The Courtesan's Bed (16 page)

“Don't flatter yourself, Pen.”

He sat back, glaring at Darius. “So that's the way of it.”

“The lady has made her choice, sir,” Darius said. “Respect it.”

The marquess rose, towering over her, shaking, his anger barely controlled. “I will win you back one day, Regina. That's a promise.”

With one final black look at his son, Penbry Granger, Marquess of Blackwall, her seducer and once the love of her life, stormed out of her drawing room, leaving his roses behind.

And she felt nothing. Not triumph. Not happiness. Not even satisfaction.

When the sound of the front door slamming died, Darius caressed her cheek with his fingertips. “You handled him splendidly, my dear.”

“I am accustomed to dealing with arrogant men who turn into petulant, spoiled little boys when they don't get what they want.”

“Even though we're together, he won't leave you alone. He's a very unrelenting man, accustomed to getting his own way. And since he is my own father, I can't very well challenge him to a duel and kill him. Although I did grab him by the neck and fling him against a wall—twice.”

She smiled at that picture. “Perhaps he'll give up and return to England.”

“Perhaps he will,” Darius said, but from his skeptical expression Régine didn't think he believed his father would do any such thing.

Chapter Thirteen

The crush of carriages and riders in the Bois de Boulogne at the fashionable hours between three and five p.m. reminded Darius of London's Hyde Park. Every Parisian present also promenaded about in their finery to see and be seen.

Darius, however, had eyes only for Régine sitting so close beside him in her open landau that their arms touched. She looked as enchanting as a woodland sprite in subdued fern green, and an outlandish, broad-brimmed hat trimmed with fluttering ribbons and long, swooping pheasant feathers that touched her left shoulder. Unlike the other courtesans who drove by and nodded coolly at their rival while boldly giving Darius long, appraising stares and the occasional ribald wink, Régine wore no face paint and was not festooned with enough gaudy, sparkling jewelry to blind someone's horses. Except for Régine's diamond earrings, which were too elaborate for a respectable woman to wear during the day, one would never guess that she belonged to the same sinful sisterhood.

En route to the park, Darius had begun to discuss his father's visit, but Régine placed her gloved fingertips gently against his lips and forbade him to mention the marquess.

“I have banished him from my thoughts,” she said, as her driver maneuvered the sleek matching bays along the promenade. “Today is a beautiful, warm spring day, and this is our special time together, so let us be happy and carefree and enjoy it.”

“I promise not to mention my father again.”

“Good. I dislike seeing you so troubled.” She smiled. “I hope you don't mind being put on display, but I want everyone in Paris to know that we're together.”

He kissed her hand and held it lightly in his lap. “So do I, though I would much prefer returning to your boudoir. One night was simply not enough for me.”

“Me, either.” She slipped her hand out of his, let it settle between his legs and quickly squeezed while she gave him a hot, smoldering look filled with promises of ecstasy to come. “Your patience will be rewarded all in good time.”

He gave a strangled gasp of surprise as the blood flooded his cock, making it ache unbearably and swell, but he managed to recover his composure just as a flashy carriage drew up alongside. The horse's bridle and harness were trimmed with red and white carnations to announce to the world that its occupant was a grand horizontal whose favors were for sale.

A blonde porcelain doll of a woman dressed from head to toe in white virginal lace sat high in the driver's seat, with two white French bulldogs as pampered passengers. “Yoo-hoo, Régine!” She wagged a disapproving finger. “Save such behavior for the boudoir, darlings.”

Darius blushed like a schoolboy caught masturbating beneath the covers and fought to bring his fiercely independent erection under control.

Régine laughed, a rich, bawdy sound. “Playing the voyeur, are you, Alice? For shame. And where have you been keeping yourself? We haven't seen you in weeks.”

“I've been losing a fortune in Monte Carlo, darling,” she replied blithely, with a charming little-girl lisp, “and the prince is so furious with me for being such a spendthrift, I fear I shall be in the market for a new protector soon.” She studied Darius as though she were measuring him for her own bed. “This must be your latest conquest that has all of Paris abuzz.”

