Her Wicked LibertineEDIT Read online

  “Leave, and you lose your chance of paying off the debt.” He dared her, shameless in the certainty he held the higher ground.

  With no other choice, she shot a vexed glare at him. “Fine.” Her gloved hands displayed no hesitation when they lifted to the clasp and opened it. The wool fell away.

  His speech ability also fell away.

  The high-necked grey wool hugged her form faithfully. A silky throat hid under the fabric that covered narrow shoulders down to the swell of breasts that would make any man lose not only his speech but his life in the process. Full and firm with a promise of softness, Harris wondered about the depraved things he could do with them. The nondescript grey hinted at a slim waist to flare over very feminine hips. This buttoned-up shrew was a goddess of lust.

  The very same lust that bit him sharply at the sight of her. And she stood there fully, demurely dressed. He didn’t wish to imagine what she would do to him otherwise…clad.

  “What does this have to do with anything?” Her frosty voice drilled through the fog of his carnal fantasies.

  Harris pushed from the desk and neared her in measured strides. “Become my mistress and the debt will be forgiven and forgotten.” Three feet from her, he lowered his head to pierce her. Then she lifted hers to attack him with fury in the depths of her brown irises.

  Said fury roused so intensely that her cheeks flooded with the deepest red. And the only thing that came to his mind was how flushed she would be on the brink of coming apart. Under him.

  Her nostrils flared as she inhaled harshly to produce the hissing words that came next. “You can take your filthy proposition and—”

  “Careful with unladylike language, Lady Edwina,” he admonished with a side smirk.

  “Careful that I don’t use my knee to cripple you forever,” she struck back before hauling the door with such force the hinges shook.

  The wooden panel smashed shut with a noise that reverberated throughout the warehouse. Smugly, he stared at the empty space she left.

  All this fire in bed would unman him beautifully.

  CHAPTER TWO

  Upon entering her home, Edwina tore off her hat and cloak and threw them on the nearest peg. There were no more servants, except the housekeeper who must be busy with her chores.

  Her feet sought the drawing room where the sewing basket lay. Crocheting laces usually calmed her a great deal. Her restless frame sank on an armchair as she picked the lace she was working on.

  But she still fumed at the memory of what the cad had proposed. It made her feel no better than the lightskirts who’d crossed her path on her way out of the warehouse. What did she expect from a man like him who indulged in every sin under the sun? His attitude made the dire situation she found herself in even more straining.

  As her fingers worked agilely, Edwina had to admit that the first reaction to Mr Darroch’s words had been a hidden thrill to permeate her skin. The idea of that portentous man touching her induced a certain tumult within her. She knew little of what went on between a man and a woman in the intimacy of their chambers. But from the scraps of conversation heard here and there, the basic mechanics were evident. Thinking about indulging in the ‘basic mechanics’ with that starkly handsome libertine incited no aversion. Honestly, a thrumming curiosity cut through her.

  The luxury of indulging anything, tempting as it might be, lay far from her life right at that moment. Work had been sustaining her these past months. It kept the roof over her head and food in her belly. Without it, she would need to sell this home only to scrape on something to live. Its sale would cover only a fraction of what her father owed Darroch Shipment. She enquired, considering it should solve this mess, but no. Which in a way was good, she didn’t need to feel guilty for striving to keep the place she was born in. The knowledge shattered her plans, however, prompting her to talk to the wretched Darroch.

  Since she had been a young girl of thirteen, lace became her passion. Her mother used to praise her talent at it. With her skill, she had the idea of selling it to seamstresses who applied her handcraft to dresses, undergarments and even hats. The income was enough for her and Philippa. That she could earn a living from her own work made her proud. It felt good to rely on herself. Gradually, her lace-crocheting acquired fame and surely, she would grow this little business into something more solid.

  And if she didn’t find a way to pay the sodden debt, the libertine could go hang.

