All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (20 page)

Saint looked up at Greenshield. Their gazes locked for a moment. Madame Venna’s outburst had shaken the earl. He clearly had not expected to be despised by his daughter.

“Go,” he gruffly ordered Saint. “Leave before the gossips get wind of this.” He did not wait for a response. Lord Greenshield slowly turned and walked away.

“Come on.” Saint shook her gently to get her attention. “I’ll take you home.”

Madame Venna brought the back of her glove to her nose and sniffled. Taking the hint, he reached into his evening coat and withdrew a handkerchief. “Here. Tidy your face while I get us out of here.”

Saint would not be returning to Sin’s private theater box. When Madame Venna did not return to hers, his friends would assume the couple had departed together.

“What did Greenshield say to upset you?”

She abruptly halted and gaped at him. “How do you know Lord Greenshield?”

Her suspicious nature angered him, but she wasn’t the only one lying. “Not all of my evenings are spent at the Golden Pearl,” he said, infusing enough exasperation into his voice and expression to silence her.

“Of course.” She used the handkerchief to dab at her face as they continued down the stairs.

Saint kept his arm around her waist. He did not trust her, but she was obviously distressed about her encounter with the earl. There was no point in questioning her until she calmed down.

Once they reached the main passageway, they encountered more and more people. A beautiful woman wearing a half-mask was bound to draw stares. The fact that he had his arm around her engendered many reactions from the other patrons, from amusement to disapproval. Saint did not give a damn what anyone thought.

They reached the main hall without incident. The battle-ready tension in his shoulders started to ease, so he did not argue when she pulled away. His possessive embrace was drawing as much attention as her costume. If she tried to run from him, he could catch up to her quickly.

Saint thought he heard his name, and turned to see Vane and Hunter at the top of the grand staircase. He raised his hand to acknowledge his friends, and belatedly realized she was walking toward the door without him. “Madame V. Tarry a moment and I will find my coachman—”

Lord Mulcaster was approaching Madame Venna.

“My dear Madame,” the gentleman drawled. “The night is still early. If opera bores you, perhaps I can provide you with another amusement.”

Madame V stopped, turning at the sound of Mulcaster’s voice. Her body was stiff with righteous fury. “You,” she said, her accented voice carried in the large hall and calling attention to them all. “The only thing that will amuse me is having your head—”

It was time to leave.

Immediately.

Before she could finish her threat, Saint rushed toward her. As he reached her, he leaned low enough for his shoulder to collide with her waist. Her body folded over his shoulder quite nicely.

Madame Venna was so startled and appalled by his high-handedness, she forgot to lace her voice with an accent. Saint whirled around and touched his fingers to his forehead in a mock salute to Vane. His friend was laughing so hard he could barely stand.

“Put me down!” she yelled, struggling to free herself.

Witnesses to the spectacle pointed and laughed. Mulcaster kept his distance, but he did not look pleased by Saint’s interruption.

He carried her out of the opera house as if she were a grain sack, and hurried into the night as he searched for his coach. If he was lucky, Madame V would not geld him with one of her furious kicks.

*   *   *

“Damn you, Sainthill!”

The man had abducted her. Madame Venna cursed him and the generations that came before him. Breathing heavily, she twisted her body in an attempt to unbalance his gait.

“Quit squirming.” He gave her a hard slap on the buttocks. “You will only hurt yourself if I drop you.”

She gulped in fresh air as he weaved in between coaches and carriages in search of his own. “You … are mad!” she said, deliberately thickening her accent as her brain began working again.

“No, you are, Madame,” he said, not even sounding breathless from his exertions. “I first encounter you arguing with Lord Greenshield. Do you care to tell me what it was about?”

Madame Venna could just imagine how Saint would react when learning that the earl was her father. He would assume Catherine was her sister. She groaned as more pins fell from her hair, freeing the heavy length. “I do not wish to discuss Lord Greenshield.”

“Very well. Then let us move on to your very unladylike reaction to Mulcaster.” He made a soft chiding sound, conveying his disappointment in her. “I rescued you from a very public altercation in a theater. It wasn’t very clever of you.”

