Chapter 2

Chapter Two

B eatrice loved the quiet of a Sunday morning at St. George's in Hanover Square. The church was a perfect example of neo-classical architecture with gorgeous columns and a magnificent portico facing St. George Street. The church was a hundred years old but felt older to her. She thought about all the distinguished people who had passed through its doors. The sixth son of George the III, the Duke of Sussex, had married here, as had the renowned poet Shelley. George Frederick Handel had worshipped here and played that beautiful organ.

The organ sounded now, covering the sounds of the assembled crowd in attendance to hear the banns called for Miss Lavinia Notley and His Grace, the Duke of Ramsbury. Even Munro Notley had managed to stagger through the hallowed doors this morning, looking undeniably handsome yet somewhat worse for wear after too much drink last night. He sat behind her, beside his brother Dudley and Dudley's wife and two young children. Beatrice herself sat beside her sister Judith. The viscount was on Judith's other side, and beside him were Lavinia and Ramsbury.

With considerable concentration, Beatrice stared at the colors in the Flemish glass window and resisted the urge to look over her shoulder at Munro. Had he really asked her to marry him last night? He'd asked her once before, the night before her marriage to Solomon Barnet. She'd thought he was jesting then, but now she saw the night differently. She saw everything differently. Munro hadn't been jesting. He'd been serious when he'd asked her, and he hadn't done so because he wanted a leg up on Solomon. He'd been in love with her, had given up his rakish ways for her.

Munro had told her as much that night, but she hadn't believed him. She'd agreed to marry Solomon, and she'd been set on that course. Solomon had sworn he would always be true to her, and she'd believed him. He was such a convincing liar. She saw that now, but she hadn't seen it then. She'd thought Munro the devil and Solomon the angel; Munro the unreformable rake and Solomon the unimpeachable saint. How wrong she had been.

But what if she was wrong now, and both men were devils? She'd trusted once and been burned. She dared not trust again. Munro said everything in the Brazen Belle's column was a fabrication, but she had read other reports of him, enough of those reports over the years, to believe at least some of what was said in The Rake Report had the ring of truth. She wouldn't ever admit it, but she had looked for mentions of him over the years. On occasion, she spotted them.

She remembered the story about the fire in Munich, the riot in a Venice brothel, the fireworks mishap in Paris. He was tied to all of those stories and more. Was she to believe he didn't frequent the beds of prostitutes? And what about the rumor of the piercing? Wasn't it possible he'd drunk one too many glasses of wine one evening, been issued a dare, and woke up the next morning with a silver ring through his…she probably shouldn't think about such things in church.

She shouldn't think about him in church. Too many scandalous thoughts crossed her mind. She was no longer a virgin of twenty dreaming about smiling at her husband across the breakfast table as they listened to the patter of little feet in the nursery. Those ideas of marriage had been shattered weeks after she'd wed when her husband hadn't come home at night. When he did come home, he smelled of other women's perfume. Solomon's infidelity disgusted her, and she'd locked him out of her bedchamber. He might have easily gained access. She was his property under the law, but to add insult to injury, Solomon hadn't bothered. And so she'd spent her days and nights alone, a wife who had experienced all the pleasures of the marriage bed and then voluntarily relinquished them.

She didn't regret the decision, especially a couple years later when she saw the doctor leaving Solomon's bedchamber and confronted him. He had the pox, of course. The courtesan he'd fallen in love with three years into their marriage had gifted it to him. If Beatrice hadn't locked Solomon out, she would have acquired it as well. Perhaps the illness had made him reckless, had made him bold, because it was only a year later he'd died in a duel over that same courtesan.

And now Munro Notley sat behind her. She could all but feel those tawny eyes of his lazily roaming over her shoulders and neck. He would be an exquisite lover. She had no doubt his reputation for bed sport was well-earned. And it had been so long since a man had touched her…

Judith reached over and touched Beatrice's hand, and she realized the banns were being called. She closed her hand over Judith's, grasping her tightly. She knew her sister had agonized over the Duke of Ramsbury's offer of marriage for Lavinia. The offer had been more than generous, but, like any mother, Judith worried about her daughter's happiness, especially with such an age difference between the parties. Still, Lavinia seemed happy and to genuinely like the duke.

"If any of you know cause or just impediment why these persons should not be joined together in Holy Matrimony, ye are to declare it," the parish priest intoned. "This is the first time of asking."

