The Lover Page 18

  Pedestrians hurried past the undignified spectacle that a destitute man and a lone, disheveled spinster presented. Their faces were shielded by black umbrellas that before the blow which had sent her catapulting into the street had been folded in expectation of … what? Rain, or an innocent bystander? Did they scurry to escape the cold drizzle—or the perpetration of a near-fatal collision?

  There was only one person who knew for certain.

  Silver arced through the gray rain. Her emaciated savior deftly caught the tossed coin.

  “You may leave now.” The voice behind her was cold. Hard. Clipped. The voice of a man who was used to issuing orders. “The lady is safe.”

  The street man grinned, winked. Grabbing a dilapidated broom off the sidewalk, he turned and raced away.

  It dawned on Anne that the throbbing between her shoulder blades could as easily have been caused by a broom handle as by the tip of an umbrella.

  She started forward. “Wait one second—”

  “I told you you’re safe.”

  The unkempt street sweeper disappeared behind a wall of dark cloaks and black umbrellas.

  Anne turned around in a rush of grenadine, wool, and bouncing bustle. The stranger did not seem to comprehend the fact that she had been pushed in front of a cab. And someone was responsible. Quite possibly the street sweeper—whom he had rewarded. “That man—”

  The words froze in her throat.

  The tall man who stood over her was breathtakingly beautiful. Rain wreathed his fashionable black bowler hat and pearled his face. His double-breasted, gray wool reefer jacket was of the best cut. But it was not the chiseled perfection of his features or his elegant attire that caused Anne’s heartbeat to stutter and her throat to lock shut.

  Silver-gray eyes regarded her flatly. “You were saying?” he asked politely.

  Cool rain misted her burning cheeks.

  Smoky, candlelit darkness had haloed his bare blond head and dimmed his gray eyes, but there was no mistaking those too handsome features.

  This man had greeted her at the entrance to the House of Gabriel. Then he had escorted her to Michel’s table.

  Her heart raced to make up for the missed beat.

  Had he followed them?

  Had he followed her?

  He lightly held a silver-handled cane between black-gloved fingers.

  Had he pushed her?

  “You are fortunate he did not swipe your reticule.”

  Anne remembered the diaphragm inside her reticule.

  Her reticule was looped about her wrist; otherwise it, like the cabby’s black hat, would now be residing in the street.

  Overrun by carriages.

  She clutched her black-beaded bag to her chest. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The street sweeper could have easily stolen it. Instead he pushed you,” he offered imperturbably.

  For a second Anne could not tell if it was fear or rain that trickled down her spine.

  She stepped back. “You saw him?” she asked. Forcefully she swallowed the rest of her sentence: and did nothing to stop him?

  He stepped forward. “It’s a common enough practice among those who live off the streets. One pushes a woman—or an elderly gentleman—rescues them, and is rewarded with coin. No one is hurt. They buy gin and bread. And they survive another day.”

  But she almost had not survived.

  She remembered the sheen of fear in the horse’s eyes.

  She remembered the undiluted terror she had felt at the thought of dying.

  Without trying out the diaphragm.

  Anne struggled to remain the calm, rational woman she had always believed herself to be. Before she had embarked on the liaison with Michel des Anges.

  “I see,” she said. He spoke as if it were commonplace for an obviously well-to-do man to watch a woman be accosted and do nothing to prevent it. And perhaps in London it was. “If you will excuse me, I must be on my way—”

  “You have received a shock. There is a pastry shop nearby. I insist upon buying you a cup of tea.”

  Anne took another step back. “Thank you, that is not necessary.”

  The beautiful, elegant stranger followed her. “But it is necessary.”

  She no longer mistook the coldness that sped down her back for rain: it was fear, pure and simple.

  “There really is no need to trouble yourself—”

  “I am Michel’s friend, mademoiselle. He would not be pleased if I were remiss with your welfare.”

  Mademoiselle.

  The man did not sound French. Until he spoke it.

