Page 3 of Midnight Rendezvous (Sins & Sensibilities #4)

CHAPTER 3

A lexander Sutton, the Earl of Bainbridge, sat broodingly in a velvet-backed chair, his whisky glass resting untouched in his hand. The amber liquid caught the low flicker of candlelight, casting golden ripples against the rim as if trying to entice him to drink. He ignored it.

The chamber—one of Aphrodite's private voyeur rooms—was designed for indulgence. Decadent, gilded paneling lined the walls, while thick damask drapes shielded the corners in shadows, allowing its patrons to observe without being seen. Mirrors adorned the ceiling, and the central dais was swathed in red silk, currently occupied by a tangle of writhing bodies— ton gentlemen and courtesans alike, all engaged in debauchery too carnal to name.

He ought to have been interested. This was his usual haunt, a haven of pleasure where the rules of the outside world did not apply. But tonight, he was bored. Deeply, restlessly bored.

"You wear the expression of a man contemplating something dangerous," came the lazy drawl of Sebastian, the Earl of Raine, from the chaise beside him.

"Or perhaps..." Raine leaned forward, smirking, his dark blue eyes gleaming. "Thinking about a particular young lady with exquisite hazel eyes... more flecks of green than gold, if memory serves."

Alexander's head snapped up. That unknown sensation curled through his chest again—warm, unsettling, maddening. Lady Penelope. He masked the reaction with a sip of his whisky, but the warmth lingered, settling low in his belly. Damn it .

"She is in your thoughts again," Raine said, sounding far too satisfied with himself. "That proper little miss. Penelope Dodge."

His other friend, Radbourne, let out a low chuckle, one arm slung lazily over the back of his chair, his scar catching the light in a jagged gleam. "Good God, man. Never say you're courting her for marriage ."

Alexander's mouth quirked at the disbelief in their voices. "Why not?" he said mildly. "I'm six and twenty. It is time I considered my duty to preserve the earldom. Why not marry a lady I find both likable and admirable?"

Raine snorted. "Because the chit is fresh-faced, sweet, and everything that doesn't align with your... proclivities. You forget we know you too well. We know you like your lovers bent over, their arses blushing pink from your hand, their wrists bound with silk as they beg for mercy."

"And your mercy," Radbourne murmured, "is rarely given."

Alexander's jaw tightened. He swirled his glass, watching the whisky spiral before he murmured, "With her, I would be different."

That earned silence. Not from doubt—but from surprise.

"I would not offend the sensibilities of my wife," he added, quieter this time.

The door creaked open and in strolled Oliver, the Marquess of Ambrose, impeccably dressed and just as rakish as the rest of them. He shut the door behind him, leaned against it with casual elegance, and arched a brow. "Such a marriage would not be sustainable, and we all know it."

Alexander lifted his gaze to meet Oliver's. "My possible marriage—or not—is not a cause for concern. And certainly not a topic of public discussion."

Radbourne let out a mournful sigh. "We're not mocking you, Bainbridge. We're trying to save you from making a bloody mistake."

"You're young," Raine added. "Wait another decade. Have a few more lovers. Take your pleasures while you can. Then marry someone who doesn't make you want to throttle yourself, trying to pretend you're something you're not."

The sound of moans grew louder from the dais, the tempo of the bodies tangled in pleasure intensifying. The scent of sex, perfume, and sweat thickened in the air.

Alexander stood abruptly. He could not do this. He had not been able to take a lover since he met her. His cock stirred for no one but her now. Lady Penelope Dodge—so shy, so elegant, so maddeningly unaware of how he hungered for her—haunted his thoughts, even in a place like Aphrodite. Perhaps especially here.

"Leaving so soon?" Oliver asked with a lift of his glass.

"I find myself suddenly uninterested in the entertainment," Alexander said curtly.

"Which entertainment?" Radbourne drawled. "The women or our well-meant advice?"

Alexander gave them a faint smile. "Both."

He strode to the door, ignoring the flutter of a courtesan's fingers at his sleeve, the purring invitation of a blonde sprawled artfully on a velvet chaise, and the admiring glances from a pair of masked patrons. Outside, the night was cold. The scent of the city—soot, smoke, and wet cobblestones—felt bracing after the heat inside.

"Bring my horse," he snapped to the footman near the steps.

His stallion was brought around from the mews within moments, and Alexander mounted without a word, letting the familiar rhythm of hooves soothe him. He needed to be away from temptation. Away from the endless swirl of lust that did not touch him the way it used to. Not anymore.

Not since her.

He rode toward his empty townhouse in Berkeley Square, the wind biting against his face; the image of Lady Penelope burned into his mind—her flushed cheeks when she laughed, how the dimple in her left cheek deepened, her intelligent green-golden eyes, her quiet fire, the artful chignons she wore with those dark curls kissing her cheeks. And even though he knew his desires were too rough, too dominating for a young lady like her... it was still her he wanted.

Even if she deserved far better. Still, it was her. "I am a damn fool," he muttered.

He led his stallion to the mews himself, ensuring the beast was properly stabled and fed. Only then did he stride to the side entrance and slip into the quiet stillness of his townhouse. The hallway was dark save for a single wall sconce flickering low in the corridor. Its meager glow cast elongated shadows across the paneled walls, and Alexander walked with the weariness of a man too familiar with self-denial.

