Page 7 of A Tempest of Desire
She didn’t want to consider that she might enjoy sparring with him. Most men fawned over her, hoping to receive favors, or to be considered for the position of her next paramour.
“Marlowe is an unusual name,” he said slowly, in a manner that reminded her of savoring a bit of chocolate.
What had prompted his statement? And what did it matter? “My father admired the writings of Christopher Marlowe.” That much was true. As a matter of fact, he’d gone about boasting he was a descendent of the Elizabethan playwright. Thattale, however, she’d never believed. A pity she and her mother had believed others.
“So you admit Marlowe is your first name. I shall collect my winnings at White’s.”
She couldn’t imagine him caring enough about her to place a bet on her name. No doubt he simply enjoyed wagering. With the lifting of a shoulder, she gave him a sly look. “I admit nothing, my lord, except that my father admired the writings of Christopher Marlowe.”
She couldn’t decide if the sound he made was a scoff or a bitter laugh, but regardless, she felt as though she’d somehow won.
With a nod, he unfolded his arms and took a step into the hallway. “You’re welcome to make use of anything here.”
With that, he disappeared.
To her everlasting disappointment, she rather wished she’d been awake to enjoy his hands roaming over her as he’d swept away the cotton, silk, and lace. Wouldn’t she have a story to tell, then? She’d elaborate, of course. Embellish. After all, in her circles, many a woman took pride in boasting about having her attire removed by Lord Langdon. And much to her chagrin, on occasion, he dwelled in her fantasies.
It was more than his handsome features. It was the manner in which he looked at a woman as though, if given the chance, he’d devour her and leave her ever so grateful he had.
Chapter 4
London
Late May 1878
Sitting beside Hollie at the round table where cards were being dealt and wagers made, Marlowe was bored. Bored. Bored. Perhaps it was time to find a new paramour. Or retire completely from the courtesan business. Even if she’d had only one devotee. And being with him had made her notorious. He’d taught her so much and she was grateful for his tutelage. Ah, but she was bored.
Because Hollie was mostly interested in boring things. Cards mainly. Cards, cards, cards. Nearly every night. Here at the Twin Dragons in a room where the lighting was dim and the cigar smoke thick. A secretive chamber to which men didn’t bring their wives, but instead on their arm, they often sported a woman of ill repute. One who dressed so tawdry she would be forbidden entry to the main gaming floor of this establishment.
But Marlowe never looked or acted tawdry. She could stroll into the palatial ballroom of the Duke and Duchess of Lovingdon, and no one would blinkan eye in surprise or drop their jaw in horror. Because she had also mastered the art of appearing to belong, even when she didn’t. She knew all about the power of deception and how to best use it to her advantage. She’d been tutored by an expert: her father, who had successfully perpetrated a fraud for years. And she’d been an unknowing accomplice.
But she’d never again be taken for a fool. Never again would she fall for another man’s ruse. She was in complete control.
Even if at that particular moment it appeared she was under the thumb of the Earl of Hollingsworth, that he dictated her actions. He didn’t, but men feared women with power and so she pretended to be at his beck and call, when in truth, he was at hers. But she’d learned the most powerful kept their power hidden in the shadows. When one possessed something of exorbitant worth, one didn’t need to boast about it. As a matter of fact, it was best not to. When discovered by the doubters, it made victories so much more rewarding, especially when everyone was expecting her to lose.
And if there were times when her position made her feel like rubbish discarded by theton, she had but to review her accomplishments to know it was all worth it.
These men who might dine with the Queen knew Marlowe. As did their wives, who sometimes strolled the hallowed halls of Buckingham Palace. While they might never invite her into their parlor or allow her to wed one of their precious sons, they couldn’t prevent her from flirting with the heirs, teasing them, giving them hope that they mightlearn the exact shade and pattern of the wallpaper in her boudoir.
Tonight, as always, she wasn’t involved in the game, but merely served as an elegant and expensive ornament. She didn’t mind. It was the role she played in his life. In exchange, he provided her with a very nice town house on Mistress Row—the unofficial name of a street in London where many lords provided accommodations for their indulgences—as well as a more than satisfactory allowance, which was hers to do with as she pleased because anything she needed she purchased on credit and he paid the amount owed at the end of the month. And while she often felt like a valuable piece of pottery to be gazed upon but not touched... well, she’d managed to be perceived as being an exquisite bit of art few men could afford to possess.
Hadn’t Hollie told her often enough that her beauty was beyond compare and a gift to the eye of the beholder? Then he’d taught her that aloofness would increase her value. Even if at times, it also increased her loneliness.
For some strange reason, tonight the loneliness seemed particularly present and cut a little deeper than usual. She had the uncomfortable sensation that it was because of the man sitting almost directly across from her. He was far too handsome, his gaze too intense as it seldom left her. While the other men at the table concentrated on their cards, every aspect of him seemed to be focused on her. Although maybe it was merely the strange color of his eyes that made it seem so. A silver, such as she’d never seen. She was left with the impressionhe was uncovering her secrets, one by one. She had a strong urge to fetch her pelisse and use it to cover her bare chest, shoulders, and upper arms. She was grateful to be wearing gloves that went past her elbows, even if they caused her to have visions of him slowly removing them, kissing the exposed skin as he went.
Hollie had taken her to the most risqué parties—and on a couple of instances to an orgy—and yet on none of those occasions had she felt that her clothing revealed more than it hid. This man wasn’t leering. No, no, it wasn’t anything with which she could feel truly insulted. The appreciation in his eyes, however, was still a bit unsettling.
She’d never had a fellow peer at her as though he’d like to slowly take complete possession of her.
Chaps had looked at her with greed, lust, and blatant lasciviousness, but this man was scrutinizing her with sensual carnality. Whenever he slowly lifted his glass of scotch and took a sip, studying her over its rim, she dearly wished he was sipping her.
During the years she’d been with Hollie, she’d never truly experienced desire. To discover herself now yearning with such desperation was somewhat frightening. She felt nearly completely out of control. It was absurd. She’d not even been properly introduced to the man. However, she had managed, based on those nearby speaking to him, to determine who he was: Viscount Langdon.
While the other gents were animated, shifting in their chairs, puffing on their cheroots, occasionally braying with laughter, Langdon was nearly still, not really part and parcel of the gathering. Exceptfor the infrequent times when he drank his scotch, he was like a panther that had sighted its prey and was striving to determine precisely when to leap forward and conquer it.
Each time after the cards were dealt, his hand whispered over the baize as he lifted the edges of his cards and barely gave them a cursory glance, and yet he had incredibly good fortune, taking nearly every hand. However, he gave the impression that the win was expected and brought with it no sense of satisfaction. He was simply whiling away his time in anticipation of something more important, more... rewarding.
Watching him, she suddenly realized she was no longer bored. She could recall reading nothing untoward about him in the gossip rags or in the Society columns she scoured. She’d always had an interest in the happenings among the nobility, mainly because she’d always believed she’d be part of it. It had been a shock to discover she wouldn’t—not the proper part at least. However, she had managed to secure herself a spot along its edge.
