Page 50 of The Virgin and the Viscount

Sullivan might not be the slothful arrogant arse she had once imagined he was, but he was certainly still interested in little more than his own pleasure. Of course he was taking advantage of their marriage bed, but that didn’t mean he loved her. That didn’t mean he wanted more than their few months together so he could salve his guilt over her ruined reputation.

He cared far more about honor than she had ever imagined, but that didn’t mean he cared about her.

Still clutching the book to her chest, she pushed away from the wall, feeling as though there was far more than just that one wall between them.

…

Sullivan made his way into the club. It was not a place he frequented, but he knew the man he wanted to see was a regular. He couldn’t very well pay a visit to him at the man’s townhome, else his wife would potentially interfere. Considering he hadn’t been here in months, it was fortunate he found precisely who he was looking for the moment he entered the darkened, smoke-filled room.

There was no reason to pretend he was here for any other reason, so he navigated through the tables, nodding to men he knew before he reached Fletcher’s table. Fletcher Banks, the Marquess of Longley. Two other men sat around the mahogany table situated in the corner of the wood-paneled room. Oliver Weeks, the Marquess of Davenport and Malcolm Wheatley, the Duke of Lockwood. Sullivan had sought Fletcher out because he was married to Sullivan’s friend, Agnes, who happened to also be a member of the Ladies of Virtue.

“Look, Longley,” Oliver said. “It’s the newest member of the Lords of Vice. Come and drink with us, Glenbrook.”

Sullivan sat and a footman rushed over with a glass of brandy. “What the devil are you talking about, Lords of Vice?”

Fletcher flashed him a grin. “Before you and your bride were compromised, did she confront you about any behavior of yours that needed changing?”

The swallow of brandy nearly clogged his throat. “How did you know?”

“Greed,” Oliver said with a lift of his glass.

“Lust,” Fletcher added with a wink.

“Ashby, the first of us, I believe he was pride,” Oliver said.

Fletcher lifted his chin in Sullivan’s direction. “And you are?”

Sullivan found himself grinning. “Slothful.”

“Pay up,” Oliver said, holding a flat palm out to Fletcher.

Fletcher retrieved a bank note and tossed it at Oliver.

“We had a wager and Fletcher here suspected Malcolm would be nagged about his slothfulness. I’m holding out for gluttony.”

“The devil you say,” Malcolm said, finally speaking. “I am not interested in being saddled with a wife so you can keep your bloody club to yourself.”

“You do know you’re next, don’t you?” Fletcher asked Malcolm.

Malcolm, in return, released a filthy stream of curses.

“This is connected, then, to their Ladies of Virtue work?” Sullivan asked.

“Yes. Evidently that was my wife’s brilliant idea,” Oliver said. “To try to weed out some of the sinful behavior from among the aristocracy.”

“And each one—”

“Has ended up married to the man she confronted,” Fletcher interrupted with the answer. “I’d say the jest is on them.” He took a hearty sip of his drink. “Now then, what actually brought you into this fine establishment?”

“I wanted to discuss the Ladies of Virtue,” Sullivan said. “I know Agnes is also a member.”

“As is Harriet.”

Malcolm made a face. “Had I known that before I married her off to you, I would have locked her in her room.”

Oliver chuckled. “It wouldn’t have worked. She knows how to use a hairpin to pick a lock.”

How were they so blasé about their wives risking their lives for such dangerous and unnecessary work?

---