The Viscount's Bawdy Bargain

by Connie Lane

  “You need a bit of advice. To ’elp put your fears to rest.” Madame bustled closer. “Let me see you give such a smile that will make ’Is Lordship sit up and take notice.”

  “I cannot. I—”

  “You’re not smiling.”

  “Very well.” Willie gave in but only because she knew Madame would not let go of the subject until she was well satisfied. She tried for a smile and Madame cringed.

  “You don’t want to look as if you’re going to bite the man’s ’ead off,” Madame told her. “Smile. Natural-like. Like you’re as ’appy as can be to set your eyes on ’im.”

  “Like this?” Willie tried again.

  “Better,” Madame assured her. “Only you’ll want to remember that ’e ain’t one of your brothers. Add some ’eat to it, my girl. Like ’e’s the only man in the world.”

  “It’s foolish!”

  “As foolish as practicin’ what ’e was goin’ to say to that Markham woman?”

  “More foolish than that. At least there was a purpose for rehearsing what he was going to say to Devonna Markham. He was, after all, thinking of marrying the girl.”

  “Well, ’e won’t be thinkin’ of marryin’ you!” For some reason Willie could not understand, Madame was pleased by the thought. “After you’re done with the man, ’e won’t be able to think of a thing but pullin’ you into ’is arms and—”

  “Madame, really. You are too wicked!” Willie would never have the daring to do what Madame suggested. Even if she did have the desire. Yet there was a certain pleasure to be had from thinking she might have such power over any man. Especially when that man was Somerton.

  “That’s it!” Madame clapped her hands together, as pleased as could be by the smile that had somehow crept over Willie’s expression when she did not realize it. “But just because you’re smilin’ doesn’t mean you can stand there as if you’ve a broomstick up your back. Relax.” She demonstrated, leaning forward just a little, the pose welcoming—and suggestive enough to allow anyone who might be looking a brief and tantalizing glimpse of her breasts.

  Willie felt the blood drain from her face. “Smiling is one thing, surely. I cannot—”

  “Don’t be a cabbage ’ead. Of course you can.” Madame took hold of Willie’s arm and tugged her forward just a bit. “There. You see. You bend as well as any other woman.”

  “But if I did…” Compared to the gowns Willie had seen at the dinner party, her own plain dress was drab and austere. It was however, as was the fashion, cut low over her breasts and when she bent forward as Madame suggested, she glanced down and was shocked by all she saw. “A real lady would never—”

  “Don’t fool yourself. ’Ow do you think all the real ladies find real men to warm their beds?”

  “It’s shocking.”

  “It’s an art.”

  “But he would think me bold.”

  “Men love bold women.”

  “And wicked.”

  “Though half of them would never admit it, they love wicked women as well.”

  “And what would I do if—” The very thought was too much to even consider, and Willie swallowed the words with a gulp.

  “If ’e notices, you mean?” The ready smile Madame had been wearing faded bit by bit, replaced by a look so bittersweet and so filled with wisdom, there was no doubt Madame knew what she was talking about. “’E’ll be a married man soon enough. It may very well be all you’ll ever have of ’im.”

  The words settled inside Willie like a weight. “You’re right. And I admit that it is tempting. More than tempting, if you must know the truth. To spend even one night with Lord Somerton…” Her words dissolved on the end of a sigh and her foolish fantasy along with them. “I want more than that,” she told Madame and reminded herself. “I don’t want him to see me as just a bit of muslin he can use for his pleasure and abandon just as easily. I would rather he felt something for me. Something of the affection I have for him. And if he does not…well, then I would rather have no part in his life at all.”

  “You’re talkin’ about love?” Madame shook her head sadly. “Oh my girl, I am sorry. I ’ad no idea you’ve got it so bad!”

  It was far too early for Somerton to return, which was why Willie decided her ears were playing tricks on her when she thought she heard the front door open and close. She glanced up and tipped her head, but as there was no other sound, she told herself she was being imaginative and went back to her book.

