Chapter One

It was a time-honored state of being that Society was unkind to those who did not fit in; especially females.

A woman who focused too much on her family was antisocial, possibly viewing herself as too good for Society. A woman who spent too much time on charitable endeavors was generating a saintly facade; holier-than-thou. A woman who dressed too fashionably was either vain or trying much too hard. A woman who didn't dress well enough was frumpy and unappealing. A woman who danced too much was loose with her morals and her favors; a woman who danced too little was a wallflower. Decline too many proposals—whatever the reason may be—and you were a tease or snobbish; receive no proposals and you were pitied as being in dire danger of becoming a spinster, dusty and set firmly upon the shelf.

Perhaps the greatest of sins were the ones difficult or impossible to change—the physical ones or those who made a woman who she was at the very core of her being.

Women too tall, too intelligent, too outspoken, too shy, too pock-marked, too sallow, too freckled, too plump…these were the women who suffered the most for no reason other than something about them was deemed different.

Lady Ariel, sister to Arnold Francis Martin Tilbury, Earl of Darby, was one woman unfortunate enough to be in possession of several of the aforementioned "undesirable" traits.

At just shy of six feet in height thanks to sturdy Northern ancestry, she towered over many men in Society.

Having received the same education as her elder brother and gone on to cultivate her extensive library, she was often more intelligent than those same men; though she'd learned early on that they were not fond in the least of being reminded of this fact.

At twenty-nine years and three-hundred-and-sixty-four days in age with not a single proposal to her name above a septuagenarian baron looking for his third wife, she was unquestionably a spinster in need of a good dusting.

She'd removed her bonnet a few too many times when she'd snuck off to the gardens to read, so a healthy smattering of freckles was splashed across her nose and the round apples of her cheeks.

And her figure was well past the "pleasantly plump" side of the ton 's scale. To state it plainly, she was fat. Or so she's been told, both behind her back and to her face more times than she could count at that point.

At first, this had crushed her as it would anyone receiving such venomous barbs. Words can be crushing to a girl who wanted nothing more than to be accepted and welcomed into the glittering world she'd read of and heard so much about. The reality of the darkness flitting just beneath the bejeweled surface was enough to make her wish she'd never left her library.

As time went on, however, Ariel had come to appreciate the sturdiness of her body, the luscious curves she firmly believed lent a more feminine air to her tall frame. She enjoyed long walks at an aggressive pace, so her stamina was undoubtedly greater than many titled ladies who grew winded from walking up too many stairs, or faint from lack of sustenance so they could fit into one special gown or another, shamed into their willowy grace and delicate paleness by generations of ladies who came before them. Ariel didn't know if it was because she'd never known her mother or any other female figure of consequence in her life, but she simply hadn't experienced the same pressures at home. Instead, she did as her brother did. She ate what she loved, she appreciated good brandy, she could curse as fluently as any man, and she'd developed a thick skin.

Well, as thick a skin as a woman who has been passed over, mocked, and sneered at for most of her life.

Ariel had gradually learned to tell herself that there wasn't much she could do about any of it. She couldn't influence the minds and ingrained opinions of others, and there was little she could do about herself without losing those things she loved most about who she was. She'd inherited the same sturdy build as her brother, but she had the unfortunate circumstance of having been born with breasts instead of bollocks. Men seemed to appreciate her ample bosom well enough (if the tilt of their lascivious gazes was any indication), but it seemed like the rest of her lagged well behind in their estimation.

Weary of being overlooked, looked through, and blatantly ignored, she had finally decided to handle her frustration on her own and take matters into her own hands.

The women in her close circle were all married ladies and many were also mothers, each of them happy enough to discuss marital matters (the joys of sharing a bed with a man, for one…). What had begun as murmurs and whispered titters between the few ladies recently wed had spread to encompass every woman of their group until Ariel was the only one left out. Luckily for her, she was allowed in on the conversations when she reached the ripe old age of five and twenty.

She was gradually allowed in on these hallowed secrets, of climaxes and naughty adventures, of forbidden words like "cunny" and "cock", of rapturous embraces and kisses that left a woman breathless. Of course, she'd listened and been utterly enthralled, but she also had no point of reference for these conversations. Many of these descriptions eluded her and were beyond her sheltered mind's comprehension. She hadn't made it nearly thirty years of life without curiously exploring her own body alone in the dark, testing secret places with tentative fingers, but she always lost her nerve and shied away when the sensations grew too overwhelming.

But no longer.

Ariel was fed up with living vicariously through others. She was tired of having nothing to contribute to her friends' deliciously naughty conversations. And she was finished with not understanding everything they discussed.

