Simply Shameless (5 page)

"I'm not shocked, Philip. In truth, I found your story arousing. It is unusual to find an Englishman with such liberal sexual views."

He laughed. "Perhaps I should start a new kind of gentleman's club to instruct my fellow Englishmen in the erotic arts. What do you think?"

She stared at him for a long moment as his words swirled around her head. She would love to be in charge of such an establishment. To show men how women should be treated in bed, to explore the sensual delights Philip had revealed to her.

"Helene?"

She blinked and refocused on his face.

"Are you sure I didn't offend you? You seem distant."

He came up on his elbow to study her. His hair hung around his face, softening the hard, clean lines of his cheekbones.

She sighed. "I was thinking about tomorrow."

"We agreed not to think too hard."

Helene grimaced. "I know, but it is difficult. I have enjoyed this time with you"—she gestured at the untidy bedchamber— "this space, and this idyll."

He crawled toward her, his expression intent, his hazel eyes level with her own. "Our time is not over yet, madame. I have plenty more pleasure to give you before the morning." He slid his knees between her thighs, opening them wide, and shoved his cock deep. Helene moaned as her exquisitely sensitive sex absorbed his thick fullness.

"I promised to make you scream, Helene, and I'm a man of my word."

She reached for his shoulders, but he drew her hands over her head and held them there as he pumped into her. She could only move with him, watch him take her and make her his own.

His expression was savage, his intention to possess her all too obvious to a woman of her experience. For the first time in her life, she allowed herself to imagine what it might be like to be loved so completely

He pulled out, crawled up her body, and slid his cock into her mouth, groaning as she took him deep in her throat.

"God, I love you sucking my cock."

She drew back and used the tip of her tongue to torment the slit on the pulsing crown, swirled her tongue around the head until he cried out. With a growl, he jerked back and knelt between her thighs, plunging his shaft back inside her pussy in long hard strokes.

Her climax took her by surprise, sending her spiraling into ecstasy with a suddenness that made Philip come too. He barely managed to pull out in time, and his hot cum spilled on her belly. He continued to hold her close, his hips still moving in the rhythm of love.

Helene bit her lip as his now-familiar weight settled over her. He'd reminded her that even the ecstasy of his lovemaking was all too brief a joy in a life that might end tomorrow. She'd lost too many of the people she'd loved to ever believe such perfection could last. Her fingers tangled in his damp hair, and she fought back tears. For the first time in years, she found herself praying, but whether her prayer was for forgiveness for daring to hope or for a miracle, she couldn't tell.

Philip risked a wary smile at Helene over the coffeepot. She was all calm politeness, but something had changed. Something indefinable but vital had slipped through his fingers during the cold unknown hours of dawn while they slept. A knot of tension formed in his gut as he studied her.

He couldn't stand to part from her. The realization held him frozen in shock, his cup half raised to his mouth.

She wore her own clothes again. The patched and worn garments of a lower-class woman. He put down his cup. It didn't matter to him. He was prepared to buy her anything she ever desired.

"Would you like some more coffee, Philip?"

"No, I thank you."

Abruptly he stood up and started to pace the room. Helene put the coffeepot down and watched him carefully, a small frown creasing her forehead.

He turned to face her. "I can't go through with it."

"With what?"

"The marriage to Anne, the whole stepping into my dead brother's shoes."

"Tell your father when you see him. Perhaps you misjudge him and he will understand."

Philip fought off a shiver. "He will never understand. For him, duty to your family is almost as important as duty to the king and God."

She bit her lip. "I do not know how to help you,
mon ami."

He held her gaze. "Yes, you do. Marry me."

She blinked rapidly, her face paling as she stared at him.

"I. . . cannot do that."

"Why not?" Anger rose, displacing the fear.
He was proposing marriage, goddamn
her
—
why wasn't she smiling?
"I promise I'll be a good husband."

"That's not the point. You hardly know me; we are not of the same social class, or even the same nationality."

