Page 6 of How to Lose a Dowry in Three Bucks (A Few Good Bucks #3)

By the time Peverel returned to London one week later, Sophia had assumed he was never coming back.

For days, she’d felt ashamed — she thought he’d fled to an estate on some spurious mission because he was mortified at being seen dancing with a dowdy spinster, then engaging in what could only be described as a lewd moment outside his townhouse.

A lewd moment she very much enjoyed, which made his rejection sting all the more.

And then something cast Matthew Bohun from her mind completely: the disastrous birthday visit to her grandfather’s solicitor.

She’d assumed triumph and even wore fresh flowers from the earl’s backyard garden to the meeting. Perhaps, away from the danger and scrutiny of society, she might finally bloom.

But when an assistant showed her in to see Mr. Wortley, her request to convert the dowry, as stipulated in the will, seemed to surprise him.

You see, the will, well, it provides for the unlikely conversion to an annuity, yes, but only in cases of complete unmarriageability, he’d said.

Your clerk told me — in writing — that reaching the age of twenty-five without having been married would satisfy that clause, she replied, trying not to grow hysterical.

The small man had looked at her over his glasses, his expression not unkind.

My dear, this is not the time of Romeo and Juliet, no matter what young Smithers thinks.

Twenty-five years of age is not disqualifying for an heiress of your magnitude.

No court in the land would rule you unmarriageable, even if you attempt to dim your light, Miss Stafford. I would be remiss to release the funds.

It was a blow. This man had not only denied her the most elegant solution to the problem of her safety, but he’d also indicated that her attempts to remain unnoticed were transparent to at least one man.

She’d ripped the flowers apart in the carriage, blaming them for the solicitor’s insights and blaming their owner for leaving her so very alone in the darkest moment of her life.

Before her eyes, future horrors flashed, and by the time she returned to the Peverel townhouse, a mighty headache had taken hold.

Sophia took to her bed, refused food, and watched the door in fear.

***

When someone knocked on the door three days later, Sophia didn’t bother responding. And then she realized the knocks came from a connecting door and not the hallway.

“Who—”

The door burst open, and there he was, his hair disheveled as if he’d just come in from a ride. Sophia should have felt fear — this was precisely the incursion she feared, was it not? — but her heart rose at the sight of him.

“I leave you mere days and receive reports you’ve taken to your bed and have been refusing food. Did you miss me so very much?”

Sophia sputtered, aghast that he might interpret her blue devils as somehow related to his absence. Without her realizing, he’d taken the opportunity to slip a dressing gown over her chemise. He was lifting her from the bed when Sophia stilled him with a hand to his chest.

“What’s this about?” she asked, her eyes wide.

“Mrs. Simonet wrote to me. An express. The housemaids are in an uproar over your uncleaned room. Staff are very hard to secure these days, I’ll have you know, and I won’t have you depriving me of help simply because you missed me desperately.”

She sputtered again, now against his chest because he’d lifted her into his arms despite her protests.

He hoisted her higher and carried her into the room from which he’d arrived. “And you smell; can’t have that,” he said, placing his nose at her neck and inhaling deeply.

Sophia gasped and wiggled, mortified that he’d found her in such a state.

“Now, now, I like the scent of woman, so I won’t be releasing you. At least not until you eat something,” he said, seating her on a chair before an enormous spread of food.

***

After she’d bathed and attired herself appropriately, Sophia returned to the room where Peverel had watched her like a hawk as she’d consumed enough food to make up for the past few days in bed.

The room was empty save the tea tray on a low table before a chaise longue. And the impossibly large man draped on it.

“I couldn’t possibly eat more,” she said from the doorway.

“Then come and pour for me,” he said, showing that there was a space beside him on the seat. He patted the cushion as if the place she was supposed to sit was unclear. “Who do I need to kill?” he asked conversationally as she took up the teapot.

The lid rattled when her hand shook. “Kill?” she asked faintly.

“Something happened that sent you to your bed for days. I wasn’t here to guard against it. I suppose I’ll need to kill the person or persons who upset you.”

Sophia set the pot down quickly and placed her hand on Peverel’s arm. “You needn’t. It was a misunderstanding. I’ll find a way forward.”

Peverel looked at her small fingers resting on his arm. She withdrew them immediately.

“What happened?” he asked lowly.

She related the conversation she’d had with Mr. Wortley while filling his cup and plate.

“Do you mean to challenge his interpretation of the will?”

“I don’t see how I could win,” she said. “In hindsight, I should have questioned the statement that reaching twenty-five years of age would be sufficient to release the funds. I trusted that a man of the law would, well, know the law!”

“You could sue the firm on those grounds,” he said.

Sophia waved him away, exhaustion written on her face. “The will stipulates that I need to be completely unmarriageable. I can’t think of an age I might reach that would free me. Would thirty be sufficient? By the time that day comes, perhaps not!”

