Falling Into Bed with a Duke (Hellions of Havisham) (10 page)

Some adventurer he was, not to have at least asked. But his gut told him that it wouldn’t have gone as he fantasized. It was too soon. The lady wasn’t ready for more.

But with a little coaxing, she would be. And he who had sworn that he would only ever have one virgin in his life—the woman he married—now conceded that perhaps he’d been a bit premature with that vow.

Chapter 8

“Y
OU’RE quiet this morning.”

Lowering her newspaper, Minerva looked at her father sitting near her, holding his own paper. From the moment his children had mastered reading, he’d insisted that the butler press an edition of the
Times
for each of them and set it at their place at the table, so it was readily available to them when they came down for breakfast. They needed to know what was happening in the world. Not the weather or the latest fashions. Rather, they were expected to discuss what would have an impact on business, the economy, and the nation. That endeavor required being informed to the fullest. He might have conquered the darker side of London, but he was determined his children would thrive and meet with success away from it.

“I’m reading the paper,” she answered. His cardinal rule was no talking while reading.

“No, you’re not.”

Nothing escaped his notice. It was the reason Jack Dodger had survived the streets, built a successful business, and was rumored to be
the
wealthiest man in all of England. Not that he would confirm or deny the speculation. Her father was also a man who relished secrets, had a good many of his own, and excelled at holding them well.

Now she had one of her own that quite possibly rivaled the inappropriateness of his. Oh, she had others. Pilfering his cigars and liquor. Using profanity—but never in front of her parents. But those secrets seemed childish and silly compared with the latest one. The one that had kept her awake most of the night thinking about Ashebury, wondering what would happen if she dared show up at the Nightingale again. If she crossed paths with Ashebury there again, she couldn’t back out a second time. Her pride more than anything wouldn’t allow it.

Paper crinkled as her father folded up his newspaper and set it aside. “So what’s troubling you?”

His dogged determination, which had resulted in his achievements, seldom allowed his children to escape his scrutiny when he suspected they were hiding something. While it was an admirable trait, when it was directed her way, she didn’t much like it. Still, she knew he wouldn’t give up until he had his answer. “I think it’s time to admit I’m not the sort men marry.”

His unwavering gaze on her, he sat still and silent for a moment. “Should I increase the amount of your dowry?”

She laughed lightly. “Dear God, no, Papa. Mine’s large enough to attract fortune hunters from across the pond. No, it’s more to do with me. I’m not the type with whom men can fall madly in love. They don’t find me very biddable.”

“If they don’t appreciate you, they can rot. Don’t change for a single one of them.”

He would defend his children to the death. She loved him for it. “I wasn’t planning to. Here’s an example, though. Last night at the Dragons, I challenged Lady Hyacinth to a bout in the boxing ring.”

He arched a thick eyebrow, gave a curt nod of approval. “You’d draw a crowd. What were you going to charge for admittance into the room?”

Any other man might have been mocking her, but she knew him well enough to know he was serious. He never turned down an opportunity to add money to his coffers. Any other father might have been appalled. But he valued strength, courage, and fortitude. “I had no plans to charge anything. It was an empty dare that I wasn’t going to see through. She said something unkind, and I reacted very poorly.”

“I’ll have a chat with her father this morning. She’ll be apologizing this afternoon.”

His influence was such that any confrontation yielded results. Terrified some when Jack Dodger showed up at their door. “That’s not necessary. I handled it.”

He studied her for a moment, no doubt trying to discern if it was handled to his satisfaction. “What did she say?”

“I don’t remember exactly. Something about the reason I’m a spinster. It’s not important. What matters is that ladies don’t engage in fisticuffs, and yet I tossed the possibility out there as though it were perfectly normal and acceptable. I come across as being masculine, a hoyden, instead of dainty and feminine.”

“You come across as a woman with the wherewithal to take care of herself.”

“Not everyone values that in a lady.”

“You don’t want someone who doesn’t.”

“And therein lies the problem. I don’t think a man who can accept me as I am exists. At least not among the aristocracy. Not where proper behavior is so regarded, and ladies are expected to yield to their husbands on all matters. I haven’t a talent for yielding.”

