Valiant (Gentlemen of the Order 3)
“You want the truth, sir?”
“I deserve the truth, madam.”
Vivienne stayed her tears and raised her chin. “My reasons for wanting to abide by the contract stem from desperation, not greed. But I like you, Mr Sloane.” Her skin tingled just being in his presence. “I’m drawn to the elements of your character that fit so perfectly with mine.”
His searing stare fixed her to the seat.
She would give anything to know his thoughts.
“While our kin shared a love for the sea,” she said, “we share a love for adventure. We both long to escape the humdrum of daily life, long to feel the wind whipping our hair. As a woman, my situation is more complicated. I must strive to provide for myself. Marriage to any man brings a loss of liberty.”
“Not if you married me,” he said, though seemed surprised he’d made the comment. “I believe we should appreciate people for who they are, not try to forge them into someone of our own making.”
Mr Sloane was one of those rare men who shared her views.
“Which leads me back to my earlier point. You have many fine qualities to recommend you, sir. But most important of all, you accept my unconventional character.”
A smile tugged at his mouth. “I’m far from accepting. I insisted you change out of Monsieur Lamont’s ridiculous clothes.”
“Only out of concern for me.”
His heated gaze journeyed over her blue pelisse, lingered in shocking places. “And because a lady in breeches appeals to my rakish nature. I cannot concentrate on the case when eye-level with your shapely thighs, madam.”
Vivienne’s heart pounded under his visceral invasion. Mr Sloane had a way of making a woman feel like a wicked temptress. Thoughts of kissing him entered her head, as did the notion of him stroking his large hands over the thighs he so admired.
“However, I must confess to being somewhat curious.” His rich voice raised her pulse another notch.
“Curious? About what?”
“Whether your lips taste of innocence. Whether you would struggle under the weight of experience. Or would the wild woman who rides bareback in the darkness take command of the reins?”
She might struggle at first, but Mr Sloane would tempt a saint to sin.
“There’s only one way to know, sir.”
Mr Sloane rubbed his sculpted jaw as he scanned her body. “Are you saying you want me to haul you onto my lap, Miss Hart, and plunder your mouth in true pirate fashion?”
Oh, he made debauchery sound so inviting. Yet she wasn’t about to surrender just yet. “No, Mr Sloane, I’m saying you will have to wait until our wedding night to find out.”
Chapter 7
According to Miss Hart, the offices of Golding, Wicks & Sons occupied an entire townhouse in Long Lane, West Smithfield. Evan had been so captivated by his conversation with the lady seated opposite, he’d not considered the invariable problems they wou
ld encounter upon reaching their destination.
Being the third day in September, the first day of the infamous Bartholomew Fair, Evan’s carriage came to an abrupt halt at the bottom of Holborn Hill and didn’t budge.
“What’s causing the delay?” Miss Hart gazed out of the window at the hordes of people heading towards Smithfield.
“It’s the Bartholomew Fair. Every cloth merchant in the country has descended on the capital to set up stalls and sell their wares. I’m afraid we may have to walk the short distance to Long Lane.”
“Walk through this rowdy rabble?” Miss Hart clutched her chest. “Then let’s make haste before every cutpurse from the rookeries hones in on their prey.”
Bartholomew Fair was a playground for the debauched and provided a host of opportunities for every crook from Southwark to Shoreditch. “If we’re to walk, you must hold on to me, Miss Hart. Promise not to let go.”
“I’ve heard terrible tales about the fair. I shall cling to you like a leech. Indeed, you will have to prise me from your arm once we reach Mr Golding’s office.”
Even when nervous, Miss Hart proved amusing company. And to think he’d presumed she would be tedious, a dullard, a bore. As with most men, the fault lay with him for not looking beyond the beauties vying for attention, for not appreciating those wallflowers who sat with their hands clasped in their laps, wilting from boredom.