Her Protector's Pleasure

Her Protector's Pleasure

(Mayhem in Mayfair, Book 3)

by

Grace Callaway

* * * * *

Her Protector's Pleasure

Copyright © 2013 by Grace Callaway

* * * * *

She Breaks Society's Rules

Wealthy widow Lady Marianne Draven is as notorious for her behavior as she is for her beauty. Unbeknownst to the
ton
, however, her scandalous image obscures a desperate quest: to find her kidnapped daughter. Clever and daring, Marianne will stop at nothing to get her little girl back ... and the
last
thing that she expects is for her heart to get in the way.

He Stands for Justice and Order

A man of honor, Thames River Policeman Ambrose Kent has devoted his life to duty and doing what is right. When his father faces financial ruin, Kent takes on a risky yet lucrative assignment to save his family. Fate has him investigating a mysterious and unscrupulous beauty, a lady he has no right to desire ... and no power to resist.

When Two Opposing Forces Collide

Passion ignites between the unlikely lovers. As secrets unravel, can Marianne and Kent trust one another and work together to rescue her child from a dangerous foe? Can their love survive betrayal ... and will Marianne surrender to
Her Protector’s Pleasure
?

ONE

Lady Marianne Draven studied the window display. Though she was a widow and had lost her innocence before her marriage, the offering behind the glass caused a wary flutter beneath the bodice of her sea-green sarcenet. She was all for extravagant shopping, but this night's expedition was no traipse down Bond Street. On the other side of the glass, the man lounged on a scarlet daybed like a Roman god. He wore a short toga that left little of his muscular form to the imagination. Tossing his dark curls, he gave her a smoldering, come-hither look.

Marianne suppressed a shudder as the proprietress chuckled beside her.

"Prime quality, ain't he, milady?" Dressed in a pink, beribboned gown and painted as brightly as a doll, Mrs. Wilson ought to have looked silly. Instead, the contrast between the girlish get-up and the madam's hard features served to heighten her aura of ruthlessness. "You said you wanted the best, and 'ere 'e is."

Marianne masked her unease by raising a brow. "I'm afraid this specimen is a bit common for my taste, Mrs. Wilson," she drawled.

"But Ernesto is my most popular stud. E's in 'igh demand with duchesses and countesses alike," the bawd protested. "'Ave another look, dearie, and you'll see what I mean."

Stifling her impatience, Marianne looked to the glass again. Mrs. Wilson gave a nod of her improbable black curls, and in response the gigolo bent one sinewy leg. The white folds of the toga parted, falling open at the groin.

"The
Italian Stallion
, that's what they call 'im," the madam said with satisfaction.

As if to prove that point, the man gripped his erect and undoubtedly horse-like attribute. He stroked from root to tip, lingering at the blood-engorged dome. Marianne swallowed a sudden panicky laugh.

Lud. What in blazes am I doing here?

The
ton
, of course, wouldn't blink an eye to see the notorious Baroness Draven at a male brothel. Indeed, Marianne had cultivated her reputation for debauchery with care: she'd needed the status of a voluptuary to gain access into this exclusive establishment. She alone knew her true purpose.

Ever since Draven's death—God rot his soul—she'd been searching for her heart's one desire. A memory slipped free from the tightly locked box inside her heart. She saw a beautiful babe with shiny corn-silk curls and wide jade eyes. Clinging to a bench in a sun-washed garden, the little cherub stood on wobbly legs, gurgling a sound so close to
Mama
. Marianne felt again the grass beneath her knees, the proud yet anxious flutter of her pulse as she held out her arms and called out words of encouragement.

You can do it, Rosie. Just take one step at a time. Come to Mama.

Marianne's fingers curled inside her satin gloves as talons of longing clawed at her breast. It had been seven years since she'd last seen Primrose. The loss had continued to fester and would never heal until she had her babe back in her arms once more.

