“Is it true?” Abby asked, her voice breaking as her hands twisted in the folds of her brown striped gown. “Are we to be evicted for non-payment of rent?”
“No,” he said fiercely. “I paid for an entire quarter in advance; we still have a fortnight. You got that letter because Pinehurst cut off my allowance and thinks he holds all the power. But I’m attending to the situation. In fact, I am confident it will be resolved in a few days at most. Nothing for you or anyone else here to worry about.”
“Really? Because I’ve heard men say that many times, always directly before a catastrophe. I don’t want to be coddled; I’d rather know.”
“I swear, no foolish coddling,” he said solemnly.
His sister raised an eyebrow. “May I ask exactly how you are resolving it? Because if the plan involves disposal of an older aristocratic body, I’ll need to arrange for Nessie’s nurse to mind her for the evening.”
A laugh escaped. “No bodies, you bloodthirsty wench.”
“Then tell me what you are doing. If Pinehurst has cut you off, no bank or lender will assist because he holds far too much sway. Will you become a highwayman? Indulge in some good old-fashioned smuggling?”
Finn shook his head. “Something marginally less likely to result in me being shot. I’m getting betrothed.”
All trace of amusement left Abby’s face. “No. You love Lady Pippa. I won’t let you marry some random woman so we can have a roof overhead. I couldn’t live with that.”
“I should have specified,” he replied, striving for a jaunty tone. “The woman is Pippa. We made a bargain; she is lending me money for the business; I will be her pretend betrothed so she avoids a bad match her grandmother is plotting. A win for us both. Now, let’s look at the new demi masks, shall we?”
“Excuse me? A pretend betrothal? Finlay—”
“Can’t hear you. Business matters are calling my name with a sweet siren’s song.”
“I bet they are,” Abby muttered, but she followed him upstairs to the bright, airy music room, where two former haberdashery apprentices were expertly decorating black satin masks with colored feathers and paste gems. The masks were becoming popular with hosts of the kind of country house parties where guests decided at the end of the evening whose bed they would retire to.
In a chair beside the roaring fire, a plump, retired mistress of pain play was testing a pile of leather collars and matching cuffs, and beside her, two young footmen were placing discreetly wrapped packages into a burlap sack for their next round of deliveries. Across the hallway in the much larger drawing room, three employees were crafting jeweled nipple clamps alongside dildos made of jade and leather. Next door in the library, two maids were unpacking boxes of explicit French romance novels which had been translated into English.
Finn read each title before offering it for sale. Initially he’d done so to offer intelligent opinions when Pippa talked about her novels, but now he’d become quite addicted. There was something wonderful about a story where unlikely lovers had grand adventures, bedded each other continuously, vanquished villains, then lived happily ever after.
Something…hopeful.
“We have excellent products,” Finn said in frustration as they continued on to the small office. “But we need more orders. Not ten or twenty sales, hundreds and hundreds.”
“I do have an idea,” said Abby tentatively. “But we’d lose money to start. What if we sent a few samples with an order form to the madams of the high-end pleasure clubs? They could try out the toys and accessories in the comfort of their own rooms, and if they like them, place an order.”
“Excellent. Yes. Do it. At this point in time, I will try anything. I wonder if we should do the same for a select few ladies of the ton. If Bliss goods become a bedchamber essential, we’ll receive an avalanche of orders.”
His sister nodded and picked up a pile of ledgers. “I’ll let everyone know. What do you think in regard to numbers? We’ll probably need at least fifty of each item in stock.”
“Give each madam a full set. Dildo, cock ring, flogger, mask, nipple clamps, collar, cuffs, and romance novel. For those in the ton, just a novel to start. A Wicked Comte.”
“Is that the one where he beds the widow next door each night in a different costume?”
“No, the one set in the Middle Ages where he raids a castle and takes the king’s sister as his lover. I’ll leave a list of addresses for those I know who would welcome such a gift.”
Abby snorted. “Rake. I don’t know how you stay on such good terms with all your conquests.”
