“Even if you were to my taste, I am not in the habit of deflowering virgins. The last virgin in my bed was my late wife. I have no intention of having either a virgin or a wife again.”
Even if you were to my taste . . .
Well, that stung, but she pushed her hurt feelings aside. She could almost hear Mrs. Ramsey’s voice telling her to be strong. This wasn’t personal and she needn’t feel so affronted.
“I am not offering you my virginity.”
He shook his head once. “My apologies. Did you not just walk into this room and ask me to teach you how to be a proper lover?”
“No. Yes. N-no.” She made a strangling sound in her throat. She was bungling this. “Let me explain.”
“Please do.”
“I’m aware that you’re a man of deep appetites.”
Laughter burst from him at that statement, and she couldn’t help thinking the sound was rough and rusty from lack of use.
Even he looked a fraction surprised that laughter had sprung free from him. He smothered the sound. “Deep appetites?” He was silent for a moment as though struggling to grasp her meaning. “I gather there are stories of me being bandied about the village?”
“Yes,” she admitted. “Everyone knows of the women coming and going.”
He expelled a heavy breath.
She continued, “They are courtesans, I presume? You must know a good deal about the act of congress. After so much experience with . . . er, professionals.”
He cocked his head and gazed at her as though she had sprouted a second head. “Why?” he asked. “Why do you want to be a proper lover?”
“Because I want to be a professional. I want to be a courtesan. I want to be good . . . so good that I can name my price and have my pick of clients.” And walk away when I choose, when I’m able . . . with my freedom intact.
“And yet you don’t want me to take your virginity?”
“That’s correct. I’m told it can fetch a fine price. It’s my understanding there’s a premium on such things.” Vile but true. Even before her conversation with Mrs. Ramsey, she knew the way the world worked. For once, she would take advantage of its ugly side and get as much as she could for herself. For herself and her family.
A rush of breath escaped him. “You intend to sell your virginity?”
She flinched, but nodded. “Indeed. It is mine to do with as I please.”
Hers. Her body. Her life. No one else’s.
“Should you not want a husband to—”
“Just as you want no wife, I want no husband.” Her voice lifted an octave. Mrs. Ramsey’s words echoed in her mind. “As a courtesan, I choose. I decide.” She took a breath and evened her voice. “At least, if I’m skilled enough. And you can teach me. You can help make me skilled.”
“Without deflowering you?” he said again slowly, as though trying to keep that detail clear in his mind. Before she could answer, he pushed off his desk, and turned his tall frame, presenting her with his back. “This is madness.” He ran a hand through his hair, sending the dark locks into disarray. Lifting the glass up off his desk, he tossed back the amber contents in one fluid move.
She dared to step closer, following him, hoping to still persuade him. “My father left us without funds. I have a family to care for . . . sisters and a brother away at school.”
“Then marry. That’s what other gently bred girls do.”
Why must it always come back to that?
“No, thank you. I want to maintain control over my body and my fate. If I marry I give that up forever. I’ll keep my freedom.”
He turned and looked down at her as though she were mad. “You’ve thought about this.” Wonder tinged his voice.
“I won’t have to do it forever. Not if I’m . . . good enough. You can recommend me out to your friends. You obviously have ties. Connections.”
Something passed over his features. Astonishment, perhaps? “So you not only want me to school you, you want me to give you letters of reference?” He stared at her with incredulity.
She nodded. “In a manner. Please,” she whispered, feeling much as she had upon their first meeting when she hid beneath his table. Desperate. Pleading . . . and not a little ridiculous.
She was bumbling this, she was certain of that, but she was also certain that a man such as he possessed the power to help her in this.
“I am no pimp.”
She flinched. “I know what I’m asking is a bit unorthodox. I d-did not mean to imply . . . that is, I did not . . .”
Brilliant. She had lost the ability for coherent speech. As a former governess who prided herself on her composure and the ability to converse intelligently, it smarted.
Before all was lost, she blurted out, “I was a governess. I am one, rather. I can speak Latin, French . . . I’ve a head for numbers. I can help you with any bookkeeping you may have. I’m an excellent seamstress, too.” Her mind worked feverishly for more to offer him. “My youngest sister is an herbalist. Do you have any aches or ailments? I’m sure some arrangement could be reached in exchange for your—”
“So now I am the whore whose services you’re offering to buy?”
“No!” she cried in horror. “I’m merely trying to strike a fair bargain.”
“I think this concludes our conversation.” He dragged a hand over his head, smoothing his unruly hair back into place. “Did you need anything else?” he asked coolly.
He was dismissing her. No doubt of that.
“You won’t help me,” she said hollowly.
Of course he would not help her. Had she thought he would? He did not know her and, evidently, he did not find her an attractive enough temptation. Had she thought he might help her since he had earlier? Had she thought his streak of altruism ran so deep . . . or that she could barter with him using her math skills? Ridiculous.
“No.” The word fell hard. Final.
