| Tracey Devlyn Romance Author |
Excerpt from A Lady's Revenge
Prologue
1802, England
Leaning against a dark green pillar at the edge of Madame Rousseau's large
drawing room, Guy Trevelyan, the Earl of Helsford, allowed his gaze to roam over the
cavorting men and women with idle discontent. Madame's exclusive house of pleasure
catered to the ton's elite with sophistication and no small amount of enthusiasm. Not
too long ago, their sultry excesses would have set his blood afire, however, now he felt
nothing, and wondered what maggot had taken control of his body.
A husky whisper near his ear interrupted his musings. "My chamber is on the
second floor, my lord, last door on the right." He turned toward the Norse goddess at
his side. The voluptuous, blond beauty had tried to garner his attention all evening.
Unfortunately, her obvious charms had done nothing to stir his desire.
He had planned to spend a quiet evening at home tonight until his best friend
arrived unexpectedly on his doorstep and coaxed, or more appropriately, begged him
to come. In hindsight, he should have told Danforth to bugger off because within ten
seconds of entering Madame's doors, the scapegrace had disappeared.
"My lord?" She pressed her generous bosom against his arm in an attempt to draw
his attention back to her.
"Miss--?"
"Lena, my lord."
"Lena, I'm afraid I would be poor company tonight." Helsford kissed her pouting, red
lips to take the sting of his words away as he pried her vice-like grip from his arm.
"Perhaps another time."
He watched her glide away until a feminine shadow skirting the edge of the room
caught his attention. For a second, he thought it might be a servant, but quickly
discarded the notion. Something about her bearing told him otherwise. Her profile
seemed familiar like the smell of his mother's French perfume. However, the woman
sticking to the shadows like a feline on the hunt caught his attention in a very different
way than his mother's expensive perfume. She pulled at his senses and aroused his
curiosity as none others had at this pleasure house. Of course, it could be one of
Madame's girls slipping away for a rendezvous, however, the woman's furtive
movements seemed out of place, especially when she disappeared down the dimly lit
corridor that led to Madame's office. Leaving the decadence of the drawing room
behind, he followed.
As he stepped into the narrow hallway, she opened the office door, and the light
from a dozen candles illuminated her features. He frowned when he noticed a black
mask covering the top half of her face. Interesting.
When she closed the door, Helsford slipped into a nearby room, his long stride
carrying him through the French doors that opened onto the small terrace outside. He
eased into the shadows until he had a clear view inside the office.
One might expect the proprietress of a bordello to adorn her office in frilly, dainty
furniture. Not Madame Rousseau. The proprietress had a keen mind for business and
catered to the tastes of her masculine clientele. Two large, winged-back chairs and a
couch covered in indigo velvet sat at a comfortable distance from the fireplace, a box
of cigars sat within reach, and various spirits graced the sideboard.
He half expected to find the woman rummaging through drawers or tucking
priceless treasures into her skirts, but she did none of these. Instead, she paced. Back
and forth, in front of the fireplace as low burning flames cast her wavering silhouette
on the far wall, making a mockery of her rigid posture.
Helsford's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward to get a better look at her fisted
hands. Something was so familiar... No. It couldn't be! His heart slammed against his
chest as he stared at the masked figure in dawning horror.
He knew of only one person who revealed her anxiety by clasping her two
forefingers tightly around her thumb, squeezing the poor appendage to death. Once
witnessed, the telling gesture was unmistakable, unforgettable.
He must have moved into the light for, in that moment, her hand jerked and swept
upward to cover her mouth. A pair of familiar blue-green eyes stared back in equal
dismay.
Cora.
Good Christ. What was she doing here? He let out a long string of oaths as he tried
to open the terrace door. Locked.
He rapped his knuckle on the windowpane. "Open the door."
