He winked at Lilah, and she looked away. Not only did he delight in relating tales of his conquests of doxies, now he wished to ridicule her in front of her family!
“Would you mock me, sir?” she asked.
“On the contrary, Miss Hart,” he replied. “You’ve done well to tend to the birds these past months, and I’d consider it an honor if you continued. I’m sure they’d be pleased to see a friendly face.”
Dexter snorted. “You’re not seriously saying that birds are intelligent enough to possess a working memory or that they have feelings?”
Lilah sighed. Dexter may be a shrewd businessman, but he sometimes displayed a shocking lack of insight.
“I wouldn’t dismiss such a theory so readily, Mr. Hart,” Fraser said. “Every sentient being has the ability to form a genuine attachment with another. Take swans—they mate for life, do they not? Such loyalty to another creature shows they have risen above the sentiments of the savage.”
“Unlike a bachelor,” Dexter said. He pulled out his pocket watch. “Forgive us, Molineux. Much as I’d relish the continuation of this conversation, we have a dinner appointment. Delilah, it’s time to go home.”
Lilah frowned at her brother. Why did a man always seek to give a woman instruction? But perhaps it was for the best that she leave. Fraser’s presence was beginning to unsettle her. In a few short moments, her feelings had gone from the thrill of having him near her to indignation in the knowledge that he’d taken a mistress in London—and finally settling on disappointment, that, at most, he viewed Lilah as nothing more than a diversion.
Chapter Seven
Fraser watched Miss Hart walk away on her brother’s arm.
An intriguing young woman, but he couldn’t make her out. At first, she’d seemed determined to hate him due to his lineage, but he’d recognized the signs of female attraction. And now, once more, the evidence was before him, in her reaction to the mention of Emma Whitford.
Was she jealous? She had no need. Fraser had parted with his mistress shortly after encountering Miss Hart. But he smiled at the notion that she believed she had a rival.
Her eyes had flashed when her sister mentioned marriage!
Fraser might have declared he had no intention of marrying, but that was out of a desire to be excluded from the circus that was the marriage mart. There was little joy in parading a young woman around London under the watchful eyes of chaperones and ambitious parents. And the rituals didn’t stop with a proposal. In most cases, both parties were forced to sign a contract detailing the full exchange of goods, as if the bride and the groom were mere commodities.
If Fraser were to cleave himself to a woman, he would take her—claim her as his ancestors did, and to hell with the niceties. And no simpering miss would do. He needed a feisty hellion capable of handling herself and to provide him with stimulation, not to mention excellent bed sport. It wouldn’t do to shackle himself to a debutante whose mama had instructed her to lay back, spread her legs, and close her eyes until the ordeal was over. His perfect mate would be a willing participant, with her eyes and body open and ready for him, eager to learn how to pleasure him as thoroughly as he pleasured her.
“Your Grace?”
He started in guilt at the voice, as if he were a wayward adolescent caught fisting himself in the woods, and he moved his hands instinctively to conceal the bulge in his breeches.
Ahead of him, a woman sat on a bench, a sketchbook on her lap. The sunlight illuminated blonde tresses, which her bonnet could not completely conceal, and her eyes shone like pale sapphires.
“I thought I recognized you,” she said.
“Mrs. Pelham.” He approached her and bowed and waved away her attempt to stand. “No, don’t trouble yourself. I’ve no wish to interrupt you.”
“The interruption of a good friend is not unwelcome.”
“You’re too kind.”
She swept a line across the page with her pencil. “On the contrary,” she said, “I’ve experienced enough of the world to distinguish a good man from an evil one.”
“It’s not always easy in a society dominated by artifice.”
“It’s true that a poor character can have the appearance of goodness,” she said. “All of us wish to portray ourselves in a flattering light. Take this drawing, for instance.” She gestured toward her sketchbook. On the page were a number of drawings of the men and women who frequented Hyde Park. One figure stood out from the rest—an oversized woman with an ostentatiously decorated hat. The line of her dress was accentuated by curves implying great rolls of flesh. A bulbous nose completed the caricature. Beside her was a small, rotund terrier. On closer inspection, the dog’s face bore an uncanny resemblance to its mistress.
Fraser suppressed a laugh. “You’ve not given Lady de Bron the appearance of goodness.”
“I draw likenesses as I see them.” She smiled and flicked through the pages until she settled on one.
It was a simple portrait which had captured the essence of the subject in a few strokes. Wide, expressive eyes stared out from the page, challenging the observer into daring to criticize her. The brow was furrowed in concentration as if the subject wondered why the artist deemed her worthy of having her likeness drawn. The lips were parted slightly, and he closed his eyes at the memory of their sweet taste. Would they part for him again? The eyes spoke of a determined sadness as if she bore the troubles of the world on her shoulders.
The portrait spoke of a woman doomed to perpetual dissatisfaction.
Would she ever know contentment? Or pleasure?
“I’ve never seen a truer likeness,” Fraser said. “You’ve captured her spirit perfectly.”
“Delilah was an unwilling subject,” she replied, “but she agreed to sit for me, nonetheless.”
“If I know Miss Hart, she’d be determined to deny herself the pleasure but would be willing at the blink of an eye to sit for your sake.”
“You know my friend well.” She fixed him with a direct gaze. “She refused to accept the portrait as a gift, saying it would encourage vanity. I do wish she’d enjoy life more. She seems to believe pleasure is sinful.”
“There’s nothing wrong with indulging in a little sin,” Fraser said.
She laughed. “You’re a rogue, sir. No wonder Miss Hart finds you infuriating.”
“She said as much?”
“You must forgive her temper,” she said. “And forgive her aversion to your family name. The twelfth duke was an unkind husband, but I have forgiven him because he left me alone to indulge in his excesses, and his death brought about my freedom. His cruelty as a child is something Delilah cannot forgive or forget. I dare say she will, one day, but until then, I’d ask you to understand her. She’s the most formidable champion for those she esteems highly.”
“That she may be,” he said, “but she shouldn’t feel the need to fight all the time.”
“Perhaps she needs to be taught the meaning of pleasure.”
She spoke the truth. Miss Delilah Hart needed a lesson in pleasure.
And who better to instruct her than himself?