Chapter 7

CHAPTER 7

F leur jumped up when the door shut behind Mr. Porter. She wasn't certain what might happen this evening but neither did she have the courage to ask him what to expect before he left. All she knew was that she was tired of wearing this horrid shroud.

She ripped it off of her and tossed it into a corner, hoping it might rot. She donned the shirt that he'd lain out for her. Although it was a bit shorter than she would have liked, the hem coming to her knees, and the material too thin, leaving little to the imagination, she supposed that she ought to get used to showing off her body in such a way if she was, indeed, to become a courtesan.

However, considering she was still a virgin, she wasn't quite at the seduction phase of her new title just yet. She was still uncomfortable being naked in front of anything but a washtub, and although she had tried to discover self-pleasure, the effect was sadly lacking.

She walked over to the window and hugged herself. Although she couldn't see anything but the back mews of the house, she imagined that she could see Harriette's residence. She wondered what her brother thought of her ill treatment, but then, Flavian probably didn't know what had happened. He might believe that his twin was perfectly content, not knowing that she'd been party to an illicit fight that evening, and that the man she might soon share a bed with was nothing but an enigma, a mystery she might never fully solve.

His house was empty of anything that might resemble something personal, but surely there was a clue to how he truly was—if he could be someone that she might trust.

Fleur opened a few drawers, but found nothing. Then again, this didn't seem like anywhere he spent much of his time.

She walked over to the door and opened it cautiously. He hadn't told her that she couldn't explore, so she took that as permission to familiarize herself with her surroundings. Although it was late, there was certainly no way that she would be able to sleep when her mind was whirling.

She grabbed the candle he'd left. Apparently, he knew his way well enough that he hadn't needed it to find his way downstairs. Or else he had the keen sight of a wild animal.

Taking a deep breath, Fleur decided she would keep her curiosity on the upper floors. She didn't want to risk running into Mr. Porter and having to explain what she was doing, that she was hoping to find enough evidence to prove that he wasn't some sort of murderer.

With those intense, silver eyes, she could almost believe it might be true.

She certainly couldn't rest easy with that image flashing in her mind.

Fleur tried the door of the room opposite hers. It opened easily but unfortunately, there wasn't a single thing inside. Not a candlestick or bedwarmer to speak of. The ramshackle rooms that she'd been in earlier that evening had been rather sparse too. She wondered if this was how all of his residences appeared—empty, devoid of any sort of permanence.

She wanted to be terrified at the idea, but instead, she found herself overwhelmed by sadness. Mr. Porter must live a very lonely life if he didn't care about staying in one place long enough to try to set down some roots.

The rest of the doors in the hallway revealed the same thing.

Nothing.

Except for one.

It was the last door at the end of the opposite hallway. Fleur anticipated it to be like the rest, and for the most part, it was just as cavernous as the others, but it was also the only room on that particular wing. For a moment, she paused as she surveyed the grand architecture. Hand painted walls and gilt edging rose up to a plaster ceiling with decorative medallions that held large and intimidating gold chandeliers. A row of windows took up one entire wall and Fleur knew this must have been a ballroom at one time. She could almost picture a scene where the swirled marble floor was filled with colorful swirling dresses and tailored suits from a decade gone by.

She reached out and trailed a hand down some of the trim, closing her eyes as she tried to go back in time and recreate the wonder that this house must have known at one time. Now, it just seemed neglected, sorrowful.

Or rather, it would have if it wasn't filled with several canvas paintings strewn along one wall. Some were partially covered with sheets as various brushes and palettes were tossed in a corner. With a thin layer of dust over everything, it was as if the owner didn't care if they returned to the partially finished landscapes or not. Some were just sketches of various parks and buildings about London, but others were from various cliffs. With the ocean spread out in the distance and waves crashing upon the rocks with the tide, Fleur knew these could be highly sought after works if they were completed.