The senseless burn of tears stung her eyes. She had struggled to simply work up the nerve to come here. Mrs. Ramsey had never discussed the possibility that the duke would say no. Marian hadn’t prepared for that. She should have braced for it. It was no small thing she was asking. Especially since she was not to his self-proclaimed tastes.
With her pride in tatters, she turned and fled the room, colliding into a young man in the corridor.
He gripped her elbows to steady her. “Pardon me,” he murmured.
She shook him off, continuing on, pushing hard down the stairs until she was out of the house and on her way home.
Chapter 8
Nate watched the female flee the room and resisted the unprecedented compulsion to go after her.
He did not pursue females. Especially not ones who showed up uninvited in his home—not that any had done so before, but it was the principle of the matter. This was what came from fooling about with respectable females. Because contrary to her outrageous proposition, Marian Langley was a respectable young woman. It radiated from her like a fever, and he would do best to avoid her. He did not wish to become afflicted, after all.
“And who was that country miss?” Pearson asked mildly as he entered the room. “She left in quite the hurry. Nearly knocked me over.”
“You outweigh her by at least four stones. I doubt you were in danger,” Nate returned.
Pearson assessed him critically. “Country misses don’t pay calls on you,” he accused.
Nate nodded in agreement. “You speak true.”
“Then what brought this one to your door?”
“She is no ordinary country miss.” That much was evident. He could still hear her outrageous declaration. I’d like you to teach me how to be a good lover. Her words, her voice, played over and over in his mind more than they should. More than he wanted them to. Innocent country misses weren’t to his taste. He’d said as much. He meant it.
“Indeed? Well, she’s certainly established herself as bold. Foolish, even, coming here at this late hour. Unless she had no notion of who you are?” P
earson helped himself to the whisky while sending Nate a questioning look.
Miss Langley was no unwitting female to stumble into his lair. Her entire reason for calling on him was because of his reputation. She knew precisely who—what—he was. “Well. This one is looking to be ruined.”
A corner of Pearson’s mouth kicked up. “Then she came to the right place.”
“I don’t know what you mean. I am not in the habit of ruining innocent girls. That’s more your forte.”
Pearson shook his head. “You refer to my stepping out with the poulter’s daughter? I’m hardly ruining her. It’s called courting. I’ve her father’s blessing. My intentions are purely honorable.”
A strange turn, that.
Nate and Pearson had frequented their share of bawdy houses together. Nate never suspected his friend had a penchant for the domesticity of marriage, but he seemed headed in that direction.
Nate wasn’t a man given to many leisurely pursuits. He didn’t belong to a gentlemen’s club. He didn’t play cards or bet the horses. He took his seat in the House of Lords when required and performed his duty. The rest of the time he managed his estates. He didn’t leave everything to Pearson. He involved himself with the welfare of his tenants. He researched the latest advancements in farming, enjoying digging his hands in soil. In another life, he might have been a simple farmer. A yeoman plowing the fields outside the manor.
Staying busy kept deep thoughts at bay.
A person could do that. Work and stay so occupied he was too busy to think, too busy to feel, too busy to remember. He’d learned how it could be done.
In the lapses, in the pauses when one too many thoughts intruded, he’d take himself to a member of the demimonde. Those excursions helped.
He wasn’t a rake, by any means, but if he needed a release, he sought the company of a professional. Better that than a woman who wanted emotion from him. Professionals never disappointed. They gave. He took. He paid. All were satisfied.
Up until recently, Pearson had joined him in his pursuits.
It stopped once they moved to Brambledon and Pearson began his courtship of the poulter’s daughter. Now Pearson had no interest in accompanying Nate the two hours into Town to visit their old haunts.
Rather than making the journey himself, Nate sent for his paramours. It was more convenient, less troublesome, and he paid the women handsomely for the trouble.
Pearson could keep his honorable courtship.
Nate would stick with what he knew. He would save the innocent for the innocent.
He’d had his chance. His time in the sun. Those days were gone with Mary Beth. A lifetime ago.
There was just this now.
“So, tell me of this girl on the hunt for ruin.” Pearson sank down in the chair opposite him and crossed one ankle over his knee, settling in comfortably.
“Miss Langley was . . . interesting,” Nate volunteered. Peculiar was more accurate a description. Perhaps insane was the most accurate word of all.
“How’s that?”
He wondered if there was some truth to what she had said. If being mistress to a man was somehow better than being a wife. He’d always assumed every girl wished to grow up and marry. He’d assumed matrimony the end goal of every young woman. What sensible lass would wish for the loss of her good name and reputation?
“She had a proposition for me,” he finally answered.
“Indeed?”
“Yes. It seems she is interested in learning to become a rich man’s mistress. Not mine, mind you. Some other.”
Pearson stared. “You jest.”
“Not at all. I could not be so creative to conceive such a thing.”
“She showed up here and asked you to . . . what? School her? In shagging?”
Nate held up one finger. “In expert shagging,” he qualified.
Pearson laughed lightly. “Well, you would certainly know. You have plenty of experience.”
Nate neither agreed or disagreed to that. “Apparently she has heard of my guests.”
“Oh. You mean all the women traipsing in and out of here?”
