Tempted By The Roguish Lord. Mary Brendan

believe I do and you should take the time to read the documents you were given after your husband died. I can raze it to the ground if I wish and eject you back into the gutter whence you came. I tell this milksop to stay away from you for his own good unless he welcomes a dose of pox before he turns twenty-one.’

      Peter Rathbone hastily grabbed at his coat and within a few moments the man’s escape was audible as he clattered down the stairs. Her young lover’s desertion caused the woman’s scarlet mouth to form a tight knot. In frustration, she swiped an empty brandy bottle from the side table and hurled it. Lance easily evaded the missile and stepped away from the glass shards.

      She jumped naked from the bed and flew at him, fingers curled into talons that were aimed at his face. ‘How dare you tell him I’ve got the pox!’

      Lance easily held her off and, spinning her about, shoved her back towards the mattress where she sprawled on her belly. ‘Well, if you haven’t caught it yet, I imagine it’s only a matter of time. He’s only a year older than your daughter. For common decency, leave the lad alone.’ Common decency wasn’t a phrase he’d usually use and he was immediately reminded of the woman who’d recently said it to him. Dark-haired and quietly beautiful, she was as far removed from this painted-face jade as was imaginable. Laughably, this woman would be far more welcome in society than would Emma Waverley.

      Sonia peeped over her shoulder at him, wiggling firm buttocks and purring, ‘You may pull that insolent face, but you wanted me once...oh, how you wanted me...so many ways, Lance...’ Her gyrating became more provocative.

      ‘That was a long time ago, when I was as pitiable as that fool who’s just left.’

      ‘I’m only a few years older than you, so don’t make out I’m an ageing hag. We were a good match, Lance. I gave you everything you wanted and made you happy.’ She whipped over on to her back and, resting back on her elbows, openly displayed what she’d given him to his lazy gaze.

      ‘You never made me happy. That wasn’t it at all,’ he said with arrant self-disgust.

      She crooked a finger, beckoning him as her knees dropped further apart. ‘I made you horny then. I bet I still can...’

      ‘Well, put your money down and I’ll take it. I couldn’t raise a smile for you, sweet. Now get dressed and meet me downstairs or you can search for Augusta yourself. And next time you want a tryst with a cicisbeo, travel out of Hertfordshire to bed him and pick on someone who isn’t one of my neighbours. I’m done with listening to gossip about you at the village inns.’

      She bounced on to her knees, glaring at him. ‘And I’m sick of listening to talk about which scheming little strumpet has caught your eye.’

      Lance turned on his heel and went out. He’d allow she had a point there. The opera singer had started a rumour that she’d hooked him. Just a week ago he’d have allowed her to be right. But for some reason his lust for Maria had cooled. And neither had he felt any inclination to visit Jenny again. As for the woman he’d just left...the thought of bedding her made him feel sick and not just because she’d been his father’s wife. But he wasn’t without fault. He’d once allowed himself to be taken in by her flattery and lies, and that had set in motion consequences of which he would always feel guilty and ashamed.

      Below in the back parlour he was served cognac by an obsequious landlord who diplomatically avoided looking directly at his lordship. The man could feel the rage emanating from his grand patron although the Earl’s demeanour was cold as ice. The woman upstairs was a regular and it wasn’t always the same fellow. Although she had been in with young Rathbone several times and they always took the same chamber and a bottle of port and one of brandy upstairs with them. The mystery was why the Countess didn’t entertain her lovers more discreetly on home ground. He concluded the cat had some twisted sense of decorum and was loath to foul her own doorstep.

      Lance took a chair by the window and gazed out into the sunlit afternoon. Much as he tried to concentrate on the business in hand, his mind wandered back yet again to London and Miss Emma Waverley. He couldn’t remember any woman having such a grip on his thoughts. Telling himself the mystery of her brother’s resurrection was what really absorbed him wouldn’t work. She was the draw... He was already trying to think of a reason to go back and see her again. He wanted her to let him help solve whatever problems the Waverleys had, but knew if he asked her to trust him her golden eyes would fire with suspicion. A wry smile tugged at a corner of his mouth. And who could blame her for being cautious? Was he going to deny that he wanted her so much he was starting to ache and think he was suffering some sort of brain sickness? He’d only been in her company twice, yet the last time he’d been obsessed in such a way he’d been a green boy of eighteen and under the spell of the woman upstairs. But he was no callow youth now as Sonia had just reminded him. And Emma Waverley was no ingénue. And when he got back to London he’d need to do something about approaching her and regaining his peace of mind.

      He watched Peter Rathbone tipping coins into the palm of the ostler who’d brought round his carriage. Soon the vehicle was swaying away, and Lance observed the gangly youth’s departure with a frown. He liked the Rathbones and hoped Peter wouldn’t persist in seeing Sonia or he might be disinherited. His parents wouldn’t suffer the humiliation of being saddled with a daughter-in-law, almost twice their son’s age, who might be a countess yet acted like nothing of the sort. He recognised himself in the boy: he’d been about the same age when Sonia had sunk her claws into him.