His Not-So-Sweet Marchioness: A Steamy Victorian Romance

by Sorcha Mowbray

  “Indeed, and that something occurred in his life that made him believe seeing me for my services would no longer be a viable option.” Amelia looked thoughtful for a moment. “Would I be wrong in assuming that his plans changed shortly after he met you?”

  “The timing does suggest that.” Ros considered for a moment and then decided to be impulsive. “Would you consider taking on an apprentice?”

  “You’re not thinking of getting into whoring, are you?” Amelia looked as surprised as she sounded.

  Ros let out a belly laugh. The notion was so ridiculous she couldn’t imagine men seeking her out. “Don’t be ridiculous. Most men see me as plain. I’m no beauty like you or my sister.”

  Amelia snorted. “Women are so foolish. Of course, you are beautiful. I’ve seen your sister, and though she has a vibrancy about her, there is a soft, welcoming glow about you. Your beauty is there in your reddish-blonde hair and soft green eyes, but your inner beauty outshines any of your physical attributes. Men would be lined up around the block for a chance to taste such sweetness and purity. Obviously, Lord Flintshire has found you more than worthy of his attention.”

  A pleasurable warmth seeped through her bones. What a lovely thing to say about another person. “Thank you for such a lovely compliment, Amelia. I was curious what a woman such as yourself would be like, but the reality is not what I had imagined. It is so much better.”

  “I appreciate your kindness, as well, Mrs. Smith. And yes, for you, I would be willing to take on an apprentice. I can teach you what I know about wielding a whip, and even about how to pleasure a man, control him if that is what he needs.” She looked confident and eager to share her knowledge.

  “Oh, well. I suspect just understanding how to dole out what he needs as far as pain is sufficient. I would be uncomfortable with any other hands-on tutelage, beyond that.”

  “I understand, and respect your loyalty and integrity. When would you like to start your lessons? I should think we could start during the day for now, but once you’ve learned how to control the whip, we shall need to find you live subjects to practice on.”

  Ros thought about where and how she would both practice and take lessons. “May we hold lessons here during the day? I have some space in my basement where I am able to practice at home. As for the live practicing, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it.”

  “Agreed. We can use the dungeon here during the day. Shall we start tomorrow?” Amelia grinned, her eagerness contagious.

  “Excellent.” Ros smiled back. “I should like to compensate you for your time and efforts.”

  “I couldn’t ask for more than half my usual rate since I appreciate the opportunity to share my knowledge. That and the shock Flint shall receive when you tie him up and whip him the first time will be payment enough.” Amelia laughed heartily, obviously picturing him helpless and at Ros’s mercy.

  “I’ll not be rude and argue. I appreciate your generosity. How should I dress for the lessons?”

  “Learning the whip is hard work. Wear some of those fancy riding trousers your sort like to hide under your riding habits. That’ll give you plenty of mobility for the work you’ll do.”

  A moment of doubt assailed Ros. “Do you believe I am capable of learning how to do this?”

  “I’ve only taught a handful of men how to wield the whip. Most men are too inept and too impatient to manage the tools of the trade with any skill. A woman has a natural delicacy of touch and reserves of patience that lend her to being far more adept at such an endeavor. Needless to say, you’re not the first woman I’ve ever offered to teach, but you are one of the few who have taken me up on the offer. I feel certain you will be more than able to physically manage the use of a whip. The question remains, will you be able to mentally make the needed adjustments,”

  Ros considered Amelia’s words for a moment. She would not fail, she could not. “Very well, then. What time shall I come around tomorrow?”

  “Half-past one will do. I’m usually up and about by then.” Amelia rose. “I’ll see you out.”

  With the interview over and a far clearer path ahead than Ros had anticipated, she left The Market with a lightness of spirit she hadn’t hoped for. “Thank you for everything.”

  Chapter 17

  Flint was on edge. It had been days since he’d asked Lucifer for his help, and no word had come. Add to that, he’d reconciled with Ros though he had failed to mention the threats against her. And he was living in a constant state of fear for her, despite the assistance Linc and Arthur were providing. It was like an exposed nerve.

