The Secrets of a Courtesan (6 page)

clasp in her red curls to the tips of her red satin slippers, lingering on the bodice of her gown

where her abundant charms were so amply displayed. The women cast glances of lascivious

greed at Rowarth who was looking exceptionally elegant in his austere black-and-white evening

dress.

A frisson of nerves ran through Eve as Sampson’s gaze fell on them and he came forward to

greet them, his eyes lighting with self-congratulation to have caught so eminent a guest as the

Duke of Welburn.

“My dear fellow…” He stretched out a hand to Rowarth, his voice unctuous. “I am
charmed
that

you have been able to join us tonight.”

Not by a flicker of expression did Rowarth give away any emotion other than an apparent delight

to be there. The perfect courtesy bred in an English gentleman evidently made him able to carry

off such a meeting, Eve thought. In contrast, her skin was crawling simply at being in close

proximity with Warren Sampson. There was something unwholesome about the man and when

he turned his gaze on her she felt a sense of revulsion she was afraid might be almost too strong

to conceal.

“Mrs.…Nightingale, is it not?” Sampson was working hard to cover his astonishment at seeing

her, but could not quite hide his feelings. Eve could not be sure whether his surprise arose from

the unexpected appearance of his unwitting stooge or simply from shock at seeing a lady he had

previously thought irreproachably respectable flaunting herself in such a shocking gown. His

eyes lit with a predatory gleam as his gaze lingered on the swell of her breasts. Eve felt Rowarth

stiffen almost imperceptibly beside her but when she flicked a glance up at his face his

expression was quite smooth. His hand was in the small of her back, pushing her forward a little

so that she could not avoid Sampson’s appreciative appraisal. She felt a bitter taste in her mouth,

as though Rowarth was whoring her out, which of course, he was. And she had only herself to

blame. When he had started to question her on the past in the intimate darkness of the carriage

she had lied to him because it was the only way to keep her secrets and to keep the horrible

memories of her miscarriage and loss locked away in the dark where it belonged. But she knew

that she could not now complain if Rowarth despised her. She had deliberately pushed him away.

Even so, a sliver of misery like a lump of ice wedged itself in her heart.

“Mr. Sampson.” She forced a smile. “It is such a pleasure to attend one of your parties. Your

hospitality is legendary.”

Sampson laughed, showing his teeth. “My dear Mrs. Nightingale, had I known of your interest I

would have invited you sooner.” He took her hand, his touch suggestive, and pressed his lips

wetly to her fingers. Eve suppressed a shudder. Sampson’s predatory gaze went from her to

Rowarth.

“Nor did I realize,” he murmured, his breath hot in her ear, “that you were a particular friend of

his grace.”

“Oh, Rowarth and I are very old acquaintances,” Eve said, with an arch look up at Rowarth who

smiled back straight into her eyes. “But should we ever fall out I will let you know, Mr.

Sampson.”

Sampson laughed. “I live for that day,” he said.

Eve smiled. She had never been much of an actress, she was all too well aware that she had too

fiery and opinionated a disposition to hide her true feelings well, but since Rowarth wished her

to offer herself—since she had to do so to save herself from Hawkesbury’s so-called justice—she

would fulfill her role with all the fervor she could.

And hate herself for it later, no doubt. But she could not allow herself to think about that now.

Sampson was still holding her hand and she let it rest there, tightening her fingers with the

slightest of pressure.

“I was hoping,” she murmured, “that I might have a few moments with you in private later, Mr.

Sampson. There is a matter I would very much like to discuss with you—a business matter to our

mutual benefit.”

Sampson’s eyes almost popped out of his head with a combination of lust and excitement,

curiosity and, Eve was interested to note, wariness.

“You intrigue me, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said. “I will rejoin you as soon as I can arrange it.” He

kissed her hand again, running his lips over her knuckles in an odiously familiar manner that

made Eve want to wipe her hand on her gown.

