From London with Love

by Diana Quincy

  “He doesn’t know anything about you.” She caught the tinge of contempt in his voice. “You pretend to be this colorless, mute little thing when he is around.”

  Heat burned in her chest. She looked at him. “It’s what all men require, isn’t it?”

  “It’s not what I would want,” he said softly, his blue gaze on her face.

  “Yes, you made that abundantly clear when you jilted me five years ago. Thankfully, Edmund has an entirely different view.”

  “You think to trick him.”

  “Nonsense.” She huffed an incredulous breath. “It’s a mating dance. We all behave in certain ways depending upon our surroundings. Do you think the fortune hunters are more sincere? What about the titled but impoverished peers who nab the wealthiest heiress they can find? What other option is left to young girls of the ton? It is a game that we must play to win. Or else we are condemned to a life on the sidelines of ballrooms as the objects of pity.”

  “You deserve better.”

  “Yes, I do, and Edmund will give it to me. He’ll take me to Paris and then Italy after that.”

  “That’s not what I meant.” He paused. “Do you love him?”

  No, I loved you, but you broke my heart. “I love the lifestyle he will provide for me, a life of travel and discovery.”

  “He’s a fool.”

  “Why?” she demanded, hurt and anger stirring in her belly. “Just because you didn’t want me, you assume no other man could?”

  His eyes went wide. “Of course not.”

  She didn’t want his pity. “I owe you my thanks. You did me a service.” She couldn’t stomach the idea of his feeling sorry for her. “It was a lucky thing you jilted me on our wedding day; we would never have suited.”

  His expression hardened. “What I meant to say”—he placed his hands palms down on the worktable and leaned into them, bringing his face closer to hers—“is that he’s a fool because he doesn’t know enough about you to understand what a formidable, spectacular woman you are.”

  “Oh.” Emilia exhaled a shocked breath. Formidable? Spectacular?

  “I won’t intrude upon you any longer,” he said coldly before straightening to his full height, bowing, and quitting the room.

  She stared after him as he exited, straight-backed and proud, and flattened a hand against the pounding in her chest. She didn’t know what to make of Sparrow’s pronouncement, but the anger that had gotten her all riled up drained away, leaving her feeling slightly giddy.

  Smiling secretly to herself, she slid into the rickety red chair to contemplate his words at her leisure.

  —

  Sparrow wasn’t in the mood to socialize after his unsettling exchange with Emilia, but he had a long-standing engagement to have supper with his friend the Duke of Sunderford and decided to honor it. When he arrived at Sunny’s Grosvenor Square address at the appointed time, the butler directed him to the gallery.

  “The gallery?” he asked. “I thought we were dining.”

  “His lordship and his guests are engaged in a game of croquet, and supper will be served there.” He led Sparrow in the direction of the gallery but stopped short of going all the way inside.

  As soon as Sparrow entered the long chamber, he understood the reason for the butler’s reticence. Sunny, clad only in his small clothes, was engaged in a game of croquet with three very naked strumpets. A lone liveried footman stood at attention at the far end of the gallery, staring straight ahead. It was an incongruous sight, the giggling whores in this grand old room, with its ornate plastered ceilings and cream paneled walls adorned with proper family portraits, marble busts, and other artworks.

  Although Sunny was a bachelor renowned for his scandalous ways, society was forgiving because the duke was young, handsome, and in possession of a magnificent title and fortune. Such were the ways of the ton, as Sparrow was coming to learn. Even Emilia was clamoring for a chance to attend the duke’s soiree.

  One of the lightskirts, a golden-haired, slender girl with small high breasts, hit a ball with her club and watched it sail through the small hoop on the carpeted gallery floor. “I did it,” she said gleefully, jumping up and down, her small breasts bouncing.

  Sunny, who had an arm slung over the alabaster shoulder of a buxom redhead, fondled one of the woman’s ample breasts as he watched the play. “Excellent shot, m’dear. First rate. I think Sylvie should congratulate you.”

  The third woman, exotic, dark skinned, and long limbed, walked over to the blonde and the two engaged in a very amorous openmouthed kiss.

