Notorious Pleasures

Page 10

“Pratt.” He clutched his hat and piece of bread to his chest, his expression angelic. “If’n it please you, m’lady.”
Hero sighed. “Where are the workmen, Mr. Pratt?”
The guard screwed up his eyes as if in deep thought and looked upward. “Don’t rightly know, m’lady. I’m sure they’ll return in a bit.”
“And Mr. Thompson?”
“ ’Aven’t seen ’im in a while.” Pratt shrugged and took a bite of his bread.
Hero compressed her lips, glancing away from the man. Mr. Thompson was the architect of the new home and was in charge of building it. He’d been perfect in the planning stages, producing a lovely drawing of a new home with exact specifications. Both she and Lady Caire had been quite pleased with him. But when the actual construction began, Mr. Thompson became less reliable. Materials that were supposedly already ordered had been absent, and then their delivery delayed, causing the crew of workers that had been hired to find other work.
Lady Caire had pushed back her tour of the continent until the foundation had been laid. At that point it had seemed that the worst of the construction problems were over. They had their material, a new crew was hired, and Mr. Thompson’s apologies and assurances were profuse. But a mere month after Lady Caire’s departure, things began to go wrong again. Construction was slow; the expense reports Mr. Thompson submitted didn’t make sense to Hero; and when she made polite inquiries, he either gave vague answers or ignored her questions entirely.
And now in the middle of the day no one was at the building site!
“Thank you, Mr. Pratt,” Hero said, and turned to walk back to the carriage. “Is he sufficient to guard such a large site?” she asked George quietly.
George looked a little startled at having his opinion asked. He scratched his chin. “No, my lady, I don’t think so.”
Hero nodded. George was only confirming her own fears. She’d have to hire more guards immediately if nothing else.
She had half expected Reading to have deserted her, but as she entered her carriage, she saw that he slouched against the squabs in the same pose as when she’d left him almost an hour before. She sat and watched him as the carriage lurched forward.
He wore a rather shabby brown coat with a bottle-green waistcoat and dark brown breeches and boots. His long legs took up most of the space between the seats, his scuffed boots nearly under her seat. His black hat was still tipped over his eyes, and she noticed for the first time that his jaw bore a heavy stubble. Had he been out all night since the ball? He hadn’t moved when she entered or when the carriage started, and she could hear a faint snore coming from his parted lips. Her gaze dropped to those lips. The bottom was fuller in sleep, lax and sensuous, contrasting with the deeply masculine shadow of the stubble about his mouth.
Hero looked quickly away.
“Have you decided?” he asked, making her start.
She inhaled. Had he been feigning sleep all this time?
He sat up and stretched lazily, then glanced out the window. “Headed home, are we?”
“Yes.”
“How was it?”
“Worse than I thought.” She pursed her lips. “The architect appears to have decamped.”
He nodded, unsurprised. “And my bargain?”
“You mean your blackmail.”
He shrugged. “Call it what you like, but I’m not changing my mind. You go with me or not at all.”
She stared at her hands in her lap. Her fingers had curled into fists. She had no doubt that he would indeed tell both her brother and her fiancé if she did not take his “bargain.” Mandeville would disapprove, but it was Maximus who would put a halt to her seeing the home—and possibly to her being the patroness. She listened and obeyed her brother in all other matters, but not this one. She saw again the sweet faces of the children as they struggled with the hymn they’d practiced for her.
Hero glanced up. Reading was watching her as if he knew the thoughts going through her head. She lifted her chin. “Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why this sudden worry for my person? Why do you wish this bargain?”
She expected more anger, but instead a corner of his mouth kicked up, and if possible, he slouched more in his seat. “You’re a suspicious woman, Lady Perfect. Perhaps my soft heart compels me to come to the rescue of reckless maidens.”
“Humph.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “I don’t trust you.”
“That’s quite wise,” he said, widening his eyes mockingly.
She looked out the window. What choice did she really have if she wanted to continue to visit the home?
“Very well,” she said, facing him again. “You may accompany me next time I visit St. Giles.”
“Good.” He yawned and then stood to rap on the ceiling of the carriage. “You can send a note to my house whenever you wish to go. Thirty-four Golden Square.”
For a moment she was diverted by this news. “You’re not staying at Mandeville House?”
His lips twisted. “No.”
The carriage jolted to a stop and he was out the door, pausing to turn and say, “I’ll be by your house at nine tomorrow morning.”
She leaned forward. “But I hadn’t planned on going to the home again so soon!”
“Yes, but I think I can help you with your problems with the architect,” he said slowly and patiently. “Nine sharp. Agreed?”
His green eyes pinned her, and she could only nod her head mutely.
“Good,” he said again.
He leaped from the carriage and slammed the door shut. In a minute the carriage jerked forward.
Hero released a breath as she let her body relax, and for the first time she wondered, What had Reading been doing in St. Giles?
