Taking Liberties. Jackie Barbosa
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Taking Liberties
Jackie Barbosa
MILLS & BOON
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London, 1795
Lady Leticia Blake has wealth, beauty and, most important of all, numerous marriage proposals. Tish knows precisely what she wants in a husband: a man who can fulfill her deepest, darkest and most unladylike fantasies. But as a respectable debutante, she has no means to test her admirers’ arts in the bedchamber. Not unless she turns the tables and takes liberties with them—starting with tempting Viscount Nash Langston….
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Epilogue
Chapter One
London, 1795
Lady Leticia Blake was accounted by her peers to be the most fortunate of debutantes, the possessor of an embarrassment of riches in the form of wealth, wardrobe, winsomeness and, most important of all, wedding proposals. Rumor held that in her first Season she had received—and declined—no less the five offers of marriage, and a similar number in her second. Now, as her third Season prepared to draw to a close, what everyone, including her parents, wanted to know was when she would decide to piss or get off the pot.
Or so her father said as he paced the fine Turkish rug that graced the floor of his library.
“Now see here, lass,” the Marquess of Avingdon huffed, wagging an accusatory finger at Tish, who sat with her hands folded in her lap in one of the oversize armchairs, “I won’t mince words. Your mother and I have seen fit to give you free rein for three Seasons, but even my pockets aren’t deep enough to bankroll a fourth, especially since you’re no closer to choosing a husband now than you were on the day you curtsied for the bloody queen.”
His whiskered face had turned a rather unhealthy shade of red, and Tish experienced a pang of anxiety at the possibility he’d experience an apoplexy if he didn’t calm himself.
“That’s not true, Papa,” she said, hoping to appease him with a dose of reason and hard data. “I’m much closer now than I was when I debuted. After all, I know I don’t want to marry any of the men I’ve turned down.”
Unfortunately this observation seemed to have the opposite of the desired effect. “And a fine lot you’ve refused, too. Three earls, a duke’s brother and half a dozen other perfectly respectable gentlemen. Tell me, lass, of the ten or so you’ve still got trailing after your skirts, are there any you’d consider marrying?”
Tish looked down at the floor and chewed her upper lip. “Well, yes, but…”
Her father grabbed her chin and tilted her head so she was forced to look up into his angry blue eyes. “No buts. Choose one of them by the end of next week.”
“Next week?” The words came out on a squeak.
“Aye, lass.” His expression softened at her shock, however, and he gave her chin a gentle caress. “You’ve had plenty of time to decide what you want in a husband. If you don’t know by now, there’ll be naught for me to do but decide for you.”
Tish stared at her father in horror and confusion. “But you promised you’d let me choose my own husband.”
“And so I will, lass, provided you do so in the time I’ve allotted you.” He dropped a fond kiss on her nose and straightened. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’m expected in the Lords in half an hour.” He turned and marched out of the room without so much as a backward glance at his supposedly beloved daughter.
Tish wanted to argue that she knew precisely what she wanted in a husband, and that was exactly the problem. She wanted the kind of husband whose kiss would make her toes curl and her knees buckle, whose touch would cause her skin to tingle and her stomach to bottom out. One who could fulfill her deepest, darkest, most unladylike fantasies.
And oh, she had so many of those.
The trouble was that as a young lady of gentle breeding and good reputation, she faced the same dilemma as her sister: she had no means of testing the fitness of her candidates but talk. True, she could easily rule out those gentlemen who turned her stomach in entirely the wrong way, but it was quite impossible to discern whether any of the handsomer gentlemen who paid her court might be “the one” when she spent her entire life under the watchful eye of one chaperone after another. Not to mention that all of her suitors seemed regrettably determined to behave like gentlemen, which meant they made no attempt to spirit her off to some private alcove or darkened garden path for the purpose of taking liberties with her person.
What she needed, she thought irritably, was to take liberties with them.
And that was when it came to her. The greatest idea in all history.
Viscount Nash Langston was already in a foul mood when he walked into White’s that afternoon. He’d received news yesterday that more than half the corn crop at his Lancashire estate was underwater due to flooding, and this morning he’d learned that a shipment of sugar cane in which he had invested had failed to arrive on schedule and was likely languishing at the bottom of the ocean floor. Neither loss would crush him financially, of course, but together they would place a substantial burden on his resources for the next year or so.
Not what a man in hot pursuit of the ton’s most sought-after debutante needed to improve his standing, either in her eyes or those of her parents.
Nash had come to the club with the intention of retiring to the back room and drowning his sorrows in imitation of his fortunes, but was swiftly diverted from his goal by the boisterous goings-on surrounding White’s notorious betting book. Under normal circumstances, he would have paid them no heed, for he found the subjects upon which his peers placed their wagers frivolous or dangerous or, as often as not, both. But today was different, because as he attempted to walk past the crush of bodies crowding around the book, he heard three words that stopped him dead in his tracks.
“…Lady Leticia Blake,” boomed Lord Gastonbury, who was unofficially in charge of collecting members’ markers when the wagers exceeded five hundred pounds. “Place your bets.”
What the bloody hell were they betting on that had to do with Tish Blake? Nash eyed the group of so-called gentlemen pressing Gastonbury and had a sick feeling he already knew the answer.
He sidled up to the only man in the room who seemed to have no interest in participating in the proceedings. Lord Colin Fitzgerald was a bit of an enigma, having only gained entrance to White’s upon his recent marriage to the former Lady Grace Hannington. The fact that he shared his wife with his close childhood friend was no secret, but since the influential dowager Countess Aberdeen