Chapter Five

B elle clenched her jaw so hard her teeth ached. She should have asked for a name before she agreed to this charade.

At his sloppy bow and rude greeting, she folded her arms. Apparently, the drunk imbecile wasn’t so drunk he’d forgotten referring to her as a wench on their first meeting several months ago.

Charlotte’s young lover had been present—she seemed to recall that the men were friends. William had attempted to smooth things over by referring to this young fool as a clodpate. The moniker stuck in her memory, as it was so appropriate. Then the hungover idiot had sketched a lame attempt at a bow and trotted out a trite apology. Deciding to teach him a lesson, she’d offered a ride home and gave him pointers on how to “beg one’s pardon” or simply beg, ensuring he suffered being awake and lectured for the entire ride. The lesson had clearly not stuck, so how was she to put him on a new path in life?

This was the last thing she needed. Chaperoning an idiotic youth was one thing. A grown man with a bad attitude and friends in common was quite another. For all he was attractive, with that thick head of auburn hair, pale skin that denoted his late-night hours, and long, lanky frame, he was incorrigible. She had husband hunting to do; she was done with catering to privileged lords who thought she was beneath them.

Turning to Bessie, she said, “No.”

The widow tilted her head. “As you said, you do not have a choice. This is part of the price of my services. You are welcome to find another matchmaker to help you hunt for a husband.”

She’d already admitted that. But seeing this young entitled lordling had prompted a last-ditch effort.

Clodpate sputtered, “Husband? You want me to marry her? But she’s a—she’s a—”

Both women turned to glare at him, waiting for the end of that sentence.

“Need I remind you that your debt to my establishment, already substantial, has just doubled?” The widow’s tone was ice. Belle was surprised frost didn’t appear on the lordling’s eyelashes.

He gulped and swayed.

“You can do what I say here, or I can write to your father requesting payment. Your choice.”

Belle glanced around for a rubbish bin when his face paled at that statement.

“No, I—”

When he straightened, she stopped worrying and cut him off. “What makes you think I’d marry you? I can do better. I’m to be your nanny whilst you grow up. Which”—she turned to glare at the widow—“could take much longer than a month.”

“He only needs be sober and have the ability to stay so.”

“Ugh. Fine.”

The privileged lord thought he had a say. “Wait, I haven’t—”

“Haven’t you? Or was your father a viable option?” Belle mocked him, not waiting for the widow to reinforce his situation.

“Right.”

“Look at it this way, Clodpate, you’ll get lots of practice begging for the next few weeks.”

Belle sat across from a snoring Clodpate in her carriage, hoping he would not wake up spewing and ruin her upholstery.

Glaring at him, she forced her anger aside to devise a strategy for handling the coming days. His drinking seemed compulsory, and based on the widow’s reference to his vowels, his gaming might be as well. She only hoped snuff and laudanum were not included in his vices. She’d seen too many courtesans end up as streetwalkers because they’d turned to those from unhappiness. Most of them had not survived. The ones who did had help, so she understood why Bessie had requested her guidance.

But why her? And why did the widow want to save this dissolute lordling out of the dozens in her establishment every night?

Deciding to have this out, she kicked him and was grateful she’d worn boots when she encountered his Hessians.

He started and snorted, sliding to a semblance of upright. “I beg your pardon. Must have dozed off.”

She rolled her eyes. The same trite phrase offered out of sheer habit rather than a genuine desire for forgiveness. “Do you recall the elements of a proper apology?”

He blinked at her, his gaze foggy with sleep and drink.

She narrowed her eyes at him.

“Sincerity,” he ventured.

“No.”

“You used another word, but yes, that was one.”

“Fine. Penitence. Being truly sorry.”

“Sincerity,” he repeated with a smirk.

She raised her brows, and her voice was as haughty as she could make it when she replied, “Do you feel you’re in a position to argue with me?”

“Penitence it is.” He sighed, his eyes sliding closed.

“What else?” she snapped, kicking him again.

He dragged his eyelids up. “Er... a willingness to correct it or do something to atone.”

“And?” She hid her surprise that he’d remembered those two, given his current state.