He stalked back to the table and leaned over her. "I
know
you."

She gazed back at him, her beautiful features composed. Her mouth quirked up at one corner and fueled his gathering incomprehensible rage. "Philip, you know my body. Sex doesn't tnake a marriage."

He stared down at her, his breathing harsh. "I want you; you want me. Isn't that enough?"

"Not for me."

He pulled back as if she'd hit him. "I am not good enough for you? Who is waiting for you in London, the king?"

Pain flickered across her face, and she gripped the arms of her chair harder. "That is not what I meant. You are young; you have the whole world to discover. If you want to get out of marrying your Anne, just tell your father the truth. You do not need to pretend to fall in love with me just to give yourself an escape route."

He glared at her over his shoulder. "She is not my Anne."

Her cool logic cut at him, reduced him to a raging impotent child. He moved away to pace the floorboards again. How dare she turn him down?

"We can go to Gretna Green, get married there."

"And how will we support ourselves when your father cuts off your income?"

He swung back to face her, his rage dying as he studied her beautiful face. "I think I could love you, Helene."

She stood up so violently her coffee cup fell to the floor and shattered.

"You have no right to do this to me!"

"What the hell are you talking about?"

She thumped her fist against her breast. "I have plans; I have a new life awaiting me. I cannot deal with this, this ..."

"Stupidity? Me falling in love with you is stupid?"

"I didn't say that!" She briefly closed her eyes as if she couldn't bear to look at him. "You can't love me. I won't allow it."

He held her anguished gaze, his smile wretched. "You think I have a choice in the matter?"

"We all have choices. Yours are already clear. Go home to your family, marry the girl you are supposed to, and forget all about me."

His throat ached, and he took an unsteady step toward her. "I can't do that. I want you and only you. I don't care about your background or the fact that you are a widow. I just want to marry you."

She worried her lip so hard she drew blood. "You can't."

"Why not? I know that you care about me." He placed his hand over his heart, mirroring her gesture. "I know it
here.
Tell me what I can do to make things right for us."

She shivered violently and lifted her chin. "I am not what you think."

Philip drew an unsteady breath. "You are the woman I love."

"I am a whore."

He opened his mouth to reply and shook his head as words finally escaped him.

"It's true. I've bedded more men than you could ever imagine. I spent two years in the Bastille servicing the guards and two years as an old man's mistress. I am a whore."

He still couldn't speak; his throat was so constricted. She sat back down, her features composed; only the fine tremor in her folded hands displayed any hint of inner turmoil.

"Are you suggesting that what we shared was a fake, a sham? That I was just another customer to you?"

She inclined her head the merest half inch. Rage bubbled and boiled inside him again, and he picked up his coat and hat.

"Madame, you are good in bed, but not that good. I know when a woman is pretending and you ... you were not."

She raised her eyebrows, and he caught her chin in his hard fingers. "You didn't have to pretend with me. Say it."

She swallowed hard, her tongue moistening her lips. "Perhaps I am not only a whore but a brilliant actress."

He gazed into her blue eyes as the pain in his heart threatened to fill his whole chest and then crawl up his throat. "You lie. If you choose to pretend we mean nothing to each other, have it your way. But I know the truth. I
know
you."

Her eyelashes fluttered down, concealing her expression. In a savage motion, his fingers curled around her neck. The pulse at the curve of her throat pounded like a trapped animal. With all his control, he let her go and stepped back, dug his hand into the pocket of his greatcoat, and drew out his purse.

"How much?"

"What do you mean?" she whispered.

He jingled his purse. "How much do I owe you for our night together?" She looked away from him. "If you are a professional whore, surely you have a regular charge?"

"Va chez le diable,
Philip!"

He stuffed his purse back into his pocket with shaking fingers and waited until she looked at him again. The mixture of desolation and anger in her eyes probably reflected his.

