All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (15 page)

“You honor me, Madame Venna,” the handsome blond viscount murmured as she seated him to her right, unaware that his hostess despised him solely for the fact that they shared the same mother. “For years, I have heard other gentlemen speak of the Golden Pearl and its mistress with reverence in their voices. My only regret is that I waited so long for an introduction.”

“Well, I, for one, am pleased you have found your way to us, Lord Chandler. Gentlemen, you agree, no?” she asked her companions, her voice heavily accented and exotic.

Everyone around her concurred, but a few of her male companions were lacking in enthusiasm. The viscount was her new favorite, and they envied the gentleman’s position.

Anna approached Lord Chandler from behind. “Milord, your glass is empty. May I offer you more champagne?” She met Madame Venna’s gaze.

The viscount could not take his eyes off Madame Venna. He shifted in his seat and raised his glass without glancing at Anna. “Yes, thank you.”

Do you really want to do this?

Madame Venna saw the exasperation Anna did not bother to hide, but she chose to ignore it. After all, it was not every day that she could flirt with her half sibling as she contemplated his moral downfall. At the Golden Pearl there were endless possibilities, endless amusements.

She could even see to the matter herself. Lord Chandler might be her half brother, but she felt no kinship to him, not even an errant tingle. Since his blond hair was identical to hers, it was obvious that she had inherited some of her mother’s good looks.

Not that anyone would notice. This evening she was a brunette. Saucy plump curls bounced against her bare shoulders. As she smiled playfully at the viscount, she pondered the implications of bedding her half sibling. She was not worried about her soul.

Her adoptive mother used to tell her that she was born without one because God did not waste something as precious as a soul on bastards. When she was older she had tried to argue that all of mankind was born with sin, including the pious Mrs. Royles. She had been whipped for her cheek, but the punishment had been worth it. For the first time, young Catherine had not been afraid of the woman.

Unfortunately, the Royleses had other, crueler reprimands in store for the girl.

“You would enjoy a tour of my palace, no?” Madame Venna inquired, touching the viscount on the arm in an intimate manner.

“I would be delighted,” her quarry exclaimed, rising from his chair.

One of her regular patrons, Lord Kearns, made a soft disgruntled noise. The poor gentleman was doomed to eternal disappointment, she thought without any sympathy. In truth, she had little interest in participating in a tryst with any of her companions.

Testing her nerve, Madame Venna stood and accepted Lord Chandler’s hand. Anna had given up on her, knowing that her friend would do as she pleased. She had moved to the other side of the ballroom and was chatting with a red-haired gentleman.

Anticipation thrummed throughout Madame V’s body as she envisioned her real mother learning later of her son’s unnatural coupling with his half sister. If the gossip reached the
ton
’s ears, marriage-minded mothers would keep their daughters away from Lord Chandler and his twisted desires. Somehow it seemed appropriate that he, too, should bear the taint of their mother’s sinful nature.

“Madame Venna, is it true that you never remove your half-mask?”

“Oui,”
she said, her pulse quickening as they left the ballroom. “Never.”

The viscount appeared to choke. He covered his mouth with his fist and coughed discreetly. “Not even in bed?”

“Perhaps, one night, you will see for yourself,” she purred, her hooded gaze full of unspoken promises.

Lord Chandler swallowed audibly. Before he could string his words together to form a response, Madame Venna was roughly grabbed from behind and spun about until she was facing a very intense-looking Lord Sainthill.

“Unfortunately, it will have to be another evening, gent,” the marquess said to Lord Chandler, while his gaze rested on her face. “Madame V has other plans for the evening.”

*   *   *

Lord Chandler did not linger after Saint’s high-handed dismissal. From a distance, he and Madame Venna observed as Anna introduced the viscount to Hattie. He was not precisely certain what he had interrupted, but he could tell from his companion’s expression that she was up to something.

Saint was convinced that he would not have approved of her plans.

“It was rude to chase him off.”

Madame Venna did not appear to be angry. In fact, he could have sworn there was a moment when she seemed relieved to see him. However, it was difficult to tell with her half-mask firmly in place.