  According to Mr. Hexam, who had been kind enough to fill her in on the details of the seventh heaven that awaited those few fortunate souls lucky enough to be invited to Almack’s, the balls and suppers there often went on nearly until dawn. It would be hours before Somerton was home, and though she knew she could best spend those hours in her own room and in her own bed, Willie was not yet ready for sleep. She was used to staying up to listen for the sound of Somerton’s carriage and besides, on the nights she waited for him, she had acquired something of a secret indulgence.

  When Somerton was gone, she often spent time in his library reading his books.

  It was a small, eminently satisfying reward for all her hard work. At least when the book was engaging. It also helped to keep her mind off where Somerton had gone, what he might be doing and if this time, the marriage prospect she had sent him off to meet just might be the woman who would win his heart.

  Her current choice of reading matter was one of Mrs. Mordefi’s early works and, very much engaged even as she was frightened by the story of a vengeful ghost and a ruined abbey, Willie tucked her bare feet up under her and adjusted her lightweight shawl over her nightgown, tilting the book toward the single candle that glowed next to her chair.

  It would have been far easier to concentrate on the words on the page in front of her if she could forget everything Madame had said earlier in the evening. All those things about Somerton’s face and Somerton’s smile and Somerton’s voice, the one that Madame assured her—and Willie knew for a fact—could easily send a shiver up a woman’s spine.

  And though she did not and never would know it for a fact, she could well imagine that the other things Madame had said were true, as well.

  If the words were right, if the lights were low, she was sure Somerton’s voice could send shivers to other places in a woman’s body.

  The very thought caught Willie off guard and she sucked in a little breath of surprise. But though in front of Madame she might have had to pretend that such thoughts did not send her head soaring at the same time they made her body feel as if it had been set down a little too close to the fireplace flames, she could not pretend so well to herself. She closed the book, tipped her head back and sighed.

  “It’s no wonder the family coffers are empty and I am sent out, hat in hand and carrying the old and honorable family title with a To Let sign hanging from it. My God, woman, you are burning down all my candles!”

  The sound of Somerton’s voice right behind her made Willie shriek and jump to her feet.

  “I’m sorry, m’lord.” The answer was as instinctive as the curtsy she dropped him. It wasn’t until she was already on her feet that she realized her toes were showing and that she was dressed in nothing but a nightgown. Its sleeves went down nearly to the tips of her fingers. Its neck went up nearly to her chin. It was wide enough to hold at least two of Willie and she was sure Somerton had seen far more uncovered flesh on the women he had danced the evening away with at Almack’s.

  Which didn’t stop her from feeling as if she were standing naked in front of him.

  She tugged her shawl closer around her shoulders and tried to stand so that the hem of her nightgown hid her feet. “I didn’t mean to…That is, you can take the cost of the candle out of my wages, surely, it’s just that I—”

  “Willie!”

  By the time Willie settled herself enough to look up into Somerton eyes, she saw that he was laughing. “I am the one who is sorry,” he said. “It was wicked of me to tease. But I saw you here s
o deep in thought and I simply couldn’t help myself. You must excuse my poor jest.” In keeping with his clothing—the old-fashioned knee breeches and dress coat with long tails that was de rigueur for Almack’s—he dropped her a deep and showy bow.

  Damn!

  The word rumbled through Nick’s head along with the realization that he was staring at the carpet and wondering how he’d gotten himself into a situation he wasn’t quite sure how he was going to get out of.

  If he had any idea of how Willie was dressed—or more precisely, undressed—he never would have dared walk into the room and start a conversation with her.

  Then again, if he hadn’t walked into the room, he would have missed out on a most delightful treat.

  He raised himself from the bow slowly, allowing his gaze to slide up Willie as he did. Though she did her best to hide them, her bare toes peeked out from the hem of her nightgown and something about the sight made Nick smile. He looked up farther still, past the billowing yards of fabric, stopping only as long as was polite—not nearly long enough—to study the way the muted light of the candle threw soft shadows against her breasts and outlined her nipples.

