Intimate Deception (5 page)

“You are only doing this because all the Raeborn wealth is already at your fingertips. Because of a freak accident of birth, your father inherited everything and mine nothing. Because of the mere eighteen minutes that separated their entrance into the world, your father inherited the riches while mine was left a pauper.”

Vincent gripped the edge of the sideboard until his fingers ached. “Whether my father was born eighteen minutes before yours or eighteen years, it still made him the firstborn and heir. He was born heir to the Dukedom of Raeborn, as was I.”

Vincent emptied the whiskey in his glass and filled it again. After he took another swallow, he spun around to face down his cousin. “I have given you all you are going to get.”

“Damn you, Raeborn!”

“Enough! In time it will all be yours. Hopefully when it passes down to you, you will be responsible enough to appreciate the gift you have inherited.”

“A town house and country estate are not enough. How dare you expect me to live like a country squire when I am your heir? Your heir!”

“Then be an heir I can be proud of!”

Vincent’s retort was a rare display of his anger and frustration. He regretted his words as soon as they left his mouth.

It was at times like this that he’d give everything he’d inherited for things to be different. That he’d gladly hand over the Raeborn title and everything that went with it if the two women who’d sacrificed their lives to give him an heir were still alive.

Vincent gripped the glass until he feared the expensive crystal would shatter in his hand. “Any argument you pose is a moot point, cousin. The fact remains that, until my death, I am still the Duke of Raeborn.”

“That fact is always in the forefront of my mind,
Your Grace
.”

Vincent didn’t react to the sarcasm in his cousin’s voice. “A letter will be dispatched to my solicitor yet today to pay all your outstanding debts. The papers concerning your London town house and Castle Downs estate will be ready for your signature in a week’s time.”

The Duke of Raeborn slowly stood and, with his glass in hand, walked to the window. He turned his back on his cousin as a sign of dismissal.

There was a slight pause before Germaine stormed from the room, the heavy oak door slamming behind him.

Vincent slowly lifted the glass to his mouth and drank. He’d had far more than usual and was close to being drunk. Today, however, he didn’t care. Too many of his
cousin’s words burned like acid in an open wound. Too many of his accusations were closer to the truth than he wanted to admit. He
was
stuffy and staid. He’d seen too much death not to be. Given up too much of his heart not to protect himself behind a cloak of detachment. Let the world think his heart was made of stone. It mattered not to him.

He picked up the half-empty decanter and walked back to the window. The sun was starting to set, afternoon shadows lengthening. He tipped the decanter to fill his empty glass and poured the liquid with hands that trembled almost uncontrollably. It had been a long time since past regrets waged an attack with such a vengeance.

The faces of both his young wives flashed before him. They’d both been tender and sweet in their own ways, as different as night from day, yet the same. They’d both been robbed of a lifetime of gaiety and laughter. A lifetime he’d stolen from them.

No. He would never marry again. Having a child was risk enough to any woman. Having
his
child was a death sentence. How could he condemn another woman to the same fate?

He took the bottle and his glass and sat down heavily in the large mahogany-colored wing chair. He propped his elbows on the padded leather arms and held the glass carefully in his hands, then rested his chin on his steepled fingers while his mind shifted to memories long buried. To the two beautiful, perfectly formed babes he’d cradled in his arms before laying them with their mothers for eternity.

Vincent sat in his chair and watched out the window as the sky turned darker. A footman set fire to the logs when the room took on a chill, and Carver replaced the empty whiskey decanter with a new one. He’d had more to drink than was usual for him. Far more than he was used to—something he never allowed himself to do. But he wasn’t drunk. Just…numb.

With a sad smile, he admitted that tonight he did not care. That just this once, he would allow himself to wallow in a mire of self-pity.

He lifted the decanter he’d set on the floor and tipped more of the liquid into his glass. He took another sip of the whiskey and lowered his arm.

“Did Your Grace wish for his carriage tonight?” Carver asked from the open doorway.

Vincent expelled a weary sigh. “What function am I supposed to be attending, Carver?”

“It’s Thursday, Your Grace.”

He dropped his head back against the cushion of the chair and smiled.

Thursday.

“Yes, Carver. Have my carriage sent round.”

Vincent set the glass on a nearby table and rose.

He was never in his life so glad for a Thursday.

R
aeborn stepped out of his carriage and maneuvered the walk and the five steps to the exclusive brothel he’d visited every Thursday night since his second wife’s death. His legs felt strangely relaxed from the excessive liquor he’d already consumed. He couldn’t remember ever losing such control except for the week after he’d buried his first wife. And another week after he’d buried his second. They were the only two weeks of self-pity he’d allowed himself before he stepped back into the ducal role he’d been born to live.

Tonight, his cousin and heir was responsible for his lapse of self-control. Bloody hell, but the boy had a lot to learn. If something happened to him tonight and Kevin became the next Duke of Raeborn, everything would be lost. The wastrel didn’t have the slightest idea of the responsibility that would be placed on his shoulders. He didn’t have the vaguest notion of the demands that would be thrust on his time. Vincent’s blood ran cold just thinking about it.

He looked at the stylish London town house that was his usual Thursday night destination. Yes, he needed to be
here. Needed this release more tonight than he had for a long, long time.

