The Courtesan's Bed (24 page)

“Why are you doing this?” Darius demanded.

“As you can see, I found a new protector.”

“I thought you were happy with me.”

“I was, until I met Villemessant.” She smiled like a woman in love. “He quite swept me off my feet.”

Darius balled his hands into fists. “Have you slept with him yet?”

“Not that it's your concern, but yes.”

Devastated, he sank into the chair and cradled his head in his hands, a man defeated. “How could you betray me with another? I love you, Régine.”

She laughed, a harsh, pitiless sound that felt like talons raking his skin. “Love? I am a courtesan. Didn't I once tell you that I never fall in love? I sell my body for money, and the more money a man gives me, the happier I am.”

He looked over at her. “I can't understand why you're doing this to me—to us. The cold, calculating woman who's standing before me now is not the same woman who made such passionate love to me.” He shook his head. “I don't believe it.”

“Most of my lovers experience disbelief when I send them away. But broken hearts mend. Eventually.”

He jumped to his feet and walked up to her. Suspecting his intentions, she raised her arms, so when he drew her into his arms, they served as a barrier. When he tried to kiss her, she turned her head so his lips hit her cheek.

“Would you force me?” she asked softly. “Even your father never tried to take me against my will.”

Her brutal words were like a splash of cold water on his stiffening cock, and he released her, stepping back. “There was a time not so long ago when you sought my attentions.”

She walked over to the window and gazed out into the street. “A kiss won't make me change my mind. Accept my decision with good grace and return to England where you belong.”

“Régine—”

“Please leave. There is nothing more that you can say to make me change my mind. Our liaison is over. Have enough pride to accept it.”

He stared at her, willing her to turn around and fling herself into his arms and tell him that this was all a horrible mistake.

She didn't.

She kept her rigid back to him.

He took a deep breath and summoned generations of Granger pride and dignity. He would not fall on his knees and beg. He refused to grovel. If she truly didn't want him, there was nothing he could do except leave.

“Goodbye, Régine.”
My love.

“Goodbye, Darius.”

His last sight of Régine was of her profile as she stared straight ahead.

Régine listened to Darius's quick footsteps taking him out of her life forever, and she felt like dying.

Stop him. It's not too late.

The front door opened and closed. A second later he appeared outside, striding toward his waiting cab, now seeming eager to get away from her.

She waited for him to turn so she would get one final look at him, a picture that she would burn into her brain to last a lifetime. But he didn't. He got into the cab and drove away. Too late.

She was alone.

Tremors of shock wracked her body, and she crossed her arms to keep from shattering into a million little pieces.

She staggered across the room on wobbly knees, grasping the backs of chairs for support, and poured herself a glass full of brandy with a hand so unsteady some liquid splashed onto the table.

Dear God, what have I done?

She closed her eyes and drank deeply, hoping the searing fire of alcohol would burn away her pain and warm her cold, bereft body. She choked and coughed, making her eyes water. Or were they tears of sorrow and loss?

How am I going to live without him?

She had to lie down before her knees gave way and she collapsed. She headed for the door, intending to go upstairs, when she entered the foyer and glanced at the table.

There stood the box containing the Byzantine crown.

Grief exploded and tore her apart like an anarchist's bomb. Deep, shuddering sobs wracked her body. Tears blinded her, and she grabbed the banister for support and eased herself down so she could sit on the steps. She buried her face in her hands, crying so hard she could barely catch her breath.

Later, when she ran out of tears, her sobs became dry wheezes that dwindled away into the piteous mewling of a wounded animal. Soon even they stopped, and an eerie stillness filled the foyer.

Régine pulled herself to her feet and went upstairs to lie in her cold, empty bed, with only Darius's scent on the sheets and pillow to comfort her.

Ivy couldn't believe her ears. She had stopped at the corner apothecary to buy her favorite gardenia-scented soap when she overheard the clerk behind the counter tell another customer that the Queen of Fire had sent her earl packing.