Finn groaned inwardly. Much like with Pippa, he’d long since given up trying to convince Abby he didn’t have conquests. In her world, that was all men did. Bed and discard, much like their sire had done. Like Nerissa’s father had done. And when one was a well-connected viscount labeled handsome and charming, salacious gossip about his prowess in the bedchamber was to be expected.
The truth was simple, though: much like the characters in the novels he read, he’d long ago decided only one person would suit. Currently, his idea of an excellent evening was his hand or a pleasure toy for company, and rereading his favorite explicit scenes. The French deserved boundless applause for their frankness; he might not have the practical experience, but felt rather confident with the theory.
“It takes a certain skill, a certain finesse,” he replied with a wink.
“No doubt. Are you going to stay and work on some designs? Nessie would love to see you.”
“Alas, I cannot today,” he said apologetically, as he wrote names and addresses for the novel gift on a sheet of paper. “I have to meet Pippa so we can discuss…er…”
“Your pretend betrothal,” said Abby, shaking her head. “Go on, then. I’ll give Nessie a kiss from you.”
“Thank you,” Finn replied, giving her a brief hug before returning to the mews.
Fortunately, he had a patient horse; his movements were clumsy as he prepared for his return to Hanover Square. Even the thought of this conversation made his stomach churn. Would a pretend betrothal and kissing lessons with Pippa be the start of something?
Or the end?
She felt completely out of sorts, and it was all one man’s fault.
At the sound of horse hooves in Hanover Square, Pippa once again glanced out the drawing room window. As usual, they continued past.
This ridiculous flutter in her stomach was quite unacceptable. Finn was her best friend. An unrepentant rake who snort-laughed, ate caramels at all hours of the day and night, only seemed to recall Latin phrases that involved bedding, and had turned messiness into an artform. For heaven’s sake, back in the schoolroom when Xavier had dipped one of her braids in ink and used it as a paintbrush, Finn had studiously dipped the other so she would have a matched set. And he’d turned her best slippers into boats complete with twig mast and handkerchief sail to race across large puddles!
Finlay Knighton was not her hero.
They were merely undertaking a mutually beneficial arrangement to resolve a significant issue in each of their lives, and once he arrived and they settled matters, everything would return to normal. Finn hadn’t growled like a wolf, and her hand most certainly hadn’t tingled when he’d rubbed her knuckles. That was just her mind misremembering; perfectly understandable in the heightened emotional circumstances surrounding her wretched grandmother’s marriage pronouncement.
Now, if the man would just hurry up, she could get back to her novel. In the latest chapter of Travails of a Lonely Pirate King, the pirate had rescued a highborn lady abducted by a Prussian prince, and taken her back to his ship. He’d kissed her. She’d slapped him. He’d kissed her again and the lady had surrendered with a throaty whimper, urging him on as he destroyed her stays with an expert twist of a dagger tip.
Pippa wrinkled her nose. It was hard to imagine a kiss that good, although she would forever be in favor of stay desecration. In the past few years, she’d permitted kisses to her hand and cheek, even
a few furtive ones to the lips, and precisely none had provoked a throaty whimper. Not even a toe twitch let alone a toe curl. Kissing was probably why Finn hadn’t arrived yet; he was too busy embracing his way across London. No doubt he’d consigned a cartload of stays to the rag bag. Perhaps an entire barge load.
Gah. Why was he not in this drawing room? He’d said eleven, and the clock on the mantelpiece said three minutes past. Utterly unacceptable.
“Pippa Pearl. Make up your mind and either sit or stand. Watching you bob up and down like an empty bottle in the Thames is making me seasick, a distraction to the point where Gigi is fleecing me at vingt-un. How can you do that to your favorite twin?”
She turned her head to where her brother and sister were playing cards on the chaise, raised one haughty eyebrow at Xavier, and sat down in her chair. Then stood. “The claim that you are my favorite twin, Xavier Vaughan, is an extraordinarily tenuous one. As to your second complaint, I suggest you stop watching me and start noticing how the baby of the family cheats like a brigand.”