She didn't know where the idea had come from or when it had first occurred, but once the first tendril took root in her mind, it had spread rapidly like ripe strawberry plants; creeping and taking hold, impossible to uproot or completely eradicate, bearing fruit despite little care or mindfulness until it became impossible to ignore.

She'd bolstered her courage, steeled her nerves, and requested a recommendation from a dear friend with knowledge of the illicit industry. A missive had been sent to the exclusive establishment and the meeting was arranged with the utmost discretion.

Men in his profession went under any number of titles, but the fact of the matter was a male prostitute was scheduled to arrive at Ariel's home by half-nine the evening before her thirtieth birthday.

As wracked with nerves as she was, Ariel refused to spend another birthday pathetic and untouched, wondering what it would feel like to experience physical affection. She planned on performing the transaction, educating herself, and moving on with her life more worldly and more confidently than before. Even if she never married or had a family, at least she would have this night.

Now, with said caller knocking on her door, however, she was reconsidering the entire scenario.

She should have donned another persona, used a false name, and not given out her address… But she couldn't very well have rented a room at a hotel on her own (for one, she was a woman, and, two, that gossip would travel swifter than a plague) and, while she'd wracked her brain for other options for location, she'd come up short.

Though Arnold was evasive about his schedule, she knew full well her brother was spending the evening with his mistress and he never returned home until the wee hours of the following morning. She'd told their elderly, nearly deaf butler to retire early for the night and their housekeeper was off visiting her sister for two days of leave.

Two of their maids had a room above the mews behind their home. And Ariel was as alone as she could be.

There was another rap on the front door and the thumps vibrated through the brass knob and up her arm, jolting every nerve into awareness.

Just before she turned the knob, Ariel was struck by a recollection: She was quite certain she had sent instructions to knock at the back door so none wandering the streets or heading to other outings witnessed the man's arrival. It would most certainly not do if anyone

asked questions or reported back to her brother, but she supposed it was too late to worry about that now. He was already there. She held her breath and pulled on the door.

She didn't know what she'd expected from a fancy man—a working male hired for the feminine pleasure of the most carnal forms—but it wasn't quite the dashing figure before her. He was tall; at least a handful of inches above her, so it was an interesting change where she had to look up into his face.

To speak of his face…it was hewn of marble. More angular, elegant lines she had never seen, even in the most beautiful male Grecian sculptures in the museum. There was a small cleft in his chin, but it served only to accentuate the sharpness of his jaw and the fullness of his lower lip. His aquiline nose led up to bold, straight slashes of dark brows that hovered above the most enchanting eyes caught somewhere between blue and steely gray. Beneath the sharp brim of his beaver hat, she could see a hint of deep brown curls. His body was mostly disguised by the voluminous fabric of a black greatcoat and, while the garment was usually designed for warmth and to exaggerate the width of the male shoulders, she sincerely doubted exquisite tailoring could create the magic standing before her. That was all God.

One of those dashing brows rose as the mesmerizing eyes focused on her and it took her a moment to realize why that was. It wasn't the done thing for a lady to answer the door herself.

Then again, it also wasn't the done thing for an unmarried lady to hire a male courtesan to visit her at her brother's home and deflower her.

To his credit, he did not comment on any of it; instead, his gaze swept her from head to toe. "I have an appointment," he said, and the surprisingly deep tone of his voice threw vibrations throughout her body, shook her so deeply that it took her several heartbeats to find her voice.

"Y–Yes. Do come in." She stepped to the side; the man hesitated only one moment more before brushing past her. She poked her head through the doorway, her eyes darting about to survey the empty street before she ducked back inside.

She found the man's captivating gaze assessing her with an unexpected intensity. He'd removed his hat to reveal to her that he did, indeed, have some of the most lusciously curly hair that she'd ever beheld. It was boyish and innocent, standing incongruently with the rest of his smoldering looks. She absently wondered if it was as soft as it appeared.

And then she realized she'd likely know by the end of the night.

The very thought set her cheeks ablaze and she was immensely grateful for the dim lighting left behind after the butler had doused most of the candles before retiring. She exhaled an uneven breath. How did one conduct such business? Even have a conversation? What were words, again?

"May I…take your coat for you? Your hat?" She'd never taken anyone's coat and hat for them—had never thought to be in such a position to do so—then again, she never thought she'd proposition a man for intercourse. So, there she was. This was her life now. In for a penny, in for a pound, or so the saying went.

He cleared his throat and, very slowly, handed her his hat and swung his coat from his shoulders.

My, but had she been correct about his body beneath the layers of his coat. She stared dumbly for several minutes at the width of his shoulders, the trimness of his waist, and the staggeringly strong length of his legs in his well-fitted breeches and tall, polished Hessians. He dressed remarkably well for a man who did…what he did for a living.

