The Offer (Baron 2)

“Your wit would fell an oak,” she said, whipped about, picked up her skirts, and walked stately as a queen down the corridor back to the drawing room, to the safety of her aunt.

“Now that insult really hurts,” he called after her, laughing. “Perhaps it wasn’t an insult?”

He said polite good nights to his hostess and took his leave. Some hours later, after having consumed a half bottle of brandy at White’s, he went to Martine’s rooms on Fitton Place.

It was some minutes before Annie, Martine’s maid, butler, and chef, cracked the front door open a few inches at his insistent knocking, demanding irritably who was trying to raise the dead.

When she saw him, she drew back with a startled, “My lord, it’s after two in the morning.”

“A fine morning it is, my girl.” He knew he’d had a skinful, and gave her a big grin. He tossed Annie his greatcoat and hat. “No need to announce me, I’ll surprise your mistress.”

He took the stairs two at a time, clutching at the banister several times to keep his balance, and burst unceremoniously into Martine’s bedchamber.

A long candle suddenly spurted into wavering light.

There was Martine, propped up on her elbows, those beautiful lips of hers parted in a lazy smile.

“Good evening, madam,” he said, and swept her a drunken bow.

She sat up and the covers, as if with a sigh, fell to her waist. She was naked. He stared at the expanse of white flesh and became instantly harder than a rock.

He groaned and jerked off his clothes, leaving them to lie where they fell.

“Quelle sottise,” Martine said in a hard Manchester accent. “Come, my lord, I believe you need my assistance, and quickly.” She pulled back the covers and drew him down into her arms. “You are drunk, Phillip? Too drunk to give us pleasure?”

“I’d have to be dead before that would happen. Trust me, Martine, I won’t disappoint you. If I happen to skip some steps on the way, just remind me. I love to backtrack.”

She just laughed and bit his shoulder. “I will, but I don’t think you will miss any steps, they’re too much a habit with you.”

He grinned, and buried his face between her breasts. He knew she wanted him because she forgot to practice her French on him. At least some woman wanted him.

She stroked his dark hair, shiny and thick in the candlelight. She arched her back so he could kiss her breasts. “Ah, the pleasure of that.”

“I could give every damned woman in London pleasure,” he said between kisses, “including that stubborn little witch.”

Now this was interesting, she thought, until pleasure poured through her and she pulled him to her mouth so she could kiss him until neither of them could breathe. After some minutes of absolute enjoyment, he suddenly reared back and stared down at her. She saw that his eyes weren’t quite focused.

He fell onto his side, balancing himself on his elbow. His right hand, out of habit, stroked her, molding her flesh, making her sigh. “She’s a fool, Martine. I compromised her but still she won’t have me. Oh, I didn’t ask her to marry me again this evening, I knew better than that. I already did enough of that. Why slap myself in the face again when I knew she’d refuse me yet again? No, I’m not that much of a fool.

“I don’t know what to do about this. It gnaws at me. I hate this defeat in her. It doesn’t suit her at all. But you know what? She had the gall to accuse me of losing some harebrained wager, in short, of having to be the sacrificial husband. Me, a sacrifice? I don’t think so. It’s a ludicrous thought.”

Martine blinked her creamy brown eyes at this outpouring. His hand was no longer caressing her. He was clearly abstracted, far away from her, at least in spirit. Well, truth be told, this could prove just as interesting. “You compromised a lady, my lord?”

“Of course I didn’t. Do you think so ill of me?”

Martine sifted her fingers through his tousled hair. “But didn’t you just say that—”

“There was no compromising involved. She would have died if I hadn’t taken care of her. She knows it, I know it. The whole damned bloody world should know it.” He laid his hand on her stomach and began tapping his fingertips.

She smiled at him, encouraging him with her silence to talk. And he did. “Did you know that even Clarendon wanted her? Why the devil can’t she see that social ruin is nipping close at her heels?”

“But if you didn’t compromise her, then why would she be facing ruin?”

Phillip flipped over on his back. The weaving light from the single candle at the bedside was spiraling upward toward the shadowed ceiling. He could make out a patch of plaster that was cracked and in imminent danger of falling on the bed. “Call the damned carpenter, Martine. I don’t want to have my head bashed in while we’re in the midst of lovemaking.”

She made a soothing, agreeable sound, then said, “I don’t understand why this girl who hasn’t been compromised refused Clarendon. A romantic figure, that one. I nearly swoon just speaking his name.” She was laughing at him. He frowned as she added, “However, at the sound of your name, Phillip, I do a complete swoon. Why don’t you want him to marry this girl?”

“He just wants her. He doesn’t love her. He’s a rake and he’s not worthy of her.”