Chapter Five
“Oh, my lord! Yes! Ride me hard, you wondrous beast!”
The whore’s throaty cries filled the bedchamber as Charles pounded into her.
She let out a scream, jerking her body from side to side, throwing her legs open wider in an overly exaggerated gesture.
Curse the woman! Didn’t she know that such obviously feigned pleasure was almost as effective in dousing a man’s lust as a bucket of cold water poured down his breeches?
He closed his eyes, ignoring her lusty cries and focusing on his breathing, which came out on short, hoarse bursts as his body tightened in its elevation toward his climax.
Then it came. With a surge of base instinct, he plunged into her one final time and exhaled sharply as he shuddered with release.
Her writhing continued for a heartbeat, then she jerked her body upward.
“Magnifico!”
Charles opened his eyes to see her face at close quarters, covered in a layer of powder so thick that little cracks appeared at the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks were smeared in grease that glistened an unnatural shade of red—a shade to match her lips.
Ugh.
The bed would have to be stripped as soon as she left the building, and the room aired, before he’d consider sleeping in it again.
Nausea gripped his stomach, and he climbed off the whore and reached for a cloth to wipe himself.
A hand caught his wrist with the speed of a striking snake.
“Let me, my love,” she said, “I’m here to serve you, my bella lord.”
Devil’s breeches! Was she still trying to keep up the pretense of being Italian?
Her poorly executed accent was enough to give her away, let alone the smattering of ill-timed Italian words.
Doubtless she’d told Charles’s valet that she hailed from the finest brothels in Rome, and most men would have been fooled by her act.
But Charles knew enough Italian to see through her facade. And he’d fucked her before, when he was a raw youth before he left England.
He allowed himself a wry smile. To think—doxies always argued that, to a man, one whore was the same as any other.
But the reverse was also true. Anne Brown—or, as she’d called herself today, Angelina Bellissima—hadn’t shown a flicker of recognition when John escorted her to Charles’s bedchamber.
In her eyes, one man ready to part with cash as she parted her thighs was like any other.
To her credit, she’d learned a trick or two in the fifteen years since he last rutted her, wrapping her bony fingers around his cock the moment he lowered his breeches, parting her lips to receive him. But now, he slapped her hand away.
She pouted, her lips glistening in the candlelight. “Did I please you, my lord?”
He shrugged, then caught a flash of irritation in her eyes.
“There’s time enough,” she said, pitching her voice low in an attempt at seduction. “I know all manner of ways to pleasure the discerning gentleman. And you strike me as a very discerning gentleman.”
Discerning—ha! Doubtless others fell for her pretty speeches, but, to Charles, the act of rutting was merely a means of gaining release. Men, and women, rutted for two purposes only—to achieve a base, physical release, and to further their bloodline. Anyone who believed otherwise was a fool.
And anyone who believed in love was an even bigger fool.
He pointed toward the door. Her smile broadened and she reached for his cock once more.
“Let me show you the pleasures that only I can give, my magnifico stallion,” she said. “I’m yours for the night.”
Devil’s breeches, a whole night of her false moans and screeches, not to mention the stench of sweat and cheap cologne?
Charles slid off the bed and, turning his back to her, approached the bellpull. She let out a low cry, and when he turned, he caught a flicker of disgust in her eyes before the veneer of false seduction once more gleamed in them.
“That mark on your back,” she said. “What happened? Are you perhaps a hero from Waterloo?”
He wrinkled his nose in a sneer.
Yes, because in battle, an army always prefers to use whips instead of guns or swords.
She stared at his hands as he signed, confusion in her gaze.
“What are you doing?”
He gestured to the door once more, then pulled the cord over the fireplace. Within a suspiciously short space of time, a knock came on the door, then John opened it.
Get rid of the woman.
John knew better than to argue. He nodded to the doxy.
“My master’s done, miss,” he said.
“But you paid for the whole night,” she whined petulantly. “You’re not expecting me to return my fee, even if your master couldn’t—”
She broke off as Charles drove his fist into his palm with a sharp slap. Then he motioned to John.
Get the slut out before I throw her out myself. Give her an extra sovereign for her trouble—and her silence.
“Very good, sir.”
The doxy moved her gaze from Charles to his valet and back, her brow furrowed in concentration.
Tell her that if she breathes a word of what she saw, I’ll hunt her down and toss her into the river.
John had no need to translate. The doxy’s eyes widened in fear as Charles plucked her discarded gown from the floor and held it out. She reached for it and slipped it on, securing a sash about her waist. Then the fear was replaced by greed as the valet fished a coin out of his pocket.
“For your discretion,” John said. “We may require your services again…”
No, we fucking well won’t.
Ignoring Charles’s signing, John continued, “Therefore, it’s in your interests to maintain the discretion that your profession is noted for.”
She sidled up to John, her eyes gleaming with seduction, then palmed the coin. “You’re a right proper gentleman, Mr. Richards,” she said, all trace of faux-Italian accent now gone. “I’ll be happy to accommodate you anytime. What do you say?”
“I say that it’s time for you to go.”
“Very well,” she said, pouting. “But you know where to find me.”
She eyed Charles, dipped into a curtsey, then let John escort her out.
By the time John returned, Charles had stripped the sheets from the bed and dropped them in a bundle beside the door. The valet arched his eyebrows.
“Fancy yourself as a chambermaid, sir?”
Charles frowned, and John raised his hands in appeasement.
“Very well,” he said. “I take it the woman was not to your satisfaction?”
She satisfied me well enough, but I’ve no wish to have a woman in my bed longer than necessary.
“A pity,” John said. “She’s known to be very accomplished, both in giving pleasure and in teaching men of limited experience how to pleasure women.”
Why would a man want to learn how to pleasure a woman?
