Chapter Eleven

B elle took a moment to consider whether she wanted to answer Luke’s question.

He hadn’t earned the right to know her story. Hell, he’d been a nuisance since she’d brought him home.

But he’d worked in her garden all day and was rather charming when sober.

Her story might also help him clarify his future. “The Earl” needed a stern talking-to, as far as she was concerned. What father shipped his son away from all he held dear when the boy was reeling from the death of his mother? For all she’d defended him to Luke, she was angry on the younger Luke’s behalf.

He was still watching her, head tilted as he waited for her to respond.

“My childhood had some similarities to yours, believe it or not.”

His brows climbed his forehead.

“My parents worked long hours every day of the week to ensure we could pay our rent and eat. Sometimes we only had one meal a day, and sometimes that was broth and bread. My older sister and I managed the household chores as best we could. That was different, I’m sure, but it was like yours in that there was no time for affection. If I skinned an elbow or cut a finger, she helped patch me up, and vice versa, but no one dried tears or dispensed hugs. One learned quickly that crying did not get you anywhere, so why bother.”

“What did your parents do?”

“My father worked in a factory, and my mother worked as a seamstress for a dressmaker. She brought work home in the summer and worked long into the night, but in the winter, the cost of candles was prohibitive.”

“Where are they now?”

“Gone.” Her voice was flat. She had long since come to terms with their loss. After all, those focused on survival were fatalistic about it all. “I call it death by poverty, but the physicians likely have some fancy name like premature aging.”

“And your sister?”

Her sister was another story, and a second one she debated about sharing. “My sister married a man from the neighborhood, another working man. Likely to get out of the house. He seemed nice enough but occasionally drank too much. When he drank, he got nasty.”

Luke winced, guessing where this was going.

“Working like that wears you down. He started drinking more often. Sometimes, he’d pick a fight and hit her.”

“How much older is she?”

“Three years.” She shook her head, remembering how young and na?ve she’d been. “After the first few times, I begged her to run away with me. We’d find work together; we’d protect each other. But he was always so sweet afterwards, begging her forgiveness.”

“Ah,” Luke said in response to the sharp glance she shot him. “I begin to see.”

“Eventually, when he’d knocked her unconscious and done something to her arm that made it hard for her to use it, I couldn’t stand it. I walked until I could not walk any farther. And I found myself outside a theatre. I slipped in the side door and met some of the cast and crew. One actress let me stay in her dressing room during the performance. In retrospect, I am amazed. I could have robbed her blind.”

“Did you spend time on the stage then?”

“No. After the show, a few gentlemen came backstage for their favorite cast members, either to woo a new showgirl or take a current paramour out on the town. Two of them approached me. The actress took me aside and told me to sleep there that night, but not to roam or she’d lose her job. The next day, she explained to me what they wanted and how much they’d pay for it.”

“How old were you?”

“Sixteen. Old enough, in the world I came from.”

“Holy—” he bit off the rest. “Apologies. ’Tis hard to fathom for me. Please, continue.”

She pressed her lips together. Her whole life was impossible for this lordling to imagine. However, he continued to show interest, so perhaps he could learn what hard work accomplished. Besides, it was rather nice to have someone interested; of her previous lovers, only North had been. “I had an idea of what our rent was, and I’d watched both parents work to barely cover that and feed us. The amounts she talked about seemed like a fortune for me. She assured me she’d help me find an apartment and clothes, and I could pay her back after my first benefactor settled an amount on me. I was lucky.”

He choked but gestured for her to go on.

“I was,” she argued, her tone mild despite irritation at his naiveté, and elaborated. “Another woman in her place might have cut a deal with the men and pimped me out. Instead, she explained how to protect myself from becoming with child and from the men themselves. A week later when they returned, I was dressed differently, had learned how to enhance my looks, and had my pick.”

“What did she teach you?”

“Never to let a client know where I lived. Those first few patrons used an inn until they rented an apartment for me. To ask for what I wanted, not just what I needed. ’Tis amazing how often men allow their cocks to make decisions for them. That sort of thing.”

He sat back, a stunned look on his face.

“I hoarded my funds and learned what I needed. I never wanted to be hungry or scared again. And I rarely was. Once my reputation was established, I could make my own rules. Sure, some men wanted more creativity.” Her grin was sly. “That cost them a pretty penny.”

“But you’ve lived here several years, and your patrons have come to your home.”

“True. I can pick and choose my clients now. There is more interest than I can accommodate, given the nature of my work. I only ever have one patron at a time, as they expect that for what they pay. But I am also well-known enough in the demi-monde circles that if I even whispered about someone hurting me, there would be hell to pay. I have left almost all my clients on good terms.”

“Good, good.” He nodded.

She almost believed he worried for her safety. But why should he? She suddenly felt embarrassed to have shared all that. It was one thing for him to know she was a courtesan; it was another for him to picture what she meant by stupid words like “creativity.” Only a few months, and she was out of the habit of managing an attractive man’s perception of her, dammit.