“Then don’t marry among the aristocracy.”

Until this moment, marrying a commoner wasn’t something she’d even considered. “But wouldn’t you be disappointed? It would be a feather in your cap—a son of the streets whose daughter marries nobility.”

“I’ve never much fancied feathers.” He gave her an understanding smile. “Marry a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker. Don’t marry at all. I don’t care. Neither does your mother. All we’ve ever wanted was for you to be happy.”

If she weren’t so practical, she’d weep. For all his gruffness, there were times when he said things that below the surface were incredibly sentimental and sweet. “And if my happiness rests in doing something I ought not?”

“Like stealing my cigars?”

Her eyes widened. “You knew?”

“I can count inventory.”

“Could have been my brothers.”

He gave her a stern look. “They’ve never been as daring as you.”

That was true enough, but then they’d never wrapped their father around their little finger either. She could get away with a good deal more, and they were smart enough to recognize it. “All right then, I’ve been caught. But back to my original concern, about doing something I ought not.”

“Your mother ought not to have married me.” He picked up his newspaper, shook it out, buried his nose in it. “That didn’t turn out so badly.”

Which she supposed was his way of saying he’d stand behind her no matter what sort of trouble she got herself into.

“W
HAT the bloody hell do you mean that my financial situation is in dire straits?” Ashe bellowed as he tore his gaze from the ledger of dancing numbers that his man of business had set before him.

“It’s the investments, Your Grace. As you can see, based on what I’ve outlined there, they are not doing as well as we’d hoped.”

What he had outlined was nothing but a jumble of sums. Ashe had never been able to tame figures, which had resulted in countless knuckle rappings from the tutor the marquess had hired. The man hadn’t minded teaching one boy, but four was beyond his patience. In the beginning, Ashe had blamed the man for his inability to educate him on how to master ciphering. He’d suffered through the same struggles at Harrow until he’d eventually mastered cheating in order to avoid the degrading set downs when he arrived at an incorrect answer. As he’d grown older, he’d realized the fault rested within him and not with his schoolmasters. He simply couldn’t grasp mathematics. Latin yes. Quite easily. He excelled at penmanship. He was a voracious reader. He could recite facts on Britain’s history, including naming every monarch. He could write a detailed account of journeys taken and not leave out a single incident. He could master foreign languages. He served as interpreter on their treks through foreign lands. If they came across a people whose language they’d never heard, it took him no time at all to figure it out so he could communicate with them. But put a series of numbers in front of him, expect him to make sense of them, and it was as though his brain considered them to be little more than colorful balls to be juggled around.

It was the true reason he avoided card games. It was a complete nightmare when values associated with cards had to be tallied. But roulette? He didn’t have to make sense of any numbers. He simply placed his wager in a square or on a line.

He shot out of the chair and began to pace. “How could this have happened? I pay you a princely sum for sound advice. You recommended those investments.”

“You wanted large returns, which means taking greater risks. Surely, you analyzed the figures I provided.”

The figure of a woman he could analyze to perfection. But ones, threes, eights, every blasted numeral that existed escaped his comprehension if he had to do more than simply look at them. Even then, they seemed to weave before his vision like the exotic dancers he’d seen in the East. Which was the reason that he’d always insisted Nesbitt provide verbal reports. Nesbitt, being a man who loved numbers and could wax on about them for hours, also provided the information in written form to back up his claims. Not that they did Ashe any good. Instead, he was forced to focus on every word Nesbitt uttered in order to make his decisions. He’d understood that the income provided by his three estates was dwindling, tenants moving to cities to work in factories, agriculture not being what it once was now that it was cheaper to import from America. Ashe had known he needed to diversify. Investing had seemed the way to go.

He should have sought counsel from Grey or Locksley. Grey was managing his estates quite well, while Locksley had taken over his father’s duties sometime back. But he would have been mortified to acknowledge that he couldn’t handle matters on his own. Pride. Damned pride.

