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China Rose
Ratings:
358 pages5 hours
Summary
When China Grant arrived in Portsmouth, her wedding to Sir Ranulf Cross was two weeks away. The first night there her life is threatened by a handsome stranger, and threads from a decade-old mystery on the high seas begin unravelling faster than her wits..or heart...can keep apace. Originally published by Avon Books
Publisher: Marsha CanhamReleased: Jul 19, 2010ISBN: 9780986687204Format: book
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China Rose - Marsha Canham
marshacanham@yahoo.com.
CHAPTER ONE
Sir Ranulf Fitzhenry Cross, peer of the realm, Doctor of Medicine, and surgeon of some renown, bent his head to the task with determination. He was sweating profusely, a condition he abhorred at the best of times. His handsome face was twisted in concentration, the muscles in his legs and arms ached from the unbearable strain. He knew he could not hold up much longer. His nerves were raw and screaming for relief. He felt stretched and drawn to the limit, a tautly strung violin whose strings have been plucked one at a time until only one remained, quivering, on the verge of snapping. He had never felt so powerless before. So painfully, desperately...
The girl moaned as she felt his hands clutch at her buttocks. She tightened her legs around his waist and began to move violently against him, using her nails like daggers to slash and jolt the final surge of pleasure along his spine.
Sir Ranulf's head arched back and the tendons stood out on his neck and shoulders in sinews. His whole body stiffened helplessly with the intensity of his orgasm. He was blinded and breathless. He gasped for air that did not come and stared unseeing at a blaze of light and color that drowned his senses in unholy pleasure. He was only dimly aware of the girl grappling to him, grinding to him as if her very survival depended on drawing every last drop of life from his body. And she nearly did, by God, she nearly did.
He collapsed on her voluptuous breasts with a groan that came from somewhere deep in his throat. The girl was still thrashing beneath him and he managed to keep his wits about him long enough to press into the milking spasms of her body until the last of her cries and shudders faded away. His sigh was one of deep gratitude when he felt her knees release him, allowing what remained of his pride to slither free.
Ooo, that were luverly,
she panted, squirming deliciously as the cool air tingled across her body. Can we do it again in a few minutes? An' will yer let Bessy show yer a trick 'r two ter keep yer spirits up?
My dear girl.
Sir Ranulf blinked the sweat out of his eyes. I doubt that even if I had a few hours I could find the strength to keep anything up.
She giggled and fanned herself. yer 'eld up just foin, guv. It gives me ideas, it does. An' mark me words, soon as yer wind is back, ye'll be wantin' Bessy more 'n yer did before.
Sir Ranulf groaned and flopped belly down on the mattress beside her. I may want you, wench, but I fear I am only human. I told Emmeline I wanted a few moments diversion, not a full scale test of my endurance. You have left me a mere shell of my former self.
The girl stifled another laugh and her breasts bounced like ripe melons. Sir Ranulf reached across, stroking one of the glorious mounds until the nipple jutted rosy and pert between his fingers. His hands were large but even so, they could not do justice to those magnificent creations. Where Emmeline had found the wench, he had no idea, but would have a word with the Madame and leave sufficient coin behind to see that the girl was his personal property from this day forth.
Bessy shivered under his ministrations and rolled onto her side so that her breasts loomed only inches from his face.
Damn,
he whispered.
Bessy wriggled closer and her hand slipped down between his body and the mattress, burrowing under until she found what she sought. She saw his eyes close and heard the deep, slow intake of air.
Damn,
he murmured again and grasped her arm to discourage her. But I truly must be on my way, girl.
Will yer come back then? Another day, when yer 'ave more time?
Another day,
he nodded and sat up, swinging his long, muscular legs over the side of the bed.
Bessy's eyes were wide and rounded as she watched him rise and walk to where his clothing was folded over the back of a cane chair. He withdrew a slim leather pouch from one of the pockets of his jacket and selected a coin, flipping it expertly through the air so that it came to glittering halt smack in the middle of her belly. She squealed and clutched the gold sovereign, turning it over and over in her hands.