He opened his mouth to ask more questions, but she had no desire to rehash any more of the past.

“That is enough reminiscing for one night. I am going to read a book in the parlor before bed. Would you care to join me?”

He stood and followed her.

Belle had not read a single word. Oh, she’d turned pages and ensured she appeared engrossed.

However, when his head bent over his book, her gaze strayed to peruse his form. Long and lean, he tended to lollop rather than sit. He seemed to have developed a tendre for her settee and went from a slouch with an elbow propped on the armrest to hold his head, to diagonal across it with one knee bent across it and the other foot on the floor, to full out, head on a pillow against one arm with stocking feet hanging over the opposite end.

His shoulders had just enough muscle to keep things interesting in the bedroom, but his waist and hips were narrow, and his long legs made her wish to see them without clothes.

His thick hair begged for her fingers.

What was she thinking? This was a passing fancy. Goodness, he was a passing fancy; he’d be gone in a matter of days.

After an hour, she’d given up and announced she was going to bed.

At his complacent nod, she became irritated. “Get up. You have not yet earned the right to your own bed and room. Therefore, you are also retiring, so I can ensure you stay where you’re supposed to before I sleep.”

“Oh, right.” He scrambled off the sofa.

He followed her up the stairs, and she considered that he was almost as eager to please as Charlotte’s William. No, Belle. He’s leaving. Do not compare him to a loving long-term union. Or at least one she hoped would be long-term if her dear friend Charlotte would get her head out of her arse.

They each changed in their own bedroom, after which he entered hers with a soft knock and she locked him into place, looser than the first night due to his scratched wrists. The night passed without incident, although she suspected neither of them slept all that much.

She offered him the same choice the next morning, and he responded with the same selection, this time polishing the main entranceway. The downstairs maid, Bridget, may have noticed her predilection for giving him jobs on his knees. Both women had spent the previous day near windows facing the back garden. On the second day, Belle had shoved a chair over two feet, completely out of alignment with the rest of the seating area, so she had a view of the front hall. Bridget’s frequent trips between first floor rooms interrupted her fascination with his arse. Her staff knew looking was acceptable, including watching her if a client liked to show off his prowess.

Thus, her day had been less than productive, and by supper she was out of sorts with no outlet for her awakened senses. His body might appeal, but she preferred men in her bed, rather than boys. Charlotte’s William might be the same age as Luke, but he had already taken control of his life. Luke needed to command his own respect before he could expect hers, and she had long ago stopped sleeping with men whom she did not respect. She only hoped her brain continued to keep her body from soliciting him.

As soup was served, he skipped trivialities and leaped in where they’d left off the prior evening. “How did you come to be in the Black Widow’s office that night? She said she is a... matchmaker?”

“You were gambling in her establishment without understanding what the stakes were?”

He frowned. “Those were only for the one table.”

“The callowness of youth.” She threw up a hand. “If you’d been sober enough to pay attention, you’d have learned that the one table is for those seeking marriage, most often for debts accrued outside of gaming hells. But anyone whose vowels exceed their ability to pay is subject to her whims of matchmaking.”

He blinked.

Recalling his reaction in the widow’s office, her tone was bitter when she added, “Be thankful she did not pair you with me.”

“What? Was that even a possibility?” He tilted his head in interest.

“One never knows with Bessie Dove-Lyon.” She shrugged, confused by his tone, as the servants replaced their soup bowls with plates and set platters of roasted beef and vegetables on the table. She’d asked Cook to under-season them so that they would not offend Luke’s stomach, which was likely still sensitive.

As they served Belle and then him, Luke tilted his head, considering. “You’ve been the perfect hostess these past days—a balance of taking charge and kindness, forcing me to think about things and giving me space to do so. I’ve seen worse marriages. I suspect I should say that to you—be thankful she did not pair me with you.”

Belle blinked. He sounded almost open to the idea of marriage with her. Did he not recall that he was an earl’s son and needed to produce heirs? Sullying his bloodline with that of a whore would not be well received, no matter that she knew she had better morals and a bigger brain than half the Ton. Nor could he have considered their age gap. They had about a decade apart... and a lifetime of experience.

Taking a bite of roast beef, she reminded herself that he’d been looking to her for direction. In all probability, this was an extension of that search.

Giving him direction in bed might be fun.

She needed her inner devil to shut up. When she went too long without orgasms at others’ hands, she became reckless. And Clodpate was recklessness personified.

To reinforce that thought, she answered him in a stronger tone than she’d intended, “Oh, I am.”

He flinched before smoothing his expression. “Why do you wish to marry?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. If he laughed at her when she told him she wanted children, she might have to kill him and hide the body. Bad enough she’d have to fear her past marring her offsprings’ future; illegitimacy would seal their fate in the eyes of polite society in even a remote village.

