The Rake's Inherited Courtesan by Ann Lethbridge Page B

reared an ugly head. Perhaps she had followed him, thinking him an easy mark after his generosity.
    Mrs Dorkin pitched her voice into the back of the house. ‘Pansy! Dratted girl, never around when you need her.’
    A scrawny wench came at a run, her cheeks as red as if she’d been roasting her face instead of the pork.
    ‘Show the young lady up to the second-floor bedroom.’ Mrs Dorkin smiled at Sylvia. ‘You’ll find that’s the best room, miss. Quiet.’
    ‘Thank you,’ she murmured.
    Christopher grinned at the plump matron, much as he had when he had lived at his grandmother’s house. ‘Mrs Dorkin, we are starving. Anything you could do to hurry dinner along will be much appreciated.’
    ‘Dinner in half an hour, don’t be late.’ Mrs Dorkin’s voice faded away as she travelled into the depths of the old inn. ‘Maybe I have some of the nice fruitcake I baked for the vicar last Sunday. You always liked fruitcake…’
    Shoulders slumped, Sylvia started after the maid.
    Christopher put a hand on her arm. ‘I should have warned you. She’s a dear, but she loves to talk.’
    ‘She seems very kind. I hadn’t realised just how famished I am. All that talk of food…’
    The faintness of her voice, weary posture and attemptedsmile caused him a pang of guilt. Curse it. No wonder she looked ready to wilt, she’d eaten almost nothing at lunch.
    Unwelcome sympathy stirred in his chest. This was the first time today he’d seen her control slip. His questions would wait until after dinner.
    He caught a glimpse of a well-turned ankle as she followed the maid up the stairs. Even worn to the bone, she radiated female sensuality. No wonder men rushed to her aid, lust burning in their eyes.
     
    The low-beamed room with overstuffed chairs and easy country atmosphere comforted Christopher like hot punch on a cold night. Half-empty serving dishes cluttered the sideboard against the wall.
    Pleasantly full, he set down his knife and fork and stared at the woman across from him. The warmth of the fire and her few sips of red wine had dispelled her earlier pallor. The faint glow in her cheeks and the sparkle in her eyes rendered her utterly lovely.
    Mrs Dorkin hadn’t asked him any pointed questions about Miss Boisette’s presence under his protection. No doubt she’d seen and heard enough about the Evernden men and their dissolute ways not to be surprised at Christopher’s arrival with one of the world’s most beautiful women on his arm.
    Despite her assertions, Miss Boisette needed proper male protection. The scene at the Sussex proved it.
    He ran an appraising glance over her and frowned. Her severe brown gown couldn’t be drearier. Come to think of it, the nondescript grey cloak and black poke bonnet she wore to travel in were also exceedingly dowdy. To all intents and purposes, she dressed like a governess or lady’s maid.
    Christopher wanted to see her in something more elegant, lighter, perhaps the colour of sapphires to match her brilliant eyes. Something lacy and filmy that left little to the imagination. Something like Lady Delia, Garth’s last fling, had worn when Christopher had dropped in on their love nest one afternoon.
    The image of Sylvia Boisette’s curvaceous form clothed in a wisp of silk stirred his blood.
    Her small white teeth, with their adorable tiny space in the centre, bit into a petit-four. What would that moist, soft mouth feel like against his lips or on his…?
    Bloody hell. He didn’t need this. He pushed his plate away.
    Her wanton behaviour yesterday and in Tunbridge Wells had his thoughts in the gutter. If she had stayed where he had left her, they wouldn’t be in this fix. If she had dressed like a lady, the young lordling might not have been so ready with his insults and the landlord might have given her a room without question.
    ‘Don’t you have something smarter to wear?’ he asked.
    Blue heat flashed in her eyes. Quickly repressed, it hinted at higher passions beneath