All Afternoon with a Scandalous Marquess (24 page)

Saint’s hand on her hip tightened. “The bitch told you.”

She smiled, heartened by his fury on her behalf. “Naturally. As soon as I was old enough to understand the true meaning of my sins. Unwanted by my parents, bearing their tainted blood, the woman who raised me told me that no decent man would have me. I was born from a harlot, and I would fall from grace and become one, too.”

It was not lost on either her or Saint that Mrs. Royles had been correct about her fate.

“That woman would give me nightmares, too,” Saint muttered.

“Oh, the woman was the least of my problems. It was her husband and son who taught me to be watchful. I was not of their blood, and as I grew older, I learned that it was dangerous to be alone with either one of them.”

“How old were you?”

“Young. I was more child than woman when I first felt the son’s gaze on my body. To our neighbors, he was my older brother, but the way he stared at me revealed his true feelings.” Madame Venna pulled the sheet higher, covering her breasts. “It began innocently enough, I suppose. He tried charm. Flirted with me, complimented my beauty … brought me little gifts. Flowers from his mother’s garden, and ribbons for my hair.”

“Yet you didn’t trust him.”

She gave Saint a bemused glance. “By then I did not trust anyone. Kindness.” She frowned while she concentrated on smoothing the sheet over her breasts. “It can be used against you. Men are particularly adept at manipulating—”

Madame Venna stopped speaking when she noticed that Saint’s lips had flattened into a disapproving line. She reached over and caressed his cheek in apology. “I was young, Saint. I so desperately needed to belong, which made me gullible. And not everyone is as considerate as you.”

Instead of appeasing him, his expression darkened at her flattery. “Not always,” he muttered.

Men were perverse creatures, Madame Venna thought, dismissing his reaction with a mental shrug. She supposed few people thought Sainthill was kind. He and his fellow Lords of Vice had earned their reputations, and wore their infamy as other gentlemen wore a new frock coat.

Unfortunately, in her business, she had encountered true villains. Men who maimed and killed for the pleasure it brought them. The man she had spent the evening with was incapable of such cold, calculated cruelty.

“So you were dreaming of the people who raised you?”

Madame Venna pursed her lips together. “Bits and pieces. Often I dream of the day I escaped.”

“Why that day?”

Suddenly sharing the sordid tale with Saint did not seem like a sound notion. “Freedom is not without sacrifice, no?” She rolled away from him and stared at the lit candle. The flame danced on the wick, its movements compelling.

Behind her Saint cursed. Before she could inquire about his furious outburst, she found herself on her stomach. Saint tore the sheet from her loose grip, revealing her back and buttocks.

The scars.

Madame Venna closed her eyes, chastising herself for her forgetfulness. In the darkness, her nudity was of little consequence. She had been so distracted by Saint’s presence and her nightmare that she had forgotten to conceal her back.

“Someone took a whip to you!” he said, his voice ripe with barely controlled rage.

She stilled as his fingers explored the faint lines that scored her lower back and buttocks. He was not the first man to discover that her skin bore the marks of brutality. In the past, it was simple to dismiss them as stark keepsakes of her trade. When it amused her, she told her appalled lover that she had begged to be flogged and found pleasure in each ruthless stroke.

Which lie would Saint believe?

The feel of his warm lips pressed against one of the ugliest scars was almost her undoing. Madame Venna squeezed her eyes shut and willed her tears to fade. Each kiss was sweeter than any compliment he had ever uttered to her.

“W-what are you doing?” she demanded hoarsely.

Instead of replying, he asked, “You never intended for me to see these scars, did you?”

She rested her chin on her clasped hands. “Scars, even old ones, have no place at the Golden Pearl.”

Poised above her, the tension and anger radiated down his arms and into the mattress. “Damn you, this is
not
business!”

Madame Venna winced at her poor choice of words. She would have rolled onto her back, but Saint stilled her movements with a touch.

“I know,” she said, her accented voice contrite and soothing. “And you are correct,
mon chéri.
I intended to hide the scars from you.”

“Why?” His hand gently caressing her scarred buttock contradicted his angry tone. “Were you worried that I would think less of you?”