“Your servant, madam,” Sampson said, moving off to greet some of his other guests and giving

her one very long, backward look.

Rowarth took Eve’s hand in a grip so tight she almost flinched.

“He seems to like you,” Rowarth said, his voice hard and low.

“Of course he does,” Eve said sharply. “There is plenty of me on display to like.” She glared at

him. “You would also have observed that he was surprised to see me. He was not expecting me

to be here tonight. I told you that I barely know him.”

Rowarth’s gaze narrowed on her. “I accept that,” he said slowly.

“Oh, you do, do you?” Eve snapped. “Not that it makes any difference to you. Well, stay close to

me, Rowarth, while I trap him for you. You want me to whore myself tonight,” she added, seeing

him recoil and glad that her bitter words had touched him, “so I will do. I was your harlot so will

do whatever you wish.”

She was unprepared for Rowarth’s response. He caught her arm and pulled her behind the cover

of an enormous statue of Apollo. His expression was tight and furious and made her quake

inside. “Never refer to yourself like that again, Eve,” he said. “Never! Do you hear me?”

Eve was utterly shaken. For a long moment their gazes held, tense and stormy, and then Rowarth

swore under his breath and his arms went about her and his mouth came down on hers with

absolute mastery, forcing her lips apart, his tongue tangling with hers and plundering her without

restraint. Eve was lost from the first moment, her emotions adrift, the sensuality flaring between

them in a scalding tide. She forgot where they were, almost forgot everything, in the maelstrom

of sensation and desire that swept her away.

“Getting into the swing of things rather well, Rowarth.”

An amused male voice had them falling apart, panting, and Eve looked up to see a tall man with

brown hair and the wickedest hazel eyes she had ever seen smiling at her and making her an

elegant bow.

“A pleasure to meet you again, Mrs. Nightingale,” he said, “though I do apologize for

interrupting you at such an impossibly awkward moment. You may remember that we met a few

times in London. Miles Vickery, entirely at your service.” He gave Eve a look of comprehensive

admiration that brought a blush to her cheeks. “I wish that Hawkesbury had chosen me for this

assignment rather than bringing Rowarth in specially,” he drawled, “but then I suppose he does

have the prior claim.”

Rowarth did not seem amused. “Vickery—” he began, with so much possessive threat in his

voice that Miles backed off, raising his hands in a gesture of surrender.

“All right, Rowarth. I understand.” He grinned. “Don’t forget that I am your oldest friend. There

is no need to call me out. I’m here only if you need help tonight. As is Nat Waterhouse.” He

pointed out a tall, dark man who was across the other side of the hall drinking champagne and

flirting with a blond woman with improbably girlish ringlets, whose breasts were tumbling out of

the bodice of her clinging blue gown. As they watched, Waterhouse raised one of the blond’s

ringlets to his lips and she simpered up at him in return.

“Contrary to all appearances,” Miles Vickery said drily, “Waterhouse is working tonight.”

He bowed again and sauntered off, leaving Eve very aware of Rowarth’s presence at her side.

She had felt the tension simmering in him from the moment they had first greeted Warren

Sampson. She turned to see him glaring at her.

“No one will believe that we were
ever
lovers if you look at me like that, Rowarth,” she said.

“There is no need to behave with such ill-tempered possessiveness.”

“Is there not?” Something primitive flared in Rowarth’s eyes before he banked it down. “That is

what you do to me, Eve. There is business unfinished between us.”

“There is nothing between us—” Eve started to say, even as he caught her close again with a

demand she was powerless to resist and which made a mockery of her denials.

“You still respond to me,” he murmured, his lips brushing the corner of her mouth. “Admit it,

Eve.”

“And what is that to the purpose?” Eve was really angry with him now both for demonstrating

the power he still had over her and arrogantly asserting that it meant anything at all. “I admit that

there is some sort of inconvenient attraction still between us,” she said, “but it is no more than

that.” She tapped her fan sharply in the palm of her hand. “You should take a good, long look at

yourself, Rowarth, duke or no. You come here and insult me with your false accusations and

coerce me into behaving like a harlot in red silk and no underwear and then you behave like a

dog in a manger.”