She walked among the pieces for a time and then turned her attention to the single canvas on the easel. This was the only thing that looked as though it might have been disturbed in recent weeks because it was free of dust and there were vivid colors peeking out from the corner of the covering.

Fleur reached out a hand and pulled the sheet away.

What she saw caused her to gasp.

It wasn't a landscape. It wasn't even a portrait. It was much more scandalous than that.

It was the image of a naked woman in the throes of passion. Her head was bent backward, saving the viewer from her identity. The man she was with had his hand on her breast and his backside was fully revealed. It was obvious that this was a painting about making love and Fleur found herself intrigued.

Her fingers trailed the curves of the artist's brush strokes, the defined muscles of the man's arms, and her breathing deepened when she imagined his hands moving over her body, sighing as the same brush that had drawn this illicit act gently trailed over her skin, coloring her body as red as the background of the art.

Fleur closed her eyes, thinking about how it would feel if she was the lady in the portrait. Her eyes opened and she felt a strange stab of jealousy. She suddenly had a strong desire to know who this woman was, if she was a courtesan, or perhaps someone important in Mr. Porter's life. He had surely painted this. Either that, or he had been generous and allowed someone to interfere on his solitude. Not likely.

Unless she was the artist behind all these works.

Fleur shook her head and quickly covered the offending portrait. It abruptly disturbed her, although she couldn't readily say why it had done so.

She certainly had no claim on Mr. Porter. In truth, she was conflicted on whether or not she should be his lover—or if she should try to flee this desolate dungeon of a house that he inhabited. He was like some dark creature of the night, forever cursed to walk through endless empty rooms and never know what it was like for his heart to be touched by love.

Fleur left the room and quickly made her way back to the chamber to either await the master's return—or to pace the expanse the rest of the night. Either way, she wouldn't be able to sleep a wink until the sun started to rise and she knew that she would be safe from the shadows of doubt that surrounded her, warning her that she might have very well subjected herself to something far worse than the demons of hell.

* * *

Downstairs, Drake leaned his head back against the edge of the copper tub that he'd filled with several trips back and forth from the cistern, and thought of the lady he'd left in his chamber. It had never seemed like his before, but with her in it, he suddenly wanted to lay claim to it. And Miss Davies.

He blew out a puff of smoke from his cheroot and tapped the ashes onto the floor beside him. He could always count on his housekeeper to clean up his messes, and other than ashes trailed all throughout the house, there wasn't much else for her to do. He couldn't even remember her name. He only employed her because she looked as though she could use the employment he could provide, and she seemed to be able to retain her gossip. It was a quality that many servants did not have, but considering his past, was quite necessary.

As his thoughts wandered back to Miss Davies, he wondered if she was already asleep or if it was going to be as long a night for her as it would be for him. He had never been comfortable in the dark. Perhaps it was residual trauma from his childhood causing him to be afraid of cramped, dismal spaces, having roamed the streets in all manner of weather and situations. He had always preferred pouring rain so long as it was daytime to anything that caused his vision to falter. Without the ability to see, he didn't know who might be walking up behind him whether it be human, or one of the numerous rats that liked to roam the city.

He had practiced trying to acclimate himself to dim lighting. He seldom used anything more than a candle when he was alone, something that could easily be extinguished if he felt the hairs starting to stand up on the back of his neck. That instinct had saved his life more than once.

In the end, it was a woman who had nearly cost him everything.

After that, he'd vowed to himself that he would never put himself in the same situation again. Yet, ironically enough, he was allowing one to sleep under the same roof. But that didn't mean he trusted Miss Davies. He was starting to feel a touch of respect for her determination and steadfast demeanor at the pub but those qualities did not always create an ally. If she acted as Amos and saved his life, he would be more inclined to trust her. Until then, he trusted no one. Amos was given special consideration but Drake still kept his distance if he felt the situation warranted it.

