“Why?” he said bluntly.
“Why what?”
“Why do you want to spend the night in my bed?”
He was genuinely curious. She was no more a sentimentalist than he was, and he knew for a fact that she’d shared her bed with others during their time together. So had he. As he was neither a possessive lover nor a hypocrite, he could give a farthing whom she swived. But why angle for intimacy when neither of them were suited for it?
“I want to get to know you better,” she said.
He had no interest in knowing Isobel beyond the Biblical sense. He was focused on his goals: on bringing his two enemies to their knees. At present, Chuddums—a ridiculous moniker that suited the mudborough—was a thorn in his side. The success of his plan hinged on the village’s downward spiral, and he’d nearly had the place where he wanted it—at rock bottom—when an unexpected resurgence began to unfold.
His neck muscles tightened as he thought of the latest report he’d received. Five new shops had opened in the square, and the local inn was nearing full capacity. The local economy was on the rise, and there was an air of optimism amongst locals who, not long ago, had been despondent about the future. The report attributed the change to two factors. The first was the arrival of some toff named Harrington who’d bought a manor locals believed to be haunted and proved that there was no bloody ghost after all.
Conrad wanted to snort. If the Chuddumites believed in ghosts, they were even stupider than he believed. Yet the “breaking of the curse” had given the villagers dangerous new hope.
Second, the village’s oldest business, a spa, was undergoing a revival. Somehow, water from its mineral spring had caught on amongst the fashionable set, and here in London, claims swirled that it was a love potion. Thanks to the success of the water, the owner, Miss Leticia Caldecott, was planning a grand reopening of the bath.
Conrad had acted quickly and expected his solicitor to return soon with good news. He could not allow the spa to flourish and draw in tourists. Tourists brought money. Money brought new businesses, which would fill up the storefronts. An improved economy brought workers and tenants to fill rental properties. The value of Chuddums would be on the rise, and the noose Conrad had carefully slipped around his enemy’s neck would loosen.
Not if I can help it. That bastard is going to pay for what he did to my mama and me.
“For heaven’s sake, I’m not trying to deprive you of your precious freedom.” Obviously assuming his frown was aimed at her, Isobel pouted, planting her hands on her hips. “It’s not as if I’m asking you to drink that Chuddums Potion, for heaven’s sake.”
He gritted his teeth at the mention of the troublesome water.
“You don’t believe in that claptrap, do you?” he said coldly.
Isobel sniffed. “What do you take me for, a fool?”
Her lack of sentimentality reassured him. That was why he’d chosen to bed her. That and her sexual appetite.
“I have no desire for love,” she said. “I just want to spend a night together. One night. And if you take me home with you, we can do anything you want.”
The fantasy of fucking the nymph on all fours flitted through his head.
“Winter nights are cold, darling,” Isobel coaxed. “Wouldn’t it be nice to share a warm bed?”
He didn’t know if it was her beseeching expression or the way she was stroking his cock, but he felt himself yielding. He prided himself on self-sufficiency and didn’t mind solitude. However, even he had the occasional desire to not wake up alone. What harm could a tumble between his own sheets do?
“One night,” he said. “And it changes nothing between us.”
“You won’t regret it, darling,” Isobel cooed.
Chapter Three
“You’re a worthless mongrel. A blight on the bloodline.”
Although the jeering words filled him with rage, there was nothing he could do. Not with his face in the dirt, his tormentor’s boot on the back of his neck. Even if he could get up, he wouldn’t win—not against the three of them, all bigger, stronger, and more powerful than he was.
“Your mother’s a whore. Say it.”
He wouldn’t. Not even if they killed him. The heel of the boot cut into his neck, and he felt wetness trickle, his blood mingling with sandy gravel. The boot’s downward pressure increased, cutting off his air. Gasping, choking, still he said nothing. Suddenly, he was jerked up to his knees. While one bastard held him by the throat, the leader stood before him.
“Nothing to say, rat?” Robert’s gaze blazed with the joy of cruelty. “Kiss the ring, then. Kiss it and say you’re sorry for existing, and I’ll let you go.”
He stared at the ring—the gleaming oval ruby, the scrollwork on the heavy band. It would be easy to give in, but he couldn’t do it. Powerless as he was, he could choose not to yield. The kick to the stomach came without warning. Agony exploded.
“Hold him steady,” Robert said. “The little sissy needs a lesson.”