Eyes gritty, Marianne told herself she'd
know
if anything had happened to Primrose. Day by day, she could still feel that bond, the connection that had been forged between them from the moment she'd held her child to her breast and felt selfless love for the first time. Love that would see her through any trial, including the one she currently faced: within the walls of this brothel lay her last remaining lead to her precious daughter, and she had to find him. To get the information she needed, at any cost.

I'm coming for you, Rosie. Wait for me.

"So you'll take Ernesto?" Mrs. Wilson said brightly.

Marianne let her lips form a cool smile. During the five hellish years of her marriage, she'd learned to control her emotions. She'd had to. Boxing up sentiment had been a means of survival; now, three years after Draven's death, she rarely examined what had been placed inside. Composure had become her armor.

"He's not what I'm looking for," she said.

"But you've already seen all my stables," the bawd said in a wheedling tone, waving her jewel-crusted fingers to the hallway behind them, "and you still 'aven't made a choice."

Marianne wished she could wash her memory clean of Mrs. Wilson's famed "stables," which consisted of a long row of glass viewing rooms. Within each one, studs like Ernesto showed off their goods in the manner of auction day at Tattersall's. Prime flesh strutted out and sold to the highest bidder. Marianne hid her shudder.

Men in glass houses ... I suppose there is something apropos to that.

With deliberate insouciance, she said, "Not
all
your stables, I believe."

"I don't know what you mean, milady." Mrs. Wilson's gaze sharpened, and coupled with her beaky nose, her expression became hawk-like. Predatory.

Marianne's nape tingled with caution. She had labored too long, too tirelessly, to show her hand now. In the three years she'd spent searching for Rosie in London, she'd discovered that vice looked after its own. Gaining the subscription to Mrs. Wilson's had proved more arduous than obtaining vouchers to Almack's. If she roused the bawd's suspicions now, she'd be tossed out of Covent Garden, any chance of finding her daughter dashed.

You're supposed to be a lascivious widow. Bloody hell act like one.

"I'm told you have a prize mount," she said, "one whose blood runs not only hot, but possibly blue as well. And I've heard you might allow your favored clients a ride on occasion."

"Where'd you 'ear that?" the madam demanded.

"Word gets around, Mrs. Wilson. I want the best your establishment has to offer, and I'm willing to pay for it." Marianne paused. "A
royal
sum, in point of fact."

The bawd's eyes hooded in a considering manner. Marianne had made a bold move, and she prayed it would pay off. It was no small matter, after all, to request the company of the madam's own lover. According to Marianne's sources, Andrew Corbett was an Adonis in his twenties, the bastard son of an actress and, if one was to believe gossip, the current King. Due to his good looks and questionably exalted heritage, Corbett had made a niche for himself as a
cicisbeo
to rich, older women. Currently, he lived under lock and key as Mrs. Wilson's pampered pet.

Emotions played across the older woman's hard, powdered features. Anger, ambivalence ... and ah, yes, the leverage Marianne had been counting on. Greed.

Mrs. Wilson said in brittle tones, "So 'tis my own dear Corby you're after then, eh?"

God, yes, Marianne wanted Andrew Corbett. Not for carnal purposes, but for his possible connection to her daughter's disappearance. After the years of searching, of dead ends and betrayal by those who had promised to help her, Marianne had no other leads left. Corbett was her last hope.

"'Twould be a loan of one night, Mrs. Wilson." She kept her tone calm; it wouldn't help negotiations to seem too eager. Smoothing a wrinkle from her gloves, she said, "I confess I am curious to experience first-hand what all the brouhaha is about."

The other woman sniffed. "The talk ain't exaggeration, if that's what you're gettin' at. My Corby's a cut above the rest. A prince amongst men."

"And the price for an audience with his highness?" Marianne inquired.

"You can't afford 'im."

"Try me."

The bawd's blackened eyelashes lowered. When she raised them, the candlelight glinted like guineas in her pupils. "A thousand pounds."

"Five hundred."

"Won't let 'im go for less than nine."

"Let us split the difference. Seven hundred pounds for one night. My final offer, Mrs. Wilson." Seeing the other's lips tremble, Marianne felt the thrill of victory. In truth, she'd have paid a thousand for Corbett, but had bargained to appear less keen.

