The Courtesan's Bed (17 page)

Darius rubbed his chin. “I can understand why you wouldn't welcome such a boor to your bed.”

“Finally, he murdered her. Oh, he claims it was an accident. The Russians did what they always do, get drunk on vodka, turn out the lights and start shooting their pistols willy-nilly into the darkness.” She shook her head. “It's all such a rip-roaring good time to them, and unfortunately, since they are nobility, they pay for the damaged hotel rooms and their wild behavior is tolerated.”

Régine rubbed her forehead, feeling a headache coming on. “Why me? There are dozens of more beautiful, accomplished women in Paris, many of whom would welcome his wealth and attentions.”

Darius smiled. “But none of them can hold a candle to you, my dear, and Dragomilov knows this.”

“I just wish the loathsome creature would go back to the steppes of Russia and leave me alone.”

He placed a hand on her knee. “What would you like me to do about Count Serge Dragomilov?”

His serious expression sent alarm flooding through her. “Nothing! I can handle him myself. I mean it, Darius. No fistfights. No pistols or swords at dawn.” She grabbed his hand and laced her fingers tightly through his. “Dragomilov is a crazy, thickheaded Russian. You must promise me that you won't provoke him.”

His gray gaze turned so cold and fierce, she shivered. “I promise I will not make the first move to challenge him,” he said, “but if he does try to force himself on you, Régine, I swear on my mother's grave that I will act. I'm not the type of man who will sit idly by and allow any harm to come to you.”

Like Luc the other night at Maxim's, quietly watching Dragomilov expressing his displeasure at her for refusing his gift of champagne and saying nothing to defend her. Not that she'd needed him to. She was quite capable of handling intractable men on her own.

“I know you're brave and fearless, but please respect my wishes in this matter.”

He smiled. “Of course.”

She rubbed her forehead and sighed. “What a day. First your father, and now Dragomilov.”

Darius removed his hat, ran his hand through his hair and put the hat back on. “They're both a pair of persistent bastards, I'll say that for them.”

“Grown men acting like spoiled children used to getting their way,” Régine muttered, “ready to break everyone else's toys if they don't. But at least your father never physically abused me.”

“Just your soul.”

His truthful words overwhelmed her with emotion, and she stared at him, tears suddenly stinging her eyes. She looked away, giving herself a minute to compose herself.

She looked over and bestowed her brightest smile on him. “Even though our ride through the Bois has been spoiled, the day is still young, your lordship, and I propose that we enjoy it.”

He wiggled his eyebrows and grinned lasciviously. “What did you have in mind, my dear?”

“How are you at skating?”

He frowned. “Skating? As in ice skating?” He cast a puzzled look up at the clear, warm sky, and then at the lake. “Unless I'm mistaken, it's not winter, and that lake over there is not frozen. And since I haven't yet perfected the feat of walking on water…”

She swatted his arm playfully with her glove. “Silly man. I'm proposing a visit to the Place de la Glace, an indoor ice-skating rink.” Anything to take her mind off Dragomilov and the marquess.

Darius folded his arms across his chest. “I'll have you know that I'm quite an accomplished ice skater. Kate and Emma will vouch for my superior abilities.”

She slipped her arm through his. “Prove it.”

She didn't trust him to protect her.

Darius sat in the cab taking him back to the Hotel Continental and thought about the incident in the Bois this afternoon. He was touched that Régine was concerned for his safety and didn't want him fighting Dragomilov, but he wished she realized that she didn't have to bear life's burdens alone. She could trust and depend on him to protect her with his life.

He hadn't been there for her when his stepmother threw her out of the house. Yet he would have, if only capricious, cruel Fate hadn't intervened. Did Régine still hold that against him? But they had put the past behind them and were lovers. Surely she knew she could trust him.

He needed her to trust him, because once she trusted him, he was sure he could win her heart.

“I never fall in love,” she'd told him.

He would make her change her mind.

His heavy mood lightened when he thought of their perfect afternoon together—perfect once they left the Bois and the unpleasant episode involving Dragomilov behind them.

