by Sara Portman
She exhaled. Good lord, how did she have breath left after that soliloquy?
He said nothing, but considered her. So that was it. The poor vicar’s daughter from the local village had decided to arrange for her future and was importuning him to become that arrangement. So much boldness for such a little thing. At least she was honest. That was a bit braver than most girls who might have tried to lure him into a situation that compromised her and forced his hand.
Honesty or not, she had chosen the wrong mark. Security was the last thing he had to offer anyone. All attempts at marital arrangements concerning Bexley Brantwood had come to a definitive halt the previous year when his cousin, the true duke, had returned to claim the title. Clearly this poor girl was too naïve to realize Bex’s only remaining friends were gamblers, ladies of the night, and unscrupulous moneylenders.
“I applaud you, dear, for your sensibility in addressing your future. You are young and pretty. Marriage to some stable young gentleman is, of course, what you should consider. For precisely that reason, I am unable to be of any assistance to you. I do wish you success in your pursuit.” With the briefest of smiles meant to punctuate the end of their conversation, Bex stepped aside so that she might be allowed to exit the room.
She remained standing in place, her eyes growing large as she comprehended his response. “Oh, no, my lord. I understand you might have concerns about taking me on if you believed I intended to marry, but I am much more…practical…than that.” Her cheeks flushed again and her smile took on a self-deprecating asymmetry. “I am well aware that without any family connections or dowry my marriage prospects are dismal indeed. When added to the fact that I am limited to my small village with no gentleman of marriageable age and the lack of funds for even a local season…I…well, I am resigned to my circumstances, sir.” She averted her eyes, but he could see the way her cheeks flamed to be laying bare these truths of her situation. “I understand I must be practical about my future and pursue other arrangements.”
Other arrangements? Christ. What had he stumbled into? Was this angelic sprite of a vicar’s daughter actually offering herself up to him as his mistress? Bex had received such offers in the past, but they were veiled invitations from the jaded London set, not blushing, flustered proposals from the daughters of country gentlemen.
Bex pivoted and allowed his gaze to travel more slowly over the woman in front of him. She was becoming in the way of a china doll—all pale porcelain and disastrously fragile. Her frost-blue eyes were anything but cold, however. They were quick. They darted everywhere and expressed everything. They had none of the veiled mystery she would need if she truly expected to spend her prettiest years moving from one protector to the next based upon their pocketbook rather than their likability.
Her shape was intriguing. He could understand why some men favored petite women who fed their need to feel large and, well…masculine. He could probably reach his hands entirely around her trim waist.
He tilted his head to one side. “So you’ve given up entirely on the prospect of marriage, have you?”
She nodded vehemently. “I have, my lord, and I assure you, I am quite enthusiastic about this next endeavor.”
Bex couldn’t help it. He threw his head back and laughed aloud. This was becoming absurd. If he were a good man—a truly good man—he would pat her on the head, send her on her way, and perhaps even have a good talk with her father once he’d done so.
Thankfully, he was not a good man. Frankly, whatever she thought she knew of his reputation was inflated and he couldn’t afford her anyway, but still his conscience could not find any objection to at least humoring the girl for a few more minutes just to see what else she might say. She’d told him about her skill at the harp, for God’s sake. Who gave a fig whether their mistress could play the damned harp?
He stepped more closely. “What did you say your name was again, dear?”
“Miss Betancourt, my lord. Miss Lucy Betancourt.”
He would have sworn she nearly curtsied. And why was she calling him lord? The only people who called him that were too uneducated to understand he wasn’t lord of anything—save poor decisions.
He crossed his arms in front of his chest and peered at her. “I will admit to a great curiosity as just what your friend the duchess thinks of your intentions, Miss Betancourt.”
Her bold gaze faltered at his question, eliminating any point in voicing a lie. No self-respecting peeress would encourage another woman into such an arrangement.
Had she come up with it all on her own, then? “You’re a bold bit of cake, aren’t you?”
She managed to look genuinely confused at his question. She took a small step backward. “I…I apologize,” she said. “I realize it was unforgivably impertinent of me to approach you.”
Don’t back away now, you little minx, he thought. Not now that you’ve put the proposal to me and I’ve not yet answered. She bit her lower lip and the action again caught his attention. She was lovely. He had never been particularly drawn to the sweet and innocent, but never had it been offered up to him so audaciously. He regretted that he could not afford her in that moment, watching how her pink lower lip slid teasingly from the hold of white teeth. If only he could, he would be quite tempted to accept.
Of course, she may not be as innocent as she appeared. It was very likely, he reasoned, that she was ruined already. That would certainly make a respectable marriage unlikely, wouldn’t it? He looked at her again, hints of her dainty shape visible beneath her prim pastel gown. He wondered whether her boldness would manifest itself in the bedroom; then the unexpected thought captured his imagination.
His body heated at the visions that assailed him and he stepped toward her. “I respect your self-sufficiency and…shall we say, ingenuity…Miss Betancourt. I cannot in good conscience deny you without a fair trial,” he coaxed.
