Jordan, Nicole - Notorious 1 (28 page)

And if her wastrel brother could undergo such a stark transformation, could someone like Damien Sinclair do the same?

Damien was a jaded libertine, perhaps, but not nearly as wanton and decadent as she’d originally thought. He wasn’t totally wicked. No one who saw his deep regard for his sister could believe him beyond redemption.

Still, he could be so much more, do so much more with his life. With his wealth and position, he could accomplish a vast deal of good. But he would need a reason to change. She held little hope that the unattainable Lord Sin would ever lose his heart to her, or any other woman. He would never allow it. Unless

At the thought of Damien falling in love, yearning sprang up in Vanessa, so sudden and sharp it frightened her. Relentlessly, though, she forced the treacherous feeling aside. She couldn’t afford nonsensical romantic dreams.

No, the best she could hope for was a swift end to their relationship. It was time she went to London, time she attempted to fix the attentions of a wealthy admirer.

Only then could she move on with her life. Only then could she try to forget she had ever known the magical enchantment of the wicked Lord Sin.

The journey to London was pleasant enough, if Vanessa overlooked Damien’s growing remoteness as the drive wore on. He gave her little time to rest upon arriving. When he conveyed her directly to the Rutherford town house, she made do with the skeleton staff to bathe and change her attire.

An hour later he escorted her to a play at the Drury Lane Theatre, and then to the Green Room afterward, so that she could observe how the actresses made assignations with young bucks vying for their favors. Afterward he returned her home with scarcely a word.

The next night they made the rounds of the gaming hells, where high-stakes gambling was de rigueur.

“It would be wise of you,” Damien advised, “to learn the rules of various games of chance. If your patron holds a fondness for cards, you might spend many of your evenings in establishments such as this.”

Vanessa felt her heart twist in her chest, not due so much to the future Damien envisioned for her, as to his evident indifference. His gaze seemed flat and cold, his tenderness nonexistent. She found it difficult to hide her despair, yet she forced herself to keep up the bright pretense of enjoying their outings.

The following evening they attended a masquerade ball, where she could watch the flirtations of not-quite-respectable ladies and their chosen victims—to see how a straw damsel in search of a protector flashed her fine feathers so as to make the best possible arrangement.

The object of these excursions, Damien maintained, was to show her the life she would lead as a member of the demimonde. It was an elegant shadow world of passion and pleasure, a debauched realm in which he moved with as much ease as he did the glittering, golden arena of the ton. It seemed a mirror image of polite society; here gentlemen remained faithful to their mistresses, and wives were held in relatively low esteem.

To make her aware of the dangers inherent in her new profession, Damien also gave her a glimpse of Covent Garden, the notorious site of the lucrative flesh trade of the lower orders. Vanessa saw procuresses who looked as innocent as nuns and common streetware whose lives were often short and violent.

She counted herself fortunate that while she had chosen to sell herself to the highest bidder, itwas her choice, under conditions of luxury and independence.

She was fortunate, as well, to have Damien as her tutor.

If he disapproved of her choice, he gave no indication of it. If there were times when she caught a glimpse of some other darker emotion in his eyes—a hint of bleakness, of anger—she decided she must have imagined it.

Her days were as fully occupied as her nights. To add to her feathered plumes, Damien took her to a discreet modiste patronized by demireps, where Vanessa was fitted for attire specifically designed for the boudoir, as well as evening gowns that were more risqué than those she was accustomed to wearing. One of the articles he ordered for her particularly disturbed her because of its intimacy—a pair of white doeskin garters exquisitely embroidered with gold roses.

When she protested his exorbitant expenditures, however, Damien shrugged in his charming, graceful way and said, “Consider it remuneration for your excellent care of my sister.”

Uncomfortable about becoming even more indebted to him, Vanessa kept a careful account of his gifts, hoping to reimburse him someday. The jewelry he gave her, however, was far more lavish than she could ever repay.

On the evening he escorted her to the pleasure gardens at Vauxhall, Damien presented her with an exquisite emerald necklace and bracelet set to match one of the new gowns he had bought for her, and wouldn’t hear of a refusal.

