Citit to experiment wi.., p.1
Citit - To Experiment with Desire, page 1
part #8 of Girls Who Dare Series Series
To Experiment with Desire
Girls Who Dare, Book 8
By Emma V. Leech
Published by Emma V. Leech.
Copyright (c) Emma V. Leech 2020
Cover Art: Victoria Cooper
ASIN No.: B082MQRLX4
All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorised, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. The ebook version and print version are licensed for your personal enjoyment only. The ebook version may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share the ebook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. No identification with actual persons (living or deceased), places, buildings, and products is inferred.
Table of Contents
Members of the Peculiar Ladies’ Book Club
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
To Bed the Baron
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Want more Emma?
About Me!
Other Works by Emma V. Leech
Audio Books!
The Rogue
Dying for a Duke
The Key to Erebus
The Dark Prince
Acknowledgements
Members of the Peculiar Ladies’ Book Club
Prunella Adolphus, Duchess of Bedwin – first peculiar lady and secretly Miss Terry, author of The Dark History of a Damned Duke.
Mrs Alice Hunt (née Dowding)–Not as shy as she once was. Recently married to Matilda’s brother, the notorious Nathanial Hunt, owner of Hunter’s, the exclusive gambling club.
Lady Aashini Cavendish (Lucia de Feria) – a beauty. A foreigner. Recently happily, and scandalously, married to Silas Anson, Viscount Cavendish.
Mrs Kitty Baxter (née Connolly) – quiet and watchful, until she isn’t. Recently eloped to marry childhood sweetheart, Mr Luke Baxter.
Lady Harriet Cadogan (née Stanhope) Countess of St Clair – serious, studious, intelligent. Prim. Wearer of spectacles. Finally married to the Earl of St Clair.
Bonnie Cadogan – (née Campbell) still too outspoken and forever in a scrape alongside her husband, Jerome Cadogan.
Ruth Anderson– (née Stone) heiress and daughter of a wealthy merchant living peacefully in Scotland after having tamed a wild Highlander.
Minerva Butler - Prue’s cousin. Not so vain or vacuous as she appears. Dreams of love.
Lady Helena Adolphus – vivacious, managing, unexpected.
Jemima Fernside – pretty and penniless.
Matilda Hunt – blonde and lovely and ruined in a scandal that was none of her making.
Chapter 1
I promised myself I would not write again, but it seems I have no self-control where you are concerned. Why did you not reply to my last letter? Do you have any idea how dull it is, always waiting for a reply that never comes?
I have been to balls and dinners and rout parties and made endless social calls and I am bored to tears. I wore the most glorious yellow gown the other night and everyone told me I looked very lovely, and I didn’t care a bit for you were not there. Their compliments mean nothing to me. I would rather hear you reprimand my wickedness for kissing you than endure another poem dedicated to my eyes. Won’t you at least reply and tell me what a wretched nuisance I am?
―Excerpt of a letter from Miss Minerva Butler to Mr Inigo de Beauvoir.
20th December 1814. Church Street, Isleworth, London.
Inigo stared at the letter in his hand and reminded himself of the promise he’d made.
He would not reply.
His heart gave an uneven thump, and he cursed Miss Minerva Butler. Wishing he’d never laid eyes on the provoking creature was all well and good, but it didn’t solve the problem, and she was a problem.
The threat she’d written, with her pretty, extravagant handwriting, in the letter before this one had made his blood run cold.
I confess I have sighed most despondently over your assurances that you find nothing romantic in the invitation, but of course a man like yourself has more important things to think about than stolen kisses. I did stealth at one after all, did I not? I cannot pretend otherwise. I am a thief and have fallen so far into my life of crime that I cannot be redeemed. So, you had best be on your guard and prepared to keep your assets under lock and key. There will be a villainess at large in Soho Square, and she intends to make a greater theft.
Your heart.
He ought never to have invited her to attend one of his lectures; had only done so because she’d threatened to turn up uninvited and cause heaven alone knew what kind of scene. His palms grew damp just thinking about it. He was thirty years old, a man of science, respected and admired for his work, he ought not be thrown into disarray by a pretty little blonde chit of a girl. He knew this. That he knew this, and yet it didn’t change a thing, only made him furious.
If only Harriet Stanhope—now the Countess St Clair—hadn’t fallen victim to lust and married another man, he might have been safe from such attacks. They would have had a perfectly satisfactory marriage based on mutual admiration of each other’s intelligence and capabilities. Of course, Harriet would have it that she’d fallen in love. Inigo snorted in disgust. How such an intelligent woman could fall for that old chestnut was beyond him. Love was nothing but a series of chemical reactions and a deep-seated biological need to procreate, to keep humanity ticking along. The desire to mate was as instinctual to men and women as it was to dogs, birds, insects and any other variety of creature. To ascribe anything more meaningful to it was as ridiculous as suggesting chickens felt any romantic attachment to the cockerel.
