Treacherous Temptations(4)

“I would be much gratified if you would, my dear. They are but musty business records, but you must humor my punctilious nature. I would hate to see them misplaced. Now, as to your father’s wishes,” he continued back on topic, “I am obligated both as his friend and as your legal guardian to see them carried out.”

Realizing the fruitlessness of any further argument for independence, Mary changed tack. “But why must I go all the way to London when there are surely many eligible bachelors right here in Leicestershire?”

“What? A gentleman curate or a crude country squire? Bah! You will have no such thing! Your father desired an advantageous match for you, and so shall it be. London is the only place to contrive such an alliance.”

“But don’t you see how unfit I am? I have none of the accomplishments or sophisticated wiles that such a gentleman would desire in a wife.” Mary rose and paced the room. “I have been only once to London. I don’t know anyone there. I haven’t the clothes or the connections.” Her protests escalated to a staccato bombardment. “I don’t dance. I have no notion of their manners. How should I even know to go on? I shall be nothing more than a country frump subject to scorn at every turn!”

“Preposterous, my dear! You quite underestimate your natural charms. To many gentlemen you would be considered quite a prize.”

“A prize?” she laughed. “Then you must refer to my chief asset–my bank account. If so, perhaps you could just save us both a great deal of trouble with an advertisement in The Daily Gazetteer. How about, ‘Vast fortune awaits marriage-minded nobleman… Only those willing to overlook the dull and dowdy heiress need apply.’”

Sir Richard gaped, his red-veined jowls quivering with the soundless motion of his mouth. To Mary he resembled nothing more than a landed trout. Knowing she had already lost the war, she could only bask in the sweet satisfaction of this tiny victory.





Chapter Three


Hanover Square, London

Sir Richard’s eyes rolled heavenward with a great shuddering grunt before he collapsed onto the silk damask settee where he sprawled, panting, for several minutes, heedless that his exhausted member still hung from the open fall of his breeches.

Concealing her repugnance with a delicate shake of her lace-edged handkerchief, Lady Barbara Blanchard patted her swollen lips, and brushed the bodice of her Spitalfields silk gown to remove the residue of her lover’s spilled semen.

“Then it is all arranged? The girl will come to me?” She spoke as if their prior conversation had never been interrupted.

“Indeed she shall. She is in sad need of polish before I can even think to present her, but whom better than such a diamond as you to smooth her rough edges?”

“Who better indeed?” Barbara agreed.

“I wish to see this done immediately, Barbara. I don’t expect a miracle, mind you. I only need for her to look and speak the part of a lady sufficiently well to negotiate the best return.”

“Return? But what can you mean?” Barbara asked. “Surely you do not intend to reap personal gain from this?”

“Quid pro quo, my dear.” He laughed unapologetically. “Why the devil should I not? I’m a politician after all, and in politics, all favors must be a worthy exchange. Thus, the girl will be given to a gentleman willing to demonstrate proper gratitude. Nothing in this world comes free, after all—even you, my dear.” He gave a painful tweak to her nipples.

No, she was not free in any sense of the word, for Sir Richard held the deed to her house and provided her only source of income aside from a modest jointure. Certain sordid rumors following her late husband’s unfortunate demise had spoiled any chance of another advantageous marriage. Although Barbara secretly despised him, at least their “arrangement” had saved her the disgrace of being turned out of her home.

“I warn that you will have your hands full, Barbara. I found her a veritable hoyden instead of the Leicester lamb I had anticipated.”

“But if it is as you say, she is a lamb with a golden fleece.”

“So she is, but she’s also blasted headstrong.”

“Then you simply lack finesse, my darling.” Barbara chuckled.

“You have never complained before.” He tucked his spent member back into his breeches with a yawn.

Little you know, you selfish lout. Barbara hid her true sentiments behind a false smile, knowing she hadn’t the freedom to say them aloud. Not yet. In her present circumstances, she still needed him. She reminded herself what a trifling inconvenience he was. Her arrangement with Sir Richard allowed her reasonable freedom, as he was wont to turn a blind eye to other paramours, and his preference for fellatio saved her all the trouble of unclothing and re-dressing her hair after his visits.

He appeared at four of the clock every day but Sunday, ostensibly to take tea, and usually departed within three quarters of an hour, after a restorative cup. The time of day and brevity of his visits actually kept the tongues from wagging. In sum, it was little work for the benefits she’d gained. Nevertheless, she was tired of being a private whore, dependent upon one man’s whim.

Barbara now studied his repulsive and ponderous slumbering form. He was softly snoring, a rivulet of drool spilling from his gaping mouth. Suppressing her revulsion and the temptation to smother him with a pillow, she restrained her actions to nudging his shin with the toe of her slipper.