When Tempting a Rogue (6 page)

“I’d like men to spend their money there as well. A gentleman’s boutique with a tailor on staff, and perhaps a small salon where they might smoke and have a drink.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but stopped herself. Yes, women did most of the household shopping, but men and their valets still had to purchase clothing and toiletries. Why narrow her market by catering only to women? “Perhaps if we make ourselves available to gentlemen, society won’t be so quick to denounce us as corruptors of women.”

Trystan nodded. “We should carry shaving and other grooming supplies as well. What do you think of a chemist of sorts on site to custom blend aftershaves and soaps? We could make creams and perfumes for the ladies as well.”

It was a brilliant notion. “I like it. We could keep all the formulations on file for when shoppers run out and require more.”

“For that matter, we could keep a tally of each customer’s purchases and use that information to let them know when something new they might like arrives at a particular shop.”

Vienne drained what little wine was left in her glass and refilled it. She topped Trystan’s off as well. “So, if your sister-in-law the duchess purchased a pair of brown leather boots, we could alert her if matching gloves become available.”

“
Exactly!
Or, if a gentleman buys his wife a necklace, he could be sent a notice if the matching earrings are reduced in price.”

“We could notify all our customers when items are reduced to make room for more stock. If there’s one thing rich people love, it’s getting more for less money.”

He laughed, and Vienne’s heart leapt at the sound. That was the Trystan she remembered.

The Trystan she had fallen in love with.

She sent for more wine. They finished the first bottle and began the second as they talked, each tossing out ideas that were either met with delight or rejected outright. And they didn’t argue about it. It seemed that on most points the two of them were in perfect alignment. They talked as though their affair had never happened or, worse, had never ended. Vienne didn’t care if it was dangerous. He had some incredible ideas for their business and that was more important, especially when she knew better than to let her heart rule her again.

Her libido, on the other hand, was humming inside her. She was very much aware of a slight, delicious tightening between her legs—a sweet ache that wanted to be rubbed. Her blood was like warm honey in her veins—and when she licked the juice from gorgeously ripe strawberry at the corner of her mouth, she saw Trystan watching with brazen appreciation.

She had brought him here with seduction in mind, hoping to play on whatever attraction he might still feel for her. But before the second bottle of wine, she had already realized what a bad idea that would be. Sex always complicated relationships; it was never as simple as shared pleasure should be.

But now, staring into those amazing eyes, remembering just how easily he used to bring her to climax—and the various ways he did so—made seducing him seem like it wouldn’t be such a mistake after all. She wanted him, and he obviously wanted her as well, so what was the harm in giving in to temptation? If it made him easier to manage afterward, so much the better. And if it did not . . . well, she would have assuaged the ache and they would perhaps enjoy each other for a little while. Until he left London again.

Vienne rose to her feet, swaying ever so slightly. Trystan, gentleman that he was, stood as well, which was exactly what she had wanted him to do—
such
an agreeable boy.

She closed the short distance between them, moving nearer so that they were mere inches apart. She looked up—not far, given her above-average height—and found herself staring at his shapely mouth.

She remembered that mouth. Her hands reached out suddenly and clumsy fingers gripped the lapels of his jacket.

“Vienne, what are you doing?”

“What we both want,” she replied brazenly, and then up on her toes she went—and pressed her eager mouth to his.

Chapter 4

F
or a moment, Trystan allowed himself to enjoy the sweet pressure of Vienne’s lips against his—and when her wine-flavored tongue eased inside, he met it with his own, bringing a hint of strawberry to the kiss.

She felt exactly as he remembered, perhaps even better. Soft and pliable in his arms; slender but curved in all the right places. He thought he would never have the opportunity to hold her again. His hands itched to explore her; his mouth grew more thirsty. Arousal surged, heavy and tight. His desire for her was as much emotional as it was physical—he didn’t want to let her go.

But he did just that. And when she gazed at him with heavy-lidded eyes—filled with confusion more than desire or any other feeling—he knew he’d made the right choice, as difficult as it had been.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Mouth twisting, still tasting of her, Trystan pushed her away with more force than he intended. In her slightly inebriated state, Vienne stumbled but did not fall.

“What did you hope to accomplish with tonight?” he demanded somewhat bitterly. “Sweeten me up, pretend to like my ideas; feed me, pour wine down my throat, and then insure that I was good and under your thumb with a little well-timed seduction?”

The expression on her face supported his suspicions. “I do like your suggestions.”

He let loose a bark of harsh laughter. She didn’t even try to deny the rest. “You and I already had that dance, Vienne. I’m not one of your boys who will do whatever you want for the pleasure of warming your bed; and I will not allow you to railroad me into being your subordinate. We’re business associates—and I do not make a habit of screwing the people I do business with.”

