‘Rawden!’ William’s gentle face twisted in anger.
‘Forgive me. You are right, Will. I acted badly. I will go and apologise myself.’
‘You cannot return to that house and frighten that poor girl.’
‘Alright. I am sorry if I spoiled your evening and hers. Go and make amends for your wretched brother.’ Rawden stalked away, riven by guilt, anger and a surprising sting of lust, for the redhead’s kiss had been the sweetest, headiest he had experienced for some time – a balm to his jaded soul.
‘Where are you going?’ shouted Will.
‘Somewhere far from here. And if you know what’s good for you, do not follow me. And as to you joining the regiment, Will, this is not the end of the matter.’
‘I will not yield to you on this, Rawden,’ shouted Will, but he went unheard. Such was the rush of blood through Rawden’s ears, the anger and frustration pounding in his breast. He had to work it off somehow or on someone.
Chapter Five
Rawden’s jaw was starting to throb, as were other parts after his encounter with the delectable redhead. He was sure she had been in search of an adventure, strolling about the gardens unaccompanied. But her punch had proved him wrong, and there had been a good deal of indignation in it. Damn, but that redhead had tasted delicious, and her squirming surrender had improved his mood no end. What a fiery little thing she was, too. He had derived a cruel satisfaction from glowering at her companions, and it had cowed them but not her. No, that redhead had continued to stare back to the point of insolence until one of them had elbowed her in the ribs. Only then did she cast her eyes down and find her feet fascinating.
There was a glow about her - that innocent lushness that blessed young and pretty women. But that was not why she had stood out. She had not twittered inanely like the others. Instead, she had hung back, listened, and observed the room. It had not been a predatory gaze, hunting for a husband, more a desperate one. And she had not been well-clad. Her silk dress had been worn many times before, so Rawden had concluded that the young woman had scant wealth and connections and was a little beneath Lady Blanchard’s rout. Just like him, she did not belong there. For that reason, she had piqued his interest more than any other.
He should not have preyed on the young lady. Was that why he chose her? Was he so far removed from civilisation that he had to prey on low-hanging fruit like her? He should hunt the lady down and apologise in person instead of sending poor William to do his dirty work. Rawden almost stopped his carriage. Hunt her down, that is what he would do, whereas Will would be all smiles and politeness, and by now, Will’s charm would have soothed the lady’s ruffled feathers, and so no harm done?
The carriage rattled on through empty cobbled streets until the grander houses began to rub up against the more tawdry end of town. Covent Garden rose up - a sprawling maze of sin and excess, housing theatres and gin houses, barracks and docks and establishments of ill-repute. The rank smell of rot wafting off the Thames was strangely welcome, for it sucked the tension from Rawden’s shoulders. He had long been more at home amongst the slithering, night-crawling creatures of this world than the bright, empty vessels of the ton.
In the heart of Covent Garden, the Theatre Royal had just disgorged its audience for the night. The cream of London society was slowly dispersing in fine carriages after a night of culture and sophistication. Rawden pushed through the crowds and made his way down a side alley, too narrow for any carriage to navigate. He found himself at the familiar red door feathered with peeling red paint, and he pounded on it as rain began to fall, turning the cobbles shiny and slimy. It was the hour just before the decent part of the city settled into slumber and when the creatures of the night blinked and emerged from their lairs deep within the sinful shadows of London’s underbelly.
He was let inside and shown into a hellish bedroom located in the maze of narrow corridors and rooms that lurked like an anthill at the back of the theatre. The room was dominated by a huge, canopied bed clad in red silk linens and given a warm sheen by the many candles set about the room and a fire blazing in the hearth. At its centre stood Romola Bianchi - temptress, ruthless social climber and heartless bitch, hands on hips, a blonde vision of outrage in a dress that was a violent shade of pink that no lady would ever wear. She always took Rawden’s breath away after an absence.
Her hair was loose, as loose as her morals, and it tumbled fetchingly about her face. And what a face it was - innocence married to carnality. Romola had a way of quickening a man’s loins. Her blue eyes were fierce, her nose small and pert, and her mouth turned down at the corners. Sometimes, when Romola was cross, she reminded him of a snappy little pug. Indeed, she held her rare smiles like little jewels, to be dished out grudgingly to her many admirers only when they had done something to please her.
No one would have called Romola a raving beauty in any sense the ton would understand, but she was pretty, clever, quick-witted, and had a voice like a nightingale. All these gifts combined to ensure that she always got her way. Romola also had a thirst for expensive presents, which her current occupation did not satisfy. Hence, she swelled her funds through teasing coin from the pockets of rich benefactors. At present, she was an up-and-coming chorus girl at the opera, but Rawden had no doubt she would soon claw her way to the prima donna position where she would no longer suffer the pinching and fondling of prop men, musicians and stagehands, to whom any lowly woman was fair game.
He rushed forward, tearing off his jacket and loosening his shirt and grabbing her, planting a hefty kiss on her rosebud of a mouth. He eased his tongue inside, the way she liked it and pressed his manhood against her belly.
‘Get off, Rawden,’ she hissed.
‘What is wrong, Romola?’
‘Do not barge in here after weeks without a word and then maul me. Can we not have some conversation before we fall into bed?’
They often played this game – her feigning outrage and him feigning contrition. ‘A thousand pardons, my Lady. How was your performance?’ he said, too weary for pretence.
‘Tiring, and the audience tiresome, as are you.’
‘I hope you are not too tired for me. Come to bed, and I will give you something more pleasing than applause.’
‘You presume too much, Rawden. Are you drunk?’
‘Not nearly enough for your safety, Madam.’ He bit her neck, and she squealed as he pressed against her. ‘You are wearing far too many clothes for a hot night, Romola.’
‘I will not have you, Rawden. I have another engagement.’
‘No, you do not. You are engaged right here,’ he said, sliding his hand into her low bodice and stroking an eager nipple. ‘I need you, Romola,’ he murmured against her neck, fragrant with some exotic scent.
‘You go off for a month without a word and leave me hanging,’ she spat.
‘But I am back now, with a vengeance and with such a passion for you, my love. Let me make it all up to you.’
‘It will not do, Rawden. You will not treat me with contempt.’ Her voice was firm but breathless with desire.
