Lilith and the Stable Hand

by Samantha Holt

  She had a plan to avoid the fate awaiting her in her mother’s house. She’d spent the school year fostering relationships with young ladies who would soon head households of their own. They would need a dressmaker. She intended to convince her mother to let her attempt to become a dressmaker before being forced into life as a courtesan.

  Juliet met her aunt’s gaze. “Why meet this gentleman just as I’m leaving, Auntie Honey—Honoria?” After a year, she still slipped. “Have you sold my virginity to the highest bidder?”

  Her mother had attempted just that the year before. She’d auctioned Juliet off to a middle-aged banker, a man with a stomach the size of a bull’s, who smelled like one, too. She’d narrowly avoided the man’s bed by convincing her mother a year at Lady Peddington’s school would allow her to charge twice the amount from better-paying clientele.

  Juliet realized Lady Peddington was talking.

  “…caught Sir Stirling’s eye, Juliet. He specifically requested that you attend tonight’s ball and meet the duke.”

  Juliet frowned. “Sir Stirling James?” She’d seen the man only once, and from a great distance. One of the instructors had pointed him out during a sanctioned holiday outing in Edinburgh as he’d dashed past in a brightly polished carriage. “Where might he have seen me? When? How? I’ve followed the rules, Auntie Honoria. I’ve told no one anything.” How could she? Classmates would faint from shock should they discover she’d been raised in a brothel. A new thought struck and she dropped her voice into an even lower whisper, “He isn’t one of Mother’s patrons, is he?”

  “Heavens, no.” She shook her head vigorously. “Nothing like that.”

  “Then why would he wish to make me a duke’s mistress?” Juliet hissed.

  “I’m not at all certain, child,” Lady Peddington whispered. She nodded at the open window and waited for more giggles to drift through before adding, “Sir Stirling is an old friend—not that kind of old friend,” she quickly added when Juliet opened her mouth to ask that very question. Her aunt gave her a knowing look. “You have behaved yourself here in Edinburgh, but what of London?”

  Juliet winced inwardly. Oh. London. “I’ve been the picture of propriety, Auntie, I swear it,” she lied.

  After all, what did the pesky word ‘propriety’ actually mean? Everyone she’d met held a slightly different opinion on the matter. And really, who was to say that sneaking into London parties uninvited in order to frequent the card tables was truly improper? She’d been careful to wear a Venetian mask to protect her identity. After all, she’d met more than one gambler in the brothel while growing up. They’d taught her a good many card tricks over the years. Why shouldn’t she put such knowledge to use? She’d been quite the mysterious and popular figure in London that summer, and she’d won a tidy sum—almost enough money to open her own dress shop. Almost.

  “What have you done, child?” her aunt pressed.

  “Nothing,” she lied again.

  Honoria’s stare seemed to penetrate clear to her soul. “Did you, by chance, fall in love in London or—”

  Juliet rolled her eyes. “Really, how can you ask? Love is a word thrown about too easily. I’m of no mind to lift my skirts for any man. Ever.”

  Her aunt chuckled as if relieved.

  Juliet lifted a suspicious brow. “I still feel as if I’ve been sold as your prized cow.”

  “Nonsense. Sir Stirling is a matchmaker.”

  “Let him make a match elsewhere.” Juliet tossed her head and turned to go.

  “Juliet, listen to me.”

  Juliet paused, then faced Honoria.

  Her aunt stepped forward. “Your blood runs hot, too hot for just any man. Mind you, I know. You should embrace that passion. Indeed, you’ll blossom under the right man’s touch. If the rumors about Duke Hamilton are true—”

  “No, thank you,” Juliet snapped.

  “Think of it,” her aunt whispered, eyes alight with anticipation. “A duke’s mistress. A man of the duke’s wealth would provide you not only a private house, but a yearly allowance, as well. Even your mother never dreamt that high for you.”

  Alarm coursed through Juliet. “You haven’t told Ma, have you?” the words shot out before she could stop them.

  Too late, Juliet realized her mistake. A calculating gleam entered Lady Peddington’s eye. Juliet’s heart sank. She’d just handed her aunt victory on a silver platter. There was no recovering now. Honoria knew Juliet would do anything to prevent her mother from gaining knowledge of the duke’s interest.

  “Let’s strike a bargain,” Juliet surrendered.

  A smile twitched the older woman’s mouth. “Have I taught you so little this year? A lady never bargains like a fishwife.”

