Page 13 of The Duke of Pain

“You cannot be serious. I am not interested in such games. I also do not make multiple appointments with the same client over consecutive nights. It is not how I do business.” Olivia frowned and met his intense gaze. “You are aware this is a business exchange? Share? Give and take? This is not an affair of the heart.”

Oliva’s gaze slid toward and locked on the bag of gold sovereigns. The temptation of it swayed her thoughts. For a woman who remained reserved and collected, a wide range of conflicting emotions was coursing through her. Doubt, confusion, and wariness, to name a few. Such emotive games were beyond her knowledge.

“Of course, this is business,” the duke sniffed. “The heart does not even factor into this, as mine had been blackened years past. If I were to guess, so has yours. We have nothing to fear in that regard. As to the touching, does it make you nauseous, or is it a personal preference here in this room?”

“It is a personal preference.”

He took a couple of steps closer. “Say my name, Olivia. I want to hear it upon your lips.” He gently took her gloved hand.

Olivia struggled to pull her hand away. The duke laid a polite kiss across her knuckles before releasing it.

“I didn’t say you could touch me now,” she snapped. “And I did not give you leave to use my name.”

“My apologies,” the duke murmured.

In truth, Olivia was rattled. Heat traveled through her at his nearness. When the duke took her hand, she was not sickened at the contact. Not at all.

How disturbing, yet exciting.

Gideon exhaled and tsked. “That is not part of the agreement I have put before you. I will touch you, and I will use your name. Are we agreed, then?”

“You ask too much.”

“I ask for trust.”

Olivia’s laugh sounded bitter to her own ears. “I trust no man. I never will.”

Gideon took another step forward. “Why not? The men who submit place their trust in you.”

Her mouth quirked cynically. “Those sexually corrupt men are not putting their trust in me. They are putting their lust. It is all men feel, at any rate. Present company included.”

“I cannot argue that fact. I suppose I am one of that large group of sexually corrupt men. Regardless, the deal is before you. Take it or leave it. Tell me now.”

The top of her head barely grazed his collarbone. Olivia had not stood this close to a man in years. His assessing and heated gaze had her heart slamming against her ribcage. Not a reaction she thought she would ever experience.

Perhaps it was a warning that this could be the one man to slip behind her barriers.

How laughable.

But the money.

Taking his coin would place her goal of retiring even more within reach. Besides, when had any sex worker ever become seriously involved with the upper crust?

Well, there was one example.

The story had traveled to all parts of London. About seventeen years ago, in late 1881, the madam and owner of the brothel, the Starling Club, was hired as a birthday present for an eccentric, hermit professor, the third son of a duke. Beyond all imaginings, they fell in love and eventually married.

Olivia had scoffed at such an outlandish fairy tale, but James confirmed the story was indeed true.

Philomena McGrattan and her Lord Spencer Hornsby husband lived happily-ever-after on a semi-isolated estate with children and wolfhounds.

Regardless, such a rare occurrence was not likely to happen again, not that Olivia wanted it to.

Olivia met his gaze. “You are unhappy,” she whispered. Did she speak that aloud?

“As are you. Perhaps we are fated to end such a state together.”

Olivia stepped back, and the loss of his closeness was keenly felt.