  It was early afternoon, leaving hours until he was expected at Ros’ for dinner. Every tick of the clock was like an eternity of time. It was all he could do to restrain himself from decamping to her doorstep to better protect her. But he knew she would refuse his protection, would deny him the satisfaction of seeing to her safety without greater explanation. And he feared driving her away with that explanation. He was rather well and truly fucked.

  Beyond all those issues, he still had yet to get to the bottom of the shortage of funds at the boys’ home in Flintshire. Hopefully, the private investigator he hired would discover answers quickly. The man would leave in the morning and send word as soon as he learned anything useful. Flint would have preferred to deal with it on his own, but with Ros in danger, that simply was not possible.

  His butler entered and waited for acknowledgment after a stiffly delivered, “My lord.”

  “Yes?” Flint couldn’t deny he was eager for a distraction. Any distraction. Even one of a boring, mundane household nature.

  His servant sniffed indelicately. “There is a man here to see you. A Mr. Frank Lucifer.”

  Flint jumped up and swept past his shocked butler. “Lucifer? Come in!”

  Having discarded all propriety, Lucifer appeared in the long hallway off the foyer. He looked a bit shocked by Flint’s welcome. “Apologies, but I’ve been on tenterhooks waiting to hear from you.”

  He shook Lucifer’s hand and dragged him into the study and past a still gaping butler. After a moment, the servant departed, his usual aplomb in tatters.

  Flint motioned to the couch. “Sit. May I get you a drink?”

  Lucifer looked nervous. His face was a bit pale, and if Flint hadn’t shaken hands, he might have missed the tremor in Lucifer’s.

  “Whisky, if you have some,” Lucifer answered, his tone a bit gravely.

  “Of course.” Flint set about pouring their drinks. Once that was seen to, he sat down across from Lucifer and waited. And waited.

  Lucifer looked distinctly uncomfortable.

  Impatience pushed him to ignore propriety. “Have you found out who is behind the threats?”

  Lucifer shook his head. “No. My people are still working on it. We’ve found a man who may have some information, but he hasn’t given up his connection yet. Seems he is more afraid of him than he is of us.”

  Flint leaned forward, his arms braced on his knees as he stared at Lucifer intently. “Change that.”

  “Oh, I shall. Very, very soon. But that is not why I am here.” Lucifer licked his lips and shifted in his seat uncomfortably.

  “Then why?” Deflated, Flint sat back.

  “I have something I need to tell you, and I am not sure how you will receive the news.” Lucifer set his drink down.

  Flint shrugged. “Just tell me. It can’t be worse than the fact some Seven Dials boss is out to get me anyway he can.”

  Lucifer sighed. “You’re right. My mother was a prostitute in Windsor, a tavern wench, really.” He paused and drew a breath. “She fell in love with a young man who was attending Eton. She lay with him, thought they would be married, and he would take her away from the hard life she’d known. Instead, he got her pregnant—with me—and then deserted her.”

  “That’s a sad tale, but why are you telling me this?” Flint was confused by the conversation and impatient to have answers about the crime boss that had targeted him. Surel
y, the two stories couldn’t be related.

  “Because that man is your father.” Lucifer sat there silently while his bald statement sank in.

  Flint sat there and stared. Trying to figure out how his father could have sired another child, and he not know about it. Then he snorted, considering his parent’s relationship, it was not at all surprising that this had occurred. “So, are you saying you are my brother?”

  “Well, a half-brother, at any rate.” Lucifer looked strained as he waited for a reaction.

  Flint’s mind raced. “That’s why you’ve been poking around, asking all sorts of questions about me.”

  “It is.” Lucifer took a breath. “I was trying to determine if I wanted to tell you.”

  “And what precipitated the need to tell me? Are you in need of something?” Flint couldn’t help but ask the question he’d learned to ask early in life. After all, he was the son of a duke.