“Chandler is a puppy.”

This evening she was attired in a silk dress the color of red wine. Her blond tresses were concealed under an attractive dark-haired wig, and the upper portion of her face was hidden by a multicolored mask that reminded him of butterfly wings. She had painted her lips to draw attention to them.

Had she intended to lure Lord Chandler into a dark corner for a kiss?

The thought was maddening.

Saint had almost throttled one of his closest friends over an incident that had occurred several years ago. He had no qualms about snapping Chandler’s fingers one by one.

“I would wager the man is as old as you,” she said, distracting him from his dark musings.

“I don’t care. The man is still a puppy, and he has no business speaking to you without his mother.”

Madame Venna gaped at him, and then she began to laugh. “
Mon ami,
it appears that even I have my limits. Come, let us find a quiet place and you can show me how much you have missed me.”

Chapter Nineteen

There were different times in Saint’s life when he juggled wenches as carelessly as apples. He never worried about bruising their tender feelings when he made a misstep. If one mistress found out about the other, and stomped off in a fit of temper, there was always another pretty miss to replace her. He loved his life, and no woman was worth drinking and brawling.

It was difficult to admit it, but Saint had been cruel to Madame Venna as well. Enraged over her rejection, had he not deliberately shagged most of the female residents of the Golden Pearl to hurt her? These women were more than flesh peddlers to the proprietress, they were her friends. He bedded them all to prove to himself and Madame Venna that she meant nothing to him. If he was honest with himself, his intention had been to hurt her as much as she had wounded him.

Concealing his dark thoughts, he smiled easily as Miss Deverall approached him, her arms full of wildflowers she had picked. Just when Madame Venna seemed willing to let him back into her life, he had started this relationship with Catherine. The passing weeks had deepened his affection and respect for the lady. Saint had told Lord Greenshield that his intentions were quite honorable, but now he was uncertain. Of late, he had been pondering her reaction if he tried to kiss her. Had she ever kissed a gent? She was such a shy little creature, Saint suspected he might be her first if he allowed their friendship to progress. With her father watching his natural daughter’s admirer from a distance, Saint was convinced a taste from her honeyed lips might be worth the risk of Greenshield’s wrath.

It was an unpleasant fact that he was juggling apples—uh, women—again, and this time he would prefer to sever his hand from his wrist than hurt either woman. Neither one of them deserved a gentleman with a conflicted heart. Unfortunately, he was a greedy, selfish man. He wanted both of them in his life.

“I am glad I joined you this afternoon,” Catherine admitted as he took her bouquet from her arms and helped her settle down beside him on the blanket he had shaken out on the ground while she hunted for her wildflowers.

She wore a green walking dress, the hue a few shades lighter than the tall grass near the water’s edge. Her gray eyes were as clear and guileless as the blue sky overhead. Saint was pleased he had thought to bring her here. The landscape was pleasing to admire, much like his companion.

Saint held his hand up to block the intensity of the afternoon sunlight. “I thought you were going to refuse me. Fortunately, most females cannot resist my charm.”

“Is that what you call it?” she teased.

His heart expanded with elation. Catherine was often guarded in his presence. Oh, it was apparent that she liked him. He had that effect on females. However, she clearly fretted over her speech and manners. His assurances to ease her mind often made things worse.

“Are you ready to talk about it?” he asked, recalling her earlier demeanor. Something or someone had upset her, and she refused to unburden herself to him.

Catherine reached out and plucked a purple flower from her collection, then proceeded to absently remove the leaves and petals. “I told you that I didn’t have any family.”

“On several occasions,” he replied, frowning as she reached for another hapless flower. “I recall telling you once that I understood. My father is dead, and my mother privately wishes that I was. Since I refuse to accommodate her, she pretends that I am not her son.”

She glanced up from her floral massacre. “It hurts you,” she said, her gray eyes full of understanding and something worse. Pity.

“I did not bring up my past to gain sympathy, Catherine,” he said mildly. “It was merely to demonstrate that I, too, am alone in this world. I understand some of what you are feeling.”