  As if she could tell, Willie tugged her shawl tighter around her and his mouth suddenly dry, his gut twisting with a sensation that was part pleasure, part pain, Nick forced himself to look farther still. The neckline of the nightgown was far too high to reveal anything at all interesting, yet there was something alluring about it nonetheless. The mystery? He had never been taken with modest maids before.

  There was no mystery to the fact that his fingers itched to touch the hair that was down around Willie’s shoulders. It spilled over her like a sunset, hugging her breasts, stroking her neck.

  Much as he wanted to do.

  The realization did not come at him unawares. Ever since the night of the dinner party, he had looked at Willie differently. If it was a good thing or bad, he couldn’t say. He knew only that it was madness and that it sang through his veins like fire.

  Not precisely correct, he reminded himself.

  He also knew he could not act upon his urges.

  Keeping the thought firmly in mind, Nick scrambled for words that might sound even remotely like an excuse for his behavior. “I must admit I am feeling frolicsome,” he said, smiling again when his glance glided back down to her toes. “I am so damnably happy to be home!”

  “But it’s too early.” Willie’s gaze went to the tall case clock that stood in the corner. “It is not yet midnight and surely, the festivities at Almack’s—”

  “The festivities at Almack’s were patently dull!” As if it might get rid of the remnants of the evening—and, if he were smart and particularly lucky, the uncontrollable impulse he had to pull Willie into his arms—he scraped his hands over his face. “Passing the time of day with empty-headed misses and the tabbies who keep an eye on them! Pretending for all the world as if you’re enjoying yourself when all you can think is that you can’t wait to be gone from the place! The dancing was pleasant enough, I suppose, but the food was atrocious and the women…well, they don’t have much to recommend them, I’m afraid, except fathers with money.”

  “Even Miss Greenlaw?”

  “Miss Green—” For a moment, Nick wasn’t sure who she was talking about. “Emma Greenlaw? You mean the young lady you insisted I meet?”

  “I can hardly insist, m’lord.” Willie raised her chin in the kind of subtle act of defiance that showed a spirit he would have paid a hundred quid to see from any one of the green girls at Almack’s. “I can only suggest. After all, you are the one who must make the final decision as to who you should and shouldn’t meet.”

  “You’re right, of course.” Nick went over to the sideboard and poured two glasses of brandy. He came back across the room and handed one to Willie.

  “Emma Greenlaw belongs on the shouldn’t meet list,” he said, lifting the glass in a toast and clinking it softly against hers. He knew it must have been a trick of the light. Willie looked as relieved at hearing the news as he did at reporting it. “She’s the wrong sort of girl altogether.”

  “Wrong?” The way her eyebrows slanted told him it was incomprehensible. Thinking the matter through, she took a sip of her brandy and when she was done, she ran her tongue over her lips, and Nick caught himself thinking he wouldn’t mind running his tongue over her lips, too.

  “I looked into the young lady’s background quite thoroughly,” she assured him, her comment breaking into the thoughts that had no business in his head. “She has a good name and an excellent income. Whatever could be wrong with her?”

  “Nothing, I suppose. That is, if you like the rugged, outdoorsy type of girl.” He pulled a face, looking to make light of the situation as much to distract himself as to make Willie smile.

  “She’s a big girl. Taller even than I. Wide shoulders.” He demonstrated, holding his hands far apart. “Jaw like a hatchet. Talks about horses. And hunting. And riding to the hounds. Wouldn’t be surprised if she was wearing Hessians under that maidenly white dress of hers. No doubt they were coated with manure.”

  The description was preposterous, and he was rewarded for it when Willie laughed. “I thought, m’lord, that you were more anxious than ever to find a wife.”

  So had he.

  Nick shook the thought away in time to hear Willie say, “Are you sure boots coated with manure are enough of a reason to reject the lady in question?”

