His Wicked Embrace Read online

  He wouldn’t be here at all except for the letter he’d received from his younger brother, Avery, telling him to go tonight and take note of which men bought the merchandise from tonight’s private auction.

  What Lawrence hadn’t realized was that the merchandise was to be slaves. He’d hoped it might have been some other disreputable activity he was helping to stop, but slavery? Not just any slavery, but that of an intimate nature.

  Slavery had been outlawed in England, at least publicly. Yet women would be sold to the highest bidder here tonight like horses at Tattersall’s, and no doubt treated less kindly. His blood boiled at the very thought of women facing such a fate. He adored women. Women were lovely, delicate creatures who deserved kind, playful, and rewarding lovers in bed. Not this injustice.

  From the moment he’d heard the whispers from other men in this room, his heart had begun to fill with dread. Avery was supposed to arrive just after the auction to stop the men who purchased these women and have them arrested.

  But what if Avery arrived too late? What if some of the men were able to leave before the auction concluded and the women weren’t able to be saved? A hundred new fears rose up inside him as he tried to focus and remain calm. He had to catalogue every man in this room who bid, not only those who purchased a slave.

  One of the men who ran the White House approached the stage and adjusted the small but elegant chair on the stage. A hush settled over the crowd, and a tension built in the air so thick that Lawrence could feel it choking him.

  “We will be starting shortly, gentlemen. Please be patient.” The hum of the conversations around him returned. He had time yet before the auction began. Lawrence leaned back against the wall, next to the closest door that would give him a quick exit. He wanted to leave the moment this dreadful scene was over.

  The door beside him creaked open, and a dirty blonde-haired woman led a woman dressed in red into the room. They passed close to him as they approached the stage. Satin whispered against his boots as the second woman brushed past him. A hint of rosewater teased his nose. He watched her progress toward the stage, following her movements, hating that this woman faced the fate that she did. It was enough to make any decent man sick.

  Lawrence sucked in a breath as the light bathed the woman when she drew near the small dais. Men leered and several called out cruel suggestions of what they’d like to do to her. Lawrence moved toward her and the stage as if in a dream. Her raven-black hair and light-olive skin were exquisite, even beneath the glare of the single chandelier over her head. The red satin dress she wore clung to every curve, leaving little to the imagination. Rather than looking cheap, the woman looked irresistible.

  Whispers stirred in the men around him as they stared hungrily at the item they soon planned to bid for. Lawrence fought the urge to run for the woman, grab her, and flee after he’d shoved every man in the room off a very high cliff.

  As she lifted her skirts to climb the dais, he caught a sight of sensible black boots that covered her slender ankles. His body flared to life, and he was ashamed at his own arousal.

  Don’t look at her—look at the men. It’s them you must remember.

  He began to turn his focus away from the woman, but then he saw her face. His heart stilled in his chest. It was as though everything around him had frozen, locked between one breath and the next as his gaze became transfixed on the woman’s face. There was something about her feminine, exotic features that drew him in. She had slightly softened high cheekbones, a sensual mouth, winged brows, and shocking blue eyes that were so bright they gleamed like sapphires in the light that illuminated her face.

  Something stirred deep in his mind like fragments of a long-forgotten dream, or perhaps the strands of a partially unbound tapestry. Was it possible to recognize someone he’d never met? The queer feeling didn’t subside, and that puzzled him. He’d never met her—he was sure of it—but why then did he feel as though he had? Or hadn’t…

  Damnation, he couldn’t make sense of what his mind and memory were trying to tell him.

  One of the White House employees stood close to the stage. “We start tonight’s auction with a treat for you gentlemen.” His words and the luscious beauty on the stage captured every man’s attention.

  “Feast your eyes upon this Persian princess. What pleasures might this virginal beauty know in your bed? Bidding starts at five hundred pounds.”

  Lawrence swallowed hard as men around him began to bid.

  You must not interfere. You must not.

  It was all too familiar. He realized he wasn’t recognizing the woman, but the feelings surrounding this travesty. The fear, the panic, his own impotence to do anything to stop it. He’d been too young then, too young and too late to save a woman who had needed someone’s help. Anyone’s help. His help.

  I won’t let it happen again.

  He stared at the woman on the stage, taking in her pale, stoic face as she listened to the sounds of men who would claim her. Her hands, clutching her skirts, shook ever so slightly. She had to be terrified yet was hiding it well. He couldn’t help but admire her. In that moment he made a decision.

  I can’t leave her to these wolves. I won’t let the past repeat itself.

  He had to act. His brother’s warnings to only watch and observe be damned. Lawrence glanced at the woman, forcing himself to hide his anxiety and become the relaxed scandalous rogue the rest of the world knew. He had to play the part convincingly, or else he risked losing her to another man.

  Hold on, darling. I’ll save you.

