Her Mad Baron (9 page)

“Of course not. There will be plenty of time for
that
once we’re married.”

Florrie’s body clenched just at the promise of having plenty of time for
that
. Access to Nathaniel’s body for hours and hours, lying naked in his arms. “Don’t you want more?”

“I do enjoy the kisses, but more than that must wait. And I don’t mean to allow him to indulge himself with me before the wedding.” She twisted the jet-bead fringe and watched it slide around her gloved finger.

Florrie wondered what her friend was talking about. “Do you mean marital relations?”

“Yes, that.” Virgie raised her hazel eyes at last. “And once we’re married, I’ve heard they should demand it no more than once a week.”

Florrie dreaded the answer but had to ask. “Do you suppose if a woman likes the process she’s abnormal?”

Virgie, sniffed. “It sounds so horrible. I mean you do know that he’ll put his
thing
inside me. It’s like urinating.” She giggled nervously, looking about to see if anyone had heard her. No one was near. Her shoulders relaxed. “Makes me shudder to think of it. Don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so,” Florrie said. When she thought of Nathaniel putting his
thing
inside her, she did shudder but in response to an almost painful twist of desire that melted her good sense and made the backs of her legs go funny. The thought of his mouth there almost made her collapse in a heap.

After Virgie’s walk and a small supper, which featured scorched peas, Florrie sorted items for the shop. She thought about how Virgie, like most girls she knew, was fascinated but appalled by a dim understanding of The Act. At least Florrie shared some similarities with them: she had always been fascinated.

Her lack of disgust or embarrassment provided more proof that she was unnatural, as if she needed that sort of evidence. With her virtue gone, no decent man would want to marry her now. Ironically now, at last, she understood why she’d want to marry.

She took a break from the dirty job of sorting and cleaning items to scan the papers for mention of the baron, but the lurid incident had somehow been kept out of the gossip mills.

Duncan, returning from his club, did bring home some less outrageous gossip about the new baron.

“He’s got buckets, boatloads of money.” Duncan dropped into the armchair to watch Florrie at work, cleaning another crate of their old possessions they planned to sell at the shop.

He wrinkled his nose as she pushed at a crate and a cloud of dust rose. He said, “Also he’s a stickler for behaving in a proper manner.”

Filthy rich and proper did not describe the sort of man who’d want an impoverished gentlewoman turned hussy-housebreaker. She’d already known this but didn’t like being reminded. It took a moment to swallow the dismay and make her voice suitably light. “And all this has come out since he inherited his title?”

“No, no, he was well-off and well-known before his uncle died. He’s Lord Bessette’s nephew on his mother’s side.”

“
Him
? The moralizing Bessette?” She put down the book she’d been dusting and stared at her brother to see if he was joking. “That horrible man? Oh, good heavens.” She wrinkled her nose. “And that must mean he’s related to that lady who runs the pious salons. Lady Sanctimonious.”

“Lady Margaret.” Duncan grinned. “Yes, that’s Lord Felston’s mater.”

“Oh,” she said faintly and sat back on her heels. The man who’d been inside her body was closely related to the famous stiff-necked Lord Bessette and Lady Margaret.

“I imagine, coming from a family like that, the new Lord Felston must care about his reputation. Good news for us. He’ll pay for the wretched dagger, and we’ll get a better price than Papa’s original sum.”

“You’d overcharge him?”

A chill went through her when he gave her a bright toothy smile. A sunny Duncan meant he was feeling ruthless and had some plan. “Papa’s work has increased in value, after all.”

“No. Don’t you dare, Duncan.”

“This is interesting. What has put you in such a state? Interesting.” He cocked a sandy eyebrow. “Why would you care?”

She lowered her head, pretending to look over the book on her lap. “Leave be, Duncan.”

Duncan went to his favorite chair and pulled a pipe from his waistcoat pocket. “I wonder why you’re in such a mood of late. Do you miss your Mr. Jameson?”

