Page 5 of My Dark Duke

Perhaps he would take an ice at Gunter's before sauntering along Bond Street, for a glance at the plates in the window of Ackermann's. Or, Sebastian grinned, perhaps he might take his coin and gift it to a lightskirt in Covent Garden for a quick tumble.

The latter was what Sebastian would have done at his age. And if the lad was anything like Sebastian had been in his youth, that particular detour would not take too long.

Sebastian turned his attention back to his correspondence, impatient but aware that the best things came to those who waited.

While it was far from the most prestigious of neighbourhoods, Cheapside was, Sebastian thought, at least somewhat respectable. When Higgins had returned, late in the afternoon, with a page bearing the address of a boarding house on Gracechurch Street, Sebastian had been rather surprised to find himself relieved to learn his country-mouse was not staying in the dangerous Seven Dials.

That he had—unconsciously at least—been worried about Miss Smith's safety, leaving him feeling rather irritated, and thus, he had put off calling on her until later that evening.

In fact, after supper, as he was smoking a cheroot and stubbornly telling himself his interest in Miss Smith was purely carnal, Sebastian decided he would leave off calling on her until the next day.

However, once he had finished his cigar—an excellent Turkish tobacco from Fribourg and Treyer's in Haymarket—his supposed apathy disappeared, and he found himself summoning the footman to prepare a carriage and four.

"I wish to take the Landeau this evening" he instructed, and the footman gave a knowing nod.

The Landeau was one of Sebastian's plainer vehicles, one which he used when he wanted anonymity. Or namely, when he was off to do something scandalous and did not wish to be noted.

Not that he considered offering Miss Smith a chance to reconsider his proposedcarte blancheas scandalous, for it wasn't really, by his standards at least.

Still, the chit might take umbrage if he caused a scene by arriving in a vehicle which bore the ducal arms, and so Sebastian set forth for Cheapside in his plain Landeau with anticipation bubbling in his stomach.

It had been a long time since he had felt this aroused by a woman, he thought, as the carriage wound its way through London's evening traffic. He had come into his title at the mere age of twenty, and at that young age he had been determined to sample every delight London had to offer a man of title and fortune. But a decade of having his every desire sated had left him feeling rather empty and, though the papers reported the opposite, Sebastian had, for the past few years, been far less inclined toward rakery.

Of course, he had kept a beautiful mistress or two, for the sake of keeping up appearances, but his desire for partaking in the pleasure of the flesh had ebbed and waned to almost nothing.

He had resignedly decided that the vanishing of his libido was age finally catching up with him, until Miss Smith had wandered into his home with her tempting curves and beautiful but impertinent mouth.

Desire had made a reappearance, coursing through his veins, and causing him—and other parts of him—to stand to attention.

Now he just needed to persuade Miss Smith that attending to his desire would be an advantageous adventure for them both.

The carriage soon drew to a halt outside a house which could only be described as unremarkable. It was a three-story dwelling with a short flight of steps leading to a black front door, flanked on either side by homes of identical banality. The only thing that distinguished the home from its neighbours, was a polished wooden sign on the railings outside, which read; Mrs Harrod's Boarding House for Christian Women.

It was, Sebastian thought with a wry smile, the least provocative name one could think of for an establishment. Still, he felt rather pleased to learn Miss Smith was not sharing a dinner table with any gentlemen, and that her virtue was being guarded by Mrs Harrod, who Sebastian pictured as being rather formidable.

The carriage had been drawn up outside but a minute, when from one of the windows above, Sebastian spotted an fierce-looking older woman frowning down at the vehicle suspiciously.

Mrs Harrod, Sebastian guessed, and when her face disappeared from the window, he had the sneaking suspicion she was headed his way.

"Drive on," he called, rapping on the roof of the carriage.

He had no wish whatsoever to have to interact with this Mrs Harrod, or explain to her his reasons for being there. He was quite certain that were he to divulge to Mrs Harrod that he wished to spirit one of her charges away to live as his mistress, she would scream blue-murder.

As the carriage neared the end of Gracechurch Street, Sebastian rapped on the roof again to indicate for the driver to stop.

He had not prepared any kind of plan, he realised, as he peered out of the carriage window at the dark, empty street. Desire—and a dash of arrogance—had made him assume he could simply stroll up and knock on Miss Smith's door and be gratefully received. This, he realised irritably, was not to be the case.

Not only would Mrs Harrod refuse him entry, but he might inadvertently damage Miss Smith's standing in her eyes, if Sebastian were to call so late in the evening. If Sebastian were a cad, he might think this point in his favour. If by calling he accidentally made Miss Smith homeless, she might be far more amenable to his proposal of acarte blanche.

But Sebastian, for all his faults, was no cad. Nor would his pride allow him to force Miss Smith into his bed. He wanted her, he was willing to pursue her—but when he bedded her, he wanted her to come willingly to him.

Sebastian sighed as the minutes passed and no inspiration as to what he should do next struck; pursuing an innocent was far harder work than chasing after one of thedemi-monde.

Outside, the lamplighter arrived to light the single gas-lamp which stood on the corner of Gracechurch Street and Lombard Street. He was late, Sebastian noted, for darkness had long fallen, though perhaps that did not matter so much in an area like Cheapside, where the streetlamps were so few that they made little difference to the darkness.

The lamplighter clambered atop his ladder, and as he brought the gaslight aflame, its yellow light illuminated the footpath beneath, bathing a passing figure in its glow.

Miss Smith.

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