They'd gone ice skating, gliding arm in arm around the rink like a matched pair in perfect harmony. After their frozen noses and toes had enough of the cold, they stopped at a café and Régine introduced him to the ritual of drinking absinthe. They'd set their slotted absinthe spoons on the edge of two small special glasses with round, bulbous bottoms which were filled with the green aperitif. Régine set a small sugar cube in the center of each spoon.

“Now we take our glasses over to the fountain to add some water,” she said, “and then wait for the Green Fairy to appear.”

The absinthe fountain resembled a big samovar with several spigots. They placed their glasses under a spigot and released a slow stream of ice water. Darius watched the water seep over the sugar, through the spoon's slots and drip into the green liquor below. The water left a milky trail in its wake, and as the drops collected, soon the whole glass had turned from green to milky white.

They took their glasses and found a table outside, where they could watch the citizens of Paris stroll by.

Régine removed her spoon and raised her glass. “To the Green Fairy.”

He raised his glass. “To you.”

“Just a few sips,” she said. “If you drink too much, not only will you get drunk, but you may suffer from hallucinations.”

What fever dream would grip him? Régine naked and pleasuring herself, cupping her breasts and groaning as she tweaked her nipples? Then rubbing those soft breasts against his chest while she straddled his hips and took his stiff organ into her tight, wet cleft?

After they enjoyed half a glass of the potent aperitif, which tasted pleasantly of licorice, she headed home in her carriage and Darius hailed a cab to take him back to his hotel. They agreed to meet later to go to dinner, followed by an appearance at Maxim's, since Beaucaire had promised his faithful readers that their Queen of Fire would now occupy her vacant table.

He smiled. Giving Régine her friend's bed had been a stroke of inspiration. She loved it and appreciated the gesture. Lying on the damp, crumpled sheets with her last night, he'd puzzled over those four rings set in the posts so close to the mattress. They seemed so out of place with the bed's curved, flowing lines, like something dark and ponderous from a medieval cathedral stuck on a light, modern piece of furniture.

Suddenly he had another inspiring idea of how to put those rings to good use.

He grinned wickedly, signaled the driver and told him where he needed to go.

Ivy stood at the boudoir window of the Paris townhouse and waited for Serge to return from the Bois. He had promised to take her to his country house outside of Paris, a magnificent mansion complete with sprawling gardens and fountains.

She pursed her lips in anger and annoyance and turned away from the window. When he'd told her he was going for a ride in the Bois, she'd naturally assumed that he meant to take her along in his carriage so the rest of Parisian society could see that she was now officially his mistress. Once again, he cruelly dashed her hopes. Did her feelings mean nothing?

Surely it was high time he presented her to the demimonde. Was he ashamed of her? She was certainly good enough to screw, and he enjoyed every minute of possessing her.

His adamant refusal to publicly acknowledge her was the other woman's fault.

The one who wouldn't accept his diamonds.

He certainly wasn't pining away for Odile de la Montaigne. She wasn't cold in her lavish Père Lachaise grave before Serge was off sniffing more tail, first offering diamonds to one, and taking up with Ivy next.

Who was this mystery woman? Ivy would give every one of the new gowns Serge had bought her to discover her identity.

Why did she need to know? She couldn't make Serge desire this mystery woman less. No, Ivy must forget about her rival and concentrate on making herself more desirable.

Those diamonds obsessed her.

She tiptoed downstairs, keeping a watchful eye out for the concierge, and slipped into the study. She closed the door quietly and walked over to Serge's desk. He'd placed the flat jewelry case in a bottom drawer. She tugged at the pull, and to her surprise and delight, the drawer slid open.

Foolish not to lock up such valuable jewels. Was Serge so arrogant that he thought he was immune from housebreakers and jewel thieves?

She took out the box, set it on the desk and opened it.

She gasped aloud when she saw the fabulous diamond and emerald necklace and earrings lying on the bed of luxurious white satin.

