“Too beautiful,” he said icily. “You would toss my household into disorder and have my footmen turn into competing fools.”
“I see. Perhaps a recommendation to be a governess—”
“The master of the home you work in will have you on your back within days. Unless you choose to hide your figure as best possible, disfigure your face, or find a kind widow who has no preying sons.”
“I would never consent to an affair!”
“He would not care if you were willing. You have no power or connection.”
Agatha clenched her fingers tightly in her lap, and a subtle shift in her expression revealed to James that she was no stranger to being coveted for her looks.
“My beauty is a disadvantage in life,” she said, her voice tinged with despair. “Perhaps I should disfigure myself.”
“Such actions would be a double-edged sword,” James responded, his voice even. “No one would want to marry you, nor would they likely offer you employment. Your days would become even harsher. Instead, you should consider ways to turn your beauty to your advantage.”
“How?” Her voice was a blend of frustration and curiosity.
“Do I need to spell it out?” he replied with chilling softness. “How have you managed to survive this long?”
She flushed, her cheeks reddening as she looked away. “I am learning each day, sir, that the world only respects those with wealth and power.”
“Beauty is a power. A man would willingly pay two hundred pounds to spend a night with you,” James stated bluntly.
“I am not a common tart!” she cried.
Her response was fierce; her pride clearly stung.
“Then don’t be one,” James continued, unfazed. “Entice and allure. Craft a reputation as a woman who is both unattainable and unavailable. Tease and tempt, and let men be willing to pay just to behold your beauty … to hear you play the pianoforte. Declare to the world that you are a virgin, and they will clamor at your door for the mere chance to be the one to seduce you.”
She stared at him, her eyes wide in shock, before looking away and biting her lower lip in contemplation.
James had nothing more to add. Silence filled the space between them until she spoke again, her voice hesitant.
“Who would help me with this? You.”
“No. The very madam who took your father’s deal,” he suggested coolly.
“Would she agree to such a plan?”
“Madam Rebecca is a shrewd businesswoman. Promise her a percentage of your nightly earnings for a private room and board and a stage to showcase your talents. Rumors suggest she knows a sensual dance taught by a pasha. Ask her to teach you. Then, when you allow people into your boudoir, refuse any private audiences and be selective with your clientele. Only five each night—the five highest bidders will get to lounge on chairs, eat grapes, drink the finest whisky and watch you dance … or play the pianoforte or sing.”
“And they will pay for this?” Agatha asked, skepticism lacing her tone.
“Yes, they will,” James assured her.
“And who are you to suggest such things?” she inquired, a hint of awe and fear in her voice. “Madam Rebecca called you ‘Your Grace’. Are you … are you a nobleman or is it a moniker?”
“I am no one of consequence,” he replied, his gaze steady and revealing nothing.
She fell silent, pondering his words as the carriage rolled to a stop. James held her gaze for a moment longer, imparting a final piece of unsolicited advice. “Whatever choice you make, it no longer has anything to do with me.”
He exited the carriage and instructed his driver to take the lady wherever she wished. James entered Lady Weatherby’s townhouse and handed over his invitation card. “There is no need to announce me.”
The butler bowed deferentially. “Yes, Your Grace.”
As James moved along the hallway, the sounds of laughter and music from the ballroom pulsed through the air. His unexpected appearance caused a ripple of surprise among the guests; their expressions shifted from shock to deferential politeness as they bowed and curtsied upon recognizing him. A few curious onlookers, likely sensing a story worth sharing, discreetly trailed behind him.
He entered the crowded ballroom, scanning the assembly until he saw her. Miss Armstrong stood somewhat apart from the main throng of revelers, dressed in a striking, dark golden gown that clung to her curves in a manner both elegant and provocative. Her dark hair was styled in elaborate curls, soft wisps playfully framing her face, enhancing her natural beauty and thoughtful expression.
