She’d changed into a mint green gown that brought out the catlike color of her eyes. The sheer sleeves and the white ribbon tied firmly under her breasts added to her femininity and madeher all the more pleasing to the eye. A white fichu was stuck in the neckline of her gown in the same fashion a servant might wear, but the texture was that of smooth silk and brought forth a desire to tear it from her neck to use it in a much more pleasurable fashion. She could not have looked more beautiful—unless she were naked.
Damn her for being everything he wanted, and everything he could not have. ?
Eleven
Whispers of the Ton
Dearest Reader,
I erroneously suspected the fathers and husbands of London would attempt to hide our publications from our lady readers. I was mistaken. It seems the gentlemen’s need to be the focus of such feminine desires, is vastly more important than any such misguided notion to protect the ladies from our scandalous ways. For it is said, that on the pages of Whites’ betting books, the gentlemen are wagering on who will be next to grace our publication and have the women vying for a look at their masculine attributes. Dare we ask if the next rogue is watching at this very moment while the young ladies in his household are rushing downstairs to breakfast where this edition will be eagerly awaiting them? It seems most, if not all, of the male gender hope they are the next subject of our talented artist. Yet, this author must wonder how one artist has access to so many delicious treats?
With that question in mind, dearest reader, ponder the mystery as you devour your dessert. Today’s sweet is a ducal delicacy many have already enjoyed. Feast your eyes on our very own, Duke of R, another favorite subject of this author. Will the Duchess of R, who is due to deliver the next peer of the realm any day, allow other ladies of the ton to take the next bite?
My, but one can only imagine what else lies beneath his prim and proper attire. Could a gentleman scanning the accounts of his estate be more enticing?
—The Whispers of the Ton published in 1813 with a drawing of the sensually studious Duke of Ross sitting in his study going over his estates accounts with his sleeves rolled up, displaying muscular forearms while his cravat is draped across the corner of his desk. The collar of his shirt is open, giving the viewer an enticing peek at his masculine chest covered in dark hair. The duke’s head may be tilted downward toward his accounts, but his eyes are inviting the viewer to come hither with a wicked gleam no woman could ignore.
Astley was furious with her, with Sir Williamson, with his leg, and probably the entire world.
Good. ?
She poured tea for Sir Williamson first, then Simon, who paced the room like a tiger trapped behind rows of glass windows while the world went on without him.
“My lord?” She held out a cup.
He stopped as if he hadn’t even been aware of her holding out the cup of tea like the peace offering it was meant to be. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and slowly released it beforesitting down across from where Sir Williamson sat with a view of the garden and the door.
Once he was seated, she somehow felt vulnerable in her position. If someone came into the drawing room, she was the first person they would see staring up at them. If someone came in through the garden, she would never see them approach, but the gentlemen would. It was made doubly evident when each took a surreptitious glance at each set of doors, Astley more obvious than the highly experienced Williamson, but she saw his casual perusal for what it was.
“It seems, gentlemen, I am the one in the most vulnerable position, once more.”
“Vulnerable in what manner?” Sir Williamson asked while holding a teacup that seemed to get lost in his large hands. He looked utterly ridiculous even on the settee, his legs were too long and his torso too tall. He was a veritable giant sitting in a child’s chair.
“Isn’t it obvious, she’s in my house,” Astley stewed.
“With my back to the garden,” she corrected. “I cannot react to an intruder from behind, and I’ll be the first target if someone enters the room from the foyer.”
“Astley switch seats with the lady.”
Simon bristled at the command in his own home despite having already reached for his crutch. She would have to remember Sir Williamson’s manner of delivery when giving orders. Perhaps it would work for her if she used it on the children. And Simon.
She rose and switched seats with him. “Now, if we may continue.” She took a sip of her tea and looked over the brim of her cup at both men. “My father?”
Simon sighed. “While I was in America on behest of Sir Williamson?—”
“Why were you there?” She asked.
“He asked me to go.”
“And what was your purpose?”
“If you’ll allow me to finish without interruption…”
She reached for a biscuit.
“A gentleman by the name of Lucas Tremayne sold off some land to an American businessman. I went to America to learn about the sale.” His eyes slanted in the spymaster’s direction, and she knew they were concealing something they didn’t want her to know. If Lucas Tremayne had sold any land, then it had to have been her family’s land that he had inherited upon her father’s death. It was land the Crown could not touch because, unlike their home, which had reverted back to the Crown, the land had been handed down to her father by his grandfather. If she and her sisters had not been declared bastards after her father’s death, both would still belong to them.
Simon sipped his tea. He hated tea.
