Page 32 of Making of a Scandal
“You have no idea,” Nick grumbled, though he’d never admit it wasn’t the role he played that had him all in a tangle.
It was the woman who had hired him, damn her, with her soft skin and large eyes and irresistible lips.
“Nick is more than up to the task of seeing this through and finding satisfaction elsewhere,” Benedict declared as he reached into his breast pocket. “Speaking of which …”
He presented Nick with a bank draft, one with a larger number than any he’d received in a long time.
“That is only half of Miss Barrington’s initial payment,” Benedict added. “As agreed, I’ll keep the other half out of your reach for the time being.”
Nick’s mouth turned down at the evidence of how badly Calliope wanted Lewes. That reminder soured his stomach and made the bank draft in his hand feel like a hot coal. Swallowing past the bitter taste in his mouth, he tucked it into his own pocket.
“Thank you. While you are on the hunt for a new keeper for David, you may as well seek out one for me, as well. I anticipate Lewes will come up to scratch sooner rather than later. This should not take long.”
“I’d think you would hope for it to go on as long as possible,” David said. “If that bank draft is only half what the lady is paying, I’d be content to draw the matter out until Christmas.”
It was exactly what he ought to do, what he might have done if the lady in question were anyone other than Calliope.
Determined to change the subject and distract himself until the next time he was forced to come face to face with her, Nick cleared his throat.
“Have the two of you any plans for the rest of the afternoon? Uncle Paul is resting, and I have nothing to do at present.”
“We were actually on our way to Tattersall’s,” Benedict replied. “You’re welcome to come along.”
Nick jumped at the chance to be in company with anyone who was not his uncle or the current object of his lust. He was due for another outing with Calliope tomorrow afternoon, so he would spend every waking moment until then trying to pull himself together.
It would seem his very sanity depended on it.
What on Earthwas I thinking?
The question echoed through Calliope’s mind as she shared a carriage with her sister, the man who was pretending to court her, and the one she wanted to marry. The air inside the vehicle seemed stifled, making her feel as if she might faint. Which was ridiculous. She was the twenty-two-year-old daughter of Viscount Barrington—known for her stoicism as well as her practicality. She was an heiress and the patroness of a foundling home .. not some wide-eyed chit fresh out of the schoolroom. She did notswoon.
However, just now she felt wretchedly unsteady, and it had nothing to do with the rock and sway of the carriage carrying them across town.
How had she ended up in this situation? Oh yes, it had all occurred quite by chance, though she felt certain whatever deities were in charge of her destiny were having a bit of fun with her circumstances.
The day had begun as expected. After receiving a round of morning callers, Calliope had changed her clothes for an afternoon walking the corridors of London Home for Foundling Children along with Diana, who was also a patroness of the orphanage that thrived on the charity of others. She looked forward to her monthly visit, despite knowing she would have to endure the company of her courtesan today. When she had asked why it was necessary for him to accompany her, he’d insisted that it could only aid their cause.
“A man who shows interest in the endeavors of the woman he is courting sets himself apart. Besides, ladies who sit on charitable boards can be counted upon to gossip. If I am seen escorting you to the foundling home, who do you suppose will hear about it in short order?”
“Mr. Lewes,” she had replied, grudgingly admitting to herself that he was right. It was one thing for them to be seen dancing or sitting together at a dinner party, and quite another for it to appear as if he’d become enamored enough with her to take an interest in her charitable efforts.
She had agreed to the outing, hoping he would not prove too much a distraction. That had been a gross miscalculation, because Dominick Burke was nothing if not distracting.
Why had she allowed him to touch her, and why could she not stop reliving the moment in her mind? It had been nothing more than the stroke of his finger down the back of her arm, and it had occurred one week ago. It shouldn’t matter. Itdidn’tmatter.
Only … every night since it had happened, her mind took her back to that drawing room and the instant his bare hand had made contact with her skin.
That seemingly innocent touch on the arm had created the oddest reaction in her—one that had led to other thoughts. While she’d lain abed, she had closed her eyes and imagined him doing it again, only this time he would lean in to kiss her.
She’d experienced few kisses in her life, but had enough frame of reference to imagine how it might be with Nick. He wouldn’t be gentle, but neither would he assault her mouth. He had mentioned licking before, when saying those horrid things about taking her to bed. Only, after the way he’d touched her, the way his eyes had come alive with green tongues of fire, they didn’t seem so horrid. She imagined his wicked tongue stroking against her mouth, tracing the seam, outlining the contours of her lips.
Those imaginings only produced more of the baffling symptoms she only seemed to experience when he was near. Her belly fluttered, her throat tightened, and her heart hammered wildly against her sternum.
It was utter madness. She shouldn’t be thinking of Dominick this way.
Still, she carried on, doing her best to appear for all the world like a woman being courted by one of London’s most notorious scoundrels.
It didn’t help matters that he arrived for their outing looking as handsome as ever, sporting a fresh haircut and attire that flaunted the long, lean lines of his physique to their advantage. She shouldn’t notice how his shoulders stretched the seams of his coat. It wasn’t seemly for her fingers to itch at the sight of his artfully tousled hair, as if she longed to run her fingers through those sable locks.