Cor, guv! I ain't never 'ad so much money in me 'ands all at once in all me life!
Well, girl, you see that you keep that treasure you have between your legs strictly for me and there will be plenty more where that came from.
Bessy sat up. Oh, but Miss Emmeline...
You leave Miss Emmeline to me. She knows I am one of her best customers, and she knows that if I find cause to be disappointed here, she might as well close up shop and leave Portsmouth.
His voice trailed away as he watched the bounce and jostle of her breasts. Damn,
he muttered again and shook his head in wonderment before turning away to dress.
He took great care with his clothing, halting after each new addition to stand in front of the mirror to ensure there were no wrinkles, no lines, no bunching of cloth at waist or throat. His trousers were fawn-colored and fit to his thighs like a second skin. His shirt was white, as was his neckcloth; his waistcoat was a deep rich burgundy, his coat chocolate brown.
Bessy watched the play of muscles rippling beneath the fine linen as he wrapped and tied his stock. Her gaze was drawn to the motion of the long, slender fingers and she sighed happily, knowing she was an extremely lucky girl. Sir Ranulf was a wealthy man and one with weaknesses she knew just how to play for all their worth.
On impulse, she jumped from the bed and went to the dressing table, standing demurely in front of him to hold out twin silver-backed brushes. He took them from her, running them briskly through his hair, then stood back to inspect the results.
Ooo, yer looks just fine, guv,
she cooed, her cheeks coloring with a flush of warmth. And so he did. His face was boldly handsome. His dark wavy hair crept onto his cheeks in fashionably trimmed muttonchops. His eyes were hazel, flecked with gold, his nose was thin and patrician, his jaw square and ruggedly stern.
She inched closer and touched his arm with a shy fingertip. Do yer think...I mean, do your suppose as yer might be comin' back 'ere soon, Sir?
Sir Ranulf thrust out his upper lip and stroked the brush through his moustache. He glanced at the naked girl out of the corner of his eye, admiring the teethmarks he had left on her breasts as he spoke. I promise you I will be back. I cannot say exactly when--perhaps tomorrow, I don't know. In any event, you will remember what I said? No one else?
Bessy slid a hand down between her thighs and brought it back up, her fingers glistening. She slipped them between her lips and suckled the wetness off, then smiled at his wide-eyed stare. No one else, guv, not after I've 'ad such a sweet taste o' you. Nowt a one will come near me. If anyone so much as tries ter peek up me skirts, I'll scream an scratch an claw an blow an 'ole in 'is chest with one o' the pistols Miss Emm keeps tucked in ev'ry room.
He laughed and reached for his hat. I'm sure that won't be necessary. Now run along and fetch Miss Emmeline for me.
Aye Sir.
She bobbed and dashed out the door, leaving him with a vivid impression of soft white buttocks and flaming red hair.
He exhaled and cursed under his breath as he glanced at his pocket watch. Three and twenty. Tea was to be at four. He could just make it to Courtney Park if he left now--but damn! He had to stop at the Mews and pick up Lord and Lady Berenger-Whyte first. That was at least half an hour out of his way. The whore had kept him rutting like a bull for nearly two hours!
He straightened his neckcloth for the third time in as many minutes then glanced at the doorway, recognizing the subtle scent of honeysuckle and almond.
Well Randy? Did I or did I not save the best for you this time?
Miss Emmeline was the proprietor of the establishment, an ageless beauty with face and body of a porcelain doll. Her voice was smooth and cultured, well suited for one of the most exclusive brothels in Portsmouth. The girl is a little rough, to be sure, but roughness suits the tastes of some of my more...discerning patrons.
Which brings me directly to the reason why I sent for you. Forgive my bluntness, but I am pressed for time. How much will you take for the wench's contract?
You wish exclusivity with Bessy Toone?
The madam arched an eyebrow. She has been highly in demand since coming to us.
