What You Propose (Anything for Love 2)

Chapter 1

A village northeast of Saint-Brieuc, France, 1820

Marcus Danbury raced through the cloisters, the clip of his boots echoing along the ancient corridors.

"Tristan." He stormed through the arched doorway out into the courtyard. The usually peaceful recreation area provided little comfort today. "Tristan."

Where the bloody hell had he got to?

Marcus placed his fists on his hips as he scanned the row of small windows set into the stone wall. He would wager twenty gold francs his friend still lay snoring in his bed.

They had drunk far too much wine last night. So much so, Marcus had been forced to dunk his head into the gardener's barrel in the hope the cold water would waken his numb brain.

Despite his frustration, he had to chuckle at the irony of his situation.

One would expect a monastery to be a haven from the trials and temptations of loose women. Who would ever have thought he'd offer sanctuary to the madam of a bawdy house? Although he hadn't exactly offered to play host; the request had been more akin to bribery, and he'd had less than a day's notice to get used to the idea. Had it not been for the debt he owed to the Marquess of Danesfield, he would storm down to the rusty gate and inform Dane's coachman to turn around and take the strumpet straight back to England.

An image of a well-rounded woman with a huge powdered wig and heavily rouged cheeks flashed into his mind. She would have a fake mole, of course, close to the lips, which would alter in size depending on how drunk she was when she applied it. No doubt her generous bosom would be bursting out from the strict confines of her dress, wobbling and jiggling about when she walked, just to torment him.

God, it had been weeks since he'd last settled between a pair of soft thighs, which was why he supposed he should be grateful to Dane. After numerous years in service, he was confident this Madame Labelle possessed all the necessary skills needed when it came to giving pleasure. Should her countenance be so dreadfully unappealing, he would just have to close his eyes.

"Tristan."

The sound of a window opening caught his attention, and he spotted a mop of golden hair and a pair of beady eyes peering out of the tiny gap.

"What is it?" Tristan shouted. With his bare arm hanging from the handle, Marcus knew he had only just dragged himself out of bed.

"The carriage is waiting at the gate."

"What carriage?"

"Madame Labelle's or Miss Labelle's or whatever the hell her name is."

In his letter, Dane mentioned the woman had been in partnership with a Frenchman yet they'd never married. In the eyes of the Lord, she must be as good as wed to a hundred men. Marcus shook his head. Hypocrisy was a trait he despised; no one deemed him virtuous or moral and so he could hardly cast aspersions. Indeed, he had often wondered if living in an abandoned monastery was a form of penance.

Tristan opened the window fully. "So why haven't you sent someone down to let her in?"

"I thought you could go."

Most of the servants had gone to the market and on Thursdays Andre distributed alms in the village. Selene would be busy in the kitchen, and he'd be damned if he'd go.

In London, Madame Labelle might be the ruler of her domain, but he refused to pander to her whims. Here, she would answer to him. Here, he was the master and as such he refused to do anything to weaken his position — including acting as the hired help.

Madame Labelle could sit in her carriage for the rest of the day for all he cared.

Perhaps living in a monastery might provide enlightenment, might make her reconsider her disreputable ways. To be virtuous one must first learn patience. Thirty minutes sitting in a stationary carriage would certainly help her do that.

"Give me a few minutes," Tristan sighed. "I need to dress."

"There might be a reward in it." Marcus chuckled to himself.

One look at Tristan's handsome features and the bawd would be offering to pay him for his services, although he had yet to see Tristan succumb to any woman. He didn't hold out much hope for a haggard, middle-aged matron of a brothel.

After waiting for fifteen minutes, Tristan met him in the chapter house. Marcus had stripped away all decorative objects and used the room as a study, a library, and a private sanctuary.

"Perhaps it is wise I do go down and let them in," Tristan said scanning Marcus' relaxed attire. "You do realise your shirt is wet around the collar, and your breeches look as though a donkey has slept on them. Will you not at least wear a coat?"

"No. This Madame Labelle creature can take me as she finds me." He brushed his hand through his hair in a bid to tame the wild, unruly locks. After spending years servicing the aristocracy, the woman would probably find him rather crude and uncouth, which pleased him greatly and he snorted with amusement.

"Well, she will find you have the clothes of a beggar and the look of a libertine."

"Good." He waved his hand down the front of his friend's fitted coat and pristine cravat. "You will more than make up for my inferior apparel and shoddy manners."

Tristan chuckled. "Did Dane tell you why he's sent her here?"

"He was somewhat vague. He said the woman offered him assistance."

"I'm sure she did."

"He wants to keep her out of London for a while."

"Yes, but for how long?"