Vanessa managed to don the bracelet herself, but when she fumbled with the clasp of the necklace, Damien came to her aid. She found herself trembling as his cool fingers fastened the jewels around her throat. It was the most intimate contact she’d had with him since arriving in London. Each night he had left her at her doorstep alone, and had made no move even to touch her, let alone share her bed.

Bleakly, she told herself to be grateful he had ended their physical intimacy. It was far better for them both to put a wide distance between them. Yet she missed his sensual warmth, missed the charming, caring lover she had once known—with an intensity that left her aching.

“You ought not have been so extravagant,” she murmured in a futile attempt to distract her thoughts.

“It is no more than I would have done for any mistress,” he replied coolly.

Flinching, Vanessa turned to face him. He was breathtakingly handsome, impossibly elegant, in a tailored blue coat and cream brocade waistcoat. And as cold as a statue.

It devastated her to be reminded how little she meant to him, that she was only one in a long line of women. She didn’t want his gifts of jewelry. She wanted his friendship, his tenderness, his

love.Sweet mercy

She stood frozen as he slid her emerald satin evening cloak over her bare shoulders. When he offered his arm, she took it in a daze and allowed him to escort her to the waiting carriage. Settling back against the squabs, Vanessa remained silent as she struggled with her desperate thoughts.

She had realized the terrible truth in a paralyzing instant. Against all dictates of wisdom or sense, against the stronger instincts of self-preservation, she had fallen in love with Damien.

All these weeks she had lied to herself, denying how much he fascinated her, bewitched her, ensnared her. His keen wit, his captivating charm, his affection for his sister, his consideration for her fears

there was so much to love about him. She had lost her heart to the tender lover who had so deftly taught her a woman’s passions and set her free of her fears.

Horrified, she stared blindly out the carriage window.

As usual he seemed sensitive to her mood. “You are quiet tonight,” Damien observed, studying her in the dimness of the carriage. “Are you feeling unwell?”

Vanessa forced the semblance of a smile. “Well enough. Just a touch of the headache.”

Shaking herself, she summoned the strength to pretend her world had not just shattered.

She would never allow Damien to know how thoroughly he had fragmented her heart. She didn’t want his pity or, worse, his scorn. When it came time to part, she vowed fiercely, she would never behave so foolishly as his other former mistresses. When they said good-bye, it would be over.

Vanessa had visited Vauxhall Gardens in the past, though not since before her husband’s death. The lavish gardens were as famous for the summer entertainment as for the graveled, tree-lined walkways illuminated by festoons of colored lanterns in crimson and gold. This particular evening, the music concert boasted a sizable orchestra, with vocal performers in two acts interspersed by a magical extravaganza of a cascading waterfall and a brilliant fireworks display.

Vanessa would have found great pleasure in the music had her emotions not been in such agony. Under the circumstances she was glad for the din, for she was spared the necessity of conversing with Damien as they strolled along the grounds.

At intermission he escorted her to a supper box adorned with paintings by Francis Hayman, where they dined on paper-thin slices of ham, sparrow-sized chickens, and pigeon pie, followed by strawberries and cherries and flavored ices.

Trying to conceal her desperation, Vanessa drank more of the potent Vauxhall punch than was wise. Perhaps that was why she felt light-headed when a party of gentlemen passed by their box, accompanied by two females who, from the scandalous cut of their gowns, did not appear to be ladies.

The gentlemen looked as if they had greatly enjoyed the punch, for they were weaving and laughing uproariously at some private joke. As a group they came to a halt when they spied Damien.

“Sin, do come and join us!” one slurred voice called out. “We mean to see what pleasure the Dark Walk can offer.”

Unlike the other unexceptional pleasure walks, the Dark Walk had gained a reputation for infamy. Its shadowed alcoves and romantic hideaways had been designed for lovers but were often used for nefarious purposes, and more than one young damsel’s good name had been ruined there.

“And bring yourlady,” another voice said, sniggering.

From the ribald laughter that followed this suggestion, they considered her of the same ilk as their own female companions. But perhaps that was only to be expected, Vanessa acknowledged grimly, when she was being escorted by a rake like Damien.

