Gareth’s eyebrow shot up, because he knew Callista could be ruthless, and he’d damned near loved her for it, but this was beyond ruthless. This was cruel, and not a legacy any court would have a part in enforcing.
Not that the lady would obtain the property or its income in the next decade by bringing suit in the courts of law.
“To summarize, then,” Gareth said, “you want me to spend three months teaching you how to please a man, how to run a brothel, how to play various games of chance, and so on. I am to at least relieve you of your virginity, and I am to complete these tasks without anyone being the wiser? Moreover, I am to sell the brothel for you at the end of one year, all with utmost discretion. What do I get out of it?”
If this woman knew anything about him at all, she’d know to expect that question from him.
“My guess is Callista chose you for her own reasons, believing you would accept. I can’t see that you get anything out of this other than the trustee’s portion of the proceeds, which I doubt you need.” She cocked an eyebrow, perhaps mocking him, perhaps inventorying his physical assets. “If Callista’s faith in you is not misplaced, you will get the free services of a well-trained whore, won’t you? I doubt you need those either.”
He suppressed a flinch at her continued use of the word “whore.” There were so many other ways to say it—soiled dove, courtesan, lady of the night, fashionable impure. His guest seemed to want to shock him, and maybe herself.
Two could play at that. He stood and locked the door.
“Why don’t we gather a little more information before we decide what to do with this situation, hmm? Would you oblige me by standing?” She did, watching him warily as he stalked toward her. “Over here, away from the window, if you please.” He took her cool, bare hand in his and guided her across the room.
“What are you about, my lord?” She put some indignation in her tone, but not enough to cover the unease.
Good, he wanted her unnerved. So unnerved and angry she’d stomp right out of the house and never want to lay eyes on him again. Let her swallow her pride and move in with dear old Aunt Besom or eke out a living on piecework from the modistes.
Though piecework would ruin those pretty eyes and her pretty hands.
“Before you accept me as the guardian of your virtue, to use your words, you should have some idea whether you can even accept my touch on your person. Losing one’s virginity involves a great deal of touching, under ideal circumstances. You have to know that much at least?”
She nodded once, suggesting that was the limit of her understanding.
“I will take on this trusteeship if you conclude you can indeed find pleasure in my carnal touch. I will not force you.” He would not force any woman, ever. To know he could still speak with conviction in this regard was a relief. “You decide if you can allow me to seduce you.”
He purposely stood too close to her, letting her physically experience his six-foot-four inch height, the scent of horse and sandalwood about his person, and the sheer masculine strength he had in abundance. Her pulse beat rapidly at her throat, and she was back to staring at the carpet.
He dropped his voice to a near whisper and leaned in even closer.
“You must be sure, my lady, because once your innocence is compromised, you will never regain it, whether your virtue is intact or not.” He picked up her hand and massaged his thumb slowly across her knuckles.
Her eyes clamped on their joined hands, depriving him of her gaze. “Do you seek to take my virginity now?”
Brave lady. He awarded her points for that, and for amusing him—his reputation would suffer terribly if he allotted her deflowering only the few minutes available. “No time for that today, my dear, but I would ask of you a kiss to seal our bargain and begin your education. We have, after all, but a short time to complete it.”
She glanced up long enough for him to see relief in her eyes, though such a proper lady could have no idea what manner of kiss he contemplated. His hands settled on her waist, and he tugged her closer.
“Close your eyes, my dear, and relax. You have nothing to fret about today.”
She didn’t immediately close her eyes, but watched him as he took both her hands in his, kissed each palm, then slipped them around his neck. He slid his hands around her waist, resting them at the small of her back. She was close enough to him now that he could hear the catch in her breath as his hold grew more firm.
She wasn’t as cool as she wanted him to believe, and that realization gave Gareth a pause in his determination to rattle her. He started off by nuzzling her temple with his lips, and even that caused her to flinch. He repeated that caress, doing nothing more than inhaling the lavender scent of her hair until she relaxed minutely against him.
“I’ll make you a promise.” He moved on as he spoke, breathing against her hair, the curve of her ear, the silky skin of her neck, even as his hands went questing over her back in long, slow strokes.
“I will promise you if at any point you want me to stop, no matter what we’re doing, then I will stop. You have only to tell me.” He’d begun kissing her, sipping at the spot where her shoulder and her neck joined, and Gareth had to wonder if speech were already beyond her. Her scent was lovely, fresh and clean, without paint, powder, or the slightly singed odor of the curling tongs.
Despite her prim and proper airs, despite the mad scheme she’d brought to his door, despite the niggling itch of what remained of his conscience, his body at least was enjoying itself.
“Kiss me,” he whispered against her cheek. “Kiss me now.”
She turned her face toward him, tensing up for what she no doubt expected would be a grinding, wet, teeth-bumping awkwardness. She was too pretty not to have suffered the attentions of a callow swain or two.
