They call him the Devil Earl-a scoundrel and accused murderer who grew up on the violent London streets. A proper young lady risks more than her reputation when consorting with the roguishly handsome Hero Fiennes Tiffin , but Lady Josephine Langford...
"No, Father seems to be the same, although it's difficult to tell since he can't speak."
"What's pressing on your mind then?"
A certain irritating lord. Somehow he'd managed to cast some sort of spell over her body to make it writhe unsatisfied for the remainder of the night, not that there had been much remaining after she'd finally gone to bed. What sort of debauchery had he been engaged in to return home so late? And to immediately assume that a woman such as she was there for carnal purposes? Only the worst of blackguards would view women in such a way. Josephine wasn't a trollop. She was chaste and pure and proper. Although after tasting his kiss, she realized her life was rather dull. Still, his actions had resulted in her finally comprehending why ladies were discouraged from experiencing such intimacies until they were wed. Did all men hold such power over women—to make them burn with desire? Or was it only those like Claybourne, who loitered at the gates of hell?
"Amelia, you've been married for five years now."
She'd attracted the Duke of Avendale's attention their very first Season and had married him at Christmas that same year.
Amelia furrowed her brow. "Is that a question?"
"No, it's an observation that I felt compelled to make before asking: Does he kiss you?"
"That's an odd question."
"I'm a maiden and I have no mother to ask about the questions that cause me curiosity, and so I must turn to my married friend for the answers. Does he kiss you?"
Amelia sipped her tea as though mulling over her answer. "On occasion."
"Does it leave you wanting?"
"Wanting what?"
Josephine almost laughed. If she had to explain it, well, then he wasn't kissing as Claybourne did. But Avendale had been born a gentleman, while Claybourne was little more than a scoundrel dressed in lord's clothing.
She watched as Amelia leaned forward ever so slightly to pour them more tea. It was ironic that such beauty as found in this garden surrounded a house where incredible ugliness lurked. Her movements explained so much about her unnecessary worry over the invitations. "He's beaten you again, hasn't he, Mia?"
"Don't be silly."
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Reaching out, Josephine placed her hand over her friend's, stilling her actions. "I see how gingerly you move—as though the smallest of movements causes you the greatest of pain. You can confide in me. I won't tell a soul. You know that."
Tears welled in Amelia's expressive eyes. "He came home late last night in a fit of temper. I'm not sure what I did wrong—"
"I doubt you did anything wrong, and even if you did, he has no right to strike you."
"The law disagrees."
"Fuck the law."
Gasping, Amelia widened her eyes. "Josephine, your language."
