Chapter 8

CHAPTER 8

F leur slept little that night and something told her that Mr. Porter did not as well. He certainly hadn't seemed pleased when he'd left her bedchamber. She decided to apologize to him this morning for pushing too far. She understood that, while he might have looked upon painting as a calming pastime at one point, now it was nothing but a sordid recollection. Considering that he had treated her quite fairly until this point made her guilt rise to the surface. She was not an unkind person by nature and she had been unsettled all night worrying about their confrontation.

She rose and performed her morning ablutions and then combed her fingers through her hair the best that she could. Unfortunately, she remembered that a brush was not all that she was missing. The few things she'd taken to Harriette's townhouse were still there. She had nothing but the shirt Mr. Porter had loaned her to sleep in and the shroud she hoped never to lay eyes on again.

With little other choice, Fleur padded over to the door and headed down the stairs. In the early morning light of day, she still thought the structure seemed cold and barren, as if accusing her of her wrongdoings with each step that she took. She paused halfway down and clutched the banister for support. Taking a deep breath, she continued her descent.

She checked a few of the rooms on the lower level and didn't see any signs of Mr. Porter. It was as if he'd effectively disappeared.

Finally, she spied a door at the back of the house. The door was shut but when she dared to open it, she found her benefactor bent over a ledger and scribbling away. There was little else in the study but the desk and his chair, empty and devoid of many furnishings or personal touches like everywhere else.

He stopped writing when she entered and glanced up. He had donned his cap once more. She also noted that he was fully dressed.

"Where did you sleep last night?" That hadn't been the first thing she'd intended to say but it was the prominent thought in her mind.

He set down his pen near the inkwell and shut the ledger. Folding his hands on the top, he asked, "Why? Did you miss me?"

She didn't miss the sardonic tone. Rather than engage, she asked, "Is there any of your… houses that you have made your own?"

"They are all mine."

She waved a hand. "Never mind." She looked down at her attire. "Is there anything else for me to wear?"

He frowned slightly. "Are you intending to go somewhere?"

She blinked, curious as to why he might pose that question. "Am I to be a prisoner here then?"

"I didn't realize that we were entertaining. Or going to the opera."

Again, there was that mocking tone. She didn't like it.

Last night, she'd believed she might have actually had a civil conversation with him. She hoped that it might last, that they might have the chance to know each other better, not this barely concealed animosity when she didn't know what she'd done to provoke him.

She crossed her arms. "I wasn't asking for that. But perhaps some common decency wouldn't be amiss. Or something to read? Something to just do . I am used to being busy. I was a teacher in Greenwich."

He snorted. "You wish for me to turn this house into a schoolroom?"

"No." She clenched her fists at her sides. "That's not what I'm saying. I merely don't want to stare at the wall all day."

"Then shut your eyes."

She gasped at the snide comment. Again, she was growing frustrated with her new situation. "I don't understand what you want from me. You paid quite handsomely but I don't see where there is any benefit for either of us."

He leaned back in the chair and folded his hands over his taut stomach. She despised the fact she noticed his physical attributes when she was furious with his cold detachment. If he intended to remain like this, she would have rather gone home with one of the other men. At least they would have used and discarded her, rather than lead her around on a string where she had to wonder when he would finally pounce.

"Would you prefer that I had my wicked way with you?"

She put a hand to her forehead. "No! I— you're so infuriating! Please forget that I mentioned anything." She headed for the door, helpless to try to make him understand any further. She would go back upstairs. Perhaps she could try painting. She already knew that she wasn't adept at it but it would be better than wasting away from boredom. It was bad enough that she didn't know how Flavian was faring.

She was in the hallway before he called her name. Fleur didn't want to acknowledge him. She wanted to keep walking, preferably out the door and back to some semblance of normalcy. But she was afraid that part of her life was gone forever. After the auction, she was a doomed woman, teetering on the edge of respectability with a man who didn't care for it at all.

She stopped but didn't turn to face him. She heard his footsteps approaching, slow and steady. She gritted her teeth, because she knew that she was at his mercy. If he told her to jump, she would have to do it. After last night, she was more or less his property until he released her from his care.

He moved so close that she could feel the heat emanating from him, but he didn't touch her. It was more disconcerting than if he'd actually spun her around and kissed her. "Would you be happy if I paraded you about high society in the best silks and jewels that money could buy?"

