Chapter 2

Lottie must enjoy torture. Of the self-inflicted variety. Why else would she have agreed to help Lady Noble find a wife for her son? A man Lottie had long thought herself in love with. Unrequited love—another of her self-inflicted pains. She might as well put her hand in the printing press within arm’s reach and slam the heavy frame down on top of it.

Her one solace? That Quinton Chance, Viscount Noble would surely experience a bit of torture during the series of planned courting events himself. And at her hands. Delicious, that.

“Lottie?” Andromeda, Lottie’s sister, looked away from the man loading the press with paper and shaping the letters into place and nudged her with a shoulder. “Your expression went from gloom to murderously delighted in a breath. I’m distinctly worried. Should we vacate the premises to ensure the safety of, well, everyone? You’re not about to flick knives into every man’s chest, are you? Or set the building aflame? Lots of paper here. I’d suggest against it.”

Lottie wiped the apparently murderously delighted expression from her face and replaced it with her well-practiced angelic smile. “Not at all. I’d never be the agent of destruction for my dear brother-in-law’s place of business. It’s proved so very useful of late. No, I would like to destroy someone else entirely.”

“Ah!” Andromeda poked Lottie in the shoulder. “There it is again. You want to murder Noble. Admit it.”

“When do I not want to marry Noble?”

Andromeda lifted a dark-blonde brow, rolled her lips between her teeth. Her cheeks grew red as if she were about to explode.

“Are you well? About to cast up your accounts?” Lottie scowled.

“You just said—”

“Blast!” She heard it now. “Murder. I meant murder, not marry. I always wish to murder Noble.”

Another bump, one sister’s shoulder to another. “And marry him.”

“Not anymore. I’ve plans.”

The man pushing the press frame down, muscles bulging against fine but rumpled linen, released the handle with a grunt. “Here you are, Lottie. And glad to hear you’ve no plans to burn my empire to ash.” Mr. Tristan Kingston, owner of several printshops, ships, and a variety of other ventures—and married quite happily to Andromeda—grinned, raked a hand through his messy dark hair, and stretched his back. “Forget Noble, I say. He’s a prick.”

She should admonish him. Such language. And herself and Andromeda ladies, a duke’s sisters. But truly, what did it matter? She already knew the word, its meaning, its implications. She likely knew more words for a man’s member than he did. She was, after all, quite well-read and with all the right books. Books no proper lady should know existed. But Lottie and her oldest sisters did know. They’d found such books among their mother’s possessions after their parents’ deaths, and then the women had found them. All ladies who moved among the ton, and all of whom had borrowed their mother’s books, who wanted to borrow the books still, from the sisters. Lottie and her sisters had spent four years loaning them to the married and widowed ladies of the ton before giving up the endeavor to another intrepid soul last Season.

Erotic novels.

She’d given up purveying them. But not reading them. Just as she’d given up loving Noble. But not given up on love itself.

“I have forgotten Noble already,” she assured her brother-in-law. “It is why I’ve agreed to help Lady Noble. Is it done, then? The invitation?” She glanced at the press.

Tristan grunted and lifted the frame. “How’s this, then?”

Andromeda slipped the paper out of the press, and they examined it together.

“Perfect.” Andromeda patted her husband’s arm.

Lottie agreed. “Now we need twenty more.”

“Twenty!” Tristan’s eyes took on the wide, wild-eyed shock of a cornered man. “Does Noble truly need that many options?”

Lottie nodded. “There will be fewer invitations issued with each event. We must cast the net wide at first, then narrow it down.”

Tristan shook his head and set to work. “Taking up your brother’s work, then? Matchmaking? Will you be choosing Noble’s bride?”

“Certainly not. I’ll be helping Lady Noble plan the events, ensuring they go well. Wooing a wife is entirely up to Lord Noble. I’m not sure he’s capable of it.”

“He’s wooed his fair share of women,” Tristan mumbled.

Andromeda sliced him a glare like a knife.

“It’s true,” he protested.

