Page 2 of The Notorious Lord Sin
"And do not worry about having a baby. A maid such as yourself is unable to fall pregnant during your first time. It has been medically proven, and if you do not tell your husband, whomever that may be, that you were intimate with me, he would not know," he answered so matter-of-factly that her heart crumbled in her chest.
"You have explained perfectly well why I'm not suitable, and I wish you well in finding your perfect match to your pocketbook, my lord," she said, not trying to hide the sarcasm in her tone.
"Miss Smith, please, do not be upset."
She raised her hand, stilling his words. "Upset? I think I have every right to be upset. You allowed me to believe that we were meant for each other for weeks. You made me care about you, and I trusted you. I'm sorry that you think I do not have the right to beupset. Maybe you ought to have thought of that before acting so sinful toward a woman you never intended to marry but merely tote along like some pathetic plaything that was an amusing trinket for the Season."
He stood, coming over to her. He tried to take her hands, and she yanked them away, stepping back. "Do not touch me, Lord Astoridge. You do not have the right."
He watched her, and she could see he was debating whether to listen to her command or attempt again to soothe her hurt feelings.
She ground her teeth, hoping for his own welfare that he did not try the latter.
"I never saw you as a plaything, Miss Smith. I'm sorry you feel that way," he answered, promptly halting any further explanation. "I think I should leave. I wish you all the very best with the remainder of your Season. Good afternoon," he said, bowing and striding from the room.
Paris watched him go, and with his leaving, all her hopes and dreams fled with him. Her stomach chose that moment to recoil, and she ran to the nearest potted plant and cast up her accounts.
ChapterOne
London, 1814
Dominic Parker, Viscount Astoridge, stood on the bow of an English frigate he had hitched a ride from France on and watched as London materialized out of the morning fog like a ghost of his past come back to haunt him.
He breathed deep the coal-thick, chill air of the city of his birth and wished he were back in France.
His mother's country estate, now his after the passing of his father, had made his years abroad a welcome reprieve, not that his pocketbook had fared very well.
After several failed investments, he was now in need of a rich wife, not merely to help finance his living but to ensure his younger twin sisters had the Season they deserved.
What a shameful homecoming to England.
Once anchored, it did not take him long to hire a hackney from the docks, and he was soon on his way toward his home on Mount Street.
How many years had it been since he had fled England? Three? Four? He leaned back in the squabs of the carriage that reeked of unmentionable scents and tried to remember.
"Five years." Thinking back to that dreadful day when he faced Miss Paris Smith and told her he would not offer marriage. What a cad and ass to be so unfeeling toward her. He had ruined her, taken her innocence, and had not looked back after he left London. Had never had the nerve to write his mother and ask what had happened to her. He hoped that she fared better than him, but a part of him knew that she possibly did not.
He ran a hand through his hair and sighed.
"Mount Street, the driver called as the carriage rocked to a halt. Dominic jumped down and threw up two silver coins before taking his valise and striding toward the front door.
His butler opened it before his foot hit the top step, and Dominic laughed. "Anyone would think you were expecting me, Malcolm," he said, handing his old retainer his traveling case.
"We were expecting you, my lord." He helped him with his greatcoat and hat. "There is a fire in the library, and I shall have Cook send in a light repast for you since it is past dinner and the ladies are out for the evening, my lord."
"Thank you," he said, entering a room he had relegated to his steward and one he had removed from his employment after finding out his business acumen was not what he professed it to be.
Not that Dominic could blame him entirely for his financial strife. He had lived a life of sin in France—gambling, entertaining, whoring, and making terrible decisions when under the influence, resulting in losing the majority of his inheritance.
He shook his head, walking to the tumbler of brandy and pouring a hefty glass. The burning, amber liquid did little to soothe his nerves. After a long day of travel or not, tonight he would have to start attending balls and parties. It was not much past nine, in any case.
He pulled the silver salver toward him, flipping through the invitations that had arrived.
One, in particular, stood out, and he pulled it out of the pile, reading it thoroughly. The Duke and Duchess of Romney were hosting their annual ball this evening.
He chewed his bottom lip, debating whether he ought to attend or not. Paris would be there if she were still in town since the duchess was her closest friend. That was if she had not fled back to Grafton and married a local boy from her town.
The idea made his eye twitch.
