“You’ve been watching my house.” It was not a question.
Josephine looked away. “It is quite lovely. The flowers at the front door are particularly pretty.”
“What is it, Lady Josephine, that you want?”
Here was her chance. Finally. She cleared her throat. “My father wagered and lost a peacock brooch to you in a game of cards. Is it still in your possession?”
“It is. A hideous bauble.”
“Exactly.” Josephine breathed a sigh of relief. “Splendid. I must retrieve the brooch to receive my inheritance. You see my father set a task for each of us, me and my sisters.”
“I don’t care.” Lavisham held up a hand, stopping further explanation. “Clever old bastard,” he said under his breath, so low Josephine had to struggle to make out the words. “I suppose,” he said in that rumbling tone, “you would like it back.”
“Yes. Please. It is a requirement of my father’s will.” She looked down at her ruined shirt as a flood of heat washed up her cheeks. Her behavior was unseemly. What must Lavisham think of her? “I didn’t allow you liberties because of the brooch. That merely—happened,” she finished.
“I’m glad to hear it.” Lavisham crossed his massive forearms over his chest. “No.”
Josephine looked up at him. “No?”
“No.” He grabbed her coat with the missing buttons and tossed it at her. “I’m not giving you the brooch.”
Her mouth popped open in surprise. “But why?”
“You annoy me.”
Josephine glared at him. “But you said yourself the peacock is ugly and poorly made. The jewels aren’t terribly rare. It isn’t valuable.”
“You’ve no idea.” He shrugged. “Still, no. Now, if you don’t mind, my lady, it is quite late. I’m sure those breeches are cutting off the blood supply to your head, else you wouldn’t continue to ply me with your idiotic platitudes.”
“My platitudes are not idiotic.” She rolled off the desk to her feet. Picking up the ruined coat, she struggled to get her arms through it without allowing Lavisham further glimpses of her breasts. “Why will you not give it to me? I’ll pay you for it, once I have my inheritance.”
“Again. No.”
Lavisham took Josephine’s arm, dragging her to the door of his study and into the hall where they were met by a burly footman and a furious, horrified Willa.
Her friend shot her an apologetic look, lantern still held in one hand.
“Is that your accomplice?” Lavisham leaned down with a slow nod. “Lady Willa Hatter. Well, at least she’s dressed appropriately.” He turned to the footman. “Hail a hack and putthem both inside.” He turned to Josephine. “I’ll assume neither one of you wish to be seen leaving my home in my carriage. I’m told I can ruin a young lady’s reputation with only a look.”
“Thank you, Your Grace,” Willa whispered with a small curtsey.
“You,” Josephine said as the footman led her away, Willa at her side, “are not a gentleman, Lavisham.” She had failed. No brooch. And even worse, her body still throbbed from the touch of this…. reprobate.
“I never claimed to be, my lady.” Lavisham made a mock bow. “Good evening.”
Chapter Five
Marcus Long, Duke of Lavisham, watched as his footman led out the Lady Willa and the deliciously furious Lady Josephine Harrington. He could see Josephine glaring at him through the window of the hack as the vehicle rolled away, lips moving. Probably uttering a curse.
He’d have to sternly instruct his staff to not breathe a word of Lady Josephine Harrington’s visit to his home tonight. Thank goodness she’d had the presence of mind to stop Marcus before he’d completely ruined her.
“Oh yes,” he hissed. “A pity indeed.”
Marcus had been sitting in his study after returning from Paris earlier than expected. The city hadn’t delighted him as it once had, and his favorite brothel had no longer held muchappeal. So when he’d returned home early, anxious to sleep in his own bed, sipping on a brandy, he’d watched with interest as an oddly clumsy, rounded gentleman, whom he now knew to be Josephine, climbed over his garden wall, with a shocking lack of skill.
Honestly, it was a miracle she hadn’t stabbed herself on the wrought iron spikes.
Moments later, when a generously rounded woman had appeared in his study, Marcus had been annoyed…but then amused. Anders, a friend of his from Eton, often indulged in pulling pranks on Marcus. In the last year alone, Marcus had come home to find three courtesans naked and cavorting in his bed, cows in his garden—the smell had been horrendous—and a dinner party in Marcus’s own dining room, already in progress. So it wouldn’t be that unusual for Anders to pay a courtesan to dress as a boy and break into Marcus’s home.