“It is.” Lottie stood taller. “No need to speak carefully around me. I am, after all, a lady he’s successfully wooed.” Not that he wanted success with her. Not that he’d tried. He’d chased her, he’d kissed her, and she’d been his. “All in the past, though. I’ve already begun my search for a husband. And I’ve already narrowed down the contenders to three.”

“Are you attending the Woodward ball tonight?” Andromeda asked.

“I am. All three gentlemen will be there as well. Who knows, I may find myself seriously considering a proposal by the time the sun rises on a new day.”

Andromeda sighed.

“What is it?” Lottie demanded.

“You’re moving a bit quickly, aren’t you?”

It would seem that way. Only last Season she’d been fending off suitors, determined to marry no man but for the one her heart wanted. The one who didn’t want her. Quinton. She’d been waiting in some odd space between patient and impatient. But she had been willing during the one Season she’d had before their parents’ deaths. After the accident… none of them had been willing. They’d locked themselves away, buried themselves in books. And, in Lottie’s case, girlhood crushes.

Last year, though, Samuel had insisted his sisters finally join the marriage mart, finally find husbands. And that push had jolted Andromeda out of her years’ long battle with grief. She’d shucked off the chains that had held her to a past with no future and stepped forward into love with Kingston at her side. She’d been stuck, and then she’d not been anymore. And happiness had made her glow from the inside out.

Lottie wanted that. She’d been stuck, too, waiting still, hoping, unsure how to win back the gentle lad she’d been friends with as a child, confused about why his face had abandoned its soft smile for a sharp smirk. Confused about why he’d kissed her, then fled, never mentioning it again. She’d been waiting for him to snap out of it. Or waiting for herself to figure out how to fix it, how to approach him, and demand answers. But waiting had begun to feel like death.

No more. Like Andromeda, she would step into the light and into her future. No more waiting on Quinton. If he had her heart, she’d simply find a new one.

“I need to move more quickly,” she said. “I’ve much to do before the ball tonight.”

Tristan stood from his work. “Go, then. I’ll have these delivered to the viscountess as soon as they’re complete. And if you go, I’ll be delivered of all this talk of courtship and Noble.”

Andromeda kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”

He kissed her back, his arm slinging around her waist and lips descending to hers. Lottie looked away, flushed and embarrassed by the affection between them, given so easily, accepted with such fervor. Did embarrassment make her avoid the sight? Or jealousy?

“Anything for you, Captain,” she heard Tristan mumble.

Then Andromeda, her own cheeks flushed, was beside Lottie as they headed for the alley behind the printshop and climbed the small hill to Fleet Street beyond. The Street of Ink proved a bustling, living thing as always, and Lottie breathed in its energy.

Their brother’s footman, Johnny, waited for them, stepping in line dutifully behind them as they trod the street toward the waiting carriage.

“How can you say I’m moving quickly?” Lottie finally said. A sour storm had begun to rumble in her belly. “You and Tristan hardly had a slow courtship. And Samuel wants us all wed. Soon. And Mother would have liked to see me wed ages ago. I’m firmly on the shelf at six and twenty. It is time. It is past time.”

Andromeda hummed. “Yes to everything you said. But what about love?”

Lottie snorted. “I tried that. It’s awful. Time for a change.” If she wed a man she didn’t love, he held no sway over her. Love gave a man power, and with no guarantee he’d use it wisely, carefully. Andromeda had been lucky. “Besides, I’m tired of waiting to explore”—she lowered her voice—“pleasure, bedroom sport.” Returning her voice to normal, she added, “Many women my age have children already.” Yet Lottie had only kisses. A good number of them, admittedly, all conducted as rather unsuccessful experiments. She’d hoped, perhaps, that kisses wakened hearts. This had proved false. The man, not the kisses, breathed life into love.

“Oh. Yes, well, I understand that particular curiosity. And, I suppose, a marriage is the safest place for a woman to explore such desires.” Annie sighed. “As it pleases you, Lottie. I hope you fall in love with one of your suitors, though.”

