Seven Nights to Forever (7 page)

With a firm shake of her head, she pushed the thought from her mind. It would not do to dwell on him. In ten hours or so another man would walk through her door. The most she could hope for would be a young buck with more money in his pockets than he knew what to do with, and without a pretty young wife waiting for him at home. With them, there were no ulterior motives. They wanted the pleasures she offered and nothing more. They were the easiest to manage because there was no need to play the delicate game of guessing their desires. There was no lingering in the sitting room, pretending as though they had not paid for the use of her body. They went straight to her bedchamber where she could focus on them and forget about herself.

Last night was best forgotten. James roused old needs within her that must remain buried.

A distinctive double knock sounded on her sitting room door. Thankful for the interruption, Rose set her cup on its saucer. Tugging on the end of the fabric belt of her pale green silk dressing gown, tightening it about her waist, she crossed the room and opened the door.

“Thank goodness. You had me worried.”

“It is good to see you as well.” She stepped aside, allowing her one true friend to enter. “And what did I do to cause such worry?”

“You were late. I thought perhaps . . .” Timothy Ashton dragged a hand through his antique blond hair, further disheveling the untidy layers that were the current height of fashion, and then he shook his head. “But you’re here.”

“Yes, I am. My apologies if I caused you to worry. It was not my intention.” She settled back in her spot on the settee. “Would you care for a tart?”

He waved aside the offer. “I already stopped by the kitchen for a bite to eat.”

Clad in only a white shirt and dark brown trousers, his state of casual undress matched her own. Few clients visited the house in the midmorning hours, giving the servants the opportunity to right the house, polishing the floors and removing all signs of the prior night’s revelry. And employees like herself and Timothy were afforded a few hours to themselves. The strict rules of decorum lifted, the “wait” for the next client temporarily suspended. Lax and informal, without anyone to please but herself, it was the favorite part of her days at Rubicon’s.

Timothy flopped down next to her. The instant his back touched the settee, a grimace flickered across his face, pulling his full lips into a straight line. Concern tightening her brows, she opened her mouth, but he answered her question before she could give it voice.

“Winthrop’s a damn brute,” he grumbled.

“Why didn’t you refuse him?”

“He paid for my time and can therefore do as he pleases with me. In any case, I prefer the likes of him. The ladies can be downright cruel, and I never know what to expect from them.”

Even though she had asked, she knew he would not have been allowed to refuse. That was a kindness Rubicon only bestowed on her female employees. The handful of men in the madam’s employ who resided in the house understood their wishes were of no importance to her. It was the price they paid for the opportunity to work here, and not at some molly house in the stews.

“Do you want me to take a look at it for you? You should inform Rubicon. She’ll have Winthrop’s head if he left permanent marks.” Guests could do as they pleased . . . as long as they didn’t damage the merchandise. That roused Rubicon’s anger like nothing else.

“It’s nothing. I checked in the mirror and it’s not as if he left welts or anything. Just a bit sore, that’s all.”

That wince had said it was more than “a bit sore.” Where Rose had a luxurious little suite, Timothy resided in a tiny room in the attic with the maids and footmen, and worked in a room tucked far below, known only to those guests who had a need for it. She never understood why he subjected himself to that room. Why he chose it over one of the many bedchambers lining the corridor outside her room. She had asked him once and received a puzzling response—he preferred it. How one could prefer to submit so completely to another, to willingly allow oneself to be restrained and abused, never mind how one could derive any pleasure from it . . . Not that she held any illusion Timothy took any pleasure from his time in that room. Far from it.

“You should cry off tonight.”

He shook his head. “I worked the last three nights. Likely no one will ask for me tonight anyway. Most of the guests prefer a beautiful woman like you.” He gave her a playful wink, but it couldn’t hide that sense of stark vulnerability lurking in his deep brown eyes.

She patted her lap. With an ease borne of their years of friendship, he lay down on his side, resting his head on her thigh and draping his long, elegant frame over the settee, knees hooked over the other arm and calves dangling over the edge.

She combed his forelock off his brow, drawing her fingers lightly through his hair, the strands soft as silk. His long lashes drifted closed to rest on the perfect contours of his cheekbones. He had a sort of male beauty that drew the eye of both men and women alike. His features were distinctly masculine yet one could not deny the innate elegance in the sweep of his light brown lashes or the sensual curve of his lower lip. But she had long since stopped being dazzled by his beauty. When she looked on him, she simply saw Timothy. Her dear friend and the only person she had ever confided in.

He let out a little sigh of contentment. “How was your evening?”

“Better than yours.”

“Usually is.”

With her other hand, she reached for her cup and brought it to her lips. “He kissed me.” Her whisper floated over the rich, dark surface of the hot chocolate.

He turned his head to look up at her. “That was all?”

She nodded and tried to hide her smile behind her cup. A little tingle invaded her belly, her cheeks heating with a slight flush.

“Guilt can do strange things to a man,” he said pragmatically.

She stared at him for a long moment, and then her stomach dropped.

Why hadn’t it occurred to her before?

She wanted to shake her head at her own blindness. And she knew in her gut Timothy had it spot-on. James’s hesitation, his reluctance to move into her bedchamber, to ask anything of her . . . it had all been borne from guilt.

Too off balanced by his odd behavior, she had not been able to identify it at the time. But now she knew. He’d had the air of a married man about him, an unhappily married man. One who did not treat infidelity lightly. A rarity, for certain. Most men did not have such a conscience.

Most who frequented the house gave little indication they thought at all of their wives, yet she could never forget the women waiting for them. Those fortunate souls who had a man to call their own. Who had what she had given up so very long ago.

It was why she had left her first protector, after all. She was well aware a fair number of married men kept mistresses, but she refused to ever be one of them. She had made it a rule of sorts when she first came to London all those years ago. She would sell her body but never presume to usurp another’s place in a man’s heart.