Inigo would admit that human beings were far more complex creatures who felt the need to explain every aspect of their lives, whether inventing gods who demanded sacrifices, or using the rational approach to which Inigo was a slave. He understood the desire for explanation, could totally accept the need to know why things worked, but such understanding required cold, clear thinking and judgement, not emotion. Unfortunately, his ability to remain coldly judgemental and objective seemed to wither and die whenever the blasted young woman got anywhere near him.
No, it was worse than that. She didn’t even need to be near him. These damn letters were enough, filled with flirtation and admiration and an obvious desire to tease him and drive him out of his bloody mind. She ought to be locked up, for her own safety if not his sanity. The foolish creature was playing with fire. He was a man, after all, flesh and blood and just as likely to fall victim to lust. If he forgot the rules of society, rules he did not even believe in, he could simply act on his desires and take everything she was offering. She was asking to be ruined and, no matter how many times he warned her off, she would not heed him. The only thing that held him in check was her idiotic belief that there were romantic feelings involved. It would be wicked to take advantage of a girl so obviously deluded as to the realities of life. If she kept on, however, he would have to open her eyes to the truth.
He had to face it, so it only seemed fair. Why should he be the only one suffering such torment? He couldn’t sleep, as thoughts of her invaded his dreams. He could not concentrate on his work, as the memory of the kiss she’d stolen lingered. His mind, so adept at focusing on details, now obsessed over the softness of her lips, the impossible blue of her eyes, and the scent of jasmine and vanilla that intoxicated him more potently than any liquor.
Oh, God. He was doomed.
With a muttered curse, he crumpled the letter in his hand and walked to the fire, and then cursed longer and with increasing profanity as he realised he could not make himself burn it. Instead, he gritted his teeth and snatched up a clean sheet of paper. Inigo dipped his pen into the ink well and wrote with almost feverish determination, despite his promise to himself not to reply. She’d get a reply. She’d also get the shock of her life when he spelled things out for her. No doubt she’d swoon or cry, or have a fit of the vapours or whatever these society women were prone to. Either way, she’d realise how wrong she’d been about him and leave him be. After the first paragraph, his pen hovered over the page, something disturbingly like regret making his chest feel odd and empty.
No.
He must be rid of her. She was affecting his work, and that was intolerable. With renewed determination, he finished the letter and read it through, a bitter smile curvin
Miss Butler,
You have the invitation you sought. If you have any care for your reputation or your future happiness, I beg you will leave it at that. I am certain that your friend, the Countess St Clair, is quite capable of guiding you if you have any further need of reading material or wish to continue your studies.
In short, Miss Butler, leave me be. If you do not, you may find that things take a turn you are not prepared for. My heart is in no danger, I assure you. I do not believe in love. I do not believe in marriage or even monogamy. I believe men and women are equal and ought to take their pleasure as and when they desire, without the need to tie each other together for life. As a man I can afford such opinions. You cannot. Please do not continue to deceive yourself and persist with these romantic delusions. Whatever you believe, believe this: I am perfectly willing to take my own pleasure and move on without a backward glance or a shred of guilt.
I can only hope you keep this in mind.
De Beauvoir.
***
Minerva stared down at the letter her mouth curved into a little ‘o’ of shock. Well, she’d certainly rattled his cage this time. It was hardly surprising. She’d been deliberately provoking the poor man for some weeks now. If she was honest, she’d been surprised he’d lasted this long. The words of the letter were certainly blunt and to the point, yet they seemed to reveal a great deal he might not have meant to let her know. Firstly, she was delighted and intrigued by his assertion that men and women were equal. Although Minerva had no great opinion of her own intelligence, she had surprised herself of late by discovering she was not the ninny she’d believed herself to be, and she knew some brilliant women. Those women were far more intelligent and capable than most men she knew. It seemed reasonable to suppose that there were clever and stupid women and clever and stupid men too. It was just that the men had all the power and kept things so that even the most intelligent of women had little or no control over their lives. To discover a man who believed that to be wrong was… fascinating.
She reread the letter again, pausing over the bit where he said he didn’t believe in love, marriage, or monogamy. Well. That was…. Actually that was rather tragic. Life was hard enough, but to go through it with no hope of falling in love and finding someone to love you in return… her heart filled with compassion for him. How lonely he must be, and how could such a clever man be so utterly stupid? Minerva shook her head in wonder. Although she had elevated herself above ninny and peahen, she knew Mr de Beauvoir’s mind to be far superior. Some said he was the most brilliant mind of their generation. So, how could he be so blind, so wilfully ignorant of everything about him?