She would not. She’d chosen them carefully.

“Who are they?” Annie asked.

“Lord Erstwhile. Mr. Pepperidge. And Lord Phillipspots.”

Andromeda tilted her head to the side and pressed her lips together. “Not a horrid bunch. All familiar with Samuel. All approved by him, I assume.”

Lottie nodded. “They are solid men who will leave me be except for the bedroom. And the bedroom is the only place I shall need a husband, anyway.”

Andromeda flinched. “Rather… practical of you.”

“It is a practical matter. Part of my dowry is my own, as Mother insisted.” Their mother had insisted on many things before their parents’ deaths—that the sisters have money of their own, that they be allowed to choose their own husbands. “I do not need a man to provide me with a home. But I do need a man for children.” And experimentation.

“Yes. Very well, then. I’ll support you, whatever you do. Will you let me take you home?” Andromeda glanced at the waiting carriage.

“No. I’ll walk. I have Johnny.”

“Lottie.”

“I’ll walk.” There were few dangers to be faced during a carriage ride from Fleet Street to Mayfair. But Lottie had catalogued them all. Discounting those catastrophes that could occur within the body, there remained foul weather, robbery, fires, falling objects, and…

Carriage crashes.

Walking was better. Infinitely.

Andromeda sighed and hugged Lottie, and Lottie hugged her sister back.

When they separated, Lottie grasped Andromeda’s hands. “I am so pleased to see you so happy. Tristan adores you, and you adore life now. More than you used to.”

Andromeda bent her neck to hide her glowing smile. “I am filled to brimming with joy most days.” She straightened and squeezed Lottie’s hands. “I want the same for you.”

Lottie returned the smile and the squeeze. What else could she do? And Andromeda slipped into her coach and rumbled away.

One sister married. Four marriageable sisters left to marry off. Then their brother might have a brief respite before their three remaining sisters came of age. Lottie would offer no obstacles. She had last Season, entirely ignoring every suitor set before her. No more. She’d be married by Season’s end. And she’d be done with Quinton. That odious man. He frustrated and stimulated her like no other.

No more.

“My lady.” Johnny caught up with her. “You should have taken the carriage with your sister. It’s safer.”

“Safer? You think me unsafe in Mr. Kingston’s purview? Who would dare threaten the Ink King’s sister-in-law?”

“Plenty,” he grumbled. “Plenty would dare, my lady.”

“Oh, you disappoint me, Johnny. Had I taken the carriage, we would not have been able to chat.”

He swallowed. An audible gulp likely heard on the other end of Fleet Street. “Chat?”

“Indeed.” She picked up her pace. “Or perhaps I should say gossip.”

“No, my lady. I—”

“Have an ear in every household.”

“No.”

“Yes. You have footmen friends in other households, do you not?”

“I do, but—”

“Then tell me what you know of… hm.” Who to start with? “Mr. Pepperidge.” A wealthy banker and landowner. No title, but Andromeda had done well with a mister. No reason to discount them but for convention, and she’d rather been done with that long ago.

“Mr. Pepperidge.” Johnny’s nose scrunched up. “You can do better, my lady.”

“Don’t be a snob, Johnny.”

“I’m not. But it’s true. I heard he writes poetry.”

“I, too, am a lover of the arts.”

“Bad poetry. That he thinks is good.”

Her turn to scrunch her nose. But perhaps the person who’d made such an estimation did not understand poetry. She’d not give up on him just yet.

“What about Lord Phillipspots,” she asked.

“Don’t know much about him.”

“Hm. Yes. He spends most of his time in the country.” A good sign. It meant he took care of his estate. But it also meant he neglected his parliamentary duties. Not good, that. Still, she’d not cross out his name yet.

“And there’s his name, my lady.”

“What about it?”

“It’s difficult to say. Phillips. Pots. It’s like two names shoved together. S’not right.”

“Hardly a fault, Johnny. My name rubs two words up against each other. Merry. Weather.”

“S’not the same. Merriweather is a fine name. Can barely say Phillipspots without spitting.