  Lucifer flinched. “Actually, your request for help brought me to this. I wanted you to understand why I refuse to ask for payment. Why I am choosing to help you. And why it is important to me to see this issue resolved for you.”

  For the first time in his life, Flint understood what it was to be nonplussed. His gut churned, and his head spun. He had a brother—a half-brother—but a brother, nonetheless. Lips gone dry, he tried to lick them and speak, but his mouth was as dry as his lips. “B-but you’re the son of a Duke. The eldest son, based on the timeline you presented. Surely you wish to know your father, our father? Or you want some recognition of your birth.”

  Lucifer, his brother—bloody hell that was a strange thought—rolled his eyes and huffed. “Dear God, no. That is part of what had me deliberating on whether to inform you of our connection. I have no designs on your place as heir, and I certainly have no desire to know the man who could so easily discard the woman carrying his child.” He paused, as though considering the merits of continuing. “After meeting your friends and then briefly, you. I was curious about you. Having met any number of peers in my line of work, I was surprised by how dissimilar to them you and your friends were.”

  “I should bloody well hope so! I do not consider myself to be one of those popinjays parading about London,” Flint scoffed and then sniffed in affront.

  “I agree, so no need to get your dander up.” Lucifer grinned.

  Flint sighed. “Being the son of a duke, you can imagine I’ve heard a tall tale or two in my time. Do you have any proof of this relationship between your mother and my father?”

  Lucifer nodded. “I suspected you’d ask for something of the sort.” He reached into his pocket and extracted a short stack of letters bound with a simple blue ribbon. “My mother kept these.”

  Flint had to steady his hand as he reached out to take the packet. With a delicate tug, he untied the ribbon and opened the first letter. It was from his grandmother, who at that time would have been the Duchess of Shropshire. Her name was carefully penned at the end of the missive. Returning to the top, he scanned the familiarly elegant scrawl. He could hear her voice in every word of the letter, right down to the superior, self-assured tone. His heart skipped a beat when he got to the end.

  …the enclosed funds should be enough to deal with the result of your wantonness. Though this is not to be seen as the acknowledgment of any responsibility on the part of this family or my son. I expect this shall be the last we hear from you.

  Bloody hell! He pulled out the next letter. The tone was even more peevish as his grandmother continued to insist that she had done all she could. It was dated within a few weeks of the first letter. The third and final letter was dated two years later. He and his brother, Marcus, would have just been born. This letter came from his father in reply to what he assumed was another plea for help. His father, having just taken over the title of Duke of Shropshire after his father’s unexpected death in a carriage accident, denied knowing the girl or having gotten her with child. He coldly stated that any further requests would be treated as blackmail and passed on to the appropriate authorities. Clearly, his threats had achieved the desired results since there were no further letters in the bundle.

  He sat there, holding the sheets in his hand and processing the alarming evidence. Why would his grandmother have bothered to send money to the poor girl if she had not believed her story to be true? And though his father made no acknowledgment of the truth of the story, the way he coldly shut the woman down was rather like driving a nail with a sledgehammer. Had there been no truth to the matter, wouldn’t he have simply passed the correspondence on to the authorities and not replied? That was the standing guidance he had been given as his father’s heir.

  “I see the validity in your story both because of these letters,” Flint looked at the man who sat across from him, “and because of the striking resemblance between you and my father. My brother and I always carried more of our mother’s features than our father’s, aside from the dark hair.”

  Lucifer looked vaguely uncomfortable. “As I’ve said, I have no interest in meeting the rest of the family.”

  Flint snorted and ignored the dull ache that often accompanied any reminiscence of his brother. “Have no fear. I’ll not be signing you up for family gatherings. As for my brother—our brother—he died when we were boys.”

  “I recall seeing something about that in my research, though the details around his death were vague at best.” Lucifer tipped his head. “Was he very much like you?”

