Page 6 of Falling Into Bed with a Duke
“Oh dear.” Her eyes held sympathy and understanding. Before her marriage to Minerva’s half brother, the Duke of Lovingdon, Grace had been navigating the sea of fortune hunters as well.
“So what brings you to our door?” Minerva asked.
“I simply wanted to visit with you for a bit.”
“I’ll leave you girls to it,” her mother said distractedly, pinching the child’s chubby red cheek. “Come along. Let’s find your grandfather. He’ll be delighted to see you.” She looked at Grace. “That’s all right, isn’t it? If I take him off for a bit?”
“Of course. I’ll find you when I’m ready to leave.”
“Take your time,” Minerva’s mother said, before wandering from the room in search of her husband. If Society ever saw Jack Dodger playing peekaboo with his stepgrandson, his fierce reputation would be shattered.
“She does love him,” Minerva said, ignoring the ache in her chest because she might never give her parents a grandchild.
“I know. Furthermore, I knew his presence would ensure we had some time alone when we wouldn’t be disturbed.”
A mixture of anticipation and dread coursed through Minerva. “You acquired the address?”
“Let’s have a seat, shall we?” As though she could outrun the conversation, Grace moved swiftly to the sofa and sat.
Minerva joined her there, the excitement over the possibilities drowning out any of her initial trepidation. “Do you have it?” she prodded impatiently.
Grace shifted uncomfortably. “Are you certain about this, Minerva? Once it’s lost—”
“I’m well aware how virginity works, Grace.” She snapped her fingers impatiently. “Give over the address.”
She didn’t dare say aloud the name of the establishment. No one did. Rumors of the existence of the secretive Nightingale Club had been floating through London for years, but its location was a closely guarded secret because its owners were supposedly ladies of the aristocracy—married ladies who had established a place for others such as themselves to bring their paramours for discreet rendezvouses, their husbands none the wiser regarding their illicit affairs. Its purpose had evolved over the years so that even those who had no lover might secure one for a night. That was all she wanted. One night.
“Your brother will kill me if he learns that I assisted you with this endeavor.”
“He won’t do any such thing. He adores you to distraction. Besides, he isn’t going to find out. It’s not as though I’m going to announce it, but you know full well the sort of life he led before he married you. Why is it acceptable for men to be naughty but not for women to partake in the same liberties?”
“It’s simply the way of it. What if you fall in love—”
Minerva couldn’t help it. She laughed out loud at that. “I’ve seen six Seasons, Grace. I’m on the shelf gathering dust, except for the occasional fortune hunter. I have no interest in a marriage that is a business arrangement. I want to be loved for who I am. My immense dowry doesn’t aid me in finding love. I’m not particularly pretty.”
Grace opened her mouth to protest, and Minerva cut in before she could speak. “You know it’s true.” Based upon the dowry her father—one of the wealthiest men in London—had bestowed upon her, she had not wanted for men’s professed affections, but not a single one had carried an ounce of truth. She wasn’t particularly beautiful, couldn’t even classify herself as pretty or endearing in the looks department. “I have too much of my father in me. His dark eyes, his common features. And I’ve his head for business. I’m smart, and I speak my mind. I’m not demure or biddable. I want passion and fire, not the coldness of silence and sighs as we wait for the minutes to pass until we’re no longer in each other’s company. Do you have any idea how often I have sat in this very parlor with a gentleman who did little more than hold a teacup on his lap and comment on the biscuits and cakes as though they are the sum of my life? I’m intimidating. I know that. I consider holding my tongue, but I don’t want to give a gentleman a false impression of whom he is courting. I’m not shy about spouting my opinions, and men find such behavior intolerable.”
“You simply haven’t met the right man yet.”
“It’s not as though I’ve taken to hiding behind fronds. I’ve been visible, seen by everyone. My dowry is attractive; I am not. Men do not seek me out with passion in mind, but rather purse strings. It’s grown wearisome.”
Grace studied her quietly for a few moments. “What if you should get with child?” she finally asked, and Minerva nearly groaned at the tedious questioning, but she appreciated that her dear friend meant well.
“I’ve researched. I’ll take precautions.”
Grace slumped back, nibbling on her lower lip. “The act itself is incredibly intimate, Minerva. I can’t imagine engaging in such actions with someone I didn’t love.”
“I’m well aware that it won’t be perfect, Grace, but at this point in my life, I want to feel desired. I’ve heard that most of the men who frequent the place are of the aristocracy. So it’s quite possible it will be someone I know, possibly someone I favor. I fancy many of the gents; they simply don’t fancy me.”
“But after all that you’ll share, won’t it be awkward when you see him in the future?”
“He’s not going to know it’s me. I’ll be masked.” The mask she’d purchased in anticipation of acquiring the location of the infamous club covered two-thirds of her face, leaving only her eyes, lips, and chin visible.
“Butyou’llknow. Everything he did. Everywhere he touched. Everywhere you touched.”
Warmth and a bit of discomfiture coursed through Minerva as she imagined being caressed with large, strong hands. She took the images to bed with her every night even though they did little except leave her aching for what she’d never experienced. Her greatest fear was that she might actually weep if a man ever fondled her with bare hands. She’d been touched by men before, but always with cloth—gloves at the very least—serving as a barrier. “I’ve thought about the ramifications long and hard, Grace. It’s not something I decided on a whim. Do you have any idea how lonely it is to have never felt so much as the stroke of a man’s finger along forbidden flesh? During dinners, no one sneaks in an errant touch beneath the tablecloth, out of sight of others, when my gloves are resting on my lap and my hands are uncovered. No one does anything untoward where I’m concerned.”
“If I might be honest, this recourse seems rather tawdry. Perhaps you should seek out a lover.”
