What You Propose (Anything for Love #2) Read online

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Books by Adele Clee

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Epilogue

  Thank You

  What You Deserve

  Chapter 1

  WHAT YOU PROPOSE

  Anything for Love

  Book 2

  Adele Clee

  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places and incidents are products of the author's imagination. All characters are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be copied, reproduced or distributed in any manner without the author's permission.

  http://www.adeleclee.com

  Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN-13: 978-0-9935291-0-8

  What You Deserve (excerpt)

  Copyright © 2016 Adele Clee

  All rights reserved.

  Cover designed by Jay Aheer

  Also by Adele Clee

  To Save a Sinner

  A Curse of the Heart

  Anything for Love Series

  What You Desire

  What You Propose

  The Brotherhood Series

  Lost to the Night

  Slave to the Night

  Abandoned to the Night

  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?"

  Marcus shrugged. "I have no idea. But if she's staying here, she can damn well earn her keep."

  Tristan's eyes grew wide. "You don't mean to—"

  "I mean she can work in the kitchen," he interjected with a grin. "She will learn that there are no airs and graces here. She cannot flash her fleshy wares in the hope of securing a warm bed and a hot meal for the evening. If she wants to eat, she works. Just as we all do."

  "Andre could do with some help in the ga
rden."

  Marcus grabbed his friend's shoulder. "Well, there you have it. Madame Labelle will be the new gardener. We shall see if the woman's fingers are as nimble as her profession demands."

  Marcus spent the next ten minutes pacing the floor. A strange feeling settled in his chest. The woman's presence would create a shift, unsettle the equilibrium; it would involve them all making changes, certain allowances. She may have experience running a bawdy house, but she would play no part in running his house.

  Should he greet her at the door, let her feel the sharpness of his tongue, let her know of his indifference to her plight? Should he sit behind his large desk, busy scratching away with quill pen and ink and pay her no heed?

  Damn it.

  He could hear the carriage wheels rattling over the stone bridge.

  Madame Labelle needed to feel the weight of his authority. She needed to know he would not tolerate any interference.

  With that in mind, he strode out through the cloisters and crossed the garth to the entrance located in the west wing. With the bar already raised, Marcus pushed the reinforced oak doors just as the carriage rumbled to a halt outside. His gaze darted to the box seat of the conveyance, to see Tristan perched on top sporting a wide grin.

  "Look who's here," Tristan cried with genuine excitement.

  As the coachman removed his hat, Marcus sucked in a breath. "Haines." He rushed forward. "By God, I'm surprised Dane sent you. How was your journey?"

  Marcus expected him to raise a weary brow and offer a grim expression as he jerked his head towards the carriage.

  "It was a good crossing," he said without showing the slightest sign of irritation. "Spent the time playing cards and supping too much ale. The lady kept to her cabin mostly. I don't think the motion suited her stomach, if you take my meaning."

  More like she'd decided to earn a few guineas and used sickness as an excuse to stay abed.

  "How long will you stay with us?"

  "Only for a day or two. Just until the lady's all settled."

  Marcus could not recall a time when he'd heard a man refer to a whore as a lady. Haines was probably just being polite. The man had a heart as large as his stocky frame. Either that or he had developed a tendre for the woman during the journey.

  "Talking of which," Tristan said. "I should get down and help her out."

  Tristan wore a smug grin. Or perhaps Marcus was mistaken. Perhaps his friend was simply pleased to be reunited with the man who had once saved both their lives.

  Marcus took a few steps back, squared his shoulders and raised his chin. He may dress as a peasant, but he knew how to convey the countenance of a duke.

  Tristan opened the carriage door and let down the steps before offering his hand to the occupant.

  As Madame Labelle descended the three tiny steps with all the demureness of a duchess, Marcus almost expired from a distinct lack of air. He sucked in a breath in an attempt to inflate his gasping lungs, fought hard to maintain his arrogant facade.

  Bloody hell!

  For all that was holy. He considered rushing into the chapel, dropping to his knees and giving thanks. Indeed, it took a tremendous amount of effort not to look to the heavens and give a knowing wink.

  Madame Labelle was certainly no middle-aged hag. The woman could be no more than five-and-twenty.

  There were no hideous moles or warts. Her pure porcelain skin needed no paints or powders. His gaze drifted up to her honey-gold hair. It hung loosely around her shoulders, and he imagined the ends were long enough to brush against the base of her spine. An image of her lying naked in his bed flashed into his mind. He cursed Dane for not warning him he would be giving sanctuary to the goddess Venus.

  The woman ran a bawdy house he reminded himself, mentally shaking his head. Although looking at her plain, simple gown, she looked more like a vestal virgin. Oh, he had no doubt she could keep the sacred flame in his hearth alight.

  Damn it. He couldn't just stand there staring. He was going to have to say something.

  "Madame Labelle. Let me welcome you."

  She glanced at him briefly, not bothering to look at his unconventional choice of attire. As a woman skilled in the art of seduction and titillation, he expected a flirtatious comment or a suggestive wiggle of the hips. But he received neither.