  The impulsive thought didn’t stick naturally. Insolvent, someone would go to prison, her uncle most probably. That would be a disgrace for the Marquis of Mandeville and her whole family. The possibility of her beloved sister falling in disgrace tore at her heart, and she’d strive to avoid it happening as much as possible. She had to do something. Not that of course. She’d contact her father’s solicitor to try for other avenues.

  The rumpled bed at one of Madame Lafond’s chambers contained three people. Harris and two of the finest girls the madame kept in stock. One on each side of him, they sat leaning against the headboard while the girls granted his every wish.

  It was not working.

  At least it wasn’t working his mood up.

  The doves were pretty, the chamber boasted a fluffy bed, clean linen, and lavender-scented air. Perfect as usual.

  The girls undid his shirt and kissed him all over. A naughty hand slid down his stomach to where the fun should get serious in his breeches. No fun arose, serious or otherwise.

  At thirty-six, Harris must be becoming jaded. The lavish parties, the faceless women may not be doing it for him any longer.

  He certainly didn’t feel jaded when the Mandeville chit left his office in such a thunderous fashion. During the remainder of the working day, his mind kept going back to her fleeting visit. He weaved fantasies of what he would do to her were he allowed even a finger on her prissy person. Each fantasy made him hard.

  “Are you tired today, my lord?” Simone, who was familiar with him, asked as she lifted her skirts to straddle him.

  He wasn’t a lord anymore. Two years ago, Harris stood as the heir to the Clan Darroch in the Scottish Highlands. His business prevented him from assuming the post, so he abdicated in favour of his cousin by marriage. Lachlan and Moira were blissfully married and led the clan wisely. The people were happy, and so was Harris. His friends should address him as Mr Darroch, but nobody seemed to care one way or the other.

  “It’s been a busy day,” he answered, watching Simone undoing her bodice.

  Nobody cared, except for the chit who would afford him no deference. And here he sat again thinking of her, his body responding to the memory.

  “U-la-la,” exclaimed Simone, witnessing his cheering up.

  Mary, the other girl, took his hand to place it inside her own bodice and cup her breast. A breast that was much smaller than…

  Hell!

  Harris sprang from the bed as if it was made of nails. This couldn’t go on. How talking for less than fifteen minutes to a buttoned-up shrew did this to him he had no idea. And cared not to find out.

  Simone, who had disentangled herself from him to give him room to move, sat on her haunches on the mattress eyeing him quizzically. “What is the matter, my lord?”

  “Don’t we please you?” asked Mary with a moue.

  He gave them a fake smile. “Nothing’s the matter, you’re both delightful,” he soothed. “I’m just a bit out of sorts today.” Producing a wad of notes, he threw them on the bed.

  And then he left as if this were the last place on earth he wanted to be.

  He would go to the club which would be more to his liking, no doubt.

  In the club’s drawing room sat the Earl of Thornton with a modest tumbler of brandy in hand. By his side, the Duke of Brunswick, sprawled on the chair with his usual cynicism smothering his handsome face. A little farther, the Marquess of Worcester, an old acquaintance of the other two, observed Darroch’s progress.

  From a passing f
ootman, Harris snatched the whole bottle and poured a healthy dose for himself as he joined his two friends.

  Edmund followed Harris’s actions with an amused look on him. “Is anything the matter?”

  This seemed to be the question of the evening. “Hard day,” he said, downing a hearty swig. “How’s Otilia?” he asked to divert his friend’s attention.

  The besotted expression that layered the Earl’s face caused Harris disgust. “My wife fares well.”

  Edmund and Otilia married last year. She had been an orphan miss who Edmund had planned to marry off but ended up marrying himself for the obvious reason that he couldn’t let go of her.

  “Devil save me from starry-eyed fools,” the duke commented with a drawl. He’d lost his wife and child in childbirth leading the ton to believe the experience fed his scorn at love.

  “And me,” scorned the marquess.