How much?
Emmeline's eyes glittered, like those of a shark scenting blood in the water. You are not the only one to express an interest in her, although I must admit you hold a special place in my heart.
He laughed. You have no heart, only a purse.
Yes, and she was not cheap.
Spare me the details. You picked her out of the gutter somewhere for a song in the hopes of turning a profit for nothing. Well now you have the opportunity. How much? Twenty pounds? Thirty?
Six hundred and fifty. And she comes back to me when you tire of her.
Six hundred--!
And fifty. You know full well I can make three times that much on her in the parlor.
Then why not a thousand? Or two?
Emmeline chuckled softly. Don't be silly. She's only a cockney after all.
Sir Ranulf's eyes narrowed. Five hundred and not a farthing more. And you won't be able to make a ha'penny on her if the doors are locked and barred and a quarantine notice nailed to the posts.
Emmeline's eyes narrowed in return. She will need new clothing. She only has a few rags that would not possibly do to establish her. I know for a fact you have an account with Madame Rochelle; I should think...an additional five hundred pounds would suffice?
Cross hesitated. Half of what he paid the clothier would end up in Emmeline's pocket, thus he could count on any price they settled on to double. And yet...
His gaze flicked to the rumpled bed and his flesh twitched inside his trousers. Done. Have her in my private suite by this evening, the usual arrangements.
This evening? The little bitch really has piqued your appetite, hasn't she.
Emmeline's eyes dropped lower on his body. And such an appetite too, as I recall.
Sir Ranulf dug into the leather purse once again. He let the gold coins trickle into the outstretched hand and watched them vanish instantly into the swelling décolletage.
I will have Chambers drop by later with the balance. And Emm dear--
he trailed a finger down the side of her cheek, --do control yourself at Madame Rochelle's dress shop. I am a reasonable man, but not a stupid one.
He left by the front door, nodding at the three or four girls he knew by sight as he passed through the parlor. All in all he could not begrudge the money he had spent here. Over the years he had tasted more than his fair share of prime courtesan flesh before it went on the open market. The graduates of Miss Emmeline's elite school for young ladies had gone on to decorate the bedchambers of many prominent politicians, wealthy gentry, and highly respected citizens, the names of whom were all carefully recorded in the ledger Emmeline kept tucked away in her office. The same ledger Ranulf had bribed one of the girls to copy just as meticulously.
He was chuckling inwardly as he descended the front stairs of the elegant row house and signaled his footman to pull the coach forward.
The Mews, Mr. Chambers, swiftly as you can. We mustn't keep the Berenger-Whyte's waiting too much longer. Lady Prudence should be throwing fits by now.
Chambers nodded gravely and secured the coach door behind his master before he swung up onto the riding bar. He repeated the orders to the driver and held on as the landau rolled away from the curb. Having served Sir Ranulf Cross for nearly fourteen years, Chambers was well aware of his baser appetites and habits. Even so, on the day his master was to meet his prospective bride, it might have been prudent to show some measure of control and not arrive late, smelling of bawdy perfume.
~~
Forty-five minutes later, Sir Ranulf was attempting to keep his temper in check as he was being lectured along similar lines by a frothingly indignant Lady Prudence Berenger-Whyte who, unlike a lowly valet, was under no compunction whatsoever to hold back her tongue.
I dare say, you could have been on time for once in your life, Ranulf Cross. The poor child is undoubtedly a bundle of nerves as it is, what with coming to a strange city to meet a man she has only seen once before.
Sir Ranulf turned and stared out the window. Damned nuisance. Why on earth did the Berenger-Whyte's feel compelled to assume the responsibility of chaperoning the girl? It wasn't as if he was foaming at the mouth to have at her. As he recalled, the chit had a face lacking in anything memorable aside from huge red-rimmed eyes and a lower lip that trembled constantly.
The cow was braying again and he arranged a smile before turning away from the window.
Beg pardon, Lady Prudence?
