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Page 15 of Of Lies and Earls (Inglorious Scoundrels #2)

T he first thing Honoria did upon coming home—drenched in rain, hem caked with mud, bodice ripped, and hair disheveled—was burn the letters she’d written to the children. Her fingers trembled as she held each page to the candle flame, watching the paper curl and blacken, her once-resolute words turning to ash before her eyes.

She was not leaving this household. Her mind was made up on that. The thought settled into her chest with a finality that both terrified and exhilarated her.

The second thing she did was clean her gown and attempt to repair it as best she could—which wasn’t much. The mud would eventually come out, and the skirt could be mended, but the torn bodice would forever hold the reminder of last night’s adventure.

After hanging the gown back in her wardrobe, she cleaned herself and sat by the window to watch the sunrise.

She couldn’t sleep. Not now. Perhaps not ever again.

She was too winded, her mind racing like a stampede of horses, excitement coursing through her veins. All she could think about was Caldwell—his hands on her breasts, the press of his lips against her skin, the weight of his body on hers. She touched her fingertips to her mouth, recalling the sensation of his kiss—hungry, desperate, intoxicating. Her body warmed at the memory, a flush spreading across her skin.

Everything had changed last night.

She had made a bold choice by returning home rather than leaving with Lydia.

Now that she was here, the question was: what were her next steps?

She needed to tell the children her circumstances had changed, and she would not be leaving—that much was certain. But she also needed to tell Caldwell how she felt about him. Otherwise, her decision to stay would be meaningless. The very thought made her stomach twist with both apprehension and anticipation.

She picked up a pencil and began writing out all the ways she could start the conversation with Caldwell.

In one version, she simply confessed her feelings for him, telling him she’d harbored a deep infatuation for him for years .

She wrinkled her nose.

No. Not infatuation. Love. All-consuming, logic-defining love. She scratched out the words.

In the next, she revealed she was the lady behind the mask at the masquerade.

In the third, she divulged the entire truth. Her real identity. Why she’d sought out the sanctuary of his home and thought leaving them was the best recourse.

The sounds outside her door alerted her to the awakening household. She closed her journal and stepped out of her room, trying to go about the day as if nothing had gone amiss, while in her mind, she continued rehearsing her speech, uncertain which version she’d go with.

Her hands busied themselves with routine tasks, but her thoughts remained firmly fixed on the earl.

Then finally, she glimpses Lord Caldwell descending the stairs and walking into his study.

Her heart stopped for a long moment, her palms perspiring, her heart hammering against her chest.

Would she be able to tell what she’d rehearsed?

It was time. She smoothed her damp palms down her dress, walked up to the study, and knocked on the door.

* * *

Jacob stared unseeing at the papers on his desk, the words and figures blurring before his eyes. He had retreated to his study early, hoping that work would take his mind off the only thing that was occupying his thoughts.

Miss Hart.

He didn’t know why. The intensity of his fixation troubled him, left him restless and agitated.

It wasn’t her he had held in his arms last night. It wasn’t her he had kissed so passionately. It wasn’t her cries that had made him a ravenous beast. It was a professional courtesan.

Yet her face—her soulful brown eyes—was what he saw behind his eyelids every time he closed them. It was her he imagined beneath him.

His body responded instantly to the thought, heat flooding through him, his cock hardening and straining against his breeches.

He palmed himself, thinking of Honoria straddling him, right here in his chair—her skirts bunched around her waist, her face flushed, hair tumbling loose over her shoulders, her eyes dark with need.

“This is madness,” he muttered, pushing back from his desk so hard the chair scraped across the floor. He could not sit here and pretend to work while thinking about his housekeeper—fondling himself in the darkness of his study, consumed by want.

He needed air, distance, and perspective. Something, anything to clear his mind of these inappropriate thoughts.

He moved to ring for his valet when a knock sounded at the door.

“Enter,” he called irritably.

The door creaked open, and the very woman he had been imagining stepped inside. She stood hesitantly on the threshold, hands clasped before her, looking exactly as she always did—proper, composed, and entirely respectable.

Damn and blast . The universe was conspiring against him today.

Caldwell grabbed the jacket off his chair and held it in front of him, hiding the bulge in his breeches.

“Pardon, my lord,” she said softly. “May I have a moment of your time?”

His cock twitched in response, and he was glad he’d had the foresight to shield it from her innocent gaze. Heat crawled up his neck and face. Control yourself, you brute. She is your employee.

But her sweet voice reminded him of the one from last night—the voice which had begged him not to stop, the voice that had cried out in pleasure and had haunted him since the previous night.

She looked at him with polite concern, but all he could see was hunger behind her brown eyes. Hunger he might have imagined but couldn’t unsee.

This was madness. Complete and utter madness.