  Harris peered around him at the men reading papers, talking, smoking cigars and drinking. A sense of hollowness invaded him. He left the Highlands at twenty to make his fortune in Edinburgh, first with importing goods and later with shipping. At thirty, he had made enough money to last three lifetimes. His business grew to the point Edinburgh became too small for him, and he transferred his operations to London. The hard work and challenges it presented kept him as busy as it kept him satisfied. In his free time, he indulged in his favourite pastime, willing women. Why this hollowness? There was no sensible reason he should be questioning his lifestyle at this precise instant. He must be weary after a day’s toil, that’s all. And if he required a change, he could always travel in his own ships to see a little of the world. At this point, the company boasted enough strength to run itself. A few months would do no harm. He’d give it further consideration, he promised himself.

  Edmund, Brunswick, Worcester and Harris talked a while longer before Harris took his leave agreeing to dinner with the newlyweds at the earliest opportunity.

  The warehouse bustled with redoubled activity as a ship had docked that night. Dockworkers dragged hundreds of crates containing all manner of goods from the farthest confines of the planet into the open space on the ground floor. This morning, Harris oversaw the work, doing lots of it himself, every hand in dire need. The crates must be carried in, catalogued, registered and separated according to the different orders they represented.

  When the heaviest had been completed, he sought the privy to wash the grime off his hands and arms, his shirt sleeves rolled up, no coat. There was a pile of work waiting for him upstairs.

  Still wiping the droplets from his forearms, he entered his office, shutting the door. And froze. The chit stood in the middle of the room, prim, ramrod straight, disdainful. And more appetising than dinner at White’s. The thunderbolt that crashed into him made an out-of-control desire course down to his groins.

  Her prominent chin lifted a notch, eyes shooting a hard stare at him. “Five nights, you sign off the debt on the first night.” Her voice came low, but it rang with that kind of sacrifice ton wives made for king and country. She thought it an ordeal and would carry it out as such.

  The hell she would.

  He’d never taken a woman against her will and would not begin now.

  Five nights would not do. Not even for starters.

  Even with his blood roaring wild in his veins and his groins clamouring for satisfaction, his mouth stretched in a knowing side-smirk.

  “No amount of time. No amount of times,” he declared. He aimed at an open-ended agreement, more to his advantage. He wasn’t about to accept a limited number of times he took her either.

  Her throat, confined in another high-necked, high-waisted drab dress, moved in a swallow. Good. She should be tense.

  “This isn’t fair,” she protested.

  Fair or not, he would deal the cards. “We do it my way, or we don’t do it at all.” He set the rules. She would be there only to play the game. Dance to his tune, cater for his pleasure. Even if he’d make sure she obtained hers in the process.

  The wet dreams he’d had about her made no sense. She possessed nothing of what he sought in a woman, apart from her ample bosom that is. He didn’t have the slightest idea of why she inflicted this effect on him. The shrew was haughty, prudish and rather plain, the exact opposite of his usual fare. But, strangely enough, she came to him, to accept his proposal. Passing the opportunity was out of the question.

  The view of his solid arms mucked with Edwina’s focus. Ebony hair sprinkled over the muscled limbs, and she wondered at the touch of those large hands.

  She had struggled with the idea of coming to his office the whole night and hadn’t slept a wink. The view of him tall and stark muddled her sleep-deprived person.

  “How sweet.” Her lips formed a smile that didn’t even reach her cheeks, let alone her eyes.

  The irony of it all didn’t escape her. During all her life, she sat demurely in church, hearing the priest massacre women Sunday after Sunday. The sermons praised meekness, virginity, suppression of urges. A woman must give birth without enjoying the 'perks' of making a child. The sermons revelled in transforming women into passive vessels at the mercy of men. Service in, service out, she heard the passages where Mary Magdalene was demonised for precisely having the supposed chance to enjoy those perks. Priests never tired of condemning a woman whose job was to please men. The prostitute, the oldest profession in the world, made so by the very men who sneered at them.

