The Lover (21 page)

White-aproned waiters darted back and forth between white-enameled wrought-iron tables. Journeymen, clerks, and laborers sat side by side. Women laughed easily, feeding babies or themselves. Two children raced around a table while their mothers—or their nannies—waited out the rain over a pot of tea.

Anne marginally relaxed.

The pastry shop was comfortable rather than fashionable. She would not be recognized.

The stranger did not wait to be seated. Instead he gestured for Anne to precede him to an empty table at the back of the room.

If
she dared, his eyes silently challenged.

When she reached their destination, he pulled out a chair. "Please be seated."

"Thank you." Anne perched on the edge of the hard, metal chair, awkwardly shifted to allow him to push it forward. Her bustle dug into her derriere.

The child's incessant shrieks were enervating.

She bit her lip, acutely aware of the icy water that continued to trickle down her overheated face and neck. Sodden lanks of hair had escaped her bun.

A bowler hat dropped onto the enameled table, wilted black on chipped white. The stranger slid onto the chair opposite her. Silvery highlights shone in the hair on top of his head that had been protected from the rain. Silently he handed her his handkerchief.

Anne automatically accepted it, blotted her nose and cheeks dry. Hurriedly she offered it back.

He did not take it.

She stiffly withdrew her hand. "I will have it laundered and returned to you."

"Handkerchiefs are plentiful, mademoiselle. I assure you I can afford the loss of one."

He did not seem at all disturbed by the unrestrained ruckus surrounding them. Nor did he appear uncomfortable amidst London's lower middle class.

Slowly he pulled off his black kid gloves, revealing fingers that were long, pale, and slender. Perfect hands to match a perfect face. No doubt he had a perfect body as well.

The wet cotton balled inside her fist. She was not certain which was more thoroughly soaked—his handkerchief or her silk glove. "Are you in the same profession as Monsieur des Anges?" she asked baldly.

Hot blood pricked the tips of her ears at her directness.

"We have both enjoyed women." He dropped his gloves on top of his hat. Silver-gray eyes snared hers. "I have been told that I am every bit as good as Michel is. Would you care to test my expertise?"

The hot blood that burned her ears scorched a trail all the way down to her toes. Anne pushed the wrought-iron chair backward, metal scraping tile. "You are insulting, sir."

"I am asking an honest question, mademoiselle." The blond-haired man held perfectly still, his voice alone latching onto her. "You sought out Michel. Why not me?"

Why not me
? whipped through the drone of voices, the shrillness of laughter, and the child's unrelenting cries.

Anne was momentarily arrested by the lash of pain in the stranger's voice.

This beautiful, perfect man hurt.

As Michel hurt. Scarred by fire.

As Anne hurt. A wallflower who had never bloomed.

It was inconceivable that the three of them should be victims of the same needs: the simple desire to be wanted.

The floor tilted underneath her chair at the dizzying thought that he could be hers. For a price.

If
she wanted him.

The floor immediately righted at the realization that her nipples were beaded from cold, not temptation.

"I saw Michel when I made my London debut," she offered quietly.

She waited for his response, still poised to flee.

"If you had seen me first, who would you have chosen?"

An underlying intensity rang in the stranger's voice.

An honest question
, he had said.

He deserved an honest answer.

Anne held his gaze and did not lie. "Michel."

"Why?"

"His eyes," she responded truthfully. "They burn with passion."

Whereas the gray eyes staring at her now burned with silver fire but no passion.

Michel had said that he was attracted by a woman's sexual needs. She could not even begin to imagine what would attract this man.

"What is your pleasure, mademoiselle?" he asked softly.

Her head snapped back at the suggestive question that held no seduction.

"I have told you my pleasure, monsieur."

"But you have not told the waiter what it is that you wish."

Anne suddenly became aware of the young, fair-haired waiter who hovered several steps back from their table. He appeared afraid to stand any closer.

His trepidation was contagious.

Michel had offered her friendship as well as intimacy. By discussing him with the stranger, she betrayed him. By not discussing him, she would never know… so many things.

"I will have tea, please."

"Very well, ma'am."

The stranger's eyes gleamed pure silver. "I will have… whatever the lady is having."

The waiter departed as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

"Are you, too, named for your ability to make women see angels?" she asked recklessly, wanting to see behind the mask of the man who claimed to be Michel's friend but yet who was so unlike him.

"No." His lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. "There is only one man named for his ability to please women."

Anne could not stop the rush of scalding blood that flooded her cheeks. "Yet you claim that your skills are equally proficient. What name are you known by?"

All semblance of his smile died. "I am Gabriel, mademoiselle."

Gabriel.

"Are you the proprietor of the House of Gabriel?"

"Yes."

A wave of mortification rushed over her.

"Then you do not… that is, you do not solicit clients."

"No, not anymore," he murmured provocatively. His silvery gray eyes coldly watched her. "But perhaps, like Michel, no one has recently propositioned me. Would you care to know my price, mademoiselle?"

He was deliberately trying to discomfit her.

Or perhaps he was belittling her.

Because she was plain
. Yet she had the same needs as did two beautiful men.

"Why do you call me mademoiselle?" she asked sharply. "I have not told you my marital status."

