Ravishing Ruby (12 page)

“Giving girls money does take away from the family holdings.” It was hard to tell if he was being sarcastic.

“In any case, my father gave me the money and I bought a brothel. It is a simple story.”

“And are you still happy with the choice that you made?” He sounded genuinely curious.

“Most days. I do sometimes think that I should have retired to a cottage on the cliffs in Cornwall, kept a garden, and surrounded myself with cats and kittens.”

“It sounds lonely for one so young.”

It was her turn to reach out and stroke his cheek. “Yes, but then this life can be lonely, too. I am not on the same footing with my other girls and while there are certainly other women in my profession, I find we often do not have much in common or that competition becomes a troubling factor. We meet often enough to be helpful, to apprise each other of difficulties, but not so often as to form friendships. I do have some female friends in positions similar to my mother's, but I find I suffer, as did Madame Noir. It is hard to find one's footing in such a sliding world of fancy and attraction. And many such women rarely enter any type of society at all, even one such as my own.”

“It is all too confusing for me, I am afraid, my dear houri.” Derek leaned back further.

“Is that a sign that you would like to play again, dear sultan?”

“Give me a few more minutes, although my mind and body begin to notice how well you fill, or perhaps overfill, that robe. It is a wonderful silk.” He reached out and fingered the heavy fabric. “I've seen ball gowns made of fabrics less costly. You must know someone—or perhaps you frequent the secondhand markets and know when the best maids are getting rid of things not wanted.”

She smiled. “I am surprised you know of such places. My girls frequent them often. As for myself, yes, I have an inside track.”

“And you shall not say more. Never fear. I well know the value of a secret contact. I would imagine your brandy and French wine may also find their way to your door in such a fashion.”

For a moment she wanted to laugh, her fabrics all came through her grandfather, who never asked what they were for, and sometimes a very elderly modiste who made her gowns in return for a steep discount and first pick of textiles as they came in. Ruby had never quite understood how her grandfather justified this to himself. Surely he could not think an elderly woman's companion needed so much fabric, but from the first he had offered this small accommodation in a quiet, dignified, and unquestioning manner. In contrast, the gentleman—if one could call him that—who supplied her brandy and other spirits, was wild and rakish, and always flirtatious. It was hard to imagine two men with less in common. “I would not quite say that. But I would admit I settle for nothing but the best of quality, be it textiles or spirits.”

“I could imagine coming here for nothing but a good bed and some fine refreshment.”

“Perhaps I should become an innkeeper, but I fear the profits are not as fine.”

“You are probably correct in that, not that I would dare to imagine the margins on an establishment such as this.”

“I will admit I do well, although not as well as some would imagine. And it is a great deal of work. I think some of my patrons think I do nothing but drink tea and eat cherry tarts all day.”

“Is that meant as a reminder that I implied you were not busy on our first meeting, simply because I found you with your tea and novel?”

A light chuckle. “I had forgotten that. You were quite insulting and I had only just that moment sat down. It was the day of the month a local midwife comes to check over the girls and that is never a pleasant time. I often feel like a Scottish collie rounding up my flock.”

“And what a flock it is. I imagine that it can be quite difficult with such a group.”

From any other she might have taken insult. She quirked her lips in question.

“I mean only that they are mostly young. The young have a habit of thinking the rules do not apply to them.”

Ahh, she was correct. He did understand. “You speak as if from experience.”

He released a true guffaw. “You could say that. I could claim it comes from having charge of the
Dawn's Light,
being a captain certainly exposes one to those who must learn the way. If I could only hire experienced hands it would be a far different task.”

“Yes, I would say I find that much the same.”

“But, I must confess I was thinking of myself and the hard time I had learning to follow authority. It began with my father and only got worse from there. My life would have been very different if I had learned to follow my father's dictates at an earlier age.” He looked troubled as he spoke the words, his furrowed brow speaking of the present, not the past.

“Is there something I should know, some distress I could ease?”

His face grew strangely calm. “No, it is merely a family matter. I find that I am no happier obeying now than in the past, simply less willful. I now know that my own needs are not of most import.”