  Only to stand here before a libertine who did exactly that, revelled in the sins of the flesh without an ounce of shame. Or guilt. Or restraint. And she was about to become his Magdalene. A thrill ran through her which had nothing to do with reproach, or aversion. What it was, she couldn’t answer.

  Right then, she couldn’t care less. A spinster, unlikely to find a husband, or love, or a family, at least she would experience the ‘perks’, whatever they might be. Anger mixed with giddiness at what loomed ahead. At her lack of choices. At this man’s power over her, at the way he’d change her life.

  “You move in with me.” The declaration startled her out of her musings.

  Her eyes bulged on him. “It’s not proper.”

  Those large hands braced his tapered waist. “Nothing we’ll do will be proper.” That wavy lock of ebony hair fell stubborn on his brow. “In point of fact, forget the word.”

  How would she forget the very concept that had guided the education her mother gave her, the education the governesses, the tutors force-fed her? It felt as if she must shed her clothes, roam around nude, unprotected, bathed in shame.

  “The word you will use when you find a wife, you mean.” The needling set itself free unbidden. Those hypocrite standards bit at her.

  He huffed a grunt. “There will be no wife. Love and marriage are for the dim-witted.” Meaning that if he sought a wife, ‘proper’ would be at the forefront of his mind.

  “No heirs then.” She needled further.

  He shook his head. “My cousin, Moira, has a son, he can have it all.”

  The man knew what he wanted and how he wanted it. She pitied those who stood in his way.

  Edwina turned to leave. There seemed to be nothing else to say. His bare-armed person stood between her and the door. She halted, hoping he gave her passage.

  “You move in tonight.”

  Words fled her mind at the speed he set for their agreement.

  Her wits gathered enough for her to stand her ground. “Nothing will happen without papers signed.” She was doing this mostly for her family, her sister, who deserved a better future. Philippa possessed a stunning beauty and still held a chance at a good marriage. Edwina wouldn’t rob it from her if she could help it.

  “Nothing will happen if you do not wish it.”

  That took her by surprise. He was giving her a choice in this, even if not playing by his rules didn’t lie on the table.

  “I trust your chambers are to your liking?” Harris’s deep voice made her
lift her head to him.

  They sat for dinner in his sumptuous dining room. Everything in this house was magnificent. Beauty, comfort and luxury scattered everywhere.

  “They are, thank you,” she managed before lowering her head again.

  His carriage had fetched her and a valise with her personal items just after tea. Which threw her into the harsh reality of what she had accepted to do. Become a mistress to the most notorious libertine in London—or Britain, who knew—to pay a debt she didn’t get into. For her family, especially her sister.

  The refined food on her plate remained untouched as her hands wrenched under the table. Did brides become this tense on their wedding night, or was it just her?

  “Isn’t the food to your taste?” He came again.

  Forcing her hands to the silverware, she barely rose her eyes to him. “It’s delicious, Mr Darroch.” The dryness of her throat made the words clipped.

  If brides felt that nervous, she didn’t know, but Edwina stood on the brink of having second thoughts. After crossing this bridge, there would be no returning. She risked her reputation. No, she had forfeited it completely the moment she realised that either she accepted his proposition or there would be no way out. Even though she insisted with the solicitor on a more decent solution.

  Tonight, together with her reputation, she would give up her maidenhead and, with it, any chance of marriage or a secure life. The daunting thought caused her to doubt her choice.

  “Our arrangement gives no reason for formality, Edwina.” Meaning he wanted her to call him by his given name.

  The almost-not-there brogue clinked in the way he uttered her name, and suddenly her doubts fled to the background. The tingle of his voice over her skin obliterated everything else. Sod it all. It induced her to dare explore more of what he indulged so unapologetically. Granted, she would pay for all the consequences and he wouldn’t. If anything, society would praise his prowess in the same proportion it would throw her in the mud. But that was the thing with choices; you followed a certain path for good or for bad.