All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (3 page)

“And I saw how you were looking at him, Catherine,” Anna said quietly.

Madame Venna bowed her head and closed her eyes. “It makes little difference. To indulge in an affair with Lord Sainthill or any patron invites scrutiny, and I have invested too much into the Golden Pearl to toss it away to satisfy my—curiosity.” Her lips softened at her friend’s concerned expression. “Do not fret, Anna. Men like the marquess are only thinking of their next conquest. Make certain our girls keep him and his friends distracted. Sainthill will seek his amusements elsewhere.”

Even as she uttered the assurance, Madame Venna knew that she was lying to her friend.

Her instincts were warning her that Lord Sainthill was definitely going to be a problem.

Chapter Three

August 6, 1818, London

She was finally his. The merry chase was over, and he wanted to explore every delectable inch of her.

“The mask. Remove it,” Saint commanded as he not-so-gently pushed the infamous proprietress of the Golden Pearl against the door of her bedchamber. Too ensure their privacy, he leaned closer and twisted the key in the lock. Very few were permitted entrance into Madame Venna’s sanctuary, and if Saint had his way, he would be the only male from now on who had the pleasure of viewing the room.

Not that his attention was focused on the interior of her bedchamber or its furnishings, he mused as his fingers brushed the edges of the gold mask she had donned for the evening. He had been patronizing the Golden Pearl for more than a year, and Saint had never seen Madame Venna without a half-mask. The ornate and often jewel-encrusted masks were a clever accessory that stirred speculation about the beautiful face she concealed. Every gentleman in London yearned for the privilege of removing the half-mask, but the young woman was frustratingly elusive and resistant to all overtures of a carnal nature.

A chaste whore. If Saint had not been so aroused by the contrary combination, he might have been applauded the woman’s ability to understand a man’s needs, perverse as they may be. Like a consummate stage player, Madame Venna portrayed her role to perfection, leaving her countless admirers willing to settle for scraps. A smile. A few words of praise. Perhaps, a brief conversation about the gossip for that day.

Until this evening.

No one had been more surprised than Saint when Madame Venna had discreetly invited him to walk with her. He still could not believe his good fortune when their casual tour of the Golden Pearl ended at her bedchamber.

He was one lucky bastard, he mused, and would be the envy of his friends when they learned that he had unmasked and most thoroughly shagged one of London’s most notorious brothel madams.

Impatient, he hastily peeled off his kid gloves and allowed them to fall to the floor. Saint cared little about the gloves. He needed to touch her, flesh against flesh. With his fingertips, he gently lifted the bottom edge of her mask.

“No,” she said. Her husky, accented voice stilled his actions.

It was the proprietress’s favorite word, and he was getting tired of hearing it.

His brows lifted at her soft, adamant refusal, but it did not prevent him from lowering his face to the curve of Madame Venna’s bare right shoulder. He pressed his lips against the scented flesh and inhaled. For the past hour, he had been whispering in the lady’s ear all the tempting and naughty plans he had in store for her. The removal of her distinctive ornamentation seemed minor when he had every intention of stripping her naked and committing all sorts of wanton sensual acts until they were too exhausted to move.

His tongue licked the small indentation behind her ear, causing her to shiver. “Are you worried that I will not find you beautiful if you remove it?”

Madame Venna might be scarred beneath her half-mask, but it was unimportant to him. A few inches of marred flesh could not diminish the woman in his arms.

“Not at all,
mon chéri,
” she said with a trace of arrogance in her tone. Her full lips curved into a mischievous smile. “Besides, I thought you liked my masks.”

“I do,” Saint replied, amused that this woman could ignite his baser instincts with so little effort.

If Madame Venna glanced down, the proof of his desire was on prominent display. He had been lusting after this woman from their first meeting. While he respected the sentiment that this was her house, her rules, Saint was growing weary of the restraints that she had placed on him and every male who patronized the Golden Pearl.

“I thought we had moved beyond games, Madame V.”

He lightly stroked her bare throat with his fingers.

