In the large room dark with shadows, Madame Rose Clarisse de Soissons lay naked on her canopied rococo bed, propping herself on one elbow, twining her fingers through her tangled mass of auburn curls. Douglas Wyndham, Earl of Belington, had recently slipped from the still-warm spot beside her. How beautiful he looks! she thought, as he began to dress. What other man could look half as graceful pulling on his breeches?
"You could spend the night," she said, careful to sound as if one way or another, she really didn't care. She stared, fascinated, unable to tear her gaze from his hard, lean, sinewy body. He was not especially tall, she mused, but just so completely masculine with that dark, thin face, trim waist, muscled shoulders, and stomach flat as the back of her hand.
He glanced over at her, taking a moment from the business of buttoning his shirt. "If I stay the night, I might wear out my welcome," he said, his eyebrow lifting in that funny, mocking little way he had. "Damme, it's dark in here." He reached to light another candle.
Rose hastened to reach for the sheet and pulled it to her chin. Perdition! She heaved an inward sigh. There was a time, and not so very long ago, when she could flaunt her naked self in front of any man in the kingdom and have nothing to hide. That, however, was before her breasts, once full and firm, had begun to sag, although ever so slightly, and those ugly dimples had begun to appear, quite uninvited, on her thighs.
Not that anything showed--yet. Not that they didn't still call her the starriest of the Cyprians, a courtesan of great fascination and allure, whose wit and vitality had brought her quickly to the top of her profession. She knew she was still the most beautiful as she drove in the park each day at fashionable five, in a carriage lined in pale blue satin, with an escort of hungry gentlemen trotting beside her carriage in the hope of obtaining a winning glance or a smile.
So she was safe, at least for a while, yet she had come to deeply regret the little lie she'd told Douglas five years ago when she'd erased ten years from her life and said she was twenty-four. Now, nearing forty, she faced the inevitable truth that nature being what it was, sooner or later the truth would out. Rose felt a pang of despair, just thinking of the inevitability of it all. She had always known her days as a fille de joie were numbered. In most respects, it didn't matter. If the truth be known, she had long since tired of being a man's mere plaything. Not only that, thanks to her various lovers, she had plenty of money salted away.
Douglas was different, though.
Ah, how she loved him! Ah, how hopeless was her love! There were times when her heart ached with longing, especially at moments like this, when he, now dressed, moved to the foot of her bed and griped the bedpost, leaning in that nonchalant, devil-may-care manner of his, his other thumb tucked into his waistband. The easy stance pulled his superbly tailored coat back, making her think of that splendid broad chest beneath his linen shirt and carelessly tied cravat.
He smiled down at her fondly. "Was it all right?" he asked.
All right? It was marvelous, she wanted to shout. I have never had a lover as wonderful as you. She allowed him a slight smile. "You'll do." She lay back and patted the bed beside her. "Come sit a minute before you go."
He complied immediately, sat beside her, took her hand in both his own and kissed it gently. He trailed his fingers down her cheek and entwined them in her hair. "So beautiful," he murmured.
Her heart wrenched. That wasn't love glowing in his eyes, it was kindness. "You need a wife, Douglas," she said abruptly.
He sat back. "What brought this on?"
"You need to fall in love--get married. Ravensbrook Manor needs a mistress. How much longer will you fritter away your life in London? It's time you had your sons."
His face clouded. "I cannot marry. Even if I could, I would never take my bride home to Ravensbrook." His expression hardened. "Never!"
"But from all I've heard, Ravensbrook Manor is a beautiful old mansion--a castle at one time, was it not?"
Here it came again, that sad, near haunted expression that crossed his face whenever he thought of home. She had often wondered why he spent most of his time in London instead of his estate. He had almost told her once, on one of those rare nights when he'd been in his cups and his tongue was loosened.
"There's a dark cloud hanging over Ravensbrook," he had said. "The same cloud hangs over my title and my fortune. Nothing will change it. It's been there almost since I was born."
"But why?" she'd asked.
"Ravensbrook is cursed," he told her in a suffocated whisper. "Twas a family tragedy--the most heinous of crimes, the most terrible ... ah!" At that, he'd covered his face with his hands and bent forward, clearly in a state of despair.
Never had he mentioned the curse again.
After Douglas left, Rose decided she could never sleep without a bit of help. She arose, threw on her red satin pelisse, and poured herself a glass of brandy from a silver flask, a gift from one of her many wealthy admirers. Standing in front of the fireplace, she lifted her crystal goblet high.
"Here's to you, Douglas, my dearest love," she cried. "My unobtainable love," she added, a catch in her voice, and tossed the brandy down her throat.
Someday Douglas would fall in love and marry, despite his vehement claims to the contrary. Despite his cynical demeanor, underneath he had too much heart--too much kindness and compassion to remain single all his life. He was bound to lose his heart to some woman. What would she be like? Rose wondered. Young and beautiful, of course, and smart enough to keep up with this brilliant man.
Some things were never meant to be. She knew that. She accepted that. Rose raised her empty glass. "A toast to Douglas's bride!" she called. With rising anguish she hurled the glass into the fireplace and watched it shatter into a thousand pieces.
"Whoever you are--wherever you are. Oh, you fortunate girl!"
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