Such a harsh, cold view of the world. Clara shivered. “One hundred thousand pounds, my lord, and all you need do is wed me and let me go.”
ulian stared at the delectable woman in his arms.She was half dressed. Completely lovely, her sensitive skin marred by the nips and licks he had given her. She was responsive after all. It had merely taken some coaxing on his part. But no matter. Of course he could make a woman—any woman—want him. It was simultaneously his gift and his curse.
But it wasn’t her surprisingly sensual reaction that gave him pause or her undeniable allure. It was her words. One hundred thousand pounds was no trifling matter. A man could pay off his debts with that kind of coin and still live more than comfortably enough, provided he had a care with what remained.
Naturally, it could be a ruse, a hyperbolic lure to lead him to the altar. Sacrificial lamb, etcetera. She didn’t seem the cozening sort, however, and he fancied himself a superior judge of character. She blushed prettily now beneath his frank regard, though whether her embarrassment stemmed from the liberties she’d allowed him or her daring proposal, he couldn’t be sure. Perhaps a healthy smattering of both.
“You want to pay me to marry you, little dove?” The mere suggestion sounded so absurd that he almost laughed again. He decided to discomfit her instead, caressing her jaw and touching his thumb to her lower lip once more, precisely where he’d nipped it. “Was this meant to be my taste of the wedding night, then?”
Her lips compressed into a tight line, blue eyes snapping fire at him as she shrugged from his loose grasp and stepped back. “As I’ve already explained, there will be no wedding night, sir.”
“On that we are agreed.” His gaze flicked to her breasts straining against her chemise, her nipples stiff little temptations beneath the white fabric. They begged to be sucked, those nipples, without the barrier of cloth. “For there will be no wedding.”
He set her away from him. Pity she was either a bit touched or green enough to believe the plots and schemes she read in Gothic novels could be applied to her life. He would have dearly liked to finish what they’d begun. True desire had become a rarity for him but he felt it now, pulsing through him like a starved beast. She was lovely and innocent, and he longed to awaken her to pleasure. To take the artlessness of her and consume it for himself.
Pity too that his days of selling himself were at an end. She’d almost be worth it.
“Not even for a hundred thousand pounds?”
That rather caught him off guard, for it was almost as if she’d read his bloody mind. Something else stirred in him then, warring with the lust. Anger. He stalked back to her, crowding her with his body. He should have some mercy, at least allow her to finish buttoning herself back up, but she’d scratched him deep enough with her question and her offer to make him bleed.
“Who told you I would sell myself so cheaply?” He settled his hands on her waist, drawing her flush against him. “Even whores must set their price, my love. One hundred thousand pounds is a pittance to spend the rest of my life shackled to someone, regardless of how pretty her bubbies are.” And the bubbies in question were, undeniably, flawless, crushed to his chest in the most tantalizing manner.
Her lush mouth dropped into a perfectly shaped O before she gathered her wits enough to plant her palms on his shoulders and push. “If you find insult in my offer, the fault is mine. Only allow me to go and I shall never again trouble you.”
In her ire, her drawl deepened. He could listen to her speak all day in that accent.
But the wrath within him still burned a steady, vital flame, and so he wouldn’t think about her soft, lilting patterns of speech. “Why should I let you go when I have you precisely where I want you, little dove? I don’t suppose this was part of the madcap plans you hatched in your bedchamber, was it? No, I daresay not. I was meant to only be pleased by the honor you pay me in offering to sell the rest of my life for a hundred thousand pounds.”
A new, telling shade of red tinged her high cheekbones. “I hardly asked for the rest of your life. I wish to return to my home in Virginia. One hundred thousand pounds for a marriage that can be over the moment I step aboard a ship bound for America hardly seems a devil’s bargain to me.”
Perhaps it wouldn’t to someone like her, but Julian had been selling himself for over half his life. It had begun with Lady Esterly and it had ended with the Marchioness of Lyndhurst. The intervening years had held too many names and faces to recall.
He didn’t release her as she wanted, held her still. She would not escape so effortlessly. No, she had been the one who had decided to come to him. She’d had an entire carriage ride to question the wisdom of her decision and had still proceeded. “Selling one’s self is a devil’s bargain, regardless of the price and circumstance.”
This slip of a girl, quite beautiful, was no different than the rest. She wanted something from him. Wanted to use him in exchange for financial compensation, but this time it was his name instead of his body. Jesus, how had he gotten here, to this place in his life where at thirty-one years old he faced a golden angel in siren’s form who was scarcely twenty if she was a day, who thought she could damn well buy him and then toss him away like rubbish?
“It is an even exchange, my lord.”
She was brave, this lovely American girl. She faced him without flinching. Even now, she held her head high, her bodice gaping, her throat marked with what he had done to her, and she did not cower. He could admire bravery. Foolishness was another matter.
“Who sent you to me?” he asked quietly, for he wanted to know. Very much. They’d never crossed paths. He still didn’t know her name. And while he was aware he possessed a reputation, he couldn’t think she’d dreamt up this farce on her own.
“If you think I’ve been sent here by one of your former…friends, you’re wrong.”
“Friends,” he repeated. “Come now. None of the ladies you’re so delicately referencing were ever my friends.”
“Your paramours, then. No, it was not any such person. Proposing this agreement to a gentleman was my idea, but a good friend of mine suggested you as an ideal candidate. Of course, I must now wonder at the wisdom of her recommendation!” Her eyes went wide, and she seemed almost as startled as he by her outburst. “Does that please you, my lord? Why do you toy with me now? Have I not entertained you enough for one evening? Can you not be merciful and allow me to go if you’ve no interest in my offer?”
Could he not be merciful? Well yes, he supposed he could, but some small part of him was actually enjoying this game. He stared at her, considering her words with care, and as he did, muted hollering reached his ears from somewhere else in the house. The front door, perhaps.
It was the sound, he was sure, of a madman. The sounds grew louder. Closer. Julian could discern words from the guttural caterwauling now.
“Where the hell is he?”
What the devil? His little dove stiffened in his arms, and he knew instantly that she recognized that booming voice. That drawl, so similar to hers. And he recognized it as well just as suddenly. Jesse Whitney, the American businessman. They’d had occasion to cross social paths before more than once.
But the woman in his arms was not Whitney’s wife. She couldn’t be…
