Page 69 of Scandalous

Just as in Freetown and Tenerife, he was unable to enjoy sexual relations with the two whores who were getting a fortune to attend to his needs around the clock. Just as before, he had only been able to get an erection when by himself.

When thinking of Sarah.

He turned on his side, burying his face in the rumpled bedclothes. After three days of it, Venetia had come to his room. She’d been polite, but firm. Was there something wrong? Did he need someone other than Francie or Nicole?

At the time he’d been too intoxicated and careless of how he might appear, so he’d told the tiny madam how he’d not been able to bed a woman since that first night with Sarah.

Martín had not been surprised when she had laughed at him. He would have thought it was a laughable matter if it hadn’t been happening to him.

But then she had told him something he didn’t want to hear: that he was infatuated with the annoying missionary woman.

Well, Venetia had used the word “love,” as women were wont to do, but Martín had discarded that idea immediately. It wasn’t love; it was infatuation. And while that was almost as bad, he had hopes the affliction would eventually go away. Already he had a difficult time recalling Sarah’s face.

Well, except for the way she’d looked that time in the cabin, when he had given her pleasure and almost climaxed himself in the process. Or how she looked while teaching him to read. Or the cute way she scolded him for breaking another quill. Or the time when she’d held him at gunpoint on the deck of his ship.

“Enough,” he yelled at his treacherous mind, wincing at the pain in his pounding head. So he remembered more about her than he’d thought—what of it? The memories would fade.

The door opened, and a troop of servants with steaming buckets marched through the room. He turned his face to the wall until the door closed again.

“Captain?”

He rolled over and grunted, taking a deep breath and swinging his feet to the ground. “Mon Dieu.” He was too wobbly to stand.

Small hands grasped his arms and helped him to his feet. Francie, the little blonde, stood beside him. “Come on, Captain, you’ve not got too much time. You don’t want to keep the big gentleman waiting.”

Nicole giggled. “My goodness, he’s a big one. I don’t think I’ve ever seen a man that tall. He’s that pirate, isn’t he—One-Eyed Standish? I read about him in the paper a few years back. I heard he was handsome but . . . crikey!”

“No more giggling,” Martín ordered. The women pulled his shirt over his head and then shoved him toward the tub. He dipped a toe in the scalding water and recoiled. “Do you think I am a lobster?”

“Don’t be a big softie; it’ll feel good when you’re in it.” Francie pushed him with her small hands.

“Oh, is that true, mademoiselle? Perhaps you would like to join me?” He snaked his arm around her slim waist, and she squealed in his ear, causing him to jerk away. “In the name of God, Francie!” He slid into the tub, his head ringing from her high-pitched cry.

The women laughed, ignoring his complaints, scrubbing and soaping him while he lay like a corpse in the water.

“Lovely hair, isn’t it, Francie?”

“Oh, aye.” She massaged his scalp, almost making his headache disappear. Almost.

“Isn’t it interesting that it’s so much darker down here?” Nicole manipulated his flaccid member to show her friend his darker pubic hair.

“Enough,” Martín roared. “Get out, both of you, out.” He was pleased at the sound of their receding footsteps and giggling until he realized that now he’d need to finish bathing and dressing himself. Well, anything was better than a couple of nosy whores who poked and prodded him as if he were a side of beef. He gritted his teeth at the humiliation of his situation. And now here was Ramsay to poke his own big nose into Martín’s business. “I’ll bloody well tell him where to take his nose,” Martín said, soaping himself so hard he winced.

* * *

Martín reached the drawing room just as it struck the hour and found Ramsay in the process of getting to his feet, his face determined.

“What do you want?” Martín asked, not caring how ungracious he sounded.

Naturally the baron merely laughed at his rudeness.

Martín ignored him and poured himself a glass of Venetia’s fine brandy, exhaling with relief as the liquid burned its way down his throat. “Well?” he snapped, when the other man didn’t answer.

“My wife sent me to inquire as to when you will be returning to Davenport House?”

Martín looked at him to see if he was in jest. Lady Ramsay detested him. She would be over the moon he had left.

“Barring your return, she wonders if you have any plans to join any of her entertainments. You know how women are when it comes to having the right number for dinner and so forth.”