My Fair Marchioness (Scandalous Affairs Book 3) by Christi Caldwell (best short books to read txt) 📗

urge to wrap her arms about her middle and hug herself to keep the secrets in.

He no more trusted her than she trusted him.

“How many years it has been,” he murmured, confirming that supposition.

“Thirteen,” she said, and the harsh slashes of his eyebrows went up. “It’s been thirteen, almost fourteen, years.” Everything with this man would be a test, and the only way to survive and succeed in the temporary role she played was by throwing him off-balance with the truths she did possess.

But then he had his surprise under control. “Yes. The papers wrote much about that, did they not?”

“I’m afraid I didn’t pay attention to the gossip sheets or columns you were afforded over the years, my lord,” she said coolly, annoyed that she’d been so muddleheaded moments ago.

He pounced. “Which begs the question, what have you been doing all these years before finding yourself back in the comfortable folds of the duchess’ generosity?”

At last, he’d cease toying with her like a cat did the mouse he’d cornered. Good. She’d have their battle up front and honest. Julia lifted her chin. “You needn’t beg, Lord Ruthven,” she taunted. “I’ll happily regale you with how I spent my years.”

“Yes, do that. What were you doing?” He peered at her, that piercing gaze threatening to cut through her and her lies. “Where have you been?”

Julia kept herself still, finding herself and her way. She’d faced far greater opponents than a fancy London toff. “I’ve spent my life selling flowers on Covent Garden to lords and ladies benevolent enough to give me their time and a ha’penny to survive on.” And he’d given her more with that one purse and basketful of flowers than all the peers before him combined.

“How have you survived?” he asked quietly.

Her heart squeezed tightly. He was…different than the prince she’d made him out to be that day in the alley. “In other words, am I a whore?” she asked with a bluntness that brought a flush to his high, noble cheeks.

“No!” he spoke with an automaticity only truth could yield, and yet she’d been treated by a whore, called a whore so many times before, that believing this man should be the one who was different, left her unnerved. Rattled.

“That isn’t what I was saying, Julia,” he stammered.

“If we’ve reached the point of blunt honesty, then let’s both of us be truly honest, my lord.”—A muscle twitched at the corner of his left eye.—“Are you hoping that I have sold myself?” she jeered. “So you could tup me for the right amount of coin?” Never knowing there wasn’t an amount she’d sell her virtue for.

He flushed even more. “I wouldn’t dare,” he sputtered.

Because she was a common woman, and he didn’t deal with the common. God, how she despised men of his station. Men of every station, really.

“Well, I’m not a harlot. I’ve sold scraps and petals and full blooms and dried flowers and dead ones, but I’ve never sold my body.” Julia stared curiously at him. “But tell me, though, if I had been one of those women forced to barter my flesh in the name of survival, would that make me somehow duplicitous? Evil and bad? What of the women you surely take to your bed? I’m sure there are fancy mistresses and actresses to whom you give coin for the privilege of your protection.”

The color deepened on his cheeks, and she smiled. “I see I am on the mark, am I not?” She let that mirthless grin instantly fade. “You don’t trust me, do you, Lord Ruthven?” Julia said, getting to the heart of it.

“Do you think I should?” he countered.

“No,” she replied quietly. The rub of it was, he wasn’t wrong for his suspicions or his resentment and anger. She’d no place to be offended. He was right. She was an impostor. Her insides knotted under that truth. But she was also a woman hell-bent on surviving, and this ruse was but temporary.

He sharpened his gaze on her face.

Julia immediately assembled her features, lest she reveal any more hint of wavering. “Why should you believe that I, a common woman, have any place being here? And yet…” She moved closer to him. “Here I am, Lord Ruthven.”

“You’re right,” he said in steely tones. “I don’t trust you. I don’t believe you. I think you are here to take advantage of a desperate woman’s hope.”

Trembling so hard her knees knocked together, Julia smoothed her palms over the front of her stomach. “Well, then, I should be fortunate that it isn’t your trust I require, but Her Grace’s. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” She headed for the doorway.

All the while, she felt Lord Ruthven’s intense stare, one that saw too much, following her every movement. The sooner he was gone, and she’d only the kindly duchess and her warmhearted friends to worry about, the better off she would be.

Chapter 7

The following morning, before the sun had even crept into the sky, Harris took up a seat at the duchess’ breakfast table… and waited.

He waited for the arrival of his godmother’s guest. The Lost Lady.

Adairia.

Adairia, who insisted on going by the name of Julia.

Nay, there wasn’t anything at all suspicious about that. Not even given her ridiculous reasoning behind it.

He didn’t trust her. He didn’t believe for one damned moment she was who she said she was, or that her intentions were in any way honorable.

And yet, he’d also said too much last evening. He’d tipped his hand about the reservations he carried, and in so doing, he had alerted the lady of his suspicions, thereby affording her the opportunity to dissemble. He’d put her on alert, and it would therefore be that much harder to trick her into revealing the underhanded nature of her being here.

His coffee cup