“Ah, so then their clients will face penalties?”
“I—”
“And, pray, what provisions will be in this bill to help these women when they’ve lost their livelihoods?” Phoebe snapped. Her cheeks had taken on a becoming rosy color he would have enjoyed had her eyes not been bright with anger and fixed solely on him. “Or do you plan to lock up everyone who’s everdaredto sell their body? Out of sight, out of mind, is that it?”
“No,” Will insisted as his mind spun wildly. “But something must be done–”
“There are a great many things that need to be done to improve the lives of the people who live in this city,” she interrupted. “But it appears we disagree on what exactly needs changing. People turn to prostitution for all sorts of reasons. If you reallyareinterested in ending this scourge, rather than punishing those that do, youshould explore what is driving them down that path in the first place. Men like you are all too happy to indulge in vice in private while condemning it in public,” she added.
Whatever guilt Will had begun to feel at his thickheadedness immediately vanished and his jaw tightened. How dare she so casually accuse him of such hypocrisy.
“I agree that you’ve made some salient points, Miss Atkinson, and I will take them up with the earl directly.” Then Will took a breath and leaned over the table until her damned enticing scent filled his nostrils. “But do not presume to know what kind of man I am,” he growled.
For her part, Phoebe remained undaunted and simply held his gaze for a heart-shattering moment. “Then tell me what kind you are,” she finally murmured.
Will blinked. He must have imagined the suggestive note in her voice.Hadto. Even still, his gaze dropped to her mouth and Phoebe’s breath caught. The air grew hot and thick around them. Then, after what felt like eons but had only been a matter of seconds, he pulled back. “The kind I’ve always been.”
Phoebe stared at him in silence but while her chest rose and fell in quick breaths, her expression was more shuttered than ever. “I should go,” she said abruptly as she pushed her chair back. “It’s getting late. My flatmate will worry.”
“Take my carriage,” Will said.
“Absolutely n—”
“My driver can return here after he drops you off. I’d like to be alone,” he added.
Phoebe stood there gaping until Will raised an eyebrow. “Is there something else you’d like to accuse me of,” he drawled, “or have you had your fill this evening?”
Her mouth snapped shut at his sarcastic reply and she left without another word. Will slid down in his chair until his knees nearly touched the underside of the table, but neither his vulgar posture nor having the last word made him feel any better.
Men like you are all too happy to indulge in vice in private…
Will had never once engaged in the kind of vice she meant, as the exchange of money for bed partners had never sat right with him. As silly as it sounded, he wanted to be with someone who chose him out of desire, not obligation. Will preferred experienced widows, like his most recent paramour, Mrs. Hunt. After the death of her much older and mostly indifferent husband, she had been eager to make up for lost time and they embarked on a passionate affair. But their liaison ended nearly a year ago, after she received an offer of marriage from a very respectable doctor and Will didn’t counter it. Though he enjoyed spending time with her, Will had to be strategic in his choice of wife. Mrs. Hunt was a pretty woman with a pleasant demeanor and a healthy appetite in bed, but that didn’t make her duchess material.
His refusal to offer for her himself had caused her great pain.
I suppose I came to think of you as my fairy prince—or duke as it were.
Her tearful admission still made him blush all these months later. It was the first time one of his paramours had admitted to harboring hopes of marriage and the incident had weighed heavily on his conscience afterward. He may not have been in love with Mrs. Hunt, but he did care for her and didn’t like thinking that he may have inadvertently given her false hope.
All in all, it was frustrating to realize that he was still uncovering new depths of power related to his title. He hadn’t pursued any more romantic entanglements afterward. And once hedecided to marry, it seemed best to remain celibate until his wedding night.
Perhaps that was why he found Phoebe Atkinson so damned distracting. It had nothing to do withherin particular. He was simply… overwrought. Will finished the rest of his pint in one gulp and rose to procure something stronger while he waited for his carriage to return. Yes, that was definitely it. Phoebe wasn’t the most attractive woman of his acquaintance. Certainly not more than Lady Gwen. And though she was intelligent, intelligence was overrated—especially when it was accompanied by a tongue as sharp as hers.
Once Will reached the empty bar, he ordered a double whiskey. As the barman poured it out, Will decided that Phoebe could think whatever rubbish she wanted about him. It didn’t matter, as her opinion was of absolutely no consequence in his world.
Then he raised the glass, made a silent toast, and downed the contents.
To hell with Phoebe Atkinson.
Phoebe collapsed against the cushions of Will’s carriage and cast a dark look around the sumptuous interior. That old familiar anger rose inside her once more, pushing away the guilt that had begun to claw up her throat in the pub. He had a lot of nerve, freely judging what far less fortunate people did to survive while an eye-watering fortune had fallen into his lap. Phoebe let out a sigh and closed her eyes, but all she saw was his darkly forbidding gaze as he leaned in close to her.
Do not presume to know what kind of man I am.
He had been undoubtably angry as he said the words. Yet the deep command had skated across her skin and left a distressing neediness that was only exacerbated by his painfully familiar scent of cedar, spice, and warm skin. Together they created the kind of fierce, carnal urge that could only be born from a thousand girlhood idles—and one she would absolutely take to the grave.
Then tell me what kind you are.
The brazen question had slipped past her lips and for one dazzling moment she indulged in this practically biblical personal fantasy, pretending he was the dashing country upstart once more without his towering rank standing between them. He was simply Will Margrave. The same boy who had argued with her father over the benefits of profit-sharing, asked her mother about the time she met Eleanor Marx, and helped her rescue a wounded bird they found in the forest before giving her a sympathetic forehead kiss. Then he had to go and ruin it.
