Chapter Two

S weet swiving heaven —she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen.

She must be Dunton’s fiancée—Lady Arabella Ponsford.

Bella…

The name suited her, for she was beautiful. With her pale face and expressive blue eyes, she reminded him of a princess trapped in an ogre’s lair—her porcelain features bred into her through generations of aristocrats. Doubtless she could trace her ancestral line to William of Normandy’s conquest.

How amusing that those Society layabouts considered themselves better than others by virtue of knowing who their ancestors were—as if it mattered! More important was who, and what , a man was. Here and now.

And the woman in the window—here and now—was exquisite.

Doubtless, like all fine ladies, she’d disintegrate at the slightest touch.

Which didn’t bode well for her wedding night with that lecher Dunton and his bulbous belly and multiple chins. Not to mention his voracious appetite for bedsport that was enough to turn the stomach of even the most hardened whore.

Lawrence’s mind drifted to last night, and Millie’s ministrations. Millie—with her ripe, round curves, plush lips, and ready thighs that had parted so eagerly for him, and the anticipation of his coin.

He’d not begrudged Millie her shilling. She’d earned it well, riding his cock until he exploded with pleasure—then, for an extra sixpence, she remained in his bed until dawn, when she woke him in a very delectable fashion, pleasuring him with that luscious mouth more before she slipped out of his chamber to resume her duties at the inn.

The best harlot at the King’s Head, the innkeeper said—and he wasn’t wrong. Worth every penny, Millie was. She sold her body well.

The woman in the window—Lady Arabella—had sold herself for a title. But she’d take little pleasure from it. She had surrendered herself to a man she hardly knew—her chaperone would have made sure of that . She would surrender her freedom at the altar, whereas Millie enjoyed the freedom to select her partners at will, taking her own pleasure from each one while she earned an honest living.

No doubt the lady in the window considered herself the more fortunate of the two. Like an exotic bird bred in captivity, she knew no other life. She’d never know the sheer joy that Millie—or any woman who relished her sexuality—expressed when she cried out with pleasure at a man’s touch.

His manhood twitched as he allowed himself a wicked thought…

What might it be like to take Lady Arabella—to have that brittle body bloom at his touch as he taught her pleasure? Or to hear her sighs of ecstasy as he entered her for the first time, having prepared her for his cock?

Or scream his name while he fucked the ladylike demeanor out of her?

He drew in a sharp breath to temper the urge to bury his fingers in her hair, to tear out those hairpins keeping those pristine little curls in place…and to rip that prim little gown off her and pull her into the dirt—to his level, where men and women drew every last droplet of pleasure out of rutting.

She’s not for the likes of you.

His conscience—the rational, practical part of him—shattered the dream and returned him to reality. He was a widower, with three children to feed, and, as such, should keep such fanciful thoughts to himself.

He drove the shovel into the ground, focusing on the motion as he dug a hole for the next shrub. A symmetrical pattern—that was what Dunton had instructed. Bloody symmetrical patterns, forcing nature to conform to straight lines. Didn’t those soulless aristocrats realize that working with nature, enhancing her natural form, would create a far superior garden?

But he had to take work where he could find it—even if it was for a foul-tempered duke known for treating his subordinates with cruelty, who stank of unwashed flesh and a gaseous constitution.

Lawrence grinned to himself. At least he wouldn’t have to endure the fat duke puffing and wheezing over him in bed while he availed himself of his marital rights.

Or, more likely, forced himself…

His mirth faded. What if Lady Arabella was unwilling, and her awakening to the marital bed was filled with pain and terror? Lovemaking should be a mutual sharing of pleasures, not a violation where the woman submitted to the brute who’d purchased her.

Bloody hell—one glimpse of a sad, pretty face, and I’m goin’ soft.

He glanced toward the window again. A man—the duke himself—had joined the woman, and he seemed to have his hands about her throat. She withdrew from his grip, and he bowed and disappeared, then she approached the window and looked out.

She stiffened as she met Lawrence’s gaze. For a moment, they stared at each other, then she frowned and retreated.

Lawrence resumed work. Moments later, footsteps approached.

“You there—gardener!”

It was Dunton.

“Yes, sir?”

“It’s Your Grace ,” the duke snapped, before muttering under his breath, “Disrespectful peasant .”

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lawrence said, gritting his teeth and bowing.

“How long will this all take?” Dunton gestured toward the garden.

“About a fortnight.”

“A fortnight! I hope you’re not expecting to be paid by the day, or you’ll be here forever, won’t you? I know your sort.”

“My fee is fixed, regardless of how long the work takes,” Lawrence said.

The duke narrowed his eyes. “So, if you finish sooner than expected, you’ll have earned yourself a tidy penny for less work.”

Hardly. Lawrence was barely making a profit as it was—what with the cost of the plants and his board at the King’s Head.

The duke pointed to the shrub Lawrence had just planted. “Why isn’t it flowering?”

“It flowers later in the year,” Lawrence said. “But it may not flower this year—it often takes a year or two after planting for the flowers to come.”

“That’s damned inconvenient. What’s the point of a plant that doesn’t flower? Lady Arabella won’t like that , and she’s insisting on this damned garden.”

“I’ve chosen the shrubs to ensure there’s flowers throughout the year,” Lawrence said. “You’ll find—”

“Don’t answer me back!” Dunton stepped toward Lawrence, his eyes gleaming spitefully. How many schoolfellows had he bullied at Eton or Harrow—or whatever fancy school he’d languished in while honest men worked for a living?

But rather than cower, Lawrence stretched to his full height and crossed his arms—the only way to deal with bullies.

A sharp scent assaulted his nostrils—soiled clothes and cheap perfume. Perhaps Dunton was on his way to bestow his attentions on another harlot. If he could find one who could stomach his touching her. Millie said that the girls at the King’s Head refused to service him, but there was a brothel at the other end of the village where the women were of a more robust constitution and charged Dunton an extra two shillings to satisfy his tastes.

“Forgive me, Your Grace,” Lawrence said. “Perhaps I should discuss the matter with Lady Arabella. Or I could attend both of you—unless you have a more pressing errand? Or we could discuss it at the King’s Head. I’m lodging there and have often seen you patronize it and other… establishments in the village.”

The duke shook his head. “There’s no need to disturb her. I’m afraid she suffers from nerves.” He gestured toward the shrub. “I’m sure you know what you’re doing, but I’ll be watching you, boy .”

Boy?

At thirty, Lawrence hadn’t been called a boy since he’d left the schoolroom.

“Get on with it, then!” the duke said. “I want this done, and you gone, as soon as possible.”

Before Lawrence could respond, Dunton turned his back and disappeared down the path, roaring for a groom to saddle his horse.

Poor horse.

And poor woman.

At least Lawrence’s ordeal with Dunton would be over once the garden was complete. He only need endure the man for a fortnight. Whereas Lady Arabella would be bound to him for a lifetime.