  “Mmm, yes.” Sunny watched the two with avid interest. “Very good. Yes, indeed.”

  He settled into one of the several upright salmon-colored upholstered chairs that lined the gallery walls like soldiers standing sentry. “Jane, darling,” he said to the redhead, pointing in the direction of his lap. “Would you be so kind?” The redhead knelt before him.

  Although Sunny’s licentious gatherings were a bit much for Sparrow’s tastes, he did appreciate the mindless sexual transactions they offered, which satisfied a man’s baser physical needs without any ensuing complications.

  “Ah, Vale,” Sunny said languidly, once he spotted him. “Do join us, I am a bit outnumbered.” The redhead smiled in Sparrow’s direction before applying her attention, and her crimson-painted lips, to the duke’s jutting cockstand.

  “Sylvie.” The duke addressed one of the moaning girls, both of whom were overdoing their performances a bit, in Sparrow’s opinion. “Do help our friend get more comfortable.” His hosting duties complete, Sunny closed his eyes and gave himself over to the redhead servicing him, his hands clutching her head as it bobbed against his spread thighs.

  The dark-skinned girl, a beauty with midnight, almond-shaped eyes, sauntered over to Sparrow and laughingly pulled him over to a chair a few paintings away from Sunny’s, pushing him down until his arse hit the cushion. The exotic beauty held his gaze as her practiced hand moved against his groin.

  A vague unease stirred in his gut. He was normally up for a bout of mindless sex, but at the moment, his mind was very much engaged. Too much so. With visions of the hurt and anger etched in Emilia’s face when she’d mentioned their broken betrothal.

  Remorse raked his insides. Was it possible he’d truly hurt her by calling off the wedding? His emotions had not been engaged during their betrothal, and he’d assumed the same to be true of her since their parents had arranged the match. Scrubbing both hands down his face, he exhaled a loud, frustrated breath. Hellfire and damnation. Women’s true feelings were more difficult to decode than the hieroglyphics he’d seen in Egypt while countering French attempts to limit British access to India.

  His attention shifted to the beauty kneeling before him. When their gazes met, she smiled, seductive and welcoming, her true thoughts masked as her fingers moved to undo the placket of his pantaloons. He knew she would prig him and pretend to enjoy it, whatever her true feelings, because she needed to put clothes on her back and nourishment on her table.

  Dread swirled in his belly. What if Emilia’s cool reserve the morning of their canceled nuptials had also been a mask, as genuine as the forced enthusiasm of the whore on her knees before him?

  He covered both of Sylvie’s hands with his, stilling her exploration. “Perhaps later.”

  She misunderstood his reluctance. “I can make you ready,” she said, referring to his limp member’s very apparent lack of interest. “Just give me some time.”

  “It’s not that.” He dug into his pocket and withdrew a couple of coins, which he dropped into her open palm. With a shrug that hinted at her true indifference, she rose and sauntered away to rejoin the blonde in their croquet game. Once the redhead completed her task with Sunny, she rose and went to join the two others.

  After a few minutes, the duke opened his eyes. “Not up for a bit of sport?”

  “Not this evening. It’s been a long day.” Thanks to a tiresome, maddening, captivating woman who had him al
l twisted up inside.

  The footman approached with two full glasses on a salver. Sunny took one. “Perhaps you’ve become too devoted to Lady Harrington.”

  Sparrow rubbed his eyes. “She wants to marry me and put her fortune at my disposal.”

  Sunny straightened. “For God’s sake, don’t shackle yourself to some woman just to pay off some debts. I’ve told you a thousand times that I’ll give you the coin.”

  Sparrow took a drink from the proffered tray. “Is this arrack?” he asked the footman, who nodded in return. The duke’s staff knew him well.

  Sunny’s face twisted with distaste. “How you stand that cloying punch I’ll never know. A real man enjoys brandy.” As if to punctuate his point, the duke drained his glass. “Now, about the coin—”

  “No.” Sparrow interrupted. “I’ve told you a thousand times that I won’t take your money.”

