by Lora Darling
“The other candidates are not qualified to be considered.”
“Oh?” The woman took up her pen, shifted the papers around, then looked at him with open anticipation. “Do tell.”
Adrien eyed the brandy. Would it be rude to help himself? Did he care? No. Moving to the edge of his chair, he reached for glass and decanter and poured a very healthy serving.
“Do help yourself, my lord.”
Without acknowledging the sarcasm behind Lady Rowe-Weston’s offer, he took a generous swallow of the damn fine brandy then lowered the glass to rest upon his thigh. “You want me to tell you why you should not hire any of the other gentlemen for this ridiculous scheme of yours?”
“The scheme is not ridiculous, and yes, that is exactly what I wish you to do. You may begin with Westhaven.”
“First, tell me how you arrived at the chosen gentlemen.” His stipulation left her visibly irritated, an expression that furrowed her dark russet brows and crinkled the freckled bridge of her pert nose. She had the coloring of a field fox, right down to her flashing copper eyes.
“I chose based upon certain criteria I deemed most important.”
Adrien bit back a smile. “I’m afraid I shall require a bit more of an explanation.”
A heavy sigh ruffled an errant lock of hair near the corner of her mouth. “All the gentlemen I chose are rumored to be loose with their morals, uncaring of their reputations, and in need of funds, to one degree or another.”
“Do you make it a habit to believe everything you read in the gossip rags, my lady? Pardon my boldness, but you do not seem the type to read such tripe.”
Her shoulders drew back, and her chin went up a notch. “I do not care what type I seem to you. I did my research and arrived at five names. Now. Tell me why Westhaven is a poor choice.”
“Westhaven is in love. Madly in love. You could offer him your entire fortune, and he would not agree to partake in your scheme.”
“I see.” She scribbled quickly upon her paper, then finished by drawing two very decisive lines through what he assumed was Westhaven’s name. “What of Kilby?”
“If you knew him, you would not need to ask.” Kilby would eventually wed and produce an heir but not until the last possible moment. Until then the man would continue to covet the exacting fashion of men like Adrien while pretending not to covet men like Adrien. No one spoke of Kilby’s preferences, but everyone either knew or suspected. The man lived a dangerous, dual life, and Adrien would not be the one to hand over such damning ammunition.
“I am not acquainted with him, so I must ask you to explain.”
“No.” Adrien took a sip of brandy. “Who is next?”
Lady Rowe-Weston frowned, drawing his attention to her plump mouth. He liked the way her upper lip was slightly fuller than the lower. “We shall revisit the matter of Kilby—”
“And my answer will remain the same.”
Her frown deepened, but she did not press the matter. “What of Venton?”
Adrien laughed around another sip of brandy. “Honestly? The man would probably ruin you free of charge, but,” he stressed as her expression lit up with hope, “he is hunting for a bride because of some nonsense involving his inheritance. He cannot afford to dally where marriage is not an option.” He gestured with the glass. “Might as well strike him from the list.”
She did so, frowning the entire time. “This is becoming rather discouraging. I am left with only you and Petley.”
“Your tone suggests that is akin to choosing between death by hanging or by firing squad.”
She looked up though her lashes, allowing him to contemplate the freckles that marched across her nose and along the apples of her cheeks. Not to mention the way her thick lashes framed her large, wide-spaced eyes. “You are partially correct. Petley has been quite tenacious in his attempts to secure a meeting with me.”
“I was recently informed he wishes to marry you.”
“Yes, and claims he is willing to do so sight unseen.” She lifted her head to look at him directly. “He must be incredibly destitute.”
“Not in the least,” Adrien countered. “The man is simply greedy and dishonest.” He shifted forward. “Tell me. Why include him on your list if his determination to marry you has been so obvious?”
She sighed. Deeply. The gesture did extraordinary things to her bosom, and Adrien could not help but notice. “If he had become my final choice, I would have paid whatever necessary to extinguish any hope he harbored in regards to marriage.”