  Juliet tossed her aunt a pleading look. “I’ll do as you ask. I’ll attend this Midnight Ball and dance with this duke. I’ll entertain him, just as you wish—outside of bedding him. But mother can’t know. Please, Auntie Honoria.”

  Lady Peddington primly took her seat. “Sir Stirling specifically requested that you play a game of commerce with the duke, and that you must win.”

  Cards? Juliet blinked. So, Sir Stirling had seen her at the London parties…but how had he recognized her? She’d always worn a mask. Heavens, had he had her followed? Horror washed over her.

  “You should know,” her aunt continued, “the Duke of Hamilton never loses.”

  Juliet took a deep fortifying breath and pushed her worries aside. “Until now,” she replied. She hadn’t lost a game in years—not with the tools she had at her disposal.

  Lady Peddington smiled. “Keep the man happy. It’s only one night. Do that, and your meeting with the duke shall remain our secret.”

  “Bless you.” Juliet heaved a sigh of relief.

  She left the study quickly. Oh, Honey Pedding was a wily one. She had manipulated the conversation in order to get her way. Juliet grimaced. She’d been raised by such women. How had she fallen so neatly into the net?

  At the bottom of the stairs, she paused and peered out the window at the young ladies who still chatted in the courtyard. In the past week, most had found suitors, honorable men offering marriage—not dukes looking for mistresses. As a fresh bout of giggles erupted from the girls, Juliet shook her head. They knew little of men. She’d seen enough men in her mother’s brothel to know them for the creatures they truly were: simple-minded fools focused solely on carnal pleasure.

  The Duke of Hamilton would prove no different. She would play that lust to her advantage. She would wear her finest gown. She’d flirt, lick her lips, heave her breasts, and flash her ankles. Expose a little flesh and she could make the duke’s blood boil. In a blink, she’d have him thinking with his cock. Then, she’d trounce him at cards, take his money and vanish.

  Chapter Two

  A Most Interesting Wager

  “THERE’S NO WOMAN ALIVE who can keep my interest long enough for me to want to marry her, Stirling.”

  Carrick Hamilton, Duke of Hamilton and Lord of Lennoxlove House, stood on the edge of the lawn, nocked an arrow to his longbow and took aim. The bowstring thrummed, and the arrow buried itself in the center of the target over a hundred yards away.

  Sir Stirling James, Marquess of Roxburgh, who lounged under an ancient oak, let out a low whistle. “Impressive.”

  Carrick set his bow onto a nearby table, beside a collection of daggers, bows, and arrows—anything he could throw at a target. The sun was warm, the sky blue, the wind, nonexistent. All in all, a perfect day for target practice at Crenshaw House. So, why was he struggling with a dark mood? Perhaps, he should cut his Edinburgh visit short and return home. He stretched the kinks from his neck, then raked his dark hair back off his forehead.

  “What were you saying? Ah, yes. Women.” Carrick frowned. “Why are we speaking of women?”

  “I said, you simply haven’t met the right one.” An amused twinkle lit Stirling’s eyes.

  Carrick snorted a laugh. “I’d wager my prize stallion ther
e is no ‘right’ woman for the likes of me.”

  “I’ll take that wager.” Stirling grinned. “I’ll back it with that red roan you’ve been lusting after.”

  Carrick shot his friend a startled look. “You’re not jesting.”

  “Indeed, I am not,” Stirling replied. “I’ve already found her.”

  Carrick lifted a brow. He’d been after Stirling to sell him that red roan for two years. He leaned a hip against the weaponry table and crossed his arms. “Who is she?”

  Stirling left the shade of the tree and joined him. “Marrying her will be rather tricky.”

  Carrick straightened. “Marry? Och, this is a jest, after all.”

  “Believe me, this is one you’ll want to marry,” Stirling assured. “Never have I seen a more perfect match.”

  Carrick grimaced. “Marriage?” He reclaimed his longbow and selected another arrow. “Duty dictates that I someday marry, but I don’t see that happening anytime soon.” He nocked the arrow and aimed.

  Stirling laughed. “What you need is a woman who will bring you to your knees.”

  Carrick’s shot went wild.

  Stirling grinned and clapped him on the back. “I look forward to seeing your stallion in my stables.” He spun on his heel and headed toward the house.

  Carrick frowned. “When shall I meet this harridan?”

  “Tonight,” Stirling called over his shoulder. “At Lady Peddington’s Midnight Ball.”

  A Midnight Ball? Carrick considered. Stirling had saved the most delightful surprise for last. He grinned. Aye, he was in the mood to spend the evening with a woman—especially one who attended midnight balls.

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