So his lips were feather-gentle as he played at her mouth and invited her to trust him for the duration of one soft, sweet kiss. His mouth parted over hers, and he was rewarded when she sighed, her body finally losing its starch against his. Her fingers drifted through the hair at his nape, and Gareth realized she didn’t have to go up on her toes to fit him perfectly—more’s the pity.
He traced his tongue over her lips, thinking not only to steal a taste of her, but also to distract her from the hand resting due north of her derriere. He molded her against the length of his body and continued plying his tongue along her mouth. Tentatively, she touched her tongue to his, provoking him to growl in satisfaction at her overture.
She shyly tested the contours of his lips, and he let her explore while his hands stroked her back. Gareth sensed she was just becoming aware of the ridge of male flesh rising against her belly, when his instinct for self-preservation had him easing out of the kiss and letting his hands fall still on her back.
Her breathing was slightly accelerated as she curled against his chest and rested her head on his shoulder. He tucked his chin on her crown and held her, unable to locate a compelling reason to let her go.
“My dear woman, I should at least know your name.”
She remained quiet against him, and he brought one hand up to massage the nape of her neck in slow circles.
The kiss had gotten a bit out of hand was all. Spinsters were, on the whole, a courageous lot, but he hadn’t been expecting this particular variety of courage from her. This variety of honesty.
She stood unmoving for another moment then stepped away.
“You’ll do it then—take on the trusteeship?” Her eyes were a little unfocused, which pleased Gareth inordinately.
“I’ll take on the trusteeship for now, and I will be as discreet as possible. You must realize, though, if word of this gets out, I can do nothing to protect you from the scandal that will result from the terms of Callista’s will. I doubt her solicitors want anyone knowing they’ve created such a bequest—one Chancery would scoff at, mind you—but given who I am, I won’t be able to repair your reputation, nor will I try.”
She nodded at him soberly. “If this become
s public, nothing will save my reputation, and I don’t suppose you want people knowing you’ve taken on a spinster protégé, either. Such a liaison hardly flatters you.” She stepped back farther and put her gloves on, donning another increment of reserve as she did.
She was wrong, of course. She would be ruined, while Society, being stupid, venal, and easily entertained, would regard this as another one of his titillating larks, nothing more.
“So how shall we go about this?” he asked, his voice holding a detachment his body did not feel.
“Don’t scowl at me, your lordship. This situation is not of my doing or yours. I appreciate your willingness to comply with the terms of the bequest, but just as you asked me if I were willing to be seduced, you must be a willing seducer.”
The women who would scold him were few in number. That this pretty, proper spinster might be one of them suggested their dealings could grow… interesting. “I can assure you, my dear, I am a willing seducer, enthusiastically and often. When do you next have your courses?”
“Wha… I beg your pardon!” She gaped at him, her self-possession gratifyingly absent. “What can that have to do with… why would you ask such a thing?”
“How much do you know about the mechanics of copulation?”
He’d chosen one of the more polite terms, and yet it raised a magnificent blush against the lady’s fair coloring.
“It… It involves sleeping in the same bed, and probably some kissing, and… touching. I know there is a maidenhead.” Her blush deepened, so he gave her a moment to compose herself by unlocking the door and retrieving her wrap. He returned with her cloak and slipped it around her.
Without thinking, he turned her by the shoulders to face him and fastened the frogs of her cloak under her chin. Such caretaking was an intimacy, one he took completely for granted with any woman he’d kissed—until he noticed how stiffly this lady was standing.
“Intimate business between men and women involves a bit more than you perceive,” Gareth said, finishing a bow off-center beneath her chin, “and it will be my pleasure to educate you. I would remind you, though, I have promised if you at any time want to desist from this project, you have only to say so. I can probably find you and your dependents decent employment on one of my estates.”
“That is generous of you, my lord, but having imposed on you to this extent, I would not seek employment from you. I have no doubt my mortification is just beginning, and you will be the last man I ever want to spend more time around once this situation is resolved.”
He nodded, relieved, because having her in his employ didn’t sit well at all. She’d then be under his protection in the unavailable sense, and that could only be awkward as hell. She ducked her chin and said in a low voice, “I will likely… start Monday next.” She looked around self-consciously, as if afraid of being overheard by the very furniture.
How long had it been since a woman had blushed in his company? “And how long are you indisposed?”
“Three or four days.” Her answer was barely a whisper. She donned a bonnet that was the same color as old horse droppings, not at all flattering in its style and years out of fashion.
When he taught her how to be a madam, surely he could dress her, too? He took her elbow and walked her toward the door.
“If you will send your direction to me, I will have my coach pick you up Monday afternoon at two of the clock, sharp. Expect to spend the balance of the afternoon with me, and at least several afternoons each week thereafter.”
