Chapter 14

… If then women are not a swarm of ephemeron triflers, why should they be kept in ignorance under the specious name of innocence?

—from Selina's private copy of A VINDICATION OF THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN , annotated in her hand: "Why indeed!"

Selina was not entirely certain if she had lost her mind.

Here was Lady Eldon, her eyes dancing, congratulating them on their betrothal. Their betrothal . Their betrothal.

Here was Nicholas, furious but ever-polite, taking Peter's hand in what looked to be a vise grip and murmuring, "We will discuss this tonight, Selina."

Aunt Judith and Thomasin and Daphne and Lord Eldon, saying all sorts of things she couldn't quite make out.

And Peter. The only thing she was certain of was Peter's warm solid form beside her, his hand unmoving from the small of her back.

The dinner party broke up rather quickly. Lord and Lady Eldon took their leave, Lady Eldon dimpling at all of them and taking her husband's arm in hers as they made their way to their carriage.

Then it was just Peter and an array of her family members, whose expressions ranged from amazed delight—Thomasin, naturally—to cool censure—Aunt Judith—to barely banked fury.

That last was Nicholas.

"Stanhope," he said icily. "Let me speak to you in my study."

Somehow this cracked Selina's dazed stupor. "I should think not," she managed to say. "Do you truly believe I would allow two men to discuss my future as though I have no say in it?"

"Selina." Nicholas caught her in his stern hazel gaze, and he yanked at his cravat in frustration. "I am not sure how much say you have, at this point."

She tossed back her hair. "I have every bit as much say as the two of you, and—no, blast it—"

"Selina," said Aunt Judith censoriously.

" Damn it, I have more of a say in what happens to me than my brother!"

"Selina!"

"Enough," said Daphne, and her crisp tone was enough to silence the rest of them. "Enough. Did the two of you truly come to an agreement?"

Selina's heart thudded against her ribs, and she turned toward Peter.

He had looked terrified, there in the darkened music room, with her body crushed to his and Lady Eldon standing stunned in the doorway.

He had been afraid. He must have thought that this was the end of his guardianship petition. To be caught by Lord Eldon in the process of compromising the Duke of Rowland's sister—in Rowland's own house! It would have been one scandal too far, one final disaster.

And she could not let that happen to him.

So she had said the only thing that came to her mind.

What was the solution to a scandal?

Marriage, Lydia had told her. Marriage is the solution to a scandal.

And now, here in the drawing room, with her family clustered around her, she did not know if she had done right. She looked up into Peter's eyes.

He looked at her the way he always did. Warm, and sure, and so intent upon her that the rest of the world could have faded away, and she thought he might not notice.

"Do you still want to marry?" she whispered.

"Yes," he said. "Regardless of all the rest of this. And there's nothing I wouldn't do to keep you safe."

It was like a fantasy and a nightmare come to life. She wanted him. She wanted him, and she was afraid she would hurt him, and she had to go forward with this betrothal, because Eldon had seen them together and Eldon controlled the children's guardianship.

And she wanted to go forward with it. Almost as much as she wanted not to ruin his life.

"Yes," she said dazedly to Peter. And then, more firmly, to Daphne, "Yes. We came to an agreement. We're betrothed. We can be married right away, by special license." She turned back to Peter. "That is, if that's all right with you."

"Yes," he said, and his fingers pressed harder into her back, so steady and safe that she wanted to cry. "Yes. The sooner the better."

"I would still like to speak to you, Stanhope," her brother said. "Very much. I have a great deal that I would like to say."

"Of course," said Peter. But he made no move to pull away from Selina.

"Alone!" Nicholas's voice was practically a roar.

Everyone jumped into motion. Thomasin started to usher Selina away, and Peter angled his body in the direction of Nicholas's office. Before she could think the better of it, Selina tugged out of Thomasin's grasp and grabbed Peter's arm. She pulled his head down toward hers and whispered in his ear, softly enough that she was certain no one else heard. "I have to speak with you. I'll come to your residence. Tonight."

It was good, she supposed, that she had two years of secretly running Belvoir's to her name, because Selina knew perfectly well how to sneak out of Rowland House and make her way to the Stanhope residence without getting caught.