Madame Venna laughed bitterly. “No.” If she could have frightened him off by revealing her scars, she would have done so six years ago. “It was your curiosity about how my flesh came to be marked that I wished to avoid.”

“Who whipped you?” he asked softly. “Was it the father? The son?”

It was apparent that Saint would not relent until he had the truth. “Neither. It was the wife. Any affection she might have possessed in her breast for me vanished the day I told her that her son had caught me alone and roughly took my virginity. My clothes were dirty and torn, and I was bleeding…”

Madame Venna faltered as he viciously cursed both mother and son.

“Naturally, she did not believe me. Mrs. R—the woman who had raised me since I was an infant—called me a harlot and slapped me so hard my vision dimmed. Then she dragged me upstairs and bound my hands to the bedpost. She took a riding crop to my back.”

“Not all of these scars came from a riding crop, Madame V.”

She turned her head and gave him a pitying glance. For all his wild ways, he had been sheltered from the raw brutality of the world. “This was not the first time I was whipped for my sinful nature.”

She ignored his sudden intake of breath as he imagined the horrors that had been visited upon her as a young girl.

“When she was … finished, she called for her husband. Since I could no longer be trusted, I was imprisoned in one of the old dairy buildings while they decided what to do with me.”

He abruptly swept her into his arms as if he could shield her from the past. “My God, did you have no ally in that house?”

Madame Venna shook her head. “The few servants they had feared for their jobs. Why would anyone stick out their neck for a poor bastard who thought she could better herself by spreading her legs for the master’s young son?”

Saint’s lips parted as if to speak, but his breath came out like a dragon’s hiss. He shook his head, incapable of fathoming the cruelty she had suffered. “The stuff of nightmares.”

“Oui.”
She curled around him as he held her, drawing comfort from his embrace. “I knew I had to escape. If I remained, I knew I was going to pay for my parents’ sins literally with my life, or I would suffer a worse fate.”

“What is worse than death?” he demanded.

“Nightly visits from the man who violently took my innocence. Or worse, my belly swollen with his bastard.” She shuddered as memories from that night assailed her. “Death was preferable.”

Saint clutched her tightly as her declaration sank in. She did not reveal that she had searched the small room the Royles had locked her in for some sharp instrument to end her life.

“How did you escape?”

Her brow furrowed as she smiled grimly. “The son. I knew he would come for me. I was alone. Helpless. And he had already proven that I was too weak to fight him. Away from the house, he could take his pleasure and no one would be the wiser.”

Such arrogance had proved to be his downfall.

“What did you do?”

“I used the only weapon I possessed. My body. He coveted it, so I let him.” She offered him a sad smile. “I let him believe he had bested me. When he was vulnerable, I attacked him. His surprise might have been humorous if I was not fighting for my life. I was not the only one who bled that day.”

“Good,” he said fiercely. “I would have applauded if you had killed him.”

And if she had been caught, she would have hanged for his death. It was the only thing that had stayed her hand.

“My freedom was too precious to risk it. I escaped and that was enough,” she said, unwilling to reveal that the Royles were just one of many hardships she had endured over the years.

With her in his arms, he rolled onto his back. After a moment’s hesitation, she laid her cheek against his bare chest. As he absently rubbed her back, she could sense that his thoughts dwelled on what she had told him.

“Your escape still haunts you.”

It wasn’t a question. She sighed as she splayed her hand over his abdomen. His muscles rippled at her touch. “Not in the same manner in which you believe. Enough time has passed that I have come to accept what happened.
Oui,
I still bear the scars, but I do not allow them to rule me.”

“The nightmares.”

“Rarely torment me,” Madame Venna admitted truthfully. She wrinkled her nose in contemplation. “I was upset this evening. It is to be expected that my lingering distress followed me into my dreams.”

“I wager I am to blame as well.”

If she allowed it, Saint would believe his rough lovemaking had caused her nightmares. “Nonsense. You were the best part of my evening.”

“Are you certain?” he asked sullenly. He was clearly brooding about his high-handed behavior.

