Chapter Twenty-Nine
“You’re proving to be an adept pupil, my lord.”
Anne Brown parted her thighs once more and slipped her hand between them, pausing at the thatch of blonde curls.
“In theory, at least,” she added, pursing her lips. “Of course, I’ve nothing against the theory of pleasure, but it is far more beneficial to engage in the practice of it.”
Charles scribbled in his notebook and held it up.
Her gaze flicked over the words he’d written, then she let out a sharp huff. “I am discreet, your lordship, and assuming your man is equally so, your wife need never know whether you touch me or not. I have shown you everything I know about how to satisfy a woman.”
Doubtless she had, having brought herself to pleasure in front of him in all manner of ways—some at her own hand, some with the use of marble artefacts, and others with the assistance of a fellow doxy.
Charles’s cock had swelled with anticipation on several occasions, but there was only one woman capable of easing his torment. Much to the doxy’s disappointment, he only wanted to practice the art of pleasure on his wife.
Olivia…
What might it be like to have her spread before him, offering her sweet body to be feasted upon.
His mouth watered at the thought of tasting her pretty pink nipples, but he’d brushed the doxy aside when she offered her own.
She might have elicited his release provided he imagined it was Olivia writhing in pleasure beneath him.
But he couldn’t bring himself to touch another woman.
Better to seek an unfulfilling release at his own hand, which he’d done each time he’d returned to his lodgings, his wife’s name circling in his mind.
At least John had been considerate enough to refrain from commenting on his master’s stained bedsheets.
The doxy let her dressing gown slip to the floor, exposing her breasts, then she slipped her finger into her mouth and released it, glistening and moist. She caressed her breasts, then circled a nipple, before she pinched it and let out a sigh, her back arching.
“You see, my lord, how much pleasure this gives me?”
You are merely performing an act.
She glanced at Charles’s hand gestures, then gave a knowing smile.
Doubtless she understood what he’d conveyed.
A good whore was adept at understanding the needs of men she serviced and reading his body and his mind—crawling under his skin as she crawled over his naked flesh, to delve into his deepest, darkest yearnings.
And Anne—or Angelina Bellissima, as she sometimes called herself—was the best whore in Town.
“Ah,” she said, an undertone of slyness in her voice. “You doubt my sincerity.”
She curved her lips into a smile and parted her thighs wider, and he caught his breath at the sight—her female flesh, glistening and ready.
“There!” she said. “Witness the evidence of my desire. A woman’s body will always betray her. It is how you’ll be able to tell whether your wife takes pleasure from the act. Do you recall our first lesson?”
He nodded, then gestured to his ears.
“That’s it, my lord. You listen to her voice, the hitch of her breath. And then?”
He hesitated, then pointed to his nose.
“Excellent! Yes, you breathe in her scent. As I said, a very adept pupil.” She cocked her head to one side. “Can you smell my desire now?”
He shook his head. The air in the doxy’s chamber was thick with her cologne—an expensive Parisian scent, no doubt, but cloying nonetheless. He preferred delicate floral scents, such as rose and lavender…
The scent of his wife.
“And, of course, you can tell with your eyes,” Anne continued. “Her skin will flush a beautiful pink, and her nipples…”
She flicked her nipple and smiled as it swelled.
“They will harden in readiness for your lips. Then…”
She widened her thighs, and her smile broadened as Charles’s cheeks warmed.
“Do you take pleasure from looking at me, my lord?”
He remained still.
“There’s no shame in it,” she said. “All men who visit me take pleasure from the sight of a female form, whether they care for their wives or not. It’s a natural male instinct, though your heart and loyalty may prevent you from acting upon it.
Imagine, then, the pleasure you’ll take from looking at your wife, spread before you, all willing and ready? ”
He closed his eyes and drew in a sharp breath, willing his cock not to spend in his breeches. Sweet Lord Almighty—to imagine Olivia in such a pose, engaging in such debauchery!
Anne chuckled, and Charles opened his eyes.
“The woman takes equal pleasure from being looked at.”