Her maid, Emmie, had quirked a brow when she'd come to help Selina prepare for bed and found her instead dressed for an evening of stealth. She still had the heavy charcoal serge gown that covered her from chin to toe, and though it was warm, she'd tugged on a dark and slightly threadbare cloak that she usually kept hidden at the bottom of her wardrobe.

"An extra week's pay," she said to Emmie, her voice determinedly cheerful. "And a pithivier for you and Olive to split when I can make my way to Comfrey's tomorrow."

Emmie plunked herself into a brocade chair that matched Selina's coverlet and slipped off her sturdy slippers. "This one's on me."

Selina blinked. Emmie was a very, very good maid—practical, sensible, and absolutely delighted to receive a bit of extra money to pretend she was unaware of Selina's nighttime absences when necessary. "Whatever do you mean?"

Emmie smirked. "Don't think we haven't all heard the news, m'lady. I thought you and the duke might need the evening to"—she coughed—"finish your conversation." Her blue eyes were perfectly guileless. "Take your time."

Selina groaned but didn't deny it. Although the conversation she meant to have with Stanhope was probably far less carnal than the conversation Emmie was imagining.

Certainly less carnal. Entirely carn-free, and consisting mostly of an attempt to explain her wildly scrambled life.

"But actually," said Emmie, as Selina made her way toward the door, "I'll take you up on the pithivier." Her lips curled. "You know how much my little sister likes those pastries from Comfrey's."

Selina snorted. She had her suspicions about how much pastry was consumed by four-year-old Olive.

And then it was down the back stairs into the mews, and a few coins for her favorite groom to procure her a hired hack, and then she was in the carriage on her way to Peter's house.

It was less than a mile away, so she didn't have much time for fretting.

The Stanhope residence was a peculiar-looking building—tall and narrow, its white-plastered front gleaming even in the near-darkness of the cloudy night. She had the hired carriage drop her off at the end of the street, and she made her way quickly to the servants' back entrance.

The door came open at her knock, and a tall and very slender manservant peered out at her. "Yes?"

She tossed back her hood. "I am Lady Selina Ravenscroft."

The young man—he couldn't have been more than twenty, though his hair was visibly thinning—stared at her with a kind of bemused horror. "Yes?"

"Er," she said. "Yes." That hadn't been quite the reception she was anticipating. "I believe His Grace is expecting me."

The man's eyebrows sailed toward his hairline. "I don't think so."

Oh for goodness' sake. She had told Peter she was coming, had she not? Had he expected her to use the front door, where she could be seen by all and sundry?

Though, she thought, with a tinge of hysteria, it wasn't as though she could be more ruined. Perhaps he had.

"Never mind," she said. "I assure you, he's expecting me. Can you take me to wherever he spends his evenings?"

"His… bedchamber?"

The boggled look on the young man's face was slightly gratifying. At least it didn't seem likely that her future husband often received nighttime visitors in his bedchamber.

Her future husband.

Dear Lord.

"What's your name?" she asked.

"Humphrey, my… lady?"

"Humphrey," she said. "All right. As untoward as this seems, I am probably going to be living here soon. I have a very nice maid named Emmie with a lifetime supply of French pastry, and if you help me locate His Grace right now, I will make sure that she shares with you."

Selina Ravenscroft, pastry fairy, did the trick. Humphrey opened the door the rest of the way and led her through a series of narrow and puzzlingly dark rooms.

Where was the rest of the staff? Were they all abed?

But she shook off the thought, because Humphrey led her up two flights of stairs and then—she winced—started shouting, "Your Grace! You have a caller! Your Grace?"

Peter materialized in the hallway.

He was still dressed as he'd been at their house for dinner, but his cravat was untied and dangling around his neck. His dark curls were wild, as though he'd scrubbed his hands through them a time or ten.

He looked baffled and a little vulnerable, and the way his cravat framed his bare throat made her want to put her mouth just there and lick him.

Oh God, she was going to hell, wasn't she? She was here to explain why marrying her would ruin his life and tell him he ought to reconsider.

She was not here to lick him.

"Selina," he said, coming close enough to grab her hands in his. She felt a shock of warmth in her body as his bare fingers met hers. "Why—how did you get up—" He paused and turned to his manservant. "Thank you, Humphrey. That's all for tonight."