  Chapter Two

  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 very first night, dragged away by some brute who’d paid to be the first to have her. She’d begged him not to, saying that she was there against her will, but he’d struck her across the face before they’d even left the room. He’d heard the men around him laughing at her misfortune. He’d been frozen, unable to intervene, too young and afraid. It had haunted him every moment since then.

  He’d run from that place, sickened by everything it stood for and he’d never told a soul about his secret shame. It wasn’t until he learned of the Midnight Garden and its courtesans that he discovered better establishments existed, but nonetheless the experience had soured his taste for paid companionship forever.

  “Two thousand pounds!” a man close to the stage called out. The bold offer shook Lawrence back to reality. He moved closer to better see the fellow. With dark hair, olive skin, and a deep accent, he was surely no native to England. The man stared at the woman with a hungry fixation, and Lawrence shuddered. The hint of cruelty that hung about his cold smile made Lawrence’s blood run cold, taking him back to that night in the brothel long ago. He could not let this man have her. He would not.

  Lawrence stepped forward and managed a chuckle. “Two thousand? Heavens, this beauty is worth more than that! Seven thousand!”

  He pushed off from the wall he’d been leaning against and walked over to stand closer to the stage, forcing several others out of his way. Lawrence had to make a statement to the rest of the room or
else face a bidding war he might not win.

  A hush fell upon the crowd, but Lawrence focused only on the woman sitting on the stage. He had to be the one to take her home and set her free.

  “No one brave enough to bid higher, eh?” he said, as confidently as he could possibly present himself. Not one of them responded, not even a murmur. He could have dropped a feather and the sound would have reverberated around the room like cannon fire.

  “Any other bids?” the auctioneer asked the room. “Seven thousand going once…” Lawrence hands curled into fists. “Going twice…”

  The woman on the stage wasn’t breathing, her face etched in stone. She must be terrified. Hold on, darling. Just a few seconds more.

  The auctioneer’s face lit with greed as he pointed to Lawrence. “Sold to the gentleman bidder for seven thousand pounds. Once you have paid for your lady, you may take her with you.”

  The woman looked up, seeking him out, and Lawrence stepped closer, wishing she could see his face and not be afraid. The auctioneer grabbed her arm and dragged her off the stage. Lawrence saw her stumble, a flash of fear in those stunning eyes, and he reacted instantly.

  “Stop that!” he bellowed and gripped the woman’s other arm gently. He glowered at the auctioneer. “You harm her again and I will cut you down, you understand? I don’t want my property damaged.”

  “Of course.” The auctioneer’s face turned ashen, and rightly so. Lawrence’s blood was boiling with fury.

  He turned his attention to the woman to let his temper cool. “Are you all right, my dear?”

  She squinted up at him, and he realized the bright lights hanging over the stage had likely made it hard for her to see.

  “Yes… I…” Her voice was silken, yet each word vibrated with fear.

  “Good. Wait for me. I won’t be long. I promise not to let anyone hurt you.”

  He reluctantly let go of her arm and strode to the back of the room, where another door led to the madam’s office. A plump woman was seated at a desk, writing names and numbers in a ledger. She barely glanced at him when he entered. “I’ve come to pay for my”—he choked on the next word—“merchandise.”

  “Oh?” The woman finally glanced up. Her dark eyes fixed on him, taking in his fine clothes as though assessing his ability to pay.

  “Yes, here’s a banknote.” He set out a hefty sum, knowing he was good for it. As the second son of a marquess, he had learned early on about the importance of investing. He had no desire to beg his older brother, Lucien, for money. Lucien would give him anything he asked for, but Lawrence had his pride.

  “Thank you.” The madam collected the note and waved a hand at him in dismissal. It was obvious he merited no more attention than it took to process his purchase. The White House was vastly different from the Midnight Garden—no warm embrace of Madame Chanson as she greeted guests to be found here. She ran her house entirely on referrals and only hired ladies and gentlemen who were professionals, not those desperate for coin. They were true cortigiane oneste, skilled in far more than matters of the flesh. London’s elite chose the Midnight Garden when they wanted their pleasures clean and without what Lawrence called “sullied waters.” This was not in reference to the ladies, but rather the men who frequented those establishments and the diseases they often spread.

  Lawrence exited the madam’s office and spotted the dirty-haired blonde who had escorted his woman to the stage.

  “Excuse me, miss. Could you please take me to the room of the woman I…” Again he swallowed the distasteful words.

  “Bought?” the woman supplied with a knowing grin. Lawrence frowned, but nodded.

  “This way, lovey. She’s a real beauty, that one. But keep your knives and pistols out of reach, if you know what I mean. She’s got a fire in her eyes. She’ll likely try to slit your throat the moment you fall asleep.”

  Lawrence unconsciously reached up and fussed with his cravat as they came to a door at the end of the hall. The woman slipped an old brass key into the lock, turning it until it clicked, and then she stepped back out of the way, allowing him entrance. He closed the door behind himself and spotted the woman on the opposite side of the room.

