A Lord For The Wallflower Widow. Ann Lethbridge
flattered or annoyed? Better to ignore the whole thing than make a fool of herself. ‘Will there be anything else, Lord Avery?’
He gave a little grimace. ‘No. That will be all, thank you, Mrs Greystoke.’
She wrote up her bill. ‘Why do you do it?’ Oh, there went her brusque tongue again, asking questions regarding things that were none of her concern.
He leaned a hip against the counter. ‘Do what?’
‘Gamble. You must have been up all night, you look so dreadful.’
‘That bad, hmmm?’
She nodded. She forestalled the urge to ask if he had won or lost, but he seemed so weary, she guessed it was the latter.
‘I do it to keep the wolf from the door, Mrs Greystoke. To put food on the table. Coal in the hearth. To keep body and soul together.’ He sounded bitter.
The son of a duke needing to earn a living? ‘Surely...’
‘Surely what?’ His tone was suddenly dark, even a little dangerous.
She handed him the bill. ‘I beg your pardon. It is none of my business.’
He glanced down at the paper in his hand and back at her face. ‘You were going to ask why a man in my position, the son of a duke, needed to earn his living in such a manner.’
‘Oh, please. I have no wish to pry.’
‘My papa is a man with high expectations of his sons. I have disappointed him and therefore I am to make my own way in life.’
She knew all about parental disappointment. ‘Why not engage in some sort of gainful employment?’ She winced. Dash it, she sounded disapproving.
His lip curled and his smile became mocking. ‘You sound just like my father.’
Mortified, she began to put the rest of the nosegays back in their places in the drawer. ‘I beg your pardon. It is not my place to judge.’
The kettle on the hob began to sing. She raised her gaze to meet his. ‘Would you like a cup of tea?’
He looked surprised. And then pleased. ‘That is the best offer I have had in the last twenty-four hours. But I would hate to interrupt your morning.’
‘It is no interruption. I went to sweep the step while I waited for the kettle to boil. Would you throw the bolt on the shop door for me? No lady goes shopping at this early hour.’
He did as she asked and then followed her behind the curtain into her private quarters. Very small quarters, she realised as his large form seemed to take up most of the space in the little kitchen-cum-sitting room-cum-dining room. And more recently a place for ladies to try on naughty night attire.
She winced. And then there was the alcove curtained off, where she slept. Perhaps he wouldn’t notice.
‘Please, sit down,’ she said.
He took one of the two chairs at the small kitchen table while she busied herself with the pot and tea leaves.
‘This is where you live?’ he asked, his voice full of curiosity. ‘All alone?’
‘This is where I stay during the week while the shop is open. I go home at week’s end to collect more stock.’ She glanced over her shoulder to discover he was frowning.
‘London is not a safe city for a woman on her own,’ he said.
‘I am perfectly safe. My landlord, Mr Thrumby, lives upstairs and his man keeps an eye on my safety.’
He looked less than satisfied. She hadn’t expected him to care about her well-being. It surprised her and warmed her in odd ways. Something inside her chest seemed to soften.
She brought two cups of tea to the table along with milk and sugar on a small tray. ‘Please, help yourself.’ It was hardly the sort of elegant tea a lady would serve in a drawing room, but she was pleased to see him adding cream and sugar to his cup and sipping the tea appreciatively.
She felt bad for him. While he had not said in so many words that he had been disinherited by his father, clearly it must be the case. A gentleman such as he would have no trade, no skills, to fall back on, so it was no wonder he gambled. And then there were his special ladies. Mrs Baxter-Smythe’s sly words returned to her mind. A terrible idea entered her head. Terrible and exciting and awful. Terrifying.
So awful, yet so awfully tempting. She struggled to think of a way to phrase her question. Her request.
He leaned back in his chair with a boyish smile. A smile quite different from his usual practised charm. It made him seem more endearing. ‘That is the best cup of tea I have had in a long time.’
As a general rule men like him, charming handsome men, made her feel uncomfortable. She always felt awkward, as if her arms were too long and her feet too big. Lord Avery, on the other hand, made her feel...womanly. Even attractive. She could not help beaming back at him. ‘Thank you.’ She took a sip of her own tea.
A friendly silence descended. It felt companionable. As if they had known each other for years.
She put down her cup. ‘I wanted to ask you...’
He tilted his head in question. ‘What?’
‘I am not sure how to put it?’
‘Ask away.’
‘Do you also earn money from the ladies you escort to my shop?’ The words were too blunt when she had meant to be tactful.
He stiffened. ‘What makes you ask?’ he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes were cold. Shuttered.
She repressed a shiver. Oh, dear, why hadn’t she left well enough alone. ‘Something Mrs Baxter-Smythe said.’ Dash it, she should never have opened her mouth. She had spoiled everything.
His lips thinned. ‘Mrs Baxter-Smythe is jealous because I do not count her as one of my special ladies.’
‘Ladies you escort while their husbands are out of town.’
‘Exactly.’ He put down his cup. ‘And, yes, they do pay for my services.’ He picked up his hat.
He was going to leave and she still hadn’t asked her awful question. ‘Can any lady hire your...services?’
His eyes widened, then narrowed. ‘Are you asking for yourself?’
Heat rushed all the way up her face to her hairline, but she was not one to hide behind a lie. ‘I am.’
He put his hat down and shook his head. ‘I am not sure I fully understand what it is you are asking me. The ladies I escort are all wealthy and married. Single ladies present too many complications since I am single myself.’
She twirled her cup on its saucer. Did he think she was looking for a husband? ‘I am not seeking anything permanent, I assure you. I would prefer something...’ She frowned and set the handle of the cup at the proper angle.
‘Something?’ he prompted. His voice held a distinct chill.
She glanced up. His lips were still a thin straight line. ‘Brief,’ she blurted. In for a penny in for a pound her father always used to say. ‘One night. I am willing to pay, of course. Whatever the other ladies pay.’ She still had a little of her personal allowance for the month left over.
His eyebrow lifted. ‘Let me get this clear. You wish to pay me to bed you.’ His tone was grim.
Embarrassment rushed through her in a hot tide. Oh, why had she said anything at all? But having done so, she pressed on, her cheeks hotter than fire. ‘As you can imagine, there are particular disadvantages to being alone. I simply thought that...’ She gave an awkward laugh.
‘I do not bed my special ladies for money, Mrs Greystoke.’ His tone was as dry as dust. ‘I merely serve as their escort in their husband’s absences. And since you