She put on a seductive, placating smile. “Trystan—”

“
No!
. . . Do whatever it is you need to do to accept that I am your partner and will not be manipulated or controlled by you—but
do not
make the mistake of thinking I’m still that boy who worshiped the ground upon which you trod. Good
night
.”

He strode from the room with a stiff back and clenched jaw. She didn’t follow him—Vienne would never lower herself and chase after a man—which saved him the humiliation of being caught. His fingers curled into fists as the maelstrom of emotions inside him warred for dominance. He was embarrassed and angry and disappointed and . . . still aroused.
Damn her to hell.

He was pissed at her for trying to maneuver him and even more pissed at himself for falling for it. He wanted Vienne to offer herself to him because she wanted him, not in some kind of power struggle or bid for dominance.

Damn it
. He wanted to be the one in charge. That didn’t make him any better than she, did it? At least he had the excuse of a broken heart. No man would refute his lowly desire for a little revenge, the satisfaction of having the choice to take Vienne or refuse her.

And he had refused her just now. Yet, there was little pleasure in it. Was he the first man to say no to her? Probably. That didn’t offer the satisfaction it should have either.

He was disappointed, though Vienne had acted exactly as he expected her to. That didn’t make any sense, but then again Trystan was beginning to think perhaps he wasn’t a good judge of what made sense and what didn’t. He had drunk more wine than he should have . . . Vienne had been so animated and seemed so engrossed in the sharing of ideas. . .

For a moment it had felt like they were actually partners. Why did she have to go and ruin it?

Enough
. She had made her play and he rebuffed it. Nothing more needed to be thought or picked apart. Vienne would not do it again; she was too smart for that. She would, however, change tactics.

As would he. Instead of leaving as he had intended, he went to one of the gaming rooms. Within moments of entering the brightly lit room that practically reverberated with the sounds of roulette wheels, chatter, laughter, and the occasional cry of defeat, he found the person he sought.

Archer was talking to a young widow who had something of a reputation for appreciating both male and female companionship. Trystan had imbibed
just
enough liquid courage and was irritated
just
enough that he had no compunction about striding right up to his brother.

“Let’s go,” he said.

Archer turned to him with an expression that was as much disbelieving as it was annoyed. “Beg pardon?”

Trystan bowed to the lady. “Apologies for my rudeness, but would you mind if I spoke to my brother privately?”

“Of course not,” she replied easily. “Lord Archer and I can continue our
conversation
at his earliest convenience.” There was no mistaking the promise of pleasure in her voice, but then both of his brothers had inherited a charm with the fairer sex that seemed to elude him.

“What the devil is wrong with you?” Archer demanded in a low voice as soon as the pretty blonde left them. “Have you been drinking?”

The scowl on his sibling’s face brought a grin to Trystan’s own. He was still enough of a brat that he enjoyed discombobulating his brothers. “I have. I’m on my way to Chez Cherie’s. Care to join?”

Archer’s jaw sagged as his pale eyes widened ever so slightly—it was quite the coup to illicit such a reaction from a man as schooled at hiding his true feelings as Archer was. “Chez Cherie’s?”

“Am I not enunciating clearly?” He was being deliberately glib. “Yes, that is exactly what I said and where I am bound. Will you join me or not?”

“Not,” his brother replied. “I promised Grey I’d meet him for a game of snooker in ten minutes, and I hope to catch up with Lady Mitchell afterward—if you didn’t succeed in scaring her into another man’s arms.”

“Or woman’s,” Trystan offered brightly.

Archer raised a sharp brow. “I am a gentleman and more than willing to share with a lady, but my generosity does not apply to a bloke. Why don’t you stay here? I’m sure you can find someone more than willing to have you for free, even though you are the ugliest of our lot.”

Trystan wasn’t offended, though it was true. Their oldest brother, Grey, Duke of Ryeton, had rugged features while Archer’s were sharp; neither had any trouble attracting lovers. But Trystan’s features were more a combination of the two of them, making his nose perhaps a little too big and his mouth a little too wide. Still, his mother always claimed he had the prettiest eyes. And he had learned not to underestimate the power of such a gaze where women were concerned.

“Tonight I think I would prefer to pay,” he confided. “One knows exactly where one stands with a professional. Little room for disappointment or humiliation.”

Archer frowned, his countenance all concern. “Perhaps I should take you home.”

He clapped his elder sibling on the shoulder. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’m the most reliable, steady, and least reckless male in our family.”

“Yes,” Archer agreed, looking not the least bit comforted by the reminder. “That is what concerns me. Let me tell Grey we’re leaving and I’ll take you back to the Barrington.”

Trystan’s fingers gripped his brother’s shoulder and squeezed forcefully—not hard enough to hurt but with enough pressure to get his attention. “I’m not going home and I don’t need you acting like my frigging governess. Come with me or don’t, but I’m going.”

