“You failed,” he drawled., The pure, unjaded humor in that deep baritone voice momentarily froze her, doing odd little things to her heart’s rhythm. How could a man’s voice have that powerful effect? No book had ever made mention of such a phenomenon. Yet, for the havoc he now wrought on her senses, Nolan had the bag of coin in hand, weighing it, completely composed and self-possessed. And also wholly ignoring the mess now on his floor.
Sybil promptly knelt and set to work picking up the larger shards. “It is one hundred pounds,” she said, directing her words to the small pile of glass she amassed. “By the papers’ accounting, it is enough to cover the cost of your mount for the year.”
He said nothing to her ramblings. The slight jingle of coins hitting wood indicated he’d discarded her precious funds.
Nolan’s gleaming black boots came to rest just under her line of vision. She gasped, closing her hand unthinkingly. A jagged edge of glass bit painfully into her bare palm. She winced. “Leave it, Miss Cunning.” She set aside the pieces.
Curling her hand into a soft fist, she attempted to staunch the flow of the warm blood seeping from that slight wound. Splendid. Now she’d gone and broken his decanter. And she would bleed all over his office. She donned a forced smile and folded her hands behind her back. “That one hundred pounds,” she nudged her chin in the direction of the coinage he’d set aside, “is just a courtesy for your hearing me out today.”
“All right,” he drawled, hitching his hip on the edge of the mahogany sideboard. “I’m listening.”
Now, this was the humbling part. Baring all of herself and her own humiliation, to a stranger. A stranger who already thought her mad. “I am nine and twenty,” she said, shifting her hands over her skirts. All she needed was to return home, her satin skirts covered in blood. Mother would expire from fear and shock together. “I wear spectacles.”
“I see that.”
Oddly, nothing in that matter-of-fact concurrence hinted at disgust or disapproval that so many of the ton gentlemen had exhibited when she’d first made her Come Out all those years ago. Which only brought her round to her next point. “I’ve suffered through ten Seasons and am no longer required to suffer through any others.” That plea had been long denied by her mother and upheld by her father—until this year.
Nolan took another sip from his whiskey, looking hopelessly bored. Since bored was far preferable to pitying, she found the courage to continue.
“I will return to the countryside and visit London only when I wish.” Which she didn’t.
“Which you do not?” he correctly ventured, swirling the contents of his half-finished drink.
She nodded. “In ten years, Noel—”
“Nolan.” He cursed, grimaced, and then—“Webb.”
Sybil frowned. “I’m not calling you by your title if you’re calling me by my Christian name.”
“I hadn’t agreed to call you by anything.” The golden-haired Adonis toasted her and took a long swallow.
Yes, well, he had a point there. But they were getting off-subject—again. “I’ve never had a suitor.”
He choked on his drink, waving off her concerned query. “Y-you wish me to court you?” he asked, after he’d gained control of his breathing.
“No.” She sighed and glanced around his barren office. How to make him see? Sybil turned her uninjured hand up. “I’ve a straitlaced mother and a father who’ll do anything to keep his wife,” silent. “Happy.” Frustration thrummed to life and filled her with a frenetic energy. She began to pace. “I’ve always been a dutiful daughter. Helping my father document his fauna and flora collection. Helping my mother with the upkeep of the household.” When her sisters, Aria and Rosaleen had been off making mischief. “Attending miserably dull affairs,” she muttered. With every step, her annoyance grew. When had she ever put her own desires or interests before that of the Cunning family? “I’m really quite contented with my life. Or I believed I was,” she said, more to herself. Until now. Until her youngest sister had uttered a charge that had cast questions about Sybil’s existence. “I operate my life in logic and reason,” she continued when still he said nothing.
“Sounds dreadfully dull.”
“Mayhap. But I think not. That is what I’m trying to ascertain.”
“What if you do ascertain that your life is, in fact, dull? What happens to you then?”