John rolled his eyes.
Charles tempered the flare of irritation. What the bloody hell did he pay the man for if not to show respect?
“The art of pleasuring a woman is considered an accomplishment among men, sir.”
Only insofar as the man wishes to boast about it in the clubroom at White’s.
John shrugged. “Perhaps, but I hear that a well-satisfied woman can be a boon. And you’ll want to be ready for your bride, will you not? A well-pleasured bride is supposed to be more fruitful.”
This time John had gone too far.
Charles slapped his fist into his palm, then gesticulated in sharp, angry motions.
A bride has one use. To give me a dowry.
“And an heir.”
Do you wish to be dismissed?
“There’s nothing wrong with wanting an heir,” John said. “Mrs. Brougham said Penham Park needs light and laughter, and to be treasured as a family home. I agree with her.”
Are you also turning into a weak-bellied woman?
John eyed Charles’s hands, then sighed. “If you fear that you’ll turn out to be like your father just because…”
He stopped, flinching as Charles rammed his fist into the door then pointed to the discarded bedsheets.
Get rid of those. They reek of her stench. This whole chamber reeks of her stench. Have another chamber made ready.
“There’s no other bedchambers in the apartment, sir, unless you want my room. I didn’t see the need for unnecessary expenditure on rent, seeing as you’re only in London for a few—”
Charles cut him short with a dismissive gesture. Then I’ll sleep on the sofa in the drawing room.
John stooped to gather the bedsheets. “I’ll see to these, sir. If you’d care to wait in the drawing room, I’ll bring you a brandy while I see to your bedchamber.”
I said I was content to sleep in the drawing room.
“It’s not the done thing, sir. Besides, you’ll need a proper night’s sleep to ensure that your usual good sprits have returned in time for the ball tomorrow night.”
Charles raised his hands to respond while the valet eyed him with not a trace of irony in his gaze, then he lowered them and nodded.
That bloody ball.
Already it had cost him enough—precious funds in lieu of parting with his beloved horse—to purchase that bloody jacket. The tailor had simpered all over him while making the measurements, complimenting his good taste in fashion and praising the Devereaux name.
But, apparently, the right sort of bride could not be acquired by placing an advertisement in the newspaper or brokering a deal via Mr. Stockton. She was to be gained by Charles’s parading himself about a ballroom in a jacket that cost more than the footman’s wages.
Of course, in this context, the right sort of bride was one with a dowry large enough to fund his father’s debts.
Very well, Charles signed. Bring me the brandy when you’re done here. He paused. Don’t bother with a glass. Just bring the bottle.
The valet frowned. “I’d advise against too much brandy, sir. It’s not the best quality, and you wouldn’t want to attend Lady Fairchild’s ball with a sore head, would you, sir?”
And you wouldn’t want to spend the rest of our stay in London with a sore head, would you?
John’s mouth twisted in a smile, then he nodded. “Of course not, sir. I’ll bring the bottle as soon as I’ve finished here.”
Charles pulled on his breeches, then exited the chamber, almost colliding with a chambermaid in the hallway. She glanced at his half-naked form and tipped her head up to meet his gaze. Her eyes widened in terror, and she let out a whimper.
John appeared at the doorway. “It’s all right, Millie; you’ve done nothing wrong. Come and see to his lordship’s bedchamber.”
If anything, her eyes widened further. Trembling, she approached the door. Charles stepped aside to make room, and she darted past him faster than a rabbit that had scented a fox.
Devil’s breeches, could he not wander about his own lodgings without instilling fear into every creature he encountered?
But at least, if she feared him, she’d keep out of his way from now on.
If only the rest of the world would keep out of his way.
Shortly after Charles entered the drawing room, John appeared brandishing a decanter half filled with a deep amber liquid and a glass on a silver salver.
Charles motioned toward a table and John placed the tray on it.
“I wouldn’t drink it if I were you,” John said. “The landlady charges extra, and it’s of inferior quality.”
How do you know? Have you been drinking it?
“I saw Milly polishing the silver with it.”
Who?
“That maid you startled just now.”
Charles let out a sigh.
He’d done more than that. The poor creature had looked terrified.
Give her a sovereign for her trouble when we leave London.
John’s eyes widened and he glanced over his shoulder, in the direction of the bedchamber.
“Good God almighty! You’re not thinking…”
Devil’s breeches, did John think him so much of a beast that, not content with frightening a girl barely out of the schoolroom, he sought to defile her?
Charles fisted his palm, then shook his head, gesturing to his valet.
I pay you extra for enduring my poor temper. It only seems fair to pay the girl for the same thing.
John’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Perhaps her life won’t be entirely miserable.”
Who? The maid?
John backed toward the door. “Your bride—whomever the unfortunate woman may be.”
Before Charles could issue an admonishment, John darted out of the drawing room and closed the door.
Perhaps he paid the valet too much after all—though he wasn’t paying him extra for his impertinence.
But then, few, if any, would endure John’s role—and Charles’s temper—with grace, let alone aplomb.
Though Charles would never tell the impertinent fool that he valued John’s company almost as much as he’d valued his beloved horse.
Destriero…
Charles poured himself a brandy and sighed.
It was insult enough to be forced to sell Destriero, but tomorrow night, he’d have to face the bastard who now owned him.
Whitcombe might be an honorable fellow who’d paid a pretty price and made even prettier promises about caring for the horse, but nevertheless, he deserved to rot in hell for owning Destriero when Charles did not.
No, that was unfair. It wasn’t Whitcombe’s fault that Charles had lost his beloved horse and was being forced to shackle himself to some Society harpy.
It was Father’s.
Charles raised his glass and uttered a silent toast before draining the contents.
Curse you, Father. Curse you to hell.