His Scandalous Lessons

by Katrina Kendrick

  His smile lingered. “Perhaps. But you’re not here for secrets.”

  “Yes, I’m here for your very pretty public face,” she said a touch impatiently. “You are an expert in the art of seduction, are you not? Assuming those rumors weren’t all lies you concocted to hide your nefarious deeds.” She turned back to the painting of the Cornish coastline, as if they were still casually discussing art. “Fucking, I believe you called it. I’d like you to teach me.”

  Bloody hell. Was he dreaming? Or had he woken up in a reality in which up was down, left was right, and this woman who knew his secrets came for lessons in fucking? Good god.

  Richard made a small choking sound. “There is a distinct difference between marriage and tupping, Miss Sheffield, otherwise I’d already have a wife.” Christ, would she look at him? “I understand you’re something of a sheltered young woman—”

  She faced him then, her brown eyes ablaze. “I beg your pardon. If I desired to be condescended to, I’d speak to my father.” In her anger, she edged closer to him. “I know exactly what I want, and that’s to learn everything about how to seduce a man. I intend to use those skills to make him so desperate to marry me that he’ll acquire a special license and be willing to risk my father’s wrath to wed without permission. That is what I need, Mr. Grey. That is what I require of you. I’m not so sheltered and naive to think this will be an easy task, which is precisely why I am here in the middle of the bloody night asking a man reputed to be the most notorious rake in London for help.”

  They were almost touching then, and he couldn’t help but notice that her breath was coming fast, her chest heaving beneath her cloak. What would make a woman so desperate? Unless . . .

  “Your father intends for you to marry the Duke of Kendal, does he not?” he asked carefully. At her startled look, he made an impatient noise. “Information, Miss Sheffield, is a currency I accept. You didn’t think I managed to manipulate associates of your father without learning a thing or two, did you?”

  Miss Sheffield lifted her chin. “Fine. Yes. I am to marry him in three months.”

  “I also understand,” he continued, “that his age is considerably more than yours—”

  She laughed, and Richard couldn’t help but wince at how bitter she sounded. “Sir, I would marry a man older than His Grace if he was kind and treated me well. That is my only requisite.”

  Richard went still. “I see,” he said softly.

  Richard had some sense of honor, as crooked as it was. His sister, Alexandra, was an authoress who wrote about the treatment women endured in silence. Things never discussed in polite society.

  At first, he’d read her work solely to impress one of his lovers, a widowed French countess who championed suffrage and considered him little more than a pretty face and a body built for satisfying her carnal desires. Long after their affair ended, he still read his sister’s work, but now to argue on behalf of those causes with Members of Parliament and the House of Lords. Men with influence. Men who, otherwise, would never have cared.

  Women whose husbands and fathers considered them little more than property was one such cause. His sister would likely plan his murder if he let Miss Sheffield leave tonight without help, and he doubted he’d forgive himself either.

  “You see what?” Miss Sheffield demanded to know.

  “He’s hurt you. Kendal.”

  With a soft exhale, she retreated, her expression even and controlled. But Richard couldn’t help but notice how tightly her fingers clenched the fabric of her cloak. “I don’t wish to discuss my betrothed. Will you teach me or not?”

  He tried being gentle with her. “As much as I’d like to help, what you require is risky for me. If we were caught, I would consider it my duty to wed you.”

  “Oh, if only things were so easy,” she murmured. “His Grace could find me naked in the arms of another man and still meet me at the end of the aisle in three months time. No, I need a gentleman who can acquire a special license.” She glanced at him. “Which you cannot, being both a second son and a man unwilling to stand as MP. I suppose it’s easier participating in corruption outside of the government rather than in it.”

  Richard shrugged. “I won’t deny it.”

  “And so I am here—” she continued, as if he had never spoken — “to ask for lessons, and to propose a bargain.”

  Immediately he was suspicious. She was, after all, Stanton Sheffield’s daughter. “What sort of bargain?”