Through the almond-shaped holes in her half-mask, her shadowed gaze took on a melancholy cast. “This is the Golden Pearl. I have nothing to offer you but games, Marquis de Sainthill.” She sighed, turning her face away and offering him her profile. “Perhaps this … was a mistake.” Before he could anticipate her next move, she ducked under the arm he had braced against the door and strode to her dressing table. “Give me a moment, and I shall return you to your friends.”

Saint was being dismissed. May a plague strike the beguiling wench, he silently cursed as indignation blossomed in his chest. He was a twenty-five-year-old man in his prime, not some callow lad.

He was the Marquess of Sainthill. No one turned him away!

Ever.

He moved away from the door, watching her as she leaned down and critically studied her reflection in the small mirror on the table. With slow deliberation, she repositioned several ringlets framing her face.

“We are not finished,” he said silkily.

“Another game,
monsieur le marquis
?” She did not bother glancing at him while she rubbed her lower lip with her fingertip as if to check the tender flesh for any evidence of his kiss. “If so, I am in no mood to play.”

He silently wondered if she was planning to kiss anyone else this evening. The mere thought of another gent putting his hands on her was enough to spur him into action. Saint closed the distance between them and seized her by the upper arms.

“How dare you!” she said, her voice losing some of the sultry, exotic inflection that always seemed to go to his head quicker than Hunter’s first-rate brandy.

Saint whirled her around until her breasts were pressed against the front of his black evening coat. “Never challenge a member of the Lords of Vice, Madame V,” he said, desire and anger competing for dominance. “My friends and I have been shocking the
ton
since long before you decided to open your naughty establishment.”

Before she could curse his name or throw him out of her bedchamber, Saint covered his mouth over hers. Madame Venna squirmed against him in a feeble attempt to free herself, but his grip was as unyielding as his kiss.

Hard and punishing, his mouth ground against hers. He wanted to tame her, and the knowledge that she intended to fight him every step of the way only inflamed him. For the past year, he had joined the ranks of her numerous admirers, and he had carefully planned his strategy to gain her attention. Saint wanted her to see him as a man, and not just another of the fawning fobs she had to charm to ensure they returned to her decadent house of pleasure.

Her invitation this evening proved that victory was within his grasp.

Until she thought she could dismiss him.

Slightly breathless, Saint tore his mouth away from hers. The half-mask concealed the woman’s expression, but she was trembling in his rigid embrace, her lips reddened from his kiss.

“No more games,” he said roughly. “I want you. Will you deny me?”

His control was hanging by a thread. Although he had never forced himself on a woman, Madame Venna had the unique ability of challenging his immeasurable restraint. A part of him wondered if he could truly walk away if she ordered him from her bedchamber.

It was an unpleasant admission, but he could be a ruthless bastard when necessary.

“Marquis de Sainthill—” she began before grimacing at the faint tremor in her voice.

He had frightened her, and he could not say he was sorry for it. If she was aware of how often she had occupied his thoughts, she might use the knowledge against him. “Saint,” he whispered, kissing her swollen lips, gently this time as a silent apology.

The gilt from her half-mask gleamed in the candlelight as she tilted back her head to stare into his eyes. “You are too wicked a man to be called Saint,” she teased, seeming to regain a small measure of control with her lighthearted banter.

He shifted his stance, but did not release her. With Madame Venna’s body pressed against his, his cock had swelled into an uncomfortable position that he longed to relieve. “I did not choose my name,” he said, tracing the edge of her half-mask. “Only the manner in which I live my life.”

At five-and-twenty, he and his friends had already acquired the reputation bestowed on debauched rakes and scoundrels.

“I am well aware of the adventurous life you lead,
monsieur le marquis.
”

Saint chuckled and lightly pinched her dainty chin. “Then you are also aware that you cannot distract me from what I desire. You have not given me an answer.”

Madame Venna slid her hand down the front of his evening coat, slipping it inside to caress his waistcoat. “How curious, when I am certain I already have.”

“And you trifle with my affections recklessly,” Saint replied coldly, bracing himself for her rejection. “What do you want from me? Money? Jewelry? Marriage?”

“Marriage?”