“You make it sound as though it is every night,” he grumbled.
Pearson continued, “It is the talk of the village.”
Nate grimaced, annoyed. “Apparently.” He had not imagined he would be a subject of such interest to the locals when he moved to Haverston Hall.
“Well?” Pearson looked at him expectantly. “Will you teach her?”
Nate scoffed. “Of course not. I’m not in the habit of dallying with untried girls.”
“Yes, I suppose it is your custom to only cavort with experienced females, but she was uncommonly pretty. And she did make it exceptionally easy for you, offering herself up on a platter like that.”
Nate paused, digesting that and tracing the rim of his glass with a finger. “To be fair, she didn’t exactly offer herself up on a platter.” No, she had boundaries. Ridiculous considering her proposition.
“I don’t understand.”
“It was as I said. She wants instruction on becoming a rich man’s leman . . . but she wishes to keep her virtue intact.”
Pearson stared at him for a long moment and then laughed. “How very . . . odd.”
“Odd is putting it mildly.”
“Of course you were right to send her away.”
“What is that supposed to mean?”
“You are not a man of restraint.” Pearson waved a hand up and down, encompassing Nate’s person.
He bristled. “I can restrain myself if need be.”
Pearson still struggled to keep his mirth under control. “Indeed?” The single word rang with disbelief.
“You think me some rutting beast?”
“I did not say that. I simply don’t see you having the patience to play at intimacy and then restrain yourself. You are no celibate. No wonder you tossed her out of here.”
“I did not toss her out of here. And I could restrain myself.”
Pearson shook his head, his smile a touch condescending. It was insulting to realize his lifelong friend thought him so weak.
“Nonsense. You could not engage in intimacy without sex. You could not make it a fortnight.”
“Care to wager on that?”
Pearson’s smile widened. “Oh, I’ll take that wager. And I’ll win. One fortnight with the girl and you’ll be beneath her skirts in the truest sense.”
“I agree to those terms. A fortnight of instruction and she will still remain a maid in the truest sense . . . and I’ll have your horse as my winnings.”
“Balthazar?” Pearson frowned for the first time. “He’s the finest stallion I’ve ever—”
“Concerned? What are you worried about? I won’t last a fortnight, remember?”
“That’s true.” Pearson nodded, looking smug once again. “Very well. But when I win you have to gift me your new phaeton.”
“Agreed.” Nate crossed the distance separating them to shake Pearson’s hand, convinced winning a wager would never be so easy.
Chapter 9
The sky was dark, storm clouds glowering, threatening rain. Marian was trying to beat the downpour home. In her pockets, coins jingled. Mrs. Walker had finally paid her outstanding wages for Annabel’s lessons. Marian knew the woman could afford to pay her. It was merely inconvenience that had delayed her. She didn’t keep money on her person. Her husband handled the accounting and Mrs. Walker hated to discuss matters of finance with him. Genteel ladies could not be bothered to fret over such concerns, she had reminded Marian on more than one occasion, forcing Marian into the uncomfortable position of constantly nagging her. Today her nagging had finally met with just rewards—that or Marian’s threat of going to Mr. Walker had finally worked.
She would have to think carefully about which debt to pay first. Mr. Lawrence was right. All their creditors were closing in like vultures. Perhaps she would simply pay the one who knocked on her door first today, for she knew someone would.
She had slept very little since her visit with the Duke of Warrington. Her stomach and mind churned simultaneously, constantly, searching for a way out of this mess. There was no choice without consequence. Without struggle. Without pain.
In her haste to beat the potential deluge, she took a shortcut behind Mrs. Pratt’s farm and cut through a thick copse. The alternate route would allow her to break out onto the main road leading into the village in far better time.
Marian heard the hard beat of hooves before she spotted the horse and rider.
She emerged from the thicket and was forced to jump back, clear of the road, to save herself from being trampled.
Clutching her cloak to her throat, she glared up at the offender, indignation heating her cheeks as she clapped eyes on him—the object of so much of her recent anguish.
Of course. It would have to be him. The wretch.
She’d hoped to never see him again, but in a community this small she supposed it was inevitable. At least there were no witnesses. They had privacy. She didn’t have to feign politeness.
“You should have a care, Your Grace,” she called up to him sharply. “You do not own the road. Other people traverse here.”
He smiled. A fleeting crooked twist of his lips, and then it was gone, as though he regretted the action.
He pulled on the reins of his giant beast. The horse tossed its head and pranced around her, fighting its bit. She turned in a circle, fixing her gaze on the man in the saddle, but also keeping track of his wild-eyed mount.
“Perhaps you should have a care, as well, and not burst out of the trees and into the road,” he reprimanded.
She shied back a step from the horse. “He looks as though he’s contemplating taking a bite out of my flesh.”
The duke dismounted in one smooth movement. “Fear not. He has no appetite for humans. Especially not virginal termagants.”
Face-to-face now, she wished he’d never dismounted. She’d much rather contend with a fiery-eyed horse than him. “No need to dismount, Your Grace.” She waved a hand down the road. “Feel free to continue on your way.”
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