How did she know? Well, her brother-in-law's nephew worked at
Le Figaro
,
and he overheard Mademoiselle Laflamme's confidante Anatole Beaucaire tell another reporter the astonishing news.

Ivy sidled closer to the clerk while pretending to be absorbed in some perfumes displayed behind glass. The gossiping clerk had to be wrong. The earl obviously worshiped Régine. He'd hung on her every word at Maxim's. And now they'd gone their separate ways? What she wouldn't give to hear the whole juicy story.

She felt cold all over. If—when—Serge learned that the woman he desired no longer had a protector, he'd see his way clear to possessing her.

And once that happened, Ivy would be out in the cold.

Chapter Nineteen

London

The Dowager Duchess of Sefton's ballroom was too hot, too noisy and too crowded. Darius stood on the sidelines, wishing he were in Paris, lying blissfully sated in Régine's arms after a bed-shaking orgasm.

In the three weeks since she'd torn his heart out and stomped it to death, he'd felt like he was walking underwater, every movement an effort, his senses blunted, an overpowering listlessness robbing him of mental and physical strength. His mind was always elsewhere, usually in Paris with Régine.

He thought that by immersing himself in the social whirlwind of Kate's Season, he'd be able to forget his fiery mistress, but all he accomplished was making himself available to a sea of ravenous sharks wearing silk ball gowns and carrying fluttering ivory fans.

The heat and the noise suddenly became too much to bear, and he had to leave before he passed out.

Of course, his father would have to choose that exact moment to plague him like a bothersome rash.

The marquess placed his hand on Darius's shoulder. “I'm proud of you, son. You finally realized that you have a duty to the family to marry well. I know Regina's one of a kind, and giving her up and returning to London took a great deal of courage, but you did the right thing.”

Darius shrugged off his father's hand, irritated by his sire's hale, jolly tone, as though Darius had done nothing more drastic than shake off a bothersome cold. “As I told you, she discarded me. If she hadn't, I'd still be with her, in her bed, fucking her senseless.”

Blackwall turned pink but ignored the crude comment and scanned the ballroom as if picking out Thoroughbred broodmares for his stables. “Quite a crop of beautiful, eligible women here tonight, son.” He nudged Darius with his elbow. “Take the Viscount of Dedham's daughter over there. Pretty little thing of impeccable breeding. She'd make you a fine wife.”

Darius lifted his hand to his mouth to cover an exaggerated yawn. “Just thinking about that poor simpering creature puts me to sleep. All she talks about are her favorite West End shops. I assume she spends a great deal of time in them, wearing her papa's fortune on her back.” He could listen to Régine talk about the most mundane things for hours and never be bored. She could also converse knowledgeably about art, literature and politics.

The marquess made an exasperated sound. “You're much too particular and critical. She'd make a fine wife and mother of my grandchildren.” He continued his perusal of approved prospects. “If she's not to your taste, there's the Duchess of Leeds' granddaughter.”

“The one with no tits?” He thought of Régine's lovely breasts, and how he adored baring and caressing the warm, abundant flesh, and listening to her moan with such abandon with every flick of his tongue on her sensitive nipples.

“Don't be crude.” Blackwall craned his neck and continued his search. “What about the Viscountess Saint-Germaine? She's a widow, poor thing, but at least she's known a man and won't be afraid of you on your wedding night.”

Darius doubted the virtuous widow would allow him to tie her to a bed or be willing to pleasure his ass.

Sensual memories of the first time he'd seen Régine naked flooded his mind, causing the walls to close in on him. He couldn't breathe. He had to get out of here before all these marriage-minded harpies converged and pecked him to death.

“I need some fresh air.” Before his father could protest or extol the virtues of yet another eligible young lady, he strode over to the wall of French doors and let himself out onto the patio.

He closed the door behind him, and the music softened. He walked over to the stone balustrade and leaned against it, staring out into the empty gardens now bathed in bright silvery light from the full moon just clearing the roof of the house. He wondered what Régine was doing right now. Was she thinking about him? Did she regret sending him away? Was she with that callow Villemessant fellow, tying him to the bed and giving him the pleasure that rightfully belonged to Darius?