Madame Venna tossed her head back and laughed. Her genuine amusement cut him to the quick. While he had no intention of offering marriage to such a disreputable, ungrateful wench, he was insulted that she was not even mildly intrigued by his disingenuous offer.

“Oh, no!” She placed her hand on her bodice while she struggled to draw a breath. “Gentlemen like you, Saint, do not patronize the Golden Pearl because you hope to find your bride among my fallen doves.”

Saint’s lips thinned in anger. He released her abruptly, and she staggered back a step to regain her balance. “You are correct, Madame. I seek only one thing from you, and you have yet to give me your consent.”

She opened her arms and gestured toward the bed. “Is it truly necessary?”

“It is for me.”

He joined her as she stood at the foot of the bed. Much like its owner, the custom-made bed was flamboyant and extraordinary. It was large enough to hold four or five people, which had Saint speculating once again about Madame Venna’s private life. Generous swags of crimson damask edged with gold fringe were draped over the ornately carved four-poster. Saint reached out to caress one of the posts. Upon closer inspection he realized that what he thought were thick vines were the entwined limbs of two lovers. The interior was too dark for him to inspect the finials overhead, but he suspected that he would not find the usual arrangement of wooden fruit and flora.

“A fascinating bed, Madame V,” he murmured.

“Just one of the many amusements my establishment provides,
monsieur le marquis,
” she said, casually stroking the bedpost within reach. Her fingers lingered on the male’s bare buttocks. “You approve,
oui
?”

“Very much,” he said, inching closer until his hand brushed against her hip. “What say you? Do you find me worthy to share your bed?”

Her slender shoulders straightened as if she was startled by his question. She moistened her lower lip, allowing her hand to slide down the carved bedpost. She reached for the front of his trousers and the prominent rigid flesh it concealed. His straining cock was as hard as the wooden carving she had been fondling.

“If you must ask, then I am not being a proper hostess.” With a delicate touch, she deftly unbuttoned his trousers and slipped her hand between the fabric and his hot flesh. “
Magnifique!
I see you do not require any encouragement from me. You are a fine male. Very fine. I shall enjoy this ride, no?” With her fingers, she lightly traced the defining sensitive edges of the head of his cock.

He inhaled sharply. “Yes.”

Saint tightly shut his eyes as Madame Venna peeled down his trousers, and he felt very much on display. Wordlessly, she explored him from the tip of his hard length to the firm stones hidden in the sac at its base. Her delicate, confident touch made him feel like he was fourteen again, and at the mercy of an experienced older woman. If she persisted, he was going to embarrass himself by releasing his hot seed into her eager hand.

He suddenly covered his hand over hers to still her actions. “That’s not what I want from you,” he said, his words sounding harsh even to his ears. Saint was not about to explain that he was too close to the edge, too out of control now that he was on the verge of bedding the woman who had haunted him for too long.

Madame Venna softly gasped when Saint spun her around and pushed her onto the bed. He was already reaching for the hem of her skirt when she glanced over her shoulder and offered him a knowing smile.

“Such impatience,
mon ange
!” she rebuked with a smile on her lips. “What do you plan to do with me now that you have me at your mercy?”

“I have no intention of showing you any mercy when I fuck you,” Saint replied, sounding rather menacing.

“Indeed.”

He doubted Madame Venna allowed anyone to get the upper hand unless it suited her purposes. He pushed her skirt and petticoat upward, revealing her stocking-clad legs. The layers of muslin were so fine, he could have ripped them with his hands.

“Why, Madame V, you astound me … you forgot to put on your drawers this morning.” His hand moved higher until he was caressing her bare inner thighs.

Her lips curled into a very catlike smile that made him want to forget about their little game and pounce. “Whoever told you that I wear drawers is mistaken. There is something very liberating about strutting around
au naturel.
”

Saint reached around until his splayed hand found her belly. He slowly slid his hand down until his fingers became entangled in the soft nest of hair between her legs. Madame Venna arched and rubbed her bare buttocks against his groin. His cock throbbed as she silently dared him to take her. He groaned as his fingers moved lower and deeper, finding the damp slit that the soft dewy curls concealed. Making an agreeable sound, she shifted and parted her legs, encouraging him to explore the most intimate part of her.