“It might not need to be age,” he said, musing as he ate a comically small tea cake. “You simply need to be completely unmarriageable , he said?”

“Yes, but given the present mores, what would render me completely unmarriageable? I never imagined the day I’d bemoan the loosening of restrictions on behavior!”

Peverel stared at the filling of his finger sandwich. Why wasn’t he saying anything? He was a powerful man and, for once, she wanted someone to wade into the muck and fix things for her. Something bubbled in her chest. She was feeling very sorry for herself indeed.

“Why, the only unmarriageable woman in the world might be that girl in your photograph,” she said, her voice rising as tears surged to her eyes. “Not that I’d deny her the protection and comforts of a happy marriage, but…”

She trailed off as Matthew swung his head around to stare at her. “If you want to pose for your own lewd photographs, you could just say so.”

Sophia gasped, her hand instinctively coming to her breast as if to shield her very clothed body from his leering gaze.

“I hardly think…”

She tugged at the ruffle scraping her neck and tried not to look to see if her hardened nipples were visible despite her thickly quilted bodice.

“I hardly think your little puss stopped getting wet since seeing Martine in that photograph,” he said, drawing closer.

“Martine?”

“Oh yes, she’s a star in Paris.”

Sophia struggled to make sense of what he was saying. “You mean that…you’re not the only man with a photograph of her? Like that?”

“You’re asking if men around the world are beating their cocks to her pornographic photograph? As we speak?”

Sophia hesitated, then nodded yes.

“I think you know the answer,” he said, grinning wolfishly.

It boggled the mind. “How do you know her name? You sound very familiar with her.”

“Martine? Why, she has a live show in Paris,” he said, settling back with a broad smile on his face. “That photograph you spotted while spying on me was taken as I watched her from the front row.”

“Is she unmarriageable, do you think?” Sophia asked hopefully.

“I should think not, not if her husband Bertrand has anything to say about it.”

Sophia deflated. Even dancing girls in Paris who posed with their skirts up would still be eligible for marriage. She was truly stuck. Creeping dread rolled over her scalp and down her shoulders.

“To be honest,” he continued, “anything short of photographs in the act would likely not contribute to your argument that marriage is impossible for you. It might be easier to find some decent bloke to marry.”

“Some decent bloke who will own everything I bring to the marriage.”

“If the new Married Women’s Property Act ever passes, it wouldn’t mean such a loss. Say, I’m in Lords; I’ll vote on your side if it comes up for a vote.”

“That’s a lot of ifs,” she said sadly.

“It is,” he said, settling next to her companionably.

They stared at the half-empty tea tray. Peverel slapped his thigh. “Well, looks like you’ll need to have yourself photographed while being ravished by a group of men. Thankfully, I know some decent chaps.”

Sophia felt her eyes grow wide. She directed them at Matthew, uncertain that she’d heard him correctly.

He met her gaze and burst out laughing. “You should see your face!” he said, planting a quick kiss on her lips before she could think to dart from him. It was the sort of peck one planted on a baby or toy poodle, but all the same, it was her first.

“My goodness, for a moment, I thought you were serious!” she exclaimed, breaking into peals of laughter herself.

“Absolutely not. It would make me no better than one of those fortune hunters or a, well, a pimp,” he said, still chuckling. “That’s hardly suitable for a young lady of excellent reputation.”

“The problem is that I need to divest myself of that pristine reputation.”

“I couldn’t hand you off to that group of libertines. It would be far too much for a — you’re a virgin, correct?”

Sophia bristled. “I may be, but I hope to divest myself of my reputation and my maidenhead as soon as possible!“ she exclaimed.

“I don’t think—”

“No, I insist you tell me more about this group! They might be the key to my freedom and safety!”

“Well, they’re decent chaps willing to roger you senseless. Uncertain of the photography mechanics, but that seems less difficult to arrange than a small orchestra, so I’m sure it can be done.”

Sophia felt her mouth open, but she couldn’t move the muscles needed to close it. Was he really so casual about suggesting…that?

“There, now,” he whispered, drawing closer to her so his enormous body nearly covered her.

Sophia placed her hand on Peverel’s waistcoat. She watched her fingertips trace across the fabric and then grasped it in her fist.

His mouth was right over her ear, and she could feel the heat of his breath. “You needn’t,” he said.

“What if I want to?”

Peverel took her head between his colossal hands, staring into her eyes and studying her expression.

“Then you’ll need training,” he said, sliding his thumb into her parted lips. “A good deal of training.”

“How does one come by this training? Hard work?”

“Getting worked hard,” he growled, withdrawing his thumb only to press it back in.

“And how does one obtain this?” she asked around his digit.

“Have no fear,” he said with a smirk. “I’ll train you up.”