The music from the ballroom suddenly grew louder, indicating that someone had opened the doors and was coming out onto the patio. Next came quick, determined footsteps.

“All alone, Lord Clarridge?”

He turned to see the odious Lady Kidd standing there. “Until now.” He hoped his rudeness would chase her away.

She laughed and fanned herself. “I don't blame you for wanting to escape the crush.”

“And the unwanted attentions of desperate, husband-seeking women.”

Of which she was the worst. He had disliked Lucy Kidd from the moment the well-meaning Kate had introduced them. From a distance, she resembled Régine, statuesque, with auburn hair. But as she drew closer, her hair looked as dull as rust, rather than ablaze with fire, and her tall frame moved with as much grace as a camel. Her eyes were a forgettable shade of watery blue, not as intense and sparkling with intelligence like Régine's, and her mouth large and broad, with sharp, predatory teeth capable of snipping off a man's balls. Her figure lacked Régine's voluptuous curves as well, and the thought of seeing her angular body naked sent a shudder of revulsion rippling through him. She was nothing more than a coarse caricature of Régine, not his vibrant Queen of Fire. Why would he want a poor copy when he'd had the original? And Lady Kidd sought him out with the persistence of a cat that tried to insinuate itself despite knowing it was disliked.

“It's such a lovely night.” Even her voice sounded overly loud and brassy.

He lifted one shoulder in an uninterested shrug. “I've always found moonlit nights boring in their consistency.”

She tapped his arm playfully with her fan. “Oh, come now, Lord Clarridge. Such cynicism in one so young.” She slipped her arm through his before he could move out of range, holding him captive.

“Really, Lady Kidd—”

“Call me Lucy, please, and may I call you Darius?” Before he could open his mouth to refuse, she rolled on, oblivious. “I won't take no for an answer, sir.” She tugged on his arm, determined to lure him into the secluded garden like a lamb to the slaughter.

He was too much of a gentleman to push her away, even though he seethed inside at her presumptuousness.

“Such a lovely night.” She squeezed his arm as they walked down the steps and took the path to the right.

He clenched his teeth. Was that the extent of her conversational abilities, the loveliness of the night?

“The duchess's gardens are quite remarkable,” she said. “You should see them by daylight.”

“I have no interest in gardening.” He'd rather drive through the Bois de Boulogne with Régine, go to Durand's for supper, and later Maxim's for champagne and caviar.

She leaned against him, holding his arm tighter. “What does interest you, then?”

“Fucking my beautiful mistress.”

If he thought he could shock her, he was mistaken. Lady Kidd just laughed, a sound suspiciously like the braying of an ass, and once again batted him with her fan. “How very outrageous of you to speak so frankly to a lady.”

“I am frank by nature.”

When he saw the folly up ahead, a place of dalliance for lovers, he immediately divined her intentions and stopped dead in his tracks.

She tugged on his arm. “Come, Darius. Surely you're not afraid that I'll compromise your virtue.”

“If you'll excuse me…”

Just as he turned to leave, she stepped in front of him to block his escape, her watery eyes as bright as a hungry wolf's by moonlight. She clutched his arms. “Don't be coy with me, sir. I'm a worldly woman. I've seen the way you look at me when you think I'm not looking.”

He grabbed her wrists to restrain her from sliding her arms up to his neck for a kiss. “You've grossly misinterpreted my intentions, Lady Kidd.”

“Oh, I don't think so.” She licked her lips and tried to pull away. “You want to make love to me, and I want you to make love to me. Now!”

Darius flung her from him and ran down the path, away from her grasping hands, away from the marriage trap looming before him like a great yawning pit.

The following morning, the minute Darius walked through the door of his father's townhouse after a reckless, breakneck gallop through Hyde Park, Kate came sweeping into the foyer. She'd obviously been lying in wait for him.

“Darius! I have the most wonderful, exciting news. Sefton asked me to—” She stopped dead in her tracks. Her eyes widened in alarm. “What on earth happened to you?”