Humphrey looked extremely relieved to be dismissed. He fairly sprinted back down the hallway as Peter ushered Selina into a firelit chamber. It was dim, but the whole house had been rather dark, and her eyes were adjusted well enough to make out a sparsely furnished room. A desk, a few stacks of books upon it, and several more stacks on the floor. Two chairs pulled together in front of the fire.

"Peter," she said, and then promptly ran out of courage. "Maybe we should… sit. We should sit."

"Yes," he said. "All right."

Her backside had barely met the chair when Peter started talking again. "I'm sorry," he burst out. "God, Selina, I'm so—I'm so sorry. I know you didn't want this. I just couldn't"—he hesitated for the briefest of moments and then forged on—"I couldn't think of anything else to do except to go along with it." He reached out and took her hands in his again. "Tell me what I can do to make it right."

It was so altogether unexpected that Selina stared. "You're… sorry?"

"I'm sorry," he said again. "I didn't mean for any of this to happen, I swear it. I know you didn't want to marry me."

"Peter." His hands were warm and steady as they held hers. His fingers were long, his skin callused but not rough. She stared at his hands for a moment longer and then willed herself to look up and meet his gaze.

His eyes were dark in the flame-lit room and intent on her face.

Courage , she told herself. You are the woman who runs the most popular circulating library in England. Act like it.

"Peter," she said again. "It's not that I don't want to marry you. I turned you down because—because—"

She could not say it. She was afraid to say it.

"It wasn't because I don't want you," she whispered. "I do."

His eyes flared with heat, with hope, so she rushed on.

"But there is something you must know before we marry. Something about me that will likely make you reconsider this union. You needn't feel obliged to wed me after you hear this, Peter. You didn't know."

"Selina, for God's sake, you must know that I don't feel obliged—"

She gathered her nerve and cut him off. "Let me tell you something that very few people know."

He went quiet, but his hands stayed on hers.

"Do you know the circulating library Belvoir's?"

He nodded, his expression baffled.

"My brother Will owns it. And I"—God, it was so hard, so hard to make herself say the words—"I run it. Two and a half years ago, before Katherine died, I asked Will to buy it for me, and he did. I meet with my publisher, Jean Laventille, monthly, in secret. I have two men of business who carry out the daily operations. I oversee the library maintenance, the price of our subscription, our membership rolls, all ordering and binding, and—of course—the catalog selection. I have made Will a great deal of money, and we keep most of it in a bank account that neither of us touches. I am a female aristocrat, the sister of a duke, and yet I engage in trade."

Peter, God help him, appeared absolutely delighted.

"Good Lord," he said. "I knew you were infernally clever, but I had no idea— no idea—Selina, I see Belvoir's books everywhere . Those green covers—my God, you came up with that?" He grinned at her. "I don't think I could be more impressed."

Despite herself, her foolish heart leapt in astonished pleasure. Leapt, and then plummeted right off a cliff instead of landing, because he'd barely heard the half of it.

"There's more," she said. "Quite a bit more. It gets worse."

"All right," he said, still smiling. "Tell me."

"You may not have realized it, but you have probably seen Belvoir's books more often with women than men. That is because of something called the Venus catalog, which is accessible only to women. I had Will buy Belvoir's for one very specific purpose."

She paused, long enough for Peter to prompt, "And that purpose was…?"

"Sexual relations."

Well, that had certainly taken him by surprise.

She kept talking. "A number of years ago, I learned that my father had kept a long-term mistress. I scarcely knew what a mistress was. In the year I made my bow, I discovered that Vernon Whaley, the Marquess of Queensbury, whom I considered a most excellent catch, was known for having relations with his servants and then putting them out on the street.

"I didn't understand it. I couldn't. I was entirely sheltered from the realities of life in the beau monde . And I wasn't alone."

Her voice was trembling now. "At the end of that year, my dear friend Ivy came to see me at Rowland House. She was terrified, weeping her heart out. She was pregnant, you see. And she did not understand how it had occurred. That was how little she knew about intercourse, Peter. She did not understand what physical mechanism had gotten her with child. She did not know how to prevent it. And she had no idea what to do when the bastard of a man who impregnated her refused to stand by her."

She knew the expression on her face had to be a little frightening—a half-wild smile, a smile of rage and ferocity. "Her parents threw her out, but she's tough, my Ivy. We set her up in a little house near our estate in Gloucestershire, and she lives there with her son. And now Belvoir's pays for it all. But I swore that year that whatever it took, I wouldn't let another naive woman suffer that way—not if I could help it.