  Her lips showed a hint of a smile — a look of amusement, mysterious. A Mona Lisa smile, with the smallest dimple in her left cheek. “My word, what a look that is. I’m not offering you a poisoned chalice, Mr. Grey. Merely an incentive. I’ve heard you’re seeking support for a certain bill that would allow common men the right to private ballots. My father detests it. Landlords support him, you see, and they like to make certain their tenants vote a certain way. And he believes if the Irish vote privately, they’ll force the issue of Home Rule.”

  Richard stiffened. “I’m aware of that. What are you proposing?”

  “I am privy to the intelligence my father uses against Members of Parliament to keep them in line when bills come up to vote. I’m proposing a trade: your lessons for that information.”

  “You want to help me blackmail people,” Richard said doubtfully.

  Miss Sheffield lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “How you use the information is up to you. But I promise you: that bill will not pass as it stands now. My father has more than enough votes to throw it out, and whatever information you think you have on his associates will not compare to his.”

  Richard let out a breath and stared at Miss Sheffield. That bill had to be passed. He had men in his employ from Whitechapel, and the MPs for the East End counted among his friends. To say nothing of a few other gears he kept greased in that area of the city if he needed underhanded means to find information on men of influence. And he’d promised to do whatever it took to get this bill passed.

  It would be so easy to let this woman walk out the door and say he’d done what he could, but it would be a lie. Politics didn’t come easy for him. The game was ruthless, cutthroat, dishonest. And Stanton Sheffield played it better than anyone in politics.

  “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he asked after a moment. He couldn’t trust this woman, not Sheffield’s daughter. “Why would any man let his daughter sit in on private conversations?”

  She stared at him a moment. “Fine.” But when he thought she might leave, Miss Sheffield let out a breath and said, “You have a small shelf of books in the foyer. For aesthetics, I gather, but the why is not important. There are thirty-three books in total, rather poorly organized, which is how I know it serves little functional purpose. Eight volumes are on the decline and fall of the Roman Empire, but you’re missing the second volume, which is a shame as it discusses various religious clashes and makes for a dramatic read. There are five volumes on philosophy, two of A Discourse on Inequality. I ought to commend you for having one, since my father forbids me to read Rousseau and I was forced to duck into a bookshop to complete it. To add, you have—”

  “Stop. Stop.” Christ, Richard was getting a headache. “For the love of god. Do you mean to tell me your father uses your memory as some sort of . . . record-keeping device?”

  “That is indeed what I’m saying. Do try to keep up, Mr. Grey. I’m in something of a hurry. Do we have a deal or not?”

  He considered requesting time to think over her offer, but he doubted she would ask it again. He'd never have another opportunity to gain information that would destroy Stanton Sheffield; it was his daughter or nothing.

  His bloody daughter. Richard couldn’t believe it.

  “All right,” he said, almost reluctantly. “We have a deal.”

  Miss Sheffield nodded, as if she’d expected the answer, but it gave her no pleasure. Merely an acceptance. “Then we’ll start tomorrow night. I’ll come by again—”

  “Not he
re.” He would not chance someone seeing her. At her questioning look, he said, “I need to speak with a friend of mine, a lady with an impeccable reputation — in public, at least. She'll issue you an invitation for a long visit, so this will have every appearance of being a proper arrangement.”

  Her expression darkened. “Mr. Grey, I don’t think you quite understand my situation. My father does not allow me to leave the house unaccompanied for any reason, let alone for anything longer than a day trip. Even for ladies of impeccable repute.”

  Richard leaned closer, pausing only when he heard her short intake of breath. He wasn’t certain if it were attraction or fear, and he had no desire to encourage either tonight. “He will not refuse this invitation, I assure you.”

  She searched his gaze for a moment, as if she were about to argue, but she only nodded once. “Fine. I will await your word.”

  When she started for the door, Richard called out to her. “I’ll have a carriage sent round for you, shall I?”

