(COMPLETED)
Before the Duke of Wardington, before marriage, and before the games of marrying off his three sons and their friends, there was simply Lord Martin...
There's only one sort for a rogue and that's more rogues.
So... when Martin and his f...
Rất tiếc! Hình ảnh này không tuân theo hướng dẫn nội dung. Để tiếp tục đăng tải, vui lòng xóa hoặc tải lên một hình ảnh khác.
24 years later
London
Gilles opened the back door and showed Martin into the sitting room. "Her ladyship will be with you momentarily."
Martin looked around the room, staring at a room he'd never seen before. A room he hadn't known existed. It stood untouched from what he saw. Larger than the scarce furnishings that it held. Two couches with a painting of Venus above the fireplace. It could use a card table, Martin thought.
The door opened, and Martin had to remind himself to breathe.
Abigail Lawson, the dowager countess of Cartridge. She was stunning. Her face seemed ever preserved, as if time itself avoided her presence. Her blond hair was styled in the fashion of the time, but those blue eyes were as endless as ever. But unlike the rare moments when they'd chatted in public at her balls or soirees, she had no smile to offer him.
"What do you want?" She glided across the room and took the single chair in the room. "I'm busy," she said as she shifted her legs under her dress, most likely crossing them under all the petticoats and silk. Just the sound of their shifting was enough to set Martin off. He'd been avoiding her since his wife's death.
He took a chair and realized hers was set so that she could see the face of anyone who sat on the couches. Almost like an interview room. Perhaps that was the reason the room lacked much decor. It was the room she used to talk to the women she decided to let into her secret club, a club that every woman in London wished to get into, setting Lady Cartridge and her close friends as the ruler of the ton. And she knew it.
Since she seemed to be all business, he decided to act the same. "I need your help."
She laughed. "You need my help?"
"Yes, my lady. I need your help."
"And when has the great Duke of Wardington ever needed anyone?"
"Nathaniel is getting married."
She stilled. "Your son?"
"I would not be here for some other Nathaniel."
"He's getting married?" she asked in wonder. And her expression was not overdone. Nathaniel, who prided himself on being one the great rogues of London, and who was also a second son, which removed him from obligations, had spoken very loudly about never marrying. So her surprise was warranted. "Does he know he's getting married?" The question was asked in jest, but it, too, like her expression, was appropriate.
"Not yet."
Her whole body froze. Then she lifted a brow. "Oh, so you've picked his bride out for him? Are we back into the habit of telling people who should be with whom?"
So, they were going to talk about the past first. He opened his mouth to speak, but she cut him off with a hand.
"No, never mind. I wish not to go there." She stood. "I can't help you."