  Flint couldn’t stop the half-smile that flitted across his lips. “No. He was everything I am not. He was brave and sure, always willing to take on the fight of others…to protect those who were weaker than him. We may have looked alike, but I was by far the weaker of the pair. Max was named for Maximus Meridius, a Roman General who was betrayed and fell into slavery where he became a revered gladiator. He lived up to his namesake time and again, though he only reached the age of ten.”

  Flint paused and swallowed down the guilt and remorse that always came with the mention of his brother. “He stepped in front of me when an older neighbor boy moved to push me for being smart. Unfortunately, there was an old well-shaft just behind us with a cover that had rotted out. I fell to the side, and he fell backward and through the cover. He snapped his neck when he landed at the bottom.” Silence settled for a moment as Flint struggled with his emotions.

  “I’m sorry for your loss, he sounds as though he would have grown up to be a good man.”

  “He would have.” Flint nodded. “And I dare say he would have been intrigued by having a half-brother such as yourself.”

  “Such as me? I’m merely a Seven Dials escapee who found a way to survive by any means necessary.” Lucifer scoffed openly. “I doubt your brother would have found me the least bit intriguing. In fact, most find me disgusting, considering I have preyed on the weak and vulnerable my entire life.”

  Flint considered the man sitting across from him. “Have you? Or have you merely given the appearance of such behavior to disguise the truth?”

  Lucifer rose from his seat and straightened his coat. “Do not deceive yourself into believing such nonsense. My soul is as black as my hair, and a gaping hole exists where my heart should beat. I do nothing that does not serve my own purposes. You would do well to remember that…brother.”

  Flint watched as his newly found sibling flashed a sharp grin that would have sliced a lesser man to ribbons, and then walked out as abruptly as he had appeared. Despite Lucifer’s claims, Flint remained convinced he was correct. His newly discovered half-brother was not all he seemed, not by half.

  Still a bit dazed by the realization of a brother and the deceit perpetrated by his family, he sat there alone and undisturbed for quite some time. The afternoon shadows had grown longer and longer until darkness had blanketed his study. A scullery maid shuffled in carrying a large bucket of coal.

  “No need to lay coals this evening.” He was still seated where Lucifer had left him.

  The girl gasped, dropped the bu
cket, and spun around to face where he sat. “My lord,” she exclaimed as she dropped into a curtsey that felt as awkward for him as it must have for her.

  “Please, no need for that. Take your bucket and go. I’ll not require a fire this evening.” He made a shooing motion with his hand, though he wasn’t sure she could see it in the gloom. Then he heard her shuffling toward the door she’d come in. Thank goodness, she was leaving.

  He glanced about the room feeling as though he were just coming awake after a long nap. He took in the darkness, listened to the ticking of the clock, and glanced down at his rumpled clothing. How long had he sat there? “What time is it?”

  She stopped, or he assumed she had based on the thump of the bucket hitting the floor. “It was half-past nine when I started on my duties.”

  He had missed dinner with Ros. “Bloody hell,” he muttered and stood.

  The girl gasped again and then snatched her bucket and quickly scooted through the door. Following behind her, he strode for the front door and walked out into the night.

  A nearby clock struck ten o’clock as he climbed the steps to Ros’s front door. He rapped sharply on the wood surface and waited. A few moments later, the door was opened, and Johnson peered out into the night. “How may I help you, my lord?”

  “Please tell your mistress that I wish to see her.” He stood there, still struggling to understand all that he had learned that afternoon.

  “I shall see if she is at home.” Johnson shut the door in his face with an imperious snap.

  A short time later, the door opened again. “She will see you now.”

  Johnson stood to the side and let Flint enter, though disapproval was etched into every weathered crease on his face.

  Without waiting for direction, Flint walked into the front salon in search of Ros. She sat composed, still dressed in what he assumed she had worn for their scheduled dinner. The very one he had missed.

  He drew to a stop halfway across the room, in front of the settee, having taken in her pinched brow and compressed lips. “Ros, my apologies for failing to make our dinner.”