Archer stared at him, long and hard. It was deuce impossible to decipher what the look meant, or guess at what he saw, but eventually he nodded. “As you wish. Breakfast tomorrow, then?”

Trystan smiled. “On me.” He lifted his hand from his brother’s shoulder. “Have fun with Lady Mitchum.”

“Mitchell.”

“Of course.” But Trystan was already walking away and really didn’t care what the woman’s name was. He snagged a glass of champagne from a passing footman’s tray and downed it in one gulp in time to deposit it on another.

He ran into Vienne on his way out, just as she was coming in, still wearing that gorgeous gown that molded to her like a layer of brilliant skin. “Trystan,” she said a little breathlessly—a tone that brought back so many arousing and heartbreaking memories. “I want to talk to you.”

“Tomorrow,” he told her, barely stopping. “Let’s meet at the site around two and we’ll discuss how to best incorporate the new plans. Now, please excuse me, I have another engagement.”

He left her there, staring after him.
That
gave him some measure of satisfaction. Let her try to explain herself tomorrow, in the harsh light of day when both of them were sober and completely aware—and undoubtedly mortified—about this night. He looked forward to it.

But for now, he was going to go to a high-class brothel to find a woman who was the exact opposite of Vienne La Rieux.

And he was going to shag her senseless.

S
he should know better than to drink wine. She always woke up with a headache that lingered throughout the day.

Vienne sat at her desk with a pile of papers in front of her and, to her right, a cup of tea with a headache powder dissolved in it. The tea masked most of the bitter taste, but occasionally she took a sip that made her shudder as soon as the medicine hit her tongue.

“Madame La Rieux?”

She glanced up. Her secretary stood in the doorway. “Yes, Victor? What is it?”

The effeminate young man looked a little nervous. “The Duke of Ryeton is here to see you, ma’am.”

Ryeton, at this hour?
Why, it was just passed eleven. Most aristocrats were still abed. “Show him in.”

She rose to her feet, wishing she’d had time to consult a mirror. She absolutely abhorred looking anything less than her best when important people came to call—not for their benefit, oh no. Her appearance was her armor, and she despised showing any chinks in it.

The duke swept in like the force of nature that he was. He was one of those noblemen who lived life exactly as he wanted and had paid the price on several occasions—the wicked scar marring the left side of his rugged face was one such consequence. There was a family resemblance between Greyden Kane and his youngest brother, more so now that Trystan had returned, but the duke was larger and more rugged. Truth be told, Vienne found him somewhat intimidating and at the same time a kindred spirit—for both he and she would do whatever they had to in order to achieve their goals.

And judging from the look on His Grace’s face, Vienne was an obstacle in his path.

“Your Grace.” Somehow she managed to keep her voice normal. “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”

Cold gray-blue eyes locked with hers. “Last night my brother Trystan stormed out of here as if the hounds of Hades were snapping at his heels.”

“Did he?” She was all surprise and apologetic ignorance. “I am sorry to hear that.”

The duke shrugged. “I understand a single man’s enthusiasm where a trip to Chez Cherie’s is concerned, but I think there was more to it than that.”

Vienne swallowed, trying to force her heart out of her throat and back into her chest, where it belonged. Trystan had gone to a
brothel
? He wouldn’t take what she freely offered, but he would pay a whore? Oh, that stung. Did he know he was the first man to ever refuse her?—to make her doubt her appeal as a woman? The first to see through her machinations.

Oh, how she loathed the thought of him taking solace in the body of another. She had gone to bed tipsy, regretful . . . and unsatisfied, while he—

“I don’t see what this has to do with me,” she quickly remarked, lifting her chin.

His Grace tilted his head to one side in contemplation. It was as though he could see right into the soul of her. “Let us not play games, Madame La Rieux. It’s an insult to us both. I know this happened immediately after meeting with you. Whatever happened in this room last night made Trystan behave like Archer—or worse, like me. Seeing as how my youngest sibling is the best my family’s had to offer in three generations, I’d like to know just what you did to him.”

“I did nothing.”
Only offered myself on a platter!
And what did she get for it? Stripped bare, seen for the manipulative woman she was.

The duke didn’t look convinced, but then she didn’t sound very convincing. “I understand you and Trystan had something of a relationship in the past.”

“That’s really none of your business.”

His gaze was hard. “My brother is. You and I are very similar, Madame La Rieux. We both have made a habit out of doing whatever necessary to get what we want, but I’m warning you . . .”

She braced her palms on the surface of her desk. “
You’re
warning me?”

Then his broad hands planted themselves not far from hers, and suddenly she and the duke were nose to nose. “You listen to me, Vienne Moreau . . .”

Vienne felt the blood drain from her face when he called her by her correct last name. She had changed it years ago in an attempt to put that life behind her. She had told no one in England about that name.

The Duke of Ryeton rose a notch in her estimation—higher on her list of men to stay as far away from as possible.