Still, despite the fine appearance of his dress, there was something dangerous about him. It had to be his eyes.

"Would you like my card?" His voice snapped her back to attention and, belatedly, she realized she was holding his outer garments and had no idea what to do with them.

"No, that will not be necessary. I know just who you are." Had she been less nervous, she might have pondered the oddity of the inquiry, but she wasn't and she hadn't. How fancy must a fancy man be to have calling cards?

She nearly snorted aloud but caught herself just in time. It was probably bad form to laugh at one's silent jokes in such a situation.

"Are you alone?" the man asked, looking around as if more people would pop from the floral-papered walls. His voice was unexpectedly melodious.

"No; I mean, mostly." He stared at her in silence. "Our butler is quite old. And deaf. He's retired for the evening. He shouldn't interrupt anything." One of those dark brows quirked up at her again. Still, the silence stretched.

"Well," Ariel began awkwardly, still carrying the man's hat and cloak for lack of any appropriate place to hang them and not quite sure what to do with them; "I suppose we should begin. If you'll just…follow me, please." She began to lead the way back into the parlor—she wasn't quite ready to drag the man to her bedchamber just yet—when she miscalculated just how much fabric made up the greatcoat in her arms. The toe of her slipper hooked in a fold of the dark wool and she stumbled forward. She probably would have landed face-first in a pile on the floor had the man not caught her elbow with all the speed and grace of a kingfisher.

"Steady," he cautioned her.

"Oh!" Ariel righted herself and looked up into his face, having just realized why she found his voice so different. "Are you American?"

There was a wry tilt to his lips as if he were asked this often or it was commonly remarked upon. "I am."

"Interesting," she replied with a smile. This humanized the man, somehow; made him less intimidating now that she was aware of this single fact about him.

"Is it?" He made sure she found her feet once more before he released her.

She lifted a shoulder in response. "I suppose it makes you rather unique. I've never met an American before; let alone a man like you."

"Like me?"

Ariel's cheeks burned and she cleared her throat. "If you'll follow me, please?" She hiked the greatcoat higher in her arms and led the way. She glanced around in indecision before finally settling on draping the coat on a chair and resting the hat on top. The man eyed her decision, but, thankfully, did not remark upon the unorthodox behavior.

She watched as he proceeded to take a turn around the room with slow strides, examining the artwork and appraising the furniture. It didn't take long, not with the length of those legs of his. He seemed disinclined to speak, so she clenched her hands, steeled her spine, and broke the silence.

"I'm afraid I have never performed one of these transactions." "No?" He faced her with his arms crossed behind his back; a single thick curl of hair fell across the middle of his forehead. He was somehow even more beautiful in the candlelight filling the parlor. His skin had a healthy glow to it as if he spent a great deal of time outdoors.

She could now fully appreciate the sculpture of his face and the fine lines of his cheekbones. "I was under the impression that a great many women performed transactions such as this." Was that sarcasm? Wryness? A jaded personality? She decided it was probably some of all of it, likely inherent with the trade and the lifestyle.

"Really?"

He stared her down with those penetrating eyes of his. They flickered with intelligence and, perhaps, a measure of amusement. She chose to take it as a compliment.

She gave herself a mental shake, cleared her throat, and, on impulse, she gave him leave him to call her by her given name. "You may address me as Ariel." She was pleased with the steadiness and confidence her voice conveyed. It was not a liberty she'd ever offered a man and, for such a little thing, it was surprisingly thrilling. "It might feel strange to conduct such business with a wall of formalities between us."

The man examined her for several heavy seconds before replying. "Why, exactly, do you believe I am here, Ariel ?" Her given name on his lips made her knees tremble. There was something so deliciously wicked about the casualness of it. She was alone with a man—a very handsome one, at that—for the first time in her life and he was using her name. If she overlooked the fact that she was paying him to do so, it was quite nice. And unbelievably exciting.

She exhaled a slow breath and spoke as evenly as she could. "Tomorrow I celebrate my thirtieth birthday. As I am sure you can see, I'm no conventional beauty. I'm fine with it; really, I am. I love myself, but men of the ton do not seem to agree. I have gone nearly three decades without a husband, an acceptable proposal, a decent suitor, or even a proper kiss. You, sir, have been hired because I have decided to take my life and my future into my own hands. I refuse to allow Society to dictate my life any longer, and I see no point in saving my virtue for a man who certainly does not exist. If I am to be a spinster for the rest of my days, then I do not wish to be an ignorant one. This is where you come in…" She held out her hands palms up, her voice as steady and as brave as she could make it. "I am a virgin, and I no longer wish to be one when the sun rises tomorrow."