Why was he asking questions? As a rake, she’d expected him to simply take her purse and show her those allegedly thrilling activities she’d not previously experienced. Never had she thought Nolan Pratt, Baron Webb, would heap doubts upon the very ones Aria had raised. “I’m not wrong, my lord,” she said at last. Because if she was, what would it say about her existence? It would mean she would have her books and research to occupy her through the years and never anything more. For gentlemen didn’t wed bespectacled spinsters with too many books.
Nolan caught her gently by the shoulder, immediately staying her. She gasped, having momentarily forgotten his presence. He turned her slowly back to face him and her body went hot as she braced for his derisive response. “You’ve injured yourself,” he murmured, setting aside his glass. He yanked out a white kerchief and pressed it to her wounded flesh. Her breath lodged somewhere between her lungs and airway as she studied his bent head. A golden curl fell over his eye as he saw to her wound. This gentleman ministering to that injury fit not at all with the careless image of rake and rogue. A truth that somehow made him all the more dangerous than one of those unfeeling cads.
“I-it is fine,” she hurried to assure him, her voice breathless and weak to her own ears. Belated in that offering. The risk to her had more to do with the warmth exploding in her chest.
“You’re not only mad but stubborn,” he muttered, turning over the bloodied scrap and finding a fresh portion of the hopelessly ruined fabric. He applied pressure and she winced.
“Yes. I’ve been a-accused as such. About being stubborn, that is.”
At last, he turned the cloth over to her care. He sighed and folding his arms at his chest, eyed her cautiously. “So you want to hire me not to court you or to ruin you, but to squire you about London and show you those pleasures you’ve missed until now.”
It wasn’t a question. Nonetheless, she nodded. “Indeed. I reached my majority long ago. The five thousand pounds set on me as my dowry is fit to use as I will. If you’ll assist me over the next fortnight, before I depart for the Christmastide season, I’m prepared to offer you one thousand pounds.”
His mouth fell agape and, with her uninjured hand, she tapped his jaw. He closed it. “One—”
“Thousand pounds. Yes.” She confirmed. “For showing me the thrill of life. And then the funds are yours.”
Chapter 5
The whole of Miss Sybil Cunning’s dowry would never be the sum to save a man from total ruin. But the one thousand pounds she offered in exchange for his assistance was an amount that would see his sister properly attired for her first London Season. It might save him from selling off their late mother’s remaining sets of jewels. It did not, however, involve him selling himself off to a bride. Or debauching an innocent.
And all he need do was…was…show her a thrilling time. For a fortnight.
He would do it.
He’d known he would accept the terms of her offer before she’d even mentioned that staggering amount. Mayhap it was the maudlin feeling of the Christmastide season or his own boredom with all his fellow rakes and wicked widows off for the holidays, but the moment she’d debated the word “fun” with him, he’d been hopelessly enthralled by the unconventional beauty.
The lady shifted back and forth on her feet in a telltale hint of nervousness. Still, even facing ruin, she’d come here today, anyway. He was filled with an unexpected wave of admiration for the bold chit. Oh, he’d sooner carve out his tongue than admit as much to her.
“You’ve heard the rumors, then.” He braced for her lie.
Sybil angled her chin up
. “That you trade sexual favors for coin from wealthy ladies?” She nodded. “I have. Are they true?”
He’d give it to the chit. She was far bolder than both the colorless English ladies whose paths he’d crossed and the wicked widows whose beds he’d climbed in. Nolan briefly steepled his fingers together in false contemplation. “A fortnight,” he repeated, ignoring the latter part of her question. He let his hands fall to his side.
Sybil nodded and dabbed again at her injured palm. “Do you know Francis Bacon looked at our gestures as a way of reading a person’s frame of mind?”
What was she on about now?
Like one of those stodgy instructors at Oxford handing down a lesson, she explained. “He said the lineaments of the body disclose the disposition and inclination of the mind; but the motions of the countenance and parts also further disclose the present humor and state of the mind and will…”
He frowned. “What are you saying, Miss Cunning?”