"You see, you can't charge me, can you? Because you know we shared more than a business transaction or a slaking of lust. We shared each other's souls." He put on his hat.

She flinched away from him as if expecting a blow. Sadness ate at his anger. "It's a shame you are too afraid to trust me. I expect one day you'll realize what you let slip through your fingers, and I hope you'll feel as empty and wretched as I do today. Good day, madame."

She didn't speak, didn't even look at him as he headed for the door, shoving his half-packed bag out with him. He slammed the door shut and leaned against it. His mind refused to function properly as he strained to make sense of the silence behind him.

Thoughts tumbled erratically through his mind. He should hire a horse, get to London as quickly as possible, and marry whomsoever his father wanted.

He closed his eyes. What was the point in doing anything else? Helene might think him a romantic fool, but he knew love when he found it. He also suspected he was unlikely to ever meet its like again.

Helene held her breath as the door shut behind Philip and his baggage. In the sudden silence, she stared at the back of the door. Was he still out there? What was he waiting for? For her to beg him to return? She'd hurt his pride, that was all, nothing more. He'd simply been upset when she'd ignored his ridiculous marriage proposal.

A moan escaped her tightly clamped lips.
Mon Dieu,
it hurt to breathe. In her soul, she knew he'd meant every word. Part of her longed to run after him, to fall into his arms and find happiness. But she couldn't risk it, couldn't allow herself to be used and discarded again when he realized his mistake. And his family would make sure he realized what a colossal mistake she was.

She got slowly to her feet and bent over like an elderly woman with the pain of his leaving, with the pain of denying him. Images of his face when she'd told him what she was, the shock he'd tried to hide, his gallant offer to love her anyway. She didn't deserve such love; she was already beyond redemption. Everyone who had truly loved her was dead.

Tears fell down her cheeks as she crawled back into bed and buried her face in the sheets.

She could still smell him, his scent as familiar now as her own.

London would have to wait until the next passenger coach came through. She had people who were depending on her to succeed. She needed to mourn again, to rebuild her strength and try, if it was possible, to forget Philip Ross had ever existed.

Chapter Four

One last time, Helene checked the address on the battered piece of parchment clutched in her gloved hand. Was this imposing house on St. James Square really the residence of Viscount Harcourt-DeVere? It seemed far too large for one family. The last time she'd seen the viscount, he'd been in rags and manacles, trying to avoid a beating from the guards at the Bastille. Accused of spying for the English, escape was his only option, and Helene had been glad to help him.

She swallowed her sudden nausea and mounted the steps, which gave her an elevated view of the square and the deserted garden in the center. The trees in the central area were bereft of leaves and frosted with ice. A large brass knocker shaped like a church bell loomed in her face. It took all her strength to raise it and let it fall. She almost turned and retreated down the steps when the door abruptly opened.

"May I help you, ma'am?"

The man she assumed was the butler was dressed in somber black that contrasted strongly with the whiteness of his wig and his pale thin lips.

Helene lifted her chin. "I wish to speak to the viscount. Is he at home?"

The butler regarded her for a long moment. "Do you have an appointment, ma'am?"

"I do not, but the viscount told me that if I ever visited London, I was to seek him out immediately." She offered him the scrap of parchment. "He gave me his direction and told me to bring him this."

The butler took the parchment, bowed, and opened the door. "Perhaps you might care to wait in the small morning room while I inquire as to the viscount's whereabouts?"

Helene was too grateful he hadn't shut the door in her face to worry about her less-than-enthusiastic reception. She followed the butler through the shadowed marbled hall and into a room facing the front of the house. Heat from a diminutive fireplace embraced her as she entered the oak-paneled room. She took off her gloves and held her hands out to the flames.

A clock ticked loudly on the high mantelpiece, eventually grinding and wheezing to strike a single note to signify the quarter hour. Helene paced the room, her nerves too on edge to allow her to sit.

"Madame?"

She turned to find the butler at the door.

"The viscount will see you now."