“I do not…” protested Georgiana, her lips twitching. “Much. Besides, I’m actually helping him. If he can beat me, perhaps he’ll come home with some guineas in his pocket rather than fresh air.”
“Excuse me?” said Xavier indignantly. “I win. All the time.”
Pippa snorted and smoothed a crease in her primrose-yellow gown. Damnation. This would never have happened if she’d worn the practical calico. Why had she chosen today to wear something new? “A collection of lacy handkerchiefs is not currency.”
“You’d be surprised.”
“Ugh, don’t wiggle your eyebrows at me. It doesn’t work when Finn does it, and it won’t work for you either.”
“Come now, Pippet. Taking my name in vain is one thing, but slandering my eyebrows? Shocking behavior.”
Spinning on her heel, Pippa barely suppressed a shriek at the sight of Finn lounging in the drawing room doorway. He looked entirely too rakish in black trousers, brown jacket, and embroidered waistcoat; his longish hair curling slightly from the light rain in a way that made her fingers positively itch to smooth it. Had his shoulders always been this broad? His grin so cocky? More importantly, why was she even thinking such things? Finn already had a Regiment panting after him; no more were required. “I didn’t see you ride up!”
Finn sauntered into the room and winked. “Watching for me, were you?”
“Hardly,” she blustered, reaching for a slice of fruit cake on the tea tray, missing it, and rattling the bowl of sugar cubes instead.
Good grief. What on earth was wrong with her?
“Knighton,” said Xavier, with a friendly nod. “How is your father? Better, I hope.”
“Well enough, thank you, Northam. How are you faring? I see Little G is neatly divesting you of coins.”
“Only because I am letting her win…ow! No pinching, Gigi.”
Georgiana fluttered her lashes at Finn. “Would you like to play a few hands of vingt-un, Finlay? I’d enjoy some actual competition.”
“Tempting, but I’ll respectfully decline. You really do cheat like a brigand,” said Finn, sinking onto the chair next to Pippa and helping himself to an apple tart.
At the pique on her sister’s face, Pippa smothered a laugh. Somehow, Finn had never succumbed to Georgiana’s charms; usually any resistance crumbled within seconds of those long lashes fluttering and pink lips pouting. “Indeed she does.”
“Argh,” said Georgiana, rising to her feet in such a way that her white velvet gown swirled and flashed a brief glimpse of slender ankle. “I suppose you’re going to talk about books now, which is far too dull for me. Xav, do you want to ride along Rotten Row? It will scrub the cobwebs from your brain, and I’ll forgive your debt if you do.”
Xavier rolled his eyes, but also stood. “I think you mean your ill-gotten gains.”
“That is a tiny insignificant detail.”
“Except to a constable,” said Pippa.
Her sister’s glare could only be described as withering. “On that note, we shall take our leave.”
Xavier shook his finger like a cantankerous governess. “No misbehavior in the drawing room, now. Hate to have to call out the oldest friend of the family.”
Georgiana giggled. “You’d have to get in line; Grandmother would insist on first shot. Have you heard, Finlay? Pippa is to be a duchess. Two in the family! Thank heavens I’ve already found my match. The only way I could best such achievements would be to marry a prince, and that would be far too daunting for my simple country lady’s heart.”
“I’ve heard,” said Finn politely. “Enjoy your ride.”
When they were alone at last, Pippa kicked off her slippers and leaned back in her chair. Usually, an unmarried couple would only be permitted time like this if they were formally betrothed, but she and Finn were such old friends that Father had decreed as long as the door remained open, they might regularly visit together without a chaperone. For once, Grandmother had not overruled him.
Today, though, felt quite different. Almost…intimate.
She smoothed her gown once more then peered at him over the rims of her spectacles. “So. A bit of rain outside.”
Finn sent her a quizzical look. “Are we speaking in code? Am I supposed to reply something about the purple badger only dancing on Wednesdays?”
“No! I don’t know what to talk about,” Pippa blurted.