The butler had long since retired. Alexander preferred it that way—less staff, fewer expenses. Even in matters of heat and light, prudence was his guiding hand. Every flame, every coin, had to be accounted for. His boots echoed faintly against the marble floor as he moved through the hall to his sanctuary—the library.

A low fire burned in the hearth, casting soft, amber light across the well-worn leather of his favorite chair and the polished surface of his massive oak desk. He loosened his cravat and shrugged out of his coat before sitting, tugging the ledgers closer.

Each night, this was his vigil. There were no invitations to idle pleasures here, only the grinding weight of numbers and obligation. Investment reports, grain tallies, shipping manifests. The steward's update from the Dorset estate revealed modest gains in tenant crop yields thanks to new rotational planting methods. That would stay. The dairy farms near the Scottish border, however, remained a bleeding wound.

He marked a note in the margins—cut staff and offer a handsome severance, lease the grazing lands—and turned to the next report. It detailed a parcel of mining land in Cornwall, leased for a paltry sum over seven years prior. Now, the lease was up for renewal, and the Viscount had the audacity to request the same terms. A cold snort escaped Alexander. He scrawled a firm instruction: have the steward calculate the cost of labor and equipment required to mine the land independently.

His father had been a gentle soul, wholly unsuited to the mantle of nobility. A second son thrust into responsibility when his elder brother died without issue. A man who had dreamed of the clergy, not of counting harvest bushels or appeasing creditors. In the five years since Alexander had inherited, he had come to know the depth of the chaos his father left behind—negligence masked by charm, debts tucked away with polite smiles and vague promises.

Alexander had spent the last five years righting the ship, yet the specter of ruination still dragged at their heels, threatening to pull them under. He reached for his quill, only to notice the two envelopes sitting on the corner of the desk. The top one was from his mother, the handwriting elegant, the wax seal already cracked.

He unfolded the page.

My lord,

Forgive me for pressing upon your time, which I know is already burdened with the care of our estates. As your mother and as the Countess of Bainbridge, I must speak plainly on this matter. We are no longer able to afford the illusion of stability. The estate is run with half the required staff, and our tenants whisper of change. If society were to learn of our circumstances, our dignity and your sisters' futures would be cruelly bartered at the altar of gossip. I fear for what may come if we do not act—if you do not act.

In two years, Charlotte and Eleanor must be presented, and they deserve gowns of fine silk, not cleverly mended hand-me-downs. They deserve music, dance, and a chance to marry with grace and without pity. You, my son, are the head of this family now. You carry the name and with it, the duty.

I know your pride, and I know your heart has always been your own. But I beg you, look carefully at the future before you and consider what might be saved by a prudent alliance.

I have taken the liberty of listing a few ladies whose fortunes are considerable and whose connections would do us no harm. Lady Alicia Hanover has a dowry of twenty thousand and comes from an impeccable line. Miss Judith Templeton of New York is the daughter of a powerful shipping magnate whose ambitions lean toward England's nobility. Miss Margaret Lyle of Boston is bold, intelligent, and said to possess a dowry of no less than fifty thousand. And lastly, there is Miss Constance Draper, the daughter of Viscount Redmere. Her fortune may not rival the others, but her station and reputation are beyond reproach.

Please, Alexander. Consider them. Speak to them. Court them if you can bear it. You may find one worthy of your respect, even admiration. I am not asking you to surrender your happiness, only to secure the future of our family before it is beyond rescue.

Take care of your health, my dearest. You looked far too thin the last time I saw you, and I worry you do not sleep as you ought. You bear so much, but you are not made of iron. Let me help in the only way I know how.

With all my love and unflagging hope,

Your Mother,

Countess of Bainbridge

Alexander stared at the names for a long moment, then crumpled the page in his fist and let it fall into the hearth. The flames devoured the letter eagerly, curling the edges into ash. He understood his mother's urgency and respected it, even. And he knew himself well enough to admit the weight of his own pride. The idea of marrying a woman solely for her fortune and connections was not merely unpalatable—it was abhorrent.

He reached for the second envelope, smaller, cream-colored, unmarked, save for a single letter: B. Curious, he broke it open.

Meet me at Lady Neville's Midnight Ball.

P.

A strange pressure expanded in his chest—some wild thing beating against its cage. He stared again at the letter, flipping it over, studying the slope of the hand. It was delicate. Feminine. A single initial. His mind conjured her before he could stop it. Eyes, flecked with green and gold. A mouth made for scandal and sweetness. Lady Penelope .

He glanced at the mantle clock: twelve minutes past midnight.

It was madness. She was as proper as they came. Gentle-voiced, wide-eyed, the sort of girl raised to become a countess or a duchess and sit prettily beside her husband at dinners and balls. Not the kind to send cryptic notes and invite a man to a midnight ball.

And yet...

He surged to his feet, the chair scraping over the thick rug. Within moments, he had donned his coat again and reached for the walking cane that housed a hidden rapier.

Caution warred with reckless anticipation as he stalked into the night, his long strides swift and purposeful.

If it was her—God help them both.