“I rarely think of him,” she said. That was true in the last week or so.

She shoved the crate aside and began on another. Straw packing material sifted to the ground as she pulled out a china horse. “Do you suppose this is worth even five pence?” she asked. She shoved it away and groped for a book instead.

But Duncan wasn’t going to be deterred. “I was rather amused at the thought of having a house thief for a brother-in-law, even if he was something of a bore. I came to think he was clever at his trade but not a particularly interesting man otherwise.”

“No doubt you’re correct,” she said and plunked another book into the basket.

“I know he was my friend. Friend of a friend,” he corrected himself. “A decent sort yet you would have been bored by him within a few months. And he was pompous. The way he requested permission to marry you, you’d think he was applying to a prince of a foreign nation for trading rights.”

She looked up at him with a half grin. “Duncan. I told you, I don’t miss Jimmy.”

He found a tin of matches and carefully struck one and poked it into the pipe. “Then if it isn’t Mr. Jameson, I suspect your gloom has to do with the shop. And I must say I don’t blame you.”

She dropped the book she held. “What on earth do you mean? I am pleased about our shop.”

“Pshaw. Trade, dirty trade. Literally, too. Just look at your blackened fingers. You have a smudge on your face. Tedious days of sitting and waiting for custom? Who would care for that sort of thing? And what if it is a failure?”

Florrie’s heart sank.

She sat back, wiped her hands on her apron, and glared at Duncan. “This was your idea.”

“Yes, but the more I think about it the less I believe it will suit us,” he said.

“What would you have us do instead? We must eat.”

“You might do one more very daring job. An easy climb, say, into a mansion during a ball. Or you might even—”

“No.” She slammed a book into the basket.

“I have an idea that might work. My old friend Dinsby is starting a book. Gentlemen, only.” The relish in his voice warned her that he wasn’t talking about writing a work of literature.

“A book?”

“Yes, a bookmaker’s. I’m a dab hand at figuring odds and don’t mind travel. Ascot, Epsom, Enfield, Hampton, Egham, Guildford, Oatlands Park.”

She frowned then realized he’d named locations with racecourses. Life with Duncan had been educational. “Betting? I distinctly recall you telling me that a world of money-lenders and other low-lifes is not a gentleman’s natural milieu.” She paused to calm herself down. “You promised to have nothing more to do with them.”

He frowned and considered her words. “I suppose it is a rather up and down business. You’d prefer a more steady income? Yes, I can understand that. Then perhaps we should consider my old ideas. I might like to be ordained after all. The life of a curate isn’t so terrible, and I’m sure I should soon land a living and—”

“Duncan.” She pushed her face into her hands. “Go to bed and we’ll talk in the morning.”

“Right-ho.” He pulled out his cravat pin and tossed it on the table. Whistling, he wandered off, probably in search of more wine and not his bed. She sat and stared into the flickering gaslight.

No more.

Her ridiculous pleasure in adventure—in feeling her heart beat too quickly—along with Duncan’s quixotic nature would make them stumble from a silly plan to even sillier plans.

Papa had once told her that, though she was younger than Duncan, and nearly as foolish, she usually exhibited more sense. After all, she’d done a fine job of running their household in the country.

If Duncan hadn’t made some bad business investments, they’d be there still, living in their family’s home. Happily bored.

Time to call upon any good sense she had. If they would not open their own respectable shop, she would get a position in someone else’s. She had promised her Papa to take care of Duncan, but she hadn’t promised to follow all of the persuasive fool’s schemes.

She’d get off that see-saw Duncan described. Time to be a sensible female and shut away her craving for foolishness—along with the useless dreaming of Nathaniel.

* * * *

Nathaniel could not find her. Almost a fortnight in the city, and he could not find a word about a young woman named Florrie Cadero. Her real first name had vanished from his mind.

