The Earl's Forbidden Ward. Bronwyn ScottЧитать онлайн книгу.

       London—Spring 1832

      Peyton Ramsden, fourth Earl of Dursley, was doing what he did best—technically superior, emotionally removed sex with his mistress of two years. Certain of her fulfilment, he gave a final thrust and efficiently withdrew to make a gentleman’s finish in the sheets.

      His mistress, the elegant Lydia Staunton, raised herself up on one arm, letting the white satin of the sheet slide provocatively down her hip. ‘So, you’re giving me my congé,’ she said matter-of-factly.

      ‘Yes, I am,’ Peyton answered evenly. There was no need to dress up the conversation, although he’d planned to bring up the issue after he’d got out of bed. For a man who liked to keep his life organised into neat compartments, there was something inherently wrong about discussing business so soon after coupling, even if it was the business of sex.

      ‘How did you know?’ He hadn’t spoken of it or dropped the slightest hint at ending their arrangement since he’d come up to town three days ago, although he’d made it plain at the beginning of their association that he had no intentions of sustaining their relationship beyond two years.

      ‘It was worse than usual tonight.’ Lydia could always be counted on to speak her mind.

      Peyton fixed her with an arrogant stare, one eyebrow raised in challenge. ‘I highly doubt that, madame.’ If there was one area the Ramsden brothers excelled at, it was in the bedroom arts. They’d been schooled at an early age about how to please a woman, part of their father’s training regimen for a gentleman.

      Lydia fell back on the pillows, ennui punctuating her words. ‘It’s not that. It’s never that. You know you’re exquisite in the bedroom, Dursley. You don’t need me to tell you your skills are unsurpassed.’

      Dursley. He hated being a title to everyone, especially someone he’d shared conjugal relations with. Peyton rolled out of bed in a single fluid motion and strode across the room to the chair where his clothes waited. He picked up his shirt to put on. Perhaps he’d demand his next mistress call him ‘Peyton’. And perhaps not. Forced intimacy wasn’t true intimacy and he required honesty above all else.

      ‘Well, thank goodness. For a moment I was starting to doubt.’ His tone conveyed the exact opposite. There was no misunderstanding the real message. The Earl of Dursley did not doubt himself in the least, in any aspect of his life.

      Lydia sighed. ‘Skills aren’t everything, Dursley. It takes more than prowess in bed to be a good lover. Some day, you’re going to have to feel something.’

      This was an old discussion. Lydia had accused him of being detached more than once during their association. Tonight, Peyton chose to ignore the comment. Arguing at the end of their association would resolve nothing. He pulled on his trousers and shrugged into his coat. He walked to Lydia’s dressing table and pulled a slim box from the inside pocket of his coat. He didn’t need to tell Lydia what it was. She was experienced enough in these dealings to know the box contained an expensive parting gift; something she could choose to flaunt or sell, depending on her circumstances. He placed a calling card on top of the box.

      ‘Peter Pennington, Viscount Wyndham, has suggested he is in the market. I offered him the lease to this house if you’re amenable.’ Lydia would know exactly what that meant. He’d found her another protector. Her financial security would not lapse in the wake of his exit.

      ‘Bravo, very nice, Dursley. You’ve wrapped up all the loose ends in two sentences.’ Lydia got out of bed and slipped her long arms into a silk robe, one of his many gifts to her over the years. She belted it at the waist. ‘Tell me, do you ever get tired of being in control?’ The words were not kind.

      Ah, the usually unflappable Lydia was piqued. Peyton sensed it was time to make an expedient exit before a quarrel cast a pall over their parting. He understood her discontent. For all the physical pleasure he gave her, Lydia wanted something more from him, something he was unwilling to give. ‘I know what you want, Lydia. Wyndham is better suited to give you the illusion of romance than I am.’ He made a short bow in her direction. ‘I wish you the best. Goodnight, my dear. I have other business to attend to before my evening is through. I will show myself out.’

      Once outside in the cold evening, Peyton sent his coach home, choosing to walk instead. The night air was bracing and he suddenly found himself in possession of a burst of energy begging to be spent. It was just as well—a walk would give him time to think and there was plenty to think