Gareth: Lord of Rakes (5 page)

Had
he?

Maybe seducing her wouldn’t be all that much of a chore—not that he should seduce her.

“What next?” she asked, looking at their hands as his thumb traced a pattern on her palm.

“Where would you like to go from here?” he countered, dropping his voice and drawing her hand up to his lips.

She snatched her hand back.

“None of that. I do not know how to flirt, and I asked you a question. I cannot attend your efforts to educate me if I am in constant dread that this time, on this outing, or at this meeting, you have decided I must lose my virtue. I would like a schedule, if you please.”

What a magnificent scold she was. He recaptured her hand, admitting to himself she had a point: she was innocent and ignorant, and all manner of ghoulish fairy tales were put into the heads of decent young women to ensure they preserved their virtue.

“We begin this week with the business aspects of your brothel.”

“My brothel! Oh, my… yes, I suppose it is. Hmm. Dear…”

“If I may continue?”

“Of course. My apologies.”

So hopelessly polite. “We will start with the business aspects of the situation. You’ve seen the property, and you must have questions about it. We’ll need to familiarize you with all of its finances, its staff positions, its assets and liabilities. You will need to learn the client list, the current staff, and so forth. That should occupy us for the next week or two.”

He had her attention, at least—and he kept her hand as well. “We need to address your wardrobe, too, Miss Worthington. You are not attired as befits a successful woman of the world, and you must know how to clothe the women who work for you as well.”

“Of course, but none of this is…” She blushed and might have glanced out the window, except common sense dictated they were tooling through Town with every shade firmly tied shut.

“None of this is getting us into bed?” he finished for her. “We’ll have time for that. I propose when you have the business situation well in hand, say in several weeks, we begin on the more intimate details.”

She looked him over, and not with the sort of interest he usually merited from the gentler sex. “You want me to become familiar with you first. That is kind of you.”

The
woman
was
daft.

“Kind? I can assure you, deflowering a stranger who finds my touch unpleasant holds no allure for me. I intend to use the next weeks for us to become accustomed to each other’s company.”

She held up their joined hands. “That’s why you do this? You touch me, when you don’t have to?”

The carriage came to a halt in the alley behind her house, and he regarded their hands. “Touching you serves that function, but in truth, I touch you because it brings me pleasure.” And wasn’t that a curious thing? “I would ask one concession of you, however.”

“What concession?”

He did not release her hand. She turned her head, so the brim of the awful bonnet obscured her eyes from him. The bonnet was going onto the rubbish pile at their very next outing.

“If we are to become intimate, then you must allow me the use of your given name, and I invite you to use mine as well.”

“You have the eyes of a wolf.”

He
had
just
offered
her
the
use
of
his
Christian
name, and she came out with that?

“You have the eyes of a wolf, Gareth,” he instructed.

“You have the eyes of a wolf… Gareth.”

He gave her a terse nod, freed her hand, and let her leave the coach. He kept the vehicle waiting until she’d crossed the alley and made her way through a bleak, dormant back garden, and disappeared into her home.

The dratted woman was pretty, soft, fragrant, and intelligent, and she appeared not the least bit interested in him on an animal level.

Despite all that, he could hope she’d been disappointed that he hadn’t kissed her again—because
he
certainly was.

“I don’t understand why we must spoil the customers so,” Felicity began. “They are provided with beautiful women willing to do their every bidding. Why do they need expensive drink, a French chef, and Flemish tapestries? It isn’t as if they’re paying attention to the furniture when they’re ogling a décolletage.”

Three weeks had seen a considerable thawing of Miss Worthington’s reserve, and the emergence of an odd, protective attitude toward Callista’s business. Felicity had been introduced to the house staff and the ladies who worked there. She had accompanied Gareth to the milliner’s and learned about fancy French undergarments until her blushes could have lit a bonfire. She had won the argument over whether she should acquire some for herself, but lost when Gareth insisted on selecting evening gowns for her.

She had reviewed the wine list and the buffet menus, and could give a fair account of herself regarding several games of chance. She had learned the “guest” list and made suggestions regarding the music provided each evening. Her aptitude for the managerial aspects of her role suggested that she had, indeed, been running her father’s household long before she’d left the schoolroom.

Gareth met with his protégé in the library of his town house, because it was more comfortable than his estate office, and better suited to the next phase of Felicity’s education.

She wanted to know about spoiling the customers, while he was more interested in having her spoil… him.

“You’re not answering me, Gareth, and you have that calculating look in your eye that means something bad for somebody.”

He had come to delight in her scolds, but the woman was too perceptive by half. He got up from his armchair and stoked the fire burning in the huge fireplace before which they both sat.

“To answer your question, you don’t have to spoil the customers to the extent Callista did. You may change whatever aspect of the business you wish, because you’re right: the important service is the one provided by the women. The rest is mere presentation. You should bear in mind, however, prostitution is a competitive business. If all a man wants is a quick rogering, he can shove any streetwalker up against the nearest wall and be on his way in five minutes. The streetwalker keeps all the proceeds, and the same service is provided.”