  “That’ll be all, John.” Sunny spoke to the footman. “I’ll summon if I have need of you.” As the footman withdrew, the duke returned his attention to Sparrow. “If you wed Lady Harrington, will she expect you not to dip your wick elsewhere?”

  Sparrow shook his head before taking a long swallow of arrack. “All she asks for is discretion.”

  Sunny looked impressed. “Beautiful, wealthy, and forgiving. You could do worse, I suppose, considering there is no other way to get your hands on the coin you require.”

  “One could earn it.”

  “Don’t be so plebeian,” Sunny said with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Viscounts don’t work for coin, they marry for it. Lady Harrington is a beauty and she doesn’t require fidelity. What more could you want?”

  He didn’t know himself, so he could hardly explain it to his friend. He ran his gaze over the paintings lined up against the opposite wall, which made him think of Boadicea. “You’ve an impressive gallery.” He’d never been in this particular part of Sunny’s opulent town house before this evening.

  “I know nothing at all about the stuff. I have a curator who handles the collection and acquires new pieces.” Sunny rose and went to the dark-skinned beauty. Taking her by the hand, he led her to the sofa against the gallery wall. He sat and positioned the beauty atop his lap so that she straddled him. “I have more entertaining matters to attend to.”

  “I’ll leave you to it then.” Sparrow rose to take his leave as his friend focused his attention on the strumpet’s firm breasts. Sparrow didn’t begrudge the man his fun, but his own interest in this type of carnal sport had dissipated as surely as a bucket of ice water douses a flame.

  Sunny’s eyes widened. “You’re not staying?”

  Murmuring something about a headache, Sparrow made his apologies before quitting the gallery.

  Sunny’s voice trailed after him. “If you’re going to behave like a monk anyway, you may as well marry Lady Harrington.”

  Sparrow didn’t answer. He made his way down the stairs and headed for home. On arriving, he called for Gibbs to prepare a bath. When it was ready, he gratefully sank into the steaming water and scrubbed himself clean.

  Chapter 8

  “Il est magnifique, a right rum duke.” Sophie peered at the drawing adorning the pale wall at the British Museum. “How old did you say this is?”

  “It was drawn almost three hundred years ago.” Emilia dragged her sketch pad out of the weather-beaten leather satchel she used to carry her art supplies. True to his word, Sparrow had escorted her and her maid in through one of the museum’s side entrances fifteen minutes after closing and then wandered off with one of the guards, speaking in low tones with their heads bent together.

  He’d been courteous and attentive when he’d picked her up in his carriage, both ignoring their last heated exchange, and his unexpected outburst about her being formidable and spectacular. He couldn’t have meant the words, could he? Otherwise, he would have married her five years ago. It was much more likely he’d been trying to make her feel better.

  “Look at those muscles and…other things.” Sophie smirked. “Do you think all culls looked this fine back then?”

  “I imagine that centuries ago the male form was much the way as it is now.” Emilia drew out her charcoal pencil. She didn’t know quite what to make of Sophie, who was refreshingly unlike any other lady’s maid she’d ever encountered. Although she still missed Mabel, the French girl was proving to be a diverting companion. “Then as now, some men cut a fine figure, while others do not.”

  “C’est vrai.” One hand on her hip, the other fisted under her chin, Sophie studied the image of the well-formed naked reclining man. “This one, he looks a little like Sparrow.”

  Emilia’s cheeks went hot. “Oh?” The image of Sparrow in a state of undress—looking very much like the Adonis-like figure in the drawing—floated into her mind and lodged itself firmly there. “Are you in a position to know?”

  “Mais oui.” Sophie spoke matter-of-factly. “I have seen him fencing without his shirt. And the man’s pantaloons, well, you may have noted they do not leave much to the imagination, and what they do hide, I can picture for myself.”

  Emilia had noticed. The current style for gentlemen called for snug coats and breeches that looked like they had to be peeled off. It was a style that showed Sparrow’s virile form to excellent advantage. Feeling warm, she pulled at her fichu, loosening the lace neck scarf to let in some air. “I do see what you mean.”

