Page 25

“ I should warn you, Marchwood, your glowering presence is frightening away half my potential card partners,” the Marquess of Southall remarked as he slid into the chair opposite Henry. “Though I daresay the other half appear determined to lose their quarterly allowances to me regardless.”

Henry barely glanced up from the untouched glass of whiskey before him. The gaming hell, one of London’s more exclusive establishments, where gentlemen of quality might indulge vices without fear of societal repercussion, buzzed with activity around them.

Cards shuffled, dice rolled, and fortunes changed hands with the casual indifference of men to whom money was merely another form of entertainment.

“I’ve no interest in their games,” Henry replied tersely, his gaze fixed on some distant point beyond the Marquess’s shoulder.

“So I’ve observed.” Everett signaled a passing server for a drink of his own before leaning forward. “Three invitations to join tables, two offers of private games, and yet here you sit, brooding like Hamlet contemplating Yorick’s skull.”

Henry tensed. “I’m merely engaged in thought.”

“Engaged?” Everett repeated as his lips quirked. “An interesting choice of words. I heard about last night’s dinner at Wexford’s.”

The Duke’s eyes snapped to his friend’s face but then he quickly resigned himself. “And what, precisely, did you hear?”

“Merely that you defended the honor of a certain bluestocking against Lady Wyndham’s particular brand of viciousness.” Everett remained deliberately casual, though his eyes missed nothing. “Quite gallantly, by all accounts.”

“How dull. I suppose I should not have expected the tongues of bored nobles to remain still for even a bit,” Henry drawled lazily despite the tension Everett could certainly see in the rigid lines of his shoulder.

So, Everett merely laughed. “Come now, Henry. I’ve known you for twenty years. Your face might be a perfect mask to the rest of society, but I can read you like a book.”

“There is nothing to read,” Henry insisted, though even to his own ears, the denial sounded hollow.

“Indeed?” Everett reached into his waistcoat pocket and withdrew a small brass key, which he placed on the table between them with deliberate care. “Then you’ll have no need of this.”

Henry stared at the innocuous object, understanding its significance immediately. “A suite key?”

“Consider it a gift,” Everett replied, rising from his chair. “One of Madame Rousseau’s finest awaits upstairs. Perhaps she might succeed where whiskey has failed in dispelling whatever tension currently afflicts you.”

His friend disappeared into the crowd before he could refuse it, leaving Henry alone with the key and his increasingly turbulent thoughts.

For several long moments, Henry contemplated the brass key glinting in the muted lamplight. And he decided that it might do him a bit of good to use it.

Perhaps there was wisdom in accepting the offer, if only to test the nature of his own feelings.

If the French courtesan’s practiced charms could banish the persistent memory of Annabelle’s lips, then perhaps what he felt was merely physical desire.

A basic male impulse that could be satisfied and dismissed.

Although even as he thought it, he knew that he was fooling himself.

“It does not hurt to be absolutely certain.”

He lifted the key and felt its weight surprisingly substantial against his palm. The Duke of Marchwood was not a man accustomed to indecision. He always approached each situation with calculated precision, weighing options and executing decisions with uncompromising efficiency.

Yet here he sat, paralyzed by uncertainty over a simple brass key and what it represented.

“Damn Southall and his meddling,” he muttered without genuine rancor.

However, he knew he could not dawdle all night.

So, with sudden resolution, he pocketed the key and drained his whiskey.

The corridor to the private suites was discreetly lit, and the thick carpeting muffled his footsteps as he approached the designated door.

Each suite in Madame Rousseau’s establishment was individually themed, catering to various aristocratic tastes while maintaining the plausible deniability necessary for gentlemen who might encounter each other in these hallways.

He inserted the key with a practiced twist born of previous visits, though it had been months since he had last availed himself of such arrangements. The lock yielded with a soft click, and he stepped into the opulently appointed chamber.

