Page 35 of Cocky August Rake
She crossed to the first door and turned the brass handle. It opened at once.
“No locks on these doors,” she reminded him. She took a moment to glance over. He was watching her with those silver eyes. Something entirely unwelcome fluttered in her chest.
“They latch,” she added hastily and then stepped aside to allow him to inspect it. “A gentleman may close the door for privacy, but he cannot bolt it. No woman is ever locked inside a room with a client.”
He nodded, expression unreadable, though he did not look displeased.
“So… they could be interrupted?”
“Only if necessary. During working hours, the doors are carefully watched by security.”
She entered the nearest room and held the door for Lord Reginald.
Like all the others, it was small, but elegant. Amber silk climbed the walls above white-painted wainscoting. Wood was stacked behind the grate. Near the hearth stood a chaise with its cushions freshly plumped, beside a small round table laid with a decanter, two glasses, and a bowl of fresh fruit.
To the untrained eye, the setting suggested indulgence. Romance even.
Rose saw a system refined through years of experience. Every item in the room served a purpose.
“The chaise is positioned,” Rose told him, “so there is always a clear path to the door.”
Despite knowing every inch of the room, she caught her foot on the edge of the carpet as she led him inside.
Reginald’s hand closed around her arm before she could fall.
“Hold fast.”
The words were quiet. Rough.
His words drew her back to that garden, his breath warm against her skin.
Hold fast.
Heat stirred low in her belly—the sort she never felt in any of these rooms.
“I’m fine.” She stepped away before his hand could affect her further.
Was he remembering those moments as well?
His expression gave nothing away, though his gaze lingered upon her for a beat longer than necessary.
Rose moved farther into the room, putting the chaise between them.
“Every room is thoroughly cleaned after an appointment,” she said, silently cursing the breathlessness in her voice. “Fresh linen. Fresh water. The floors are scrubbed, and the windows opened—even in winter, if only briefly.”
She crossed to the mantel and pressed one finger against a carved rose hidden in the gilded paneling.
A narrow section of wood shifted soundlessly.
Lord Reginald came to stand beside her.
“There is a service passage behind each receiving room,” she explained.
His shoulder almost brushed hers as he leaned forward to study the darkness beyond the opening. Rose caught the clean scent of his shaving soap and that same something spicy she’d noticed before.
“A woman may ask for someone to remain nearby. Nell keeps watch when a newer woman receives a gentleman for the first time, or whenever one of us has reason to feel uneasy.”
“And there?” He nodded toward the small brass slide concealed in the wood.