The church was silent except for a bit of shuffling and coughing, and then the priest moved on. Beatrice squeezed Judith's hand and smiled at Arthur.

The service finally concluded, and it was an easy matter to find herself walking beside Munro as the parishioners exited into Hanover Square. The duke and the viscount had carriages waiting, although the walk to Berkeley Square was not long. The sun shone in the cloudless sky, and though the air was cold, the day felt pleasant.

"Mama, may His Grace and I walk back to Notley House?" Lavinia asked.

Judith glanced at Arthur, who frowned. Beatrice knew him well enough to know he didn't like the idea of his daughter spending any time with the duke unchaperoned. Not until the vows had been exchanged and the license signed. But Lavinia deserved a chance to have some private time with her betrothed before the wedding.

"Mr. Notley and I will walk back as well," Beatrice said.

Munro's head jerked and he gave her a sharp look. She raised her brows, daring him to challenge her.

"Munro?" Arthur asked.

"Fine," he said, waving a hand.

"Very well, Bunny," Arthur told his daughter. "But straight home, yes?"

"Yes, Papa." Lavinia smiled.

"Go on ahead," Beatrice told her niece. "We'll follow."

Lavinia took the duke's arm, and Beatrice watched the couple walk on.

"Did it occur to you that perhaps I don't wish to walk?" Munro asked.

"Neither do I," Beatrice said. "But it's nice to give the couple some time alone, and I want to speak with you." She took his arm, though he hadn't offered it, and he began to walk.

"What would you like to discuss?"

She blew out a breath. "Please don't pretend you have no memory of our discussion last night."

"I admit, I over imbibed. The evening is a jumble."

Not for her. Being this close to him, feeling his warmth and catching the scent of oranges and bergamot she'd always associated with him, made her a bit lightheaded—that and the memory of him splayed seductively on the chaise longue of the retiring room. Was it wrong that she'd wanted to straddle him right then and there?

"Allow me to remind you," she said. "You said you wanted to marry me."

He shook his head. "That doesn't sound at all like something I would say."

"I must have you confused with another red-headed rake who claims he has reformed his ways."

"I have reformed."

"Then prove it."

Munro paused and turned to her. "How might I prove it? I gave you my word—"

She waved a hand. "Words mean nothing. Solomon gave me his word too, and then he proceeded to sample the charms of every actress, opera singer, and courtesan in greater London."

She saw the spark of something in Munro's eyes, and the yellow-brown eyes went dark. Was he angry on her behalf?

"I am not Solomon Barnet. If you were mine—" He shook his head, and she had the urge to shake him so he might complete the sentence.

"If you really mean that, then prove it by passing my tests."

"Tests? What madness is this?"

"Sir, we must keep walking or Lavinia will be out of sight."

He sighed and started walking again. "Tell me about your tests," he said. The noise of the carriages on Bond Street caused him to lean close so she might hear him.

"They are not so much tests as temptations. If you agree to this…" She paused, trying to think of the appropriate word.

"Scheme?" he offered.

"Yes. If you agree to my scheme, I will present you with five temptations. You won't know when they will occur or in what form they will take. If you pass all five, then I will consider you reformed, and we might discuss a future between us."

For twenty or more steps, Munro said nothing. Finally, he said, "I'm willing to consider this… nefarious scheme, but I need a reward."

"I told you—"

"A reward each time I pass a test," he clarified.

Beatrice narrowed her eyes. "What sort of reward?"

"A prize I might claim from you," he said.

"You call my scheme nefarious, but you're the one making everything wicked. I can only imagine what sorts of prizes you have in mind." And the thought made her shiver in anticipation and half hope he might pass on the temptations she laid before him. He pulled her closer as they moved through a crowd on the sidewalk.

"I'll tell you, about my prizes" he said, nodding to a well-dressed woman passing with her maid behind her. "If I pass the first test, you will accompany me on an outing."

"What sort of outing? It must be public."

He shrugged. "Fine. But the second prize is a kiss, and that should be very much in private."

She took a breath as her belly trembled at the thought of kissing him. She'd kissed him before, years ago when he had been courting her. She remembered how soft his lips were and how he'd pulled her close and made her feel like the only woman in the world.

"I doubt you will ever claim that prize. You believe you can resist two temptations?"

"I can resist three, and if I do, I want a quarter hour with you. Alone."

