The Duke Identity (Game of Dukes #1)(23)
Seeing Francie’s stony expression, Tessa sighed: there was no point in arguing. Her friends had always been overly protective about her “innocence.” Never mind that she’d grown up in a brothel, they persisted in treating her as a lady, especially when it came to sexual matters. The resulting irony was that the three wenches were as prudish as spinster aunts around her. And they weren’t persuaded by her logic that she’d seen and heard things that would cause a typical virgin to fall into a dead swoon.
Tessa considered herself a virgin only in the physical sense. Her mind was far from chaste, and, indeed, she was proud that she was no silly na?f (her knowledge of French was nothing compared to her vocabulary of vulgarities). Nonetheless, Francie, Belinda, and Daisy persisted in shielding her; since they did it out of love, she couldn’t fault them for it.
“The point is, I’m not going to give up who I am for anyone,” she said unequivocally. “Weren’t you the ones who told me that no man is worth losing one’s freedom for?”
What her friends had shared with her were their histories, using them as cautionary tales. All three women had endured abuses at the hands of men. All had chosen their profession because, as they put it, at least they got paid for their services…and kept their money and freedom.
“You’re a clever one,” Francie said with pride. “Let’s ’ope your grandfather recognizes that before it’s too late.”
Seeing Belinda’s stifled yawn and the drooping of Daisy’s eyelids, Tessa realized she'd overstayed her visit. Her friends worked long hours and needed their rest.
“I’ve kept you up too long.” She rose, and Swift Nick bounded off the bed. “I’ll be on my—”
The door swung open.
Sam Bennett filled the doorway, his broad shoulders nearly brushing the frame. To enter, he had to duck his head which, she noted, looked damp. A dark lock curled upon his brow; it looked incongruously boyish against his scowling countenance.
“How did you find me?” she blurted.
“It’s my damned job.”
At his dark, growly voice, one she’d never heard from him before, the hairs on her skin rose to tingling attention. His brown eyes were no longer calm. ’Twas as if the earth’s crust had split open, molten emotion glowing behind his spectacles. The scar through his eyebrow stretched taut. Every inch of his lean and muscled frame radiated barely leashed anger.
She swallowed. Wetted her lips.
“Sweet Jesus,” Daisy breathed into the taut silence. “Never say he’s your Bennett?”
8
Keep a rein on it, he warned himself. Do not lose your temper.
It was a refrain he’d repeated during his journey over. Tracking the maddening minx hadn’t been difficult. A quick survey of her chamber had revealed her escape route via the balcony window. After questioning the staff, he’d learned that Miss Todd had a habit of visiting her “friends”…at her father’s club.
She’d gone to a damned bawdy house.
He could scarcely credit it. Yet here she was, looking utterly at home with three wenches.
Even though the others were brightly and scantily clad, Miss Todd commanded his full attention. She was once again dressed like a lad, only this time her outfit wasn’t bulky or concealing. She wore no jacket, her shirt draping over her delicate curves. Her trousers fit her legs like a second skin, her cravat highlighting the swanlike grace of her neck. The simple, glossy plait of her hair set off her large eyes and vivid features.
Instead of hiding her femininity, the masculine attire emphasized it. Her fresh, artless loveliness would tempt any man. A primal beat pounded in his blood.
Doesn’t the bloody chit know the danger she invites?
Near his left eye, a muscle twitched. Never a good sign.
“We are leaving now,” he told her.
“I’m not going anywhere with you.” Her chin jutted out. In fact, her entire posture smacked of belligerence: her fists were planted on her slim hips, her slender booted legs braced apart.
Stop looking at her legs, you idiot.
Beside her, her damned ferret bared its fangs at him.
“If you don’t want to go wiv the cove, Tessa, I’ll take your place.”
Harry’s gaze veered to the brown-haired wench who’d spoken. Winking at him, the tart leaned forward on the bed, adjusting the neckline of her yellow satin dressing gown, exposing more of her generous assets. Hastily, he looked away.
“Ooo, the big fellow’s blushing. Ain’t ’e adorable?” she cooed.
“Cork it, Daisy.” Irritation edged Miss Todd’s voice. “And you, Professor,”—she turned to him, her chin lifted at a mutinous angle—“can toddle off. I’ll go home when I’m ready.”
All bloody week she’d been needling him with the sobriquet of “Professor.” With her uncanny talent for annoying him, she’d unknowingly picked up a shard of his broken dreams, wielding it the way a cutthroat does a blade in a dark alley. Relentlessly and without mercy.
His simmering temper edged toward the boiling point.
“You’ll come with me now, you bloody brat. And if I were a professor,” he bit out, “I would be sorely tempted to give you a lesson in propriety. No, make that common sense. What in blazes are you thinking, dressed in that indecent attire and in a brothel, no less. You could have been accosted or worse!”