He couldn’t think clearly in her presence. His collar suddenly felt too tight; the room was too warm despite the morning chill.

What a cad he was. Despicable, truly, to think of her this way.

If she knew his thoughts, she’d run from him screaming.

What was wrong with him? Why had he been able to control his need for years, only to be overtaken by this desire now? Had one night of passion awakened some dormant beast inside him?

He cleared his throat. “Actually, I need to go. Can it wait?” he asked, his voice sounding strained even to his own ears.

She faltered, her lips parting in surprise. “Of course, my lord, but I—”

He brushed past her, unable to bear even standing too close, the scent of her threatening to overwhelm his already fragile composure. “We shall speak later,” he promised, not meeting her gaze.

What a wretch he was. He needed to do something about this… need.

He called for his valet, changed his clothing, and asked for his horse to be saddled. Perhaps, he had an answer to his troubles. He hopped onto his horse and galloped away, a destination clear in his mind.

In a few minutes, breathless and winded, he arrived at the dark, unassuming building. Leaping off his horse before it even came to a halt, he quickly approached the iron door.

As he raised a hand to knock, it opened, and Viscount Thornton nearly barreled into him.

“Apologies,” Thornton said over his shoulder as he hurried off.

“Thornton,” Caldwell acknowledged with a tip of his hat, then slipped inside as the door closed behind him.

A large man with arms crossed over his chest stepped forward immediately. “Hades’ Hell is closed, sir,” he stated flatly, his bulky frame blocking the entry.

“Did I not just see Viscount Thornton exit? Why isn’t it closed to him?” Caldwell demanded.

“It was,” the guard replied impassively. “He had a brief, urgent matter.”

“Well, my matter is also urgent,” Caldwell insisted.

“Let him in,” a tired, but commanding female voice sounded from beyond the guard. A woman, no, not just any woman, Melissande Monroe, the proprietress of the hell herself, appeared before him, dressed in a simple dark gown and a white apron. “Follow me,” she instructed with a crook of her finger.

He followed her through the main hall, acutely aware of the difference between the raucous celebration of last night and the mundane reality of morning. All around them, workers were merrily cleaning out the debris from last night’s masquerade, sweeping floors and righting furniture.

“What can I do for you?” Miss Monroe asked once they reached her study.

She leaned against her desk, with arms crossed. Her shrewd eyes seemed to penetrate his very thoughts.

Now that he had the audience he wanted, his words deserted him. Was he truly about to confess he’d been so driven by desire that he came to bother the proprietress of Hades’ Hell in the ungodly hours of the morning?

He cleared his throat. “I’d like to speak with the woman I was with last night.”

“We are closed, as you can see,” she replied evenly. “So no transaction will be taking place here right now.”

His entire face burned from humiliation. He was like a lustful boy unable to tame his urges, coming hat in hand to beg for relief. “It’s not for a tryst,” he said hastily. “I merely wish to speak with her.” He wanted to see her, hoping that would clear his mind. More importantly, clear the image of Honoria out of his mind. Perhaps seeing the actual woman would break this spell of confusion.

She studied him, her eyes narrowed, then lifted her shoulder in a shrug. “Certainly.”

She walked around her desk and sat behind it, opening a thick book and leafing through it, her finger tracing down a page of neat entries.

“My name is Jacob Caldwell, if you need to—”

“I know,” she interrupted airily.

She stood abruptly and went to the door. Peeking her head out, she called for someone, then calmly walked back and sat behind the desk with a sigh.

A brief silence followed, the only sound the cracking of the fireplace.

Minutes later, a woman entered in a plain black dress, her dark hair collected in a simple chignon. She looked different from the night before, yet Caldwell still recognized her. She wasn’t the woman he had been with last night; she was the one who interrupted them.

“It’s not you,” he breathed.

“Lord Caldwell,” the woman said with a grin. “I remember you.” Her gaze slid down to the falls of his breeches.

“You weren’t the woman I was with last night.”

“No.” She shrugged. “You were with another guest. But I was hired and paid for. Granted, the hell is now closed, but if you’d like to come to my quarters, we could have a private session.” The invitation was delivered with a purr that would have tempted many men.

Yet Caldwell felt nothing. No desire, no interest, not even curiosity.

“No, thank you,” he said firmly, stepping back. “Do you know the woman I was with?”

She shrugged, her lips folded in a pout. “No. But I can assure you, I can do things that woman couldn’t even dream of.”

“I am not doubting that,” he said, disappointment sinking in.

“Your loss,” she said with a flounce.

Caldwell nodded a brief thanks to Miss Monroe before making his exit. If he couldn’t have the physical relief of a tryst, there were other physical ways to get his mind off last night. Anything to exhaust his body enough that his mind would finally grant him peace.