He raised his eyebrows.
“Oh yes, my lord,” she said. “I said, during our second lesson, that what a man takes pleasure in is, more often than not, enjoyable for the woman also. I’ll wager my body that your wife will take as much delight in the act as you. Not all men are as considerate as yourself.”
Her expression darkened for a heartbeat, then the smile resumed.
“You can see my body’s reaction today, my lord. I take great pleasure from being looked at intimately by a man.”
Closing her eyes, she slipped her hand between her thighs, her chest rising and falling as she inhaled. She opened them again, and he caught a flash of shyness in her expression.
Then her smile slipped. She withdrew her hand and pulled her dressing gown around her body, securing it with a sash.
“I think your final lesson has come to an end.”
She blinked, and Charles caught a sheen of moisture in her eyes.
Is something the matter?
She stared at his hands, then shook her head. “Forgive me, I don’t understand you.”
Yes, you do.
Charles fished in his pocket, drew out a sovereign, and placed it in the delicate porcelain dish together with the rest of the coins.
“Very well,” she said. “A woman in my profession must abide by many rules. Not just to maintain the safety of her body, but she needs to temper her own desires such that she is not in thrall to them. A good whore ensures that her client is not only fully satisfied, but that he leaves an encounter already eager for the next. But when the whore herself is desirous of the next appointment with a client—not for coin, but for more personal reasons—then the time has come to part with the client.”
Surely she wasn’t saying that she’d fallen in love with him? He hadn’t even touched her.
Charles held up his hands, showing three fingers on each.
She smiled and nodded. “Yes, Lord Devereaux, I’m aware that our arrangement was six lessons, and that we part company after today.
” She let out a sigh. “Have no fear, I’m not in danger of falling in love.
But even the hardest-hearted whore must admit that there’s something irresistible in a man who’s in love with his wife. ”
Charles frowned.
Love?
A brute such as him wasn’t built for love. He was the antithesis of men such as Whitcombe, whose ready wit supplied him with an endless stream of flowery declarations toward his wife.
The doxy gave a soft smile, something akin to affection in her eyes.
“You think yourself unworthy? Incapable, even?” She shook her head.
“I’m visited by many men who’ll fall over themselves to assure me how violently they love their wives, who continue voicing that love as they rut me from behind.
But you, Lord Devereaux—you may be incapable of telling your wife that you love her, but by your deeds, the way you’re so eager to learn how to pleasure her, yet torment yourself with the guilt of visiting another to teach you… ”
She shook her head and wiped her eyes.
“By what greater means can a man demonstrate how sincerely he loves his wife—even if he has yet to admit it to himself?”
Charles approached her, tempering the urge to ease the pain in her eyes. Then she glanced at the clock on the mantelshelf.
“Mercy me, is that the time? My next client’s due any moment. I believe you’re acquainted with the Duke of Foxton?”
Charles grimaced. Did she seek to taunt him? Foxton was renowned for being the most successful rake in England—if success were measured by the number of women he’d bedded.
Anne let out a laugh. “Skilled in the art of pleasure he may be, Lord Devereaux, but I’m in no danger of finding Foxton irresistible, for he is a man with no heart.”
Charles gestured to his chest and raised his eyebrows.
She smiled. “Yes, Lord Devereaux, you do have a heart. But you’re astute enough to save it for the few souls deserving of it.”
She approached the fireplace and yanked the bellpull. Shortly after, a young woman in a bright-pink gown appeared.
“Rosie darling, Lord Devereux is ready to leave. Would you find his man and show them out?”
The young woman nodded. “He was in with Jenny, Mrs. Brown, but I believe I heard them finishing a few minutes ago.”
Anne let out a soft laugh. “Jenny’s one of my best. I taught her everything I know. The two of you should compare notes.”
She rose and offered her hand. Charles took it, and her slim fingers curled around his wrist.
“Good luck, your lordship,” she said. “And remember, if you’re ever uncertain as to whether your wife is taking pleasure, all you need do is ask her.
