Free The Courtesan's Bed by Sandrine O'Shea Page B

accept my protection?”
    Her smile shone as radiant as a thousand candles. “Your clever mouth was very persuasive.”
    â€œAnd I will be your sole protector?”
    Her smile died, taking the light with it. “Do not insult me, monsieur.”
    So the old gent would be sent packing. “That was not my intention. I had heard that certain members of the demimonde do not restrict themselves to one lover.”
    â€œWell, I am not like many of the demimonde .”
    He nodded, content that he would be the only one.
    She rose. “And if I agree to your terms, when would you come to my bed?”
    â€œTomorrow night. I’m a patient man, but not that patient.” He gave her one last swift, possessive kiss.
    When they parted, she said, “I agree to your terms and accept your protection. Where are you staying?”
    â€œThe Hotel Continental.”
    â€œA fine establishment.”
    â€œI can show myself out.”
    But she followed him to the drawing room door. “I have one more question.”
    He paused. “Yes?”
    â€œWhy did you buy Odile de la Montaigne’s bed at the auction?”
    â€œI bought it for you, of course. And I’ll have it delivered as soon as I return to my hotel.”

Chapter Seven
    After Clarridge left, Régine staggered back to the settee and collapsed in a soft swish of silk. She cradled her face in her hands, her cheeks hot against her palms.
    What have I done?
    She had just agreed to become Clarridge’s mistress.
    The son of the man who had robbed her of her innocence.
    She dropped her hands and leaned back, each thought moving torpidly through her mind.
    I never should’ve received him today.
    I never should’ve let him kiss me.
    I never should’ve agreed to this madness.
    So why had she?
    She stared at the ceiling as if the answer were written there. Causing Luc such pain had grown distasteful, degrading, and left her feeling melancholy, guilty and emotionally bereft.
    And even though she’d told Clarridge her own needs didn’t matter in a relationship, they did. After having had so many men over the years, when she’d first met Luc, she’d welcomed the break from a lover’s constant sexual demands, but Clarridge’s skillful touch showed her how much she missed the physical pleasure, the heating of her skin and blood, the pounding of her heart, the dizzying and breathless abandon.
    She could still taste Clarridge’s sweet mouth. Her hard nipples still tingled from his fervent sucking and tugging. She inhaled deeply, suddenly filled with a sharp awareness of her unacknowledged need. She would’ve lifted her skirts and invited him to explore the most sensitive parts of her womanhood, still damp and frustrated, ready for conquest that never happened. When he reluctantly stopped of his own volition, he’d left her primed and wanting more. Much more.
    Her body’s yearning was the reason she’d rashly agreed to become his mistress.
    There came a knock at the drawing room door and Molly entered, looking quite pleased with herself.
    â€œMonsieur de Groument told me you’d refused Dragomilov’s very expensive diamond necklace.” She chuckled. “I’ll wager that sets the cocky bastard back on his heels.”
    Régine rose. “I found the gesture most satisfying. However, the count will not be pleased with me.”
    â€œToo bad,” the maid sneered. “That one thinks he owns the world and everyone in it.”
    â€œHe is a nobleman, accustomed to getting his own way. Not so different from any other of that ilk.” She recalled Clarridge’s assessment and warning. “He will be furious with me and may try to avenge the insult.”
    Molly’s brow creased. “You don’t think he’ll try to harm you, do you?”
    â€œHe can’t force me to accept his gifts or become his mistress.” She looked at the Toulouse-Lautrec