Seven Nights to Forever (3 page)

At least none that guaranteed the necessary income. And she would never go back to life in the demimonde. At least at Madame Rubicon’s decadent West End brothel, she wasn’t dependent on one man’s whims for her livelihood. There were no worries over what one slight misstep would cost her. She was here of her own free will. And if one of her clients got out of hand, the brothel’s burly guards would come to her aid.

All in all, it could be much worse. She could be destitute and hungry. She could have lost Paxton Manor, Dash’s birthright, to creditors. She could be working on her back at some nunnery in the stews for barely enough coin for her and Dash’s supper.

Instead she was here. Earning in seven nights what most of the other women like her earned in a month. She should count herself fortunate.

She let out a sardonic huff.

Nor would she be fortunate for much longer if she continued to dally.

Smoothing wrinkles that didn’t exist on her gown, she crossed to the bedside table on the right side of the bed, next to the discreet trifold screen with its red roses and lush green leaves painted in watercolors on its semitransparent fabric. Inside the top drawer she found the silver box filled with small wool sponges, each about the size of a walnut and tied with a length of white thread. The copper tin had been refilled as well. Even though most of her clients thought sheaths beneath them, it wouldn’t do to have none on hand in the event one was requested.

She dabbed the tiniest bit of perfume between her breasts and went out to the sitting room. She glanced about to ensure all was at the ready. The three crystal decanters on the silver tray on the cabinet behind the settee. Brandy, whisky, and port, with the necessary glassware. The drapes on the window were already closed tight. She prodded the flames in the hearth to full life and then settled on the settee.

Hands folded demurely on her lap and her shoulders back and chin tilted down, she braced for the light, tinkling sound of the small bell suspended on a hook near the ceiling in the corner. She kept her gaze from straying to the section of the barren white paneled wall directly before her and did her best not to think about the type of man—never mind what he would want from her—who would soon stride through the hidden door.

THERE
was a soft, metallic
click
. James quickly stood and turned toward the door. After waiting for what felt like an eternity, though in actuality he was certain ten minutes could not have passed, what could only be the house’s proprietor entered the office.

“Good evening, sir. And welcome. It is always a pleasure to make a new acquaintance.” Taller than the average woman and dressed in a figure-hugging scarlet silk gown, she appeared to be somewhere in the vicinity of forty years of age. Not so old that the yellow blonde hair piled high on her head was liberally streaked with silver, nor young enough to be free of the fine lines around her rouged mouth.

He took her proffered hand and executed a slight bow over her ringed fingers. “Good evening.”

“Please, have a seat.” With a little flick of her wrist, she indicated the armchairs. “Would you care for a glass of brandy, or perhaps whisky?”

“No, thank you,” he said, sitting back in the armchair he had just vacated.

She swept behind the desk and settled in the chair. The cant of her shoulders put her ample breasts on full display, the deep
V
of the bodice barely containing them. With a hint of a smile playing on her lips, she folded her hands on the neat surface of the desk. “What can I do for you this evening?”

No pleasantries. No talk of the weather. No easing into it. She cut straight to the heart of the matter. Nor did it escape his notice that she did not ask for his name. Only what he wanted. He lifted his chin and looked directly into her kohl-rimmed eyes. “I wish to procure the services of a woman.”

“Well then, you have come to the right place. Is there a type of woman you prefer?”

He was tempted to answer no—the brothel most certainly would not have a true lady in its employ—but he caught the word before it left his mouth. He wouldn’t commission a new ship without detailed specifications. If he was going to go through with the evening and part with a significant sum, then he might as well be specific. “I prefer a woman with dark hair. Not too thin.”

Though what he really wanted was someone kind. Someone who would demand nothing in return except for his presence. But he would surely mark himself as a desperate man if he told the madam that.

For a moment she considered his response. Her gaze traveled over his body, settling on his hands as he tried not to grip the arms of the chair, to appear as nonchalant as she.

“Do you have any particular preferences?”

He frowned, taken aback by the question. Hadn’t he just told her what he preferred? But her emphasis on the word
particular
made him suspect she was asking about something else. “What type of preferences?”

“This house holds many beautiful women, some more skilled in . . . certain areas than others. Your preferences will help me to narrow the selection to those who will best suit you.”

Though she couched her words in the politest terms possible, he had the distinct impression she was trying to determine if he was one of those depraved souls who sought the services of whores to perform deviant, illicit acts. No wonder, given the maid had surely told her that he had slunk up the back stairs. “No. I do not have any particular preferences.”

She tipped her head. She was so casual with her questions they could very well be discussing a new ship. He couldn’t decide if the ease with which she dealt with him was comforting or off-putting. It just all seemed so very . . . impersonal.

“Are there any limitations I should be made aware of?” she asked.

“Pardon?”

“In regards to your pocket.”

He shook his head. If the madam’s price exceeded the thick fold of pound notes in his coat pocket, then he’d simply write her a bank draft for the difference. The sum mattered not, only the time it would gain with a woman whose lip would not curl in disdain when her eyes landed on him. “No.”

Her eyes glinted with a distinct note of greed. A slow smile spread across her face. “I have the perfect woman for you. She possesses the body of a goddess. Lush, voluptuous, made for a man’s touch. Beyond beautiful and highly skilled in the art of pleasure. She will take your breath away, in more ways than one. With such beauty and skill, one might expect a slightly . . . spoiled creature, sure of her allure. But not with her. She is all gracious accommodation. Refined of manner and kind of soul. She, quite simply, has no rival.”