Grinding his cheroot out on the floor, Drake decided he'd wasted enough time in the bath. He stood up, the rivulets of water flowing down his body, he dried off and wondered what Miss Davies would think if she could see more than just his arms and torso. His entire body was proof that he had lived a life that most would not care to duplicate. He had seen the horror on her face but at least it wasn't disgust. He wasn't sure it would be that easy to seduce her if she couldn't stand the sight of him.

However, while scars covered his body, he had always made an attempt at getting enough physical activity that his form more than made up for any faults.

He tucked the linen about his waist and started to head back upstairs. He did have a change of clothes, as he'd told Miss Davies, but he wondered what her reaction might be if he appeared with nearly nothing on instead.

He reached the bedchamber and saw the slight glow of light coming from the other side. He considered giving a light knock of warning before he entered but then that would ruin the surprise.

He boldly entered the room and glanced toward the bed, expecting her to be there. When it was empty, he glanced about the room and saw her silhouette standing by the window. She had opened the pane slightly and he saw her hair blowing gently on the breeze.

Upon his entrance, she turned to him and her hand crept toward her throat. She didn't say anything or demand that he leave. She just observed as he moved about the room.

He headed for the dresser and removed a pair of smallclothes. He held them up and then ripped the linen off of his hips, letting it fall to the ground. He stood there for a moment, his naked glory piercing the silence, and then he donned the garment.

"Are you hot?"

He saw her mouth fall open and then she seemed to come to her senses when a slight breeze from the open window appeared to wake her from her sudden trance. "Er… I was just needing some fresh air."

He walked toward her and moved the window up a bit more. "Why stop there?"

Drake was glad to see that, although she tried not to make it obvious that she was inspecting him, her gaze kept dipping downward. "Are you going to bed?"

He saw her cheeks turn pink as soon as the words were out of her mouth. He almost smiled. But not quite. "Is that an invitation?" he murmured.

She lifted her chin. "It is what you paid for, isn't it? To make me your whore?"

He frowned. "I don't care for it to be noted in those terms. If I wanted a whore, I wouldn't have to spend five thousand quid to obtain one." He took her chin in his grasp so she was forced to look at him. "What I purchased was you . I didn't like the idea that you would be sold to some man who wouldn't appreciate your worth."

"How can you judge my worth?" she questioned. "You hardly know me. And considering that I ran away from you in Greenwich I assumed what you really wanted was revenge, to punish me for my actions."

"Revenge is not something I pay for." He released her and leaned back against the wall next to the window. "And neither will I pay for the chance to take you to bed. You will come willingly, or not at all."

* * *

At least he has some honor , Fleur thought. She couldn't readily say that about all the men that had been at that dreadful auction. They were quite lewd with their remarks and considering the choices she'd had, she supposed that Mr. Porter wasn't turning out to be as bad as she'd originally feared. While she wouldn't go so far as to say she felt comfortable with him, she could admit that she didn't worry he would hurt her. She was grateful that he promised he wouldn't force her into his bed but she had no doubt he would try to convince her with his actions if not flowery prose.

As she inspected him, she realized that his scars didn't look quite so frightful in the dim moonlight. And his dark hair was rather appealing. "I haven't seen you without a hat until now," she noted.

"I generally wear one all the time."

"Are you that dedicated to fashion?" she attempted to tease.

"No." he said somberly. "The hat serves a purpose with the razor blades sewn into the brim."

"Oh. I see." She thought about it further and added, "Does that really stop an attack from happening?"

His eyes glittered with unconcealed menace. "It does when you blind them with a quick slash across the eyes."

Fleur put a hand to her stomach. She wondered if she might be sick. "That's dreadful."

Those silver eyes glittered. "So is facing someone who wants you dead."

She tried to swallow the bile threatening to rise in her throat. "I suppose if you have no other choice…" She moved away from the window, mainly to put some distance between them. She felt like she couldn't properly breathe around him. "Whatever happened to talking out problems?"

"That doesn't work for everyone. The people I know prefer to act first."

She hugged herself, vividly recalling the sick crunch of bone against bone in that pit. "Yes, so I gathered this evening."