  Michel did not sound French. Until he spoke it.

  Two women and one man waited on the street corner for an omnibus. Avoiding Anne’s gaze, they turned their backs toward her and huddled underneath their shared umbrella.

  Anne took another step backward. She squared her shoulders. She was not a coward. “I will tell Monsieur des Anges of your concern.”

  The blond-haired man stepped closer, his breath a silvery plume of vapor. “Do you not wish to know more about Michel, mademoiselle?”

  She could not stop an involuntary retreat. “Friends do not bear tales, monsieur.”

  The man paused in his pursuit. “I love him, too, mademoiselle.”

  The misty drizzle turned to a downpour.

  There was no thunder to herald the change. No lightning. Just an electric tingle of awareness.

  Anne paused in her retreat, eyes wide.

  In all her years she had never heard anyone say they loved another. Not husband to wife. Not mother to child.

  Cold water slashed her face. “I do not love Monsieur des Anges.”

  A matching rivulet of water trickled down the blond-haired man’s flawless face. “Every woman who has ever been with Michel has loved him, mademoiselle.”

  But Michel had not loved them, he did not need to add. Michel had loved only one woman.

  And she was dead.

  Rain dripped off the brim of her round black felt hat, featherless now. What had Michel done with the feather after he had pleasured her? she wondered inanely. “Did you follow me?”

  Rain dripped off the brim of the stranger’s black felt bowler hat. “Yes.”

  Oh, God.

  She had never before realized a woman’s nipples hardened with fear.

  They did.

  Every inhalation, every exhalation, caused her linen shift to abrade her uncorseted breasts.

  Anne fought to regulate her breathing. “Why?”

  “I do not want Michel to be hurt.”

  She blinked away a blinding drop of rain.

  The dangerous encounter was becoming increasingly farcical.

  Surely she had not heard the stranger correctly.

  “You think I am going to hurt Monsieur des Anges?” she asked incredulously.

  “Michel has not had a procuress since the fire that scarred him.” The blond-haired man’s gray eyes remained cold, flat, devoid of emotion. His skin gleamed like wet alabaster. “He is more vulnerable than you know.”

  Anne remembered the warm play of sunshine on Michel’s manhood. The silver glint of her hat pin. His unleashed passion: I won’t hurt you.

  The memory was instantly replaced by the impersonal touch of the gynecologist’s probing fingers and chill metal instrument.

  Physicians had listened to her mother’s heart through the protective covering of a nightgown or chemise. Never had she been subjected to such a thoroughly humiliating examination as that which Anne had endured.

  A lump rose inside her throat.

  She was more vulnerable than she had ever known.

  Before Michel she would never, ever have bared her body. Especially to a doctor.

  “I would be happy to receive you at”—if he had followed her then he knew where she was currently residing—“Monsieur des Anges’s town house. We may then include him in our discussion.”

  The stranger’s gray eyes remained inscrutable, a part of the cold and the rai
n—silver ice to counter Michel’s violet fire. “Are you afraid of me, mademoiselle?”

  “No, of course not,” she lied.

  “Then you are ashamed to be seen with Michel’s friends.”

  The stranger’s face was closed, expressionless: waiting for rejection.

  As Michel had been prepared for rejection when he accused her of being ashamed of touching him. Wanting him.

  All at once she felt ridiculous, standing in the rain without an umbrella to protect her from even the most basic elements.

  Wet hair straggled down her back.

  What was she afraid of?

  No man would have designs on a woman her age. Especially one who was as disheveled and untidy as she now was.

  There was nothing the stranger could do to her in public.

  Nothing more than a street sweeper had done, an inner voice jeered.

  Anne stiffened her spine.

  She was cold. She was wet.

  She wanted to hear whatever the stranger could tell her about Michel.

  “Very well, monsieur. I would be delighted to take tea with you.”

  “Thank you.” He did not offer her his arm. “The pastry shop is this way.”