"We 'ave a deal." The madam held out a hand.

Marianne withdrew crisp, folded banknotes from her reticule. Predictably, Mrs. Wilson counted the stack. The bundle disappeared into her pink chiffon skirts.

"Come this way," the bawd said.

Marianne followed the proprietress down the plush corridor of scarlet and gilt. Paintings of couples tangled in sexual poses lined the walls, the air heavy with the scent of musk and roses. As they passed a series of doors, Marianne's belly tightened at the sound of muffled moaning, yet she kept her step sedate, her expression indolent. The corridor came to an end at a pair of ebony doors painted with golden stars.

"You'll 'ave the Arabian Suite—nothin' but the best for Corby." Mrs. Wilson dangled a key from her fingers. "Room and food's extra."

No doubt Marianne would be paying through the nose for half-rate caviar and watered champagne. Nonetheless, she inclined her head. "Of course."

"And there's to be no namby-pamby talk of love or any such thing." Mrs. Wilson's lips thinned as she raked a glance over Marianne. "Usually talk o' a lady's looks is exaggerated, but you
are
a stunner. I got eyes to see why the Mayfair lot's fallen elbows o'er arse for you." She paused, the menace in her tone unmistakable. "But my Corby's 'eart's off limits, you 'ear me?"

"I have no interest in that particular organ," Marianne said.

Mrs. Wilson sniffed. "You 'aven't seen 'im as yet."

"Surely you trust your paramour, if not me?"

"
Trust
Corby? Why would I do that?" The bawd snorted. "'E may be a prince, but 'e's still a man."

And men could not be trusted. On this issue, she and the madam were in perfect accord. Experience had repeatedly proven to Marianne that putting faith in any male led to disastrous consequences; she'd never make that mistake again.

"Go on in, then," the other woman grumbled as she unlocked the doors. "I'll 'ave Corby fetched."

Alone in the chamber, Marianne tamed her anticipation by perusing her new surroundings. Mrs. Wilson certainly had a knack for setting the stage. At the center of the room, sheer ivory panels cascaded from the ceiling to create a tent-like effect. Jewel-toned reclining cushions lined the interior of the canopy; at the thought of the activities conducted upon those pillows, Marianne cringed and made note to carry out the night's business standing.

She walked the perimeter of the room, searching for viewing holes in the gold-on-gold damask wallpaper. She found four. From her reticule, she produced small squares of black velvet and a tiny bottle of adhesive, and she proceeded to plug the cavities.

For seven hundred pounds, she expected a modicum of privacy.

She would need it for the subject she planned to discuss. Her palms dampened as she reviewed her options for interrogating Corbett. She planned to begin by luring with honey rather than vinegar. Yet if sweetness and money failed, she had an alternate plan. One that rested, pearl-handled and loaded, in the hidden pocket of her skirts. She was no stranger to the use of weapons; her jaw hardened as she recalled the last discharge of her pistol.

For months, Marianne had paid a Bow Street Runner named Burke Skinner to help her find Rosie. He'd kept her subsisting on crumbs of information—and all the while he'd kept the loaf to himself. He'd bled her for more and more money, and desperate for any news of her daughter, she had paid. But when he'd wanted more than coin for payment, when he'd had the temerity to demand that she perform sexual favors for his services ...

Marianne's fingers curled around the delicate stem of the pistol; gaining Corbett's name had come at no small price. The knock on the door yanked her from her thoughts.

Never mind the past. Focus on Corbett. He's your last hope.

"Come in," she said.

The doors parted, and a tall, bronze-haired gentleman strode in. Marianne could see why Andrew Corbett was considered the stuff of female fantasies. He had the face of Narcissus: high cheekbones, squared jaw, full lips. His blue silk dressing gown was figured with silver dragons and molded to his athletic form. His velvety brown eyes travelled with practiced sensuality over her. Closing the door, he strutted over and issued an elegant leg.