Page 8 of The Duke of Pain

What to wear for Lord Craven?

Something to titillate but nothing more. Olivia held up a sheer coral peignoir with a matching coral and gold corset. Might as well give the duke his money’s worth, for he would be looking, and nothing else.

As Olivia did her ablutions, she pondered her fate and what led her to the life she led. If Pan hadn’t found her that night—she shuddered. Pan had become her dear friend and confidant. His real name was James Sidle, and contrary to tittle-tattle, he was not a eunuch. He played up his role around customers.

James had confided to her one night over a bottle of port that his gate swung both ways, as he put it.

“In this cold world, it behooves one to discover warmth and affection where one can find it,” he had explained.

The observation made sense to Olivia, even though she never would find warmth and affection with anyone, regardless of gender.

James was a hopeless romantic who found a profit could be made in the vices of others. There was more to his past, no doubt, but that could be said of everyone working and living at The Velvet Vine and Tackle.

James knew some of her past. He was the only one she had confided in. Her long-term plan consisted of making enough money to live quietly in an isolated cottage either far north or south of London.

It would take a few years yet to have enough money to live on, but she planned to live frugally, planting herbs and vegetables in a garden. Perhaps doing sewing on the side for the extra coin or a little baking.

As long she was alone—and left alone.

After lighting the fire, Olivia curled up in the chair and wrapped a blanket about her shoulders. At thirty-two years of age, there was no reason not to achieve her goal in five years. Then Olivia could have that quiet and solitary life that she hungered for.

If it meant servicing a decadent duke, all the better.

Money is all that matters.

* * *

“Your Grace, your mother awaits you in the parlor. Her Grace is alone.”

Gideon handed his cloak to Hobson, his butler. “We are not to be disturbed.”

“Of course, Your Grace. I have brought a tea tray already.”

Gideon stood in front of the parlor door, trying to regulate his breathing. Why had she come here this morning? They were not close. Gideon held a vast amount of resentment toward her for her marriage to Whinstone—and more.

Swinging open the double doors, he strode into the room, not bothering to take his mother’s hand or give a perfunctory kiss on her wrinkled cheek.

“Why are you here, Mother?” he asked in a dull tone as he sat opposite.

“Not even going to ask how I am?”

“No, not even.”

“Still the cold and implacable automaton, I see,” she murmured as she sipped her tea.

“You had a hand in making me this way.”

His mother visibly winced. “Hasn’t this gone on long enough? How long do you plan to hate me? And your father?”

“Whinstone is not my father; how many times must I say it? Stop referring to him as such. Why do you even bother? You’re not even living with the wretched man. Speaking of which, I want him gone from Foxmont. It is the Watford country seat, not Whinstone’s. Which means it is mine to do with as I please.”

“You know Sanford has no country seat; his dukedom was and is in poor straits. There is no entailed property and hardly any money,” she sniffed scornfully. “Besides, you spend all your time in London chasing one debauchery after another. Someone should live at the place.”

Hardly any money—that was an understatement.

It was the reason Whinstone had latched on to the older widow—his mother—the previous Duchess of Watford.

The Whinstone dukedom had entailed property at one time. But the estate had been taken many years ago by the House of Lords for reasons Gideon had no idea. Why take the property and not the title? And how was that even legal? It must be a juicy tale, but he didn’t care to know it.