“How can you sound so genuine and like the worst type of bore in the same moment?”

“I know not, fair houri. And I have not even talked of learning to obey after leaving my family's kind embrace and finding His Majesty's. Those were lessons not easily won.”

Her mind flashed to the scars on his back—and his start when she'd brushed his nether hole. He did still need to keep his promise and tell her the full tale, but those were dark thoughts and she was in no mood for further darkness. Sitting upright, she let the robe fall open so that only her still-budded nipples kept it from sliding fully to her sides. A slow, practiced smile spread across her face, her eyes swept his partially clothed body. “Do you think it's time we played it your way, my sultan?”

He raised a brow.

“How would you care for that sweet, simple fuck?” Her legs drifted open and his eyes followed.

It was morning. Normally the words were merely fact, but this morning they brought a hint of dread to Derek as he stretched across the scattered pillows. Pale light gleamed through the silken drapes from some hidden skylight.

He rolled over.

Ruby was gone. This time he felt no surprise. He had expected no less. No matter how lightly he slept, his little houri seemed to slip away on silent feet.

He stretched, the rich silk bedding sliding easily against his skin, his body aching in quiet, satisfied fashion. He could get used to being a sultan. Ruby's imagination had quite surpassed even his boyhood fantasies—and she enjoyed a simple fuck as well.

She might be his perfect woman.

The wall of dread slammed down.

Blast.

Anne. His wife-to-be. Why could he not think of her in such a fashion?

He knew that ladies, and wives, could show talent in the bedchamber and he had no reason to think that she would not, but…He didn't even know what the “but” was; he just knew there was one.

And marriage was far more than bed sport. He had a hard time imagining that his parent's had ever indulged in such a manner, although they must have the few times that had produced himself and his siblings. Yet his parents had a good and solid marriage. His mother could cajole his father out of the most foul of moods and his father had endless patience and adoration for his sometimes goose-witted mother. No matter what befell them they seemed to muddle through together.

He would wish such a companion for himself.

And there was no reason that Anne could not be it.

Only…He just could not imagine sitting with her to discuss anything but the most practical or mundane of matters. She did have a head for business, most surprising in a woman—and one so young—but she could also discuss gowns and bonnets and balls for hours on end. Could he ever imagine discussing the loneliness of the long night at sea with her? Or discussing the books of the author of
Waverley
? Did she even read? He was quite sure that she could, but did she? And what of art or music? He knew she liked to dance, but would she enjoy a good jig played by a single fiddle or was it only that she liked the swirl of society and consequence?

How could he be planning to marry a woman who he did not know these things about?

And why deep in his soul did he know how he would answer for Ruby although they had never discussed such things? He could so easily imagine her lifting her skirts and twirling about the deck, her feet beating a merry rhythm as Jenkins plucked and stroked a tune.

But he must think of Anne. And did it matter if they knew each other? Theirs was not a love match and none, not even Anne, pretended that it was.

He gave another mighty stretch and heaved himself from the bed.

One lone stocking clung to a foot. How had that happened?

He grabbed the other from the floor before reaching for his trousers. It was time to face the day, his day.

Ruby gazed into the mirror and appraised her reddened cheek. She was going to have to make Derek shave when he arrived if he continued to visit each evening. Her cheeks were not the only place overly abraded by his stubble. If she was not careful, she'd be walking like she'd ridden for hours at a full gallop—and that might not be far wrong.

She had to be more careful. For a woman who'd always been the queen of discretion, she'd been quite careless these last days. Her staff almost certainly knew what was going on with Derek. She'd done her best to rumple her own bedding each morning, but her maid was not a fool. And while she had tried to sneak down the corridors it would be surprising if no one had noticed her.

And if she was honest, it was probable that even some of the patrons had their suspicions. And Lord Thorton certainly had more than suspicions. Despite his threats he had returned to her house, but he kept looking at her in the strangest fashion. And she also rather thought Lord Wilkes was beginning to catch on, and Lord Giddens, and Mr. Thachery. Hopefully that was all, but it was hard to be certain. There was nothing definite, but she'd caught a few glances when Derek came through the front door.