Her heart thudded in her chest, and she swallowed. "To do what?"

He looked down at her, his lovely eyes full of promise. "I can't tell you all my secrets. I can promise that I won't force you to do anything you don't want."

"Fine." Her voice sounded a little higher pitched than she would have liked. "And the fourth prize—not that I think you will ever claim it."

He leaned down and whispered in her ear. "A night in your bed."

Her throat went dry as she imagined tousled sheets and the naked form of Munro Notley positioned above her. And under her. And behind her…

"All night," he continued, his breath tickling her ear. "To do whatever I want with you."

"And if I want you to stop?"

"You won't," he promised. "You'll beg me not to stop. You'll say please, Munro. Don't stop. "

She could well believe it, and she had to close her eyes and summon the strength to resist grabbing his lapels right then and there and shoving him against the nearest shop and kissing that wicked mouth of his.

"You'll finally know if the rumors are true," he said as they walked slowly forward. Beatrice had completely lost sight of Lavinia. She barely remembered the girl existed.

"What rumors?"

"About my cock," he said, leaning close again. "And the ornament I've supposedly added."

She glanced up at him, trying to read his expression. Was that rumor true? Had he pierced his male member? He raised a brow in challenge, and she looked away. She recognized the corner. They were almost back at Notley House.

"You said five temptations," he reminded her. "That means I have one more prize to claim."

"If you insist with this fiction, I'll play along. Suppose you manage to resist five temptations."

"Proving, once and for all, I'm no rake." They strolled past the park in the center of Berkeley Square.

"Yes. If you manage such a feat—"

" When I pass your tests and put an end to this nefarious scheme, I want your hand in marriage."

She halted and shook her head. "No. I decided I will never marry again. Think of another prize. Two nights in my bed perhaps?"

He turned to her, his tawny eyes drawing her in and making her forget for a moment the group of children and their governess playing with a ball on the grass nearby.

"I want all the nights in your bed, Beatrice. I lost you once. I don't want to lose you again."

She shook her head.

"If you don't think I'll pass your tests, then what's the harm in agreeing?" he asked.

"I can think of quite a lot of harm. I don't trust you."

"That's why you devised the temptations. You'll trust me after I pass each." He held up a hand. "Don't decide now. Think about it for a day."

She nodded and allowed him to lead her to the door of the town house. She had her own house in a less fashionable area of Town, one not quite as expensive, but Judith had asked her to stay at Notley House for a few weeks so she might assist with all the wedding preparations. She turned to bid Munro good day as she assumed he would return to his hotel, but he ushered her into the foyer of the town house. Whereupon she was greeted with a stack of trunks and valises and several footmen trying to manage the luggage.

"What's all this?" she asked Frobisher, who appeared to take her parasol, hat, and gloves.

"Mr. Notley's luggage, madam." The butler turned his attention to Munro. "Your chamber is almost ready, sir."

Beatrice rounded on Munro. "You are moving in? You're staying here?"

Munro gave her that slow smile that made her belly flutter.

"My chamber will be right down the hall from yours, Beatrice. Think about that when you get lonely at night."

Beatrice sputtered some nonsense about how she didn't feel lonely and wouldn't think about him for even a moment, but Munro knew better. He'd seen the way her tongue had darted out to wet her lips. He'd noted how her green eyes had turned emerald and how her breasts had risen with her quick breaths, straining her prim church-going bodice.

Why hadn't he come back from the Continent sooner? He'd left England when Beatrice and Solomon had married because the pain of losing her had been so deep and there was no way to avoid seeing or hearing about her in England. But he might have come back after Solomon's death.

Except he still hadn't been able to stomach the idea that he would be so near to Beatrice and still unable to touch her, hold her, kiss her. Never, in all his imaginings, had he entertained the thought that she might want him too or ever give him a chance.

Now, he finally had that chance.

Munro led Beatrice into the dining room, where the rest of the family were already at breakfast.

"I thought you were chaperoning Lavinia," Arthur said, his mouth turned down in a familiar frown. He cut his gaze to Lavinia and the duke, who were already seated at the table.

Munro gestured to his niece, sitting with her back straight on her father's left. "And here she is." He waved away a footman and pulled out a chair for Beatrice himself. She took it and eyed the one next to her with trepidation. But Munro had no intention of sitting beside her. He moved around the table and took a seat across from her.

