her lover.”
Now, this wasn’t quite the truth, but it could still be excused as a little white lie. Perhaps it wasn’t that little, after all, nor was it exactly white. But Connor knew Reinier well enough to trust it wouldn’t fail to rattle him.
Wrinkling his forehead, Reinier’s detached façade was unwavering. He was even too disciplined to grind his teeth, although inwardly he felt anything but calm. A flashing memory of brilliant turquoise eyes skirted through his mind. Their recurring image had been haunting his dreams lately.
She’d never do that, Reinier told himself. Not to him. She wouldn’t dare make a cuckold of him.
“Gossip.” With a wave of his hand he brushed off the rumor.
“Yes, it is,” Connor agreed, seemingly unaware of how this all affected Reinier. “But isn’t it entertaining? I thought it was highly amusing myself.”
Reinier snorted with contempt. Closing his eyes, he carefully hid the anger churning in him. If Connor saw his gaze darken, he’d know for sure his mood had changed, and there was no need to give him proof. Most times having such unique eyes was a blessing, but not around somebody who knew him so well, somebody who could tell what Reinier felt just by looking into his eyes.
Why did it even bother him? Everyone who married for convenience sought pleasure outside the marriage. It was almost expected.
Why did he feel that odd twinge in his chest, then? True, he’d married Emiline for practical reasons. But it wasn’t quite that simple. As soon as he realized he’d fallen for her, it became quite inconvenient.
“It was only a matter of time before she felt lonely enough to do it.” Connor’s low voice held a slight hint of reproach.
Only a matter of time. The words echoed in his head. Damn it. If Connor only knew how badly she’d broken his heart. Leaving her had been the only way to make sure she wouldn’t take his soul as well.
As soon as he felt certain he’d rid his eyes of any sign of treacherous emotion, Reinier opened them again to linger on his friend. His teeth ground now, but he made sure his eyes remained blank.
She was his, whether he liked it or not. She was his, whether she liked it or not. She had no right to act like this. She wasn’t free. She wasn’t independent. She belonged to him. Emiline was his wife.
Reinier rubbed his chin in thought. He had pushed that part of his life aside for far too long. She was a pretty girl when he left. Naïve, yes. And eager to please him, that too. Demanding, yet oh-so-unchallenging. At least that was what he had eventually convinced himself of.
Of course, he was completely over that immature infatuation.
Reinier took a deep breath, held it, and then let it out in a rush and along with it the memories that had come to life.
Perhaps it was time he reminded her of her place. A submissive wife needed a dominant husband. He would show her her place in the world—in his world.
Instantly, his wicked mood was completely restored with the prospect of the task ahead. “Connor,” he said, his decision final, “I do think it is time I take the southern route. I appreciate you doing it for the last few years, but I feel like going to Ronde again myself.” His lips twitched into a sly smile. “I’ll set sail tomorrow morning, so that leaves two more days for you.”
Connor bowed his head as a sign he understood. They had played this particular game before, after all; Reinier would leave and Connor would follow in a few days. If that was really necessary. Quite honestly, Reinier expected it wouldn’t come to that. If she still was who she was, she’d be no match for his honed seductive skills. And speaking of which…
“Madame Poivre said she had someone special for us.”
He didn’t feel guilty about his “leisure” activities, not anymore. What he did here or elsewhere was something men in his position did, period. It was ridiculous that all of a sudden he’d think of it as something damnable.
“Someone special, you say?” Connor’s eyebrows rose with curiosity, distracting Reinier’s pensive mood and pointing it back in the right direction. “Where is she, anyway? I could do with a glass of port.”
At that, the double doors opened and Madame Poivre came in with a tray that held two glasses of the finest wine her excellent establishment offered to only its best of clients.
With her cloying perfume, the much-too-round and much-too-small matron of the maison close of St. George’s dressed a little too indecently for her age and for Reinier’s taste, wore a little too much rouge on her cheeks and lips, and hid her graying hair under an absurdly large turban that bobbed like a pecking robin whenever she moved her head. But Madame Poivre had exquisite taste in deciding whom she’d let work for her. Reinier had to grant her that.
Turning his head, Reinier smiled at her. “Please have a seat, madame, and tell us about this latest and oh-so-special acquisition of yours.” He accompanied his words with a graceful show of his hand, indicating she take the still-empty armchair.
“Ahh,” Madame Poivre set out and nodded. “Certainement.” Her acquired French heritage almost hid her cockney accent completely.
She placed the now-empty tray against the side of the third armchair, then sat down and leaned back, casually folding her legs. Obviously, she enjoyed the men’s attention and drew it out for her own sake. Finally, when she had arranged herself, she declared, “The young woman is completely inexperienced in this métier, messieurs.”
Connor turned to her and interrupted rudely, “But she is not a virgin, is she? If so, I won’t—”
“Oh, no, no!” Madame Poivre shook both her hands like the flopping wings of a butterfly, the turban on her head bouncing in tandem. “She isn’t all that innocent anymore. But she still needs some guidance as to what will be expected from ’er in the future.”
Reinier tilted his head in thought. “Why us, madame?”
Laughing, Madame Poivre’s elbows rested on the arms of the chair while she brought her fingertips together excitedly, as if applauding herself. “You seemed the right choice to introduce ’er to the ways of ’er new profession.”
Reinier raised both his eyebrows and looked at Connor, who, in turn, shrugged as a sign that he didn’t understand either.
“Messieurs.” Madame Poivre rolled her eyes. “I ’ave other girls ’oo ’ave already ’ad…shall we say…the pleasure of making your acquaintance? It was their ceaseless rhapsodizing that made me decide you should be the ones to educate ’er.”
Reinier laughed low, an understanding, knowing purr. Connor chuckled into his fist.
“I feel obliged to tell you, though,” Madame Poivre pointed out, “she is unattractively thin despite ’aving been ’ere for two weeks already. Moreover, she is unfashionably tall for a woman and ’er face is distorted with ghastly freckles.”
Connor sat up and leaned forward. “Freckles, you say?”
Reinier hid his smile in his handkerchief as he watched him. He already knew the Irishman could be quickly and easily charmed by blond, flaxen, golden straw or even tawny hair as long as it came with a lovely face. Personally,
