Page 7 of How to Tempt a Duke

“The lady has had quite the time of it.” Lottie lifted her forefinger. “First her father died, some years ago, then her brother vanished, and now the man who had been courting her has proposed to another.”

She held out her three extended fingers, as if the physical demonstration might alter his wits. Her pinky came up, bringing the total count to four.

“And because every woman deserves a second chance.”

The latter was expressed so solemnly Charles knew Lottie was not only referring to Westix’s daughter but to herself. No doubt she was aware that the best way to win his acquiescence was through staggering guilt.

She knew him too damn well.

“Just imagine it, Charles.” She sat upright. “If there is one countess willing to pay for her daughter’s education—the kind that cannot be obtained at any reputable institution—there will be more. Every mother wants her daughter to be desirable and to wed. Who better to teach such subtle seductions than a courtesan? I could even educate married women on the pleasures to be had in the bedroom—”

“Enough,” Charles ground out. “For the love of every sacred saint, please cease this talk of intimacy.”

He set his glass down and paced about the room, all too aware of Lottie’s anxious stare. Helping her would be a betrayal of his father’s trust, and hadn’t he already failed him enough?

Charles’s head snapped up as an idea struck him. But if he aided this Westix chit, perhaps she might be so grateful for his assistance she would assist him in locating the lost journals.

From her watchful perch, Lottie straightened in anticipation.

“I’ll assist you,” Charles said at last. “However, I’ll do so on one condition.”

She tilted her head in silent inquiry.

“You put on a shawl.”

She rolled her eyes playfully. “Very well.” She peered out the window and beamed victoriously up at him. “And your timing is perfect. She’s just arrived.”

Eleanor awaited her fate alone. She had been divested of her domino, wig and mask—all taken by the footman. Without the shield of those items she was left feeling exposed in her precarious surroundings, and far too vulnerable.

The double doors of the drawing room were closed and oil lamps cast a flickering golden light. A harp sat in the corner, its shadow stretching over the thick Brussels weave carpet like a great beast stretching for her. Childish fear nipped at her and left her with the urgent desire to lift her feet from the floor, lest it make a grab at her.

A glass of sherry sat in open invitation on an elegantly carved table beside the chair. If it hadn’t been for the bust of a woman with her breasts thrust out that was set behind it, Eleanor might have accepted the proffered indulgence.

But, while she appreciated the consideration, she was quite certain she could manage her nerves well enough on her own without the aid of alcohol. In fact, she knew she could. Murrays, after all, were strong.

The double doors parted and a woman with tumbling curls of dark hair appeared. A crimson gown hugged her trim figure and a black lace shawl lay over the swell of her generous bust, lending her a far more decent appearance than Eleanor had expected.

“I am Lottie.”

Her voice was as smooth and sensual as her face—the kind which left other women with a disquieted sense of inadequacy. Was it any wonder men paid for her time?

Eleanor hid the discomfiting thought behind a tight nod and had opened her mouth to speak when a tall man entered the room.

The low lamplight gleamed off his dark hair and shadowed his sharp jaw. His skin appeared golden beside the porcelain fairness of Lottie’s, as if he’d spent much time in the sun. The brilliant blue of his eyes practically glowed against his gilded skin.

He was, by anyone’s estimation, an extraordinarily handsome man.

Eleanor stiffened. “I was not told that a man would take part in my lessons.”

Lottie smiled easily. “Darling, how would you learn to properly converse with a man if you hadn’t anyone to practice on? Your mother knew it was a possibility and she trusts me.” She regarded the man. “And I trust him.”

He returned Eleanor’s curious stare with a nonchalance so casual she felt foolish for voicing her fears.

“What is his name?” She spoke with equal indifference, as though she was entirely unfeeling. Except that she wasn’t. Her insides trembled like set jelly and her bones ached from the rigidity of her muscles. “We haven’t been introduced.”

“I will allow my introduction when you permit yours.”

The man’s voice was deep and smooth. Eleanor lifted her chin a notch, uncertain if his response was meant in flirtation or insolence. Regardless, she wouldn’t deign to reply. She had not come here to be mocked.