She stood immobile for several seconds before finally moving forward to flick the
lock. As he entered, she stepped back to stand in the center of the room, her teeth
clenched tight, causing a small tic to form in her left jaw. Even with the mask on, he
could see she had blossomed into a stunning young woman. Helsford's gaze followed
the length of her pale lavender gown to where the silken material hugged her breasts
and bared her long, slender neck. Shimmering sable curls fell seductively over one
shoulder, beckoning a man's touch.
His touch.
A jolt of awareness blasted through his body as he took in each one of her
exquisite features. When had little Cora-bell developed into a desirable woman? How
had he missed that particular transformation? He blinked to dispel her sensual hold
over him and refocused his attention to the issue at hand.
"Remove the mask, Cora."
Again, she hesitated as though she were unwilling to accept the fact he had
recognized her. How could he not?
"Perhaps you need assistance."
"That won't be necessary, my lord."
She tugged on the ribbon holding the mask in place, and Helsford wished he had
not made the demand. Sultry, cat-like eyes under flaring eyebrows pinned him in
place, causing his body to stir in a most unsettling manner. What the devil?
"Now that I have done as you ordered, my lord, perhaps you can explain why you
are spying on me?"
Helsford blinked. "I'm not spying on you."
"Do you normally have your face smashed against Madame's terrace door, then?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
She raised one dark brow. "What is it you want?"
His burgeoning--wholly inappropriate--desire dissipated as the seriousness of the
situation rose to the forefront of his mind again. "What I want is to know why my best
friend's little sister is inside a London brothel."
"Tsk, tsk." She shook her head in mock regret. "Where have all your manners
gone, my lord? Not even an 'It's nice to see you again after all these years.'"
"We can catch up on the last two years later. Right now, I want to know why you are
running loose in Madame Rousseau's establishment."
"I'm waiting for someone."
"Who might that be?"
"That is none of your concern."
He could feel the slow burn of his temper skimming just below the surface. "I beg to
differ, my dear. You see, I'm here with Danforth. How do you suppose I explain this..."
he waived his hand around the room "...to your brother?"
"Oh, good Lord."
1802, England
Leaning against a dark green pillar at the edge of Madame Rousseau's large
drawing room, Guy Trevelyan, the Earl of Helsford, allowed his gaze to roam over the
cavorting men and women with idle discontent. Madame's exclusive house of pleasure
catered to the ton's elite with sophistication and no small amount of enthusiasm. Not
too long ago, their sultry excesses would have set his blood afire, however, now he felt
nothing, and wondered what maggot had taken control of his body.
A husky whisper near his ear interrupted his musings. "My chamber is on the
second floor, my lord, last door on the right." He turned toward the Norse goddess at
his side. The voluptuous, blond beauty had tried to garner his attention all evening.
Unfortunately, her obvious charms had done nothing to stir his desire.
He had planned to spend a quiet evening at home tonight until his best friend
arrived unexpectedly on his doorstep and coaxed, or more appropriately, begged him
to come. In hindsight, he should have told Danforth to bugger off because within ten
seconds of entering Madame's doors, the scapegrace had disappeared.
"My lord?" She pressed her generous bosom against his arm in an attempt to draw
his attention back to her.
"Miss--?"
"Lena, my lord."
"Lena, I'm afraid I would be poor company tonight." Helsford kissed her pouting, red
lips to take the sting of his words away as he pried her vice-like grip from his arm.
"Perhaps another time."
He watched her glide away until a feminine shadow skirting the edge of the room
caught his attention. For a second, he thought it might be a servant, but quickly
discarded the notion. Something about her bearing told him otherwise. Her profile
seemed familiar like the smell of his mother's French perfume. However, the woman
sticking to the shadows like a feline on the hunt caught his attention in a very different
way than his mother's expensive perfume. She pulled at his senses and aroused his
curiosity as none others had at this pleasure house. Of course, it could be one of
Madame's girls slipping away for a rendezvous, however, the woman's furtive
movements seemed out of place, especially when she disappeared down the dimly lit
corridor that led to Madame's office. Leaving the decadence of the drawing room
behind, he followed.
