CHAPTER3
“How long has his lordship been waiting in the parlor, Hugh?” Pen asked for what must have been the fifth time since she had sent Aidan’s brother there to await her.
Yes, it had been with the intention that he should remain there for a prolonged period of time. Until he surrendered in this little war of theirs and returned home, conceding defeat. However, she had not expected the arrogant devil’s patience to last this long.
“One and one quarter hour, Miss Sutton,” the guard reported. “The cove’s a mite caged by now.”
“Sulking, is he?” Pen knew a queer mixture of gratification and guilt at the revelation that Lord Lordly was vexed with her for making him wait.
And wait.
And wait.
She could not contain the smile of satisfaction that turned up her lips at the thought of him pacing the small confines of the parlor, outraged that she had yet to appear.
“Asked for chatter broth instead of brandy ’e did. Deuced odd cull.” Hugh shook his head.
She tried to imagine the viscount sipping at his tea utterly alone, all aloof and proper, as if he were holding court with a bevy of admirers. The thought made her guilt heighten, chasing the fleeting sense of victory and her smile both.
Pen sighed. “Has he expressed his frustration?”
“Strangest thing, but ’e ain’t upset at all.” Hugh shrugged. “Unless the nob’s grumbling in the gizzard.”
Hmm.
The notion that Lord Lordly was hiding his dismay and irritation was…shocking. Indeed, it stole the already waning remnants of her enjoyment. She had many duties awaiting her today. In addition to keeping the ledgers for The Sinner’s Palace, Pen was also aiding in the preparations for a new gaming hell she and her siblings were planning to open in the West End to replace the hell which had been destroyed by fire.
She had many tasks awaiting her attention, and the longer Lord Lordly stayed in the parlor, sipping his tea, the less time she would have to accomplish them.
“Thank you, Hugh,” she said, deciding it was time to try a new tactic where the aggravating viscount was concerned. “I suppose I must speak with him or I’ll never see a thing done today.”
“Any other way I can be of service?” Hugh asked, ever the loyal retainer.
“Not for now, no,” she said, knowing she needed to face the viscount and his assumptions and his arrogance and his insults and his bribery.
Alone.
She scarcely suppressed the shiver that wanted to dance down her spine as she took her leave of the office and made a hasty path to the parlor. It was not that she was afraid of his lordship. Not at all. But she could not like the manner in which he had suggested he would cause problems for her family.
Her siblings had not been wrong.
They had faced enough adversity, danger, trouble, and damage in their lives. She would not willingly be the source for more.
If only Aidan would have answered me. He can easily disabuse his insufferable brother of the idea that I agreed to marry him.
But Aidan was avoiding her. Ignoring her missives. The lad she had sent round to his common haunts had returned without a hint of where her friend could have gone. Which meant that either he had immersed himself in the pleasures at The Garden of Flora or he was intentionally eluding Pen. The Garden of Flora was London’s most sought-after School of Venus, and Aidan had been known to spend several days at a time within its walls without emerging, indulging in only he knew what manner of licentiousness. Yet another reason why Lord Aidan Weir was not a man she would ever agree to wed.
He was a delightful friend to have—when he was not running about attempting to use her to infuriate his family, of course. He was loyal, never failed to make her laugh, and he had not blinked an eye at her request to be her escort at the bare-knuckle boxing matches she dearly longed to attend. But he was easily distracted, a dreadful rakehell, and he was infamously unreliable in moments when it mattered most.
Moments such as this one.
Here.
Now.
Pen opened the door to the parlor and strode over the threshold, telling herself she would not be cowed by Lord Lordly. But the moment she entered the chamber and found herself alone with him, everything changed.
He was not seated and sipping his tea as she had expected him to be. Instead, he was standing. Aidan was tall, but the viscount possessed a different sort of stature altogether from his younger brother. His stiff posture, broad shoulders, and impressive height united to create the impression that he did not just dominate the room.
He was the room.
His form, all large, lean, muscled strength, was impressive. Imperious.
Breath stealing.
Breath stealing?
What in the devil’s arsehole was wrong with her? And since when had she begun to use her brother Rafe’s epithets? This was a problem. Lord Lordly was a problem. Aidan’s refusal to correct his error was a problem.
She was adrift in a sea of them, it would seem.
The viscount offered her a bow that was nothing short of magnificent. She fancied he must have practiced it at least a hundred times to embody such a graceful flow of perfection. She had never seen a man move with his easy elegance, particularly not a gentleman of his size.
“Miss Sutton,” he said, his voice low and smooth and strangely silken.
Heat flared to life deep within her.
She ruthlessly quelled it, dipping into the barest of curtseys, for she was not a woman who gave a damn about the quality or their nonsensical adherence to manners. “Lord Lordly.”
Although she ought to have resisted goading him, she could not seem to help herself where this man was concerned.
His eyes narrowed the slightest hint. They were icy and blue, a most striking hue. “I have the funds at the ready.”
The five hundred pounds. Of course.
Her heart beat faster. She had been shamelessly taking in the sight of his lordship, noting how handsome and strong he was, whilst he was concerning himself with how he might sufficiently pay her to keep her from sullying his precious and hallowed family. The son of a duke could never marry a lowly born East End girl like her.
It was wrong to admire the formidable slash of his jaw and the chiseled outline of his lips. It was also terrible of her to appreciate the sweep of his dark hair, the perfect manner in which it was cropped and sleek and shining. How did he manage such lustrous locks? Hers were dreadfully dull by comparison. Undoubtedly, it was something he achieved by nefarious means, such as drinking the blood of virgins on the first full moon of the year.
That is rather uncharitable of me.