Free Scoundrel for Hire (Velvet Lies, Book 1) by Adrienne deWolfe Page B

struck.
    Did any woman?

 
     
     
    Chapter 4

     
    Rafe was pleased with his night's work.
    He'd avoided arrest, put off Fred, and won an audience in an heiress's boudoir. True, Silver had surprised him when she'd rejected his advances and hired him to warm another woman's bed, but he was confident they'd be sharing the same pillow by month's end.
    If she had been a sweet young thing, with high ideals and a heart as pure as gold, one of his few remaining scruples might have balked at her seduction.
    But Silver was the female equivalent of his own rotten core, so he didn't see any reason to deny himself the pleasure of wooing her. It wasn't as if she were headed for heaven, and his tainted soul stood in her way. Oh, no. When God had passed out the road maps to hell, Silver had been allowed to plot her own course. He was the one who'd been denied a choice in the matter.
    He grimaced, the old bitterness lancing his chest.
    Once upon a time, he'd been so desperate for love that he'd let hope worm its way into his heart. He thought back to his first romantic role, young Claudio in Much Ado About Nothing. Although he'd only been sixteen, he'd been stunned by the number of sighing, swooning females who'd crowded backstage. Regardless of his bastardy, they'd offered him their favors, and in his naiveté, he'd thought they loved him.
    Only after they'd grown bored with Raphael Jones had he come to understand that women were infatuated with romance —the heroism of Hotspur, the poetry of Lysander, the tragedy of Romeo. Thus, he'd learned to answer late-night invitations with a bouquet of roses and Shakespeare's best love sonnets.
    Such would be his approach with Silver. She was no angel, and he was no saint. But Silver, being female, would want to believe she was virtuous. She'd want to feel desirable and experience the grand romantic gesture: to be swept off her feet.
    Rafe wasn't opposed to the idea; after all, he was a dramatist. Pirate, poet, prophet, prince—whatever she wanted, he could play the part. And if Silver preferred to pretend her lover was a real-life nobleman rather than some fictional character, then so be it. Imposters were his specialty.
    He hadn't played himself in years.
    The thought made him wince. Shaking himself, he chose to forget it. He saw no sense in dwelling on the injustices of his life. Long, hard experience had taught him to concentrate on the present. The past was too painful, and the future—an eternal captaincy in Satan's army—was too bleak. Only in the moment could he ever hope to find relief. And if Rafe didn't use that precious moment to examine his feelings too closely, he could convince himself he was happy. After all, the moon was full, the wind was alpine fresh, and the mountain laurels smelled like summer wine. He had an heiress in his back pocket, and the promise of wealth to sweeten his dreams. For now, these were enough.
    Whistling as he strolled, Rafe passed through Leadville's business district, with its respectable, cobbled streets and glowing gaslights. He set his sights on the dusty, moonlit alley where his own lodgings lay. Unlike the opulence of Silver's Grand Hotel suite, his room was cramped and shabby, a virtual closet above a noisy gambling hall. He hadn't had much choice in accommodations, though, not with threadbare pockets and a traveling companion like Tavy—
    Damn. Tavy. He'd left her with Fiona.
    Sighing, he turned in midstride only to collide with an elegantly dressed man who was hurrying—slinking, actually—out of the alley leading to the Tabor Opera House.
    "Damnation," the man muttered as his top hat tumbled into the gutter.
    "My middle name," Rafe countered dryly, thinking to make amends by retrieving the hat.
    But the man shoved him aside. "Clod," he snapped, wading through the refuse himself. His accent was unmistakably eastern.
    "As you say," Rafe murmured, noting the scar that arched above the tenderfoot's left temple.
    Brushing off the brim, the