Were you not even listening?
Prudence demonstrated her indignation with a toss of her plumed head. I dare say, if her dear father yet drew breath, he would have whisked her back to Devonshire without so much as a by-your-leave.
If her father yet drew breath,
Sir Ranulf remarked dryly, there would be no need for all of this driving about for tea and scones. We would have met, confirmed the terms of the betrothal, then faced one another at the altar there to pledge our troth and live happily ever after in wedded bliss. And what in blazes is wrong with having tea at Braydon Hall? The girl will be mistress there soon enough. It is a damned inconvenience to have to drive all the way across the city to fetch her, when I could have easily sent a coach.
Propriety, Ranulf,
Lady Prudence reminded him sharply. Her nostrils flared and the gust of displaced air was strong enough to ruffle the fringe of lace around her throat. Miss Grant happens to be a girl of breeding and quality, regardless of the country air she has been subjected to breathing these past eighteen years. Her dear father, rest his soul, may have strayed from the path of social acceptance, but his blood is as blue as the kings.
I am well aware of her bloodlines, it is one of the few justifications I can find for agreeing to this union in the first place.
Lady Prudence's ears very nearly perked forward. Indeed. I have been curious myself as to why you chose the girl when you could have had the pick of a dozen heiresses from here to London.
Ranulf adjusted his neckcloth. It was an arrangement made between myself and her father. A point of honor if you will, and I prefer to say no more about it.
Disappointed, Lady Prudence leaned back on the seat again. Well, I suppose you can groom the country out of her. She is still young enough to adapt and learn.
Sir Ranulf flicked a speck of dust off his sleeve. Cuffs that did not need straightening were tugged and straightened before he was able to rest his hands over the handle of his walking stick without snapping the lion's head from the shaft.
I must say,
Sir Wilfred interjected, I am quite looking forward to seeing Miss Grant again after so many years. A shame Timothy Grant kept her hidden away from society for so long. You say you only saw her the once? At the funeral?
It was a few days after her father's passing.
Died of consumption, did he not? You mentioned at the club that he looked sickly when you saw him in town a few months prior.
He knew he was dying,
Ranulf said bluntly, keeping an eye on the street outside the coach window. They had skirted the teeming business district in the heart of Portsmouth and were climbing toward the more sedate, residential sector. He did not want to think about Timothy Grant at the moment. He concentrated instead on the trees and the graceful homes that sat behind tall iron gates. Anything so as not to dwell on the events that had led him on his current course.
Sir Wilfred broke the silence again. The last time I saw Miss Grant she was a tiny mite with missing teeth and pigtails. Not at all like her mother, who was a rare beauty, you know. The talk of three counties.
Talk!
Lady Prudence snorted. Indeed she was. Flirted with every man-jack in sight she did. Bewitched them clear out of their senses.
Sir Wilfred chuckled. Timothy was bewitched, all right. As lovesick as a jaybird the instant he set eyes on Melissa Worth and she with him. Nothing would do but that they elope two months later. Caused quite a scandal it did.
Even more so when she gave him a daughter in less than the allotted time after the nuptials,
Lady Prudence was quick to point out.
Sir Wilfred glared at his wife. It was talk like that that kept them in the country. Mind you, I suspect the change benefited him more ways than the one--he trebled his fortune in under five years, as I recall, starting up his own shipping and export company. Of course, it all fell apart again when young Melissa died. He just lost interest in life, in business, and gave up on everything.
Timothy Grant was nothing more, nothing less than a common profiteer,
said Sir Ranulf evenly. Investments that ran good one year turned sour the next. He was a gambler, Sir. He gambled his family fortune and lost--it happens to the best of them, and he was far from the best. In Grant's case, he foolishly staked his wealth on black gold.
Slaves?
Lady Prudence gasped and a hand fluttered to her breast.
Only a rumor, m'boy,
Sir Wilfred was quick to say. I doubt he would take a risk like that, especially when public opinion was running so strongly for abolition.