Minerva paused as a movement outside the window caught her eye, and she saw her cousin Prue and her husband walking in the garden. The swell of Prue’s stomach was just visible now, and Minerva could not keep the smile from her lips as Robert laid his hand there, such a look in his eyes that Minerva felt her throat tighten. He leaned in to kiss his wife and Minerva turned away, not wanting to play the voyeur but unable to deny the ache in her heart. How she wanted that. She wanted to be loved with such devotion, and to love with a passion. More than anything, she wanted to teach Mr de Beauvoir that he might be a brilliant natural philosopher, but that there was a thing or two he might learn from her, if only he’d listen. His letter suggested that to try such a thing was to invite disaster but, just as his science might obsess him, she had become obsessed with the idea that he needed someone. Each time she saw him he looked more of a fright. He’d lost weight, that much was obvious. He was a big man, but his clothes hung off him, and often buttons hung off the clothes by a thread. The last time she’d seen him, he appeared to have slept in them. His hair was too long, and he was pale and drawn with dark circles under his eyes. She shivered as she remembered his eyes. Green and grey and so very compelling, as though there were a spark glittering somewhere inside him, looking for something to ignite. It was obvious he’d not bothered to replace the housekeeper he’d frightened off, the poor woman terrified by one of his experiments. Well, Minerva should remind him that needed doing, otherwise he’d starve, or make himself ill.
With a sigh, she folded the letter and hid it with his other correspondence in the false bottom of her jewellery box. If her mother ever found out she’d been corresponding with an unmarried man, she’d have an apoplexy. If she ever caught sight of that last letter, she’d likely turn up her toes on the spot with the horror of it. Dear Mama was still of the opinion that Minerva could catch herself a title, if only she put her mind to it. Minerva hadn’t the heart to tell the woman that she’d decided she didn’t want a title, so she certainly wasn’t about to admit to an infatuation with an impoverished natural philosopher. Poor Mama would be so disappointed.
Speaking of which, Minerva had to go home. Darling Prue was such a dear and invited her to stay often, knowing Minerva needed a respite from her mother’s matchmaking and gossiping from time to time or she’d go mad. So she’d stayed for a few days, but now her things had been packed and she was ready to return home. She sighed. Still, she was taking tea with Matilda this afternoon. That, at least, was something to look forward to.
***
“Minerva, darling, how lovely to see you, and what a dashing outfit. I declare you look more enchanting every time I see you.”
Minerva laughed and did a little twirl for Matilda. “Thank you, Tilda. Coming from you, I take that as the greatest compliment, for we are all copying you unashamedly, as I’m sure you know.”
“Flattery will get you nowhere, darling,” Matilda said, taking Minerva’s arm once she’d dispensed with her hat and coat. “Actually, that’s a lie. Don’t stop.”
Minerva grinned at her. “Is Jemima still staying with you?”
For a moment Matilda’s smile faltered. “She is,” she said, her blonde brows drawing together. “But she’s not here. It seems she’s been left a generous bequest by her aunt and she’s forever off doing things. I believe she’s gone to the country for a few days to find a place to live.”
“By herself?” Minerva asked, a little shocked, now understanding why Matilda looked troubled.
“Not exactly. She’s employed a companion, and I believe she will have a maidservant.”
“Oh, well, that’s all right, then.” Minerva let out a breath. Though she thought Mr de Beauvoir’s assertion that men and women were equal fascinating, and agreed wholeheartedly, he was also correct that there was one rule for men, and another for women. A woman living by herself would be open to all manner of speculation and gossip, none of it pleasant.
“Yes,” Matilda said, nodding, though there was still a glimmer of anxiety in her eyes. “Yes, that’s all right, then. Now, I have the most decadent selection of cream cakes for you, and I hope that you will be an absolute glutton, so that I may join you. Don’t let me down.”
“You can rely on me,” Minerva said staunchly, following her friend into the parlour.
Once a staggering amount of cream cakes had been disposed of, and three cups of tea apiece, Minerva steered the conversation around to the point of her visit, for Inigo’s letter hadn’t been the only one she’d received of late.
“I’m so sorry I couldn’t come sooner,” she said, setting down her teacup. “I’ve been staying with Prue and Robert, but in your letter, you said you urgently needed a confidante and that you’d done… you’d done something—”
“Remarkably stupid,” Matilda supplied for her with a wry smile. “Yes. I remember.”
“Oh, dear.” Minerva twisted her fingers together, having a fair idea of what, or rather who, her friend had been stupid with. “Montagu?”
Matilda’s blush was startling and vivid, but she held Minerva’s gaze and gave a taut nod.
“Oh, dear,” Minerva said again, knowing that was not the least bit helpful. She took a breath and straightened her spine, keeping her tone brisk. “Well, it appears whatever happened, no one knows about it, so there’s no harm done.”
Matilda groaned and put her head in her hands.
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