Chapter Two

London, May 1813

When former Lieutenant Griffith Spencer ran into an old school chum, Lord Randolph Titus, unexpectedly on Regent Street one afternoon, Griff latched onto his friend like a limpet. The young lord, only recently arrived to London for the Season, explained to Griff he was scouting the field for a proper wife. He had heard nothing of Griff’s purported disgrace on the Continent.

“I dare say, Griff, old boy,” Rand accosted his friend with a cheery, voluble greeting. “Where have you been keeping yourself? I heard you were in London, but it’s years since I’ve run across you.”

“Rand Titus, you sly dog, as I live and breathe.” Griff returned the greeting while grabbing the peer’s hand in a firm handshake. “Well, you can see by my uniform that I’ve been on the Continent fighting a war, and it’s been bloody hell most of the time. What about you?”

“Gadzooks, Spencer, I assumed you worked in the War Office, not on the Peninsula!” His forehead puckered. “My parents wouldn’t let me sign up. Afraid I might get killed and leave them without an heir. I moved into Town this week for another Season. My parents keep prodding me that it’s time I choose a wife and produce an heir of my own for when my Papa decides to stick his spoon in the wall. It’s all I hear from them. What about you? Are you shackled to someone?”

“Me? No, but I’m thinking about it.”

“Hmm? Maybe we can do the Town together. Where are you staying?”

“I’ve been bunking with an army buddy for a night or two.”

“Ah, empty pockets?”

“I’m afraid so. I’m on rather thin financial ice to tell the truth. My uniform is about all I own, and I’m wearing it. I lost everything in a damn card game on a ship coming here when I sold out.” This was a lie, but it never did well to tell a friend everything.

“I’m a bit rolled up,” Griff continued. “I need to borrow blunt for new clothes and a place to lay my head if I’m to set my cap at a wealthy wife. Damnation, the way the flats fell the past days did nothing but pave my road to Hades. I’m ready to marry the most needy female I can find. I won’t be fussy about her age or her looks either.”

Griff wasn’t sure if he should have aired that much of his dirty linen to Randolph Titus, but how else could he hint that he needed help? Rand’s father was an earl. Rand, a viscount, had funds to burn by the looks of his fashionable rig. It was worth a try—con a sympathetic ear, give a minimum of information, and hint at some friendly assistance.

“Sorry I spilled my soiled laundry, Rand, you may take me in a bad odor. Perhaps you would rather not associate with the likes of me.”

“It’s that bad, eh?” The young peer squinted, looking Griff over with friendly eyes. He hesitated, but only for a few moments. “I’m not a bit mawkish, and I remember when you got me out of some tight scrapes while we were in school. It’s only fair that I give you a hand until you can fly a kite and are back in gingerbread. Why not stay with me, Griff? I’m rattling around with a Friday face in my parent’s digs with only my valet and a house full of servants. No one talks to me, and my blather dribbles off my tongue. It’d be good to have company. My parents ain’t expected for weeks. We’ll be on our own, eh, kick up a lark like old times? Like our Eton days.”

Rand Titus pulled a calling card out of his jacket pocket and handed it to the ex-soldier. “Here’s my direction, Spencer. You’re welcome to come and stay. I’ll frank you for the Season. I received invitations galore when the knocker went on the door. Do you a good turn and help you make a worthwhile connection, eh what? You can pay me back when you land a bloody rich wife. What are friends for, don’t I say?”

* * * *

Griff eagerly accepted his school chum’s offer. He moved into Rand’s parents’ town house almost at once. After supper, their evening was spent in sharing a bottle of French brandy, remembering some of their earlier class escapades. Later that week, with the help of Rand’s entrée and a stack of engraved invitations to the glittering entertainments of the ton, Griff was launched into the London Season.

Tonight was no exception. He and Rand circulated around the ballroom. Unattached males were always welcome during a spring marriage mart, especially if they were reasonably well-shod and not doddering ancients. Better yet, if they were on the prowl and had deep pockets.

The crush at the Welborn’s lavish do was the fanciest ball of the new Season. Griff and Rand arrived somewhat late. Rand had his valet spiff up Griff’s uniform and top boots beforehand. As the two promenaded around the crowded dance floor together, the eyes of interested young females standing on the sidelines with their chaperons followed them. Rand halted abruptly. “I dare say, Griff, I spy someone I want to meet. I don’t know who she is, but I mean to find out.”

Griff followed his gaze. It landed upon a sweet-faced debutante just out of the schoolroom. “The lovely blonde standing beside her hatchet-faced chaperon, you mean?”

Rand nodded.

“You’re extraordinarily brave tonight, Rand. But if she interests you, make sure you get a proper introduction. Then sign her dance card. She won’t turn you down. Not with your title and fat purse.” Griff gave his friend a forward nudge. “I’ll stay out of your way and catch up with you later.” He strolled on alone, thinking to try the card room. He still owned a small bit of coin with which to gamble.

