Chapter Nineteen

S he could have used a whisky, too. Although she was near to casting up her accounts. Drinking spirits might not be wise.

This night was a raging storm, pulling her safely planted life up by the roots and tossing it around at will.

If she’d had any thought to being able to recover from Luke, his explanation of why he had been seducing her had incinerated them. He’d put himself in her shoes and considered what might worry her. So he’d tried to avoid her feeling the need to be an assertive lover by making her the recipient.

But then she’d learned his title. Had there ever been a courtesan who had been a man’s lover and his son’s within a decade of one another? Well, probably. Many courtesans chose men based on their money and station, with no care as to any impropriety.

She snorted. She was not in a position to bat about the term “impropriety.” Regardless, if there were ever a sign from the heavens that she was not meant to be this man’s wife, this was it. The class difference, both of their histories, the decade between their ages, all were enough, but this was the coup de grace.

Luke gestured to the bed, and when she sat, he faced her from the chaise longue. Gazing around the room, he furrowed his brow. Finally, he narrowed his eyes at her and asked, “Why could you consider marrying my father, but not me?”

Because she had been young and selfish enough not to consider the risks to his reputation and that of his family. Not ready to admit that, she heaved a sigh. “He was older.”

“So there was an age difference, as there is with us.” He shrugged a shoulder and rubbed his forehead.

“He did not need an heir.” She was scrambling. She’d been prepared to fight him before to protect him from being harmed by her reputation, but this was a whole separate level of foolishness, and she could not even form a coherent sentence to defend her position.

“You want children!” he nearly shouted, throwing his hands wide.

Standing, she fisted her hands. She’d had enough. They both needed time to think. “You know ’tis not the same. Regardless, the middle of the night after—after”—she gestured helplessly at the bed behind her, not missing the irony of her continued inability to give voice to their activities there—“is not the time to discuss it. Please, just go. Sleep in the other room, and let us revisit this in the morning? Please?”

His shoulders sagged. He stood and stepped into her space, tugging her against him and wrapping his arms around her.

She clutched him for a second, then dropped her arms.

Hours later, Belle blinked into the darkness, still unable to sleep.

Her emotions looped in an unending circle. Love and yearning for Luke that she’d been fighting until a few hours ago were followed by the crushing sorrow of knowing they could not marry for all the reasons she’d had before, plus her new knowledge of the Northumberland connection. Then she’d remember that Bessie Dove-Lyon had known enough about her that she’d surely known this as well. Perhaps the widow had been toying with her. Perhaps the rumors were not true and Bessie had not been a courtesan. Perhaps she did not approve of Belle’s quest for marriage.

Her whole adult life, she’d negotiated her relationships, vetting her prospective clients and minimizing the risk of either party falling in love. Ensuring, even if her benefactor became confused, that she stood apart. She respected the men she’d worked with and cared for most of them, but she never allowed anyone to get this close.

Now this young university quitter had tipped her over the edge and torn her heart out all in one night.

As she often did when loneliness crept up on her, she conjured memories of love and laughter with North. Card games at the library table, snuggling on the rug in front of the fire. Tonight, though, instead of North, she could only picture Luke sprawled out across her settee, looking the worse for wear as he recovered from years of drinking. Him fisting his cock on her floor, looking exultant despite being discovered. His earnestness as he argued for marriage earlier that night.

She nearly gagged at her mind’s trick of replacing the father with the son. No matter what society viewed as morality, she’d always prided herself on being honorable. Having fond, sexual memories of both a father and a son did not feel honorable.

Skirting those thoughts, she realized her memories of North were nothing like the father Luke had described. She needed to ask Luke more about that, certain he could mend the rift with his father by engaging in a conversation or three. They simply needed to understand each other’s needs better. That mattered far more than his reputation, and she was determined not to stand in the way of that reconciliation.

Closing her eyes, she attempted to remember, calling up North’s laughter... or was that Luke’s? North had been squarer, a little stocky, in his mid-forties. His face... blurred into Luke’s.

She sat up. When had she lost the memory of North’s face? Frowning, she stepped back through days and weeks, trying to find when she’d thought of him last. At the Black Widow’s office, but she hadn’t taken the time to picture his countenance. Before that, it had been months prior, when she’d first faced her desire for marriage and children and contemplated retirement. Even then, had she thought about his looks or just the way he’d made her feel?

Recognizing that her desperation stemmed from fighting her yearning for Luke, she took a deep breath. His appearance and Luke’s did not matter. Neither were appropriate men for her to marry, and she’d do well to remember that , rather than faces or rather impressive cocks.

It was time to release the Lyon cub from the cage and let him roam free.