Chapter Five

Of all the places in London, Hatchards was one of George's favourites. If left to his own devices, he would spend hours there, flicking through the books and inhaling the scent of paper and fresh ink. The action calmed him, even if he merely replaced the books on the shelves and moved on. There was a difference between the crispness of newly printed books and those of his personal library, which were often far older. He prized both.

As he stepped inside, his eyes took a moment to adjust to the dim lighting. As always, it was a hub for ladies to meet, and gentlemen to meet ladies, and perhaps to buy the latest book of poetry. He sidestepped them, heading for the stairs to the second floor, which was often quieter. The wooden floorboards creaked underfoot, and he entered the first aisle, running his fingers along the embossed leather spines.

Relief spread through him, easing the tension of the past few days. Coming here, he felt like a boy discovering poetry for the first time—verse written by hot-headed men about what it meant to be alive.

It was familiar magic, and he had just opened a collection of Wordsworth's—many of the poems he already knew, but it was the action not the reveal he enjoyed—when he heard light footsteps.

He often encountered members of the ton here, but although he had not been granted many opportunities to hear her footsteps, he knew how she sounded.

Placing the book back on the shelf, he left his aisle and came to the mouth of another, staring at a familiar blonde head tipped towards a book in her hands. Curls fell down her neck to a thin golden necklace, and her dress was deceptively simple, a daisy-patterned muslin that might have made her look like a debutante in her first Season if he was not so familiar with the wickedness of her smile.

After their tryst the night prior, he had taken her home and she had granted him permission to see her tonight. This visit to Hatchards was a half-hearted attempt at distraction, but fate had delivered her to him on a silver platter.

"Good morning," he said as he strolled forwards. "I see I am not the only one to appreciate the finer things in life."

She snapped the book shut. "George. What are you doing here?"

"The same as you, I presume." He nodded at the book in her hand. " To err is human, to forgive divine ."

The challenge left her eyes, and she tilted her head, amused once again. "You know Alexander Pope?"

"Does not every man?"

"You may be surprised to hear it, but I rarely speak about literature when conversing with men."

Nor did he, but he enjoyed the way she matched him step for step, and he took up position beside her. "Naturally. What do you discuss instead? The political climate in France? The incontrovertible evidence that Wellington is the best military leader the country has seen?"

"Oh no," she said smoothly. "One must never compliment another gentleman during such times. If the man I'm with has military inclinations, I ask for his opinion on matters of war and agree with everything he says."

"How dull."

"He does not think so, I assure you."

"You should entertain more interesting men."

"You are a fool, darling, if you think I choose my lovers based on the quality of their conversation." She let the thought sit for a moment, the beginnings of a wicked smile playing around her mouth. "There are only two considerations I take into account. The size of his purse is one."

He laughed, delighting in her. "Of course. What else?"

Her lashes lowered demurely. "I could not possibly speak it aloud."

"I gather it's his size in other areas?"

"Not at all," she murmured. He caught a glimpse of the bite mark he'd left on her shoulder, and a surge of masculine satisfaction took him by surprise. "I prize generosity. After all, I have extravagant tastes."

"So you've mentioned, but I'm a very generous man."

She sashayed a little closer, still with that sinful smile on her lips. He longed to kiss it off her. "I hoped you might be."

"Minx." He adored it. "May I visit you this afternoon?"

"Did we not say tonight?"

"Let's say I'm a little eager."

"Dear me," she said, her tone teasing, "what would your future wife say?"

He gave her a lazy smile. "Hard to say, as we are not yet acquainted."

"Cruel man. May she break your heart."

"I rather think that unlikely." He took the book from her hands and flipped it to view the embossed cover. "Is this what you came for? Tell me and I'll buy it for you. The essays of Alexander Pope are not precisely light reading, but I'm certain you are more than capable."

"Naturally," she said, and moved past him for the stairs, where two giggling girls were climbing to the first floor, a stoic footman trailing them. "One thing you will discover about me, George, is that I am always more than capable." She tossed a careless smile over her shoulder. "Enjoy your perusal of the classics, Mr Comerford. I will see you tonight."

All she left behind were the essays she had been flicking through and the subtle, fragrant scent of her perfume.

#

It was unseemly of her to be so excited for George's arrival. Although she always enjoyed her lovers, it often felt transactional. This, however, felt like an illicit tryst, the kind that young ladies embarked on when they had been utterly seduced.