She eyed him warily. “A fair trial? I’m not sure what you mean.”
“A sample of your skills, perhaps?” he said, warming more and more to the idea.
“My skills?” she asked, her eyes wide with uncertainty. “I…I could play for you, I suppose.”
His grin widened. “I do not require a musical audition.” The more wolfish he felt, the more visibly apprehensive she became. She had approached him, had she not?
“There are more applicable skills to consider,” he said, and catching her around her doll-sized waist with one arm, he dropped his mouth to hers in a searing kiss.
He felt her stiffen and heard the outraged squeal muffled by the contact of his mouth on hers. She placed both hands on his chest and pushed.
She wasn’t strong enough to push him away, but he voluntarily complied, pulling his mouth from hers and stepping back. He was not a paragon of virtue, but neither did he force himself on unwilling women.
Her eyes were wide and her chest rose and fell as she attempted to recover herself.
“Lord Ashby, how dare you?”
Bex stopped. He stared. “Lord Ashby?”
Lord Ashby? Bex let this revelation settle over him. She was throwing herself at the wrong man? Of course, he thought ruefully. If she were going to ruin herself to become a mistress, why choose a man with nothing? Clearly she had aimed much higher in trading her virginity.
She puffed up what bit of height she possessed and glowered at him. “Lord Ashby, clearly there is a misunderstanding here regarding the sort of governess I would be. I apologize for taking your time, but surely you and your wife must seek to fill the position elsewhere, as I don’t believe we should suit at all.”
Bex threw his head back and laughed loudly. Well, damn and blast. A governess?
“I don’t believe this is humorous in the least, my lord,” she said in a scolding tone.
“Calm down, Miss Betancourt,” he said once he’d recovered his ability to breathe. “There has been a misunderstanding her
e.”
“That, my lord,” she clipped, “is quite evident.”
He shook his head, still shaking with his laughter. “I am not Lord Ashby,” he said once he was able. “I do not possess a wife or children and certainly would have no need for a governess.”
She gaped up at him. “You…you are not Lord Ashby?”
He shook his head. “I am quite certain I am not.”
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “Who are you, then?”
Bex stepped back and bent forward into a dramatic bow. “Mr. Bexley Brantwood, miss, insignificant cousin of the Duke of Worley.”
For a fleeting moment, the poor girl appeared as though she might become physically ill, her hands rising to her crimson cheeks, but the expression passed almost as quickly as it had come and was replaced with a sagging relief. “Oh, thank heaven.” She said it toward the floor, as though the observation were not intended for his ears at all.
Then she lifted her head again and peered at him for a long moment. “If you have no children, what sort of position…did you…you thought…” She stared, eyes widening as understanding dawned. “You thought I was importuning you to become your…your…” She completed the sentence with a look that implied he was welcome to fill in the missing bits on his own.
“It was a rational conclusion if you see the situation from my perspective,” he said. “Pity we can’t share the story, eh? Ah well. No harm done.”
She crossed her arms and shifted her weight to one side, one dainty toe sliding forward, as she stood peering at him. “Sir, you are being very cavalier about taking liberties with a virtuous young woman.”
“Oh, come now, there’s no need for prudishness. It’s just a harmless kiss, love, and barely one at that. Your virtue is intact.”
She stiffened. “Contrary to your impression of me, I am not in the habit of engaging in casual kissing, harmless or otherwise. As a matter of fact, I have never been kissed.”
She announced it as though it were an achievement worthy of a medal. He studied her. “No, you haven’t, have you?” That much had been clear to him. But why not? She was lovely. She’d already given her age as twenty-one or -two or something. She was certainly old enough.
“Why haven’t you been kissed?” he asked.
“You heed no attention to manners, do you? That is a very impertinent question.”
He grinned languorously at her. “You claim to be scandalized by my liberties and my manners, but you haven’t scampered off yet, have you?”
Her mouth quirked. “I am not a rabbit. I don’t scamper anywhere.” She eyed him more closely and stepped forward rather than away. “I may not be experienced in the area of kisses stolen by libertines, but I am not a child and you don’t frighten me. You’ve already explained that you kissed me in error, due to the mistaken understanding of our conversation. Now that our misunderstanding has been resolved, there is no reason to believe you would take inappropriate liberties again.”
Hmmm. She should not be so sure. He would rather like to attempt it again. She hadn’t really given the thing a fair try. Why hadn’t she been kissed plenty?
He repeated his prior question. “Why haven’t you been kissed?”
“I beg your pardon?” she asked, but she didn’t puff up in indignation. She laughed.
Thank God. He would have been so disappointed in her if she had resorted to missish dramatics.
“I find it very hard to believe you haven’t been kissed, or for that matter why you’re seeking a governess post instead of planning a wedding and a brood of children. What’s wrong with all the gentleman in this village of yours?”
She shook her head. “Thank you for your flattery, but there is no need to be charming. The error was mine, not yours.”
“I’m not particularly known for my charm.”
