Whisper To Me of Love (23 page)

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Authors: Shirlee Busbee

BOOK: Whisper To Me of Love
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Silently she let Royce guide her into the hall and out the door and down the broad steps to the street. She looked neither left nor right, but pride eventually came to her rescue, and straightening her slim shoulders, she lifted her head proudly. So what if she was going to be a rich man's mistress? It had been good enough for her mother; why should she cavil?
She wasn't even aware of the two other women just preparing to enter their carriage until Royce tipped his head and said coolly, “Ladies.”
Curiosity caused her to glance momentarily in that direction, but she was so lost in her own misery that beyond recognizing them as ladies of fashion, they held little interest for her and she turned to gaze listlessly ahead. Pip may not have found them particularly interesting, but one of them at least found her
extremely
interesting. Her face white, the hazel eyes dilated with stunned fury, Lucinda Devlin stared in shocked disbelief at the lovely features of the young woman being helped into the curricle by Manchester.
“My God, I don't believe it! Hester's brat!” she hissed viciously. “She's
alive!”
Grasping Lady Whitlock's arm painfully, Lucinda watched intently as the curricle was driven smartly away. Her voluptuous mouth thinned angrily, Lucinda turned to glare wrathfully at a suddenly very frightened Lady Whitlock and said grimly, “I think, dear Letty, that it is time that you tell me
exactly
why you wanted to house that young woman ... and who put you up to it.”
Unaware of Lucinda Devlin's reactions, Royce and Pip rode swiftly through the crowded London streets toward the establishment of a modiste who was well-known to Royce. There was no conversation between them, and it was only when they had pulled up in front of a modest-looking little building near Bond Street that Royce spoke. He gave Pip a hard look and asked, “Do you have any name other than ‘Pip'?” His eyes bitter, a scornful bite to his words, he added harshly, “Somehow it doesn't quite have the ring necessary for the career you have chosen. Surely your mother didn't name you ‘Pip.'”
Pip heard his voice as if from a long distance, an icy depression quelling any desire to fire up at his deliberately provoking manner. She thought for a long moment, then answered dully, “Morgana. My name is Morgana.”
P
ART
T
HREE
Morgana
Demoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,
And moon-struck madness.
J
OHN
M
ILTON
,
Paradise Lost
C
HAPTER
15
M
adame Duchand was a tall, handsome Frenchwoman who claimed to have several years ago escaped from the guillotine. Whether she did indeed have aristocratic antecedents was questionable, but no one questioned the skilled workmanship and stylish cut of the gowns she fashioned. Royce was known to her, and as he and Morgana entered the elegantly appointed shop, Madame Duchand, her dark eyes moving assessingly from one set face to another, exclaimed warmly, “Ah, Monsieur Manchester! It is good to see you again. How may I serve you today?”
Royce smiled thinly, and giving Morgana a contemptuous push forward, he said bluntly, “I want you to dress her—everything from the skin out and from the soles of her feet to the top of her head.”
Madame Duchand studied Morgana's angry features. Not certain of the situation and not wishing to annoy a wealthy patron, she inquired smoothly, “It will be my pleasure, monsieur. . . but perhaps you have some ideas about the colors and style of the garments?”
Wrapped in her own icy despair, Morgana was only vaguely aware of the comments being made. In a matter of hours, the entire fabric of her life had changed, and she was still trying to grapple with its enormous significance. If only she had never laid eyes on Royce Manchester! Because of the tall, powerful man at her side and her own treacherous body, any hope of ever gaining respectability was destroyed, and whatever dreams she may have harbored about her future were completely annihilated. She might have seriously considered becoming his mistress, even have convinced herself that it was the wise thing to do, and yet she knew that in the end she would have found it impossible to propose such a relationship if this afternoon's events hadn't forced it upon her. If only she had merely accepted the knowledge that he was sending her away to America instead of ... Her eyes bleak with anger and hopelessness, she stared blindly at the rich blues, greens, and russet hues of the Axminster carpet at her feet, cursing the unruly tongue that had precipitated the devastating scene in Royce's study. If only she hadn't asked just those questions at just that time, and had been able to fight free of the dark spell he had wound around her, she might be, at this very moment, happily discussing the desperately longed-for trip to America. Her soft mouth twisted. But no, instead, she was a rich man's whore, soon to be bought and paid for!
An anguished sob welled up inside her, but ruthlessly she quelled it. No! She would not cry, and she was
not
going to end up like her mother! For an outrageous sum, she had agreed to be the mistress of a man who fascinated and infuriated her, one who beguiled and enraged her at the same time, but she could not imagine, at any price, sharing the stunning intimacies that Royce demanded with another man! When this humiliating arrangement ended, she would make good use of what she had earned in such a degrading manner and flee to America and join her brothers. In the New World, with her squalid past behind her, she'd fashion a new life for herself and her brothers, one that would hold all the respectability she craved.
