Page 3 of Temptress in Disguise
The lady’s confidence faltered. She touched the backs of her fingers to her cheek. “It’s your brains and brawn I need, not your body. Well, hopefully not your body, though I shall only permit you to bed me as a last resort.”
Curiosity warred with anger.
The latter won.
“I’m no one’s last resort.” Indeed, her comment roused more than his ire. It reminded him of how naive he’d been in his youth. How one could be blind-sided by false words and a pretty smile. How easily one might be used as a pawn in a strumpet’s game. “State your name and your business, or get out. I’ll not ask you again.”
The lady gripped her tatty bag as if she carried the crown jewels. “It’s Miss Fontaine, and?—”
“Fontaine!” he blurted, the taste in his mouth turning bitter. This was the siren who held half the men in London by the ballocks? This … this diminutive, dare he say fascinating, elfin-faced creature was Lydia Fontaine? “You’re the actress who took Lord Bedlow as her lover? You’re the famed coquette?”
He would wager every penny this woman had never been kissed, let alone indulged in an illicit affair.
“Why do you sound so surprised?” The lady fought to hold his gaze, though she looked more than uncomfortable with his current line of questioning. “First impressions can be deceptive. I was told to expect a beast, yet you’re merely a handsome man with a temper.”
A chuckle burst from his lips. “I was told Miss Fontaine had large breasts and was half a foot taller.”
A blush flooded her cheeks. “A decent corset can enhance a lady’s assets. And I often prefer a pretty heeled shoe to these practical boots.”
To prove she did indeed wear boots as tatty as her bag, she raised her hem a fraction. The ugly footwear did not detract from the delicate turn of her ankle. The combination proved intriguing and annoying in equal measure.
“Then tell me what Bedlow liked to do in bed.”
“I beg your pardon?” She swallowed hard. The fear in her eyes overshadowed her attempt to appear offended. “A lady would never discuss intimacies with a stranger. What happens in one’s bedchamber is a personal matter. Suffice to say, his lordship had no complaint.”
Liar!
The word danced on his tongue, but he enjoyed watching her squirm. “If I’m to take you to the Copper Crown, I must be assured of your identity. As I said, this isn’t a hackney, and you’re not paying me in kind.”
She was undeterred in her efforts to prove she was the haughty actress. “I can recite every one of Hero’s lines in the play. Will that suffice?”
“If I’m to go out of my way, I’ll need a damn sight more than that. An intellectual could easily quote Shakespeare, and you’re definitely more the timid bluestocking than the wicked coquette.”
“I shall take that as a compliment.”
“Please do. There’s no chance in hell I would ferry Miss Fontaine across town. I despise conceited women.”
The lady was quick to challenge him. “Yet it took nothing more than a simple invitation to have you scampering to the Belldrake tonight.”
He fought to curb his indignation. “I came to tell Miss Fontaine to stop sending notes. Trust me. I’m not the sort of man who pines or scampers. As my sister-in-law recently pointed out, I don’t have a passionate bone in my body.”
Through narrowed eyes, she assessed his physique. He waited for her soft sigh or the tantalising stroke of her tongue over her bottom lip. The lady merely looked at him as one would fish at Billingsgate Market.
“Yet you were willing to accept payment in kind, sir.”
“Because you’ve piqued my interest. If you want to climax in a carriage, then come and sit astride me. Don’t expect reams of pretty prose and gestures of undying love.”
She fell silent.
But it wasn’t shock marring her delicate features.
A heavy cloud of sadness swamped the space between them. He wished she would berate him. Call him cruel names. Harsh words slipped off him like rain on a windowpane. But this … this sudden air of melancholy awakened memories he would sooner forget.
“I’m not sure what sort of women you’ve entertained in the past, Mr Chance, but I’d rather spend a lifetime in silence than listen to an insincere man recite poetry.” Her little snort carried a thread of contempt. “As a rose needs sunshine to bloom, love needs trust. Trust is a fool’s game, is it not?”
Her words sucked the oxygen out of the air.
His throat closed against painful memories of betrayal. A stepmother and her lackeys dragging four frightened boys from their beds and dumping them in an alley in the rookeries. They’d fought hard to survive, none more so than his older brother Aaron.