  He was as tall as Michel. Perhaps taller, Anne thought as he adjusted his stride to match hers. The two men both moved with effortless grace.

  They passed fewer and fewer people on the streets. Gaslights illuminated unfamiliar shop windows. Clerks and customers freely ranged within, faces distorted by the water-sluiced glass, unaware of Anne Aimes; of where she had come from or where she was going.

  Water poured down her face, her collar.

  Panic overcame her resolution.

  Some would claim that a woman who wore no corset and who carried upon her person a diaphragm and a tin of French letters deserved no better than she got. It occurred to her that perhaps those people were correct.

  No doubt many men knew Michel. Men who were not his friends.

  Perhaps the silver-eyed man had followed Anne when she retrieved her clothes. And had then visited her solicitor.

  Perhaps he knew who she was.

  Perhaps Mr. Little had already received a note demanding money for her ransom.

  Without warning, the stranger stopped. Water rolled off of his pale, alabaster skin. “You should be frightened, mademoiselle. A lone woman should never accompany a stranger.”

  Anne’s breath stopped in her lungs.

  Stepping around her, he opened a sturdy wooden door.

  The aroma of freshly baked pastries and brewed coffee slapped her in the face. Inside, gas-filled balls of white glass brightly lit a crowded restaurant. A baby cried. Women laughed. Men talked in a raucous roar.

  She made no move to step inside.

  “You are safe here, mademoiselle.” Silver eyes speculatively gauged her. “It is tea I desire. I assume that is what you also desire.”

  Anger warmed her cheeks. She stepped inside.

  White-aproned waiters darted back and forth between white-enameled wrought-iron tables. Journeymen, clerks, and laborers sat side by side. Women laughed easily, feeding babies or themselves. Two children raced around a table while their mothers—or their nannies—waited out the rain over a pot of tea.

  Anne marginally relaxed.

  The pastry shop was comfortable rather than fashionable. She would not be recognized.

  The stranger did not wait to be seated. Instead he gestured for Anne to precede him to an empty table at the back of the room.

  If she dared, his eyes silently challenged.

  When she reached their destination, he pulled out a chair. “Please be seated.”

  “Thank you.” Anne perched on the edge of the hard, metal chair, awkwardly shifted to allow him to push it forward. Her bustle dug into her derriere.

  The child’s incessant shrieks were enervating.

  She bit her lip, acutely aware of the icy water that continued to trickle down her overheated face and neck. Sodden lanks of hair had escaped her bun.

  A bowler hat dropped onto the enameled table, wilted black on chipped white. The stranger slid onto the chair opposite her. Silvery highlights shone in the hair on top of his head that had been protected from the rain. Silently he handed her his handkerchief.

  Anne automatically accepted it, blotted her nose and cheeks dry. Hurriedly she offered it back.

  He did not take it.

  She stiffly withdrew her hand. “I will have it laundered and returned to you.”

  “Handkerchiefs are plentiful, mademoiselle. I assure you I can afford the loss of one.”

  He did not seem at all disturbed by the unrestrained ruckus surrounding them. Nor did he appear uncomfortable amidst London’s lower middle class.

  Slowly he pulled off his black kid gloves, revealing fingers that were long, pale, and slender. Perfect hands to match a perfect face. No doubt he had a perfect body as well.

  The wet cotton balled inside her fist. She was not certain which was more thoroughly soaked—his handkerchief or her silk glove. “Are you in the same profession as Monsieur des Anges?” she asked baldly.

  Hot blood pricked the tips of her ears at her directness.

  “We have both enjoyed women.” He dropped his gloves on top of his hat. Silver-gray eyes snared hers. “I have been told that I am every bit as good as Michel is. Would you care to test my expertise?”

  The hot blood that burned her ears scorched a trail all the way down to her toes. Anne pushed the wrought-iron chair backward, metal scraping tile. “You are insulting, sir.”

  “I am asking an honest question, mademoiselle.” The blond-haired man held perfectly still, his voice alone latching onto her. “You sought out Michel. Why not me?”