Adrien drew his gaze from the flawless skin of Lady Rowe-Weston’s cleavage. “Petley would never have settled for a portion of your wealth.”
He remained silent on his opinion that Petley would not have settled for just one rendezvous with the woman either. Once given a taste, Petley had a habit of becoming quite ravenous, be it for a fine horse, good spirits, or a luscious woman. Combined with Sam’s single-minded drive, the man would prove too much for Lady Rowe-Weston to handle. There was nothing for it but to ensure she chose that which sat before her.
Tossing down her pen, she fell back against her chair in visible defeat. “That leaves me with you, my lord.”
“Am I the firing squad or the gallows?” He meant the question in jest, but Lady Rowe-Weston did not so much as crack a smile. Instead, she studied him as closely as Cyril sometimes studied the breakfast buffet. Though he doubted Lady Rowe-Weston contemplated which part of him to consume first. A pity, that.
“You are more the serpent in the garden or perhaps the apple.” She cocked her head, prompting the aforementioned errant coil of deep, auburn hair to slide across her lips. She blew it back into place in a manner that suggested she had no idea how seductive she looked. “Yes, you are the apple.”
Her gaze left his face to focus lower. He had nearly forgotten his shirt gaped open, but the pointed regard of her copper eyes made him all too aware of his exposed throat.
“My lady?” If she continued to stare at him with such intense interest, he would need another bottle of brandy. Or an ice bath.
Slowly, she met his gaze. “Tell me, Vicomte Benoit, what would the other gentlemen say of you if seated where you sit now?”
Damn good question. He nursed the brandy to stall for time. Truth was, he had no idea what his closest acquaintances would say about him to Lady Rowe-Weston. Cyril would likely tell her he was a fraud with an unhealthy obsession for lavish frockcoats. As for Venton, Westhaven, Kilby, and Petley…
“It was not meant to be a difficult question, my lord. Surely, you know what your friends think of you?” She leaned forward, eagerness widening her eyes.
“I have not a clue, my lady.” His answer extinguished the eagerness in her gaze. “They might tell you I have a knack for winning at cards and with the ladies, but beyond that…” He shrugged.
“Interesting.” She picked up her pen again to scratch out some notes. About him? About his inability to read the thoughts and opinions of his friends? The not knowing was making her note taking increasingly irritating.
Once she completed her notes, she kept hold of the pen, twirling it idly while looking at him. “Will you do it?”
Adrien finished his drink in one swallow and nearly choked as a result. “Will I agree to compromise your reputation?”
“Yes.” She rifled the papers on her desk. “I am prepared to be generous.” She located what she sought and slipped the sheet across the desk. “If that amount does not satisfy, I am open to negotiating.”
Adrien stared at the paper without touching it. The figure rendered him speechless. Cyril had not been jesting when saying Lady Rowe-Weston was rumored to be worth more than half the members of parliament combined. Hell, if this exorbitant amount was anything to go by, she might be worth more than the bloody crown. He would be set for life after only one night’s work. Not even a night. A woman could be ruined in a matter of minutes. Hell, he need only hesitate upon her front stoop on his way out, and her reputation would be in tatters.<
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“It would seem you require more. Very well.” She grabbed the edge of the paper, but he covered her hand with his. Her wide gaze flew to his face, and her temptingly lush lips parted.
“The amount is so generous as to be almost vulgar.”
“Does that mean you accept?” There was a new, breathy quality to her no nonsense tone.
“Do you fully comprehend what you are asking me to do?” He continued to hold her hand trapped against the paper. “I do not think you do.”
“Of course I do.” She lifted her chin a bit higher. “I am engaging your services in order to render my person undesirable for marriage.”
“That is not all you are doing.” He closed his fingers around hers and tugged. The gesture forced her farther forward in her chair, causing her bosom to rest against the edge of the desk. “You are paying me for sex.” She blanched beneath the russet stain of her freckles. “Do you know what that makes me if I accept?”
