Page 52 of One Night with a Rake

“Rubbish! What difference should that make?”

“None. I know. It shouldn’t make a particle of difference, but women tend to see such things differently, I’m told.” Nate leaned forward slightly. “I understand your own marriage was a made one.”

“What of it?”

“Perhaps if Georgette were to see that you and the marchioness are happy together—”

“Who told you we weren’t?”

“No one.”

“I should say not. What passes between Lady Yorkingham and myself is no one’s business but our own.”

“Of course. I quite agree.” Nate leaned against the tufted back of his chair. “Then I take it you and her ladyship are happy in your arranged marriage.”

“Well, of course we are. We’re jubilant. Ecstatic, even,” the marquis declared. “If we were any happier, we’d be damned delirious.”

“Good. My congratulations. So many marriages that began as yours did are not,” Nathaniel said. “What I was thinking was that if Georgette could see for herself that a made marriage can grow into a love match, then—”

“Then she’d be more amenable to the royal duke’s suit,” the marquis finished.

“Exactly.”

“Very well. I’ll call her in to my study tomorrow and apprise her of the felicitous state of her parents’ marriage and—”

“I’m afraid that won’t do. Lady Georgette is the sort who likes to figure things out for herself,” Nate said. “I suggest you allow her to see you wooing your wife.”

“Wooing?”

“For lack of a better word, yes. Wooing.”

Lord Yorkingham frowned in puzzlement. “How?”

“Send the marchioness some hothouse flowers. Compliment her at the supper table. Escort her someplace she’s been wanting to go, especially if it happens to be a place you’re not too keen on.” Nate ticked off the suggestions on his fingers. “Women appreciate that sort of gesture out of all knowing.”

The marquis dragged a hand over his face. “Oh, Lud, not the opera.”

“Perfect. That’s the ticket. Capital idea, my lord.”

Lord Yorkingham exhaled noisily. “I suppose it would do. Anything for my Georgie.”

“You mean anything for your marchioness,” Nathaniel amended. “If Georgette sees that you and your wife are happy together, she won’t ask for more from you.”

“I should hope not. I absolutely draw the line at the infernal ballet.”

Twenty

Georgette breathed a sigh of relief once her mother finally stopped scolding her about her late-night escapades and left. She didn’t want to think about her duty to the family or the royal duke’s expectations. She didn’t want to think about the dead girl on Lackaday Lane. And she certainly didn’t want to think about a certain rake and his ideas on how to spend time in an enclosed carriage.

Or what Nate thought she ought to do later that night once moonlight shafted through her window and the whole house slept.

All she wanted was for Mercy to help her strip out of her clothes so she could collapse into bed and, please God, sink into a dreamless sleep.

Mercy, however, had other ideas.

“Oh, my lady, why did ye go and do that for?” Mercy complained once the door latch snicked behind Lady Yorkingham’s light step. When Georgette looked askance at her, Mercy went on. “Leavin’ that dolt Reuben in a whorehouse for the night! He’s what ye might call—oh, drat it, what was that word ye teached me? Oh, yes!—‘susceptible.’ He’s helpless in the face of a woman’s wiles. It’ll be lambs to the slaughter.”

Georgette began unbuttoning her own bodice. “The House of Sirens is no longer a whorehouse.”