The Rake's Inherited Courtesan Read Online Free PDF Page A

curling his mobile mouth had poured venom through her veins. And yet, she’d seen the heat beneath his chill exterior, the stirring of interest reflected in glittering green shards deep in his forest-coloured eyes. If lust won out, she’d wrought her own disaster.
    Since she had come to his house, Monsieur Jean had protected her from the outside world of brutal men, groping sweaty hands, hot fetid breath and stinking bodies. She closed her eyes and shuddered at the recollection.
    She drew in a deep calming breath and watched the coachman flick his leaders with his long whip before he steadied his horses to pass through the wrought-iron gates. The coach turned towards the winding, cliff-top road to Dover.
    A wry smile tugged at her lips. The young man’s contempt hadn’t left her trembling and as nauseous as the day she’d crossed the English Channel. It was the ease with which she’d played the strumpet that left her weak and sick. Like a well-worn mantle, she’d donned the cloak she thought she’d left in her past.
    Non . The man might be one of the handsomest she’d ever met, but only necessity forced her to speak the words of a painted Jezebel and further destroy Monsieur Jean’s reputation with her lies.
    She had no choice. Beneath Christopher Evernden’s reserved exterior, she sensed steel and a brain. A dangerous combination in a man. All she could do was wait and see if he would take the bait.
    ‘Mademoiselle?’ Denise’s hand touched her shoulder.
    With an effort, she pasted a smile on her lips and turned to face her old friend, the woman Monsieur Jean had brought from France to make her feel more at home in a strange country all those years ago.
    ‘Come to France with me in the morning,’ Denise said. ‘My family will welcome you.’
    An icy chill ran over her skin at the thought of returning to Paris. Memories of her childhood flashed raw and ugly into her mind. ‘No, Denise,’ she murmured, her heart eased by the tender look on the older woman’s face. She smiled. ‘You will see. With Mary’s dressmaking skills and my designs, I willbecome a famous modiste, then I will call for you to come back to me.’
    Tears welling in her brown eyes, Denise nodded. ‘I will look forward to it, little one.’
     
    A gut-wrenching smell assaulted Christopher’s senses when he reached the quay a short distance from Tripp’s office. Behind him, the town of Dover wound away from the docks. High on the cliffs, the ancient castle loomed over the harbour.
    On the wharf, he skirted heaps of cargo, coils of old rope and clusters of merchants arguing in noisy groups. A group of seamen pushed past him with rolling gait, each brawny shoulder loaded with a barrel. Their curses rang in his ears. Nothing cleared the head like sea air, unless, like here, it was befouled with the smell of rotting fish and heated pitch. He grimaced. It really was a noisome, filthy place.
    His long stride carried him swiftly past the waterfront where bare-masted ships speared the cloudy sky. The events of the day pounded at his mind in tune with the sea dashing itself against the cliffs.
    Clear of the busy docks, Christopher strolled along the front, savouring the sharp breeze on his skin and the tang of salt on his tongue. Exposed by low tide, the yellow pebble beach sported seaweed and blackened spars. Nothing about Dover appealed to him.
    Damn it all. It had been a simple task. Stay one night at the Bull, attend the funeral and the reading of the will, then be on his way to the Darbys’ in Sussex by nightfall. Only now, he had to deal with the problem of Mademoiselle Boisette.
    Why not give her the money and let her go her own way? Because he hated to leave anything dangling.
    He frowned. The interview with Tripp had confirmed his fears that there was little to be had from the sale of Cliff House. A half-pay naval officer had offered to purchase it fora pittance and Uncle John’s creditors wanted a quick sale. Tripp thought there might