Keeping Faith (Fair Cyprians of London 3)

Their love had been brief, passionate, and sincere. She still believed that.

But how quickly he had dismissed her.

Lord Harkom’s hand crept further up her thigh as he bent to refill their glasses at Faith’s mumbled direction.

“When we’ve finished the bottle, we can begin the grand finale!” she declared.

“Or the first act,” he responded with a throaty chuckle.

Lord, neither if Faith’s plan came to fruition.

But dutifully, and as her role required, she giggled, nibbling his ear as she leaned into him; distracting him with her pretence of embracing his overtures.

“Oh, but you are kill

ing me with anticipation, my love,” he muttered, twisting his large body so that he suddenly seemed in danger of crushing her as he trailed kisses along her jawbone.

“Let’s drink to that!” she declared with a raucous laugh, raising her glass high, offering it to him with an impish look while she relieved him of his empty glass.

Obediently, he drained the contents of the glass before finding himself in possession of another glass filled with fizzing liquid while Faith declared with false joy, “Yes! Drink to tonight’s wild congress.”

And without questioning, Lord Harkom drained that glass, too.

Chapter 26

Crispin had never desired visiting Madame Chambon’s when it was lauded amongst his set as a place of high revels.

And certainly not after he’d learned it was Faith’s lodgings, for by then his heart had been eviscerated by her faithlessness, and Madame Chambon’s represented everything he despised. It had hothoused a woman who’d learned tricks to trap and entice a man when he’d thought himself so clever in sniffing out artifice.

He’d thought Miss Montague so uniquely innocent and unaffected by the world around her; a fragile rose without thorns, and he was to have been the gallant who would rescue her and gently teach her the ways of the world.

Now, surrounded by the far-from-innocent young women from whom he presumed Faith had learned the tricks of the trade, he felt out of place and deeply uncomfortable.

Lord Delmore had placed him in an impossible position. Crispin had no wish to delve into the overinflated mysteries that an imaginative young Cyprian had been hinting at, for surely they did not endanger him, and surely she was merely fishing for Crispin’s involvement for reasons unknown?

He suspected these reasons unknown had a very clear and calculating agenda.

“Charity?” he asked, when an elfin-faced creature sat on the arm of the sofa he was sitting on, her chestnut hair brushing his cheek as she leaned towards him.

“I heard you were looking for me, sir. Come along, shall we?” She took his hand and he rose, silent as she led him along a corridor and up a flight of stairs to a bedchamber on the first floor. “Now, where shall we begin?” Her smile was pleasant and helpful as she waved him towards the large iron bed that dominated the room. A lamp upon the side table bathed the room in a soft glow, and the red-velvet counterpane and plumped-up pillows filled his senses with unexpected desire.

Not for Charity, who’d dropped one shoulder of her evening gown and who seemed pretty and pleasing enough.

But for Faith.

For all he knew, she was still here, and this was just the prelude for finding himself in the right bed.

Her bed.

Yes, he’d weaken if he saw her again. He knew he would.

And he despised himself for it.

Taking a seat on the edge of the counterpane, he said, “I want you to tell me what you know about Faith Montague.” He made no move to adjust his clothing, while Charity by this stage was hitching up her skirts to kneel on the bed beside him, one hand already insinuating itself inside his shirt.

She withdrew it as if stung. “Good lord, you’re Mr Westaway, aren’t you?”

With a scramble and a tugging of her clothing to appear more decent, she took up position at the end of the bed and regarded him, curiously. “I never thought you’d come here?”