The suite was decorated in the Orientalist style currently fashionable among London’s elite: plush carpets in deep burgundy and indigo, heavy velvet draperies adorned with gold tassels, and a four-poster bed draped in silks that suggested both luxury and license.

A single Turkish lamp cast honeyed light across the room, illuminating the woman who rose gracefully from a chaise longue as he entered.

“Your Grace.” Her voice carried the subtle French accent that London gentlemen found so enticing as she greeted him. “I’ve been eagerly awaiting your arrival.”

She was undeniably beautiful with raven hair arranged in artful disarray, alabaster skin displayed to advantage by her silk dressing gown, and eyes that promised both skill and discretion.

Madame Rousseau’s most exclusive companions were renowned for their ability to provide precisely what each gentleman required, whether conversation, passion, or merely silent companionship.

“Madame,” he acknowledged with a brief nod while removing his coat and gloves with mechanical precision.

She approached with the fluid grace of a dancer. Her movements were calculated to display her considerable charms without appearing overly eager. “May I offer you a drink? Or perhaps you might prefer to move directly to more pleasurable pursuits?”

“A brandy,” he replied, needing the delay to compose himself.

What was he doing here? The question echoed in his mind with increasing urgency as she moved to the sideboard. The silk of her gown whispered against her curves with each deliberate step.

He watched her pour the amber liquid. Her movements were choreographed to emphasize the elegant line of her neck and the delicate arch of her wrist. Everything about her was designed to appeal to masculine appreciation: her scent, her voice, and the calculated vulnerability in her glances.

She returned with his drink and deliberately brushed her fingers against his as she handed him the crystal tumbler.

“You seem tense, Your Grace,” she observed as her hand came to rest lightly upon his chest. “Allow me to ease your burdens.”

Henry closed his eyes as her fingers began to trace delicate patterns across his waistcoat, attempting to focus on the present moment rather than the memories that continued to plague him. Her touch was skillful, practiced. The caress of a woman who understood precisely how to please a man.

Yet all he could think of was Annabelle’s imperfect, passionate response—the way her fingers had clutched at his shoulders, how her body had melted against his with artless sincerity.

The French courtesan’s perfume, though expensive and subtle, seemed cloying compared to the remembered scent of lavender that had clung to Annabelle’s skin.

The experiment, it seemed, was yielding results far more conclusive than he had anticipated.

Even here, in a setting explicitly designed for physical pleasure, with a woman whose beauty and skill were beyond question, his mind betrayed him, returning inexorably to the woman whose challenging blue eyes and forthright manner had disrupted the careful order of his existence.

When the courtesan’s hand began to drift lower, tracing a path that promised imminent relief from his physical tension, Henry found himself grasping her wrist with gentle but implacable firmness.

“I apologize,” he said quietly while stepping away from her touch. “This was a mistake.”

Confusion flickered across her perfect features. “Have I displeased you in some way, Your Grace?”

“Not at all,” he assured her, reaching for his discarded coat. “The fault lies entirely with me.”

He withdrew several banknotes from his pocket—far more than the arranged fee—and placed them on the nearby table. “For your time and discretion,” he explained.

“But monsieur,” she protested as genuine bewilderment replaced her professional poise, “we have not yet?—”

“I know,” he interrupted gently. “Nevertheless, I must ask to be left alone.”

After a moment’s hesitation, she gathered the notes with a graceful shrug. “As you wish, Your Grace. Should you change your mind…”

But Henry knew with absolute certainty that he would not.

As the door closed behind her, he sank into the nearest chair, with a glass of forgotten brandy in his hand as he confronted a truth he’d known all along.

His indulgence of Southall’s little test had served its purpose.

He was certain now. So certain, in fact, that he felt like such a fool for even thinking to test himself like this.

Of course, no other woman would do.

For the first time in fourteen years, Henry found himself genuinely desiring a woman. He wanted not merely her body, but her mind, her spirit, and her challenging presence.

And that woman was Miss Annabelle Lytton.