Page 4 of His Brazen Tart
Her irritation only bolstered Piers further, and he grinned at her. “You may take some time to consider it, but I will require the word when next we meet.”
Joan’s nostrils flared, and twin spots of red appeared on her pearly cheeks before she spun away from him again. By the time they came face to face for the final figures, she had done an admirable job of composing herself.
“You are awfully high-handed for someone who is being paid to—”
“Andyouare awfully brazen for someone in danger of feeling the flat of my hand against her backside.”
Piers nearly laughed at the choked sound of protest emitting from her throat, but managed to contain himself. Her look of pure outrage nearly sent him over the edge.
“I know what you must be thinking,” he said before she could recover. “You are wondering whether you made the right decision signing that contract.”
Joan didn’t speak, but her raised eyebrows told him he wasn’t far off the mark.
Piers leaned close for the second time that night and caught a whiff of her perfume—a sugary scent that made him want to run his tongue along the side of her neck. “But you very clearly came to Mr. Sterling looking for something special. Honestly, just look at you … you could have any man with nothing more than a snap of your fingers. But you don’t want just any man, do you, Joan?”
She shook her head and managed a weak, “No.”
“The contract is null and void if we both agree that the wrong match has been made. Say no to me right now, and I will free you from the agreement, but … say yes, and I will prove that my arrogance is well earned. You’ll never know pleasure like that which I can give you.”
Piers took her hand and bowed to her as the dance came to an end. Joan stared up at him from her diminutive height, lips parted on sharp, low breaths. She appeared in a trance, as if he had weaved a spell about her with his words. He had known from the start how to snare her. A woman like Joan Durbin didn’t need to be fawned over or plied with soft words when half the men of society offered those things on a regular basis.
It would seem his strategy had worked, for Joan blinked and whispered a raspy, “Yes.”
Piers raised her hand to kiss her knuckles, lingering half a second longer than was proper. “Excellent. Expect a message from me tomorrow with instructions for our first meeting. You will follow them to the letter, or …”
He turned on his heel and left her standing on the edge of the dance floor. Piers felt her heated stare on his back and imagined the wheels in her head spinning madly as she tried to figure out what ‘or’ entailed.
Piers prayed she would defy him so that he could demonstrate, most thoroughly.
Joan glancedup from the sampler laid across her lap, her needle-wielding hand resting limp against her thigh. Three pairs of eyes bored into her, portraying concern and curiosity. It was her turn to host the tea and needlepoint session held amongst her dearest friends, but she had done an abominable job of it. She’d provided the customary tea and confections, but was a horrid companion as conversation flew past her in rapid-fire quips and peals of laughter.
“You have been awfully quiet today,” said Lady Mary Caulfield, a cream-dolloped scone held inches away from her lips. Pale green eyes were set in a cherubic face surrounded by clusters of loose, blonde curls.
“Are you ill?” asked Mrs. Maud Portemaine, her slender and austere face made even more so by the round spectacles perched on her nose. Her chestnut hair had been pulled into a severe knot at her nape, and her lips were pinched at the corners. She often looked older than her five-and-thirty years, due to a temperament not unlike a stern governess.
“Of course not,” Joan replied, injecting an airiness into her voice she didn’t truly feel. “I’m simply a little fatigued, is all. The Fenimore’s ball did not end until two in the morning, and by the time my carriage moved through the crush on the streets to bring me home, it was nearly four.”
“Well?” nudged Mrs. Miranda Thornton, the fourth member of their tight-knit set. “Aren’t you going to tell us about it?”
Miranda had been the first among them to investigate the existence of the Gentleman Courtesans. What had been meant as a short-term affair during a house party had become something else altogether. Now, Miranda also had the distinction of being the first of them to remarry. Roger Thornton had been her husband for just a little over one year now. The fruit of their union lay in a small cradle at Miranda’s feet—a tiny, round face peeking out at them from amongst yellow and white swaddling. Malcolm was nearly four months of age, the first child of Roger’s, but Miranda’s second. Her daughter, Ursula, had been born during her first marriage.
Her friend glowed in that special way of a new mother, her complexion smooth and bright, her auburn hair and brown eyes lustrous and rich.
“Oh,” Joan murmured, reaching for a tiny, iced cake. “It was rather lovely. The decorations were very—”
“Hang the decorations,” Mary interjected, mouth full of scone. “We want to hear about your courtesan!”
“Theywant to hear about your courtesan,” Maud grumbled, giving her sampler a vicious stab with her needle.
Of the four of them, Maud was the most practical. While Joan, Mary, and Miranda had mused over the pleasures and romanticism of hiring a male courtesan, Maud never stopped reminding them how indecent the practice was—or how easily a woman could be ruined if word of her involvement made the rounds.
“Of course we do,” Mary chirped while brushing crumbs off her skirts. “Hearing about the escapades of others is the only form of excitement I’m likely to experience for some time.”
Her declaration made Joan’s heart sink. Mary was still a young woman—too lovely and sweet to put herself on a shelf for the rest of her life. Yet that seemed exactly what Mary planned to do. Unlike Joan and the others, her marriage had been a love match, and the death of her husband had been devastating. Mary still shrouded herself in half-mourning though the Earl of Rodingham had been gone for nearly as long as Joan’s husband had.
Miranda met Joan’s gaze, and they seemed to share the same thought. However, the last time anyone suggested Mary try to move on with her life, their friend had burst into tears. Joan, Miranda, and Maud had agreed not to broach the subject again until Mary indicated she was ready … or at least until she stopped wearing those dreary lavender and gray gowns.
All eyes settled back on Joan, who shifted in her chair while thinking of where to begin. Her behavior must seem odd to her friends, as Joan was the most boisterous and daring of them. Her work bag was filled with naughty samplers she had stitched on a lark—nude men, couples embracing in scandalous poses, their intimate parts cheekily hidden by leaves and flowers. She often spent these needlepoint sessions regaling them with tales of her latest antics, much to Miranda’s and Mary’s delight, and Maud’s horror.