Unaccountably, his face fell. “Have you…changed your mind?”
“I most certainly have not. About anything.”
He relaxed, crossing one booted foot over his knee. “It was hard to keep my mind on business this morning.”
Pippa sat forward, grasping onto the words like a barnacle to a ship. “You have yet to tell all about that. What are you selling?”
“Well…ah…” Finn began, glancing toward the door. “The reason I couldn’t say at the musicale is because it is rather lewd.”
“Do go on.”
“My business is called Bliss. We make pleasure accessories.”
Her brow furrowed. “Such as?”
Finn smiled, even more wickedly than before. “Think The Highland Marauder.”
Good lord! The Highland Marauder was her favorite romance novel, starring a reclusive Scottish laird who wed a fiery Frenchwoman then introduced her to his castle’s secret dungeon of wicked pleasure toys such as a pearl-studded dildo, riding crop and flogger, and leather cuffs that secured her hands above her head when he took her. On countless occasions, she’d reread those pages by candlelight, one hand holding the book open and one hand between her legs, rubbing her throbbing clitoris until she reached a delicious release. “You sell those?” she squeaked. “When can I see?”
“I can’t take you to Golden Square yet. But once we are officially betrothed…”
“It would be quite acceptable for us to take a turn in your curricle,” she finished, almost quivering with excitement. “Examining real life pleasure toys, this is better than a birthday gift! But talking about the other b-word…what is our plan? I feel like it needs to be a surprise. A public surprise, so there are lots of witnesses and my family are forced to pretend they knew all along.”
Finn drummed his fingers on his knee. “What about the soiree here? Or is that too soon?”
“This very drawing room? In front of society, Grandmother, and Devonshire himself? Truly diabolical.”
“We don’t have to—”
Pippa nearly twirled in pure delight. “Ohhhh, yes, we do. Finn, you are perfection. Here, have some caramels.”
It seemed he would do literally anything to make Pippa happy. Even suggest going toe to toe with Lady Kingsford in her own damned drawing room, which took an already foolish plan and flew it up to the realm of exceedingly hazardous to one’s health.
But she’d just beamed at him and said he was perfection.
“I do what I can,” he replied, before taking the chewy caramels and eating them two at a time, sighing with
happiness when the rich, buttery, burnt sugar taste exploded on his tongue. They didn’t quite soothe his ruffled feathers; this fussy drawing room of watered silk walls, ugly figurines, gilt-framed paintings and backside-hating furniture was like the dowager glaring at him even when she wasn’t present. Such décor had also been replicated in far too many other London townhouses in an attempt to gain her favor. But sweets were a start. Caramels were a reminder that there was good to be had in the world.
Christ. Waxing lyrical over sweets. He truly was a hopeless case.
“Consider those caramels a betrothal gift,” she said impishly. “And no, I don’t expect a gift in return.”
“Too late. Yours should be delivered in the next day or so.”
Pippa hesitated. “It’s not…it’s not a bouquet, is it?”
“Good God no. I think it plainly obvious my rakish ways do not extend to flower beds.”
“Thank heavens. I was concerned that a betrothal might change things between us. That you might think you had to be…romantic or something and start sending posies or complimenting my elbows.”
It was just as well a log in the fireplace chose that moment to move and send a small shower of sparks hissing and crackling into the chimney, for it neatly masked the sound of his heart shattering into a thousand pieces. There. Confirmation once again that Pippa saw him as nothing more than a friend and occasional partner in crime. Forget pain play or the withholding of a lover’s orgasm; a pretend betrothal was a far more devilish torture.
How much easier it would be if his heart weren’t involved, if he could do what so many men with his privilege and position did: set up a mistress with an allowance, cozy townhouse, and carriage; or become a ‘patron’ of the current theater darling.
Except he wasn’t his father and never would be.
It was hard to imagine anything worse than living an empty existence where the only thing that brought joy was cruelly wielding power over women, then discarding them.
THE BEST MARQUESS: Wickedly Wed #2 Page 3