10. This May Be a Problem
THIS MAY BE A PROBLEM
He had noticed her the instant she entered the lounge. Dark sultry hair teasing one shoulder. Ivory silk meant to make a man forget his own name.
The sight of her had struck him with a force he wasn’t sure how to manage, exactly how he’d felt at that ball last spring.
He admired and was attracted to women. Several, in fact. He was not insensible to beauty, nor had he spent the last decade untouched by ordinary human desire.
But those feelings had been manageable. Contained.
They were nothing like this quick, hot pull in his blood when he looked at Rose Darling. Nothing like the sharp need to step between her and the devil who’d decided his money ought to make her available. And the unease he’d felt when he first understood who she was had hardened into fury.
He couldn’t bear the thought of other men touching her.
And that… posed a problem.
Several, in fact.
He was her employer. Temporarily, perhaps, but still her employer.
And Rose Darling was a courtesan, a thought that ought to have cooled him.
There was nothing cool about his thoughts now.
His gaze dropped to the line of her throat. The gold ribbon circling it. The soft rise and fall of her breasts.
Reginald dragged his attention back to her face.
Miss Darling narrowed her dark eyes at him, her head tilted slightly, her smile not reaching them. “I believe we were clear on this point, m’lord. That is how I earn my living.”
Reginald ran a hand through his hair. “You will be compensated accordingly.”
Miss Darling’s brows drew together. “What exactly does that mean?”
“It means you will receive whatever sum you would ordinarily earn.”
He looked away, only then taking proper notice of the room around them. One of the damned private parlors.
Of course it was.
The knowledge—that this was where she entertained men—settled heavily in his chest.
Reginald’s jaw tightened.
“Why did you bring me here? To one of these—” He gestured vaguely.
Rose’s smile sharpened. “I knew we’d have privacy here.”
“My office is private.”
“Perhaps.” Miss Darling glanced around them. “But this is more comfortable than your office.”
“That’s not the point.”
“Is it not?”
Something in her voice warned him.
Reginald had known where she was leading him. He had followed her through the corridor and watched her open this door. What had he imagined lay beyond it?
She moved closer.
“You say I am not to take clients,” she said. “And that I will be compensated for any income I lose.”
“Yes.”
“Because you want me for yourself?”
Her eyes remained upon his. Taunting him? Inviting him?
“Yes.” There seemed little purpose in denying it. “You know that I want you.”
The admission thickened the air between them.
Resisting had been easier in the light of day, with her prim and proper and arguing with him.
Reginald exhaled through his nose. He had faced storms that split masts and sent sailors scrambling for their lives.
None of them had left him so uncertain of his footing.
“I want you,” he repeated. “That does not give me a right to you.”
Something flickered in her expression.
“I will not use my position to purchase what you would not otherwise choose to give. And I will not take you to bed while there is any chance you believe you must allow it because I own this house.”
Her throat moved.
He continued before desire could silence him.
“I would rather go without.” And he had. All his life.
In that moment, however, he couldn’t for the life of him remember why.
Miss Darling crossed the remaining space between them.
After a moment, she then lifted her hand, paused, and settled her fingertips on his chest, just above his heart.
The touch was light, and yet his entire body tightened beneath it.
“I have thought about that night with you in the garden,” she said. She did not look away. “Far more often than I ought.”
Reginald’s hand closed at his side.
“Why?”
“Because I still want you.”
Desire surged through him, so immediate and so brutal he half-expected it to knock him over.
He looked toward the door, then back at her.
Had she known precisely what she was doing when she brought him here?
Of course she had.
And he had followed willingly.
But when Rose’s fingers moved slowly over his waistcoat, he caught her wrist.
“You enjoy this,” he said.
Her eyes darkened. “This?”
“Seduction.”
A startled laugh escaped her.
Then it faded.
Her fingers stilled against his lapel, and uncertainty passed across her face—as if the answer surprised her as much as it would him.
“I do not hate it,” she said. “Usually.”
Reginald watched her closely, needing to know if she’d answer truthfully.
Miss Darling shook her head, a faint flush rising in her cheeks. “I have known modest pleasure, at times. But never has the want of it kept me awake.” Her gaze lifted to his. “Not until I met you.”
He should have stepped away.
He had spent his entire adult life avoiding precisely this sort of arrangement.
While other men kept mistresses, visited brothels, or married the women chosen for them, Reginald had relied on his own hand.
He’d refused to satisfy himself by taking advantage of a woman who had no real freedom to refuse him.
But Miss Darling smelled of roses and something warmer beneath them—the scent he had remembered far too clearly since the garden.
His body remembered too, and damn his eyes, but he was hard enough that standing this close to her had become an act of endurance.
Still, when she tried to move her hand lower, Reginald stopped her.
She blinked up at him.
Then, very quietly, she asked, “What if this has nothing to do with your position?”
His grip loosened. “What are you saying?”
“I am saying that I brought you here because I have thought about the garden for two months.” Her pupils were so dark they nearly edged out the dark brown. “When you looked at me downstairs, I saw desire in your eyes.”
His chest tightened.
“I feel it too,” she said.
Reginald shook his head, though her confession had all but shattered his defenses.
“You live beneath my roof. I’m planning on closing this place forever. How can I know you aren’t just saying what I want to hear, believing you’ll change my mind?”
“I am telling you what I want.”
He searched her face.
She was not innocent. That was not what mattered.
She needed to know that she was free to refuse him.
But she was not refusing.
She was asking.
For one disorienting instant, the room seemed to shift beneath his feet. All his life, Reginald had believed desire meant taking. Possessing.
But this woman—Rose—was standing before him, offering herself freely.
Because she.
Wanted.
Him.
And he could feel the control he’d exerted all his life begin to crumble.
But if he was going to do this… He needed to establish one thing.
“This cannot be as it was in the garden,” he said.
A faint crease appeared between her brows. “What do you mean?”
“That was about me. You made certain of it.”
“I wanted to.”
“Not this time.”
Disappointment flickered across her face. “I don’t understand.”
Reginald swallowed hard.
“Tell me what you want.” His voice was rough. “What pleases you.”
Her breath caught. “That’s not necessary,” she whispered.
“Yes,” he said. “It is.”
He watched surprise move through her expression. Her lips parted. Her cheeks flushed.
He stepped closer.
“I'll give you everything you want, as long as we begin with pleasing you.”