Page 40 of The Duchess in His Bed
“I do not involve myself with my clientele.” To do so would result in fathers arriving with shotguns in hand, waving special licenses. Instead he had mothers with heaving bosoms, lips set in a firm line, and cheeks of high color ignited by their wrath sitting before him.
Reaching into her reticule, she pulled out a small leather-bound book and slammed it on the desk. “I submit proof to the contrary. Her journal in which she has catalogued your flirtation.”
“Handed that to you, did she?”
The woman’s shoulders quivered with her indignation, even as she averted her gaze while answering. “No. I found it in a drawer amongst her unmentionables.”
And yet, they were mentioned. “What precisely have I done that offends your sensibilities?”
She snatched up the book and opened it to a page marked with a purple ribbon. “‘Tonight A. T. complimented my eyes. The blue reminds him of the sky as the sun bids farewell to day.’ Such poppycock.”
The words were a bit too flowery to have been delivered by him. No doubt he’d merely told her she had pretty eyes. But everyone was entitled to their fantasies. This girl wrote hers in a journal. Aiden painted his on canvas. Leaning back in his chair, he propped his elbow on his chair, his chin in his hand. “Why? Why is it poppycock?”
“She is a plain girl, Mr. Trewlove. You fill her with hope.”
“Why shouldn’t she have hope?”
“Few gentlemen danced with her last Season. The balls will start up in earnest soon, and once again she will be a wallflower, and it will hurt all the more because within these walls you are making her forget what she is.”
“Or perhaps it won’t hurt as much because within these walls she can dance to her heart’s content.”
“And gamble. And drink.” She shook the journal at him. “She has smoked a cheroot!”
“Have you?”
“Most certainly not.”
“Would you like to?”
Her eyes bulged, her mouth opened and closed several times as though she were a fish tossed onto a riverbank. “Most certainly not.”
Those words came with less conviction this time around. He leaned forward, clasped his hands on his desk, feeling the minutes ticking by, fearful he was going to miss Selena’s arrival. “What say you to this, Lady Fontaine? I will have one of my gents give you a tour and if you see something to which you heartily object, I’ll forbid entry to your daughter in the future.”
Reaching behind him, he pulled on a sash. A handsome young man soon appeared in the doorway. “Richard, give Lady Fontaine a tour. Be sure to stop in the relaxation room. I think she would benefit from having her feet rubbed.”
“By a strange man?” she asked indignantly.
Standing, ready to head down to the gaming floor, he winked at her. “Trust me. You’ll be ever so glad you did.”
Chapter 12
It was madness, his counting of the hours, minutes, seconds since he’d last seen her, the way his attention kept wandering to the doorway through which she should emerge at any time, the tension building within him as the hour neared ten. He knew where she resided. Perhaps he’d go to her. If for no other reason than to reassure himself that she was well—as well as she could be under the circumstances—to see her, to say something that might make her smile. To lift her burden just a tad. To let her know that he cared—
He brought that thought to a grinding halt as though he’d smacked into a brick wall. He didn’tcarefor her. She was a customer he wished to please, to ensure she returned and spent her coins here, even though she had yet to leave any at his tables. He wished he had a proper residence to which he could take her, but he kept rooms here. It was convenient. He worked long hours, late into the night, rising early in the morning. Hours were filled looking over his ledgers, striving to determine how he could increase business. He was of a single purpose: to make himself as wealthy as possible. No, not wealthy—successful. He wanted respect, wanted the circumstances of his birth to no longer matter.
Yes, the ladies here gave him shy looks, smiled at him, and spoke with him, but it was because they were seeking a sort of rebelliousness. And how better to do that than by flirting with a bastard? But only within these walls. Beyond them, they would snub him, cut him, ignore him. Turn their backs on him. He would not be invited into their parlors or ballrooms. He would not be allowed to dine at their tables. He would not be welcomed athers.
She would keep him to the shadows of her life. While on the one hand it grated, on the other he was desperate enough to have her however she stipulated. He understood the terms of their relationship—it was based on the physical only. She wished to be bedded. He wished to bed her.
Beyond that he gave no further thought.
Still when he caught sight of her gliding through the doorway, he envisioned her doing so without the mask, walking into a library where he read, into a dining room where he ate, into a parlor where he lounged, into a bedchamber where he slept, into every room in a grand manor where he resided. He imagined her on his arm striding into shops and taverns and theaters. Strolling through parks. Riding in his barouche. Not that he presently owned one, but no matter what he envisioned himself doing, he imagined her there. Madness indeed.
He made short work of reaching her, aware of the pleasure coursing through him as she bestowed upon him a warm smile. No sadness tonight. No distractions. No unexpected journeys elsewhere. She was here to stay.
Taking her hand, he led her back into the foyer and down a narrow hallway to a set of stairs and didn’t hesitate to head up them.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