“Alice d'Alençon, this is Darius Granger, Earl of Clarridge. Clarridge, meet Mademoiselle d'Alençon, an old friend.”

Darius tipped his hat. “A pleasure.”

“Poor Valendry.” She shook her head. “The old dog didn't stand a chance against such a fine young pup.” She raised her whip. “Well, darlings, I can see I'm blocking traffic and must be off. I'm sure we'll see each other in all the usual haunts.”

She lifted the reins, clucked her tongue and sent her white horse into a smooth, high-stepping trot.

Régine waved, and then settled back in her seat. “Alice is quite outrageous, but unlike some of our other sisters in vice, she doesn't have a mean bone in her flighty body. She appeals to older men who fancy little girls.” She glanced at him. “I hope I didn't embarrass you. I thought I was being very discreet.”

He chuckled and twisted toward her. “Naughty, brazen woman, touching me so intimately in public, where anyone could see.” He pushed aside her hat's feathers so he could see her face more clearly.

She ran the tip of her tongue suggestively along her upper lip. “I did embarrass you.”

“You just made me want to unbutton my trousers and let you pump my naked cock.”

“Monsieur!”
She pretended to be genuinely shocked.

He traced the band of lace running down the front of her dress. “Or perhaps I'll undo your bodice and fondle your lovely bare breasts. And then I'll lift your skirts and diddle you until you come.”

Régine fanned her face with her free hand. “Now you're making me blush,
monsieur.”

“And you look so pretty when you do. Did you know your whole body blushes when I make love to you? And when you climax, a lovely flush spreads across your chest?”

“No man ever told me that.”

“Most aren't as observant as I.”

Her intense gaze roved over his face as if every curve and angle had a secret just waiting for her to discover. “You say the most delightful, exciting things, Lord Clarridge.”

“I mean every word.”

She leaned back and opened her frilly green sunshade, which she twirled flirtatiously. “Most men don't.”

“I'm not most men.”

“I can see that.”

Régine had her driver steer the landau off the main path and stop the horses so they could rest, and Darius could admire one of the park's several lakes, as still as glass on the beautiful spring afternoon.

Régine closed her sunshade. “That's better.”

They were so engrossed in their warm, flirtatious banter that Darius didn't immediately notice a large black horse galloping out of the crush toward their carriage. Régine turned to see the snorting, wild-eyed animal pull up at the last minute and rear, its flailing front hooves a mere three feet from her door. She inhaled sharply as she automatically leaned away from danger and closer to Darius. When the horse landed with a thud of its steel-shod hooves, Darius opened his mouth to give the careless rider a good tongue-lashing.

And then he saw the rider's face.

“Count Dragomilov,” he said with barely controlled anger. “You frightened Mademoiselle Laflamme.”

The dueling scar darkened on the Russian's coarse, florid face as he stared at Darius with all the animosity of a resentful rival. “She was in no danger. I know what I'm doing. I rode my first horse before I could walk and am an exceptional rider.” To prove his point, he touched his heel to his mount's ribs, making the spirited steed arch its neck and dance in place. “You are this Earl of Clarridge everyone is talking about?”

Darius nodded coolly. “The very same.”

“I've seen you at Maxim's, with that journalist fellow.”

Régine smoothed her skirt and then looked up at the count. “I understand you called upon me yesterday, monsieur.”

His hungry gaze tried to possess hers. “I did, but you were not at home, so I waited. First you insulted me by rejecting an expensive bottle of champagne at Maxim's, and then you refused a diamond necklace as if the stones were worthless paste. I demand to know why.”

“I can answer that.” Darius took Régine's hand before she could speak. “No insult was intended, sir, but since the lady and I have formed a mutually agreeable liaison, she accepts gifts only from me. It's a matter of English pride.”

Dragomilov's eyes narrowed into slits, and he urged his horse so close to the landau that its glossy shoulder was a mere inch from the door. The count leaned forward in the saddle and looked down at Régine. “I am Russian nobility. If I wish to give a gift, I shall give a gift, and no one will tell me differently.”