She paused at the door to the hall, making an intense study of her gloves. “Will you give me some idea what to expect?” she asked, very much on her tattered dignity.
He considered the brim of a very unprepossessing bonnet. The only decent women he consorted with frequently were his dear mother and her aging friends, and even they—veterans of years of genteel warfare in the best ballrooms—knew not to reveal their emotions.
The lady in the ugly bonnet and mended gloves was scared. Also affronted, humiliated, and many other things—likely including outraged—but under it all, she was afraid.
Of him, of what he would ask of her.
Gentlemanly sensibilities chose that inconvenient moment to rouse themselves from a nap of years’ duration. Of course she was frightened. Terrified—what if he’d refused her? What if he’d raped her? God in heaven, what had Callista been thinking?
Long ago, grieving, guilty, and bereft, hating the lofty title that had made a laughingstock of him, Gareth had been scared. As young men will, he’d used other terms for it: daunted, challenged, or when things had been particularly bad, overwhelmed. In truth, he’d been terrified, and Callista had been his one ally against that fear.
He scowled at his visitor, resentment resurging at her and at the bargain he’d been inveigled into honoring. “Remember my promise, madam. You hold the control, no matter what I or Callista’s solicitors have planned. Considering your indisposition, why don’t we start next week with the business aspects of the operation? The expenses, suppliers, ledgers, household budget, and so forth. Have you seen the property?”
“I drove by it in a hackney.”
Did everything make her blush? “Well, then we’ll find things to keep us busy next week. Shall I notify Callista’s solicitors I’ve taken the post?”
“If you’d contact them, I would appreciate it. They make me… uncomfortable,” she replied as he escorted her to the front door. She stopped before taking her leave. “My lord?”
Didn’t he make her uncomfortable? “Yes?”
“Thank you. Riverton was not a prospect I could have endured.”
Her gratitude was surprising, and some part of him also found it… insupportable. Repugnant. “I know.” Neither could I. “There’s just one more thing, if you would be so kind?”
“My lord?”
“Your name.”
She turned to go and beamed a smile at him over her shoulder. Her smile embodied benediction, relief, and pure female beauty all at once. Had he been a less experienced man, it would have bowled him over.
He was a very experienced man, and still, her smile stunned him momentarily witless.
“I am Felicity, your lordship. Miss Felicity Hemmings Worthington.”
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Andrew
The Lonely Lords
by Grace Burrowes
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
He’ll do anything to protect her…
After a tragic yachting accident leaves him wracked with guilt and despair, Andrew Alexander is certain he doesn’t deserve to be around his own family, let alone the beautiful, forthright Astrid Worthington. He wanders for years, only allowing himself respite from his self-imposed exile when he thinks Astrid is safely married. He returns home to find instead that the only woman he’s ever loved has been recently—and mysteriously—widowed.
…especially from himself
When Andrew leaves, Astrid finds a husband and contents herself with a cordial, if unexciting, marriage. But after her husband’s sudden death, Astrid finds that Andrew will do anything to protect her not only from her enemies, but also from the truth of his dark past.
“Burrowes’s unique ability to make each book stand alone yet connect to the other books in the series amazes me. Andrew engages the reader’s emotions and senses from start to finish—a joy to read.” —Long and Short Reviews
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Douglas
The Lonely Lords
by Grace Burrowes
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
Douglas needs a home for his aching heart
Douglas Allen, Viscount Amery, has arrived to his title without knowing how to manage his properties, so he reluctantly puts himself in the hands of Guinevere Hollister, t
he estate’s steward. He’s surprised to discover beneath her prickly exterior a woman of passion and honor. Yet despite the closeness they find, she will not marry him.
And Guinevere needs a champion
In Douglas’s eyes, Gwen deserves to make her own choices, and he will take on family, a meddling duke, and Gwen’s own lonely, stubborn heart to ensure his lady’s happiness.
“I was certain by the end of Douglas’s book, Grace Burrowes would have me melting and falling in love! She not only succeeded in that, but made it happen in the first chapter.” —The Reading Cafe
“It’s a joy to read. Can’t go wrong with a Lonely Lord in your hands.” —First Page to Last
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David
The Lonely Lords
by Grace Burrowes
New York Times and USA Today Bestselling Author
David, Viscount Fairly, has imperiled his honor…
Letty Banks is keeping a secret that brought her, a vicar’s daughter, to a life of vice. While becoming madam of Viscount Fairly’s high-class brothel is a financial necessity, Letty refuses to become David’s mistress—though their attraction is harder to resist the more she learns about him…
Perhaps a fallen woman can redeem it
David is smitten with Letty’s beauty, but also with her calm, her kindness, her quiet. David is determined to put respectability back in her grasp, even if that means uncovering Letty’s secrets—secrets that could take her away from him forever…
“Grace Burrowes has quickly become one of my favorite historical romance authors.” —Night Owl Reviews Reviewer Top Pick
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