Chapter 1

Chapter One

H e'd made a mistake. Nothing new about that. What was new? The number of mistakes he'd made in such a short period of time. He'd stopped counting, in fact. Had to at some point, and apparently that point, for Liam Fletcher, Viscount Norton, was walking over the threshold of London's most exclusive brothel.

He paused in the gold and marble foyer, the brawny and bald butler who'd let him in, raking his gaze down his frame. And finding him wanting.

"Have you visited our establishment before, Lord…?"

"No." He should not be here now. He had a wife. A wife he rather… liked. A wife he wished to please. And wasn't that why he'd come here to begin with? Why he'd galloped away from his wife's house party in a rage of determination and… humiliation.

He ducked his head, hiding the heat spreading across his cheeks. More humiliation.

"I… I think I'm in the wrong place. Apologies." He nodded and stepped backward through the doorway.

A hand fluttered on the nape of his neck, and a whisper purred at his ear. "And who are you, good sir?" A woman curved around his side and slunk between him and the doorframe, stepping inside to face him. Red hair and painted lips. Kohl lining her large brown eyes. No way to tell how old or young she was. She grinned, flashing white teeth with a slight gap between the top front two.

Liam took another step backward and away from her. "I was just leaving."

"But you've only just arrived. Do come in." She stepped to the side, allowing him entrance. When he didn't move, she grasped his wrist, tugged him in. "You look positively ill, good sir. Let me offer you refreshment."

He felt rather ill, and he soon found himself in an elegant sitting room on the ground floor of the house.

The brothel.

Hell. His father must be spinning in his grave. If he were an apparition somewhere, he'd surely make haunting Liam his priority after this.

"I must leave," he said, refusing to take the seat she gestured to. "I should not have come."

She untied her bonnet and tilted her head to the side. "Then why did you? Come?" The way she said that last word, wrapping her lips around it, stretching it out. Left no doubt—she enjoyed saying it.

"I'm a virgin." Damnation. He'd not meant to say it. Not even true. He and Cora had consummated the marriage. He strode for the door.

"My good, still-nameless sir." The woman chuckled. "If that is true, then you are in the perfect place to rid yourself of such an affliction. Let me assign a lady to you. Do you have any preferences?"

He whipped around, panic lacing through him. "Yes. No! I mean no preferences I can satisfy here . Hell." He ground his teeth together to stop the inane flood of words. "I am not a virgin. And I have a wife, and…" Well, why not have out with it? "I came here for information, education. Not of the experiential sort, either. No touching. I simply wished to… speak to… an… expert. On matters of… pleasure." Oh hell, why wouldn't the ground open up and swallow him? Why couldn't God strike him down on the spot? He deserved to be smote this very moment.

He had no idea how to pleasure a wife who possessed more knowledge of the amorous arts than he did. Men were supposed to know , supposed to have the sort of experience denied women. And he had none. Not that he hadn't tried.

More humiliation, that.

Divine retribution would not save him.

Why had he thought a brothel would?

He should have asked the American, Mr. Bailey, for advice. He'd been sulking about Liam's house the past week, courting a wife for himself. Surely the man would know how a husband should woo his wife in the bedchamber.

But that would mean admitting Liam's own ignorance, reliving all three of his disastrous almosts .

He could have found one of those books Cora apparently enjoyed reading. Taught his own damned-to-hell self how to please a woman past simply driving into her and apologizing for any pain he'd given her.

His head fell back on his neck, and his lips emitted a groan likely heard across the channel.

The woman ignored it, stripped off her gloves, and slapped them onto a small pedestal table near a couch. One dangled over a porcelain figurine shaped like a…Yes. Definitely shaped like a man's shaft. Who made drawing room decorations shaped like genitalia? And so elegantly, too. It appeared to have more manners than he did. Might bow and wish him a good day if he stared at it long enough.

"You are in luck," she said. "I happen to be just such an expert." She dipped a curtsy and faced him once more with a wicked grin. "Madame Juliet, proprietress of Lady Circe's Nunnery, at your service. Will you once more deny me your name?"

He couldn't be rude. "Viscount Norton." But perhaps giving his name was not… circumspect. He'd left London with gossip on his heels. If anyone discovered he'd been here, that gossip would rage louder. Another mistake. "I must return to my wife."