They stared at one another, locked in furious confrontation, until recalled to their surroundings

by a discreet cough.

“Excuse me, madam.” A liveried servant had approached and was standing a little distance away,

clearing his throat. Eve tore her gaze away from Rowarth. “Mr. Sampson’s compliments and

would you care to join him in the library?”

“Thank you,” Eve said, casting Rowarth one final glance before she followed him. “I should be

delighted.”

“I don’t like it,” Rowarth said to Miles Vickery. The two of them were stationed on a stone

balcony directly above the open terrace windows that led from the library into the gardens. It

gave them a perfect means of eavesdropping on the conversation inside the room without being

so obvious as to be lurking suspiciously on the terrace. But Rowarth could also see the

disadvantages. If Sampson closed the terrace doors then they would hear nothing and more

importantly, if Eve needed help it would take them a long time to reach her. Nat Waterhouse,

who was downstairs making sure that no one sprung them, was nearer, but he could not know

what was happening inside the library.

At the moment Eve was alone and Rowarth was already feeling as strung out as a wire. His

tension had ratcheted higher and higher since the confrontation with Eve in the carriage. He had

despised the way in which Sampson had looked her over, his hands itching to plant the man a

facer. He had almost done the same to Miles, who was a childhood friend. And Eve’s words to

him in the hall had cut directly through all the bitterness and anger within him and had gone

straight to his heart.

You come here and insult me with your false accusations and coerce me into behaving like a

harlot
…

Rowarth gritted his teeth. He was not proud of himself. There had been a time when he had been

a better man than this. Eve had made him so. Now he wondered what would be worse—being

obliged to listen to Eve seducing Warren Sampson, for the man was such an exhibitionist and the

party so uninhibited that Sampson probably would not trouble to close the windows—or being

unable to help her if Sampson turned threatening. Both thoughts were unendurable and it was he

who had placed her in this situation, using her as bait, driven by his anger and need for

revenge….

“Of course you don’t like it,” Miles Vickery said, breaking into his thoughts. “The woman you

used to love is down there in danger of either seduction or violence or worse.” Miles shook his

head. “To be honest, old chap, I think you are touched in the attic to have gone so far with this

scheme. When Hawkesbury first mooted the idea you should have told him to go hang. I could

not believe that you did not.”

“Yes,” Rowarth said, belatedly recognizing the truth of Miles’s assertions. “I should have done.”

“I know you were bitter after Eve left you,” Miles continued. “I know you were afraid to show

weakness like your father, but really, old chap…” He shook his head. “The two cases were very

different, were they not? And Eve had been ill, which I am sure must have made matters more

difficult—” He broke off, seeing Rowarth’s expression. “I know, I know. None of my business.”

Rowarth stared at him, wondering if he had misheard. The wind from the gardens came faintly to

him, carrying the scent of pine and jasmine with it. It also breathed suspicions into his mind,

faint but powerful, no longer possible to dismiss.

“I beg your pardon?” he said.

“None of my business—” Miles began.

“No,” Rowarth interrupted. “The other bit.”

“Eve had been ill,” Miles repeated, as though Rowarth was a rather slow schoolboy having

trouble with his lessons. “I know it was not something that you ever mentioned, but I saw the

doctor leaving—”

Rowarth grabbed him by the lapels of his jacket. “What? When?”

“Steady on, old chap,” Miles wheezed. “I thought you were supposed to be cool under pressure?”

Rowarth released him. “When?” he repeated, very softly now.

Miles smoothed his jacket down. “Must we do this now, old fellow?” he beseeched. “Try to keep

your mind on the job in hand. Sampson will be arriving at any moment.”

“Forget that,” Rowarth said. “This is more important. You were saying?”