“My goodness,” she said cheerfully. “Quite a spend.”
“Forgive me.”
At the duke’s odd tone, she frowned and turned back to him. Oh no. He didn’t look happy and sated. He looked horrified.
“Your Grace,” Delilah began, greatly alarmed.
“I made a terrible mess,” Tunbury ground out as he clumsily shoved his cock back into his trousers and attempted to fasten the buttons. “Your gown. Your face. I can only offer my sincerest apologies, Mrs. Forbes. It won’t happen again. Good evening.”
“Wait one minute…Tunbury…”
But the younger man had already departed her parlor with great haste; and the rapid thump of his shoe heels on the wooden stairs informed her he wasn’t slowing down.
Acute dismay and disappointment curled in her belly. How had it all gone so wrong after a truly wonderful evening? She couldn’t remember the last time she’d enjoyed a man’s company so much, or felt such intense lust, but he’d quite literally run from her.
Delilah muttered a colorful curse, and not even the luxuriousness of her surroundings could improve her mood. Worse, she now had to change gowns, paste a smile on her face, and pretend all was well.
Like every other night for the past five years, Temple patrons were waiting.
Chapter 3
He truly loathed December.
Bennett glared out his library window into Grosvenor Square. Even the highly fashionable address looked weary and bleak; usually the wide cobblestoned area between the large red brick and pale stone houses and the resident-only expanse of grass had many fine carriages, and people out strolling or riding. But today was that in-between weather that annoyed everyone, no pristine blanket of pretty snow, just an icy wind that cut through even the thickest of overcoats, misty rain, and mud that soaked into shoes and boots, never again to be removed.
As though awful weather wasn’t enough, his father had passed in December, so it would always be a time of deep mourning and regret. But then came Christmastide with its false cheer and gaiety; people drinking far too much mulled wine and pretending to love those they spent the rest of the year grumbling about. He’d not needed another item on the list, yet now he had one: utterly humiliating himself in front of a woman.
Bennett winced. He’d revealed more secrets to Mrs. Forbes than a young buck with a brandy-fogged head, and performed with an equal lack of grace soon after. What kind of man lost control so badly that he gushed like a geyser onto a woman’s gown bodice? Onto her face? That he’d thought, even for a moment, that he could be a rake was laughable. More like a virgin bachelor forever, so no wife had to suffer his ineptness. His cousin in Cornwall could inherit the dukedom with all compliments and best wishes.
“Greetings, Tun,” said a silky voice from the doorway, and he turned to see Fletcher saunter in with one of his older Carlton House friends, Sir Giles Lowe. Bloody hell. Bad enough the viscount alone, but an irritating associate also? How typically December.
“Fletcher,” Bennett replied stiffly. “Sir Giles. Come and warm yourself by the fire, looks terribly cold out there.”
The two visitors exchanged a glance.
“Good old Tun,” said Sir Giles as he sank into a chair and adjusted the fall of lace at his wrists. “Can always count on you for an insightful comment on the weather. No doubt the talent will serve you well in the bride hunt.”
Bennett clenched his jaw. So, Lord Hurst had told his son, and the viscount had in turn told everyone. How foolish to think his trustee—former trustee—might have remained silent now Bennett had control of his own affairs. Too often it happened like this; him caught off guard, slyly insulted, then torn between the conduct of a dignified duke or an angry street brawler. After a decade of rules and lectures he always chose duke, but damnation the thought of shoving Fletcher and Sir Giles headfirst into a steaming pile of horse manure held great appeal.
“One can only hope,” he replied, before politeness forced him to ask, “You’re both well?”
“More than passing fair,” said Fletcher, reclining on the chaise. “M’wife’s still in the country until she’s churched—silly woman birthed a daughter—but it does mean I have free rein in town. So many opera singers and actresses searching for a protector, so little time. Met a fiery redhead last night, with a mouth that—”
“Don’t prolong this, Fletch,” drawled Sir Giles. “Let’s just get what we came for and go.”
“Ah yes. Delilah’s Temple. Enlighten us, Tun, if you actually dared enter, of course.”
Do not hit him. Do NOT hit him. Think of the scandal.
Bennett flexed his fingers. At least Fletcher wouldn’t be receiving the information he desired; after what had occurred last night, he owed Mrs. Forbes discretion at the very least. “I have good and bad news. The good, Delilah’s Temple is like walking into your own townhouse. Excellent staff, excellent furnishings, warm and well lit. The bad news, that invitation I had was insufficient for a full tour. Only the gaming hell, which you would both admire. Endless supply of complimentary refreshments prepared by a French chef, and tables for high-stakes whist, vingt-un, and so on.”
The viscount tapped his cheek. “It is common knowledge that I’m a most accomplished card player. If I lose, it’s because someone else is cheating. I do find it hard to believe they declined your invitation, though.”
“So old,” said Bennett, shrugging. “It was sent five years ago, when they were trying to entice patrons. Now they have no need. Those with money are practically dueling each other for membership.”
Sir Giles laughed. “True. It must have been so very galling when they banished you, though. Perhaps the delectable Delilah just didn’t want young Humdrum wandering about and frightening the other patrons. Ha!”
“Perhaps.”
“Don’t be glum, chum,” said Fletcher. “When my membership is approved, I’ll let you accompany me once as a guest, for old times’ sake. Unstarch that cravat a bit.”
“How very kind.”
The viscount smirked and rose to his feet. “We’d best be off. Both in desperate need of a bath, nap, and hearty breakfast. Nights of sin and brandy will do that to men. Good day.”
Good riddance.
Thankfully alone once more, Bennett returned to his desk. There were always documents and bills to view, and that list of possible brides. While it remained extraordinarily tempting to let his cousin inherit, his staff and tenants deserved better. Besides, a decision would be needed soon; thanks to Lord Hurst’s loose lips the young ladies knew they were being considered…
Last night with Delilah you couldn’t even remember the names on the list. But you can recall in great detail how she looked as she stroked herself to climax, can’t you? And how it felt with her hands over yours as she helped you come…
No. He would not think about that. Nor how kind she was, how clever a businesswoman, or easy a conversationalist. Brides. He needed to think about brides. Ancient families, appropriate age, delicate sensibilities.
Or you could marry someone you actually liked, as Delilah said. Someone to talk to and share concerns with, a lusty lover equally eager for bed.