"Is she who you wish to please? With an education?"

"Yes."

"Most interesting." She meandered around the room, flicking curtain tassels and running fingertips down the length of tables, speaking without looking at him. "The men of my acquaintance wish only to please themselves. Are you in love with her?"

"I... want her to be happy." He stared at a pastel painting of a cow above the fireplace. Such a mundane subject to grace the walls of a brothel. A cow, a pastoral landscape, in the background a garden bench beneath some trees with a milkmaid sitting on it. She looked rather odd, though, didn't she? Face twisted as if in pain and her skirts all lumpy. Too many legs, and… oh. Oh . Not all her legs, were they? Two belonged to someone hiding beneath her skirts. Someone who likely caused that twist of pain on her face. Pain? Or pleasure. He should know the difference!

Considering her reading preferences, Cora probably knew the difference.

Liam turned toward the doorway. "It's a husband's duty to please his wife. And she's…" What were the right words to describe Cora? She hid much. Clearly. He'd married her not knowing a thing about her. Had to find out from others that she not only read illicit books but borrowed them out to other women of the ton , ran an entire naughty lending library. She'd likely laughed at him after their one and only night together. He'd wanted to touch her everywhere, discover how she tasted, had wanted to make her eyes, gray and soft like a morning fog, glow with pleasure. But he'd reined in his own desire. He wouldn't ravish her as he had in the garden. He wouldn't be a beast with such a gentle soul as hers. That impulse had forced her to marry him.

"She is the sort of unknown I'd like to discover," he finally said. So restrained yet so free. He wanted to see into her shadows, understand them as well as he understood his own.

"Interesting. Then perhaps, Lord Norton, you should ask your wife how she can be pleased."

The simplest of answers. Hit him over the head like a falling brick and peeled in his head like a bell as he left the room, strode down the hallway, past the butler, and out the door. He should return to Norton Hall. He could tell Cora he'd been away on estate business. Hopefully, Mr. Bailey and Lady Templeton had not spilled the truth he'd spilled himself when he'd crashed out of the house and hopped onto his horse.

Who awaited him now, just around the corner.

"Hello, Tuck," Liam said, stepping into the shadows and finding the large bay. "Let's go home." The London townhouse tonight, then back to the country tomorrow. He rode slowly, weaving through bustling streets, planning. First, he'd ask her about the books. Then he'd apologize for their first night together. Then he'd beg her to recommend her favorite book. Of a particular type, of course. He'd read it cover to cover. Memorize it, then put its lessons to good use.

Cora's mother's words to him on their wedding day echoed with each clop of the bay's hooves. My daughter is a perfect innocent. Do not debauch her. Do not terrify her. Treat her like a lady. Her mother had not a single notion of who her daughter was, apparently.

He left the horse in the mews and entered the house, had a bath, and ate the first meal he'd had in, perhaps, twenty-four hours.

He could not sleep that night, and he rose with the sun, dressed, and wandered downstairs because no matter how tightly he closed his eyes, sleep laughed at him. Today, he would return to Norton Hall and have a difficult discussion with his wife.

What he should have done in the first place instead of fleeing like a nodcock.

First a pot of tea or two to boost his groggy brain. He sat at the breakfast table, heavy as a sinner on Sunday, and poured a cup, snagged a point of toast.

Then the front door banged open, and a voice rang out like a curse swinging on a violent wind. "You vile pisspot! I will crush your bones."

He froze, the cup lifted halfway to his lips, steam clouding his vision.

"Are you here? Of course you are. I saw Friar Tuck in the mews. Face me, you coward."

He snapped the cup to its saucer with a splash and a clatter. Drops of tea flicked across his face and cravat, and he stood on shaky legs, wiping his cheek with his sleeve. She'd come after him?

"Face me!" Her cries echoed off every wall and pulled him to her like a siren's song. She stood in the entryway, her hands fisted at her sides, her face pale above a black gown that hugged delectable curves and hid a perfect bosom. She'd wound her raven-wing hair in a loose knot at her neck, and passion pinked her cheeks and sparked a storm in her gray eyes.