Beautiful, willing,
and
kind?
He highly doubted such a woman existed.

His disbelief must have shown itself, for she added, “She is the prize of my establishment. Lauded above all others. So exquisite she has no need to grace the receiving room with her presence. The moment you lay eyes on her, you will understand why gentlemen have come to blows over the privilege of her company.” She pulled a square of white paper from a desk drawer. A quick scratch of her pen, and she pushed the note to him. “And that is all it will take for her to be yours, and only yours, this evening.”

He picked up the paper. A high price he expected, but this? But it was more than the price that gave him pause—though he wasn’t accustomed to spending such a sum on something for himself, he could easily afford it—rather the knowledge that there would be no going back from this point forward.

The indecision vanished. Shifting in the chair, he reached into his coat pocket. If he remembered correctly from his previous visit to a brothel, the madam would expect payment before services were rendered. And he had to admit, he was more than a bit curious to meet this paragon of the female gender.

He set the correct amount and the note on her desk.

Not bothering to verify the sum, she tucked the pile into her desk drawer. “You have my assurances you will not be disappointed. Now if you will come with me.”

She reached behind her and pulled on a bellpull, then crossed the room and pressed on a section of the white paneled wall. A door hidden in the wall swung silently open. The corridor was barely wide enough to accommodate the width of his shoulders. The candle she had taken from the small console table next to the door threw patterns of light and shadow on the walls. He followed her up a flight of stairs. Her silk skirts swooshed with each step, the sound amplified in the confined space.

She stopped before a door and turned to him. “May I have your name?” she asked, her voice pitched low.

He hesitated.

“Discretion is this establishment’s most coveted possession.” The hint of a smile flitted back on her lips. “Introductions go so much better when there is a name involved. Don’t you agree?”

He swallowed. “James.”

“Would you like to see her before your introduction?” She reached up and swung aside a small circle of wood. Stepping aside, she motioned to the thin beam of golden light streaming from the door.

His feet were moving toward the door before he was even aware of it. Anticipation surged within him, his pulse quickening. He pressed his eye to the door and his gaze went immediately to her.

His heart skipped a beat. The madam had not been exaggerating.

She was seated on a cream settee about four paces directly in front of him in a small, well-appointed sitting room. Her thick, silken hair, the color of midnight, was pulled back in a loose knot at her nape, a few stray, wavy strands brushing the graceful lines of her neck. Plump, rose red lips, flawless porcelain skin, lush breasts barely contained within the dangerously low neckline of her bodice . . .

He clenched his hand at his side. The urge to touch was so strong it nearly overwhelmed him.

“Her name is Rose.” The whispered words floated past his ear. “Are you pleased?”

He could only nod. With her red lips and fair skin, the name fit her, perfectly, to the point where he wondered if it was indeed her real given name.

Even though she was an exquisitely beautiful young woman, truly possessing the body of a goddess, soft curves in all the right places, she had an unmistakable aura of approachability about her. This was not a harshly elegant creature accustomed to looking down her nose at others.

With a little flick of her wrist, she rearranged the skirt of her mauve gown about her legs. Her attention was fixed off toward the draperies covering the single window, but she didn’t seem to be actually looking at anything in particular. Her straight shoulders slumped the tiniest bit, a hint of . . . sadness flickered across her beautiful heart-shaped face. So quickly he wasn’t certain if he imagined it or not.

It suddenly felt so very wrong to intrude on an unguarded moment. He took a quick step back.

“If you would do the honor,” he said in an undertone, indicating the door.

“It would be my pleasure.” The madam moved the wooden cover back in place, closing off the narrow beam of light.

She opened the door and he went inside, stopping at the madam’s shoulder.

“Good evening, Rose. I have a gentleman who wishes to make your acquaintance.”

In a soft rustle of silk, she stood. If something had saddened her moments ago, there was certainly no trace of it now. A smile curved her lips, her light blue eyes alight with genuine welcome.

“This is James. James, may I introduce you to Rose.”

She extended one pale arm, offering him her hand. She wore no gloves. Her delicate hand was soft and warm in his as he made his bow. Though she was midheight for a woman and certainly no slight wisp of a thing he had to fear he’d break if he touched, with his six-foot-two frame, he still felt as though he towered over her. “It is my pleasure to make your acquaintance.”

“The pleasure is all mine, James.” The rich, feminine timbre of her voice felt so good to his ears. Polished and smooth, without a coy, affected lilt. And she had spoken his name as if she had said it countless times before. Familiar and easy. A sound he was certain he would never forget.

He looked beside him, his thanks for the introduction on the tip of his tongue, but the madam was gone.

THE
man glanced about the room, as if suddenly uncertain. Rose waited for him to release her hand. His long fingers were folded around her palm, his thumb resting on the back of her ring finger. His grip was light yet secure; a gentleman well accustomed to introductions to the fairer sex. Yet she could feel the calluses on his palm and on the tips of his fingers.

Soft, olive green eyes met hers and held her captive for a seemingly endless moment. She was vaguely aware her breathing had quickened. Good Lord, he had long lashes. Not only long but thick, a full shade darker than his neatly cropped chestnut brown hair, and so unexpected for such a rugged face. There wasn’t a hint of nobility in his features, only strength and a confidence that matched his impressive frame. His gaze dropped, lingering on her mouth before venturing lower. Heat blossomed across her chest, the tips of her breasts tightening into hard buds under the intensity of his regard.