As you learn how to give her pleasure, let her guide you by telling you where and how she likes to be touched.
If you’re fortunate, you may find her wanting to reciprocate and give you pleasure in return. ”
He nodded, then exited the chamber, returning to the corridor bedecked in deep-scarlet furnishings with gold trim, with wood-paneled doors behind which he could hear a symphony of grunts, cries, and professions of love.
The young doxy led him to the main doors, where John stood waiting, a satisfied smile on his lips.
The waiting footman opened the doors and Charles exited the building, his valet in tow.
He turned to bid his farewell, but the door had already closed—a dark-painted door bearing a polished brass knocker and a nameplate with the legend: Mrs. Brown’s seminary for young ladies.
“Well, sir, I don’t know about yourself,” John said, “but that was a very pleasurable way to spend an afternoon.”
Charles allowed himself a smile and they set off. Before they’d taken half a dozen paces, Charles froze. Approaching from the opposite direction was a familiar figure.
Dressed in a white muslin gown and a burgundy redingote with matching bonnet, she exuded understated elegance. Their eyes met and she flicked her emerald gaze to the building from which he’d just come, then set her mouth into a hard line.
Surely she, like most women, had no idea of the true activities behind the door of Number 55 Green Street?
“Duchess Whitcombe!” John said, a little too brightly. “What a pleasure to see you.”
She arched an eyebrow then regarded Charles with that unsettling expression of hers.
“You must be careful,” she said, turning her attention toward the building.
“An excess of pleasure is not always advisable. I trust my sister-in-law is well? I see she has not accompanied you in your visit to”—she glanced at the brass plate, her expression hardening—“Mrs. Brown’s seminary for young ladies. ”
Devil’s bollocks—the duchess was an astute woman and would, most likely, sniff out a guilty man at fifty paces.
Tell her it’s not what it looks like, Charles signed.
Say that to a woman, sir, and she’ll know you’ve been up to no good.
“Lord Devereaux was just asking if we might accompany you anywhere?” John said.
“Thank you, but no,” she replied. “I’m on my way to take tea with Duchess Sawbridge.
Perhaps you know her, or at least you might know the duke.
Disreputable rake—or he was until he married dear Jemima.
I find it such a wonderful transformation when a rake is reformed by marriage.
Of course, not all rakes are capable of redemption. ”
She lifted her lips into a smile, but her eyes darkened until they were almost black.
“Well, I shan’t keep you from your…business,” she said. “Do give my regards to Olivia. Tell her I shall be writing to her. I’m afraid I’ve been remiss in my correspondence, and I promised not to let her down. I can’t abide anyone who cannot keep their promises, can you?”
She dipped her head, then continued along the pavement.
Call her back, Charles signed.
“And say what?” John whispered. “If you try to justify your visit, you’ll only confirm your guilt.”
I’m not guilty! Charles signed, smacking his fist into his palm. I care not what she thinks of me, but I have no wish to see my wife upset if the duchess sees fit to gossip.
“Duchess Whitcombe is the last person to engage in gossip,” John said. “You’re concerning yourself over nothing. She’s never liked you much—does it matter if she likes you even less?”
I care not whether she, or every soul in London, loathes me. I do, however, care whether the duchess distresses my wife by making unfounded accusations.
“Lady Devereaux won’t believe them. Besides—you sent her a gift.”
Fool! Charles smacked his fist into his palm once more. You think a gift is enough to atone for the distress I’ve caused her? I want to make her happy. I care nothing for myself, only her.
John stared at him, then placed a hand on his arm.
“Then that’s all that matters, sir.”
They continued in silence until they reached Charles’s lodgings. John ushered him into the parlor, then returned with a brandy glass, which he placed in Charles’s hand.
And, by heaven, was he in need of it!
But it wasn’t the fear that the duchess knew whom he’d been visiting. It was the realization, brought about by Anne Brown’s observations, and Charles’s own admission regarding his desire, above all other things, that Olivia not suffer any distress.
Which meant only one thing.
He was in love with his wife.