The Marquis and I (The Worthingtons #4)(35)

Charlotte’s bountiful breasts rose as she took a deep breath. Her hands clenched. Her face was a portrait of outrage. This was a woman no one could dismiss. In short, she was magnificent, and—he vowed—she would be his.

Regrettably, she was also the most stubborn woman Con had ever had the misfortune to meet. “Some might consider marriage to be a form of prostitution.”

He heard the crack of her palm against his cheek before he felt the pain radiating through his face.

Apparently, she did not agree.

“That”—her face was flushed, once again her breasts heaved in indignation, and he didn’t think she had ever looked more beautiful—“was one of the stupidest things I have ever heard. A married woman has a position in society. Her children are legally born and can inherit lands, other property, and titles. She has settlement agreements to protect her rights. If her husband predeceases her”—Charlotte’s eyes narrowed and Con thought she might be envisioning his death—“she may remain a widow or marry again. She is not in the position where she must seek another protector. She is not in danger, or in as much danger, of contracting some dreadful disease.”

How the hell does she know about that? Con wondered.

“If her husband mistreats her, she has the protection of her family and possibly the law, as Lady Byron and others have shown.”

He was not going to even try to inform Charlotte that many women could not take advantage of the law or that their families would not support them either financially or emotionally. All that mattered was that Charlotte’s family would, and would make the courts do so as well.

She glared at him for several more moments, and he wondered if she was finished. Then she pointed a long, elegant finger at him. “You are so sure of yourself, my lord. Well, I dare you—no, I challenge you—to ask your mistress how much she likes living the life she is leading. Whether she would rather have had a different life than the one with which she is now stuck.”

His cheek still burning, Con managed a half smile. “What are the odds?”

Startled, Charlotte gaped at him. “I do not understand.”

Now was the time to make her promise to marry him. “What do I receive if I’m right and you are wrong?”

“The satisfaction that you were right, and I was wrong.” Her chin rose. “More I will not promise.”

Con considered attempting to convince her to wager with him; instead he stood and bowed. “Very well, my lady. I shall ask her. After which, I will faithfully report my conversation, and then we will have another sort of discussion.”

“One where you will be forced to eat toads.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts, plumping them up nicely.

He’d wager that her nipples were the color of light pink roses and tasted like honey. Marriage to her was enticing him more and more. Or rather having her in his bed was, but one came with the other. “Someone will be tasting something, in any event.”

Con kept his smirk to himself as he rose—there was no point in tempting her to slap him again—and strode out of the room.

Less than fifteen minutes later, he knocked on the door of a house on a quiet street at the edge of Mayfair. He had bought the town house for Aimée about a month after he had hired her. The place she had been living in was too far away for his taste.

Con waited until the elderly butler opened the door and stood aside.

“Good afternoon, Clark.”

“My lord.” He bowed. “The mistress is in the morning room.”

“Thank you.” Con strode down the corridor to the open door at the end. “Aimée.”

She rose slowly and as fluidly as flowing water. “Kenilworth.” Her regular smile of welcome was absent and she did not move toward him. “I hear you are to wed.”

Well, damn. It had not occurred to him that Braxton’s talk would have spread to her, but that was the only way she could have found out. Con should have written to her so that she would have been prepared for the news. “Yes. I wish I had been the one to have told you. I returned to Town only an hour or so ago.”

“It is not widely known in my world.” She gave a slight Gallic shrug. “Lord Braxton thought I would be looking for another protector and offered himself.”

Bugger the man! “Is that what you want?”

“Do you mean to say that you would keep me as your mistress after you married?” Aimée’s eyes shimmered with tears. “I have known you to be selfish, mon ami, but never cruel.”

Devil take it. This was not going at all as he’d expected it would. Did all the females in his life believe he was a cur? He’d thought Aimée knew him better than to ask such a question.

Charlotte was insistent that he discover how his mistress had become a courtesan, and he had agreed. Secure in his belief that the beautiful, talented, and intelligent Aimée had chosen this life. But now . . . now he was suddenly not so sure of himself. “I’m making a muddle of this. Please, may we sit down? I have a question to ask you.”

“Naturellement.” She glided to the bell pull. “I shall order tea.”

After no more than a minute or two, her butler carried in a tray with tea, brandy, and wine, as well as small cakes and sandwiches. She must leave standing orders for the repast to be readied when he arrived.