Wicked Nights With a Lover (The Penwich School for Virtuous Girls #3)(11)

Marguerite assessed him, trying to judge whether he could be the fine specimen Madame Foster described. His jacket required no padding. He was fit and fair of face, but possessed a somewhat weak chin and thinning hair.

The seer’s affected accents rolled through her head. A fine specimen, to be sure, mad over you. Yes, you’ll have a grand time. Romance, adventure, and marriage. You will definitely wed.

A frisson of alarm coursed through her, which she quickly dismissed. Certainly that fellow could not be Lord Roger Sommers. The nobleman would never offer marriage to the likes of her—even if he did once upon a time harbor a tendre for her. She was safe on that score. He could not be the one. She drew a deep, relieved breath, filling her lungs. Already she was averting the fate that would lead to her death … according to Madame Foster, at any rate.

As she surveyed him, an image of the brute from St. Giles rose in her mind. Now he had been a fine specimen. She gave herself a swift mental kick. Roger scarcely—thankfully—did not look the sort capable of beating a man senseless in the streets, deservedly or not. Nor would he manhandle a woman and accuse her of enjoying it, wanting it. He wasn’t that coarse, that brutish … that raw.

She pressed her fingers to her throat, noting the jumpy thread to her pulse there. Her body betrayed her, tightening at the core with the memory of being in the close confines of the hack with that scoundrel.

Shaking all thoughts of the stranger free of her thoughts, she answered Roger’s original question with more bluntness than intended. “We’ve not seen each other since you visited my room in the dead of night a week after your grandmother’s passing and requested that I become your mistress …” She paused to lick her lips, adding a courtesy: “My lord.”

The young man’s face burned brightly at her candid speech. He tugged at his cravat. “Ah, yes. I recall now …”

It had been over a year. She’d found the situation entirely embarrassing. Unprecedented for her. Such occurrences had been commonplace for Fallon. With her striking presence, men flocked to her like bees to the honey pot. But not Marguerite. She did not inspire those types of urges in the opposite sex. At least she had believed so until Lord Sommers.

His infatuation and subsequent proposition had taken her unawares. She had not even shared the details with Fallon and Evie, simply wishing to put the incident from her mind.

“As it turns out, I’ve reconsidered your offer and should like to accept, if you’re still agreeable to an arrangement.” Chin held high, she marveled that injecting passion into her life should sound like such a negotiation. So officious and formal. Was this how it was usually done?

“Er.” The viscount blinked owlishly and looked her up and down. “Can you be serious, Miss Laurent? I felt certain I had offended you with my proposition.”

She had been offended at the time. Naturally. But that Marguerite seemed quite different from who she was now. The new Marguerite lived each day as if it might be her last.

She nodded briskly. “I am quite serious, my lord.”

“I … see.” Not the ardent response she had been anticipating.

“Have I changed so much then?” She spread her hands out before her, glancing down as if she might see something offensive. “Am I no longer appealing to you?”

“Oh, no. Nothing like that.” He tugged at his cravat again and swept her a look of longing that made her feel once again certain of herself. “I’ve always had a penchant for dark-haired females. Sweet, biddable, and mild-mannered girls such as yourself … You quite fit my tastes.” He frowned, and she shoved aside the sensation that he was describing his preferences of horseflesh.

She stared down at her hands, unliking the notion. His next words snapped her attention back to him.

“Forgive me for saying, but I can’t seem to recall you being this forthright.”

“Well, yes, on that score, I have changed.” Not that she would have termed herself as mild-mannered before, but she would not dispute the point. If that’s what he thought of her, then let him think it. “I’ve simply decided to make certain things happen in my life before—” She caught herself. The word die had almost slipped past.

“Before?” he prompted.

She wet her lips and adjusted herself on the settee. “Before I miss any opportunities.”

He nodded, apparently satisfied with her vague reply. “I see. Well, I am quite taken with you. That has not changed.” His gaze skimmed her. “Should we have a contract drawn up? I’ve a nice house in Daventry Square. Modest but quite above the cut.”

She shook her head. “No. That won’t do.”

He blinked. “No?”

“I have requirements, my lord, and should you agree, I’ll take you at your word. No contract necessary.” She would rather not leave a written record of her moral descent. If she lived out the year—when—she would not continue on as a rich man’s mistress. Marguerite would prefer the world know nothing of her adventure. The life of a paramour had been her mother’s life-long vocation. Not hers. No, the handsome lord would do for her purposes for a while. For now.

“What is it you want, Miss Laurent?”

This time when he asked, his gaze was sober, focused and intent as any man entering a business deal. Again, she felt that stab of disappointment. Where was the passion she sought?