"So I had Will buy Belvoir's, and I developed a selection of books that can only be checked out by women. Memoirs by courtesans. Erotic poetry. Gothic novels. Each month, I read perhaps a dozen such books and choose the most useful for the Venus catalog."

She tried to relax her fingers on his, because her knuckles were nearly white. "It's very popular. Most of the women of the ton are members. And absolutely no one knows that it's mine."

There was a long moment of quiet, and she stared at their linked fingers, trying to think of how she could make him understand what had been going on in her mind that year. The fury that had animated her and her single-minded determination to fix what was wrong, no matter the cost.

"Selina," he said gently.

She looked up. The expression of delight on his face was gone, replaced by a softer expression.

Pride, she thought it was.

"That's spectacular," he said. " You are spectacular. You are a bright, brilliant light on this benighted country."

"Oh," she said. And then, "Oh no." He meant it, she realized. He was proud of what she'd accomplished. But he didn't grasp the potential consequences. Perhaps, having been raised outside the insular world they inhabited now, he couldn't.

"Peter, you have to understand. Eventually someone is going to figure it out. It's not at all difficult to uncover the fact that Will owns Belvoir's, and he's been out of the country for over two years now. As our circulation has grown, so too has curiosity about the library. One hard look at the catalog, and what I've done will be in the papers."

"And, Selina, what you've done is extraordinary."

Oh God, she wanted to shake him. "Peter, I cannot tell you how much it means to me to hear you say that. But you must think of your own position. You need a wife who makes you less scandalous, not more. This would destroy your guardianship petition if the truth were to come out before the hearing. And if it comes out after, your political career would be in shambles. Your reputation will be destroyed. And, Peter—I could go to prison for this. John Cleland did, after he wrote Fanny Hill ." She winced. "Do you know how many copies we have of Fanny Hill? "

"Selina," he said. "You will be a duchess. I don't even think they can throw you in jail. And if they did, I would tear the thing down brick by brick if necessary to get you out."

Her eyes burned. "What about the children? If I raise them— and then my reputation is destroyed—Lu could never be brought out in society—"

He laughed. "You've met Lu. Do you think she wants to be brought out in society?"

"You're not thinking this through," she said, and one wayward tear slipped free and ran down her cheek. Another. "I don't want to ruin your life, Peter."

"Selina," he said, and then he tugged on her hands, pulled a little harder until she half tumbled out of her chair and into his lap. "Sweet. My reputation is already in shambles. If you are discovered—"

"When," she corrected into his coat.

"Fine, when you are discovered, we'll simply be a matched set. England's most scandalous duke and duchess. We'll thumb our noses at the ton and get invited to everything anyway. And if we discover that we can't stand it, we'll move back to Louisiana."

"But your—your political goals—"

"Can be accomplished just as well in America. Perhaps better, in some ways. Come to think of it, sweet, shall we move to New Orleans? In my experience, there's a real dearth of erotic books for ladies there."

It was so Peter—so ridiculous and easy and so bloody perfect—that she buried her face in his chest and wept.

Part of her wanted to choke back the tears that stung her eyes and clogged her throat. The same part of her that wanted to say, I'm sorry—I don't know what's come over me—I never cry .

But she knew precisely why she was crying. It had been two and a half years now with no one to talk to about Belvoir's—no one who knew except Jean Laventille and Will, who was gone. She hadn't told Nicholas or Thomasin or Lydia, all the people she trusted most in the world to love her no matter what errors in judgment she'd made.

Now she'd told Peter, forcing back any part of her that had hoped he might see Belvoir's the same way she saw it: as something with value. Something that was worth the cost.

But he had . He'd taken in her words and looked at her with that single-minded focus and seen…

Something worth it.

She let herself cry for at least sixty long seconds before she pulled back from his now-damp chest and wiped at her eyes.

"Well," he said, "I had a feeling this night would end with weeping."

She choked out a laugh. "Did you?"

"Oh yes. Just wasn't sure which of us it would be."

"Peter."

"Yes?"

She lifted a hand and stroked back one of his dark curls. Just because she could. "Are you absolutely certain?"