He needed to be able to bury himself deep inside a soft feminine body and slake his passion until he could forget all he’d lost—all he would never have. He needed to visit the place where he was least likely to leave a woman pregnant.

This was why he’d never taken a mistress. Not every woman who gave her body to a man in exchange for clothes and jewels and a fine house knew how to prevent a man’s seed from taking root. So when he needed a release from this human side of his nature, there was only one place he felt comfortable going. One place he knew he could satisfy his physical needs without adding more emotional scars to his already riddled heart—Madam Genevieve’s.

Madam Genevieve catered to only the most selective clientele, and her girls were, without exception, from a higher class than any of the other London bordellos. Some of them were actually less fortunate members of the
ton
, he was sure. No matter what their reasons for being here, and he assumed there were many, the girls who gave their bodies for a man’s pleasure were here because they chose to be. They were eager and willing to satisfy a man’s every desire, yet knowledgeable concerning every method available of preventing a pregnancy. And that was his primary concern, his cardinal rule.

After the death of his second wife, he’d vowed never to plant his seed inside a woman again. That he would never let another woman die birthing his babe. To guarantee this, Vincent added another safeguard. He always found his release outside a woman’s body. It was a rule he’d made after Angeline’s death. One he always kept.

Raeborn’s body hardened in anticipation as his footsteps carried him toward the brothel. Before he reached the entrance, the thick oak door opened.

“Your Grace.” A man clad in dark maroon livery bowed regally.

“Good evening, Jenkins. Is your mistress in?”

“Yes, sir. She’s expecting you. In the Gardenia Room.”

Vincent smiled. Oh, yes. He needed to be here.

“Thank you, Jenkins. I can find my way.”

“As you wish,” the butler said, then walked across the tiled foyer and out of sight.

Vincent walked past the curved stairway that led to the private rooms upstairs, then past a half dozen sitting rooms—the Daffodil Room, the Hyacinth Room, the Azalea Room, the Daisy Room, the Marigold Room. The Gardenia Room. He knocked softly, then turned the knob.

As usual, the smell of fresh flowers assaulted his nose. A dozen or more bouquets from recent admirers sat on tabletops and pedestal stands scattered throughout the room. He had to search for her amid the arrangements, but finally found her standing by the window.

She turned and smiled when he entered the room.

“Your Grace,” she said, curtsying gracefully.

Raeborn let his appreciative gaze soak in her beauty. Genevieve was twenty-nine, perhaps thirty, with a small, voluptuous body he couldn’t imagine ever showing the ravages of age. Her gown was exquisite, made of the softest shade of yellow and cut in the latest fashion.

She wore her hair swept up to the top of her head, then left to cascade downward in a riot of thick curls. She wore very little makeup. Only a spot of rouge on her cheeks and
a hint of red to her lips. She was lovely in the most elegant manner. A beauty beyond compare. When she lifted her gaze to greet him, he couldn’t help but smile. “Genevieve,” he said, taking her hand and kissing it. “You look lovely tonight.”

“Thank you. And you look…” She reached up and placed her palm against his cheek. “Ah. It has been a difficult day. Let me get you a glass of brandy.”

Vincent smiled. “I think tonight I’d rather stay with whiskey. It might not be wise to switch at this late hour.”

Genevieve raised her eyebrows and lifted the stopper on a crystal decanter of amber liquid. She poured each of them a drink. “You are late. I was afraid—” She cast a glance over her left shoulder and smiled. “The
girls
were afraid you would not come.”

Vincent sat on the plush floral settee and rested one ankle atop the opposite knee. He always felt so at ease here. So comfortable.

She handed him a glass over his shoulder. When he took it, she rested her fingers on his shoulders and massaged his tense muscles.

“Do you remember the first time we met, Your Grace?”

“Of course.”

Vincent took a swallow of Genevieve’s excellent liquor and leaned back to let her work her magic.

“I was only nineteen and had just come to work for Madam Renée. You were a young man of what? Twenty-one? Twenty-two?”

“Twenty-two.”

“You’d lost your first wife the year before and were still grieving.”

“It was a difficult time for me,” he said, remembering how devastated he’d been. How hard it had been to get over his loss. Genevieve had been a true friend then. Listening when he needed to talk. Loving him when words no longer helped. “You always knew what was going on in my head, Genny. How did you do it?”

“I understood you only too well, Your Grace. We’re very much alike, you know. We both suffer from the same nightmares. Different in substance, yet the same—and equally terrifying.”

“And what is your nightmare, Genny? You know mine. But you’ve never told me what horrors have you in their clutches.”

Genevieve reached over his shoulder and took the empty glass from his hand. “My nightmares are best left where they are. Bringing them out in the open won’t help either you or me.”

She came around the settee and sat next to him. “We have been friends a long time, Raeborn. I want you to know how much I value your friendship. I would never intentionally do anything to risk losing it.”

“Nor I yours.” Her words confused him, but he wasn’t sure why.

She gave him her most brilliant smile. “However, you did not come to visit with me. Did you?”

Raeborn smiled. “So who have you chosen for me tonight? Corrine?”

“No, Your Grace. Tonight you will have…Deborah.”

A frown wrinkled his forehead. He realized he was far from sober, but that name was not familiar to him.