  Why not me? whipped through the drone of voices, the shrillness of laughter, and the child’s unrelenting cries.

  Anne was momentarily arrested by the lash of pain in the stranger’s voice.

  This beautiful, perfect man hurt.

  As Michel hurt. Scarred by fire.

  As Anne hurt. A wallflower who had never bloomed.

  It was inconceivable that the three of them should be victims of the same needs: the simple desire to be wanted.

  The floor tilted underneath her chair at the dizzying thought that he could be hers. For a price.

  If she wanted him.

  The floor immediately righted at the realization that her nipples were beaded from cold, not temptation.

  “I saw Michel when I made my London debut,” she offered quietly.

  She waited for his response, still poised to flee.

  “If you had seen me first, who would you have chosen?”

  An underlying intensity rang in the stranger’s voice.

  An honest question, he had said.

  He deserved an honest answer.

  Anne held his gaze and did not lie. “Michel.”

  “Why?”

  “His eyes,” she responded truthfully. “They burn with passion.”

  Whereas the gray eyes staring at her now burned with silver fire but no passion.

  Michel had said that he was attracted by a woman’s sexual needs. She could not even begin to imagine what would attract this man.

  “What is your pleasure, mademoiselle?” he asked softly.

  Her head snapped back at the suggestive question that held no seduction.

  “I have told you my pleasure, monsieur.”

  “But you have not told the waiter what it is that you wish.”

  Anne suddenly became aware of the young, fair-haired waiter who hovered several steps back from their table. He appeared afraid to stand any closer.

  His trepidation was contagious.

  Michel had offered her friendship as well as intimacy. By discussing him with the stranger, she betrayed him. By not discussing him, she would never know … so many things.

  “I will have tea, please.”

  “Very well, ma’am.”

  The stranger’s eyes gleamed pure silver. �
�I will have … whatever the lady is having.”

  The waiter departed as if the hounds of hell were nipping at his heels.

  “Are you, too, named for your ability to make women see angels?” she asked recklessly, wanting to see behind the mask of the man who claimed to be Michel’s friend but yet who was so unlike him.

  “No.” His lips twisted in a travesty of a smile. “There is only one man named for his ability to please women.”

  Anne could not stop the rush of scalding blood that flooded her cheeks. “Yet you claim that your skills are equally proficient. What name are you known by?”

  All semblance of his smile died. “I am Gabriel, mademoiselle.”

  Gabriel.

  “Are you the proprietor of the House of Gabriel?”

  “Yes.”

  A wave of mortification rushed over her.

  “Then you do not … that is, you do not solicit clients.”

  “No, not anymore,” he murmured provocatively. His silvery gray eyes coldly watched her. “But perhaps, like Michel, no one has recently propositioned me. Would you care to know my price, mademoiselle?”

  He was deliberately trying to discomfit her.

  Or perhaps he was belittling her.

  Because she was plain. Yet she had the same needs as did two beautiful men.

  “Why do you call me mademoiselle?” she asked sharply. “I have not told you my marital status.”

  “Married women come to my house every night, dissatisfied with their husband’s prowess. You had not the look.”

  Pride would not let her glance away from the blond-haired man. “What did I have the look of, monsieur?”

  “A virgin.”

  Not for anything would she give him the satisfaction of knowing he had correctly labeled her a virgin spinster. “And now?”

  “Your skin glows with satisfaction. You look like a woman who revels in her sexuality. Do you want to know how Michel became a prostitute?”

  Heat mushroomed through her body.

  Yes, she wanted to know how Michel came to be what he now was.

  Contrarily, she did not want to admit her curiosity to the man who called himself Gabriel.

  “How long has Monsieur des Anges lived in England?” she asked instead.

  “Eighteen years.”

  Anne was momentarily taken aback. Michel had made his debut into English society at the same time that she had.

  She quickly rallied. “How long have you known Monsieur des Anges?”