Page 2 of How to Lose a Dowry in Three Bucks (A Few Good Bucks #3)

Miss Sophia Stafford had a problem. She’d entered the earl’s library after breakfast, dozed in a nook off the upper level balcony in between perusals of an encyclopedia, and now the man himself was downstairs rattling around. Which would make it difficult to leave without encountering him.

It wasn’t so much that she didn’t want to come across Matthew Bohun. Why, she’d collected on a flung-off favor of a London Season he’d promised her dear papa ages ago in order to meet the man.

The truth was, ever since Sophia had been a girl, her father’s stories about the earl had fascinated her.

At university, he’d been a keen enough student for her father to respect him, but he wasn’t a nervous type with the pallor of a library-dweller like the other young men who visited their cottage.

Nor was he a Corinthian with a mind only for sport.

Peverel, as his friends called him, had an easy, open way about him, according to her papa.

She’d heard whispers long after he’d finished university that the ladies of the town considered him a most remarkable man. It gave a girl thoughts. Her thoughts only intensified as she heard him downstairs.

When Sophia learned from her solicitor that she needed to present herself in London for a Season she considered it a silly and even dangerous clause.

Then her mind had wandered to the man who’d cast the mold for all men, simply through stories told by other people.

Even all these years after completing school, he had thick, dark hair and a strapping physique that spoke of hard labor outdoors on his estates.

His chest and abdomen were wide and had a pleasant heft to them, as if an embrace in those powerful arms might shield one from the slings and arrows of the world. Or put one in his thrall.

Sophia tugged at the high lace that had been scratching at her neck all morning.

Her plan was sound: she’d make a show of putting effort into her Season, then convert her dowry to an annuity that would provide for living expenses upon being determined “unmarriageable” at twenty-five.

In the meantime, she needed to show her face in public while being so unappealing to men that none would think to kidnap her, as several men had tried — and one succeeded — with her deceased mama.

No wonder mama had fled from her exalted family and hastily wed a kindly don with an astonishing number of cats who’d shielded her from the outside world.

She heard a noise from downstairs and poked her head over the railing.

There he was, sprawled on a divan with a newspaper open.

The earl lounged as if he had all the time in the world, flipping through the newsprint and occasionally glancing outside, presumably to admire the garden behind his townhouse.

He seemed very satisfied this morning, as if he was looking forward to something.

Perhaps the meeting of his gentleman’s club tonight.

Sophia imagined what gentlemen did at social clubs and struggled to draw forth a topic of conversation that would capture the interest of men like the earl.

Unlike the swots her father had most commonly taught, Matthew Bohun was not a man of philosophy or religion — at least as far as Sophia knew.

Had he changed in the years since her father had known him?

She heard the papers crinkle and looked over the railing again. The earl was still sprawled on that divan, but his thick thighs seemed wider apart now, and his back fully rested against the furniture. Was he, too, hoping to take a nap in the library?

He opened a metal box Sophia hadn’t seen before and withdrew cards.

And then Sophia saw something that rearranged her assumptions entirely.

Peverel flipped the card open — there was a photograph inside.

As she tried to catch a glimpse of the photograph, his hips moved on the divan.

And then he placed one of his gigantic hands right over his trousers and rubbed at the place his manhood must have grown stiff. Why, was he looking at bawdy images?

In her shock at seeing hints of illicit photographs, Sophia moved from the railing so quickly that her bustle snagged on the side table.

She had to set it to rights hastily so it wouldn’t crash onto the floor.

Sophia scurried back to the alcove where she’d been napping and caught her breath while frantically determining her next course of action.

“I say, who goes there?”

She breathed into her fist, trying to be small and quiet, as her mama had taught her after they’d moved to America following her father’s death. If only she could hide within these walls and emerge when she was 25 and certifiably unmarriageable!

After several minutes and no further yelling from downstairs, Sophia crept to the rail again. And then she saw him.

Matthew Bohun sprawled on the divan, a photograph in hand. His coat was now off, waistcoat unbuttoned, and his shirt open at the bottom. He’d undone his fine trousers, letting them sit low on his hips, and moved his hand over his manhood.

She’d never seen a man’s thing . Oh, she’d spotted barnyard animals in their natural states before, but never a grown man.

Apprised of the realities of life by her mama, mainly for the sake of impressing upon her the need for safety, Sophia was aware of the part’s general form and function and tendency to cause terror, but seeing even the tip of him emerge from his hand was a revelation.

Though she had no basis for comparison, Sophia knew something instinctually: Peverel was big.

There was no way something that size could be normal for a man.

No wonder the ladies of the night spoke of him so many years later, talking so much even a girl doing charitable work on their streets heard all about his impressive equipment!

His piece reminded her of a thick club, something that would stretch and hurt and break.

She moaned, imagining the feel. How it would hurt in the best way.

He shifted, and she saw his form more clearly. Peverel had an image in one steady hand while he took his other from the tip to the root of that big thing he somehow fit within his trousers. She looked closer at the photograph and realized it was likely a dancing girl.

But this girl’s bodice stopped at her under-bust so her bubbies could be seen in the photograph. And her skirts? Held aloft. And lifted high enough that the dark thatch of hair between her legs was almost visible in the shadows of the image.

Sophia watched, mesmerized, as this woman — unknown to her, but possibly known to the earl — powerfully affected him from afar. Why, this woman’s frozen, distant nudity inspired him far more than a flesh and blood woman in his own house.

And that’s when a vision flashed before her eyes: gone were her ruffles, bustles, and prints.

She wore that dancing costume, her body captured in a photograph for Matthew Bohun’s pleasure.

It was an alluring idea for a girl taught to be terrified of men while also wondering what their regard might feel like.

Would this man like the look of her heavy breasts she took care to encase in thick brocade? Imagine feeling her generous nipples? Sophia brought a hand to her own breast and cupped one before trying to pinch the nipple through the fabric. It was no use; she wore too many concealing layers.

She watched as Peverel dropped his head back and groaned, removed his hand from around his manhood to spit in the palm, and resumed stroking that shocking club. The slick sound of him working over that shaft traveled to where she observed from the railing, her body suddenly aflame.

Sophia’s eyes moved from the earl to that exposed dancing girl, who had lifted her hem to display her body for admiration. The dancing girl showed the earl her most private places. Not masses of anonymous men, but the earl specifically. The thought of being that girl almost laid Sophia low.

Lifting her skirts slowly, still uncertain of her choice, Sophia found it easy to slip a hand beneath her dress when it reached the level of her thighs. From there, she pushed into the slit in her underthings and found where her own thatch was alarmingly wet.

“Oh,” said Sophia, trailing a finger over her quim hesitantly.

Peverel’s head jerked as if he’d heard her, but he simply resumed his strokes. She let out a muffled giggle. Wouldn’t he be surprised if he knew Miss Sophia Stafford was watching him stroke his manhood to lewd photographs and simultaneously stroking her own kitty?

Somehow, this felt even better than those stolen moments in her own bed, where she had hours to tease and play until she erupted at last. The feeling of being involved in some illicit game of watching a man who was watching another woman made her blood run so hot teasing wasn’t an option.

Her breath shuddered, and she bit her lip to keep in a moan. It wouldn’t do for him to know she was up here.