  "You are Mr. Danbury, I presume?" she asked raising her chin.

  Her voice sounded too haughty, too lofty for his liking. She could stop with the pretence. He was not a randy lord seeking proof she ran a higher class establishment.

  "I am," he replied, intrigued by the smile that touched her lips as she scanned the exterior of the ancient stone building.

  "And this is a monastery?"

  "It was a monastery, but now it is my home."

  "Is there still a chapel?"

  "A small one."

  Why did she ask so many questions?

  "Excellent," she beamed, her face alight with pleasure and he had to blink from being blinded by the sheer brilliance of it all.

  Marcus shuffled uncomfortably on the spot.

  Perhaps it would have been easier if she had been an old hag with a crude mouth and a saggy bosom. The thought forced him to focus on her petite frame. In stark contrast to her steely composure, she appeared delicate and fragile, and he guessed her small breasts would fit nicely into his warm palms.

  Roused by a sudden suspicion that this was a trick concocted by Dane for his own amusement, Marcus chose to be rude. "You seem eager to visit the chapel. Have you come here to repent?"

  "Perhaps." She eyed him suspiciously but showed no sign she had taken offence. "In any given situation, one must make the most of the opportunities presented before them."

  Marcus considered her cryptic words. Was she referring to her scandalous past? Did she consider him an opportunity to line her pockets? By God, he'd be tempted to pay just to satisfy his curiosity.

  He stepped closer. It had been years since he'd felt such a strong pulse of desire.

  "Perhaps I should follow your philosophy and make the most of the opportunity standing before me," he said with a smirk. He decided it best to be blunt for he had no intention of playing her mind games. "It's been a while since I've had the opportunity to bed a woman as fetching as you or with half the skill when it comes to pleasing men."

  The slap came quick, sharp, stinging his cheek, albeit temporarily.

  Tristan gasped but then raised a brow to suggest Marcus deserved nothing less.

  That did not stop his blood boiling and bubbling away inside, and he clenched his jaw for fear of growling.

  Who the hell did she think she was? Perhaps the woman had forgotten that she spent all of her working hours on her back.

  "Let me make a few things clear, Mr. Danbury, before we proceed any further." Her blue eyes flashed a hard frosty stare. "My name is not Madame Labelle. That name was given to me, forced upon me and I have borne it for far too long. I do not know what Lord Danesfield has told you. But from your crude and presumptuous manner, I can only guess. You should know I have left that world behind me, too." She exhaled deeply, a tired, weary sound and a frisson of guilt coursed through him. "Now, let me thank you for your hospitality and for offering me a place to stay."

  She held out her hand. He didn't know whether to kiss it, turn his back or drop to his knees and swear undying loyalty.

  He took her bare hand, ignoring the sparks of desire flitting through him and brushed his lips against the soft skin. It took a tremendous effort not to linger over it as the sweet smell of almonds flooded his nostrils.

  "Forgive me, if I caused any offence. If you no longer wish to be known as Madame Labelle, how would you prefer to be addressed?" He could not hide the note of contempt in his tone.

  As she glanced up at Haines, the coachman offered a reassuring smile and nodded his head as though encouraging her to continue.

  "My … my given name is Anna." The words stumbled from her lips but then she repeated with a little more confide
nce, "My name is Miss Anna Sinclair."

  Chapter 2

  Anna Sinclair.

  She repeated the words over and over again in her mind. Other than revealing the truth to Haines during their journey, she had not uttered that name in years.

  The truth was written on the first page of the Bible she kept at her bedside. Though she never dared to open the leather-bound book, and only found the courage to lay her hand on the cover in silent prayer.

  Anna Sinclair was like a distant relative: someone whose blood flowed through her veins. Someone who shared a kinship, yet she never visited the girl she once knew. Separating the past and the present had been her way of coping, of preventing the poison tainting everything she held dear.

  Marie Labelle was nothing more than her adopted name. The name thrust upon her when Lucifer called to claim her soul.

  She glanced up at the facade of the ancient stone building. The Lord revealed himself in a series of signs, or so her father had once said. To send a woman, rotten and riddled with sin, to a monastery was enough to rouse a faint flicker of faith even in the hardest of heathens.

  Mr. Danbury may have mocked her, but in truth, she would use her time here to repent.

  Her gaze drifted to the gentleman whose crude assumptions revealed him to be shallow and uncouth. While she imagined some women found his rough appearance becoming, she had seen enough of men to know his failure to follow convention most probably stemmed from a deep-rooted resentment.

  Not that she cared.

  A strong jaw and muscular frame offered little to no appeal. She had come to see one gentleman's body much like another, the sight of which left her cold. In that respect, her time with Victor had been educational. It had taught her to value honesty, humility and kindness above beguiling eyes and a charming smile.

  "I have a letter from Lord Danesfield, proof that he sent me here," she said.

  "You're in the company of Haines. That's proof enough. But you may leave it on the desk in the chapter house."