She sighed. "No, that's not what I want. I just want a… purpose for being here, or else what was the point of demeaning myself in such a fashion, other than to please you in seeing me humiliating myself like I did?"

"That didn't please me."

She almost shivered. She was angry at him, and yet, when the mocking tone was absent and replaced with the sensual baritone of his velvety voice, she wasn't sure it was any better for her peace of mind.

"You'll forgive me if I don't quite believe that." Fleur didn't want to be petty. But she couldn't resist a barb at his expense since he had tormented her this morning.

His hand gently touched her right shoulder. "I thought of nothing but you the moment you walked in that club," he murmured next to her ear. "I knew I would pay anything to have you."

This time she did shiver. "For revenge," she guessed somewhat breathlessly.

His hand slid slowly down her arm and around her midsection. "For something else." His hand trailed further downward until he reached the apex of her legs. She inhaled sharply when he inserted a finger inside her. "I wanted you from the first moment I saw you on that field."

He toyed with her, moving his finger in and out, and then his thumb pressed against the sensitive part of her that was throbbing with anticipation. Her toes curled beneath her and she could tell her breathing had deepened. "You didn't know… it was me." She gasped when he started a rhythmic movement with his fingers that had her lower stomach burning with desire. She didn't know it was possible to feel such wanton urges for someone she didn't even like.

"I knew it wasn't a man. The movements were too fluid. Too quick. That weapon could only be wielded by a feminine hand."

"It fooled everyone… else." She bit her lip as her eyes closed. There was something heavy swirling about inside of her, desperate to escape. She wanted to give in to the urge, to release herself to the need but something was holding her back.

The rhythm increased and suddenly, Fleur was beyond conscious thought. She didn't want to talk anymore. She just wanted to… feel, to give in to the passions threatening to envelop her.

The impact swept over her like a blissful wave. Her legs trembled as she fell back against Mr. Porter, trusting him to carry her over the crest. Fleur had never experienced anything so incredible. It was as if she was transformed from the woman she was, unto the woman who stood in this cavernous foyer.

Afterward, like the tide going back out to sea, her body was languid, calm. Mr. Porter removed his hand and, making sure that she could stand on her own, took a step back away from her. She still didn't turn around but this time it was because she was starting to understand what had happened. It was her initiation to the carnal arts, and she had enjoyed it.

Shame washed over her, because surely, she should have been horrified by her actions. This wasn't someone that she loved, or who would ever be her husband. This was just a man who had paid to make her his whore. An expensive one, but a personal whore, nonetheless. It was what she had been expecting, and yet, now that she had been introduced to the game, she wished the circumstances were altered. She would have rather engaged in a mild flirtation until it expanded into something further. Instead, there were no flowers or poetry. It was lust.

She didn't wait for him to speak. Instead, she darted to the second floor and returned to the bedchamber. She closed the door and leaned against it with heaving breaths, as if she'd run around all of Chelsea, instead of just up the stairs.

* * *

Drake frowned when Fleur left. He had wanted to take things slow, to let her come to him, but she had looked so appealing in that shirt, he had wanted to rip it off of her and sink himself into her welcoming heat. Instead, he settled for pleasuring her. What he hadn't anticipated was her reaction. She fled as if he was the devil himself, convincing her to condemn herself to the fires of hell. He might have been called a demon by more than one person for his previous deeds years before but he was trying to change all that. He was in a comfortable place where he could almost imagine himself engaging in more than a single night's tryst.

While marriage was nowhere on the table, he had thought it would be nice to have a mistress for a month or so. It was another reason he had singled out Miss Davies, to see if it was a situation that he could handle. He wasn't sure he could deal with anyone staying under the same roof for very long, especially when there were uncomfortable secrets that he didn't care to explain.

Like painting.

He was annoyed with himself that he hadn't thought to clear out the mess of his past before now. Of course, Fleur was a woman and a magnet for curiosity. It was in their nature to find the darkest part of someone's history and question them about it.

Drake realized that he might have overreacted to her query the night before but he was not used to trusting anyone. Ever. He had been betrayed by those closest to him. There were things that Amos still didn't know about him, and he preferred it that way. Giving someone too much knowledge about one's life, one's fears, opened one up to being hurt. After what Elina had done to him, he vowed it was the last woman who would make a cuckhold out of him. For ten years he had kept that promise. Until he met Fleur, he hadn't been in danger of breaking it.

Now he was in danger of much more.