Felicity regarded him narrowly. “You use crude language to shock me. Get on with your point.”

“My bloody point”—he jabbed again at the fire, and if she was shocked, she hid it well—“is that your establishment must remain competitive. Callista left you a thriving business, but it has little in the way of reserves. If a rumor were to get out you’re watering the drinks, your tables are crooked, or your women unclean, for example, then you would be forced to close your doors. The building itself is worth a fair penny, but the cash flow is worth more over the long term. I would advise you to observe the business for some months before you attempt to improve it through drastic changes.”

He finished speaking but did not return to his chair. Instead, he picked up a white quill pen from his desk and began pacing the room idly, pulling out an occasional book and reshelving it as he wandered. Some distance—or something—was wanted, given the topic.

“I can understand the supply exceeds the demand, Gareth, but can’t we try a few things to improve profit?” she asked, staring into the fire as he paced behind her.

He brushed the quill over his lips. “Like what?”

“Couldn’t we offer cognac in addition to champagne and other wines? It has class, you must admit, but is served in smaller portions. Couldn’t we use a piano soloist instead of a string trio some nights? It’s a beautiful piano, and it sits there idly most evenings, and a little variety couldn’t hurt the ears. And we could also—” She stopped speaking as he came to stand behind her chair, resting his elbows along its back.

“Go on,” he urged, his mouth near her ear. He brushed the feather over her jaw, any number of games and diversions coming to mind that
we
might indulge in.

“What are you doing, lurking back there?” She remained facing forward, because he’d arranged himself so if she turned her head, her mouth would be in quite close quarters with his. She had good instincts, did Miss Worthington.

“I’m thinking.” Also admiring the curve of her jaw.

“Is my reprieve over?” she asked in a small, not-so-brave voice.

“Your reprieve?” When had the scent of lavender ever functioned as an aphrodisiac?

“You’ve given me weeks to accustom myself to our eventual… intimacy. Have you decided the time has come for things to progress?”

He leaned along the chair behind her, breathing through his nose and considering his reply. He’d taken things slowly with Felicity, finding himself reluctant to simply romp away her virginity. He didn’t like the position Callista had put him in—a position he’d agreed to—but no options were presenting themselves.

He brushed the feather over Felicity’s lips and decided he would force the issue, scare Felicity witless, and she’d back off. She was decent to the bone; hence, his strategy was a foolproof way of getting himself excused from a commitment he never should have made.

“I believe,” he murmured in her ear, “you have the right idea. Some changes are in order at the brothel, but also in our dealings.”

***

Felicity could smell Gareth’s clean, spicy scent, feel his breath on her nape, and sense the heat of his big, muscular body behind her. When Gareth nuzzled below her ear, Felicity’s insides started leaping about like March hares.

“What kind of changes?”
And
please
God, may they be made with my clothing on my person.

“You have easily grasped the business aspects of your inheritance. We can move on to educating you in the skills plied by the women you employ.”

Against her neck, Felicity felt the brush of something warm and soft—not the infernal feather. The contact was faerie-light, then came again, more definitely.
His
lips.
For weeks she had dreamed of those lips and watched them form one growling, precise, cranky word after another.

He
wasn’t growling now.
“You mean right… today?”

“Today we begin.” He straightened and came around to stand before her, his expression baleful. “You needn’t sound so terrified, Felicity. Remember, no matter what we’re doing, I will stop when you request it of me.”

The daft man assumed she’d be able to speak.

“Would you like a drink?” Gareth asked, tossing the quill pen onto his blotter. “Perhaps some cognac, since you favor its consumption?”

This was his version of solicitude—to cross the room and give her time to gather her wits. He was, in his taciturn way, as kind as he could be, and Felicity wished not for the first time they had met under other circumstances. His knowledge of commerce was encyclopedic, and for that alone, she could spend hours in conversation with him. He didn’t condescend to her when she asked the simplest questions, and he never lost patience with her ignorance—about business, about
anything
.

“May I have some lemonade?”

“Certainly.” He went to the sideboard and returned with two glasses—he was apparently in the mood for something cool and tart as well—handed Felicity her drink, and resumed his seat.

“We have not made much headway in the area of your erotic education, though we have covered other ground thoroughly.”

Felicity sipped her lemonade, praying for fortitude. He said naughty, forbidden words so easily. Shocking her was a sport for him, like skittles or bowls—and yet he was also drinking lemonade.

“I have allowed that part of our dealings to slip from my notice,” she admitted. Shoved it under any handy rug, more like. “I’ve focused on learning the things you set before me week by week, and ignored when you occasionally hold my hand or touch my arm or stroke my cheek. I suppose there will be a deal of that sort of thing?”

He treated her to a stare, those glacial blue eyes putting her again in mind of a wolf.

“So you ignore my touch?” he asked eventually, an odd note in his voice—humor maybe, or curiosity? Certainly not pique.