Her shoulders straightened and her chin lifted. Someday all this would be in the past, and she wasn't about to let the ugly situation defeat her! In the unpleasant moments that followed, she tried to cling to that small, comforting thought, but Royce's manner with her, the angry contempt with which he seemed to regard her, sent a wave of furious indignation surging to the fore. What did
he
have to be angry about? Why was he looking at her as if she had taken advantage of
him?
Madame had divested her of Royce's cloak and had for several moments been turning Morgana this way and that, examining the slender form with an expert eye. What Madame thought of the torn blue and white gingham gown was anyone's guess, but being a sophisticated woman and knowing the ways of the world, she allowed no expression of either condemnation or pity to cross her face. Glancing across at Royce for direction, Madame finally asked, “
Un jeune fille,
perhaps? Or did you want something more, ah, what is the word? Dashing?”
A hard expression in his golden eyes, Royce said grimly, “Since there is nothing innocent about her, I think the word ‘dashing' would definitely apply!”
“Oh, la la!” Madame replied teasingly, discreetly ignoring the tension building between the two. “A dashing young lady about town, perhaps?”
Deliberately goading Morgana, Royce shot her a challenging look. “
Lady
isn't precisely the word I would use to describe her!”
His words stung, and deciding to beat him at his own game, Morgana asked sweetly, “Whore, perhaps?” Ignoring Madame's shocked gasp, she looked at the modiste and inquired demurely, “Yes, let us choose something appropriate for a whore!”
Royce swore furiously, and taking violent hold of Morgana's arm, he demanded of Madame, “Is there a place we may talk alone?”
Her black eyes snapping with avid curiosity, Madame nodded and murmured, “Over there, monsieur—the second door to the left ... Other of my patrons often wish to confer in private. You will be quite alone there.”
The room was small, but tastefully furnished—a pair of channel-back chairs of straw-colored silk were at one end, a satinwood table placed between them, and a pale blue brocaded sofa sat against one wall. But Royce had no time to appreciate the decor, and standing in the middle of the room, he glared at Morgana and shook her fiercely. “What the hell are you playing at? Calling yourself a whore?”
There was something extremely satisfying about rousing his fury, and defiantly she returned, “But isn't that what I am now? A whore?”
“Goddamit!” Royce snarled softly, his golden eyes glittering with suppressed violence. “You might be grasping and greedy, but since you were a virgin mere hours ago, I hardly think the word ‘whore' applies to you! You're going to go back out there and behave yourself. I'll allow you a certain amount of choice, but just to thwart me, you're not going to deck yourself out like a cheap slut! You
will
obey me or ...”
Her cheeks flushed, temper, resentment, and anger driving her, she said rashly, “Or what? You'll beat me?”
Royce's eyes narrowed, and at the look in them, Morgana took a step backward. “By God!” he swore tautly. “You've been asking for this for a long time!”
“Don't you dare!” she hissed, realizing belatedly that she had pushed him too far. She made a frantic leap for the door, but Royce caught her before she had taken two steps. Ignoring her thrashing legs and arms, he swept her up in his arms and carried her to the sofa. Sitting down, oblivious to the curses she hurled at his head and the heaving and squirming of her body, he ruthlessly dragged her wildly struggling form across his knees.
Morgana fought fiercely with all the strength within her slender body, but all too soon, she found herself in the ignominious position of having her chest and abdomen pressed roughly against the hard muscles of his thighs, her vulnerable buttocks exposed to him. Her skirts tossed over her shoulders, she cursed malevolently and increased her violent attempts to escape from him. “You bloody bastard! You lay a hand on me and I'll skewer your liver! See if I don't!”
Once, her threats might have made him laugh, but having thoroughly lost his own formidable temper for the first time in his life, Royce found nothing humorous about the situation. What was even worse, the violent thrashing of her body was arousing him, and that, perhaps more than anything, utterly enraged him. She had defied, taunted, and bedeviled him with impunity for the last time! Blind fury consuming him, his broad hand landed with an eminently satisfying slap against her firm flesh.
There was a stunned silence in the room for one startled moment, and then, at Morgana's outraged scream, Royce was suddenly plunged into the shocking realization of what he was doing. He had never laid a violent hand on a woman in his life, never before so totally lost his temper, and that he should be so overcome with fury as to strike the one woman who fascinated him above all others appalled him as nothing ever had. Shaken by what he had done, furious that she had the power to bring him to this point, he slackened his hold as he sought desperately to regain his senses. Morgana promptly bit him.