He returned to his study but instead of going back to his desk, he walked over to the window that looked out over the street. He could see the neat row of white-washed houses across from him, people walking along in their fine clothes, and carriages passing by. When he had purchased this house, he hadn't ever once stopped to look at the scene outside of his personal world. He was a man driven by survival while they were all enjoying the day, visiting friends or family while allowing laughter and happiness to shine upon the faces of men and women alike.

It had been years since Drake had ever been so carefree, if he had ever had such a moment of pure bliss. The only thing that had come close was when he'd touched Fleur and felt her pleasure radiate through him. He had gritted his teeth, desperate to fight the urge to fill her completely, to make her his in truth.

But he had been truthful when he said she would have to come to him, or not at all. Until then, he would have to content himself with knowing he had shown her something sensual and wondrous in a world full of darkness and despair. She might have sold her virtue but he wasn't going to take advantage of that gift.

Unfortunately, while he wanted to put his past behind him, it managed to find a way to rear its ugly head at the most inconvenient of times. This morning he'd received a note beneath his front door with a simple demand.

Meet tonight at the Serpentine Bridge at eleven o'clock if you don't want to find yourself without your latest prize.

Drake had received several threats over his lifetime. Most of them were empty, because the demands had found nothing to use against him.

Until now.

He had read the single line with a sensation of ice traveling through his veins. He didn't want to allow them the power to draw him out into the open where he might engage in an ambush, but what other choice did he have? He had no doubt that some of his enemies wouldn't hesitate to use Miss Davies against him.

He supposed he could flee the city, take Miss Davies somewhere out of London, but he had never been the type to run from anyone. He was known for his stern character and he didn't plan on changing that anytime soon. It kept most of the men who wished him ill at arm's length, but apparently, some were foolish enough to attempt to raise his ire anyway. Drake also didn't think that she would leave her brother until she knew he could take care of himself.

That left the only option available to him. Meet this intruder into his affairs and dare to engage in another battle.

At this point, he feared that was the only constant in his life he would ever have.

But he didn't have to do it alone.

He'd penned a quick missive to Amos to ensure that, should something happen to him, Miss Davies would be taken to safety immediately. And at least he would have someone to stand by him if things became messy.

* * *

Fleur didn't leave the sanctity of the chamber until her stomach started to remind her that she needed to find some sort of sustenance to sustain her in this makeshift prison where she had been confined. She could hardly call it anything else when she wasn't allowed to leave the house properly dressed.

She prayed there was something to eat in the larder or she might find herself leaving regardless of her appearance—or Mr. Porter's approval.

Her stomach abruptly flipped as she thought of him. The interlude they had shared continued to replay over and over in her mind. The feelings he'd created within her had been nothing short of incredible, and yet, she had never imagined her body could be capable of such wondrous sensations. It was like nothing she'd ever experienced before. But it was the man himself that confused her. He was dangerous, and yet, virile and seductive in a mysterious way.

Forcing her thoughts back to the present, she dared to rummage about in the dresser for something other than a shirt, Fleur was relieved to see that there were some spare clothes there as well. With a satisfied smile, she donned a pair of trousers and a new shirt. Both of which were too large, but she secured it all with a belt about her waist. It wasn't exactly a corset and a gown, but it was more than what she had been wearing. And it wouldn't be the first time she had worn trousers.

Pulling her hair back into a braid, she felt ready to tackle the rest of the day.

Heading down the back stairs, she found her way to the kitchen on the lowest level. She set her hands on her hips and surveyed the area around her. She spied a few pots and pans. It wasn't much but it would be enough. Once she knew what ingredients she had to work with, she might be able to salvage this day after all.

The larder was rather slim in the way of food but she was able to find some butter, eggs and a few dry ingredients. She could survive on eggs and scones. Thank goodness she knew how to cook, otherwise she would be forced to rely on Mr. Porter's charity. After their conversation this morning, she was glad to have found something to do, even if it was by her own will.

There was no apron to be found, so she shrugged and told herself she would have to be careful. She found a strip of linen to use to hold the warm handle of the pans as she moved them about on the iron racks in the brick oven, and as she made a place to roll out the scones on the counter, she realized it was the most convenient kitchen that she had ever worked in before and she was thankful for it.

She hummed a slight tune as she went about her task. Flour soon coated her hands as a strand of her hair fell into her line of vision. She tried to use her arm to appease the irritant but gave up and used her hand, swiping at her forehead.

