Page 81 of The Counterfeit Scoundrel
He cupped her face. “Then we’ll return to the Fair and Spare. But I refuse to damage your reputation by making an appearance at a ball uninvited and dancing with you in such a public venue.”
“But—”
“No buts.” Taking hold of her, he flipped her onto her back and pinned her into place. “Now, let’s share a different sort of waltz.”
Lowering his head, he took her mouth and she welcomed him.
Your father has made an offer on a replacement for the ship lost at sea a few months back.
After reading the missive once more, Bishop dipped his pen in the inkwell and began scrawling his response to his man of affairs.Offer double.
He didn’t know what the deuce he was going to do with a ship. Lose money on it no doubt. Perhaps haveit refitted as a yacht so he could travel the seas. Just he and Marguerite, alone for a few months, save for the small crew needed to manage it. Away from London during the Season when she would receive invitations to balls. Where she might be tempted to occasionally go in order to flirt and dance with other gentlemen.
He’d been surprised by the fierceness of the jealousy that had shot through him two nights ago when she’d mentioned attending a ball. They were not beholden nor committed to each other. They were simply... lovers of a sort, he supposed. He couldn’t define quite what they were to each other. He knew only that, even though he was no longer a client, his innocence was clear, and no further reason existed for her to remain in his company, he wasn’t yet ready to say farewell.
Unlike when one of his ladies finally got her divorce, and he wished her an abundance of happiness in the future. He never mourned when they ceased coming to see him.She, he would mourn.
Those evening hours before her arrival were the most torturous of his day. He’d increased the wages of his coachman and footman in order to ensure their continued discretion regarding her visiting him here. He was rather certain that with the exception of Perkins, the servants were ignorant of his having a late-night guest. He’d had his butler explain to the staff that, although no ladies were presently calling upon Bishop, he’d grown accustomed to having a bit of nourishment before retiring. Therefore, Cook was still preparing him a tray, while Tom would bring it up. But always before Marguerite arrived. The one time she’d shown up earlier than expected, Bishop had opened the door when Tom knocked and relieved him of the tray—tothe footman’s immense surprise, his eyes going as wide as saucers.
She was his secret. Delicious, gratifying, and delectable.
As she had no wish to marry and neither did he, the arrangement suited them. He was not wooing her. She was not flirtatious. Complete honesty resided between them. More open and honest than any other relationship he’d ever experienced, except perhaps with the Chessmen. Yet, her acquaintance seemedmoresomehow. More fulfilling, more enjoyable, more... necessary.
It was the last that had caused him to experience a measure of unease at the thought of her attending the ball. She might consider herself on the shelf, but there were men aplenty who wouldn’t, men who might decide she would make the perfect wife and would take it into their heads to convince her of the same. With poetic words, earnest attentions, and promises of bliss.
“Sir?”
He jerked his gaze up to find Perkins standing before the desk, a pleat between his brows. Bishop hadn’t heard him enter, wondered if the butler had said something before daring to use the sharp tone that had finally garnered his attention. He also realized he’d only written half the sentence he’d intended for his man of affairs. “What is it, Perkins?”
“A Mrs. Bennett has come to call.”
He was not acquainted with a Mrs. Bennett, which could mean only one thing. He nodded. “I’ll see her.”
After Perkins left and Bishop began tidying his desk—he’d complete the letter later—he wonderedwhy he didn’t feel the sense of chivalry that usually accompanied the arrival of a woman in need of rescuing from a dragon of a husband. Before, he’d always felt as though he was donning armor and preparing to draw a sword in defense of the downtrodden. But instead, he suffered through an overwhelming sense of loss with the realization that helping this woman would probably mean one less night with Marguerite every sennight.
When everything was in place, he took his usual position in the center of the room. The woman following Perkins over the threshold possessed a sturdy frame, with ample curves that for some reason he imagined children burrowing against. Her hair was a mixture of salt and pepper, prematurely going white because she didn’t appear to be much older than forty, if that. Not that age really mattered. Unhappiness cared little about years. “Mrs. Bennett, how might I be of service?”
“Are you the bishop?”
“It’s merely Bishop,” he repeated by rote, and stopped himself from continuing with any further explanation.
“Mrs. Winters shared that you helped her out of a difficult marriage last year and was most gracious while doing so.”
Had Mrs. Winters formed a society of disgruntled wives? Was that the reason she was acquainted with another who needed to be sent his way? “Why don’t you join me in this sitting area here”—near the door because for some reason he wanted her gone as quickly as possible once their business was concluded—“where we can discuss matters in more comfort? Perkins, send in tea.”
Memories of Marguerite bringing it that fateful night when he’d welcomed Mrs. Mallard swamped him. With a sigh, wondering if he’d even notice who delivered it this time, he joined his guest.
Daisy didn’t bother to knock on the door to Bishop’s residence, but simply let herself in. She was entirely comfortable here, and in a way had begun to think of it as their little special place. She’d considered inviting him to her apartment, but her bed wasn’t nearly as large or comfortable. He’d have no room to sprawl out as he did within his own, and she liked studying all the various dips and curves of him when he was on full display, as he often was after they’d made love.
While he always drew a sheet over her to provide her with some warmth afterward, he left himself exposed as though his skin was on fire and he needed to cool off. She would indulge herself with the sight of him. But then it didn’t matter if he was clothed or unclothed, the unobstructed view of him always made her go warm and tingly. He was so beautiful. Sculpted muscles that he’d been very much an artist in creating—although there’d been nothing artistic in the reasoning behind his efforts. He’d wanted the strength in order to stop the brutality. She experienced moments when she wanted to tell her aunt every detail of him. More, she wanted to tell all of England.
He is not as you believe. If you only knew him as I do.
She was near the doorway to the library when she heard the voices. The deep one, she recognized, but then she’d be able to distinguish it from others in a crowd of a thousand. Smooth, rich, and dark. It hadwhispered sweet words and naughty ones in her ear. The other voice, feminine and soft but filled with purpose, was unfamiliar.
“It was my understanding you wouldn’t ask why I wanted him out of my life,” the woman said.
“Your reasons are your own. They matter not one whit to me.”