  She paused. “I’ve no need of your carriage. If I don’t hear from you, I will enjoy these hours of freedom while they last. I’ve no means by which to threaten you into compliance, and I’m not my father even if I did. All I ask is that you don’t lie to me when you say you’ll help me.”

  Who was this girl, to have such steel in her voice? How had she sharpened it under her father’s harsh, unrelenting gaze? Richard found he wanted to know. That he wanted to know her. Before he could answer, she swept out of the room, past his butler.

  The door shut, and the house went quiet. And Richard felt as if his world had been upended.

  Chapter 3

  “If you could turn just a bit towards the light, please.”

  Caroline Stafford, the Duchess of Hastings, squinted at the canvas as she painted. Richard angled his body closer to the window, his limbs growing tired now. He’d been in an action pose for what seemed like hours, his entire body straining to remain upright. Which only suited Caroline, as it displayed his muscles to their best advantage in the nude.

  This was only tolerable for the result. The paintings Caroline produced were breathtaking — scenes people would be shocked to learn a woman had done. They were so lifelike that Richard often felt as if he could reach into that fictional world she had created. Though she portrayed her subjects with their faces hidden, the thousands of people who came to visit her artwork at galleries had seen his body. Women had swooned over it.

  Publicly, the Duchess of Hastings produced serene landscapes that were popular and well-received. Under the pseudonym of Henry Morgan, she created grand scenes with nudes of the male body. Primarily his these days.

  Flattering, yes. But damned exhausting.

  “Be still,” Caroline murmured. “You’re growing impatient.”

  “I’m always impatient.”

  “Yes, I’ve noticed.” She sighed. “And yet I tolerate you because you’re so pretty.”

  Richard let out a laugh. “You’re not painting my face, Caro.”

  She leaned forward for a few delicate strokes. “No. I like to keep that for myself. Lift your arm a bit higher . . . There. Perfect.”

  When he’d come today, the last thing Richard expected was for the duchess to herd him into her studio to pose for a painting she had stalled on six months ago. It was never easy to turn down Caroline when inspiration struck. The duchess’s eyes lit up, as if she were imagining him in a scene from one of her paintings. A new angle of his body to explore, a new character for him to play.

  Right now he was a hunter, with a bow firm in his grasp and an arrow drawn taut.

  He had grown used to being but one of her “muses”, as she called them. Though Caroline had plenty of opportunities to conduct affairs, her relationships with her models were strictly professional, despite her husband’s extended absence.

  Richard often wondered why. The Duke of Hastings travelled constantly and claimed to prefer cities on the Continent to the smog and filth of London — or, so he said publicly. The truth was, even when Hastings came to London, wife and husband kept their distance from each other.

  Caroline confessed that she had not seen her husband in seven years.

  Seven bloody years, Richard thought, trying not to stare down at the attractive woman sitting in front of the easel.

  If Richard had a wife like Caroline at home, he’d spend half of every day in bed fucking her, not gallivanting around the world ignoring her. Caroline put on a good performance, but Richard knew she turned to art and charity work in her loneliness.

  And she was lonely very, very often.

  “You still haven’t given me an answer about Miss Sheffield,” Richard said.

  A house party at Caroline’s property in the country was the best solution for Miss Sheffield’s proposal. The cottage at the back of the garden offered a discreet place for Richard to instruct the girl while Caroline kept her guests busy with whatever the hell it was one did during house parties. Games. Gossip. Dancing. None of these things endeared Richard to these events.

  His lip curled.

  “Stop making that face,” Caroline said. “You look like you’re about to murder someone.”

  “It’s a house party. I just might.”

  Caroline laughed and shook her head. “The information Miss Sheffield is offering you to help her find a husband must be worth a great deal. I can’t imagine what it is, since she seems as daft as a post. She could talk for hours about her hat collection.”