“Incredibly wealthy.”
“A whore.”
She snatched her hand away as if his skin had caught fire. “Do not be ridiculous, my lord. If you accept, you will be doing me a great service. Nothing more, nothing less.”
“Oui, but the ‘great service’ I would be doing is sex for payment. I have no idea how you define prostitution—”
“Enough.” She shoved her chair back and stood. “If this sudden show of morality means you do not accept the position, simply say so. I have no desire to waste another moment with a candidate unwilling to do the task.”
Adrien stood as well. “I did not say I would not do it, just that I do not believe you have thoroughly thought this through. For instance, why go to such extremes? Surely, you realize my mere presence in your home, if remarked upon, is enough to stain your reputation?”
“I do not wish to be stained, my lord. I wish to be irreversibly ruined. Now, if you mean to refuse, do so and take your leave.”
“So you might choose from those I have declared unfit for the task?”
“Needs must.”
Adrien imagined Petley standing where he stood now, being offered what Lady Rowe-Weston offered. A king’s ransom to be caught in flagrante delicto. Sam would agree without hesitation, of course, all the while plotting a path straight to the parson.
The woman left him no choice. “Very well.”
****
Eirene jumped on Benoit’s vague acceptance.
“It is settled then.” She had drawn up a contract for The Chosen One to sign, but where the devil was it? She rummaged through the papers on her desk. Normally, she was more organized. Ah, there! “I have prepared a contract. You need only sign—”
“No.”
Eirene let the paper hang limp in her fingers as she stared at Benoit. “No? ’Tis simply a contract, my lord. Surely, you did not expect to enter into a business agreement without signing one? Without it, how will I know you intend to uphold your side of the agreement?”
He shook his head and leaned forward to brace both hands atop the desk. Eirene tried very hard not to notice the way his hair swung forward or the way his open shirt gaped all the way to the first button of his waistcoat.
“My eyes are farther north, my lady.”
There was no stopping the blush that heated her face as she returned her gaze to Benoit’s. “I am quite aware of where your eyes are located, my lord.” The vexing man had the audacity to grin at her waspish tone. “Why won’t you sign the contract?”
“Contracts can be undone. If I agree to participate in your scheme, my word will have to suffice.”
“Your word?” Eirene nearly threw her head back to let out a hearty laugh but refrained. “Surely, you jest, my lord? You cannot possibly believe I will accept the word of a known rake over a binding signature?”
He straightened and crossed his arms. “My word as a gentleman should most definitely suffice.”
“Forgive me for pointing out what should be obvious, my lord, but were you a gentleman of honor I would not have chosen you as a possible candidate.”
“Mon Dieu.” His expression darkened, and he uncrossed his arms to once more lean across the desk. “Were you a man, I would call you out for such an insult.”
“Do not allow my gender to stop you, my lord, but do know I am an excellent shot.” Her grandfather had seen to it that she could shoot as well as any man from any number of distances. The spacing between opponents during a duel would prove no trouble at all.
“I fear you are a most unnatural creature, Lady Rowe-Weston.” Shaking his head, he helped himself to more brandy. It had not escaped her notice that the bottle barely held a full glass worth. If Vicomte Benoit lingered much longer she would have to have Hamish fetch a cab to see the man home.
“What you think of me does not matter.”
He coughed rather violently around a sip of brandy. “Does not matter? How can you believe my opinion of you does not matter?”
“Because it does not. All that matters is whether you will agree to perform the task I have laid before you while adhering to the conditions attached. Beginning with signing the contract.”
“Let us say I decide to sign your contract. What are the other conditions?”
Eirene waved a hand with impatience. “There is no need to go into all of that now. I am prepared to send you all the details when the time comes.”
He threw back the rest of his brandy and set the glass down. “What sort of details?”