Her sharp little teeth sunk deeply into the flesh of his thigh, Royce manfully suppressed a pained howl as he jumped to his feet. Dumped unceremoniously onto the floor by his abrupt action, Morgana scrambled upright, her eyes flashing dangerously, fists knotted, ready to do battle.
Looking first at the rigid, enraged little figure across from him and then down to the noticeable tear in his breeches, he recognized the ridiculousness of the situation. Amusement instantly replacing his fury, Royce held up a hand placatingly and drawled softly, “Pax, you bloodthirsty little she-devil! Shall we cry quits? If I promise not to beat you, will you swear not to bite me?”
Her own anger faded almost as quickly as his, and feeling suddenly drained, she muttered, “Just don't ever try to strike me again!”
An odd light in his eyes, Royce stepped nearer to her, and running a caressing finger down her cheek, he murmured, “Will you accept my apology? I did not mean to treat you in such a fashion.” He laughed ruefully. “I'm certain we can deal better than this. Shall we try?”
Mutely Morgana nodded her dark, curly head, wishing her heart would not convulse so wildly every time he touched her.
They did try to maintain some sort of peace, and for the next several hours an uneasy cooperation existed between them, and yet neither could forget their reasons for being at Madame Duchand's. Morgana would not have been human if she had failed to be enchanted by the array of fabrics and style plates Madame placed before her, and at first she took great enjoyment in the process of selecting a wardrobe far beyond even her most extravagant dreams. But the peace between Morgana and Royce could not last, and as the time passed, as each garment was discussed, the style, fabrics, and trims decided on, there was increasing constraint between them. Morgana became quieter and quieter and more withdrawn; Royce's features became more and more harsh, a hard edge creeping into his voice.
Ironically, it was a gown that ended any semblance of cooperation between them. It had been ordered by a young woman known to be in the keeping of a notoriously decadent Marquis, but never paid for, and Morgana had been transfixed by the iridescent glow of the rich ruby silk. Madame had hesitated to show it, but since Monsieur seemed in such a generous mood, she had shrugged and hustled Morgana into it. When Morgana walked out of the dressing room, Royce's breath caught sharply in his throat and the desire he'd been certain had been tamed came surging fiercely through him.
Standing uncertainly in the center of the room, Morgana was a sight to arouse even the most jaded appetite. The gleaming ruby gown was cut low across the bosom and trimmed lavishly with black lace, and it clung lovingly to her body. Its provocative style was such that Morgana's breasts seemed ready to spill out from the top, the black lace contrasting erotically with her soft, white bosom. It was narrowly fitted, and although Morgana was more slender than the woman it had originally been constructed for, the gown clearly revealed all of her gentle curves, the rich ruby silk material striking against her clear, pale skin, smoky gray eyes, and black, curly hair.
Unaware of its effect on Royce, Morgana was only conscious of the way it made her feel—like a woman of the world, assured and confident of her own allure. Caught up in her own enjoyment of the garment, she was startled to hear Royce say thickly, “No! We don't want this one—it is not her style!”
Not understanding the powerful emotions clamoring within Royce, she glanced over at him and blurted out, “Oh, but I do like this one! Couldn't we discard one of the others instead?”
“No!” Royce replied coldly. A strong sensation of possessiveness had joined with his feverish desire, and he was furiously aware that he was acting like a jealous fool ... and yet he could not stop himself. She was his, and he would not garb her for other men's delectation!
Stubbornly Morgana dug in her heels. “Why?” she demanded, half-confused, half-angered by his stance.
“Because,” he replied imperiously, “I do not wish it! Now, take that damned gown off before I tear it off you!”
Swallowing back an angry retort, Morgana spun on her heels and ran to the dressing room. Chin set stubbornly, she said to the unruffled Madame Duchand, “I want this dress. See that it is included when you send the others.”
Hiding an amused smile, Madame answered softly, “But of course, mademoiselle! The gown, it is you,
oui? ”
Feeling as if she had won some sort of battle, Morgana let Madame dress her in another gown. Since all of Madame's clothes were made on request, there had only been a few garments that could be readied immediately. Fortunately there were two that Royce had found suitable—the one Morgana was currently wearing, a delightful confection of Brussels lace and green-sprigged muslin, and another of rose satin, shot with white and ornamented with a rich white silk trimming.
Coldly ignoring Royce, Morgana stood stiffly at his side as the rose satin gown was wrapped and boxed, the air between them nearly vibrating with all the emotions each was trying to control. Promising to have several of the garments they had selected this afternoon readied as soon as possible, Madame was escorting them to the door when it suddenly flew open and a flushed-faced boy cried, “Have you heard the news?
Bony's been beaten at Waterloo! ”

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