She bit her lips to keep from testing that accusation. “Let us be practical. Now, tell me of Lord Erstwhile. You cannot complain of his name, at least.”

“No.” Johnny clasped his hands behind his back. “But he goes through footmen awfully quickly.”

She stopped and peered up at Johnny. “And what does that indicate?”

“That they don’t like working for him.”

She tapped her bottom lip. “I see. But we don’t know why they don’t like working for him. Do you?”

Johnny shook his head.

“Very well, then. I’ll not cross him out yet.”

“As you say, my lady.”

They walked on in silence, past the reach of Fleet Street. She could not quite figure out how to ask the question she really wished to ask. And she could not be sure the footman would have an answer to such an indelicate question.

What is each man’s kiss like?

Quinton had kissed like a dream. He’d wrapped an arm around her and spun her grief into hope, and she—fool that she’d been—had let herself believe for the span of a brief, soft as sin kiss that he loved her.

Fool, yes. And him the devil who stole her heart.

She planned to take it back.

She cleared her throat. Entirely inappropriate or not, she’d ask. In the only way one could ask such a question.

“Johnny, I must ask. Do not be embarrassed, now.”

“My lady, don’t. I don’t know what it is, but with that introduction, I’m trembling.”

She glanced at him. A fine man with striking blue eyes and thick dark brows. His hair must be a similar shade, though she could say with no certainty. She’d never seen him without the powdered wig. His clean-shaven jaw had gone granite, and his face had lost its color.

“I’m not asking your opinion. I just want to know if you know. If you’d like, you can merely shake your head yes or no. It will help me make a good decision about whom to marry.”

Johnny squeezed his eyes closed and shook his head, tight, fast little bobs that sent his wig wobbling. “Very well, my lady.”

“Open your eyes. You’ll trip.”

His eyes snapped open.

“Now, Johnny, is Mr. Pepperidge a”—she licked her lips and rushed the remaining words together—“good kisser?”

He tripped, righted himself, swallowed. “Shouldn’t you find that out for yourself? Not that I’m suggesting—” He coughed. “I’d never suggest you—”

“Oh, but I have. Not Pepperidge, but others. And what a waste of time it’s been.”

Johnny groaned. “You shouldn’t tell me these things.”

“I tell them to Maria.”

“She’s your lady’s maid. And a woman herself. You shouldn’t be talking or doing, Lady Charlotte.”

“I have three remaining suitors. I shall marry one of them by Season’s end. I’ll not waste time kissing all three if I can cross one off my list based on credible knowledge of his skills.”

“And by skills you mean—”

“Kissing.”

He flinched. He sighed. He said, “I’ve heard he takes many ladies to his bed. Of all ranks and stations and appearances. Not a picky man.”

“But were those women pleased?”

Johnny flushed beet red, stopped dead with two stubborn feet. “My lady. I draw the line”—he mimicked drawing a line between them—“right there.”

She sighed. “Very well. You’re clearly uncomfortable discussing such things. I will not push you. I’ll ask Maria.”

“She won’t know! She only knows about kissing one man and—”

“That man is you?”

Fascinating. He’d not been as red as he could be before. What was redder than a beet? A holly berry? Yes, the man had two large holly berries in his cheeks. And pinkish spots everywhere else skin showed.

She should not have hounded him so. “I do apologize for pushing you. I should not have. I’m merely anxious to choose the right fellow.”

The spots dissipated as did the berries, and he matched his steps to hers once more. “You will, my lady. You’re the smartest of the lot. And that’s saying something. Bunch of bluestockings your sisters are. No offense meant.”

“No offense taken, I assure you.” But no number of books in the world could tell her which man to marry. Only her heart could tell her that. And how could she trust that awful organ when it had fixated so fully on the wrong man for so long?

“My lady.” Johnny had dropped his voice and moved closer. “There’s a phaeton slowed down. Just behind us. Can’t tell who’s inside, but it’s been following us for a bit.”