  She had placed the bed between them. Her hands were slightly raised, as though she would strike out in self-defense at any moment. He was torn between disappointment at her fear and admiration for her fire. A woman who fought for herself was a woman to be respected.

  He lifted his own palms. “Be at ease, darling. I’m not going to hurt you. I didn’t even plan on…” She stared at him, her blue eyes so striking that he lost his train of thought. He recovered himself. “What is your name?” he asked.

  The woman was silent for a long moment. “Zehra Darzi.”

  “Miss Darzi, I am Lawrence Russell.” He took a step closer, and she stepped back like a skittish colt, but her eyes promised danger if he continued.

  “As I said, I have no desire to harm you.”

  “So you say.” She spoke English well, but she also had a rich accent he couldn’t quite place. The foreign touch made her voice enchanting and mysterious.

  “Rest assured, my word is my bond. I bought you to save you from the other men. I will not take advantage of you. Now or ever.”

  Zehra raised a dark brow. “A hot-blooded man with an angelic face wishes not to take me to bed? I do not know if I believe you. Beautiful men such as you always wish to bed women.”

  He couldn’t resist grinning. “You think I’m beautiful?” He knew of his appeal to the fairer sex, but to hear it from this woman felt like more than just flattery.

  “You know you are, Mr. Russell.”

  He tilted his head, studying her. “With hair dark as a raven’s wing, and eyes like polished moonstones, she sweeps me away on dreams of morning mists.” He quoted an old poem, one he barely remembered except for that single line.

  “‘The Raven Lass’?” she asked. “William Helms. An obscure poem, is it not?”

  “Indeed,” he said, stunned she would even know it. “One of my mother’s favorites. She often recited it to me as a boy, but I’ll be damned if I can remember any more of it.”

  “My mother also taught me this poem,” Zehra murmured, her enchanting blue eyes darkened as she stared at him.

  “Oh? What a curious thing. I—”

  Whatever he’d planned to say was cut short by the sounds of a commotion outside. He opened the door and saw several prostitutes fleeing down the hall. One of them was the blonde who had brought him here. He caught her arm as she ran past.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Bow Street Runners! They’re raiding the house. You’d best get out right quick. They’ll send your woman back on the boat if they find her here.” The woman ripped free of his grasp and fled down the hall.

  “About damned time!” Lawrence muttered. The Runners would find them, and he could return Zehra to her home—or at least, they would see her back onto a ship that would take her there.

  “Please.” Zehra’s voice came from directly behind him. As he turned around, her hand caught his arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “Please, do not let them send me back. I will go home with you.” Her imploring gaze was nearly impossible to deny.

  “But you will be safe and—”

  She shook her head. “No, I will not. I must stay here. With you.”

  There was more shouting from outside their door. Lawrence had only seconds to decide what he was going to do.

  “You won’t be safe going back?”

  She shook her head, but did not explain herself.

  “You truly wish to stay with me?”

  “Yes. If you are a man of your word.” She gave his palm another squeeze, and he returned it.

  “Very well, be quick and quiet. We must get past the men. If we can reach the street, I may be able to get you out without being detected.”

  He held her hand, relishing her warm skin against his as they rushed down the corridor in the same direction the flock
of lightskirts had gone earlier. Several rooms’ doors were open, and men were rushing to clothe themselves. Some were climbing out windows.

  Lawrence found a door that opened to the gardens in the back. “This way.”

  “Are you sure?” Zehra asked.

  “Positive.” At least he hoped so. He’d had to flee many a house via the gardens ever since he’d been old enough to seduce ladies. This wasn’t the first time he’d scaled a hedge or battled through rosebushes and rhododendrons. He and Zehra crept through the darkened maze of bushes until they found their way into the mews between the White House and the edifice next to it.

  “Wait here while I find a hackney.” He nudged her into the shadows, and she flattened herself against the wall. For a moment their eyes locked, and he could see her fear and trust warring with each other.

  “Shouldn’t you hurry?” she asked in a shaky whisper.

  “Right,” he muttered and rushed down the alley to the street.

  * * *

  Zehra held her breath as she waited in the shadows. The bushes around her rustled as she listened, fighting the urge to flee. And then she heard his voice.

  “The impertinence. The arrogance. It will not go unpunished. I will find her. That man who bought her will have signed his name to the madam’s book. We will come tomorrow, and I will discover his name, and when I find him…” The voice sank to a low growl. “I will cut his throat and take back what is mine.”

  “Aye, sir,” another man responded, carrying a rough English accent. “But wouldna that be dangerous? Cuttin’ a man’s throat? You could be caught and hanged.”

  Al-Zahrani’s voice rippled through the bushes, and Zehra closed her eyes, fighting the urge to run and give herself away.