He could climb a mountain, survive crossing a desert, guide a boat up the Nile. He was swift in a race, didn’t back down from a fight, protected what was his. The estates were his. He was going to have to make matters right, do whatever was necessary to regain the upper hand.

He stopped pacing and faced the man sitting behind the desk. “We’ll need to sell our shares in these companies posthaste.”

“You won’t get much for them. Might be best to let them sit, see if things turn around.”

Never gamble what you can ill afford to lose.
He knew that mantra well enough. The investments had sounded so damned promising when Nesbitt had spoken about them.

“You’re not completely without funds, Your Grace. You’ll just need to tighten the purse strings.”

Choke them, more like. Ashe knew very well how costly it was to maintain his estates. They’d been profitable in his father’s day, had provided enough income to cover costs. No longer. He couldn’t afford any more investments, couldn’t put any more money at risk. He needed a sure thing, a way to gain funds that guaranteed pure profit. And he needed it soon.

A
FTER meeting with Nesbit, Ashe was restless. He’d considered going to the Dragons, but he didn’t want to see any numbers tonight, not even at a roulette table. If he became any more tense, he was likely to snap. He needed something that brought him absolute unfettered joy—which left only two options: a woman or taking a photograph. So greedy bastard that he was, he’d come to the Nightingale in hopes of acquiring both.

Sipping scotch, considering the selections, he stood with a shoulder to the wall. He’d been studying the ladies for the better part of an hour now, and he couldn’t settle on one who would suit his purposes. One was too tall. One too short. Another too plump. Too thin. Not proportioned pleasingly. Not particularly elegant with her movements.

What the bloody hell was wrong with him? He wasn’t usually this particular. He enjoyed the challenge of taking imperfection and making it perfect. He was master of light and shadows, controlled them at his whim, commanded them.

He should forget the photograph, be content with the sex. Women had approached him, but his disinterest had been obvious and they’d quickly moved on. None of them suited. None of them—

It hit him with the force of a sledgehammer to his skull. He needed
her
to be at the Nightingale tonight. He couldn’t say why. He only knew that it was true.

With or without the mask. He didn’t care. He wanted Lady V.

He knew that with her, for a little while, he could forget his troubles. He could stop chastising himself for taking a misstep with his inheritance, his legacy, his stewardship. He’d tried to ensure that the estates didn’t fall into disrepair, that the remaining tenants would have fewer worries, that he could maintain his staff—not so much for his needs but for theirs. Some had been seeing to the residences for years. To show his gratitude for their service, he’d intended to see them well-off when they retired. Then there was the matter of securing a wife, his heir, and other children. He didn’t want his son to be the only child. He’d had eight years of loneliness, of no one with whom to play or scheme. He was not grateful for his parents’ demise, he’d never be grateful for that, but he was glad to have acquired three brothers with whom he’d been able to be mischievous. Normally he would have turned to them with the disappointing news delivered by Nesbitt, but his pride wouldn’t allow it.

He should have gone to the Dragons although she’d indicated she wouldn’t be there tonight. He’d scoured through invitations but there had been none for this evening. So where was she? At the theater, maybe at a private affair. But he needed her here.

“Your Grace.”

Reluctantly, he turned his head at the soft voice. A lady wearing a burgundy mask with black gemstones and feathers smiled at him. Reaching out, he touched her chin, hating that only a small square of skin around her mouth was visible. It seemed the masks were becoming larger and more elaborate. Whoever created them must be making a fortune. “Darling.”

He called them all darling, except for Lady V. Why had he asked for her name? How had he known from the instant he saw her that she would be different from all the others?

Burgundy trailed slender fingers up his arm. “I’ve been watching you for some time, have heard you are quite skilled at delivering pleasure.” She ran her tongue around lips that didn’t tempt him as Lady V’s had. “So am I. We would make an excellent pairing.”

He had no doubt. She was nearly as tall as he was, with a stoutness to her that would provide cushion. And her legs, long, so long, but they weren’t the ones he wanted wrapped around his hips. “I’m waiting for someone.”

He suspected he’d be waiting all night. She wouldn’t return, and his reasons for being here would again go unfulfilled.