He lay on his back, listening to the church clock strike one a.m., trying to recall her first name, going over their conversations, which naturally brought back the rest of it. All of her, in his arms. His cock stirred at the memory. He absently rolled over and pounded a pillow. No, no escaping the hunger aroused at the thought of Florrie. Her oval face, her skin slightly olive but with overtones of gold. Lips full, delicious, warm and expressive. She’d said she was a poor liar, and he suspected her expressive mouth and dark eyes gave her away.

He also knew she’d saved him with her strength and by reminding him of all the reasons to escape that hell.

He wasn’t certain what he’d say when he saw her again, but he needed to talk to her, see her and discover if she matched his memory of her. Florrie.

Opening his eyes again to banish the image wasn’t enough. Unless he brought himself off, he’d remain restless and awake. He rolled over again, cursing his weakness. Guilt and lust warred as he imagined his hand on his cock was her tight warm body. He fell asleep almost as soon as he spent.

He woke thinking of his search for her. After breakfast a folder of possible articles awaited him, but his attention wandered, and his patience couldn’t be counted on. He held a sheaf of papers describing the latest reform movement for orphanages, something about cottage fostering. His fingers shook, and the words blurred. He pushed his hands through his hair.

“Good heavens.” Burnbridge, his secretary, jumped up from his chair. “I believe you require more medication, my lord.”

With his reedy voice and thin figure, Burnbridge had been the target of bullies at school. A pasty young man with pale, almost invisible eyebrows and eyelashes, he’d always resembled a ghost.

Nathaniel gulped the foul liquid rather than risk another fit or whatever the strange episodes could be called.

Burny still lingered at his desk. Nathaniel swallowed his irritation and asked, “Do you have any plans for the day?”

“Another meeting with your late uncle’s lawyer, Mr. Maller, my lord. He’s very helpful, quite intelligent about finances. He’s told me again and again how sorry he was not to question the steward, Grub, about your condition. Apparently you lashed out in his presence and so he had been convinced that you’d lost your mind.”

Nathaniel nodded. He barely recalled his attack on Mr. Maller when the man had visited his prison, but there was the memory of the sedate little businessman with a gleaming skull perched on his shoulder.

Maller hadn’t seemed to hold the attack against Nathaniel. He had beamed when they’d met again in London—one of the few who knew the truth to look pleased by Nathaniel’s return to society. And one of the few who believed Grub was in league with someone else.

Thompson appeared bearing a note. “The messenger will wait for an answer.”

Nathaniel opened the note to read that Runcle had found Florrie at last. He scrambled to his feet.

“Are you ill, my lord?”

“No. I’m in a hurry.” He paused and touched his cheek. “Do I need a shave?”

“My lord?”

“Never mind. I don’t have time.” Nathaniel crumpled the note and threw it into the fire. “Tell him I’ll be there momentarily.” He paused. “I think I should change.”

The assistant head clerk, Mr. Kepler, did not approve of young ladies acting as shop assistants. He literally breathed down Florrie’s neck as he stood behind her. She was placing the objects back into the case she’d just cleaned and felt the gust of warm air as he tutted and sighed. “No, Miss Cadero. The gentlemen’s handkerchiefs don’t belong near the collars. The neck cloths could be better displayed in a fan shape. I think you might better concentrate on the ladies’ sundries, don’t you?”

Florrie twisted her head just enough to exchange a look with Mr. Wentworth, another assistant. She suppressed a smile when he winked. Pudgy and serious, Mr. Wentworth was a brilliant tactician with the Keplers of the world which he proved with his next remark. “Perhaps Miss Cadero would rather arrange men’s hosiery.”

The perfect approach. The thought of a female handling an item of clothing that would someday touch a male stranger’s leg was too much for Mr. Kepler. He scurried off to sort the socks before she got to them.

“Thirty-two days,” Mr. Wentworth murmured. In thirty-two days, Mr. Kepler would retire, leaving Mr. Wentworth the single head clerk. Life under his rule would be far more pleasant.