Good heavens, the man was stubborn. “If you must know, I have outlined the where, when, and how of my ruination.”
“The where, when, and…Jesu.” He looked as if he might regret the last swallow of brandy. “There is only one how, my lady.”
“Really, my lord, I would have thought a man of your vast experience would know better than most the great variety of hows.” She frowned at his ability to rattle her to the point of making no sense. “What I mean to say, I have decided how best to conduct the matter once we are in position to do so.”
A decision rendered after researching the most common items of furniture likely to be found within the majority of high society homes. Once she had settled upon a chaise lounge, it was only a matter of determining which rooms most likely to boast said piece of furniture. Then it was a simple matter of deducing which homes had just such a room and when the owners of said homes planned to hold the proper sort of event that might lead to the ruination of one of the guests.
It was all rather easy, though Vicomte Benoit seemed determined to complicate things.
“Did you allow for the possibility that the chosen candidate might have a few stipulations of his own?”
She had not, nor should she have. What could the man possibly require beyond the money she offered to do the deed?
“I can see by your expression, the answer is no.” He shook his head as if he suddenly found her incredibly disappointing. “You have not thought this through at all.”
“We are back to that, my lord? As I have already stated, I have thought through every detail, no matter how small or large. It is now up to you to accept or reject my offer.”
“I do not accept.”
Eirene stared at Vicomte Benoit across the expanse of the desk. He did not accept. He had taken up her time, consumed her brandy, and vexed her to the depths of her soul just to decline.
She sat down, as if an unseen force had swept her legs out from under her. Her vision blurred as she stared at the contract laid atop her carefully compiled lists. What now? If what he said about the other candidates was accurate, she would have to begin anew and choose different candidates. That would take time, delaying her return to the country and prolonging her exposure to London Society. Why, oh why, could Benoit not be as agreeable in character as he was in form?
“There’s no reason to pout. I did not say I wouldn’t do it. Just that I do not accept your terms.”
Eirene looked up. Far up, seeing as how Benoit had not regained his seat. She contemplated the hard edg
e of his jaw and marveled at how a different perspective could bring different features to the fore. Not that she had failed to notice his jawline prior, but it was much easier to appreciate it when it did not have to compete with other, more distracting features. Like a pair of pewter eyes.
She looked in those eyes. “I do not pout.”
“You are pouting, and I will accept only after you hear my conditions.”
Relief made her generous. “Assuming your conditions are reasonable, I will consider them.”
“Reasonable or not, if you want me, you will accept them.”
“Really, my lord, it is not a matter of want.” Had he not been paying attention at all? The last thing she wanted was a man. No matter how handsome he was with or without his shirt undone. She drew her errant gaze from Benoit’s open collar. She really had to stop ogling him.
“We will revisit that untruth in a moment, but first, my conditions. No contract and no money exchanged. Take it or leave it, my lady.”
She dropped her head back against the high chair to better gape at the man. “You do not wish to be paid?”
“I will not accept payment for ruining you.”
“But if I do not pay you…” Eirene frowned. “Without payment, it is not a job, and if it is not a job, then it is…well…I haven’t the foggiest idea what to call it.”
“We shall call it what it is, my lady. An illicit rendezvous between two adults.”
Heavens. Illicit rendezvous sounded rather intimate. There was to be nothing intimate about the matter. Intimacy led to complications, and she had planned carefully to avoid any complications.
“Do not be ridiculous, my lord. Of course, you will accept payment. To do otherwise suggests a willingness to participate for the sheer pleasure of it, and that will not do at all.”
“Am I to understand you have not factored pleasure into your calculations?”
“Of course, I have not.” Why would she have? Pleasure had nothing to do with it.
“And what if you accidentally enjoy the moment?”
Only a rake would pose such a question. Men like Benoit devoted their lives to the pursuit of pleasure. Women like her did not. “I assure you, I will not.”