The Courtesan's Bed (9 page)

Darius poured himself a double of scotch. “Do you?”

The marquess stared at his glass. “Where are your manners? Aren't you going to offer your poor old father a drink?”

Darius walked over to a chair and sat down. “Help yourself.”

His father glared at him, but rose and did just that, and returned to the settee. “You're my only son and heir, for God's sake. Of course I regret our estrangement.”

Darius took a deep swallow to fortify himself. “In the last seven years, did you ever spare a thought for Miss Willett? Did you ever wonder where she was living, and how she was supporting herself? Did you ever wonder if she was dead or alive?”

“Of course I did,” he snapped. “I'm not the total callous bastard you think I am. A woman of such beauty, vitality and charm is impossible to forget. But I had to live with your stepmother, a formidable woman in her own right. She threatened to take your sisters and return to her family in New York City. I'd never see my little girls again if I ever mentioned Regina's name.”

Darius drained his glass. “So Penbry Granger, the powerful Marquess of Blackwall, let his wife lead him around by the nose?”

His father turned red. “Mock me if you must, but I did love the overbearing harridan. Not only did she run the household perfectly and handle our social responsibilities, she was satisfactory in every way. I do miss her.”

“Then why were you always unfaithful to her?”

Blackwall ran a hand through his hair, an exasperated gesture Darius knew well since he sometimes mirrored it.

“What do you want from me, son? I made mistakes. I admit it. I'll regret most of them for the rest of my life. But I'm not perfect. I'm human, and flawed, as are we all. Don't you think it's about time you forgave me?”

“And let you off the hook?” Darius stared into his empty glass. “I'm not quite ready to be that magnanimous.”

“I see.” The marquess actually sounded hurt.

Darius raised his hand to run it through his hair, then caught himself. “Why have you come to Paris?” He stopped himself just in time before adding Father.

“I'm here to find Regina.”

Darius started. “Why?”

The marquess rose and poured another scotch. “Because I want her. My wife is dead, and I'm free.”

Darius raised one brow. “In the market for a new wife, are you?”

His father looked sheepish. “I wouldn't go that far. Not yet, anyway.”

Darius burst out laughing. “Oh, that is rich, Blackwall. You ruined an innocent young woman's life, and now that your wife is dead, you want what you discarded. But not to marry, of course.” He studied his father. “What makes you think that even if you did find her, she'd give you the time of day?”

His father's wide, white grin held a familiar haughtiness and seductive charm. “Because I still am quite a catch, you know.”

Darius shook his head. “Your gall astounds me, sir.”

The other man's familiar gray eyes, a lighter shade than his own, focused sharply on him and narrowed with speculation. “And why have you spent all this time looking for her yourself, son?”

Darius schooled his face to remain blank. “Who claims I've been searching for her?”

“There's not much in London society that escapes my notice. Several friends mentioned seeing your advertisements in the
Times,
and also told me you were making inquiries regarding their governesses.”

“Not that I owe you an explanation for my behavior, but I've been searching for Miss Willett to make restitution for your deplorable behavior.”

“Sounds a bit obsessive to me.”

“Not to me.”

His father rose. “And have you found her yet?”

Darius looked the man squarely in the eyes. “I've been very busy lately and came here for a well-deserved rest, and no, I haven't found her.” He sighed despondently and spread his arms. “I don't think I ever will.”

The marquess looked so crestfallen, Darius almost pitied him.

Almost.

“I'm sorry to hear that. I was hoping you'd been successful and could tell me where Regina is.”

Darius fought to calm his rising temper.
It will be a cold day in hell when I turn Regina over to you.

“So your quest has proven fruitless,” the marquess said.

“Quite fruitless. I've decided to give up the search. Miss Willett has vanished off the face of the earth. Perhaps she's married to a pious vicar and is living a quiet, bucolic existence in some village in Devon or Cornwall.”

His father suddenly looked suspicious.

“I'm being facetious,” Darius said dryly.

Blackwall stretched out his long legs. “Will you be staying in Paris for long?”