Her eyes flew to his and stayed there just long enough to cause the heat to rise in her cheeks again. “Well, then,” she said. “I wouldn’t say there is anything particularly wrong with the gentlemen in Beadwell, except there aren’t any—none of an age to be married, anyway. My family hasn’t the funds for any sort of a season and I don’t have a dowry to offer anyhow. I believe I explained this before, but your focus may have been a bit distracted at that point in our conversation.”
In all honesty, he was distracted now. His imagination had produced all sorts of interesting thoughts when he thought she offered herself as his mistress. He found he was quite unable to make those thoughts disappear now that he knew her to be a virginal governess instead. He valiantly attempted to ignore them. “So that is why you seek a governess post?”
“Yes. I do not wish to be a burden to my family.” She smiled at him and the expression was startlingly open and bright. “I gather I have not yet mastered the art of seeking such a position, as the first step would be to apply to the correct prospective employer.”
Bex nodded. She was being a rather good sport about the whole thing. He liked her. He really did.
“And this lack of neighboring men,” he asked, because his curiosity weighed on him, “this is why you’ve yet to be properly kissed?”
She cast him a baleful glance. “Among other reasons, yes.”
“Well, my dear, I have no children nor elderly relative, therefore I cannot offer you a post.”
“I understand that quite clearly now, Mr. Brantwood. Again, my apologies.”
“I can provide some assistance, however, due to the uniqueness of your circumstances.”
“And what assistance is that, Mr. Brantwood?”
He could tell her, but he decided to show her. In one quick motion, he stepped forward and snaked his arm around her waist, drawing her closer as he lowered his mouth to hers.
Chapter Four
He was kissing her. Again!
Oh, goodness.
Then he wasn’t. He pulled away from her and looked down at her with a chiding expression. Her cheeks felt like fire.
He shook his head. “I’m trying very hard to be helpful to you, Miss Betancourt, but you are wasting your opportunity.”
Her eyes darted to his. “What?”
“I’m trying to remedy a lack in your twenty-two-year-old life by kissing you properly.”
“Oh.” She swallowed. “I’m twenty-four,” she added, as though that had any bearing on the situation at all.
Just what did “properly” kissing entail?
“What if someone saw us?” It came out as a whisper and she knew herself enough to admit she wasn’t trying to decline. Was it so sinful, really, to allow this man to kiss her? His point was well made, after all, that her opportunities would be rare.
And he was so…so…well, the sort who seemed to know what kissing was about.
“I think it’s past time to worry about someone coming along, don’t you? Besides, some feel fear of discovery adds to the fun.”
“Really?”
He chuckled low in his throat at the innocence of her question and she immediately regretted voicing it.
“Yes, really,” he confirmed. “Why do you think forbidden loves are so tempting? Kisses shared between husbands and wives are so very ordinary.” He pressed closer. “But secret kisses, shared in stolen moments, arranged with a cryptic note or a meaningful glance—there is where the excitement happens.”
Lucy experienced a horrendous, stomach-twisting guilt at his words. “And you would know the difference,” she asked, her eyes downward, “because you are married?”
He laughed. Or almost laughed. It was no more than a cynical smile accompanied by an amused exhale of air. “Married? Me? God, no. I believe I already mentioned that.”
Had he? Relief surged through her that she had not—even unwillingly—participated in marital infidelity. She looked defiantly up at him. “How would you know, then, if kisses among married folk are no better than ordinary?”
“My dear, one does not have to observe London society for long to arrive at that conclusion,” he said, lifting one finger to tap it on the tip of her nose as though she were a child and he the teacher. “Nothing ruins passion so well as a marriage. The marriage mart is a game and when the game is done, the fun is over.”
Lucy had heard the rumors of the scandals rampant in London society, but surely not all married couples in London were jaded and unfaithful. What of Emma and her husband? She cocked her head at him. “You take a very cynical view of marriage, Mr. Brantwood.”
“I take a practical view, Miss Betancourt. Now, dear, is it your intent to have a conversation or a kiss?”
At his words, Lucy’s eyes involuntarily fell upon his mouth. A feeling of anticipation started low in her belly and spread through her until it tingled at her fingertips. Dear Lord, she had already decided, hadn’t she?
She lifted her eyes to his, feeling very small and very, very inexperienced. She gave a slow, slight nod.
His mouth curved just at one corner to show his pleasure at her response and his eyes—his dark eyes gleamed wickedly. He placed a hand on either side of her waist and drew her forward until the lace on her bodice nearly brushed the front of his waistcoat.
Her head fell back to look up at him, for the difference in their heights was surely a foot or more. She stared, waiting for whatever was to come next, until he laughed softly. She was near enough that she felt rather than heard it—not much more than a vibration in his chest topped with a wry smile.
“Why don’t you close your eyes, Miss Betancourt?” He paused. “No. Tell me your full name.” He lifted his hand and drew his thumb along the ridge of her jaw, from just under one ear to her chin. She felt each spot on his path become individually aware as he touched it.