Just thinking about Mulcaster made her want to kick something. If she could not have the earl, she was willing to settle on a brutish marquess. She cursed him when he avoided her foot.

He chuckled. “Did I mention that foulmouthed wenches arouse me?”

“Damn your stubbornness! Put me down, Sainthill,” she shouted at him. “Or—”

“Or what?” Saint suddenly halted, and a wave of dizziness silenced her as her feet touched cobblestone. He never gave her a chance to recover. Madame Venna gasped as he pulled her into his arms. Fighting him was pointless. His mouth roughly sealed hers, his lips devouring her until her lungs were starving for air. Just when she began to struggle in earnest he released her lips with a wet smack.

“Curse me, and I’ll kiss you again,” he said, his fingers like an iron shackle around her wrist. It wasn’t much of a threat, but he had managed to silence her, after all.

He dragged her across the street to a waiting coach.

“That’s no way to tame a fiery wench, milord,” the coachman said. The laughter in his voice revealed he had witnessed His Lordship’s rough handling and their kiss.

Saint gestured for the coachman to remain on his perch. He opened the coach door himself. “Some wenches need a firm hand.”

His large hand landed on her backside, and she cried out in surprise. She tugged her hand away and slapped him on the arm.

“If your hand falls again, I will not be responsible for my actions, Marquis de Sainthill!” she said, meaning every word.

Neither the marquess nor his servant seemed to take her threat seriously.

The servant nodded approvingly. “I like this one better than the last one. Are you keeping her?”

What last one?
Madame Venna wanted to ask, but she bit her tongue. Tottering to keep her balance, she blew an annoying strand of hair from her face. “No one is keeping me, my good man.” With as much dignity as she could muster considering her disheveled condition, she said to Saint, “Take me to the Golden Pearl, or I shall find the way on my own.”

The coachman peered at her, squinting in disbelief. “That’s no place for a lady, miss. A palace of sin and debauchery, it is.”

“Oui,”
she said crisply. “And it is
mine.
”

Chapter Twenty-five

Saint had not been lying when he told Madame Venna that her curses aroused him. Essentially, everything about the woman aroused him, and he longed to put his hands on her again.

Nothing intimidated her. He admired her courage, but as a man he was born to dominate his world. Somehow the woman glaring at him had become part of it.

“Get in the coach,” he ordered.

“Uh, Your Lordship,” his coachman said, watching Saint and Madame V as if they were two pugilists readying themselves for a fight.

His eyes rolled heavenward. “I’ve heard enough from you, Jakes. Mind the horses.”

The coachman blew air out from his cheeks in frustration, reminding Saint of the animals the man tended. “Aye, milord.”

“No more cheek from you, Madame V.”

The woman’s delicate chin jutted out. “And I’ve heard enough from
you, monsieur le marquis.
”

Saint grinned as anticipation hummed through his body. “Just the words I wanted to hear.” He tugged hard, pulling her up against his already aroused body. “I hope you will resist me.”

“A simple task,” she sneered.

Then the battle of wills began in earnest. Madame Venna was strong and agile for a woman, but Saint was bigger and meaner. The tug-of-war of limbs ended when he hooked her by the waist and unceremoniously lifted her off her feet and tossed her onto the padded leather seat of the coach.

Madame Venna shrieked in outrage. Jakes muttered under his breath. The coachman was probably criticizing Saint for his callous treatment, but the woman glaring at him was no delicate bloom that needed tenderness. Like him, she was a fighter.

As she edged away, moving deeper into the dark compartment, her gray eyes glittering with defiance and anticipation, he realized that they had been behaving against their true natures. Secrets had a way of trussing an individual as efficiently as rope. Perhaps it was time to loosen each other’s tethers. The outcome could be rewarding.

Saint braced his palms against the edges of the open coach door as he glanced up at the coachman. “The Golden Pearl, Jakes. You have my permission to linger at the task,” he said, entering the coach and shutting the door behind him.