Catherine glanced down at the scattered petals and leaves on her skirt and bit her lip in consternation. “We have more in common than you know, my lord. I was not honest with you. I do have family. I just choose not to acknowledge any of them.”

“You speak of Lord Greenshield.”

Her jaw slackened and her lips parted at the name. “How did you know?”

“Isn’t it obvious? Your father warned me off.”

She seemed to flounder for the proper words to express her outrage. “How dare he? Lord Greenshield has no rights in who I see or wish to … to—” She seemed to gain control of her emotions. “When—when did he approach you?”

“Almost from the beginning,” Saint replied, admiring how Catherine was able to compose herself so quickly. Another lady would have surrendered to her tears. “You may not want a father, Catherine, but it was obvious that he feels a certain responsibility toward you.”

Her full lips pursed into a petulant, almost childish pout. “As I told his solicitor this afternoon, I am well past the age that I require a father, although his concern is merely a ruse. I believe he feels my presence in London threatens Lady Eyre and her legitimate children. Though the why of it, I cannot fathom. I have not even tried to approach the woman, nor shall I ever.”

Another wildflower was shredded by her fingers.

Lord Greenshield and the very married Countess of Eyre? Saint was impressed with the older man’s daring. “Lady Eyre is your mother?”

Catherine huffed. “So I have been often told.”

“It must have been quite a scandal for the time,” he said thoughtfully.

Her face hardened as if she refused to feel any sympathy for her parents’ awkward predicament. “I do not believe so. My mo—the woman who raised me told me that the countess concealed her delicate condition from everyone. With the assistance of a midwife, she rid me from her body and had a servant deliver me to Lord Greenshield. He sold me to the first family who would accept his gold.”

Her recounting of the events did cast her parents in a very unpleasant light. He was uncertain whether she would accept any comfort on a subject that still hurt her—yet perhaps from one of the few people who understood her anger. Capturing her hands with his, he spared another wretched flower from decapitation.

Catherine’s gray eyes filled with unshed tears.

His throat felt dry as he swallowed. “I offer no defense for your parents’ actions, since you were an innocent child cast aside. However, I am intimately acquainted with the polite society your parents belong to, and it can be rather harsh. I offer no defense for their actions, but they may have believed you would have been better off with another family.”

Catherine shuddered and gave him a brittle, watery smile. “They were wrong, my lord. And I shall never forgive them for it.”

Chapter Twenty

Saint’s gaze was indulgent as he discreetly observed Catherine listening attentively to the ongoing conversation taking place on the other side of the drawing room. She was surrounded by Sophia, Regan, Juliana, and Isabel. To his relief, the ladies were quite willing to take the newcomer under their collective wing.

Catherine had been reluctant to join him this evening. She had argued that the secret bastard daughter of Lord Greenshield would not be welcome in the house of Lord and Lady Sinclair, and she’d berated him for attempting to place her in a situation that would end with her humiliation.

Her tears were almost his undoing.

Saint might have yielded to her pleas if the evening had not been so important to him. Catherine was so adamant that she did not belong in his world. He wanted to prove her wrong, and give her a taste of the life she was rejecting by not accepting Lord Greenshield’s claim. It infuriated him because her rejection of the
ton
and its extravagant trappings, as she had once called them, was in itself a casual dismissal of his life.

Her opinion stung him more than he was willing to admit.

Saint had another reason for persuading her to join him at the Sinclairs’ house. He wanted to see her in the comfortable setting socializing with his friends. Well, all of them with the exception of Frost. Whether he wanted to admit it or not, Hunter’s days as a bachelor were numbered. There was a lady waiting for him. Frost, on the other hand, was staring at Catherine so intently that Saint was itching to punch him in the jaw.

“She’s lovely, Saint,” Reign said, handing him a glass of brandy. “You mentioned Greenshield was her sire. Who is the mother?”

Saint took a sip of his brandy and stared at her from over the rim of the glass. “Greenshield refuses to name the lady.”