“I try. Sometimes I like how you touch me, but mostly it unnerves me. I am not from a demonstrative family.” This was a falsehood—Astrid was nothing if not demonstrative.

He glanced upward at the Cupids cavorting among the molding, a rake’s version of a prayer for strength. “What touches do you like?”

The answer was easy; the words were not. “I like your hands, Gareth. They are beautiful hands, and you can touch with such assurance, such… competence. Your hands make me think of the phrase that one is ‘in good hands.’ If I were a horse, I would trust your hands.”

He looked absently at the appendages Felicity found so intriguing, his expression suggesting there was no explaining women’s odd starts.

“What else?” If he’d been a cat, he would have been switching his tail, so palpable was his impatience.

The sorry, lowering fact was that Felicity enjoyed
all
of his touches.

“You’ve on occasion tidied up my hair—I don’t think you even know you’re doing it. You tuck a loose strand back behind my ear or smooth a lock off my shoulder. I like it, from you. I haven’t had a mother about to fuss me for some years, and find it… endearing.”

He regarded her with the sort of consternation reserved for bad art purchased by a good friend for far too high a price, then seemed to come to an internal conclusion.

“We will start there, then, with your hands and your hair. Each time we meet, we will spend time on one particular part of the body—yours or mine. We’ll get around to them all eventually, at least all the ones that count. In this way, I expect you will lose most of what’s left of those maidenly inhibitions, or send me packing.”

He might have been planning the layout of his garden or compiling a guest list for a Venetian breakfast.

“You don’t really care which, do you? It’s all the same to you whether you get me into bed or scare me into a life of service.”

The idea that her intimate education held no more interest for him than a choice of desserts was not cheering—and a life in service was not an option for Astrid.

Gareth’s scowl suggested he was not pleased with the question either. “I am long past the point of taking sexual encounters any more seriously than I would a hot bath or a good meal, Felicity. We’ve touched on this before. If I take you to bed, we will both enjoy it. For you, it will be a new experience, and one that makes certain options available.”

“While it removes other options from my grasp.” Options no decent woman parted with happily. He couldn’t possibly think she’d lost sight of that reality.

He gave her a peevish look. “Yes, you will lose certain options when you lose your virginity. That is a matter for you to consider. My point is that when I make love with you, I will enjoy the physical pleasure, but I will also be discharging an obligation placed on me by Callista’s bequest—no more, no less.”

Felicity had heard enough philosophical lectures and sermons to know they were delivered in this same dry, dispassionate tone, and he wasn’t finished.

“If you want protestations of profound emotion from me, you are doomed to disappointment. I’ll give you pleasure and teach you how to please a lover. When I have discharged that obligation, I will wish you luck and be on my way.”

Felicity sipped her tart drink and did not ask the marquess the questions that had plagued her for weeks: How does it
feel
to take a stranger to your bed? How do you talk yourself into desiring me? How can you contemplate such intimacy with another and yet regard it as no more significant than sharing a table at Gunter’s when the crowds are thick?

She offered him a placatory smile—she hadn’t heard him call it making love before. He’d used a hundred vulgar terms in both English and French instead.

“I take your point. You are performing the service for me that Callista performed for you, and I will learn to perform for others. It’s business. I understand that.”

She did not understand why she felt as if she’d just insulted him gravely—he was trying to help her, and at her request.

He considered his lemonade, his expression unreadable. “Just so.”

Felicity held her peace, lest the lump in her throat provoke her to more unhelpful speech.

“For the next part of our dealings,” Gareth said, “I request that you bathe thoroughly before we meet, wear jumps or forego your stays altogether, and be prepared for me to seduce your hair.”

He emphasized that pronouncement by running fingers along Felicity’s brow and smoothing her hair behind her ear—a gesture he’d performed a handful of times, but one Felicity had just admitted she enjoyed. Well, no matter. She’d been honest, and this caress meant nothing to him, regardless of the tenderness of it.

Was she supposed to hope that someday such a precious, personal touch would mean nothing to her as well?

***

“This feels so awkward!” Felicity protested for the third time.

She sat facing a vanity that took up an alcove in Gareth’s dressing room, her reflected expression enough to daunt any man intent on seduction. Gareth put down the seven hairpins he’d managed to extract from her coiffure.

“I take it you don’t have the regular services of a lady’s maid?” Nor did she appear to have a seduceable bone in her curvaceous body.

“Father thought it would spoil me, though I suspect the limitation was in truth financial,” Felicity said. “Gareth, I’m sorry. I cannot be at ease with you touching my hair as if you were a servant or lady’s maid. I know you have every right, given the nature of our dealings, and I’m being ridiculous.”

By pronouncing herself thus, she was attempting to be reasonable, but it was the sort of reasonableness that masked female upset. He knelt beside her, when he wanted to pour himself a bumper from the decanter.

“You can face down irate creditors, callow swains, and an ill-mannered marquess, but you’re afraid of a hairbrush?”

She looked away from him, the angle of her chin suggesting he’d lost control of matters entirely.