Her heart softened at the love in his voice. Perhaps, if she could not find a husband to love her as she wished, she at least had a brother who would strive to make her happy, a loving sister-in-law, and four nephews and nieces whom she loved as if they were her own children.
My own children…
“Very well.” She nodded. “One last ball.”
Chapter Five
“Oh, my lord!Yes! Ride me hard, you wondrous beast!”
The whore’s throaty cries filled the bedchamber as Charles pounded into her.
She let out a scream, jerking her body from side to side, throwing her legs open wider in an overly exaggerated gesture.
Curse the woman! Didn’t she know that such obviously feigned pleasure was almost as effective in dousing a man’s lust as a bucket of cold water poured down his breeches?
He closed his eyes, ignoring her lusty cries and focusing on his breathing, which came out on short, hoarse bursts as his body tightened in its elevation toward his climax.
Then it came. With a surge of base instinct, he plunged into her one final time and exhaled sharply as he shuddered with release.
Her writhing continued for a heartbeat, then she jerked her body upward.
“Magnifico!”
Charles opened his eyes to see her face at close quarters, covered in a layer of powder so thick that little cracks appeared at the corners of her eyes. Her cheeks were smeared in grease that glistened an unnatural shade of red—a shade to match her lips.
Ugh.
The bed would have to be stripped as soon as she left the building, and the room aired, before he’d consider sleeping in it again.
Nausea gripped his stomach, and he climbed off the whore and reached for a cloth to wipe himself.
A hand caught his wrist with the speed of a striking snake.
“Letme, my love,” she said, “I’m here to serve you, mybellalord.”
Devil’s breeches!Was she still trying to keep up the pretense of being Italian? Her poorly executed accent was enough to give her away, let alone the smattering of ill-timed Italian words. Doubtless she’d told Charles’s valet that she hailed from the finest brothels in Rome, and most men would have been fooled by her act.
But Charles knew enough Italian to see through her façade. And he’d fucked her before, when he was a raw youth before he left England.
He allowed himself a wry smile. To think—doxies always argued that, to a man, one whore was the same as any other. But the reverse was also true. Anne Brown—or, as she’d called herself today, Angelina Bellissima—hadn’t shown a flicker of recognition when John escorted her to Charles’s bedchamber. In her eyes, one man ready to part with cash as she parted her thighs was like any other.
To her credit, she’d learned a trick or two in the fifteen years since he last rutted her, wrapping her bony fingers around his cock the moment he lowered his breeches, parting her lips to receive him. But now, he slapped her hand away.
She pouted, her lips glistening in the candlelight. “Did I please you, my lord?”
He shrugged, then caught a flash of irritation in her eyes.
“There’s time enough,” she said, pitching her voice low in an attempt at seduction. “I know all manner of ways to pleasure the discerning gentleman. And you strike me as averydiscerning gentleman.”
Discerning—ha!Doubtless others fell for her pretty speeches, but, to Charles, the act of rutting was merely a means of gaining release. Men, and women, rutted for two purposes only—to achieve a base,physical release, and to further their bloodline. Anyone who believed otherwise was a fool.
And anyone who believed in love was an even bigger fool.
He pointed toward the door. Her smile broadened and she reached for his cock once more.
“Let me show you the pleasures that only I can give, mymagnificostallion,” she said. “I’m yours for the night.”
Devil’s breeches, a whole night of her false moans and screeches, not to mention the stench of sweat and cheap cologne?