He lifted a hand to cover hers, cradling it against his cheek. "Yes." He turned his face into her hand and kissed her palm. Just once. "I'm absolutely certain." Twice. "Are you? Because if you don't want to do this, we can find another way out."

His gaze was on her—that encompassing gaze, that saw all of her and shut out the rest of the world.

She looked down at her lap, the soft press of his hand on hers suddenly all she could think about.

She wanted him. She wanted him so much she wasn't sure if she was thinking clearly. Would she ruin him, if she said yes? If she gave in to his easy assurance, would that make her unforgivably selfish?

But—Eldon had seen them together. There was no simple way out.

"I am certain," she said, her voice barely audible.

She wasn't. She wasn't certain at all. She felt terrified that by accepting, she would lead Peter headlong into disaster.

He pressed another kiss to her palm and she squeezed her eyes closed, fighting the urge to weep again.

If she did this—if she took what she wanted—she could not let her secret get out. She would not permit the guardianship hearing to be anything but a success. This was what she did—she organized, she planned, she managed circumstances. She would use every trick at her disposal to ensure the children's position as Peter's wards, and in the end, she would make him happy . She would not let him down, she vowed, not on her life.

When the burning sensation in her eyes receded, she lifted her gaze to Peter's again. He had a half smile on his lips and a strange hint of vulnerability there too, lurking in the curve of his mouth.

He brought his hand to her chin and then stroked his thumb across the curve of her lower lip.

Her mouth trembled open. "Peter," she said. "I—"

He kissed her. It was a slow, searching sort of kiss. His mouth was gentle. His big hand still stretched warmly over hers, and his fingers moved, whisper-soft, to trace the lines between hers.

She heard herself gasp against his mouth.

He pulled back. "Yes?"

She stared at him. "Yes?"

"You were starting to say…?"

"I don't remember."

A grin curled across his lips, more smug than she'd ever seen. "Good."

And then he kissed her again.

Talking, it seemed, was at an end. Selina took a moment to consider and decided she approved entirely.

His mouth on hers was almost cautious, and when her tongue tentatively touched his, he gave a soft groan of pleasure. The sound of his desire undid her completely, and she stroked his hair, his jaw, his neck, trying to chase more of his response.

When she slipped her hand beneath the line of his jacket and traced the hard muscles of his abdomen through his thin linen shirt, he made an inarticulate sound. His hands fastened on her rib cage, his thumbs stroking the undersides of her breasts.

Without her conscious volition, her head fell back, her back arching. Sweet heavens, if his touch felt that splendid through her gown, just imagine if she was…

Peter seemed to be having much the same thought. His fingers moved to the side hooks in her gown, unfastening one after another until her gown sagged open at the seam. Beneath her gown, she wore only a chemise—she didn't bother with stays with this dress, as she couldn't lace them herself.

One of Peter's hands eased the heavy serge fabric off her shoulder, and it fell to her waist. The other hand had already claimed her breast, shaping and kneading the small globe through the thin cotton of her chemise. His fingertips traced her areola, then slipped softly across one tight, aching nipple.

"Ah," she gasped. Her hands were still on his abdomen, and she felt her nails tighten on him. "Peter, I—oh God ."

He kissed her, hard and deep and urgent, his tongue thrusting into her mouth with a need that echoed in her breasts, her belly, her fingertips. She whimpered and shifted in his lap, trying to pull closer to him.

Somehow he'd disentangled her other arm from her gown, and now both of his hands were filled with her breasts, both of her nipples taut under the gentle, relentless torment of his fingers.

Her skin felt tight and hot. She needed him to touch her. She needed—God, something, she needed something or she would go mad. She pressed her thighs together and writhed on his lap.

He groaned again. "You—that's—God, I have to—"

His pelvis rocked, and she recognized suddenly the hard line of his arousal pressing into the soft flesh of her hip. Oh. Oh.

One of his hands abandoned her breast, and she whimpered in disappointment. No, he couldn't stop, he'd barely touched her, only stroked and teased and tormented.

Then she felt his hand beneath her skirt, warm through her thin silk stockings, and then his mouth came down to her breasts.

Where his fingers had grazed, his mouth was firmer, hotter, more urgent. He laved her nipple through the fabric, then spread the wet cotton tight with his fingers. "So lovely," he said roughly. "So beautiful, sweetheart." Then his mouth came back, hot and wet, and he sucked hard at her nipple, making her gasp and then moan.