God, he'd married a stunning woman. He'd known it that night in the garden, felt a surge of satisfaction because of it, even though it muddled everything else. His grandmother had wanted him to marry well, had approved his suit of a duke's sister. But a simple miss? A banker's daughter, though rich, had not been what his grandmother had asked him to deliver.

He'd wanted Cora, though. From the moment he'd heard her voice behind the mask—rich and melancholy, strong and melodious. That voice had given her away in the garden—not Prudence, but Cora. Once he'd touched her, pressed her against a tree and felt her breath against his cheek, everything had disappeared except the deep floral fragrance of the night, the shadows that held them, the sound of their breathing, the velvet of her skin. The perfection of her lips.

Her. His veiled lady.

Miss Cora Eastwood—an impulse in his blood. And when he gave way to impulse—as he was wont eventually to do—it always ended badly.

Usually just for himself. This time, though, he'd dragged an innocent lady down with him. Into matrimony.

He must have stepped too loudly down the hall, memory pulling him closer to her, because her gaze swung to him, fierce and dangerous. This woman wore beauty like a blade. Every bit of her magnificent and cutting.

"You." She stalked toward him, arm outstretched, a dagger of a finger aimed at his heart. "Explain yourself."

He paled. Explain. Yes, he must. He looked to the sky for a lightning bolt to strike him down. Found a perfectly normal ceiling. No help from the divine, then. Unfortunate, that. He'd have to speak aloud the humiliating truth. Men weren't supposed to be like him—untried and ignorant.

"I am going to reach into your coal-black heart"—she continued forward, her remaining fingers unfurling to join the first as she flipped her palm up and flat, then curled it into a fist—"and snatch away your soul to burn it."

"Cora, I—"

"I will burn it in a low fire, so it has time to feel the pain, to scream for mercy."

She meant to terrify him. Why did he find himself hard, then? She trembled with fury, a righteous indignation that would spear him through the gut if offered the opportunity, and he quaked with desire.

"Did you enjoy your evening, Husband ? I hear the beds at Lady Circe's are quite comfortable."

She knew . Whatever arousal her ferocity had pulsed through him fled. "Bailey should not have told you—" His friend Benjamin Bailey had tried to talk him out of running back to London. Liam should have listened to him.

"I am glad he did! Now I know exactly what sort of man you are. The kind who thinks he can do as he pleases but who disdains women for any and all similar desires. You wish me to… to lie back and be still so you can finish as quickly as can be and leave for other beds, other ladies. Just like my father." She spat the last word.

And he ventured a step closer, buoyed by a surge of realization. "That is not true. I do not believe that. I do not wish that. And I hope not to be like your father at all if you so dislike him. As you clearly do."

"I loathe him."

"Very well. I'll loathe him, too."

"Ha!" In a sweep of fabric, she surged past him and shot up the stairs. "You will not return to that place."

He followed her. "No, I will not."

"And you will not keep a stable of mistresses."

"No, I certainly will not."

She reached the top of the stairs and made straight for the viscountess's bedchamber. "And I will—" She stopped midstep, her skirts swinging around her frozen legs. Slowly, she faced him. "You will not?" Her eyes narrowed. "So agreeable? Are you lying to placate me?"

"I am not lying." One foot on the landing and the other two steps lower, he held up his hands and said, "Let me explain. I am a fool but not a bounder. I merely wish to be a good and dutiful husband, a proper viscount, a passable man. I simply wish to please you."

"Please me? By hying off to a brothel? You expect me to be fool enough to believe you?" She swung back into motion once more.

He ran after her. "It's true. I was humiliated when I found out about the books. I thought you…" What were the right words? "Ignorant of what happens between men and women. As ignorant as I." He mumbled the last bit.

"Pardon?" One shoulder jerked back, and she glanced at him over it.

Nothing for it. He must fess up. He stood tall, straightened his shoulders, and lifted his chin. "Our night together was my first. With any woman."

She tilted her head, her pink lips partly open. "But you're a man!"

"Thus, the humiliation." Heat had returned to his cheeks.

"It's not denied you ."

"And yet I've been denied. Multiple times." Lord, he did not wish to relive those disastrous dalliances, those apocalyptic amorous encounters, those ill-fated almost fucks in a hallway in the middle of the day, in front of this woman. "That is not the point. The point is I may have overreacted. My first thought was how much more than me you must know. My second thought was that you must be laughing at my attempts to respect your innocence. My third thought—"

"My. So many thoughts, and here I believed you incapable of thinking at all."

