Page 10 of The Ladies Least Likely
“Yes.” The word was a whisper. She cleared her throat and squared her shoulders. “That’s correct.”
“Saint soddingwho?” Pen barked. She wanted property? The minx! The designing little greedy guts. Then he observed the interesting lift to her bosom granted by her straight-backed posture, and he decided she was worth it. There was no padding, no falseness there. Did she but unveil the lace and let him see the mere tops of them, he was like to sign over anything for her breasts alone.
He needed that rum, devil take it. His mouth was dry as straw. “How much is the property worth?”
“At value, around a thousand pounds,” Ross said. “But if one were to arrange a proper lease, the rents over time could amount to much more.”
“I am interested in buying outright,” she said with a nervous edge to her voice.
“You asked me to give it to you,” Pen reminded her. “A regular nunnery, is it?”
Her brows were black and thick, like her lashes, and their pronounced arch made her eyes look larger, more expressive. “Not for some time, sir, though I’m told some nuns still lived there at the time of dissolution. It was the only Cistercian establishment for women in Wales, though I understand?—”
“His lordship is inquiring whether you run a brothel,” Ross said in the same flat, bored tone. He was clearly unimpressed by her beauty, unbewitched by her ethereal aura. How did he manage to escape her spell, blast the man? Ross ran in the petticoat line, though he wasn’t nearly as energetic in his patronage as Pen was.
“A brothel?” she gasped. “No!” The most glorious blush, the pink rose of a sunrise, spread over her cheeks. It accented the height of her cheekbones, the elegant jut of her nose, the finely carved slope where her jaw curved toward her ear. He imagined such a blush spreading all over her body when he?—
Her mouth was still moving. “A house of charity, milord!”
“A what?” Blood pounded in his ears, rhythmic as high tide, a combination of outrage, horror, and lust. “I never supported a charity home. Ross! Do I run any charities?”
“That is quite outside your realm of interests, sir,” said his secretary.
“We’ve been there for years, milord. Nearly seven.”
Before his brother became viscount, then. “I can’t conceive that my father ever approved such a venture,” Pen said. “What rents have you been paying until now?”
Up went that chin. He was right about her being pert. “None. Milord.” The blush deepened.
“None whatsoever,” Ross emphasized.
“We have maintained the property,” she hurried to say. “Kept it from falling into disrepair. We haven’t the funds to replace thewindows, of course, and some of the stonework requires a skilled mason, but we?—”
“And you live there?” Pen demanded.
“Yes, with…” She bit her lip as he glowered. With this Barlow, no doubt. Well, no longer. Her old keeper was about to be deposed.
Ross sorted through his pile and produced a set of papers containing a series of sketches. A crumbling ruin of an abbey, in better condition than Tintern but not nearly as picturesque. A rather extensive set of buildings, that! She wanted hectares, with a ruined old church, a solid compound of blocky medieval stone, and assorted outbuildings in the back. For the sheep and potatoes, no doubt.
She twined long fingers together as he stared at her. Those long, clever fingers he could imagine sliding through his hair, down his chest, over his scars, and, yes, a woman who demandedpropertyfor her favors could damn well tolerate his scars.
“…welcome to come see for yourself, milord, and meet them. There is Evans, and Dovey, that is Mrs. Van der Welle, and Cerys, and…”
A string of meaningless names. Why was she still talking? She’d do better appealing to him if she removed that blonde lace wrapping her bosom.
“It goes on as long I wish,” Pen stated. “I get to end it. Not you.”
“You mean, you will put a term on our lease?” Her eyes widened. “Er…yes, if you wish that in the contract.”
“Write it down, Ross.” Pen glared at his secretary, who made an elaborate show of producing an inkstand and quill. He did not, however, commence writing.
“Exclusive access,” Pen went on. “You’ll have no other men. Not business associates, not hangers-on, certainly not friends.”He knew all too well how immoral men were when it came to beautiful women. No code of honor whatsoever.
“But milord, St. Sefin’s has always been open to men as well as?—”
“Do you want the property or not?” he barked. “These are my terms.”
She scowled. “I am listening.” But she clutched the lace at her bodice as if she were steeling herself against a turmoil of inward thoughts.
