Page 4 of His Scandalous Lessons
His smile lingered. “Perhaps. But you’re not here for secrets.”
“Yes, I’m here for your very pretty public face,” she said a touch impatiently. “You are an expert in the art of seduction, are you not? Assuming those rumors weren’t all lies you concocted to hide your nefarious deeds.” She turned back to the painting of the Cornish coastline, as if they were still casually discussing art. “Fucking, I believe you called it. I’d like you to teach me.”
Bloody hell.Was he dreaming? Or had he woken up in a reality in which up was down, left was right, and this woman who knew his secrets came for lessons in fucking? Good god.
Richard made a small choking sound. “There is a distinct difference between marriage and tupping, Miss Sheffield, otherwise I’d already have a wife.” Christ, would shelookat him? “I understand you’re something of a sheltered young woman—”
She faced him then, her brown eyes ablaze. “I beg your pardon. If I desired to be condescended to, I’d speak to my father.” In her anger, she edged closer to him. “I know exactly what I want, and that’s to learn everything about how to seduce a man. I intend to use those skills to make him so desperate to marry me that he’ll acquire a special license and be willing to risk my father’s wrath to wed without permission. That is what Ineed, Mr. Grey. That is what I require of you. I’m not so sheltered and naive to think this will be an easy task, which is precisely why I am here in the middle of the bloody night asking a man reputed to be the most notorious rake in London for help.”
They were almost touching then, and he couldn’t help but notice that her breath was coming fast, her chest heaving beneath her cloak. What would make a woman so desperate? Unless...
“Your father intends for you to marry the Duke of Kendal, does he not?” he asked carefully. At her startled look, he made an impatient noise. “Information, Miss Sheffield, is a currency I accept. You didn’t think I managed to manipulate associates of your father without learning a thing or two, did you?”
Miss Sheffield lifted her chin. “Fine. Yes. I am to marry him in three months.”
“I also understand,” he continued, “that his age is considerably more than yours—”
She laughed, and Richard couldn’t help but wince at how bitter she sounded. “Sir, I would marry a man older than His Grace if he was kind and treated me well. That is my only requisite.”
Richard went still. “I see,” he said softly.
Richard had some sense of honor, as crooked as it was. His sister, Alexandra, was an author who wrote about the treatment women endured in silence. Things never discussed in polite society.
At first, he’d read her work solely to impress one of his lovers, a widowed French countess who championed suffrage and considered him little more than a pretty face and a body built for satisfying her carnal desires. Long after their affair ended, he still read his sister’s work, but now to argue on behalf of those causes with Members of Parliament and the House of Lords. Men with influence. Men who, otherwise, would never have cared.
Women whose husbands and fathers considered them little more than property was one such cause. His sister would likely plan his murder if he let Miss Sheffield leave tonight without help, and he doubted he’d forgive himself either.
“You see what?” Miss Sheffield demanded to know.
“He’s hurt you. Kendal.”
With a soft exhale, she retreated, her expression even and controlled. But Richard couldn’t help but notice how tightly her hands clenched around the fabric of her coat. “I don’t wish to discuss my betrothed. Will you teach me or not?”
He tried being gentle with her. “As much as I’d like to help, what you require is risky for me. If we were caught, I would consider it my duty to wed you.”
“Oh, if only things were so easy,” she murmured. “His Grace could find me naked in the arms of another man and still meet me at the end of the aisle in three months time. No, I need a gentleman who can acquire a special license.” She glanced at him. “Which you cannot, even if you were willing, being both second son and not in good graces with the Archbishop, from what I understand.”
Richard shrugged. “He’s a pompous old fool.”
“And so I amhere—” she continued, as if he had never spoken — “to ask for lessons, and to propose a bargain.”
Immediately he was suspicious. She was, after all, still Stanton Sheffield’s daughter. “What sort of bargain?”
Her lips showed a hint of a smile — a look of amusement, mysterious. A Mona Lisa smile, with the smallest dimple in her left cheek. “My word, what a look that is. I’m not offering you a poisoned chalice, Mr. Grey. Merely an incentive. I’ve heard you’re seeking support for a certain bill that would allow common men the right to private ballots. My father detests it. Landlords support him, you see, and they like to make certain their tenants vote a certain way. And he believes if the Irish vote privately, they’ll force the issue of Home Rule.”
Richard stiffened. “I’m aware of that. What are you proposing?”
“I am privy to the intelligence my father uses against Members of Parliament to keep them in line when bills come up to vote. I’m proposing a trade: your lessons for that information.”
“You want to help me blackmail people,” Richard said doubtfully.
Miss Sheffield lifted a shoulder in a delicate shrug. “How you use the information is up to you. But I promise you: that bill will not pass as it stands now. My father has more than enough votes to throw it out, and whatever information you think you have on his associates will not compare to his.”
Richard let out a breath and stared at Miss Sheffield. That bill had to be passed. He had men in his employ that were commoners from Whitechapel, and the MPs for the East End counted among his friends. To say nothing of a few other gears he kept greased in that area of the city if he needed underhanded means to find information on men of influence. And he’d promised to do whatever it took to get this bill passed.
It would be so easy to let this woman walk out the door and say he’d done what he could, but it would be a lie. Politics didn’t come easy for him. The game was ruthless, cutthroat, dishonest. And Stanton Sheffield was the worst of them all.
“How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” he asked after a moment. He couldn’t trust this woman, not Sheffield’s daughter. “Why would any man let his daughter sit in on private conversations?”