He flinched but accepted the hit. A fair blow, all things considered. "I understand why you might think so." He scratched the back of his neck, finding a particularly interesting crack in the wallpaper shaped like a fish. "Only one desire drove me from Norton Hall so rapidly."

"That I am no better than a—"

"No. No." The repeated word offered in a softer tone. "I wanted to be able to please you and had no idea how. A husband should know his way around his wife's body, should have gained experience before marriage that would benefit her during it. The best place to gain such an education was an establishment like Lady Circe's. You will not believe me, I know, but I had no notion of actually… practicing with a woman. I simply wanted to… to speak to one. As I learned from my professors and father to be a vicar. As I spoke to the estate manager when I became a viscount, as I sought out a duke to help me navigate the new world of the ton ." As evidenced by the last twenty-four hours, he was composed almost entirely of mistakes. He could not be trusted to perform any job well on his own. He needed expert help, or he'd bumble his way to disaster.

Silence as long as the hallway, then she laughed. "You wanted a lecture on the subject of making love?"

"I knew you'd laugh at me." The words clipped. She might as well have shoved him down the stairs.

"No." Said with a crashing step toward him. "No. A little right now, yes. It is so unusual, you see. But when we… when you came to me… not then. If you had come to me , told me , I would not have laughed."

He studied her face, though she would not look at him. He believed her. What was that unfurling slowly in his chest?

Hope?

"Cora." He took a tentative step toward her. "Can we begin again? Be truthful with one another about who we are and what we do. About the kind of marriage we wish to create with one another." He held out a hand toward her, waiting, hoping.

She swallowed, eyeing his outstretched hand like a strange dog she feared might snap at her. Her arm flinched, and he thought she might reach out, take his hand. But she pulled it against her belly.

"No," she said. "This is, I fear, a very clear sign about the sort of marriage we are meant to have."

"And what sort is that?"

"The distant kind." She pressed her back against her bedchamber door and wrapped her fingers around the doorknob. "There is no reason for us to bother one another until you need an heir. You may"—she cleared her throat—"let me know when that is, and I will accommodate you, my lord." Her hand twisted the doorknob, the door gave way, and she stepped so quickly into her room that he could not catch her. The door slammed closed between them.

"Cora!" he cried, pressing his palms against the cool wood of the door, knocking his damned hard forehead against it. "We must talk more. We should not run. It's not a sign of anything except for the fact we have not been open enough with one another. I—"

"Do you wish for an heir now?" Her voice was muffled but sharp still.

All he had to do was say he wanted an heir. Only that and she'd let him into the bedchamber by her side. But impulse overrode the voice of wisdom, yelling to give her nothing but the truth.

"If an heir comes, of course, but I'm not terribly worried about it at the moment." A true viscount would be.

"Then we are done with one another until that time, Lord Norton."

He lifted his fist to bang on the door, laid it down softly instead. If the woman wanted distance, he could give her that. He needed time, anyway, and a less groggy mind, to figure out what to do next.

He'd made few choices in his life for himself. From a young age, he'd known he would follow in his father's footsteps in the church and take the living in the parish near Norton Hall after his father's death. He'd done the best he could to follow that path—at Oxford, then working as a curate beneath his father, then replacing his father one spring day when he didn't wake up from a nap. Then death chose a different path for him once more—uncle and cousin dead within a year of each other, and Liam suddenly a viscount.

With a wife. Her, also not of his choosing.

Liam had always done his duty, listened to the voices of those who knew better. Because when he didn't, failure hit him with a hard fist and laid him flat, nose broken, likely sprawled across a pile of steaming horse dung.

Impulse had insisted he kiss her.

Impulse had driven him to the brothel.

And now his wife required distance.

He banged his forehead against the door, and it swung open, revealing Cora's pale, passionate face.

"You cannot stay here, my lord. Please find other accommodations until I do." She snapped the door shut again, and he set his heavy steps down the stairs and out the door.

He was a failure as a husband, as a viscount, and as a man.

Hardly surprising.

But he'd damn well figure out how to make things right.