As he stepped into the narrow hallway, she opened the office door, and the light
from a dozen candles illuminated her features. He frowned when he noticed a black
mask covering the top half of her face. Interesting.
When she closed the door, Helsford slipped into a nearby room, his long stride
carrying him through the French doors that opened onto the small terrace outside. He
eased into the shadows until he had a clear view inside the office.
One might expect the proprietress of a bordello to adorn her office in frilly, dainty
furniture. Not Madame Rousseau. The proprietress had a keen mind for business and
catered to the tastes of her masculine clientele. Two large, winged-back chairs and a
couch covered in indigo velvet sat at a comfortable distance from the fireplace, a box
of cigars sat within reach, and various spirits graced the sideboard.
He half expected to find the woman rummaging through drawers or tucking
priceless treasures into her skirts, but she did none of these. Instead, she paced. Back
and forth, in front of the fireplace as low burning flames cast her wavering silhouette
on the far wall, making a mockery of her rigid posture.
Helsford's eyes narrowed. He leaned forward to get a better look at her fisted
hands. Something was so familiar... No. It couldn't be! His heart slammed against his
chest as he stared at the masked figure in dawning horror.
He knew of only one person who revealed her anxiety by clasping her two
forefingers tightly around her thumb, squeezing the poor appendage to death. Once
witnessed, the telling gesture was unmistakable, unforgettable.
He must have moved into the light for, in that moment, her hand jerked and swept
upward to cover her mouth. A pair of familiar blue-green eyes stared back in equal
dismay.
Cora.
Good Christ. What was she doing here? He let out a long string of oaths as he tried
to open the terrace door. Locked.
He rapped his knuckle on the windowpane. "Open the door."
She stood immobile for several seconds before finally moving forward to flick the
lock. As he entered, she stepped back to stand in the center of the room, her teeth
clenched tight, causing a small tic to form in her left jaw. Even with the mask on, he
could see she had blossomed into a stunning young woman. Helsford's gaze followed
the length of her pale lavender gown to where the silken material hugged her breasts
and bared her long, slender neck. Shimmering sable curls fell seductively over one
shoulder, beckoning a man's touch.
His touch.
A jolt of awareness blasted through his body as he took in each one of her
exquisite features. When had little Cora-bell developed into a desirable woman? How
had he missed that particular transformation? He blinked to dispel her sensual hold
over him and refocused his attention to the issue at hand.
"Remove the mask, Cora."
Again, she hesitated as though she were unwilling to accept the fact he had
recognized her. How could he not?
"Perhaps you need assistance."
"That won't be necessary, my lord."
She tugged on the ribbon holding the mask in place, and Helsford wished he had
not made the demand. Sultry, cat-like eyes under flaring eyebrows pinned him in
place, causing his body to stir in a most unsettling manner. What the devil?
"Now that I have done as you ordered, my lord, perhaps you can explain why you
are spying on me?"
Helsford blinked. "I'm not spying on you."
"Do you normally have your face smashed against Madame's terrace door, then?"
"Don't be ridiculous."
She raised one dark brow. "What is it you want?"
His burgeoning--wholly inappropriate--desire dissipated as the seriousness of the
situation rose to the forefront of his mind again. "What I want is to know why my best
friend's little sister is inside a London brothel."
"Tsk, tsk." She shook her head in mock regret. "Where have all your manners
gone, my lord? Not even an 'It's nice to see you again after all these years.'"
"We can catch up on the last two years later. Right now, I want to know why you are
running loose in Madame Rousseau's establishment."
"I'm waiting for someone."
"Who might that be?"
"That is none of your concern."
He could feel the slow burn of his temper skimming just below the surface. "I beg to
differ, my dear. You see, I'm here with Danforth. How do you suppose I explain this..."
he waived his hand around the room "...to your brother?"
"Oh, good Lord."
| Sultry Romance with an Edge |
| Copyright © 2007 Tracey Devlyn. All rights reserved. |
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