She flashed a decidedly wicked smile that dimpled her left cheek and danced in her brown eyes. “I’m saying by your brief steeple,” kerchief in hand, she demonstrated the gesture in question. “And abrupt cessation of that pose,” she mimicked his exact movements. “That you already determined you’d take on the assignment.”
Clever chit. Far too clever. As a rule, Nolan steered clear of all clever people—his own brother, included. And yet, the truth remained, a lie he lived, that not a single lord, lady, or servant would ever dare believe—he did, in fact, care about someone more than he did his own self—Josephine. Oh, he’d take that piece to his grave before admitting as much. Just as he’d sooner share the damage he’d suffered to his brain all those years ago that had riddled him useless with his own finances. “We begin tomorrow.” The lady shot thin, golden eyebrows to her hairline. “Missives will be sent from my footman, who is hopelessly in love with your maid.”
“Hannah?” she asked, surprise in that query.
Nolan dug his fingertips against his temples and rubbed. God, even in his greenest days he’d never been as innocent as this one.
“Oh.” Bright splotches of color filled her plump cheeks, leaving an endearing blush. “It is part of your scheming. You are a good deal more proficient at…” She waved a hand back and forth between them. “All of this than I am.”
“You will learn in time,” he said, flashing a wolfish grin. What would she one day be like in her scheming?
The lady rolled her eyes. “If I’ve not learned as much in my ten years in London, I daresay the time for mastery has come and gone.”
She’d be wrong. He’d not debate the point with her. What she did with the next nine and twenty years of her life was of no consequence. Only the coin she’d dangled forth mattered in the scheme of their brief relationship.
“You’re to come without a maid. We’ll meet each morn at eight o’clock.” When the fashionable world slept on. With the handful of polite families remaining in London for the Christmastide season, it would rid them of the possibility of discovery. “Weekends are excluded from the days which you’ve hired me on for.”
Her plump lips formed a small moue of displeasure. “That means of the whole fortnight, you’ll only assist me with ten days.”
He fetched his glass and again saluted her. “Brava, Miss Cunning. Our lessons will not require us to brush up on your mathematics skills.” Meeting officially concluded, Nolan swallowed the remainder of his drink. His throat muscles worked quickly. Then with a grimace, he abandoned his glass. He registered the absolute silence and glanced over at the still purse-mouthed Miss Cunning. “You disapprove.”
“I am hiring you for fourteen days, my lord.” There was a resolute edge to that statement.
So she my lorded him when she was displeased. He stored away that useful detail about the lady.
“You are hiring me for what I’m willing to assist you with,” he corrected. “You see, Sybil,” he went on, deliberately commandeering those two syllables as he strolled over to her. “You’ve heard rumors that I’m a man who whores myself for coin, hmm?” If her cheeks turned any redder, she was going to go up in flames. Taking advantage of the painfully tight coiffure that left her long, graceful neck exposed, he placed his lips close to her nape. The lady’s breath caught and he reveled in that slight intake that spoke of her desire. How very…interesting. The bookish, research-driven woman had fire in her blood. Why did that make his own run hot? “What you failed to take into account is that it is I whose services you requested. As such, I set those terms.” He took a step away. “There are no Saturday and Sunday meetings. If you wish to take your coin and find another rake?” She briefly dropped her gaze to her slippers, the gesture telling. “Ahh,” he murmured, stretching out that utterance. He walked a slow circle about her. “I was not the first rake you’d considered. I was merely the most handy, no?”
With his every step, the lady brought her shoulders further and further back until her stiff carriage could rival a veteran military man in the king’s army. “Have I hurt your feelings?” The vipers of Nolan’s acquaintance would have turned that question into a cruel and derisive one. Not this woman. Worry marred those words, filled her eyes, and marked her very different than all the ladies he dallied with.
“I do not have feelings to hurt, Miss Cunning,” he said with an automaticity borne of truth. “We’re done.” He paused. “For now.” Collecting her cloak, he tossed it at the lady. She immediately caught it to her chest. “Take yourself off and have a care to keep your hood closed.”
She gave a jerky nod.
“And, Sybil?” he added, after she’d shrugged into the offending garment.