“I haven't decided. Probably until I grow bored with its pleasures.”

“I'm of half a mind to spend some time here myself. I hear the women are beautiful and—” he brought his fingertips to his lips and blew a Gallic kiss of appreciation, “—superb!”

“Aren't you still in mourning for your late, lamented wife? After all, it hasn't been seven months since she went to her watery grave.”

His father reared back and glared at him. “She was your stepmother, the mother of my two precious daughters, and my wife. I loved and respected her. In my own way.”

Darius gave him a curt, mocking nod of apology.

“Perhaps we could see the sights of Paris together,” the marquess said, “to mend fences.”

Darius folded his arms. “Out of the question.”

Blackwall's eyes widened in surprise. “Still hold a grudge, do you, Clarridge? I'm disappointed in you.”

As if I give a damn.

“The pleasures I'll be seeking in Paris are not the sort a man wishes to share with his father.”

“Ah, so that's the way of it. Understandable.” The marquess shrugged. “I've taken a suite in this hotel as well. Perhaps we can share a meal.”

Just what he needed, his father camped outside his door. “Perhaps.”

But he intended to put as much distance as possible between him and the man who could ruin all his plans.

After his father left, Darius leaned heavily against the closed door and gave the long, relieved sigh of a man who'd just escaped the hangman.

He returned to the nearest chair and settled in, placing his elbows on its arms and steepling his fingers, needing stillness to concentrate.

Talk about an unforeseen complication, his father wanting Regina after all, and tracking him to Paris.

Why hadn't he told his father that she'd agreed to become his mistress? Blackwall was bound to find out about her anyway. Of course, if he had told the truth and staked his claim, there was a chance—albeit a small one—the marquess would've withdrawn gracefully and returned to London.

And why hadn't he told his father that Régine was now a renowned courtesan? If anything, her life of vice would give him an excuse not to offer marriage.

A worm of doubt niggled at Darius. Women were soft, forgiving creatures. That's why men got away with such appalling, thoughtless behavior. And Blackwall had been Regina's first lover. Perhaps she still harbored deep, unacknowledged feelings. Perhaps she'd take him as a lover and then discard
him
out of revenge.

She wouldn't waste her time. She'd turned into a strong, confident woman. In the world of the Parisian demimonde, Régine Laflamme ruled as its queen. She was accustomed to getting what she wanted, and she chose her lovers very selectively. She'd chosen Darius for her next one. And her last, though she didn't know it yet.

He jumped to his feet, tired of inaction. The courtesan's bed was being delivered. Now he needed to send Regina flowers and jewelry. No, that's what other men would choose, and he was not any other man. He would find something very special to celebrate her uniqueness.

Grinning from ear to ear, he set his tall hat at a rakish angle and headed out the door.

The Paris shops awaited.

Chapter Eight

The cab stopped in front of Serge Dragomilov's townhouse.

Just that morning the Count had sent Ivy a message saying that he wanted to see her that afternoon.

Now that she was about to carry out her bold plan, misgivings pelted her like a spring downpour. What if the Russian wasn't taken with her? He was used to having his pick of beautiful, sexually accomplished women. But Odile de la Montaigne's shocking death at his hands had diminished his attraction among the most desirable courtesans. What woman in her right mind would want to become the mistress of a man who might possibly murder her? Only a desperate—or very enterprising—one.

Well, at least she had piqued his interest. Whether that initial interest turned into something lasting was as yet unknown. If she didn't please him and he sent her away, she could always go back to Madame's—at least she hoped so.

Ivy opened the cab door and disembarked. The long coat she wore to hide her naked body was much too warm for a mild spring day, but it was a necessary accessory to intrigue Dragomilov. She paid the driver and asked him to wait, just in case. She left her bag inside the cab, not wanting to look too eager to move in.

She rang the bell. The concierge answered immediately and regarded her coat with curiosity.

“Mademoiselle Ivy Doucette to see Count Dragomilov,” she said. “He's expecting me.”

