalling the cost of that particular goblet she was clutching so angrily in her white, perfumed fingers. “You mistake me, Ang
é
lique. Come, come, let us not quarrel. It was my fault, all my fault. I must have given you the wrong glass.” Seeing her begin to relent, he hastened to hand her another drink. “Let us forget this silly argument.”

His mistress sniffed. “What do you English know? Your weather is bad and your food is even worse. And everything here is of such a wildness! All I hear is of this Blackwood, a
sauvage
who races the highways, plundering innocent females and seizing whatever he wishes. It is
affreux.”

“No more,” Sir Charles said smugly. “In a few more days Lord Blackwood will be gone forever and I will be the most famous man in Norfolk — perhaps even in England.”

His mistress looked unconvinced. She strode back into her boudoir.
“Eh bien,
now I must check my coiffure. The wind, he is blowing dreadful strong in here.”

“Wind?” Sir Charles by now had learned to mind his tongue around his fiery French temptress. “Yes — er, of course. Meanwhile here’s your wine. Have a sip and all will be right and tight again.” Shaking his head, he turned away to fill his own glass, then emptied half in a gulp.

Frenchwomen. If they weren’t so damned desirable, he’d have nothing to do with them, Millbank thought grimly. Next time he’d set himself up with some nice, biddable young thing from Yorkshire or Dorset. Someone who didn’t throw crystal or enact fiery scenes.

But not yet, he decided. Ang
é
lique knew how to do things with her hands, with her hot, scarlet lips, that drove him absolutely wild.

Yes, decidedly not yet, he thought, remembering all that had happened the last time he was in her bed. Hot with desire, he finished his glass and poured himself another.

Once again gloved fingers reached out and emptied Ang
é
lique’s goblet.

When Charles turned, Ang
é
lique was glaring at him, fire darkening her perfectly rouged cheeks.
“Diable!”
The blonde beauty shook her ringlets and stamped her little foot. “Me, I like these tricks not at all!”