Lawrence didn't want to participate in this dreadful slave auction. But if the lady went home with one of these men, they would force her to do things she didn't want, and he couldn't stand the thought of that. When he'd been only seventeen, not yet truly a man, he'd ventured into a brothel much like this. He'd thought himself a virile and entitled lad, eager to see himself pleasured for as much as his coin purse would allow. His head had been filled with images of eager maids feeding him berries on a lounge, willingly submitting to his overtures, and everyone partaking in a night none would soon forget.Instead, he'd watched women selling themselves to survive. It wasn't hard to see the desperation in the performances of those who didn't want to be there, or the emptiness of those who had given up and knew no other life. What was worse were the men who treated them no better than cattle. That night he'd watched a woman, boldly announced by the haggard proprietor as working her ve
Lawrence skidded to a halt as he reached the pavement. A number of Bow Street Runners were still on the steps of the White House."Bloody hell." He waited, watching the men for what felt like an eternity before they joined the others inside the brothel."About time." He walked briskly down the street, trying to look inconspicuous, which was difficult at midnight. He found a coach ready to take on passengers and waved for the man to come down the alley to him. Then he slipped back into the alley to find Zehra. She was waiting right where he'd left her. When he got close enough to reach for her hand, he noticed she was trembling. "You must be freezing." He removed his coat and slid it over her shoulders before she could protest. "This way. I found a coach. We must move quickly if we are to get inside without being seen." He slipped her arm in his and led her to the coach. Before they climbed inside, he caught her chin and tilted it up to his. "Understand, you don't have to come with
Zehra sipped her wine, even though her belly quivered with an ache born of days with little to no food. She fought to ignore the beating headache rising in her head by examining the bedchamber of her rescuer. His tall four-poster bed with a dark-green coverlet looked inviting, perhaps too much so. He had a shaving stand, complete with a washbasin, and a chest of drawers. A tall bookcase stood against one wall, and it was filled with books, some old, others quite new. She carried her wine glass with her as she approached the shelf. "Who are you, Lawrence Russell?" she whispered, reading the gilded spines on the shelves. Gothic novels, poetry, sciences, art, philosophy. He was well-read, it seemed. Surely a man who was well-read was less likely to be a cruel man. At least, she hoped so.He claimed he had bought her to protect her from other men. But she had learned the hard truth of late that she could trust no onenot strangers, not even friends. Her parents lay dead because they'd tr
Avery Russell stepped into the chaos of the White House, his eyes taking in the Bow Street Runners and the local magistrate, a man named John Dearborn, as they took statements from several brothel patrons. Three men were restrained by iron shackles and seated at a card table in the main gaming room."Russell." One of the Runners, a man called Sam Cady, nodded and spoke to Avery as he came over. "We've put a stop to the auction. Unfortunately, the madam threw her account books into the fire, destroying the names of the men who paid to attend. All of the ladies have been placed in an adjoining room, but""But what?"Cady shrugged his large shoulders and nodded toward the restrained group of men. "One of the gentlemen here swears another man bought a slave, the first one to be sold. He and the girl aren't here.""Someone got away?" Avery's hands curled into fists as he thought of some poor woman being carried away to a place where no one would find her, where she would be abused and d
Lawrence woke to the chiming of the grandfather clock in the corridor outside his bedroom.Half past seven. It was still early, and they had gone to bed in the wee hours of the morning. He shifted, feeling the welcome weight of Zehra in his arms. Her head rested on his chest, and their legs were entwined. Her chemise had ridden up, and he had one hand on her left thigh. She had one hand in his hair, as though she'd fallen asleep stroking her fingers through the strands. A smile twisted his lips. She liked his hairjust as he liked hers. He wondered if she was genuinely at ease with him, or if it was something she'd done unconsciously during her sleep. Either way, he liked that she was touching him. He wanted her to feel safe with him, to feel she could be around him, even touch him without fear. I want to be a man she can trust. He carefully moved his hand from her thigh and reached up to stroke his palm over the dark coiling locks that tumbled down her back. She didn't stir as
Jane Russell was a stunning woman of fifty-two years with dark-red hair and hazel eyes. Lawrence wasn't fooled by his mother's beauty, however. He knew she was one of the fiercest matriarchs in all the ton when it came to schemes, especially those of a matchmaking nature. She also had the uncanny ability to appear in the lives of her children when they least expected. Like right now."Does everyone just walk into my house without knocking? Where the bloody hell is MacTavish, and why isn't he doing his bloody job?" Lawrence flexed his throbbing hand, and Avery rubbed his sore eye, each shooting glares at the other."A good butler knows better than to stop a man's mother at the front door." Jane pulled at the tips of her gloves, removing them while she stared at her sons, one reddish brow arched in disapproval. "What are you two quarreling about?"Lawrence and Avery shared a look. Avery gave Lawrence a jerk of the head so slight their mother would miss it. Be silent. He quite agre
Lord George Lyon, the Earl of Denbruck, sat in his comfortable leather armchair in the drawing room, watching his son and daughter with their spouses and children play snapdragon. His eyes drank in the sight of his happy family. At the age of seventy-two, he was getting on in years, but staying young was easy when he spent time around his grandchildren."Father?" His son, Archibald, came over, holding out a letter. "This came for you. The footman left it on the table, but I believe you missed it.""Thank you, Archie." George took the letter, studying the seal upon the parchment, and his heart jolted. It was a seal he had not seen in almost two months, yet he'd longed to see it every day. He struggled to open the letter hastily but without damaging it. As he began to read, the world around him seemed to fade into a gray recess.Lord Denbruck,It is with a heavy heart that I must share the fate of your daughter, Joan, and her husband, Rafay. They were killed in a raid by a rival po
Bloody balls.Lawrence despised wearing the obligatory knee breeches required for balls and dancing. He much preferred the cut of a good pair of trousers. He was no foppish dandy, but he did like to look like a gentleman, even if his behavior suggested he wasn't. "She knows I don't want to be here," Lawrence muttered to his brother, Lucien, who was leaning against the back wall next to him. Side by side they could have been mistaken for twins if one didn't know they were four years apart in age.Lucien chuckled. "None of us want to be here. But you know how Mother is. The woman knows precisely what to say to get us to do as she wishes.""What did she say to make you come?" Lawrence asked. Even at three and thirty, Lucien still bowed to their mother's dictates, just as they all did."She reminded me that Horatia won't have the chance to dance during the late summer or fall because of her pregnancy. I have no intention of cloistering my wife away, but Mother's right that she won't