  Richard had never met Miss Sheffield before she showed up on his doorstep, so it surprised him that people claimed she had more beauty than brains. But he supposed being Stanton Sheffield’s daughter had forced her to hide the acerbic wit she displayed in his parlor. Her father was notorious for his ridiculous views on how women should act: meek, docile, quiet.

  Stupid, Richard finished the thought with a scowl. Her performance must have chafed.

  “She’s not daft, I assure you.”

  “Oh?” Caroline paused her brush and looked up. “Well, that’s interesting. But I suppose it makes sense, now that I consider it.”

  “How so?”

  Caroline shrugged and leaned forward to make a few delicate strokes. “Her father hovers over her at events. Rather uncomfortably so. I’ve never forgot it.”

  Now that Richard knew she was privy to political conversations, he wagered Stanton kept her close to make certain she never said anything incriminating. Suspicious bastard.

  “Is that a yes, then?”

  “Richard,” the duchess said with an impatient flash of her eyes, “you’re asking me to put together a house party with very little notice at the beginning of the season. Are you trying to drive me mad?”

  “I thought you loved a challenge.”

  “I didn’t say I couldn’t do it, you odious man. You know I am perfectly willing to do whatever you ask, short of murder.”

  “Whatever I ask?” Richard grinned. “To the bedchamber, then.”

  Caroline didn’t even look up from her canvas. She was used to his flirting. “Still married, darling.”

  “Didn’t stop you from asking me once before.”

  It was how they’d met. Two years after her husband had left, she’d indicated a desire to sleep with Richard. Being a connoisseur of lovemaking in his free time, Richard accepted. After undressing him and sharing a brief kiss, Caroline had changed her mind. Boldly, she’d asked to sketch him instead. Richard laughingly accepted, but only after seeing her talent firsthand had offered his services as occasional muse.

  Caroline’s smile was rueful. “I’ve had years to consider it, and I’m convinced I’d probably break you. You’re not for me.”

  “Is that why the duke spends all his time away? Did you break him, Caro?”

  Her lips pursed. “Something like that.” She set down the paintbrush and leaned back in her chair. “I’m done for today, I think.”

  Richard set down the bow and arrow and shrugged on a dressing robe as he started toward her. �
��I’m sorry. I’ve said something wrong, haven’t I?”

  The duchess looked tired as she peeled off her gloves and set them aside. Though she often acted older than she was, Caroline was only a few years younger than Richard. She had been an incomparable beauty the year of her debut, but had no dowry to offer a husband. It had been a mystery how she’d managed to bring the Duke of Hastings up to scratch, and even more tongues wagged when he’d left shortly after their marriage.

  In the time he’d been gone, Caroline had established herself as a woman with a sterling reputation — at least in public. She visited orphanages. She gave money to charities. Even her landscape paintings were considered a charming quality that complimented a beautiful, complex woman.

  She was also Richard’s closest friend.

  “No, you didn’t,” Caroline said, letting out a breath. “He’s in Edinburgh. Hastings.”

  “So close,” Richard murmured, belting his dressing robe.

  “Yes, yes. He holidays there before he returns to London and expends the energy to avoid me. That is, unless his sense of duty overcomes his disgust and he decides to give me a baby.” She set down her paints with a clatter that made Richard wince.

  “How could anyone ever be disgusted by you?” Richard asked her.

  Richard had met Hastings many times, and if the man was an idiot, he hid it well. But only a fool would avoid his wife for seven years when she was as lovely as Caroline.

  Caroline forced a smile at him. “Perhaps I’ll tell you one day when I can bear the thought of how you’ll look at me after.” Before he could ask anything else, she gestured to her easel. “What do you think?”

  Richard leaned over to look at the painting. Though far from done, the scene had begun to take shape. The hunter stood in the middle, his bow gripped in a strong hand as he crouched among the trees. She had started detailing the sinew and muscle of his legs and arms, the details of his veins. Her work was, as ever, the most incredible thing he’d ever seen.