He lowered his gaze and muttered under his breath, repeating the two components he’d already listed. Grimacing, he raised his head and shrugged, the picture of helplessness.

Gritting her teeth, she growled, “Identifying the reason so you recognize it earlier the next time and ensure it does not happen again.”

“Ah. Right. Thank you.” He leaned his head back against the carriage wall, his eyes drifting shut.

“We are here.”

The carriage rolled to a halt.

Clodpate did not seem inclined to move, so Belle waited for the footman to set the step and hand her out. She swept inside her house. He could follow or not.

Damnation. She needed the Black Widow to fulfill her part of their bargain, so she had to ensure he got sober. Which meant getting him inside rather than leaving him on the street or allowing him to wander off to the nearest tavern.

Waiting in the hall, she watched him stumble down from the carriage and squint at the house. He took his time meandering inside.

Tapping her foot, she fumed silently. She’d hoped to be done pandering to titled men, being at their beck and call. Her requirements for Bessie Dove-Lyon should have included no titled lords, or at least no need for obsequity. Although, what did she know of marriage? Perhaps occasional obsequity was required to keep the peace. She’d have to really like her husband to manage that. Although, she wouldn’t mind some directed her way.

Opening her mouth to summon Clodpate, she hesitated. She did not recall his name. Did he know hers? Bessie had not introduced them, as their reactions had made it obvious they’d met before.

“Shall I continue to call you Clodpate, or would you prefer your name?”

His gaze sharpened a fraction, even through the last of his drunken state. “Shall I continue to call you Wench, or would you prefer your name?”

She managed not to smile. He had forgotten hers as well. ’Twas less embarrassing at least. “I hate Mrs. Rossi. It makes me feel ancient and far too much like a governess. Isabella will do for now. You’ll have to earn the right to call me Belle as my friends do.”

“Fair.” He bowed. “Luke Lynwood at your service. Known as South or Lyon to friends, heir to—”

“I don’t care. Lord Lynwood, please follow me, and I will show you to your room.” She gestured and turned to start up the stairs along one side of the entry hall.

As they climbed, she debated whether she should put him in the front room, farthest from her, or the middle room that backed on hers. After having men come and go any time they pleased, she valued her privacy. But if he’d been drinking like this for months, he had a long painful road ahead of him. Also, given her promise to Bessie Dove-Lyon, she should keep him close.

Opening the door to the bedroom next to hers, she stepped aside to let him pass.

His red-rimmed eyes, a shade browner than his hair, rose from where they’d followed the sway of her hips to meet hers. Pacing forward, he stopped before her, his gaze roaming her face and lingering on her lips.

Clenching her jaw to avoid flicking her tongue over the part of her he scrutinized, she waited. Any courtesan worth her salt knew how to handle an overzealous lord who hadn’t earned her time, and particularly a drunk lover. But lud, the boy was handsome, even with his eyes and nose puffed from excess.

He made his play, thinking her passive, leaning in.

Stomping her boot on his, she placed both hands on his chest and shoved him back to land against the doorframe.

“Wha—?”

“Go to bed. There will be no touching or kissing without permission.” She’d borrowed that from Charlotte’s introduction to her young man, but her friend wouldn’t mind. Heck, she’d probably giggle over it, as the men were friends. Come to think of it, she needed to work out how to tell Charlotte about this whole mess. She hadn’t yet confided her plan to marry, much less how she was going about it.

That was a problem for another day. Right now, she needed to get this drunken buffoon into bed. Alone.

He drifted past her, as though she had all night to wait on him.

When he neared the bed, she commanded, “Sit.”

He obeyed without thinking, then looked surprised.

“Remove your boots.”

He smirked. “I’m happy to remove whatever you’d like, Isabella.”

After he struggled for a moment, she stomped forward to help. By the time she was done, he had lain back on the bed and was half-asleep. Leaving him there, she placed the boots in the corner by the wardrobe.

Halfway to the door, she changed her mind. While he was in no shape to run off at the moment, she didn’t know what he might think was a good idea when he awoke. Taking his boots with her, she left to purge the house of the few spirits she kept on hand, mourning the loss of sherry, her favorite after-dinner pastime when alone.