As she worked to make a dough, her mind returned to Mr. Porter. She had always believed that men were the only ones who benefited from any sort of coupling, but after what had happened between them, now she knew that to be a terrible falsehood. Although she shouldn't want a repeat of what had happened earlier, she yearned for the chance to see if her body might react the same way toward him again. Ironic, considering she hadn't wanted to embark on this courtesan experience to begin with, having been forced into it by the debt her brother owed to Mr. Porter, but now that she had gained a taste for what it might entail, she decided it might not be as bad as she had initially imagined.

The fire in the hearth was starting to heat the interior of the kitchen. Fleur swiped at her forehead as the slight wisps of hair around her face started to wilt from perspiration. But it didn't deter her from her task. She was grateful that she would soon have a fantastic meal to sustain her.

"What the hell are you doing?"

Fleur started as the irate voice of the master of this house came down upon her, causing her to upset a plate of fresh scones that she had just removed from the oven. They scattered across the floor, rolling in different directions. "Oh, no!" Forgetting for a moment that Mr. Porter was demanding an answer, she started to scramble about on her hands and knees trying to salvage what little she could. Her hand accidentally touched the fiery metal and she jerked back with a gasp.

A pair of black boots entered her line of vision and she glanced up to see Mr. Porter's thunderous face. He reached down and grasped her arm, forcing her palm upward so that he could see the damage caused by the burn. Fleur found it necessary to reassure him that she was fine but she was irritated that the meal she'd carefully prepared was promptly ruined.

Without a word, but a continual frown on his face, he dragged her forward until he could plunge her hand in a bucket of cold water. She hissed at the initial contact against her angry red skin but it started to improve as the water lapped at her wound.

After a time, she started to become aware of the man standing close to her, and the memory of their interlude swept into her consciousness. "I think it's fine now," she said and slowly removed her arm from his grip.

Rather than appear appeased, he looked at her with a darker scowl than before. "What were you thinking?"

She set her jaw, irritated at his tone. "I was hungry, so I thought to make myself something to eat. I have baked before."

He blinked, as if confused, and then he took a step back as he scrubbed a hand down his face. "Blast. I didn't consider—" He stopped and attempted to speak again. "I'm not used to having guests."

Some of her anger dissipated. "This is a new situation for both of us," she noted.

That silver stare was intent when he said, "Leave this mess. I'll have a cook here by this evening."

Fleur's mouth fell open. "I can't ask someone to clean up after me!"

"Then I'll add to the housekeeper's duties as well."

She shook her head. "I don't need servants. I've lived my entire life without them. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself."

His eyes narrowed slightly. "That may be, but as long as you are under my roof, I have the final word and I say you are not to cook for yourself anymore."

"Regardless if I enjoy it?" she asked primly.

He hesitated, and then moved forward. Reaching up a hand, he used his thumb to wipe away a coating of white on her cheek. He held it up for her to see. "You mean you enjoy coating my entire house with your efforts?"

She gritted her teeth. "You don't have to be so condescending," she snapped, throwing down the linen on the counter, causing a flurry of white to fly up into the air. "It's demeaning enough that you won't allow me to dress properly, and now I must lay back and accept the efforts of others when I am more than capable. What am I supposed to do here if you won't?—?"

She quickly dropped the rest of that sentence, but not quickly enough. His voice dropped an octave when he prompted, "If I won't…what."

It wasn't phrased as a question and suddenly, Fleur was feeling very out of sorts. "It doesn't matter." She waved a hand and attempted to brush past him, but he stopped her with an arm out to the side.

Standing next to each other, shoulder to shoulder, his face so close to hers that as she turned to face him, it wouldn't have taken much effort for them to come together for a kiss. "I won't ask again," he warned softly.

Knowing she was trapped, Fleur took a deep breath and forged ahead. With the memory of her body's response to him flashing in the forefront of her mind, she said boldly, "I was in that auction to be a courtesan, and thus far, I've failed in that task."

She saw his nostrils flare slightly. "You wish to be ruined?"

"No. I wish to know my purpose for being here other than your prisoner."

"You're not my prisoner."

"Am I not?" she countered, and then added a heavy sigh, she said, "I wish I knew why I was really here if it wasn't your purpose to punish me."

His eyes flashed with something primal, something dangerous, before it was quickly banked. She held her breath, wondering if he would say something, or act on the desire that was pulsing behind his calm demeanor, but instead he stepped away from her. "I will see that some gowns are procured for you."

With that statement, he turned on his heel and left.