Knowing that she would soon expose her heart to him, she felt a thrill of anticipation mingled with fear. To steady her nerves, she looked through the slit in the curtains—and frowned. “The driver’s headed in the opposite direction of Curzon Street.”
“We’re not going to your house.”
“Where are we going then?” She tilted her head to look at him.
“To mine.”
Although the prospect of another adventure at his club made her tingle, at present she craved intimacy more than sexual exploration. She wanted to tell Andrew that she loved him, that she wanted to share the rest of her life with him—and then she wanted to make love in the cozy privacy of her bedchamber. Afterward, she wanted to fall asleep in his arms and wake up there, too.
Hesitating, she said, “If you don’t mind, I’d rather visit the club another time. It’s late and—”
“The club’s not where I live, silly chit.” The chiseled planes of his face reflected his amusement. “I’m taking you to one of my residences.”
She had the faint recollection that he’d mentioned owning some properties.
“One?” She raised her brows. “How many do you own?”
“In London?”
She blinked. Nodded.
“A dozen, give or take. Two I reserve for personal use, the rest are commercial holdings. In fact, the majority of my income these days derives from rents and other investments.”
“Then why do you still operate…” She bit her lip, realizing how judgmental she might sound.
“Corbett’s? My other bawdy houses?”
Afraid that she’d insulted him, she gave a wary nod.
“It’s what I do. What I’ve always done in some form or another.” He looked pensive rather than affronted. With a self-deprecating shrug, he said, “We all have to be good at something, and I suppose I’m a good pimp.”
She couldn’t stand for him to diminish himself in any way.
“You’re more than that. You’re an employer who treats his workers with dignity and kindness. You’re a keen and hard-working businessman who has earned every bit of his success. You’re a good, honorable man who protects those he cares about and acts with integrity…” She caught herself; heavens, she was babbling like an idiot. “Well, I could go on,” she finished lamely.
Andrew was staring at her. The raw longing in his eyes melted her insides, summoning up more words, the ones she’d held back for too long. Before she could utter them, a knock sounded on the carriage door.
“We’ve arrived, sir,” one of the guards said.
She’d been so caught up in her defense of him that she hadn’t noticed the carriage stopping. The door opened, and she saw that they were still in Mayfair, in the gated courtyard of a stately Palladian mansion. Andrew exited first, then swung her down.
“For safety, we’ll go in through the back,” he said.
They entered through the kitchens, a vast and spotless space, the walls lined with glass jars of dried herbs and spices, gleaming pots hanging from hooks. Despite the scent and warmth of recent use, the room was empty.
“Where are the servants?” she said curiously.
“They’re gone for the night. I thought privacy would be best.” He led her up the steps. “If you need a ladies maid, I could be persuaded to volunteer my services.”
She smiled back at him, partly in response to his flirtation, but more so because of his thoughtfulness. Everything he did reflected his concern for her, how attuned he was to her needs and moods. The way he took care of her made her want to do the same for him. To give him… everything.
They arrived on the main floor of the townhouse, as grand as any she’d been in. The grey-veined marble of the foyer gleamed beneath her slippers, a tiered chandelier dripping light from three floors above. The double wings of the mahogany stairwell soared with majestic grace.
“Your home is beautiful,” she breathed.
“I’m glad it meets with your approval. Would you like a tour now, or are you ready to retire?”
She met his gaze, and the simmering heat in those coffee-dark eyes made her heart thump.