She froze, fingers on the edge of the hood. “Take care to at least have a cloak that will not give away your actual station.”
Sybil followed his gaze downward to the four inches of velvet fabric, that damning fabric that hinted at a lady concealed underneath the drab wool. “Thank you, my lord.” And then, as though they met in a parlor for tea and a formal visit, she sank into a flawless curtsy. She then made a quick path for the door.
He took a brief moment to appreciate the sway of her generous hips. The cloak did little to shield her from his appreciative gaze. Another wave of desire coursed through him. Nolan closed the distance in several long strides. He placed his palm on the doorjamb, effectively trapping her in.
Sybil gasped. She swung her gaze from his fingers, to the door handle. “M-My lord?”
She was right for that suspicion. After all, he’d already dismissed her. Yet, he was suddenly hesitant to see her go. It’s only because you’ll then be alone with the reminder of your own dire straits…“Surely you’ll not leave before we make our agreement official?”
The lady tapped four fingertips against her forehead, as though dislodging the thoughts there. “Of course, you are correct.” She stuck her fingers out. “Did you know the handshake goes back centuries and centuries?”
“I…” Feel like I’m in a Drury Lane production.
“Oh, yes.” As she spoke, there was an increasing enthusiasm that set the golden flecks in her irises dancing, transforming her from a rather ordinary creature to someone quite enchanting. Good God. Enchanting? Next thing, he’d be spouting sonnets about those damned flecks. Which were rather remarkable and—he swallowed down a groan. He cast a covetous glance back at his sideboard.
All the while Sybil prattled on. “…Scholars believe warriors would extend their right palm,” she demonstrated that simple gesture. “As a means of conveying they were unarmed and therefore safe.” Then the bold-as-brass miss collected his palm in her own. A heated charge burned at the point of contact. He eyed her long, gloveless digits in his own and his mouth suddenly went dry. He’d always been a man with an affinity for a woman’s lips. It was all too easy to conjure the wicked pleasures that flesh could bring and bestow. Yet he’d never given proper thought to a lady’s hand—until now. Until this woman’s hand.
She sighed. “Like this.” And
pumped his hand, giving no outward show that any desire on her part even now demanded more than a damned handshake. “They also believe that this was a way of dislodging daggers or knives that might be hidden up a person’s sleeve.”
It was official. His reign as rake was at an end. Could there be any other fate for his ignoble rank, when a woman invaded his office and delivered a lecture and lesson on handshakes and idioms? He drew his hand quickly back. “I’m not sealing this with a handshake.”
She opened her mouth and then scrunched it up. Her eyes lit. “Of course.”
“Of course,” he echoed dumbly. Why did he even now believe he’d rather not hear what the peculiar chit had to say?
“A contract,” she said with a firm nod. “Given it is a business arrangement, involving one thousand pounds and the one hundred I’ve already given you, at the very least—”
“No.”
“—we should do is have it formally documented.”
“And risk our names being linked to that document,” he purred in the bedroom tones he’d affected with bored wives.
“Hmm.” Sybil tapped the tip of her index finger against her lips, drawing his attention back to that plump flesh. Just like that, a subtle tap, and all the wicked thoughts tumbled forth again. “Or—”
“A kiss,” he whispered. With his spare hand, he gathered the lone curl that defied her miserable chignon. That stubborn strand that spoke more to her character than the coiffure her straitlaced mama, no doubt, insisted on. He raised it to his lips and inhaled the aromatic hint of jasmine.
Then he registered her shoulders shaking. Sybil’s full, throaty laugh filled his office. That husky sound of her mirth not at all the restrained titters of a Societal lady. She slapped his hand away. “Well, I assure you, Nolan, I’m not kissing you now. Or ever. A kiss?” She gave her head a shake and slipped out from under his arm. “Who knew one of Society’s most notorious rakes should have a sense of humor?” With that, she opened the door and sailed from the room, like a specter he’d merely conjured of his own imaginings.
One Winter With A Baron (The Heart of A Duke #12) Page 4