“Well, you did break one of my favorite half-masks, but I have decided to forgive you,” she teased.

“But the nightmare—”

She brought her finger to his lips. “Hush. I am not so fragile that I cannot handle an eager lover. You misunderstood me when I told you that I dream of the night I escaped. I do relive the night. In my nightmares, I never escape my captors. I am still locked in that room, being whipped and defiled.”

Chapter Twenty-nine

The next time she awoke, it was morning and she was alone in her bed. After her grand confession, she had expected Saint to make some excuse to leave. Instead, he had leaned to the side and extinguished the candle with a swift exhale. Then he nudged her to slide deeper into the bedding. Not once had he released her.

Madame Venna had never felt so protected in a man’s embrace.

She stripped the half-mask from her face and massaged the tiny indentations around her eyes that the lace had left behind. Why had he stayed? What they had shared might not have been business, but neither was it love. The sentiment had no place in her life, and Saint had a duty to his title. She did not fit in his plans any more than he did in hers.

With sunlight streaming through the seams of the curtains, the bed seemed too big without him at her side. Her slight disappointment was ridiculous. She preferred sleeping alone. Lovers were demanding, which was one of the reasons why she limited herself to brief trysts. There were no expectations, no questions, and most certainly no regrets.

So why did she miss him?

The realization that she did made her curse his scoundrel heart!

She had expected passion from him. Understanding and tenderness were characteristics that she had not anticipated he would share with her.

A knock at the door had her reaching for the discarded half-mask.

“It’s Anna.”

“A moment, if you please.”

Madame Venna relaxed at the sound of her friend’s cheerful voice. She lifted the sheet and belatedly recalled that she was naked. As her gaze searched the room for her chemise, Anna solved the dilemma by using her key to unlock the door.

“Good morning, Madame!” Anna entered the bedchamber with her arms burdened by a large tray. She did not seem surprised to see her employer still abed as she shut the door with a graceful swish of her hips. “Did you sleep well?”

She approached the bed with a knowing expression on her face. It was simple to deduce that her friend was aware Madame Venna had not spent the night alone.

“Well enough, I suppose,” she replied cautiously, her heavy accent absent from her voice since they were alone. “You seem awfully cheerful this morning.”

“Actually, it’s early afternoon.” Anna placed the tray on the mattress. She removed several silver covers to reveal buttered toast, a slice of ham, and a poached egg. “I thought you would be hungry.”

Madame Venna reached for the teapot. She gave her friend an inscrutable look. “And why would you think that?” As the scent of the ham teased her nose, she realized that she was starving.

She poured the hot tea into the empty teacup.

Anna opened the curtains. “There is no need to be coy, Catherine.”

“How long have you known?”

Even if she had managed to keep Saint’s presence at the Golden Pearl a secret, her clothes strewn about the room and the broken glass near the dressing table hinted that something had occurred during the night.

Anna moved confidently about as she gathered up Madame Venna’s clothing. “Since last evening,” she smugly admitted. “You were too indifferent about one of the guards being attacked. That revealed you knew his attacker. It was Saint, was it not? He was here with you last evening.”

Madame Venna hid her grin with her teacup. “Yes.”

“His presence also explains why you refused to open the door.” She dropped the bundle of clothes on the nearest chair. “The guard said that the man who struck him was in a drunken rage. Did he hurt you?”

Her eyebrows lifted at the absurd question. “Saint? Not at all. He … well, he likes to have his way in all matters.”

Something in her inflection caused Anna to pause and gape at her friend. “Sainthill was ravishing you when I was at the door last evening!”

Madame Venna tilted back her head and laughed. She thought about Saint’s mouth between her legs, his long, dexterous fingers stroking her. “Close enough.” She picked up a piece of toast and stuffed a good portion into her mouth before she could say anything more.

Any clever retort from Anna was forgotten when she noticed the porcelain shards of the shattered half-mask. “What happened? Good grief, did Sainthill do this?”

“He did,” she said, her mouth full of toast. She chewed and swallowed before she added, “And no, he did not see my face. I did not light a candle until much later, and by then I had a replacement.”