It still is. And there are still slavers...and enough wealthy Englishmen willing to break our laws to run the trade to the Colonies.
Ah, but there isn't a ship or captain welcomed in any honest port this side of the Atlantic if they carry the taint of black gold. If a business is found to be profiting on the side from slavery, they are ruined--family, reputation, everything.
Sir Wilfred saw the sudden discomfort on Sir Ranulf's face and caught himself before he could splutter more. Oh. Yes. Terribly sorry to bring that up, m'boy. Wasn't thinking. I heard that devil's spawn, Captain Savage, was back in port with his holds full of cotton.
Cotton!
Ranulf snarled. "Jason Savage is a slaver. The only reason he is able to dock here in Portsmouth is because he never has a trace of his stinking cargo on board. He leaves here laden with wool and copper, which he sells at exorbitant prices along the Ivory Coast. Then he crosses the Atlantic with the decks crammed beam to beam with slaves. He picks up his load of cotton and brings it here, laughing at the English laws even as he burns the tar pots day and night to rid the stench of chained flesh from his ship. But it never comes completely clean, does it? The Reunion is a slave ship and one of these days I shall personally see it set to the torch, her captain along with it."
You will have a difficult time of it,
Sir Wilfred frowned. For he sails under American colors and insofar as I know, the slave trade still flourishes amongst the Southern Colonies. Your brother ought to have a care who he keeps company with. How many crossings has he made with Savage?
Sir Ranulf's eyes became cold and hard. I do not keep track of my brothers' comings and goings. I have enough business of my own to worry about without acting as watchdog over either Eugene or Justin.
Eugene is a homebody,
Lady Prudence noted, unfazed by the tightness in Sir Ranulf's jaw. Always was and always will be. Not like that other rapscallion. It is almost as if Justin was sprung from a different bloodline.
Justin was an accident of birth,
Ranulf said evenly. Nothing more, nothing less. I care not if he decides to swear allegiance to John Quincy Adams or a Mongolian warlord. As long as he stays out of my way--out of sight and well out of my affairs--I am satisfied.
He took a deep breath to control his rising anger. As for the lure of Yankee gold, or whatever it is that attracts my youngest brother into Savage's shadow like a mewling puppy, you may be sure that if Justin ever set foot on shore with two coins to rub together, by nightfall they would worn clear through and vanished. He was left a trust by his mother, substantial too, but what did he do with it? How long did it last? Where did it go? I'll tell you Sir--it was squandered on women and drink and gambling dens. Those are his only interests, his only loyalties, not family ties or reputations. Certainly not any concern for the laws of the land.
Well!
Lady Prudence was nearly scarlet with indignation. Both men turned at the sound of her outburst, having managed to somehow forget her presence in the coach.
Mention of Justin Cross tended to work that way on Sir Ranulf's sensibilities, while Lord Berenger-Whyte was simply carried away by the sound of his own voice.
What a perfectly horrid conversation to carry on in mixed company!
she declared. I trust, when we arrive at the Pickthalls, that you will be better able to confine yourselves to more genteel topics than slavers and Mongolian warlords and loose women!
A timely observation my dear, as we seem to have arrived,
said Sir Wilfred as the coach rolled to a halt. You are absolutely correct, as usual. There is no need to talk of such things. Come along now...give me your hand.
Lady Prudence huffed past him, ignoring his offer to assist her out of the coach. She flounced through the iron gate and up the steps to the painted white door of the modest row home. The servant who answered the bell bade them wait in the drawing room while he announced their arrival.
Rather small, is it not?
Lady Prudence said, not in a whisper. What did you say was his living?
Tobacco,
Sir Wilfred murmured. Makes cigars, I believe.
Hmmm.
She withdrew a handkerchief and held it under her bulbous nose as if the room was filled with the harsh smell of smoke rather than sweet lavender.
