Page 4 of Harpy of the Ton
The man outside was staring directly at her.
Eyes the color of sharp steel met her gaze, their expression rendering her helpless, as if she were the prey mesmerized by her predator, understanding the futility of any attempt to flee. But rather than the lust she saw in most men—lust for her fortune, or her looks—his gaze was searching, probing, threatening to expose the weak, vulnerable soul hidden beneath her façade. He had only to reach out…
No—stop it!
She stumbled back, retreating from the window until he was out of sight.
She wasn’t some coy, lovesick maiden ready to make a fool of herself over a gardener.
She was Lady Arabella Ponsford—soon to be the Duchess of Dunton. She had status.
And for a woman in her position, status—not freedom—was the best she could hope for.
Chapter Two
Sweet swiving heaven—shewas the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.
She must be Dunton’s fiancée—Lady Arabella Ponsford.
Bella…
The name suited her, for shewasbeautiful. With her pale face and expressive blue eyes, she reminded him of a princess trapped in an ogre’s lair—her porcelain features bred into her through generations of aristocrats. Doubtless she could trace her ancestral line to William of Normandy’s conquest.
How amusing that those Society layabouts considered themselves better than others by virtue of knowing who their ancestors were—as if it mattered! More important was who, andwhat, a man was. Here and now.
And the woman in the window—here and now—was exquisite.
Doubtless, like all fine ladies, she’d disintegrate at the slightest touch.
Which didn’t bode well for her wedding night with that lecher Dunton and his bulbous belly and multiple chins. Not to mention his voracious appetite for bedsport that was enough to turn the stomach of even the most hardened whore.
Lawrence’s mind drifted to last night, and Millie’s ministrations. Millie—with her ripe, round curves, plush lips, and ready thighs that had parted so eagerly for him, and the anticipation of his coin.
He’d not begrudged Millie her shilling. She’d earned it well, riding his cock until he exploded with pleasure—then, for an extra sixpence, she remained in his bed until dawn, when she woke him in a very delectable fashion, pleasuring him with that luscious mouth more before she slipped out of his chamber to resume her duties at the inn.
The best harlot at the King’s Head, the innkeeper said—and he wasn’t wrong. Worth every penny, Millie was. She sold her body well.
The woman in the window—Lady Arabella—had sold herself for a title. But she’d take little pleasure from it. She had surrendered herself to a man she hardly knew—her chaperone would have made sure ofthat. She would surrender her freedom at the altar, whereas Millie enjoyed the freedom to select her partners at will, taking her own pleasure from each one while she earned an honest living.
No doubt the lady in the window considered herself the more fortunate of the two. Like an exotic bird bred in captivity, she knew no other life. She’d never know the sheer joy that Millie—or any woman who relished her sexuality—expressed when she cried out with pleasure at a man’s touch.
His manhood twitched as he allowed himself a wicked thought…
What might it be like to take Lady Arabella—to have that brittle body bloom at his touch as he taught her pleasure? Or to hear her sighs of ecstasy as he entered her for the first time, having prepared her for his cock?
Or scream his name while he fucked the ladylike demeanor out of her?
He drew in a sharp breath to temper the urge to bury his fingers in her hair, to tear out those hairpins keeping those pristine little curls in place…and to rip that prim little gownoff her and pull her into the dirt—to his level, where men and women drew every last droplet of pleasure out of rutting.
She’s not for the likes of you.
His conscience—the rational, practical part of him—shattered the dream and returned him to reality. He was a widower, with three children to feed, and, as such, should keep such fanciful thoughts to himself.
He drove the shovel into the ground, focusing on the motion as he dug a hole for the next shrub. A symmetrical pattern—that was what Dunton had instructed. Bloody symmetrical patterns, forcing nature to conform to straight lines. Didn’t those soulless aristocrats realize that workingwithnature, enhancing her natural form, would create a far superior garden?
But he had to take work where he could find it—even if it was for a foul-tempered duke known for treating his subordinates with cruelty, who stank of unwashed flesh and a gaseous constitution.
Lawrence grinned to himself. At least he wouldn’t have to endure the fat duke puffing and wheezing over him in bed while he availed himself of his marital rights.
