A courtesan, perhaps? And one with an intellect beyond that of the usual predatory female.
With such a quarry to be had, perhaps living in London wouldn’t be a hardship after all.
Chapter Three
“I must say, Delilah, dear, you seem out of sorts today.”
Lilah’s friend nodded toward the cup in her hand, which had remained untouched.
“Is the tea not to your liking?”
“No, it’s delicious, as usual,” Lilah said, sipping her drink. Overly sweet, but Anne always indulged her, arguing that Lilah needed to enjoy the luxuries her family could now afford, with little or no guilt.
Which is what he had said—the infuriating rogue who possessed the unnerving skill of ascertaining what unsettled Lilah the most. The rogue who understood her basest desires, even more than she did.
“Has something happened?” Anne persisted.
Yes, something had happened. Lilah had almost given herself to a stranger.
Worse than a stranger. Molineux. The successor to Anne’s first husband.
But the last thing Anne needed was a reminder of her first marriage.
Lilah changed the subject.
“Have you visited Mrs. Forbes recently?”
Anne nodded. “She works too hard,” she said. “Much like you, Lilah, dear, she seems determined to ignore the pleasures in life. I often tell her she should never have established her sanctuary.”
“But if she hadn’t,” Lilah said, “then not only would disadvantaged women have one less place in which to find shelter, but we’d never have met.”
“For which I’m grateful, dearest Delilah.”
“As am I,” Lilah said. “You’re one of the few women who doesn’t give me the cut whenever I walk into a ballroom. I can’t understand why my brother insists on spending a fortune parading me around prospective suitors when I’d rather earn my fortune writing.”
“Have you had any success with your poetry?” Anne asked.
“Not yet,” Lilah said, “but Mr. Stock paid me an advance for my latest installment of Essays on Patriarchy.”
“Should you be writing such material?”
“I don’t see why not. Apart from Mr. Stock and yourself, nobody knows the identity of Jeremiah Smith.
“I found your last essay rather inflammatory,” Anne said. “No good can come of making such an overt attack on the aristocracy.”
“If it encourages people to think, then I am content.”
“What if it encourages them to act?” Anne asked. “It takes only a small spark to ignite a flame. The discontent of the masses is the oil that douses the wood of an uprising. Imagine how dreadful the Terrors in France must have been! What if that happened in London?”
Lilah swallowed a mouthful of tea, wrinkling her nose at the taste. “You exaggerate, Anne.”
“Wars are won and lost at the command of the written word, not the sword or the pistol,” Anne said. “You should stick to poetry.”
“Nobody’s interested in my poems,” Lilah said. “It took me long enough to persuade Mr. Stock to publish my essays. If I were a man, he’d have agreed immediately. I daresay your husband would have no trouble finding someone willing to publish if he wrote poetry.”
Anne let out a laugh. “Much as I love my dear Harold, I have to confess, he lacks the talent.”
“How is he?” Lilah asked.
“In perfect health,” Anne said. “I swear he works almost as hard as your brother. He’s in the process of concluding a deal with a distillery owner to sell and distribute whisky, of all things.”
“Whisky?”
“He expects demand to increase given the new freedoms in production and distribution,” Anne said, “though I understand little of it myself. The owner’s an excellent man, though a little—rugged.” She hesitated as if to continue, then shook her head and gestured toward the teapot. “Another cup?”
“No, thank you.”
“But you must stay for supper. Harold will be joining us.”
“In which case, I’d be glad to accept.”
“Excellent!” Anne said. “Mrs. Bowles has been marinating the pork all day, and the smell coming from the kitchen is enough to make a stone statue salivate.”
“It sounds too good to miss.”
“It’s Harold’s favorite,” Anne said. “Ah! Here he comes.”
The parlor door opened, and Mr. Pelham appeared.
“Harold!” Anne jumped to her feet and crossed the room. Her husband drew her to him for a brief kiss.
“My love,” he said. He turned to Lilah. “Miss Hart. A pleasure, as always.”
“Delilah is joining us for supper,” Anne said.
“Excellent!” he said. “It’ll make a four. We have another guest.” He turned and called out. “Come in, old chap. Don’t stand on ceremony.”
Another man appeared at the doorway, and Lilah caught her breath. Mr. Pelham was a tall man, but his companion towered over him. Clear blue eyes met her gaze, and a smile curled across the lush, sensual mouth. He raised his hand in greeting, a strong hand with long, lean fingers, which two days ago had set her skin on fire with the promise of pleasure.
He rubbed his cheek, the very same cheek she’d slapped, and a twinkle of mischief glittered in his eyes.
“Molineux, old chap,” Mr. Pelham said, “permit me to introduce my wife’s friend, Miss Delilah Hart. Miss Hart, may I introduce Fraser MacGregor, Duke Molineux.”
“Delilah Hart,” the newcomer’s tongue curled round her name, and he held out his hand. She took it, and he lifted her hand to his lips.
“A beautiful name,” he whispered. “Delilah—the woman who brought the strongest of men to his knees.”
His breath sent a rush of heat over her skin. She tried to pull free, but he tightened his hold, flicked his tongue out, and traced a line across her hand. His nostrils flared, and a low rumble reverberated in his chest.
“What a delectable perfume,” he said, his voice a low whisper. “It reminds me of pleasure shared.”
She snatched her hand free, her skin on fire where his lips had been. A wicked smile curled across his lips.
Curse him!
“Miss Hart, is something the matter?” Mr. Pelham asked.
The newcomer winked at her. Curse him, he actually winked! As if they shared a dirty secret!
Unable to fight the anger which burned inside, she rounded on Anne’s husband.
“Mr. Pelham, do you know what manner of man you’ve brought here?”
“Of course,” Pelham said. “He’s my new business partner. And a very fine chap he is.”
“He’s a Molineux!” Lilah protested. “The latest in a long line of rakes. Who knows how many women he’s debauched?”
Rather than show discomposure, the huge Scotsman folded his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and smiled. “You impugn my skills, Miss Hart, if you infer my conquests were unwilling.”
“Perhaps you ignored their protests,” she retorted.
He let out a chuckle. “I’ve never known a woman to object,” he said. “I’ve only known her to beg.”