Charles grimaced. Did she seek to taunt him? Foxton was renowned for being the most successful rake in England—if success were measured by the number of women he’d bedded.
Anne let out a laugh. “Skilled in the art of pleasure he may be, Lord Devereaux, but I’m in no danger of finding Foxton irresistible, for he is a man with no heart.”
Charles gestured to his chest and raised his eyebrows.
She smiled. “Yes, Lord Devereaux, youdohave a heart. But you’re astute enough to save it for the few souls deserving of it.”
She approached the fireplace and yanked the bellpull. Shortly after, a young woman in a bright-pink gown appeared.
“Rosie darling, Lord Devereux is ready to leave. Would you find his man and show them out?”
The young woman nodded. “He was in with Jenny, Mrs. Brown, but I believe I heard them finishing a few minutes ago.”
Anne let out a soft laugh. “Jenny’s one of my best. I taught her everything I know. The two of you should compare notes.”
She rose and offered her hand. Charles took it, and her slim fingers curled around his wrist.
“Good luck, your lordship,” she said. “And remember, if you’re ever uncertain as to whether your wife is taking pleasure, all you need do is ask her. As you learn how to give her pleasure, let her guide you by telling you where and how she likes to be touched. If you’re fortunate, you may find her wanting to reciprocate and give you pleasure in return.”
He nodded, then exited the chamber, returning to the corridor bedecked in deep-scarlet furnishings with gold trim, with wood-paneled doors behind which he could hear a symphony of grunts, cries, and professions of love. The young doxy led him to the main doors, where John stood waiting, a satisfied smile on his lips. The waiting footman opened the doors and Charles exited the building, his valet in tow. He turned to bid his farewell, but the door had already closed—a dark-painted door bearing a polished brass knocker and a nameplate with the legend:Mrs. Brown’s seminary for young ladies.
“Well, sir, I don’t know about yourself,” John said, “but that was a very pleasurable way to spend an afternoon.”
Charles allowed himself a smile and they set off. Before they’d taken half a dozen paces, Charles froze. Approaching from the opposite direction was a familiar figure.
Dressed in a white muslin gown and a burgundy redingote with matching bonnet, she exuded understated elegance. Their eyes met and she flicked her emerald gaze to the building from which he’d just come, then set her mouth into a hard line.
Surely she, like most women, had no idea of the true activities behind the door of Number 55 Green Street?
“Duchess Whitcombe!” John said, a little too brightly. “What a pleasure to see you.”
She arched an eyebrow then regarded Charles with that unsettling expression of hers. “You must be careful,” she said, turning her attention toward the building. “An excess of pleasure is not always advisable. I trust my sister-in-law is well? I see she has not accompanied you in your visit to”—she glanced at the brass plate, her expression hardening—“Mrs. Brown’s seminary for young ladies.”
Devil’s bollocks—the duchess was an astute woman and would, most likely, sniff out a guilty man at fifty paces.
Tell her it’s not what it looks like,Charles signed.
Saythatto a woman, sir, and she’ll know you’ve been up to no good.
“Lord Devereaux was just asking if we might accompany you anywhere?” John said.
“Thank you, but no,” she replied. “I’m on my way to take tea with Duchess Sawbridge. Perhaps you know her, or at least you might know the duke. Disreputable rake—or he was until he married dear Jemima. I find it such a wonderful transformation when a rake is reformed by marriage. Of course, notallrakes are capable of redemption.”
She lifted her lips into a smile, but her eyes darkened until they were almost black.
“Well, I shan’t keep you from your…business,” she said. “Do give my regards to Olivia. Tell her I shall be writing to her. I’m afraid I’ve been remiss in my correspondence, and I promised not to let her down. I can’t abide anyone who cannot keep their promises, can you?”
She dipped her head, then continued along the pavement.
Call her back,Charles signed.
“And say what?” John whispered. “If you try to justify your visit, you’ll only confirm your guilt.”
I’m not guilty!Charles signed, smacking his fist into his palm.I care not whatshethinks of me, but I have no wish to see my wife upset if the duchess sees fit to gossip.
“Duchess Whitcombe is the last person to engage in gossip,” Johnsaid. “You’re concerning yourself over nothing. She’s never liked you much—does it matter if she likes you even less?”
I care not whether she, or every soul in London, loathes me. I do, however, care whether the duchess distresses my wife by making unfounded accusations.