"Married women come to my house every night, dissatisfied with their husband's prowess. You had not the look."

Pride would not let her glance away from the blond-haired man. "What did I have the look of, monsieur?"

"A virgin."

Not for anything would she give him the satisfaction of knowing he had correctly labeled her a virgin spinster. "And now?"

"Your skin glows with satisfaction. You look like a woman who revels in her sexuality. Do you want to know how Michel became a prostitute?"

Heat mushroomed through her body.

Yes
, she wanted to know how Michel came to be what he now was.

Contrarily, she did not want to admit her curiosity to the man who called himself Gabriel.

"How long has Monsieur des Anges lived in England?" she asked instead.

"Eighteen years."

Anne was momentarily taken aback. Michel had made his debut into English society at the same time that she had.

She quickly rallied. "How long have you known Monsieur des Anges?"

"Twenty-seven years."

"You knew him in France, then."

"We knew each other in France," he reiterated politely, watching her.

Anne raised her chin, refusing to ask the question he knew she wanted answered. "Michel is French for Michael. You say your name is Gabriel. You are both named after archangels. Are they your true names?"

"Michel is French for Michael," he replied calmly, waiting… "And my given name is Gabriel."

Anne weighed the truth of his statement.

It was highly improbable that two Frenchmen,
two friends
, both of whom had sold their services to women, would bear the names of angels.

"What surname do you go by?"

"I do not need a surname, mademoiselle." Contempt laced his voice. "I am Gabriel. Ask any gentleman—and a surprising number of ladies—and they will know me."

Anne bristled. "You don't like the men and women who come to your establishment."

"Sin is like cockroaches. It comes out in the night."

"Perhaps the people who come to you do not consider their needs a sin."

He leaned over the small round table. "Do you, mademoiselle?"

"They should not be, should they?" she countered.

A familiar expression darkened his pale face.

She had seen that expression on Michel's face.

Part pain. Part regret.

Relentlessness.

"Ask the question, mademoiselle."

Anne's heartbeat accelerated.

"You claim Monsieur des Anges is your friend. Why are you intent upon talking about him behind his back?"

"I want you to understand."

Understand what?

She suddenly noticed that the baby's wailing had subsided. A gust of cold wind swept through the room.

A customer had exited. Or entered.

"Very well. How did you and Monsieur des Anges enter into your previous professions?"

"We met on a road to Paris. Two runaways. Neither of us had any money or food. A madame—a bawd, if you will—took us in. She fed us, clothed us, and taught us how best we could pay her back."

Runaways.

"How old were you?"

He had long, thick, dark eyelashes. They did not blink at her question. "Thirteen."

She felt the blood drain from her face. "You were only children."

His lips curled in a mocking smile. She had seen that smile on Michel's lips. "Michel thrived on it, mademoiselle. He loved the women, the sexual excess. Don't ever think otherwise."

Anne could readily believe Michel had.

"But you did not."

Suddenly the waiter was between them. Dishes clattered; silverware rattled. The fair-headed young man nervously slid a plain white cup and saucer in front of Anne, then Gabriel. They were made out of stoneware rather than china; designed for utility rather than beauty. More dishes followed. A lemon wedge rolled off of a small white bowl onto the table.

Anne sat back to allow him room to align a rolled-up white linen napkin beside her saucer. Gabriel did not sit back.

The waiter's hands visibly shook as he set Gabriel's place. Without asking, the effeminate-looking young man grabbed the white porcelain teapot and poured.

Steaming brown liquid cascaded into her saucer.

"I will pour," she shortly ordered. "You may leave us."

The teapot thudded onto the metal tabletop. "Very well, ma'am."

Feeling every bit as nervous as the waiter, she grasped the curved handle of the teapot. Gabriel obligingly held up his saucer and cup.

As if he had not admitted to living off the street. Like the street sweeper lived.

As if he had not admitted to being forced into prostitution at the age of thirteen.

Numbly she wondered why she was so shocked.

The age of consent for an English girl was thirteen. She could sell her favors and those who purchased them would be considered legal, law-abiding citizens.

Why could not men be victimized by society as well as women?

Hot steam misted the air; she filled his cup before filling hers. Carefully she set the heavy stoneware teapot down on the edge of the table.

Anne's gaze skidded away from his. He did not look forty; neither did Michel. Yet if they had met twenty-seven years earlier when they were thirteen, that was the age both men were. "Would you care for cream, monsieur?"

"No, thank you."

"Sugar?"

"Three lumps, please."

Thank you. Please
. How polite the two of them were.

She dropped the prescribed sugar lumps into his cup, and added two to her own. He did not wait to be offered lemon, but reached for it himself, fingers long, strong, elegant.

"I neither want nor need your pity, mademoiselle."

Anne carefully unrolled her napkin and draped it across her lap. "Nor do I offer it to you."

"I did not take you as a woman who would hide from the truth."

Anne realized she still clutched his handkerchief. At the same time she realized she still wore her gloves.

It was the height of bad manners to wear gloves while taking tea.

Dropping the wet handkerchief into her reticule, she peeled off her gloves and shoved them underneath her napkin before answering. "I do not pity you, monsieur." Squarely she met his gaze. "I admire you."