His expression remained as smooth as porcelain. Unreadable.

“I want a family. Not a rotating door of partners who go on to have families with other women. A husband and children who can never be called bastards.” Rigid, she placed her utensils on her plate, every muscle taut waiting for his response.

He leaned back in his chair. “Huh. I haven’t thought about that. I suppose I will need to do the same one day. The earldom and all”—he waved a hand—“but I need to sort myself first.”

She snorted, partly in relief but mostly at him finally seeing the light. For a lordling, he was surprisingly open-minded. He’d treated her as an equal in all their conversations.

“I know, I know.” He shook his head. “So what made you decide this now?”

He hadn’t laughed, but his continued interest in her motivations was unexpected. She gave a mental shrug. She’d already shared the worst of it with him, it couldn’t hurt to explain this as well. “I’ve had two long-term benefactors whom I might have loved in other circumstances. And the London scene has grown boring and repetitious. I’d always liked the idea of a family, but my parents’ and sister’s experiences made me wary.”

He nodded. Then, apparently remembering her sister’s marriage, he asked, “Did you convince your sister to leave her husband, once you’d established yourself?”

She swallowed, hating the memories even now, years later. “No. I went back to try, and she refused again. On my second visit, the neighbors told me she’d died, and her husband had moved.”

“Blast,” he muttered under his breath, staring at his plate. Louder, he said, “I am very sorry for your loss.”

“Thank you.” She had seen enough family and friends die too young before she escaped the rookeries for the news to shock her. Anger was what drove her to avoid ever being in a similarly dependent situation.

“May I ask... do you know how it happened?”

“What difference would it have made? She’d still be gone, and he’d still be walking around free.” She shrugged, attempting nonchalance, when really it had been what shaped her path to this point. She’d determined not to marry until she had enough money and experience to be able to choose carefully. It was also what had led her to the Black Widow for help. Not only did she not take clients who abused their roles, but no one dared cross her.

“If it is boredom, what happens if you become bored with marriage?” Luke’s question brought her back to the present and his earlier question regarding the timing of her quest.

“’Tis not dissatisfaction with a partnership, only London and society’s inequitable rules—one set for titled men, another for titled women, and then others for the working class. I suppose Charlotte finding happiness a second time, if she’d only let herself have it with William, has also influenced me.”

“I hold out hope for them. He’s tenacious and wise beyond his years. She’ll come around.”

Belle barely heard him, lost in thought. She was not averse to commitment—the relationship she’d discussed with the Black Widow was proof of that. Memories surfaced of the one man she’d let get away. The Earl of Northumberland hadn’t ever said it, but she was positive he’d have married her if she’d agreed to leave London with him, despite his title. He was older than her and already had his heir, which helped. But she’d been young and stupid. Now she was older and tired.

Having lost her appetite, she checked his plate. He’d stopped eating, also, his knife and fork aligned on his almost-empty plate. She gestured to the footmen to clear the table.

He asked, “Why not reach out to one of those benefactors? Or would your profession put them off marriage?”

“Weren’t you?”

His cheeks went pink. “I apologize for my comment in Mrs. Dove-Lyon’s office. That was poorly done of me. It was a combination of shock at the topic of conversation and too much drink. The one good thing my father taught me that was worthwhile was to judge a person by what you learn of their character. Not what others tell you or by a title.”

His liberal nonchalance at the chasm between their stations continued to amaze her. Moreover, given what he’d told her of his father’s high expectations of him, his last comment was unexpected. “A rule I live by, as well. I’m glad your father is not all bad.”

His lips twisted, but he did not comment.

A footman carried in two individual lemon tartlets, one of her favorite desserts. She dug her spoon in and savored a bite before continuing. “As for why I did not return to them, one of them is married now. For the other, I suppose ’tis pride in part, but I also don’t know that we want the same things now. I loved my time with him, but I wanted to stay in London. Now that has changed. But what if other things have changed on his side?”

He nodded and tried the miniature tart. Licking his lips, he ate a second spoonful then asked, “Why go to the widow to find a husband?”

“She caters to a very select clientele. Women who have pasts that might interfere with pursuing marriage but have funds enough to buy a husband. She vets the men to the client’s specifications, removing much of the risk.”

“And you have those funds?”

“Are you asking me about money, young man?” She arched a brow, waving her spoon at his look of consternation. “I am teasing. Yes, I have those funds. You’ll recall I told you last night I hoarded my funds. I asked for more whenever I dared and often got it. Then I found Charlotte, and she helped me invest it. And here I am. Retired now for several months.”

And lusting after the first attractive man to linger in my sight as a result. No, it was more than that. She enjoyed talking to him. If games were not so riddled with strings to betting, she’d have been more willing to play those. While he said he’d struggled at Oxford, the man also seemed to enjoy reading as much as she did.

The memory of her words to Bessie Dove-Lyon flitted through her head. Like she and North had, Luke also seemed to understand loneliness.