A few moments later, the door opened and an elderly couple joined them. They were both in their mid sixties. Osmond Pickthall was tall and balding, easily twice the breadth of his wife Constance. She stood a head shorter, a slender wisp of a woman with graying hair that refused to obey the restrictions of pins or netting. Her hands were continuously in motion, fluttering with nervousness, never more so than when she ushered a third, slender figure into the room beside her.
China Grant was somberly dressed in black, it being one year less a fortnight since her father's death. The starched collar and unrelieved severity of the bodice and high-waisted skirt did little to suggest there was anything other than a small-breasted, narrow-hipped young girl hiding beneath it. Her coal black hair was scraped back from her face and pinned into an unflattering chignon at the nape of her neck. Eyes the color of robin's eggs were fringed in jet black lashes and were by far her most startling feature. Her mouth was pleasantly shaped but pressed thin at the moment, betraying the same tension that kept her hands laced tightly together at her waist.
Sir Ranulf's spirits were not encouraged to see so little had changed since their last meeting. There was not an excess ounce of flesh anywhere; she barely filled the bodice of her gown. Her nose was too sharp, her chin too susceptible to quivering, and her eyes far too large for her face. Her only redeeming quality appeared to be a complexion as flawless and near perfect as the dewy country air could make it.
As for her character, he had no trouble imagining that she would run screaming from the marriage bed, or worse, lie there flat as a board, shocked and pale-lipped, praying to be bred immediately so that she could plead nine months of abstinence. He thought of his recent wildly explosive acrobatics with Bessy Toone and enough of his misgivings were eased to allow him to step forward and present his fiancé with the small bouquet of periwinkles he had carried in from the coach.
My dear Miss Grant,
he said, smiling. I was enormously pleased to hear you had arrived in Portsmouth safely. My most sincere apologies for being out of town until this morning.
She dropped a small curtsey as she accepted the bouquet, murmuring her thanks. You are too kind Sir. It was not my intent to disrupt the plans that had been made; I merely thought to take an earlier coach so that I might spend some time visiting with dear friends. May it please you, Sir Ranulf Cross, allow me to introduce Mr. Osmond Pickthall and Mrs. Pickthall.
While introductions were made between the Pickthalls and the Berenger-Whytes, China Grant observed the handsome aristocrat she was to marry in two weeks time. He seemed taller, broader across the shoulder than she remembered. His hazel eyes were bold and direct, his jaw well set with an air of authority. He was the eldest of three brothers, a physician by calling, and at thirty-five years of age, was ambitious in politics and considered a likely candidate for the next parliamentary elections. He was also considered, if Constance's whispered confidences were true, one of Portsmouth's most sought after bachelors and China was surely not alone in wondering why he would have consented to an arranged marriage to a girl who could do nothing to further either his political future or his fortune.
A small land holding in Devonshire was the extent of her dowry. Her father's shipping business was defunct, there were no assets in any bank that she was aware of.
She had been sorely tempted a dozen times already to return home to Devon.
Feeling eyes on her now, she glanced up and noticed Sir Wilfred studying her as intently as he had been doing throughout the introductions and the first few moments of polite chatter.
By Jove,
he muttered. Your mother could be sitting there beside you, Miss Grant, and you would swear it was a reflection in a mirror.
China flushed self-consciously and laced her fingers tighter together in her lap. I am afraid I have few memories of my mother, Sir Wilfred. She died when I was but five years old. Father spoke of her often, however, and from him I gathered I bore some resemblance.
Not just some, child. You are the exact image. You have her height and form, the same dark hair, the same extraordinary blue of her eyes. Why, even the shape of your face was cut by the same hand. Look at her Prudence. Tell me that isn't Melissa Worth twenty years ago.
That isn't Melissa Worth twenty years ago,
Lady Prudence said dryly. "And you are allowing your sentiments to run rampant again, you old fool. She bears a slight resemblance, nothing more. In the eyes, perhaps, but the nose is wrong and the mouth lacks character. She should take heart from the fact that she has a plain and unworldly
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