“And if I wish to refuse a gift, I shall refuse it,” she replied.

He sat back in the saddle, his frustration plain. He thumped one gloved fist against his beefy chest. “In my country, a woman would not dare to speak to me in such a manner.”

“We are not in your country.” Darius's whole body tensed in preparation for a possible physical confrontation with the heavier, stronger man. “This is France, and Mademoiselle Laflamme is allowed to speak her mind to anyone, even Russian nobility.”

Dragomilov ignored him and focused only on Régine. “I made my intentions clear that I wish to become your next protector, Régine. And yet you chose this Englishman over me. Why?”

Darius was not fooled by her serene expression. Inside, Régine was seething and a little frightened.

“Clarridge and I are old friends and countrymen, Count.” Her tone hardened slightly. “It's not a matter of who first declares his intentions, but of who I choose. And I prefer to be with the earl.”

“What is he paying you?” he demanded. “I will double it. I will shower you with diamonds from head to toe. I will give you more beautiful clothes than you could wear in a year. I'll buy you the biggest, finest country house in France and stock it with many, many servants. I'll do all this for you.”

Darius started, but settled back when Régine put a placating hand on his arm.

“Just because I am a
cocotte
,”
she said, “doesn't mean that money is my only consideration when choosing a protector.” She shrugged. “I simply prefer the earl.”

The Russian looked like Vesuvius about to blow. Sensing his rider's agitation, his horse snorted and shook its head, causing his bridle to jingle.

“How can you make such a comparison?” He tightened the reins to control his restless mount. “You've never shared your bed with me.”

“Oh, Odile told me all about your boudoir habits, Count.” She wrinkled her thin nose in aversion. “Your heavy-handed lovemaking is not to my taste.”

“That bitch Odile lied.” His nostrils flared. “I understand now. You still blame me for her death.”

“Kindly do not insult the memory of my good friend by calling her crude names, and yes, I do blame you.”

“Her death was an
accident!
” he roared. “I was not to blame. Even the Prefect of Police agreed. Why do you hold something I did not cause against me?”

“Régine owes you no explanation.” Darius placed a protective arm along the back of their seat. “And I'll thank you to stop bellowing at her.”

If the count had had a sword in his hand, Darius didn't doubt that he would try to run him through. “And what if I refuse? What would you do to stop me, Englishman?”

Darius smiled with a combination of insolence and lazy, icy menace well known to any Oxford classmate who crossed him. “You really don't wish to find out, Dragomilov.”

The Russian said nothing as he stared at Darius with the shrewd, assessing look men gave each other when sizing up a rival. Finally, he gave Régine a curt nod. “You haven't seen the last of me, Régine. I will win in the end. I always do.”

He whirled his horse around, touched his heels to its sides and galloped off, his horse's hooves churning up clods of earth.

Régine sagged back against the tufted squabs. She tried to keep from trembling, and failed. “Odious man.”

Darius took her hand, removed the glove and kissed her bare knuckles. “You handled yourself magnificently.”

Dragomilov wove his charging mount recklessly between carriages and other riders, prompting them to rein their horses out of the way before he ran them down.

“I've known many men, but none like Dragomilov.” She looked at Darius. “He truly frightens me.”

“You have nothing to fear. I am your protector. I won't let him hurt you.”

Suddenly, their idyllic afternoon seemed soiled. She told her driver to move on.

“Dragomilov is a cruel, sadistic beast. When in Odile's bed, he thought it most amusing to take a sharp dinner fork and prick designs into her rump as if she were a roast he was testing for doneness.”

Darius recoiled in revulsion and swore. “Why did she allow him to abuse her so? Surely she could have found someone else?”

Régine shrugged. “I used to ask her those very questions, and each time, she'd laugh and make excuses for him, blaming his disgusting behavior on his drinking. Each time, he'd apologize and give her some new, more expensive bauble, and she'd always forgive him.” She sighed. “Odile valued money above her own welfare, I'm afraid, and thought a hefty bank account was well worth the pain.”