Chapter 9
Chapter
Nine
Whitmore made it to his club after leaving the ball. He did not feel inclined to attend any further events that evening. He’d had his fill of the ton, and after spending a considerable amount of time with Lady Isabella, his desire to pretend interest in anyone else had waned.
Instead, he and a group of his friends—young lords all—headed off to Madame Cheri’s for a little evening entertainment on the demi-monde side of society.
The gas lamps along the street flickered in the damp night air, the cobbles glistening faintly from a recent shower.
The rhythmic clatter of hooves echoed off the narrow buildings, and the faint scent of smoke lingered on the breeze.
The carriage rolled to a halt outside Madame Cheri’s establishment.
Several gentlemen lounged outside, smoking cheroots, the smoke curling up and disappearing into the night.
Ladies hung off their arms, painted smiles hiding sharp eyes, ready to trade their wiles for coin.
The sultry laughter of women and the occasional pop of champagne corks drifted from the house.
Whitmore made his way up the stone stairs, his footsteps uneven.
He was a little foxed—he had imbibed too much this evening, possibly because his reaction to Lady Isabella, and her flirtatious charms, had been difficult to endure.
The memory of her laughter, low and teasing, clung to him like a curse.
He could still see the faint blush on her cheeks, the delicate rise of her shoulders when she turned her head just so. Her full breasts, and pretty mouth.
Damn he wanted to devour every little bit of her…
Lord Shaw clapped him on the shoulder, his smile almost stretching from ear to ear. “Come, man, the ladies wait. Do not dally in the doorway.”
Whitmore nodded and followed him inside. As was expected at a house of ill repute, the selection of ladies to keep one’s company was plentiful. They were all beautiful—silk-clad curves, powdered skin, eyes like polished gems in the dim candlelight—and they were clever in the bedroom.
But as he looked around, seeking one who tempted him more than another, he found none who did. The room was thick with perfume and heat, the air humming with laughter and whispered promises, yet none of it tempted him.
Instead, he headed for the bar, sat on a stool, and ordered a pint of beer. Perhaps if he drank more, and did not rush his choice, the evening could yet end well.
He did not know how long he sat there before Madame Cheri herself slid up beside him, her arm snaking around his neck, her breasts pressing boldly against his person. Her scent was overpowering—violets and amber, the same perfume she had worn the last time he had come here months ago.
“Whitmore, it is so good to see you again. We have missed you,” she purred. Her sultry voice was well trained to seduce the hardest heart.
But this evening, her seductive voice and delectable body did nothing to tempt him.
“I am here merely to observe.” He reached for his beer while trying to untangle himself from Cheri’s grasp.
She chuckled, a tinkling laugh that drew the attention of nearby patrons, but it did nothing to stir his interest. He studied her as she leaned close, the candlelight glinting off the rhinestones at her bodice.
Her painted lips formed a perfect smile, yet it was lifeless to him—just another mask in a room full of guises.
He frowned at his own lack of interest. It was not like him to reject what was so easily given.
For years he had enjoyed uncomplicated relations under this roof—no expectations, no emotions, just the trade of pleasure for coin and company.
But now, the thought of taking Cheri, or any woman upstairs, was something he could not stomach.
He ran a hand through his hair, frustration knotting in his chest. Was there something wrong with him? How could he not want to bed these beauties—to lose himself in pleasure, to be pleasured?
He tried to imagine Cheri on her knees before him, flicking open his falls, but when he glanced down, all he saw were the sweet, perfect features of Lady Isabella Ravensmere.
Her face rose in his mind unbidden—the tilt of her chin, the stubborn curve of her lips, the mischief in her eyes.
He remembered the scent of her—roses and something subtler, something purely her.
He could almost feel the warmth of her hand as she’d rested it lightly upon his sleeve, the tremor of restrained curiosity in her touch.
He swallowed hard and downed a good portion of his beer. “Not this evening,” he muttered, reaching into his coat pocket and pulling out a gold coin. “For your troubles.”
He pressed it into her palm. With an impish grin, she blew him a kiss and slinked off to her next conquest, her skirts whispering over the floorboards.
He watched her go, an air of disinterest settling over him. The laughter, the music, the seductive whispers—all seemed to fade into a dull hum. His surroundings blurred at the edges, leaving only the taste of beer and the faint ache behind his eyes.
He should have returned home after visiting his club. But as was custom with his friends, they often ended their nights here after an evening’s entertainments.
Tonight was different, though. He was different. Something had shifted. The easy satisfaction of vice no longer offered comfort, and the thrill of pursuit had soured into disquiet. Lady Isabella’s face haunted him like a prayer left unanswered.
He finished his beer, slipped a coin across the bar, and stood, starting for the front door. His friends were long gone, possibly already enjoying their night of revelry with the women upstairs.
But not him. Not this eve.
All he wished for was the quiet of his library, a good dram of whiskey, and his thoughts—thoughts that, somehow, in the course of only a few days, were now fixated on a woman he had bet his friend he could seduce.
A wager meant as idle amusement now burned with something dangerously close to regret.
As he stepped outside, the cold night air struck his face. The fog had thickened, the streetlamps casting halos through the mist. A carriage rattled by, its wheels splashing through a puddle.
He adjusted his coat collar and walked toward his waiting carriage. The smell of damp stone and smoke clung to him, mixing with the faintest trace of rose he imagined still lingered on his sleeve from the ball.
His driver tipped his hat. “Home, my lord?”
“Yes,” Whitmore said quietly, climbing inside. The door shut behind him with a heavy thud.
As the carriage jolted forward, he leaned back against the seat and stared out at the blur of lamplight and darkness beyond the glass.
London at night was both alive and dead—a city that glittered with sin and whispered secrets through its fog.
It suited him once. But tonight, he felt the emptiness of it keenly, as if he too were one of its ghosts.
He drew in a slow breath and exhaled. “What the devil are you doing, Whitmore,” he muttered to himself.
Lady Isabella’s voice seemed to answer him in memory—bright, teasing, clever.
He could almost hear her laughter at the ball, the way her words had challenged him, the spark that had lit in her eyes when she dared to meet his gaze without fear.
It stirred something inside him that was not lust but longing. Dangerous, foolish longing.
He rubbed his temple and looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers as though to shake off the image of her.
The carriage wheels struck a rut, jostling him from his thoughts. Outside, the streetlamps thinned as they left the bustle of Covert Garden behind. The night deepened—quiet, save for the rhythmic creak of harness and the steady clop of hooves.
By the time he reached his townhouse, the fog had rolled thick across Berkley Square. Whitmore descended the steps, nodded to his butler, and made straight for the library.
The fire was still burning low in the grate, casting an amber glow across the shelves.
The faint scent of leather and oak filled the room.
He loosened his cravat, poured himself a generous measure of whiskey, and sat heavily in his favorite chair.
The glass was cool in his hand. The whiskey burned on his tongue.
He stared into the flames. Lady Isabella’s smile lingered in his mind, bright as candlelight and just as dangerous. He had wanted to toy with her—to make her fall, to win the substantial blunt. Yet now he could not stop thinking of her.
He closed his eyes and leaned back, the crackle of the fire filling the silence.
“Damn it, Isabella,” he murmured, more to himself than the room. “Whatever am I going to do with you…”