The minute she entered the foyer, a booming, incredulous voice came from a room off to her right. “Are you telling me that she refused the diamonds?”

She couldn't hear the other person's reply.

“Did you tell her that the necklace and earrings cost me a small fortune?”

The concierge discreetly closed the door, so Ivy couldn't hear the rest of the conversation. Then he asked politely if he could take her coat. She shook her head, for if she removed the garment, the unsuspecting concierge would get a surprise reserved for the count.

Not that closing the door had done any good. Ivy still heard muffled voices through the walls, though she couldn't make out the words.

The count was obviously furious with someone for refusing his gift of costly diamond jewelry. A woman would have to be some kind of fool to turn down such an expensive gift that could be sold for a tidy profit once the relationship ended. That's what Ivy would do.

The door opened, and a man backed out of the room, bowing obsequiously. “Once again, Count, please accept my profuse apologies. If you prefer, we'll take back the jewels and refund your money.”

“I commissioned and paid for them, and they're mine,” he replied. “I will see to it that the lady accepts them eventually.”

The man turned and rushed out so fast, he didn't even notice Ivy sitting there quietly.

The concierge went in to announce her. When he came out, he said, “The count will see you now.”

Ivy squared her shoulders and glided into an opulently furnished sitting room.

Count Serge Dragomilov stood in the middle of the room with his legs spread slightly apart and his arms folded across his broad chest. He looked as fierce as a Cossack and absolutely terrifying, with his brown eyes flashing and expression as dark as thunderclouds. His scar was a fearsome slash down his swarthy cheek. He carried himself regally, like a leader used to command. Ivy suspected that no woman ever got the best of this formidable specimen.

Coming as she did from a staid, boring bourgeoisie background, she thought him magnificent, with an air of roughness and danger that she found thrilling. She had to make him realize they were two halves of a whole and would fit together perfectly.

She curtsied deeply. “Count Dragomilov. I am pleased to make your acquaintance.”

“Mademoiselle Doucette. You are a very brash young lady to send me such a bold gift.” He reached into a desk drawer and pulled out the dildo. “This was Odile's. She liked to pleasure herself while I watched. Where did you get it?”

“I attended the auction of her belongings and was the highest bidder for those particular items.” She straightened and raised her chin proudly. “And, as you can well imagine, I am not a lady. I worked in Madame Soubrise's exclusive brothel and was in great demand.”

“That is of no concern to me.”

“You do seem like a man who appreciates brashness in his women.”

He put her gift away and grinned rakishly. “Luckily for you, I do.”

He didn't offer to take her coat or offer her a seat the way most gentlemen would, so she unbuttoned her coat and shrugged out of it, letting it slither down to her ankles.

Dragomilov started at the sight of her bare body, his eyes widening then darkening with passion, his nostrils flaring. His arms fell to his sides, and he raked her up and down, lingering on her thatch and breasts. Working for Madame had cured Ivy of any modesty, so she didn't blush or look away shyly, but met his bold inspection with one of her own.

“Very brash,” he said. “So, what exactly do you want in exchange for my use of your willing body?”

“I wish to become your next mistress. I know I can never replace the incomparable Odile de la Montaigne, but I have other attributes that I'm sure you'll find suitably exciting.”

He kept staring at her breasts. “The fools say I murdered her, and most women turn and hurry away when I approach. I am no longer welcome
in all the best houses in spite of my noble Russian lineage. Why would you wish to take an accused murderer as your protector?”

“Her death was an accident, and those other women are stupid if they believe otherwise,” Ivy said. “You did not intend to kill her. You were not responsible.” She walked closer so he could get a good look at her ample, jiggling charms. “I find you very attractive, Count. Very virile. A man's man who knows that a woman needs to be tamed. I admire your boldness as well. I think we are kindred spirits and would suit well together.”

He looked down at her with a growing hunger in his unflinching gaze. “I must warn you that I am Russian, a son of the steppes. We are not known for our gentle natures. Most women find us too rough for their softer sensibilities.”