  “Positive!” It was the truth and Nick did not mind admitting it. “That and the fact that when she dances, she uses those boots to trod upon the feet of unsuspecting gentlemen.”

  If Willie had been there getting her feet stomped, she wouldn’t have smiled.

  “Does that mean you waltzed?” she asked and just as quickly, her smile faded and her mouth fell open. She set her glass down on the nearest table.

  “I’m sorry, m’lord,” she said. “It is surely none of my business to ask.”

  “Why isn’t it?” Anxious to bring back that smile that revealed the dimple in her left cheek, Nick stepped nearer and plunked his glass down next to Willie’s. “What’s wrong with asking about the waltz?”

  Color rose in her cheeks and she glanced away. “I needn’t tell you. There are some who say it’s a wanton dance.”

  “And the Prince Regent himself who declares it most pleasing.”

  “Is it?” She looked at him, her eyes gleaming with a curiosity that was impossible to resist.

  Somerton bowed. “Would you care to try it and see?”

  “We have no dance floor,” she said, looking around as if to remind him they were in the library. “And there are no other dancers. No music.”

  “Then we’ll just have to make our own.”

  Before she could remind him that it was absurd—and long before he was willing to allow himself to listen—Somerton did what he’d been wanting to do since the moment he walked into the room and saw Willie in her nightdress. In one fluid motion, he moved forward and scooped her into his arms.

  11

  For a moment, Willie could not breathe and it was all she could do to keep her knees from collapsing like a poorly made pudding.

  Just as quickly, she reminded herself that they were dancing—nothing more—and as etiquette demanded, she gave her hand to Somerton. His fingers closed over hers, warm and firm, and she stood as still as a stone, waiting for him to prop his hand at the place where her waist met her hip. Short of running from the room and looking all the more foolish and as guilty as her wayward emotions made her feel, she could do nothing at all when he reached for her but take a deep breath, let it out slowly, and enjoy the heat that flowed from his hand and through the thin fabric of her nightdress.

  “This is how we begin,” he said, and if she wasn’t so busy grabbing for any shred of composure she could, she might have taken the time to notice that he sounded just as breathless as she felt. “The gentleman greets his partner, leads her to the dance floor and then we stand just like this
, just for a moment.”

  A moment was not nearly long enough.

  “Then the music begins,” Somerton said, “The rest, as they say, is as easy as falling off a log.”

  “Only if one knows how to fall off a log,” she told him and because she did not dare to look up into his eyes, she kept her gaze on his lips. She watched them quirk into something that was almost a smile.

  “Are you telling me, Miss Culpepper, that you have never fallen off a log?”

  Something told her that ever so subtly, the subject had changed. Unable to resist, she glanced up and was met with an expression that hovered somewhere between I expected as much and what a shame.

  She had no doubt they were no longer talking about dancing.

  “I have never fallen off a log,” Willie admitted and in spite of the fact that it terrified her to think what it might mean and where it might lead, she could not help it; suddenly, she found herself offering him the kind of smile Madame had said no man could resist.

  Madame was right.

  As if it were a physical thing that traveled through the air and struck with a force that was both unexpected and impossible to defend against, she saw Somerton flinch beneath the potency of her smile.

  He did not, however, shy away. Rather, she felt the pressure of his hand increase against hers and the small, nearly imperceptible movement he made to draw her closer. It was that—along with the thread of satisfaction that wound through her when she realized that her smile could have such power over him—that made her bold.

  “I have never danced, either, m’lord,” she said, her voice as light as her spirits suddenly felt. “My father thought it immoral.”

  “Your father is a fool.”

  “He said it wasn’t right. For a man…and a woman…” She glanced down to the place where his body was only inches from hers and when she glanced up again, she realized she had leaned closer—much as Madame had instructed her to and she had insisted she would never be so impudent to do. “He said such familiarity would surely lead to wantonness.”