carried it off when I was looking at the grounds below…
The whispery soft quality of Miss Phoebe Barrett’s voice slipped into his mind. Now she occupied his thoughts for entirely different reasons. Her sultry tones were best reserved for wicked games upon satin bedsheets and a familiar stirring of lust struck him. Edmund strode down the handful of steps to his waiting carriage.
The liveried driver yanked the door open.
“Home,” he commanded in clipped tones. He climbed inside and sat upon the crimson squabs. The door closed with a firm click behind him and then the carriage dipped with the young driver scrambling atop his box. A moment later, the black lacquer conveyance rocked into motion. He peeled back the edge of the curtain and peered out at the passing unfashionable, seedy streets. He’d long preferred the sordid London hells to the respectable, polite White’s and Brooke’s. The world of dark and deception was, at least, sincere in what it represented unlike the façade of polite, wedded lords and ladies who’d simultaneously gasp with outrage at the fabric of a person’s garments while taking their pleasure with another.
He considered his meeting with Lord Waters. The greed and desperation gleaming in the man’s eyes indicated he’d do anything and everything Edmund required of him. Though this particular meeting had proven useless, avarice was a powerful motivator. What the old, fat letch didn’t know of Miss Fairfax, he soon would.
From the crystal windowpane, his evilly grinning visage stared back at him. An unsought-after creature such as Phoebe Barrett would welcome any hint of attention bestowed upon her. No, it would take no effort at all for a scoundrel like Edmund to slip through her defenses so he might, in turn, ruin her friend.
The carriage continued to rattle down the cobbled roads. His smile dissolved into a scowl. However, the lady he intended to bind himself to had proven herself suitably guarded and cynical. Such a woman was the perfect match for an emotionless bastard like him. How ironical to find he preferred the idea of bedding that prattling lady with her well-rounded buttocks presented on Lord Delenworth’s balustrade, all the more.
His carriage rocked to a slow stop before his fashionable Mayfair townhouse. He didn’t await his coachman’s assistance, instead he shoved the door open and jumped out. With purposeful steps, he strode down the pavement and up the stairs of the white townhouse. His butler, an older man with white hair, pulled the door open.
“Lord Rutland,” he greeted. Despite his stooped and aged form, he sketched a flawless bow.
He frowned. “Wallace,” he said tersely. “I told you, you needn’t bow,” he snapped as the old servant closed the door behind him.
A twinkle lit the man’s rheumy blue eyes. “It is good for my constitution.”
Edmund snorted and shrugged out of his cloak. Wallace held his hand out. He eyed the gnarled fingers and thick, dark green veins jutting at the top of the man’s hand. The loyal servant should have retired twenty years ago. Sheer pride and no small amount of obstinance kept him at his post. Edmund had offered him a sizeable pension at some point ten years ago, and continued to present the offer, but the man refused. Edmund suspected the old, withered figure would die at the damned doorway.
Wallace followed his gaze and cleared his throat. “It’s merely the cool weather,” he confided.
Edmund released his cloak into those ancient hands. Tightening his jaw, he said nothing. It was age and rheumatism. He’d not debate the merits on the man keeping his position at this late hour. He started up the winding, white marble staircase.
“I understand you’ve begun attending respectable events, my lord?”
Alas, old, bold, and mouthy Wallace had little point in allowing Edmund his much-welcomed, solitary presence. “You learned long ago I don’t answer questions,” he said with far more patience than the
The whispery soft quality of Miss Phoebe Barrett’s voice slipped into his mind. Now she occupied his thoughts for entirely different reasons. Her sultry tones were best reserved for wicked games upon satin bedsheets and a familiar stirring of lust struck him. Edmund strode down the handful of steps to his waiting carriage.
The liveried driver yanked the door open.
“Home,” he commanded in clipped tones. He climbed inside and sat upon the crimson squabs. The door closed with a firm click behind him and then the carriage dipped with the young driver scrambling atop his box. A moment later, the black lacquer conveyance rocked into motion. He peeled back the edge of the curtain and peered out at the passing unfashionable, seedy streets. He’d long preferred the sordid London hells to the respectable, polite White’s and Brooke’s. The world of dark and deception was, at least, sincere in what it represented unlike the façade of polite, wedded lords and ladies who’d simultaneously gasp with outrage at the fabric of a person’s garments while taking their pleasure with another.
He considered his meeting with Lord Waters. The greed and desperation gleaming in the man’s eyes indicated he’d do anything and everything Edmund required of him. Though this particular meeting had proven useless, avarice was a powerful motivator. What the old, fat letch didn’t know of Miss Fairfax, he soon would.
From the crystal windowpane, his evilly grinning visage stared back at him. An unsought-after creature such as Phoebe Barrett would welcome any hint of attention bestowed upon her. No, it would take no effort at all for a scoundrel like Edmund to slip through her defenses so he might, in turn, ruin her friend.
The carriage continued to rattle down the cobbled roads. His smile dissolved into a scowl. However, the lady he intended to bind himself to had proven herself suitably guarded and cynical. Such a woman was the perfect match for an emotionless bastard like him. How ironical to find he preferred the idea of bedding that prattling lady with her well-rounded buttocks presented on Lord Delenworth’s balustrade, all the more.
His carriage rocked to a slow stop before his fashionable Mayfair townhouse. He didn’t await his coachman’s assistance, instead he shoved the door open and jumped out. With purposeful steps, he strode down the pavement and up the stairs of the white townhouse. His butler, an older man with white hair, pulled the door open.
“Lord Rutland,” he greeted. Despite his stooped and aged form, he sketched a flawless bow.
He frowned. “Wallace,” he said tersely. “I told you, you needn’t bow,” he snapped as the old servant closed the door behind him.
A twinkle lit the man’s rheumy blue eyes. “It is good for my constitution.”
Edmund snorted and shrugged out of his cloak. Wallace held his hand out. He eyed the gnarled fingers and thick, dark green veins jutting at the top of the man’s hand. The loyal servant should have retired twenty years ago. Sheer pride and no small amount of obstinance kept him at his post. Edmund had offered him a sizeable pension at some point ten years ago, and continued to present the offer, but the man refused. Edmund suspected the old, withered figure would die at the damned doorway.
Wallace followed his gaze and cleared his throat. “It’s merely the cool weather,” he confided.
Edmund released his cloak into those ancient hands. Tightening his jaw, he said nothing. It was age and rheumatism. He’d not debate the merits on the man keeping his position at this late hour. He started up the winding, white marble staircase.
“I understand you’ve begun attending respectable events, my lord?”
Alas, old, bold, and mouthy Wallace had little point in allowing Edmund his much-welcomed, solitary presence. “You learned long ago I don’t answer questions,” he said with far more patience than the
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