When Derek went back to sea she was going to have a problem. She could no longer simply say that she did not sleep with patrons. And saying that she didn't charge him would not solve the problem.

She should be worried, be plotting and scheming how to correct the issue, but it was hard to do anything but smile, the man was just too damned good—and she wasn't just thinking about the sex. He was genuinely likable, kind and caring and…

It would have been better if he had never returned from Manchester, having him here made her want things she should not, dream things she should not. And it made her careless.

The last she could manage. There was no excuse for the way she had been acting. She was not some young thing experiencing her first season. She knew how to behave.

Now, she just needed to do it.

She would eye Derek coolly when he arrived, send him upstairs as she would any other client. She would keep her normal place in the parlor until late in the night and only then would she slip up the stairs to join Derek. And she would be sure to slip away once they were done. This time she would not fall asleep and risk being caught in the brutal light of morning.

And she would not talk to him more than was necessary. It was his body she lusted after, not his mind, not his soul.

They did not need to be friends in order to be lovers.

And lovers were what they were, but not in some deep, romantic way.

They were an unwed couple who liked to fuck.

It was simple.

Simple.

Simple.

Now if only she believed it.

Well, she did not need to believe it, only to act upon it—and that she could do. Pulling out a pot of pale powder, she began to dab at her cheeks, working to cover the red marks. Next came the rouge, to add red, but only to cheeks and lips. The kohl was the trickiest, exactly how she lined and shaded her eyes could determine who she was that evening: exotic, seductive, knowing. And tonight she needed to be all three.

What dress should she choose? The black. She did not wear it often, but its very starkness played up her coloring, highlighting red hair and blue eyes.

And the ear bobs, the same sapphires she wore each night.

She'd always considered that she truly became Madame Rouge in that moment when she put them on.

There, done.

She stopped and considered. The woman she saw before her would never be foolish. She knew exactly what she was doing and why. Men worshipped her.

She was no slave; she was a goddess.

Now, that was a ridiculous thought, but what better way to start the evening than with a silly smile?

And men would worship her if she allowed them.

Her hips pressed hard against the back of the settee, her feet braced hard on the floor. She felt Derek's hands settle hard on her buttocks, pulling them apart.

Then he was in her, so good, so hard, needed.

One hand lifted, his fingers tangled in her hair, pulling her head back, arching her back. His other hand held her fast, bracing her as he plunged in, filling her as she needed to be filled.

“God, yes,” she cried as he pulled out and thrust again, harder.

She slammed her hips back, meeting him, wanting more.

He did not disappoint. He pulled out completely, made her wait, and then pressed in until his balls slapped against her.

She rubbed her hips forward, trying to find friction against the settee. The man made her feel like a cat in heat, her whole body ready to incinerate at a moment's notice.

As if sensing her need, the hand that had held her hips in place slipped around her, working its way between her legs, finding that spot, rubbing her clit hard and firm, timing each movement to the thrust of his hips.

The tempo grew faster.

She felt her whole body speed, her muscles clenching and tightening, reaching for that place, for that need.

“Harder, harder,” she groaned.

“As you command.” He pushed forward, pressing her tight. She had to bring her arms forward, to brace herself to prevent from slipping.

His lips were on the back of her neck, nipping, laving. Each tiny shot of pain zinging right between her lips, her body a single sensation, growing, tightening, growing.

He was panting behind her, his breath heavy on her neck.

More, she needed more. She tried to shift her hips, to bend herself further. He filled her fully and still she wanted more.

She pushed on the balls of her feet.

His teeth scraped along her neck.

God, it was coming. She could feel it fill her, feel herself ready to burst, her whole being a tightly wound screw.

He slammed forward. His wicked fingers stroking her, pressing her, squeezing her. The intensity of the sensation was raw, almost painful. It felt almost as if her skin were gone and he stroked the very core of her.

She was going to lose it. She was going to come right now.

Biting down on her lip, she held it back.

Not yet.

He needed to be with her.

Not yet.

