Lord of Fire by Gaelen Foley

Lucien had finally gasped out Kelley’s whereabouts. By the time he had managed to escape his prison hole, he had been too late to warn the Irishman that the French were coming after him. Kelley had already disappeared. He was never seen or heard from again.
    “My lord?”
    He flicked his eyes open with a fractured gaze, which he tried to hide as he glanced inquiringly over his shoulder. Lily, the most beautiful of his hired courtesans, was leaning against the wall in an inviting pose.
    “Is there something you require?” he forced out coolly.
    “You seem troubled. I thought you might do with some company.” She held him in a siren’s stare, running her fingertips along the frilled neckline of her gown. Pressing away from the wall, she moved toward him languidly.
    His gaze traveled over her with a hunger that was fathoms deeper than her kind could ever satisfy. “Lily, you little temptress,” he said in studied idleness, “you know I do not mix business and pleasure.”
    He tensed when she laid her hand on his shoulder and came around to the front of his chair. He scanned her face, in a dangerous mood.
    She draped her arms around his neck. “Like you always say, my lord, rules were made to be broken.”
    “Not when they’re my rules, pet.”
    “Whatever is wrong, I can make you feel better. All you need do is lie back and let me please you. Take me to your bed when you are through here.” She kissed his cheek and whispered, “It would be for free.”
    He sat there in stony unresponsiveness as she began kissing his neck, caressing him. Wavering, he closed his eyes. A shudder of need ran through him, but it was Alice Montague who filled his mind. That’s what love is, Lucien. That’s what it does. Who the hell ever talked about love these days, or even believed in it? he thought, while the smell of the harlot filled his nostrils, her musky odor of sweat covered up with sickening sweet perfume. He understood all too well the willingness to cheapen oneself merely to be held in someone’s arms through the night, but he refused to hunger for what did not exist. Love was for poets, and hope was for fools. When Lily grasped him through his breeches with an expert caress, his body responded instantly, but his mind despaired. God, help me, he thought, drowning in the sheer emptiness of this meaningless ritual. He could not do it anymore. Suddenly, this was no longer enough.
    Clutching her forearms, he pushed her hands away and set her aside. He rose from the chair and walked away from her to the red-glassed windows, turning his back on her. “I brought my mistress from
London.”
    Lily did not reply, though he could feel her angry dismay. A moment later, he heard her rise and leave the room—the rustle of her skirts, the pattering of her silk slippers—and then he was alone again. He gazed sorrowfully through the red-glass window at the graceful pillars and the trickling pool. The waters were said to have healing powers, but they had never done anything for him. He folded his arms over his chest, dropped his chin, and mentally scraped himself back into order, for the night’s work was not yet done. But if he could have shared a bed with any woman tonight, it would have been Alice Montague, the only one with the imminent good sense to turn him down. Who loves you, Lucien? she had asked. What a dismal question. Nobody, Alice. His heavy sigh hung upon the silence. No one even knows me.
    When Talbert returned, they questioned Leonidovich and learned nothing. As they were finishing their interrogation, Marc and the other lads returned empty-handed. Rollo Greene had evaded their search. Their duties done, they parted ways near dawn, the lads returning to their military-style bunker by the stable complex, while Lucien, exhausted, left the Grotto at last and went back up to the silent, sleeping house.
    A short while later, he walked into his large, elegant bedchamber and crossed before the bank of eastern windows, lifting