Disturbed by the bold way she was being eyed, she was glad when Damien didn’t introduce her. Instead, with a dismissive wave of his hand, he declined the invitation and sent his dissolute friends on their way.

They were not the last unsettling visitors to the box, however. Moments later a couple strolled by. Vanessa recognized the gentleman as Lord Houghton, a friend of her late husband. The woman on his arm was a stranger—ravishingly beautiful, with silver-blond hair and a full-breasted figure draped in white satin. Sporting a tasteful hint of paint on her face, she looked the essence of an expensive Cyprian.

Lord Houghton acknowledged Vanessa and Damien with a brief bow and might have moved on but for the woman’s musical voice issuing a mild protest. “Charles, do stop and make me known to your friends.”

He flushed slightly and bowed again. “Lady Wyndham, Lord Sinclair, allow me to present Mrs. Swann, a most superior actress.”

Vanessa felt herself blanch at the name. Suddenly numb, she scarcely heard the actress’s reply.

“Lord Sin and I have met,” Mrs. Swann purred. “I am currently performing at the Haymarket, my lord, and should love to have you in the audience.”

Damien inclined his head in recognition and responded with casual politeness. “I should be pleased to attend a performance if time permits, but I’m in London for only a few days.”

Turning to Vanessa, Mrs. Swann raised a delicate eyebrow. “I was acquainted with your husband as well.”

“I believe you were,” Vanessa choked out the reply. Roger had met his ignominious end dueling over this beautiful actress.

The Silver Swann seemed not in the least abashed by her notoriety. A sly smile curving her red lips, she lifted her hand to her throat to finger an emerald necklace similar to the one Vanessa herself wore. “Sin has excellent taste in jewelry, does he not?”

Vanessa was jolted from her frozen stupor as she realized the implication: the emeralds had been a gift from Damien. “He does indeed,” she said, outraged and bitterly wounded at the same time.

Lord Houghton looked embarrassed that his companion would be so ill-bred as to flaunt her jewelry. Hastily taking his leave, he swept the actress away.

Alone with Damien once more, Vanessa took a long swallow of her punch. When she felt the weight of his gaze, she cast him a bleak, acrimonious glance.

His eyes had grown hooded, while the liquor she’d drunk had loosened her tongue.

“She was one of your former paramours, I gather?”

“For a brief time, yes.” He met her gaze evenly. “I’ve never tried to conceal the fact that I’ve had liaisons in the past.”

Or will in the future, Vanessa acknowledged bitterly. Damien had never lied to her about his affairs. Yet his honesty didn’t make it any easier to accept that he’d been intimate with the very actress who had inspired her husband’s foolish death. Or to stem the painful jealousy that surged through her. Or to quell the insistent clutch of despair and longing at the thought of Damien with any other woman.

How foolish she was to hope he might change.

Almost wild with misery, Vanessa averted her gaze and brought the glass of punch to her lips.

By the time the second musical act was over, she had consumed enough of the potent brew to somewhat numb her devastation. Her head was swimming and she felt dangerously despondent, but she managed not to cling too heavily to Damien’s arm when they walked down to the riverbank to watch the spectacular fireworks, even though the alcohol sang in her blood like the brilliant rockets bursting overhead.

As the crowd dispersed to return to their boxes, they encountered the group of inebriated young bucks they’d seen earlier, this time no longer accompanied by the two females. All five gentlemen looked three sheets to the wind.

“Come with us, Sin,” one called out. “We mean to tour the fleshpots of London, starting at Tavistock’s.”

“I’m afraid I must decline,” Damien replied with obvious anger. “You may have noticed I have a lady with me.”

“Zounds, bring her along. The more the merrier.” Raising his quizzing glass, he squinted and ogled Vanessa’s bosom.

She clenched her jaw in absolute torment, but maintained a fierce dignity as Damien swiftly drew her away from his friends.

Feeling grimly reckless and destructive, she feigned a smile as she glanced up at Damien. “I should indeed like to see a brothel. It might be highly

educational.”

“I don’t think so,” he replied, stiffening.

“Why not?” she asked coldly. “You said you would show me the dangers of the wicked underworld. What could be more wicked than a brothel?”