Through a hooded gaze, she observed him, her back pressed against the far wall of the compartment. Saint’s demeanor had changed this evening, and she considered that her angry encounter with Lord Greenshield could be blamed. She had been vulnerable. Frightened that the man who had sired her had deduced the truth about Madame Venna. Dozens of questions flitted about in her head.

What price would she have to pay to keep his silence?

Or worse, what danger did Lord Greenshield pose to her? If the
ton
learned that the earl’s baseborn daughter ran a brothel, he would be a laughingstock.

Was the secret worth killing for?

And then there was Saint. What would he demand if he learned Catherine Deverall was hidden beneath the half-mask?

Saint smiled down at her as he reached up and pounded once on the trapdoor, signaling the coachman that his passengers were settled.

Madame Venna was anything but settled.

Especially when the marquess shifted with a panther’s grace onto her side of the coach as the conveyance rolled forward.

“Now that we are alone, do you want to explain a few things to me?”

“Not particularly.”

He ignored her comment. “Let’s begin with something simple. Why were you at the theater this evening?”

She thought about moving to the other side, but immediately rejected the idea. Saint would choose to believe that she feared him. “A whim.”

“You’re lying,” he said flatly. “The Golden Pearl is your creation. You nurture it as if it were your child.”

Madame Venna thought of the evening she had spent with him at the Sinclairs. “I have been known to take an evening off.”

“Fascinating. So tell me, why did you choose this particular night? Why the opera house, rather than Vauxhall Gardens?”

She tilted her head. “Is this an inquisition? Perhaps we should wait until we reach our destination. The Golden Pearl has a nice collection of flails, riding crops, and various restraints. There is a room dedicated to this revered vice.” The notion of taking a whip to the gentleman’s backside was almost irresistible.

Her admission managed to startle him, though he recovered his composure quickly. “An intriguing suggestion. However, I am an impatient gent. Tell me about Greenshield and Mulcaster.”

She shrugged. “I have nothing to confess.”

“A sinless brothel owner,” he marveled, sarcastically. “Unique—and a shameless liar.”

“It is your opinion, no?”

Without warning, Saint pounced, caging her against the coach’s wall with his body. One muscular leg was braced against the opposing seat. His left knee pinned her skirt to their seat while his right hand caressed the side of her face.

“It’s damaged.”

Confused, she said, “What is?”

“Your mask.” He traced the porcelain edge down to her cheek. He lightly tapped her cheekbone. “There are fine cracks and a tiny piece missing.”

Her hand fluttered up to her face until she found the sharp edges of the break. “With me bouncing over your shoulder like a sack of potatoes, I am fortunate the entire half-mask did not shatter.”

Although Saint had not moved, she could sense his stillness at her words. “And what if it had? What would you have lost?”

Everything.
Madame Venna exhaled, her breath a soft sigh. “You might be surprised.”

“So might you … if, for once, you tried trusting
me.
”

She blinked at his sudden vehemence. “Quite an impossibility,” she said, her accent thickening as her mind silently considered the possibilities of telling him the truth about herself and Lord Greenshield. “I trust no one.”

Disappointment flickered in his gaze and was gone. “I pity you. You have chosen a lonely existence.”

Temper flared in her gray eyes. “Pity yourself, Sainthill. I do not see you putting your trust into the hands of another.”

How dare he pity her? She had made a few inquiries to learn about his life. Despite having family, he had little to do with his mother, stepfather, or half siblings.

He was alone. Just like her.

“Wrong,” he snapped. “I did once. Six years ago I gave it to you and you tossed it at my feet.”

Denial and shame bubbled in her throat. “I did no such—mmph!”

Saint silenced her denial with a hard, bruising kiss.

He drew back. “Forget it. I won’t let you distract me. I have made peace with the past. Besides, I am more intrigued with the present.”

His fingers trailed down her cheek to her lips. Although the compartment was warm, she trembled as his fingers traced the outline of her lips. The pad of his thumb rubbed her lower lip. She could smell the faint scent of brandy on his breath.

“This is—we should not.”

His smile was warm and full of humor. “Oh, yes, we should. Have we not danced around the issue long enough? Ignoring it has not weakened the one truth between us.”

“And that is?”