  Sophie moved on, pointing this time to a painting depicting a half-naked, full-figured female. “This artist, he liked his women with some fat on them.”

  Emilia sketched as they conversed. She didn’t have much time; her two hours would be up before she knew it. “It is interesting that the view of consummate male beauty has not changed over the centuries, yet the ideal female form changes from robust to slender, depending on the time period.”

  The ton’s current definition of ideal beauty centered around small breasts and a trim, almost boyish form, practically the opposite of Emilia’s, with her plump breasts, round hips, and lush thighs.

  “It’s unfortunate I wasn’t born during the Renaissance period,” she continued. Sophie, who had wandered over to another drawing, shot her a questioning look. “That was a time when Rubenesque women—females with extra weight on them—were considered to be very attractive,” Emilia explained. She had contemplated embarking on a decreasing regimen before the wedding, but the boredom of being cooped up inside most days had only made her indulge all the more when the tea tray came in.

  “I think you are wrong,” Sophie said. “You have the form of a courtesan.”

  Affronted, Emilia’s head shot up from her sketch pad, shock bubbling inside of her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “No, no, it is a compliment, not an insult. A courtesan is a man’s ideal woman, a female with round breasts and full hips. This is what men truly desire.”

  Emilia stared at her. “The French certainly have an interesting view of female beauty.”

  “Pffft.” Sophie moved on to the drawing of fully clothed old man. “It is universal, the desire for such a woman. You could tempt any man, should you put your mind to it.”

  What about a man like Sparrow? The thought popped into Emilia’s head before she could censor it.

  Sophie tipped her chin in the direction of the hunched form and lined face in the drawing before her. “You could even wake up his…um…desire.”

  Emilia shook her head at her maid’s impertinence, but at the same time she was coming to enjoy Sophie’s direct, slightly improper manner. “Your people seem to have a very unique viewpoint. Perhaps I should have moved to France years ago.”

  “You will be there soon enough, after you marry, non?”

  “Yes. In just a few weeks.” Normally, envisioning her move to Paris left her restless with anticipation, but not today. Today, it made her feel anxious. Telling herself not to be silly, she shook off the sensation and refocused on her work.

  Once the two hours were up, Sparrow made his way back to th
e gallery to collect Emilia. After discussing security measures with one of the museum guards, he’d given her privacy while she worked but had also stayed close enough to assure himself of her safety.

  His initial instinct to ignore their emotional exchange in her art studio had given way to an unrelenting need to clear the air between them, to assure himself that the extreme measure he’d taken five years ago to protect her hadn’t caused severe emotional distress.

  “Sophie,” he said upon entering the gallery, “please will you give us a moment.” The lady’s maid left them without a word, but the knowing look she shot him before exiting spoke volumes. He wondered what she surmised lay between him and Emilia.

  The lady in question didn’t bother to look up when he approached her; her pencil continued moving deftly along in short, self-assured strokes.

  “May I see how it’s coming along?” he asked.

  “No.” She closed the sketchbook with a snap and shoved it into an old leather satchel that looked as if it had seen better days. “You may not.”

  “Whyever not? It seems like a small reward, given that I’m the reason you’re able to sketch here at all.”

  “If you feel that way, then you should have negotiated a better deal.” She gathered her pencils and pens. “Our agreement was that, in exchange for these afternoons at the museum, I do not leave the house without adequate escort.”

  “In other words, your safety is my reward.”

  She dropped the drawing implements into her bag. “Those were your terms, not mine.” She stood. “Shall we go?”

  “Before we do.” He hesitated. “I should like to clear the air about the other afternoon.”

  “I don’t see the need.” She tried to press pass him, but he caught her arm. Her soft floral scent swept over him.

  “It’s just that…” he stammered. “I never intended to hurt you when I cried off from the wedding. I want you to know that.”

  “That was a long time ago.” She’d turned her head away so that he could not see her face, but the air between them pulsed with tension. “It’s over and done.”