“Perhaps you’ve yet to encounter the woman to satisfy your needs,” Pelham said. “I believe that for every man, there exists the perfect mate—unique to him. The trick, of course, is in identifying your mate and bagging her before she slips away.”
“My needs are well satisfied, I assure you,” Fraser said.
“Ah, yes,” A slow smile stretched across Pelham’s mouth. “I hear Mrs. Emma Whitford’s accomplishments are legendary.
Good lord, could a man not take a mistress without the whole of London gossiping about it?
“Accomplishment in a mistress I can deal with,” Fraser said, “but incarceration in the parson’s cage I can do well without. I have no intention of being bagged.”
“But you must marry if you want an heir.”
Fraser shook his head. “I wouldn’t wish the responsibility of that godforsaken dukedom on anyone. The common man doesn’t view the aristocracy with any favor, I assure you. Just look at the French and what they did in the name of equality.”
“The French are hotheaded and impetuous,” Pelham said. “Not words I’d use to describe the English. If an Englishman had his limbs ripped off by an elephant, he’d find it hard to muster anything more than a small tut of annoyance.”
Fraser sighed. “I wish I could believe you, my friend, but the masses have always been ruled by the whims and desires of the powerful. A word to the unwise can do a lot of damage, particularly when portrayed in the popular press. Have you read the City Chronicle?”
Pelham nodded. “You refer to the infamous Jeremiah Smith and his Essays on Patriarchy?”
“The very same. While I may agree with the refreshing outlook a member of our sex displays, the tone of his article bears an undercurrent of malevolence. Such inflammatory language, in the wrong hands, could incite the mob. We shouldn’t fear the swords of the uneducated generals, but the pens of the educated anarchists.”
Pelham sipped his drink. “You worry unnecessarily. Besides, being a Scot, you should know a thing or two about mob mentality, given that your countrymen declare wars of independence against our nation on a regular basis.
“What use is war,” Fraser said, “when disagreements can more easily be settled if the two sparring figureheads actually talked to each other rather than sent their subjects to engage in mass murder?”
“Have a care,” Pelham laughed, “or I might believe you to be Mister Smith, given your anarchic leanings.”
“On the contrary,” Fraser replied. “Society is built on a backbone of tradition, establishment, and hard work. But it doesn’t mean we shouldn’t indulge in pleasure, otherwise what’s the point in living?”
“Then,” Pelham said, “by your philosophy, you should look to producing a son and heir to further the establishment, of which you are a part, whether you like it or not. And you should find yourself a wife. But I’d advise you not to follow the path Dexter Hart intends to tread. Marriage should be more than a business deal to snare a dowry. It should be for love.”
“Love can be purchased,” Fraser said. “That’s what a mistress is for.”
“No,” Pelham said. “Love bought for hire is temporary. When you fail to pay the rent, you’ll find yourself evicted. A courtesan secures her income by persuading her protector that she loves him. A wife should need no persuasion to love you.”
“Then, if you were advising me, Pelham, how would you suggest I go about prospecting for a wife?”
“Your title will render your task easy, my friend. At the first ball you attend, you’ll find yourself surrounded by young ladies and their overbearing mamas, all vying to outdo each other and secure the hand of the newest duke in town.”
“Then remind me to refuse every invitation forthwith,” Fraser said. “I have no wish to surround myself with young ladies.”
A wicked smile curled across Pelham’s mouth.
“What about hellcats?”
A small spike of lust pricked at Fraser’s body, and his breeches became too tight. He crossed his legs in an attempt to hide the evidence of his arousal. But his companion’s laugh told him he’d failed.
“Our little hellcat is determined not to indulge in any form of luxury,” Pelham said. “She says it only serves to affirm the distinction between the rich and the poor.”
“Hardly the worst crime a young woman can commit,” Fraser said.
“I could forgive her that,” Pelham said, “were it not for her determination to spoil everyone else’s pleasure.”
Pleasure…
Fraser’s skin tightened at the memory her body squirming under his hands, those lush, pink lips, parted in surprise and wonder as he gave her a taste of pleasure.
“She’s determined to hate all men—single men, at least,” Pelham continued. “But perhaps given how her season started, she can be forgiven.”
“How her season started?”
“She caught her suitor in an uncompromising position with another woman,” Pelham said. “Let’s just say that the delectable Mrs. Whitford is a very—popular—woman.”
“Good lord!”
“Had she been in possession of a knife, I daresay the man’s ancestral line would have ended with him,” Pelham said, “and, knowing Miss Hart, she’d have fashioned his balls into a pair of earrings.” Pelham rose from his seat. “But I believe it’s time to change the subject and discuss whisky rather than wildcats. I’m anxious to hear about your plans for using brandy casks to mature the liquor in.”
Fraser nodded and held his glass out for Pelham to refill. At last, the real business of the evening could take place.
But as Pelham rattled on about his ledgers, Fraser’s concentration slipped.
What would it be like to teach that hellcat about pleasure? Though he had a long way to go to convince his potential business partners that whisky was worth investing in, a greater challenge now tempted him.
To have Miss Hart beg to warm his bed.
As his Da had always said…
We MacGregors relish a challenge.
Oh, aye. He’d relish it very much.
Chapter Four
“Sit up, Delilah, dear. You want to make a good impression on Sir Thomas.”
Lilah shifted in her seat, while Dorothea poured the tea.
Dexter remained still, his dark gaze focused on Lilah, disapproval in his eyes.
Having never known their parents who’d died shortly after she was born, Lilah viewed Dexter as a combination of father, brother, and, more recently, jailer. As head of the family, he expected obedience from the rest of his siblings. Dorothea considered herself the family matriarch, by virtue of her age. But in reality, Thea was a doormat, who deferred to Dexter on every occasion.
Even now, while undertaking a task as simple as pouring tea, Lilah’s sister looked to their brother for approval.
Lilah rolled her eyes. “Don’t worry,” she said. “I can handle Tommie Tiptoes.”
“Delilah!” Thea protested.
Dexter’s expression hardened. “You’ll show Sir Thomas the respect he’s due.”
When angry, Dexter lowered his voice rather than raised it. His detachment and control unnerved Lilah more than if he’d possessed a temper as hot as hers. A temper, driven by emotion, could be fought on equal terms. But to experience emotion, one must be in possession of a soul—something Dexter was sorely lacking.