"That was sport, not a true attack."

She turned to him in frustration. "But why engage in something that violent at all? We are supposed to live in a proper society where rules are meant not to be broken and gentlemen tip their hats to ladies and?—"

He interrupted with a snort. "You are living in a fantasy world. Those things don't exist."

"They do," she returned emphatically. "I have witnessed it myself?—"

He moved closer to her. "That may be but what you don't see is what happens after the door closes. Men usher their mistresses in the back door while their wives are enjoying their own peccadillos across town. The glorious world that you have painted for yourself is nothing but a fa?ade for the licentious truths."

Fleur lowered her head. She hated to hear him spew such venom but at the same time, she knew he spoke with candor. Mr. Porter wasn't the type of man to be anything less than honest because there was nothing for him to lose if he did so. He didn't have to lie. There was no profit in it. He'd already won her hand—and her body.

Taking a deep breath, Fleur decided that the time had come for this evening to reach its conclusion. She reached up and slid part of the white lawn shirt off of her shoulder. But when she reached for the other side to do the same, to allow the garment to slide to the floor and bare her fully to his gaze. He put a hand on her shoulder to pause her movements.

"Look at me, Fleur."

It was the first time he'd used her given name.

Slowly, she lifted her gaze until it met his. She nearly gasped at the intensity she saw in his raw expression. Dare she believe that it was almost… empathetic?

But as soon as she thought she glimpsed an instant of human emotion, it was quickly snuffed out. The blackguard had returned. "Another night. I am quite exhausted this evening."

She doubted that was the truth but she wasn't about to question his motives, whatever they were. Then again, as she allowed her focus to travel over his broad, muscled chest, she wondered if perhaps he was suffering from the beating he'd received earlier. No doubt his opponent was doing much worse.

He removed his hand and she put the shirt sleeves back in place. "Of course. Whatever you wish, Mr. Porter. You are in charge of this affair."

He smirked, part of his mouth lifting the slightest degree. "If that were true," he murmured.

He headed for the door and she was confused. She knew that there were no other beds to be had. "Where are you going? There's nowhere else to sleep."

He paused and turned back to face her. "I can see it didn't take you long to intrude on my personal space."

She crossed her arms, refusing to be cowed. "You did bring me here. Surely you didn't actually believe that I wouldn't be curious about the man I'm with?"

He leaned against the door, crossing one bare ankle over the other as he lifted his arms and set them on either side of the frame. The imposing figure he made caused her head to spin in a disturbing—and alluring—way. "What do you wish to know? I have nothing to hide."

She swallowed, realizing this was the moment she had waited for, a glimpse into his mysterious past. Instead, what fell out of her mouth wasn't the words she had intended to say. "Who is the couple in the painting?"

He stilled and he visibly tensed. "You've been in my studio."

It wasn't a question but more of an accusation, as if she'd done something unforgivable. "I was," she admitted. "You are a very gifted artist—" Rather than accept the compliment with a smile or nod, his face turned grim. "But there is so much unfinished. I am sure if you completed them all and took them to a gallery?—"

"I will never allow it."

She blinked at the pure animosity that came out of his lips. "Why not?"

He straightened, his hands falling to his sides, his feet braced apart on the floor. "Because of the woman you saw in the painting." She wondered if he might elaborate or leave with that cryptic explanation. Clenching his jaw, Fleur was surprised when he added, "She was my lover. At one time I imagined foolishly that I was in love with her. The only piece I've ever finished was the one that reminds me of her, of the betrayal I suffered at her hands and how she left me to die. She was the first person to encourage me to continue painting. These days I would rather pick up a dagger than a paintbrush ever again."

Although Fleur didn't want to feel empathy for him, she couldn't resist taking a step toward him. "It doesn't have to be a bad memory. I would be happy to?—"

"No."

With that, he turned and left the room, slamming the door behind him with an air of finality that reverberated around the expanse.