He waited for his teacup to be filled then lifted it to his lips, pursing them slowly and blowing gently across the top. Beatrice's cheeks went pink, and she swallowed, quickly lowering her eyes to pay far more attention than was necessary to adding lemon to her own tea.

Lavinia was speaking, telling her sister Lydia all about the ball the night before. Lydia was ten, and Munro noticed she had the same ginger hair he possessed. Dudley had told him last night, between soliloquys on footstools, that his three-year-old son was a ginger. Mary, Munro's younger sister, had three children, the eldest of whom was nine and also a ginger. Mary had commented that Caroline and Lydia might be twins. In the meantime, the ginger hair had completely skipped all seven of Susan's children.

Munro knew the fables surrounding gingers. Everyone said the red hair led to a quick temper. But no one would claim Munro was quick to anger. Passion was quite another matter, however. He felt emotions very strongly—everything from lust to loss to longing.

And right now he was longing to have Beatrice Haddington in his bed. After last night, and the cake he'd made of himself by drunkenly professing his love, he'd thought she'd never speak to him again. He half-considered sending his luggage to the docks and boarding the first packet sailing away from England. But he'd run away once, and he wouldn't do it again. He'd face his idiocy this time, and the gamble had paid off. Who would have thought Beatrice could invent such a scandalous amusement as giving him five temptations so he might prove himself a faithful man?

Now he need only convince her to agree in full to his five prizes. She was teetering on the edge of that agreement. He need only extend one finger and exert the slightest pressure to push her over.

She rose and went to the sideboard to fill a plate, and he rose as well and went to stand beside her. "Shall I make a plate for you?"

"I'll just have toast, thank you. I'm not very hungry."

"Too bad," he said, taking a scone from a platter. "Arthur probably spent a fortune having this clotted cream brought from Devon." He lifted the spoon from the bowl with the cream and purposely dribbled a line of cream on her hand before bringing it to top his scone.

Beatrice made a sound of surprise, but before she could take a napkin and wipe the cream from her hand, Munro set his plate down, caught her wrist, and lifted her hand to his lips. With a quick swipe of his tongue, he caught the dribble of cream. Beatrice gasped quietly and pulled her hand away. Munro only winked at her then went to sit down.

The family were blissfully ignorant of what had just passed, though Munro noted that at least one footman had a twinkle in his eye, indicating he had seen the exchange. Beatrice returned to the table as well, her cheeks flushed a lovely shade of dark pink. She avoided his gaze as she nibbled on her toast, but Munro knew she wouldn't be able to do so for long. That was why he'd chosen to sit directly across from her.

He ate a few bites of his own breakfast then added jam to his scone. When she glanced his way, he used his fingers to pop a corner of the scone in his mouth. He'd intentionally dripped jam on his fingers, and as she watched, he slowly licked it off one finger after another. Beatrice's green eyes burned bright, and she couldn't seem to tear her gaze from his mouth. Munro raised his brows in invitation, and Beatrice finally looked away.

"My governess won't allow me to eat with my fingers," Lydia said. She'd obviously seen him pop the piece of scone in his mouth.

Munro smiled at his niece. "Perhaps I've been out of the country too long. My manners are sorely lacking. If only I had a governess"—his gaze met Beatrice's—"to scold me and spank my bottom when I was out of line."

Beatrice's mouth dropped open, and she pushed back from the table and jumped to her feet. "Excuse me," she said. "I have—I just remembered something I must do." And she rushed from the room.

The table was quiet for a moment, then the conversation resumed. Munro allowed five minutes to pass, wherein he conversed with his niece in French about the variety of confections in a patisserie. Lydia hoped to impress her governess, who she said never spanked her bottom.

Then he too excused himself, rose, and started up the stairs to check on the progress the servants were making with unpacking his things. Munro was not at all surprised when he reached the top of the stairs and a hand reached out and yanked him into a corner hidden from view below.

"Don't ever do that again," Beatrice said, holding his collar in her fist.

"Very well." He gently pried her fingers loose. "What specifically should I not do?"

"You know what you did," she hissed.

"You are opposed to licking? I'll make a note."

"You are incorrigible, as ever," she said, pushing away from him. She started down the corridor, and he leaned out from the corner where she'd left him.

"So you agree to my five prizes?"

"Yes, I agree," she called over her shoulder.

Munro smiled.

"And, for your information," she called back before opening the door to her chamber and disappearing inside. "I am not at all opposed to licking."