Page 70 of Scandalous

Martín couldn’t resist laughing at the blatant lie. Lady Ramsay could scarcely remember to dress herself for dinner. She was the last woman in the world to be interested in matters as mundane as seating charts and headcounts.

He took his full glass to the seat farthest from the baron. “I like it here.”

“Yes, I can see why you would. Mrs. Hensleigh seems an excellent hostess. However, she did indicate that you might be—shall we say—lacking the requisite enthusiasm?”

Martín swore. “Am I not paying these whores good money to keep their mouths closed?”

Again the baron laughed. “Oh, come, Martín, she told me nothing. I guessed how it was. You do not look like a man who’s been well serviced. You look like a man who can hardly stand his own skin. Even my wife, who barely takes notice of events such as war, famine, or plague, commented that you were behaving oddly during your brief sojourn with us.”

“I do not know what you are talking about. I am behaving exactly as I usually do.” Martín gestured to his person with one hand. “You see me, here. It shouldn’t surprise you I am most at home in a whorehouse.”

“No, that does not surprise me. What does surprise me is that I should have to rescue you from one. Again.”

Martín was stunned. Never before had Ramsay mentioned the night they’d met.

“Come, my friend,” the older man said, his voice suddenly gentle. “You cannot be afraid of one small girl?”

“You do not know of what you speak, Lord Ramsay.” Martín threw back his drink and pondered the wisdom of having another.

“I know exactly of what I speak, although I can see you are somewhat confused. I came here today to tell you to act or miss your chance. Graaf has rarely left her side these past two weeks. He’s also ingratiated himself with her uncles. Naturally they share much in common.”

Martín felt as though he were looking through a veil of steam.

“Yes,” the baron continued, relentless. “Graaf runs tame in their London house. I understand he is even teaching Sarah to ride. In any event”—he shrugged, as if suddenly bored with the topic—“here are several invitations.” Ramsay stood and handed Martín a small bundle of cards. “One of those is from Lady Ramsay. She is hosting a dinner party, a small one. I expect she would appreciate a response from you if you can find the time.” He smiled down at Martín while pulling on his gloves. “My wife has indicated your room is ready and at your disposal. Or, if you prefer, I can direct you to more appropriate lodgings. Either way, I’m certain you will make the correct decision.”

Martín sat at the small desk after Ramsay took his leave. He looked at the cards he still held in his hand. Ramsay must have exerted pressure on his behalf. Who otherwise would invite a man like him to any function? Against his will, but too curious to resist, he opened the first card, a handwritten invitation from Lady Ramsay. The second, more formally printed, was an invitation to a ball in Miss Sarah Fisher’s honor, to be held at her uncle’s—Baron Danestoke’s—house. The third was an invitation from Mia, the Marchioness of Exley. Martín’s mouth twisted at the thought of being a guest of the Marquess of Exley. He wondered if the marchioness had told her starchy husband whom she’d invited to their house. Probably not.

Venetia entered without knocking. “Your friend has gone, I see.”

Martín stood as she entered the room. “Yes, he has delivered what he came to deliver.” He waved the stack of invitations at her.

Her lips twisted. “Oh, was that what he came to deliver?”

Martín resumed his seat after she’d taken hers, wondering what the woman wanted. He didn’t have long to wonder.

“I’ve taken the liberty of having your bags packed.”

“What? Am I in arrears?”

“You know you are not. But I think it is time for you to move to more suitable accommodations.”

Martín shook his head. “Have I been such an unpleasant guest? Why would you cast away such a guaranteed source of income?”

“I have decided to put something else above profit.”

He snorted. “Is that wise?”

“I doubt it. Still, I find I like you very much, Captain.”

Martín raised his eyebrows. After all, he’d invited her to his bed numerous times. He’d told her she could name her own price, believing maybe she would be what he needed to break the wretched curse that held him. She’d rejected every offer.

“I do not mean as a lover,” she said, easily reading his thoughts. “We would never suit each other in that way. We are too much alike, our pasts and expectations too similar. We neither of us believe anything good will come our way. And both of us are suspicious of anyone who appears to care for us.” Martín met her gaze and saw the truth in her hard, doll-like eyes.

“But perhaps we are wrong, Captain. You are not so dead to your feelings as you pretend. I know this is frightening to you because I know how much I should dislike it. But I believe you cannot rid yourself of your emotions by drinking and whoring. Well, particularly not by whoring,” she added, her smile mocking.

Heat crept up his neck. “What makes you think you understand me so well?”

She raised one delicate blond eyebrow. “You do not recall all you told me that night, do you?”