She braced herself, hands holding utensils lowered to the edge of the table.
He gave a short chuckle and cringed at how rusty it sounded. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d really laughed. How sad for the poor little earl’s son. Ignoring that thought, he continued. “I suppose youshouldprepare. I must again”—he took a breath and wiggled his brows—“beg your pardon.”
Her silverware clattered on the plate.
He held up a hand. “Before you say anything, I remember. Hear me out, please. To elaborate, I am apologizing for sneaking into your sitting room and then making a mess of your kitchen and waking you.”
She watched him, staying silent.
“The reason I did those things was because I was suffering the ill-effects of over-imbibing for too long.” He raised a finger. “I hope to avoid that happening in the future.”
She opened her mouth to retort.
He hurried to correct himself. “I will make every effort to avoid that happening again.”
She nodded, seeming to accept that he had met the requirement of recognizing the issue to minimize the risk of recurrence.
“I do not want to take advantage of your help. You have my utmost gratitude and regret. ’Tis not an excuse, but Iwas overwhelmed by your competence and my cravings. We’ve already established that I am weak. I will work on that.”
She narrowed her gaze at him.
Ignoring her, he raised a second finger, counting that as sufficient penitence, then continued to his third point. “I will make up for it through service. As you indicated you prefer not to direct me, I offer a foot rub.”
“A what?” Her eyes widened, her brows near her hairline.
“’Tis a skill I honed at Oxford. I, um... wooed?... a number of tavern wenches there, and their feet always hurt after so many hours on them. They taught me what helped alleviate the pain. Heck, one preferred that over...” His cheeks heated. That made him sound like his sexual prowess was not up to snuff. Although, now that he thought about it, it might not have been. At least it was before he started drinking quite so much. Not that any of this should matter, as he’d leave here in a fortnight.
She snickered, watching his expressions.
“What say you? Did the apology meet your expectations? Do you accept my terms?” he blustered.
“I’ll decide that after the foot rub, Clodpate.”
Chapter Nine
Her thoughts whirledbetween anticipation of his hands on her and his declaration.
He was overwhelmed by her competence? Belle had had odes written and songs sung to her beauty. She knew ’twas a key ingredient at her success as a courtesan. Intelligence and malleability were equally important. She’d played every role imaginable for men, from kneeling at their feet to having them prostrate themselves before her. Every costume, every undergarment, every hairstyle she could imagine had been put to use.
No one knew better than she that competency and confidence were essential to survival as a courtesan. Knowing one was smart enough to make any man feel like a king by anticipating his needs and fulfilling his dirtiest desires.
Of all those attributes, only this annoying mess of a lordling chose her capableness to value. She should not be flattered. After all, his ineptitude at life was a low bar from which to measure. But she could not help the vain spurt of pleasure flickering in her chest.
He’d succeeded at remembering and implementing the necessary components of an apology. The offer of a foot rub ascontrition was unexpected, and irresistible. She slid her feet out of her slippers under the dining table. Heat bloomed between her legs at the thought of his hands on her. With any other man, she’d offer sex—nay, take it. But pleasure came too easily to Luke and responsibility too slowly. That was a horrible combination in a lover, and she had to keep watch over him for another fortnight.
She forced herself to linger over supper while she attempted to talk herself out of a bad decision and tried not to stare at his hands. Every inch of her garments rubbed against suddenly sensitive skin. At long last, she nodded to the servants and led the way to the back parlor with him trailing behind.
“Let’s see... I usually perform these on a bed,” he mused, looking around the room from the doorway.
She arched a brow. “You have not been, nor will you be, invited onto my bed. We shall have to make do.”
One side of his mouth tilted up in a half smile. “Fair enough. If you sit in the armchair, I can sit on the footstool. Does that suit?”
“Having you sit at my feet and look up to me? Certainly.” She settled into the armchair. “The only thing that might make this better is sherry, but alas, your lack of control means I cannot have that.”
“Exactly why I am here to serve you.” He held a hand out.
If he continued saying things like that, she’d never talk her inner devil out of that terrible decision it had been contemplating. After a momentary internal debate on whether to remove her slipper, she declined. He could do all the work.