Her spine stiffened, and her stride froze midstep. Chin to shoulder, she peeked at the conveyance following them.

“Blast.” She stomped forward once more. “Keep going, Johnny.”

The carriage cruised alongside them.

“Merriweather!” The voice that slung down from the phaeton crashed through the noise of the street loud and clear and commanding. And oh-so-frustratingly familiar.

“Do you know him, my lady?” Johnny asked, slowing.

“Yes. So do you. Keep walking.”

The carriage stopped some ways in front of them, and a man jumped down. “Merriweather.” Quinton, Lord Noble, trotted to meet them. The April air had not yet heated up and brushed lovely against her skin, yet sweat streaked her palms under the thin cotton of her gloves.

“The gates of Hell are open today?” She confronted him with as much calm composure as she could muster with her skin suddenly pouring like a rain cloud.

The sight of him hit her like a runaway horse. As it always did. Completely flattened her. Tall and broad and impeccably handsome. Beautiful but with a rough wildness about his whisky-brown eyes. He wore no hat, and his sandy hair glinted in the sun. Scruff brushed along his jaw and cheeks, and his lips had curved up into a smirk. The Noble Smirk, Samuel called it. The newspapers and gossip columns called it that, too. A man known for a smirk, and today—and always—he smirked at her.

He nodded. “The gates of Hell. Hm. You should know right where those are.”

She smoothed her skirts, resumed her walk down the street. “Come along, Johnny.”

“Running?” Quinton called after her.

“Who wouldn’t run from a devil? Or a headache.”

“And I’m both, I assume.”

He understood. No need to elaborate.

He caught up with her quickly, his long strides eating the small distance she’d put between them. “I’m the one with the headache. Get into the phaeton, Merriweather.”

She stopped midstep, blinking. “You want to take me for a drive?” That was the sort of thing a man intent on courtship did.

“I want to speak with you. Now. And this is as good a way as any.” That voice. Hard and annoyed and accompanied by a grin both sharp and feral, likely capable of tearing skin with the ease of an ax shredding a single slip of a paper.

“No, thank you.” She brushed past him.

“Merriweather,” he growled.

“I’ve no desire to put my fate in your hands.” The bench of his phaeton proved much too narrow, and the man’s body much too big, and her own body something of a traitor, willing to lean into him when the rest of her would rather not.

“You insult me.” He snorted. “Typical. Are you scared?” Forget the Noble Smirk. He’d crafted a Noble Sneer. Especially for her. How lovely.

She would not stop. She would not. He’d riled her like this before, daring her, suggesting he’d always win in whatever battles they played at. They’d challenged and teased each other as children, but never with this new, venomous edge. Their kiss had been sweet, but it had spoiled something between them.

Now his challenge was not a gentle tease, but snapping teeth. And she’d be damned if she’d back down, run away, give in.

She stopped abruptly, whirling around. “Johnny, please return home. Lord Noble will escort me the rest of the way.” In his phaeton. His high-perched, terribly tippy phaeton.

Johnny eyed her, then eyed Quinton, then eyed the contraption Quinton prepared to hand her up into. “He is the duke’s friend… Are you sure, my lady?”

“She’s sure.” Quinton wrapped strong fingers around her elbow and guided her toward the phaeton. He practically threw her up into it, and she clutched the seat with one hand as the contraption wobbled and clutched her bonnet with the other. She sank into the seat as quickly as she could, wrapping her fingers around the edge and closing her eyes. The phaeton shook, then a warm, heavy body settled close to her, making the phaeton dip, taking up all the space. Then, with a whip of the reins through the air, the conveyance flew forward.

She should not have come with him. There was too much of him, too close and too confident, and she’d made a vow to forget him. But he’d suggested she was scared. She couldn’t have that.

Besides… what did he want? Curiosity purred within her so loud it nearly drowned out the hum of fear fizzing along her veins. She had to know. And then, when she descended this cursed conveyance and left him on the street before her home, she’d leave him out of her heart as well so she could dance into the night with the man who would become her future.