Handsome, intelligent, polite, and obviously wealthy, if he could afford an evening with her, James was the type of man a woman would cherish as a husband. The type that filled the dreams of young girls. There was a lucky woman out there who knew what it felt like to be held by him. Who had been given the gift of his kiss many times over, and then some. But . . . then why was he so lonely, so painfully unhappy?

The answer mattered not. He was married. And it truly was for the best that he never walk through her door again.

“Is something amiss, Rose?”

“No,” she replied, forcing her lips into a little smile she hoped would appear nonchalant. It had only been one night. It had not equated with taking something that did not belong to her.

His gaze swept over her face, consideration heavy in his eyes. She braced for him to question her response, but dear friend that he was, he somehow knew not to press the subject.

“Any plans for the day?” he asked.

With a little click, she set the cup down. “I need to make a few stops on St. James Street. The tailor, the boot maker, White’s, and I should check at Tattersalls. Dash had mentioned acquiring a team, though I’m hoping he didn’t actually purchase one.” That would mean he planned to stay in Town and not return to university for the next term.

Timothy frowned. “It’s absolutely dreary outside. Surely the errands can wait another day.”

“It’s best I take care of them today.” She would rather find out sooner than later the extent of the damages.

“But what if it rains?”

“When has a bit of rain caused you harm? We’ll hire a hackney anyway. Come along.” She nudged his shoulder. “I need to get dressed, and you need to get your coat.”

“All right,” Timothy said on a resigned sigh. He got to his feet and then held out a hand, helping her to stand.

“I’ll meet you outside Rubicon’s office.” She would need funds, after all, to settle Dash’s latest bills, and the madam had not yet stopped by her room to deliver the envelope from the prior night’s work.

Though last night had been the furthest thing from work.

His parting kiss floated through her mind. Pressing her tingling lips together, trying to vanquish the lingering sensation of his lips upon hers, she went into her bedchamber to change into a practical day dress, suddenly eager to leave the sitting room and escape the memories of James.

“MR
. Archer, it’s almost nine o’clock.”

James looked up from the paperwork on his desk. The slim form of his secretary, Decker, stood in the open doorway to his office. His plain brown coat held a few wrinkles, his cravat was rumpled as if he had tugged on it a time or two, and his once neatly combed brown hair was a bit untidy. He looked like a man who had spent the better part of his day behind a desk. If James looked in a mirror, he was certain he’d appear just as ragged about the edges as his young secretary.

“Then why are you still here?” James asked.

“Because you are.”

At least he was honest about it. Decker had been with him for almost a year. Eager to please and eager to prove himself, he had yet to take James at his word when he told him his hours at the office did not need to match James’s. Surely an unmarried man of two-and-twenty had better things to do with his evenings than tend to his employer.

“Have you finished reviewing the manifest for the
Wilmington
?” Decker asked, approaching his desk.

“Yes. Just finished it.” James flipped through the pile of documents at his elbow, locating the one in question.

Decker reached out, but James pulled back, keeping the papers out of reach of his ink-stained fingertips. “You needn’t see to them tonight. Tomorrow will suffice.”

“It will only take a moment—”

“Tomorrow,” he said firmly.

Decker stared at the manifest. He opened his mouth and then shut it, his arm dropping to his side, clearly thinking better of pursuing the matter. The candlelight illuminated the dark smudges under his eyes, the exhaustion even more evident in the slump of his usually straight shoulders.

Ah hell.
The man wouldn’t walk out the door unless James followed close on his heels. Not something James was looking forward to. Just the thought of returning home made him recoil. Perhaps he would merely make a pretense of leaving and then return to his spot behind his desk. He’d receive a heavy scowl from Decker in the morning. Even though he was usually at the office before Decker arrived, the man somehow knew when he spent the night on the leather couch.

The scowl was much preferable to the prospect of coming face-to-face with Amelia. Once a day was more than enough.

“And speaking of tomorrow, we should both head home.” He slipped his pen into its holder next to the inkwell and stood, suppressing the wince as his muscles protested the movement. He rolled his shoulders, his joints popping and cracking, reminding him he had not spent the entire day with a pen in hand but a nice portion of the early afternoon in the warehouse.

As he rounded the desk, Decker busied himself extinguishing the candles stationed about the room. The office wasn’t impressive by any means. Hell, his dressing room was larger. Just enough space to hold a couple of chairs for visitors, a squat cabinet with more than a handful of scratches marring its surface, a tall bookshelf, his desk, and the brown leather couch, its cushions just on the comfortable side of lumpy. Everything in the room spoke of function over aesthetics. It was a place of business, not a showplace to impress, and James felt more at home here than he did at his town house.

He heard Decker’s footsteps behind him as he went out into the main room. A shelf filled with books, ledgers, and rolled-up maps took up one wall. File cabinets, each drawer bearing a little label identifying its contents, lined another wall with Decker’s desk just outside the door to James’s office, the surface neat and tidy, just like the efficient man.

After grabbing his dark coat and hat, Decker followed him out into the cool night, the scent of the Thames heavy in the damp air, and then James locked the main door and pocketed the key. What had once been a small shipping company was now a thriving enterprise, though one would not know it from the sight of it. His offices were housed in a large, plain, utilitarian warehouse. He had never bothered to relocate to a more fashionable part of town. He preferred to be closer to his business. He could not very well run it properly when he wasn’t apprised of the details. All it took was a few steps beyond his office door to verify the quality of the lace from Spain or to inspect the timbers from the Far East. In any case, he would rather do it himself than rely on another. It was the way he had learned to run the business when he had received it as a gift from his father, a reward of sorts, on the event of his marriage.