She felt—she hardly knew what she felt.

Wild. Drunk. Barely in control of her body as she gripped the back of his head, holding him tight. She didn't know what to do, but she knew what her body wanted. Pressure. Friction. More.

She rolled her hips, searching for the hard pressure of his arousal. Then she felt his hand move past her knee, past the garter that held her stocking, and on to the bare flesh of her upper thigh.

His fingers. Skin. Yes.

"Selina," he scraped out. "Can I touch you?"

"Yes," she gasped. "Please."

He growled appreciatively, his hips jerking against her, his hand sliding farther toward the part of her that was slippery and aching. She felt her leg fall open, inviting his touch at her core.

His fingers were featherlight at first, and she took a little sobbing breath. He stroked her gently, so gently, tracing her folds, circling the bundle of nerves at the apex. Her body felt like a bowstring about to snap as he circled, retreated, circled again.

"Peter," she said desperately. "Peter, I need—"

"Hush," he murmured into her ear. His tongue traced its curves. His fingers teased her sex. "I've got you, sweet. Easy."

She writhed, pressing herself into his hand. "I don't want easy , Peter. I want harder ."

He huffed a laugh that turned into a moan. "God," he said, and slipped a finger inside her. "You make me—you are—Christ, you're so wet. I want to be inside you."

His finger teased her, stretched her, and then he added another finger, curling deep inside her, his palm firm against her mound.

She gasped at the intensity of the pleasure and rolled her hips frantically against his hand.

"Yes," he said. "God, Selina, you're lovely. Perfect. Don't stop. I have to—"

Then his mouth found her nipple again and suckled, fast and firm, and she felt her body coil tighter and tighter, pleasure chasing the throbbing tension as she rode Peter's hand.

When she climaxed, an earthquake of pleasure rolled through her, shock after shock of sweet, impossible, life-altering bliss.

And while she shook apart, he whispered little words of praise and tenderness, and when her body stopped shaking, she felt the trembling go on for a long time somewhere deep in her chest.

She came back to herself in fragments. She felt Peter's lips at her temple, his breath rushing through her hair. She felt his arm locked around her waist, keeping her in his lap.

She felt the rock-hard insistence of his erection pressed into her hip, defying all vegetal comparison.

Her heartbeat was slowing now, but she could still feel Peter's, thudding sharp and strong against her back. His muscles were tight, even as his murmured approbations were soft and easy.

Oh dear Lord. She had… And he hadn't…

What was she supposed to do ? How was she meant to approach it? She had seen references to licking. Stroking. Larking, whatever that meant. But how did she do it?

And now that he knew about Belvoir's, would he expect her to be good at it?

Belvoir's. Thank God, she had Belvoir's, and at least seven key volumes from the Venus catalog secreted in her bedroom, plus another several dozen in her office at the library.

She needed books. She needed detailed descriptions, and full-page illustrations, and possibly a series of diagrams, if such a thing existed.

She leapt to her feet, nearly stumbling as her bodice slithered down to her hips and then caught there, too tight to slip past her bottom half.

Which, she wondered wildly, would be more humiliating: Her dress falling to the floor? Or the blasted thing ripping as she tried to peel it from where it currently clung to her hips?

She yanked her bodice back up, heedless of potential tearing, and started fastening its hooks.

"Well," she said. "That was…" Oh for God's sake, how did she finish that sentence? Nice sounded like an insult to his abilities, but anything more fervent might remind him of the fact that he hadn't… he hadn't…

She didn't even know the word that ladies used for it. Was there a word that ladies used for it?

She gave up on her sentence. Peter was staring at her as though she'd grown a second head somewhere between his lap and the middle of the darkened room she had backed into. She struggled into her cloak, which had puddled on the floor at some point earlier in their conversation. "I should go," she said. "Back to Rowland House."

He squeezed his eyes shut and then opened them again. "Right," he said. "Right. I'll have Humphrey ready a carriage for us."

She let out a little squeak of protest. "Peter! I can't be seen getting out of your carriage in the middle of the night!"

He bounded to his feet and approached her, took the tapes of her cloak in his hands and tied it for her. Then he pulled the hood up over her head, hiding her hair and shadowing her face, and grinned at her. "You won't be."