The stones winked and sparkled as if beckoning her to try them on.

She took the necklace and positioned it around her neck. She dared not fasten the clasp lest someone walk in on her before she had time to take them off. She walked over to the mirror and held the necklace against her fair skin.

The stones blazed with hidden fire that warmed her skin, adding a twinkle to her eyes.

Their magnificence took her breath away.

She looked beautiful. Radiant. Regal.

God, how she wished Serge had bought this necklace for her. The ultimate tribute. The embodiment of a lover's regard and appreciation.

Wearing these jewels changed her, and she hated to take them off. She reluctantly put the necklace back in its case and slipped it exactly where she'd found it, closing the drawer.

She left the study without encountering the concierge and went to the sitting room to wait for Serge's return.

An hour later Ivy didn't need to hear the front door slam to know that Serge was roaring mad. Would he take his anger out on her?

He strode into the sitting room, his face ruddy and twisted with rage, looking like he wanted to tear someone to shreds. A cold icicle of fear touched her spine when his dark gaze fell on her.

She smiled and rose. “May I pour you a brandy?”

He nodded curtly and flung himself down on the sofa.

She unstopped the crystal bottle of Courvoisier and poured. “Did you enjoy your canter in the Bois?” She took the snifter over to the sofa.

He shrugged. “I exercised my horse. Otherwise, uneventful.”

He was lying. The other woman must've been there. She was responsible for his surly mood. Ivy handed him his drink and smiled flirtatiously. “Too bad you didn't take me along. I could've amused you.”

He scowled and took a long pull on the brandy. “You would've been bored.”

She sat next to him and ran her hand down his thigh. “Now how could I possibly be bored in your company?”

He removed her hand from his leg as if he found her touch repulsive, then he rose. “I have some work to do in my study and don't wish to be disturbed.”

He took his drink and left.

Ivy stared at the empty doorway, her own anger and resentment growing.

That evening in Serge's magnificent country house, seated across from him at a candlelit dining room table that glittered and gleamed with fine china, silver and sparkling heavy crystal the likes of which Ivy had never seen, she felt like royalty. And the delectable food his cook had prepared…she'd never tasted anything so rich and delicious.

She smiled at her lover. “When we return to Paris, can we go to Maxim's? I've never been. And I could wear one of the beautiful new gowns you bought for me.”

“The place bores me.”

Maxim's was the place men paraded their mistresses. Once a courtesan debuted there, she knew she'd arrived. All of the Paris demimonde would know a new competitor was on the scene, and perhaps Ivy would even catch the eye of a wealthier protector than Serge. Possibly her name would appear in Anatole Beaucaire's column in
Le Figaro.
She would give anything to see Madame Soubrise's face when that happened. Coco and the other girls would be talking about her good fortune for weeks—months—to come, and envying her.

Why was Serge so reluctant to take her there and show her off? The notion that he could be ashamed of her stuck in her craw. Well, she'd have to work harder at becoming the woman he'd be proud to display to the world.

She took a sip of wine. “I really know so little about you, Serge. Tell me about yourself.”

He looked surprised. “What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Do you have any brothers and sisters? What were your parents like? How was it growing up in Russia?”

“My family owns a large estate near St. Petersburg, with many serfs. I have two younger brothers, both high up in the Russian Army. My older sister is married to a cousin of the czar himself.”

So the Dragomilov family enjoyed a royal connection. Ivy could foresee staying with Serge and eventually becoming his countess, presented to the Russian court.

“And your parents?”

All the light left his features, replaced by a dark, brooding mask. He drained his wineglass quickly. “One particularly cold and harsh winter day, my father was traveling by troika—”

“Troika? What's that?”

“A sleigh pulled by three horses instead of two, harnessed abreast. He was in the troika when a large pack of starving wolves chased the sleigh.”

Ivy's eyes widened in horror.

“My father managed to shoot several of them, but the pack was large and desperate. Then one of the younger, unseasoned horses panicked—stupid beast—and the troika overturned.” He refilled his wineglass.