She would not be conquered. She would hold strong.

So good.

God.

As if sensing her resistance, his fingers moved faster, his cock thrust impossibly deeper.

He stiffened. She could feel the brace of his thighs against her own.

He pulled back. Held a moment.

Then slammed forward, hard, fast.

It was too much.

The dam broke.

Her neck arched.

The cry left her lips.

Her body clenched around his, strong, tight.

He surged further. She could feel it happen, feel him come apart.

And she gave in, screaming her pleasure as she felt him spurt hard within her.

His lips bit down, hard, deep, cutting.

The pain added to her own sensations.

Too much. Too much. God.

Her body spasmed, unable to stay still.

Her eyes went wide; the room swirled with color.

One last scream.

And then it was over. She collapsed forward, letting her body fall over the front of the settee.

Deep breaths. Air. She needed air. It was hard to breathe. Her stays still held her tight, her bodice still gripping her breasts. Hot. Damp. Only her bare legs were cool where Derek's heat did not warm them.

Another breath. Another.

She was sweating. She was damp—and sticky.

Her eyes opened, focus returned.

“Damn and blast,” she muttered. “I was not going to do this.”

“Do what?” he sounded as winded as she.

“I was going to exercise caution. I was certainly not planning on letting you tup me in the parlor again before we'd even said our greetings.”

“I think this is a mighty fine way of expressing welcome.”

“You know that's not what I meant. You were supposed to go upstairs and wait for me. I meant to treat you like any other patron.”

“But, I am not any other patron.”

“No, you are not and that is the problem.”

“I am still in you and you are calling me a problem.” He slipped out, cleaned himself with a pocket square, and buttoned his breeches. He stepped away and rounded the settee before coming to settle on it.

She stood straight, her black skirt falling about her. She gave a little shimmy and shake. He probably hadn't even mussed her hair much. Hell, there were plenty of evenings when she aimed to look like a woman who'd just had a good tumble. She just wished she didn't feel so much like one.

Rounding the settee after him, she settled in the chair across from it. “I can't go on like this. I am not setting a good example. I can't ask one thing of my girls and act another.”

“Why? You are the boss.”

“And you damn well know it is not that simple. There are some rules that are different and some the same. Behavior with men has always been the same. I cannot act like this.”

“Don't argue with me, Ruby. I've had a tough day.”

Now, that was the wrong tone to take. “You've had a hard day?”

“Yes.” He bit the word off.

“And you think I've had an easy one?”

“God, sometimes a man just needs to relieve a little tension.”

“And that's what this was, a way to relieve tension?”

“Yes. No. God, why do women always have to make everything so complicated? You and Anne both, nothing can ever be simple.”

Anne?
Ten minutes ago she'd been on the edge of her seat waiting for his arrival and now she'd like to boot him to the door. “Would you like to sit down and tell me about it? Should I send for some tea and whiskey?”

“And some bread and cheese. I haven't had any dinner.”

Ruby raised a hand and pinched the bridge of her nose. She wasn't even sure which of them was being sarcastic any longer. “Oh, but you're already sitting.”

“That doesn't mean you can't nourish me.”

This was not how the evening was supposed to go, on so many different levels. She pushed a fake smile up her cheeks, not even trying to look natural and at ease. “Why don't you tell me about your long day first? Tell me about Anne.”

“Anne?” She could see him playing for time.

“Anne.”

He raised his head and stared across at her. “She's my fiancée, or she will be in a couple of days' time. I should have asked her to marry me in Manchester, but she wants a large engagement ball. Do you have any idea how many details must be managed for such a thing? And I am not even the one throwing it.”

“I do have some idea. I can't say that I've ever put on such a show or even attended one, but I've managed a few affairs.” She kept her face still, allowing no piece of what she was feeling to show. Madame Rouge would not be angry over such a thing—she understood the life she led. There must be something else she could concentrate on. A grand affair. A society ball. She'd dreamed of attending one when she was younger. Lord Percy had always promised to take her, had assured her that no one would notice one more girl, but it had never happened. She doubted he'd ever intended it to.