If it was his body alone, she could have tempered her anticipation. But there was more than that here: she enjoyed his mind almost as much as the time they shared. If she had not her daughter to think of, she would not have expected any return on her time.

She, too, could be generous when she had the luxury of it.

Still.

"My lady," her maid said from behind the door. "The gentleman has arrived."

Finally. As she waited for his quick step, she told her traitorous heart to calm and fluffed her hair, looking critically at her reflection. At five-and-thirty, she was no longer in her prime, but she prided herself that her looks had lasted reasonably well—better than she might have hoped at the tender age of twenty. The silken robe she wore drew attention to her breasts and the shadowed dip between them. In the flickering candlelight, the silk also caught on the rounded swell of her lower stomach, and she ran a hand across it.

When compared to the natural slimness of some of her peers, she had once been self-conscious of her plumpness. But as she had grown into a woman, she had welcomed her curves, understood what an asset they were. Now she loved every soft line of her body: her full breasts, the creases in her side, the way her stomach rolled when she bent.

How could one ever be a connoisseur of beauty and not learn to love the soft roundness of the female form?

The door opened and George stepped into her dressing room, his gaze running lazily over her figure. She met his eyes in the mirror, thoughts of her own body fading as she came to consider thoughts of his.

She smiled. "Hello, George."

"I have not stopped thinking about you since we parted," he said roughly, and it was as though his words ran fingertips along her skin. She shivered. "I think it might be madness."

"I didn't know Hatchards could inspire such passion."

He came to stand behind her, his face at the gilded top of her mirror. Both fair, his broadness perfectly matched her plumpness. The sight gratified her a tad too much, and she turned, letting her robe fall open. His gaze, predictably, travelled downwards.

"Here. I brought you something," he said, and draped a pink topaz necklace around her neck, the coolness of the metal soothing the flush that had arisen at the sight of him. "A beautiful necklace for a beautiful lady."

She reached up to touch the stones. The gold surrounding them was intricate, and glowed against her pale skin. "It's lovely."

"I hoped you'd like it."

She did—and she would have trouble letting go of this piece to sell.

Why could he not deliver entirely more standard gifts, such as diamonds or sapphires? They were beautiful, certainly, but not made and chosen to suit her colouring with such care.

"Thank you." She rose, twisting to kiss him, but he bent and scooped her into his arms. Surprised, she shrieked with laughter, but she was also a little impressed at his prowess—he was not, to her knowledge, a man who prided himself on his physicality, nor was she small in any dimension.

As she landed on the mattress, he smiled down at her. "There, that is where I would like to have you." He tugged at the belt of her robe, and it opened. He brushed the material from her breasts with quick, impatient movements, and made a sound of approval she would take to her grave. In all her years, she did not think a man had wanted her this much. "Did you know," he said kissing her shoulder, "that you have three freckles here?"

"A moment." She pushed at his chest, easing him back off her, and sat, tugging her robe back across her skin, almost shivering at the feel of it. Having him this close was an aphrodisiac all of its own, but there were certain rules she needed to establish. Boundaries she must lay—for his sake and hers.

"What?" he asked, the ardency leaving his voice. "Did I do something to upset you?"

"No, not at all." She touched the extravagant jewels at her neck. He had gone above and beyond, all because she said she had expensive tastes. Proof that he would pay whatever price necessary to have her, even if it harkened a change from their relationship in Worthington Hall.

There was no way she could make him fully understand. But she would try.

"There are just a few things we ought to establish," she said. "First."

"A few things?" He tipped her chin up so she was looking directly at him. "Then tell me. If nothing else, we are friends, are we not?"

Friends . The terrifying thing was that, unlike her other lovers, she thought she could be friends with George Comerford, and that was precisely why she must erect some boundaries between them.

"Firstly, I would like to explain why I require gifts from you."

He frowned. "Is that not the usual arrangement between a man and his mistress?"

"Yes, but I know that's not how we were in Worthington Hall."

"Ah." He drew the word out. "Is that why you ended things, because you did not want to ask for gifts?"

It was enough of the truth that she could nod.

"Foolish girl," he said, a smile quirking the corners of his lips. "You know I wouldn't have minded, so long as I could have kept you."

And what a heady, delightful prospect that was, to have been kept by him all these lonely weeks. She would have lost herself.

"That brings me to my other rules," she said.

He traced a lazy finger up the sensitive skin of her wrist. "Rules? Very well. What are they?"

"Wine," she said as she rose. "To talk about this, there must be wine."