HERO NERVOUSLY DESCENDED her front stairs the next morning. Nine of the clock was very early for Cousin Bathilda—or any other fashionable lady—to be abroad, but it would be just her luck to be caught in the company of her notorious future brother-in-law. But when she looked up and down the street, she saw no one.
No one at all.
For a moment her shoulders slumped in something perilously close to disappointment. She’d have to send back the carriage, already waiting in front. Well, he was a rake, after all. What did she expect? Morning jaunts with respectable ladies were probably not his thing at all. In fact—
“Miss me?”
The masculine murmur came so close to her back that she jumped and gave a little shriek. Hero turned to glare at Reading, who looked thoroughly disreputable and rumpled.
“Have you been out all night again?” she asked without thinking, and then had time to realize her mistake as heat crept up her neck.
He laughed as he handed her into her waiting carriage. “Of course. We rakes never sleep at night. We have far more, ah, interesting things to do in the dark hours.”
“Humph.” She lowered herself onto the cushions.
The strange thing was, even though his words irritated her immensely, she felt a flutter of excitement that he had indeed showed up for their appointment.
“You, on the other hand,” Reading continued as he sat across from her, “look fresh and well rested. A lovely morning lily, in fact.”
She eyed him suspiciously. What should’ve been a compliment sounded oddly like an insult coming from his mouth.
He smiled innocently, the curve of his wide mouth cutting deep lines into his cheeks. His jaw was stubbled darkly in contrast to the white of his wig.
“You look like you could pose for a cautionary engraving entitled ‘Dissolute,’ ” she said sweetly.
He barked with surprised laughter. “My lily has thorns, it seems.”
“Lilies don’t have thorns, and, anyway, I’m not your lily.”
“No, merely my dear future sister.”
She debated telling him—again—not to call her his sister, realized any protest on her part would probably only urge him on to more irritating behavior, and sighed, giving up the matter. “Where are we going?”
He stretched his legs between them, his boots brushing the silk of her primrose morning gown. “I have an old friend I’d like to introduce to you.”
“Why?”
“He’s an architect.”
“Really?” Hero looked at him curiously. “Where did you meet him?”
He gave her a sardonic look. “I do spend some time among respectable people now and again.”
“I didn’t—”
He waved aside her flustered apology. “I met Jonathan Templeton at Cambridge.”
“I heard you left after only a year,” she said slowly.
“You did call me feckless,” he reminded her. “But not everyone I met at university was as irresponsible as I. Jonathan’s father was a vicar with very little income. The only reason he was at Cambridge was because a friend of his family had kindly taken it upon himself to pay for Jonathan’s tuition. He repaid his friend’s kindness by studying day and night.”
She cocked her head, watching him. “And what did you study at Cambridge?”
He snorted. “Besides wenching and drink, you mean?”
This time she didn’t rise to the bait.
After a moment, he looked down at his hands, a half smile on his face. “Classical history, if you can believe it.”
“Did you enjoy it?”
He shrugged restlessly. “Not enough to stay, obviously.”
“I read Herodotus in the Greek,” she blurted.
He looked up at her. “Did you indeed? I wasn’t aware Greek was on the curriculum for fashionable debutantes these days.”
“It isn’t, of course.” Why had she told him that? “Never mind.”
She stared at her hands in her lap, wishing she could better control her words around him.
“What did you think of his description of Egypt?” he asked.
She peeked up at him to see if he was mocking her, but he seemed serious. She hesitated, then leaned forward. “I thought their burial practices perfectly hideous.”
His face relaxed and fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as he smiled. “But fascinating, yes? All that mucking about with myrrh and frankincense.”
She shuddered delightfully. “Do you think his report true? So many of the other things he writes about seem quite fanciful.”
“Such as Arion the harper who rode about on a dolphin’s back?”
“Or the winged serpents that guard the frankincense trees in Arabia.”
“Or the giant camel-chasing ants?”
“Camel-chasing ants?” She wrinkled her brow. “I don’t remember that part.”
“Hard to see how you could miss it.” He grinned at her. “In India?”
“Oh, of course—the ants that dig up gold!” she cried.
“Those are the ones.” He shook his head. “Old Herodotus certainly liked a good story, but you know there are some very odd things in the world. Who’s to say that the Egyptians didn’t really stuff myrrh into their dead grandfathers? Or that there aren’t really giant furry ants in India terrifying the camels?”
“But you must admit it seems a little unlikely.”
“I admit no such thing, my lady.” The smile still played about his lips. “Have you read Thucydides?”
“No, I’m afraid not.” She looked down at her hands again. “The tutor who had taught me Greek had to leave due to his poor health. The ones who replaced him didn’t altogether approve of my studying Greek. French is much more important for a lady. Besides, I soon was busy with dancing lessons, and singing lessons, and painting lessons. There’s so much one must learn before one makes a debut into society.”
“Ah,” he murmured. “Do you like painting?”