Griff reached a less crowded section of the ballroom and stopped, leaning a nonchalant shoulder against an open archway. His casual stance was posed next to a potted palm as he cast his eyes over the glittering ballroom. Everyone in Town must be at the Welborn’s ball tonight, or so it seemed to his roving glance. He’d been away from the London scene for four years and had almost forgot how to flirt. It wouldn’t be wise to show interest in anyone special until he had chosen a target for tonight’s seduction. Griff smoothed a gloved hand over his golden curls. He knew he made a good appearance, even with a slight bump in his nose, thanks to his encounter with the three Spaniards. He had known females were attracted to him when he entered puberty. A flicker of a smile to coax interest, a sly wink, and willing wenches flocked to him in droves. But, of course, by that time he was on the Town and behaving like a randy libertine. He fashioned himself like his pretty-faced father who had plenty of charisma and ended up with a lot less blunt. Boswell Spencer pissed away all of Griff’s inheritance during years of high living with liquor, cards and dice, and loose women.

Was it a need for penance that took his father to end his life? Griff often wondered. Boswell Spencer had shot himself in an alley in one of the worst sections of London. Griff wasn’t about to take the same way out of his current predicament.

Griff got a whiff of exotic perfume even before someone placed a jeweled glove on his forearm. His head swiveled toward a very attractive, older woman standing beside him.

She appeared to be born a decade before him, but she was still handsome. She was petite, with a lush figure, and was scantily clad in a gown of whispery, almost sheer, pale blue voile. Her ample bosom swelled above the low neckline. It was clear to Griff that her garment was meant to cling, so it would draw male attention to her figure. The sparkling gems in the elaborate necklace draped around her neck, the large jewels dangling from her ears, and the two enormous rings and intricate bracelet she wore outside her glove were of instant interest to Griff’s sharp eyes.

The woman was alone when she sidled up to him. Cosmetics cleverly disguised her age, neither dissipation nor years of ingrained lines flawed her well-tended complexion. Her strawberries-and-cream skin still looked soft and inviting. Her lips were full and pouting, her large, blue eyes rimmed by kohl. The result was quite stunning.

“I don’t believe we’ve met,” she warbled, her melodious voice husky and pitched to a sultry intimacy, as if she were lying next to him after indulging in a round of satisfactory sexual play.

Immediately, both Griff’s ears and his latent cock perked up.

Her body language was obvious to him; the woman was on the prowl, and she had approached him deliberately. It wasn’t anything overt he did or caused. She simply singled him out for attention. Perhaps it was his uniform. Perhaps, it was his Adonis-like muscular virility beneath the clothes. He was more than curious, eager to learn more. Like a jolt in the ribs, why should a quick spurt of trepidation worry him? Could it be that she recognized him?

Griff had drunk too much brandy earlier and wasn’t nearly as clearheaded as he might have been. Liquor still burned through his veins. For four bloody years he had tried to win back the needed self-esteem he denied himself during his youthful debauchery. Because he didn’t defend himself at the blasted episode in Spain, he was again in disgrace, penniless, and at odds with his mother’s prissy family who put him out of their minds and forgot him.

“Madame? I don’t believe we have met. May I be of some help?”

“Of course you can, young man, otherwise I would not risked such indiscretion or spoken with you without a proper introduction.” She looked up at him through thick lashes while kneading his forearm with caressing fingers, then leaned closer to brush his jacket’s sleeve with her generous bosom.

She was standing close, and her exotic perfume rolled over him like a wave. Griff almost sneezed on her bare décolletage. He covered his lips quickly with his gloved hand and coughed. “Ahem! Excuse me, my lady, I’ve been troubled lately with a throat itch.”

“Ah, an itch, eh? Poor, poor boy! Back from the wars, are you? I’m sure there is something I can scratch for you.” Her ladylike smile had turned lewd. “Perhaps, later.”

Griff was taken aback by the obvious innuendo coming from an older, well-dressed, elaborately-coiffed, and bejeweled woman. Nevertheless, he kept his expression bland, didn’t even arch an eyebrow.

“I am the Countess of Eberley,” she announced abruptly with a firm whisper. “And I have a proposition for you.”

Now, he did lift an eyebrow. “Oh? And what could that be, pray tell?”

“If you’re willing, we can discuss it further.”

Willing? Hmm? Willing for what?

“You don’t even know who I am, ma’am…”

“Give me your arm, and let us stroll. I’ll tell you what I propose.” She hadn’t let go; she still grasped his jacket’s sleeve. “By the way, I know more about you than you think, Lt. Spencer. I knew your father.”

Dammit. I hoped the scandal was buried deep in the archives of London’s newspapers and forgotten when Father’s suicide was printed in the bloody rags. Did I resemble him so much that she picked me out of the crowd? he wondered.

When the Countess Eberley explained what she wanted of Griff, at first he refused. When she told him how much she was willing to pay for his time and his help, he hesitated. When she mentioned a few additional bonuses, there was no way he could refuse.

He agreed to be her cicisbeo—her paid escort—and more.

It was in that context that the countess had approached him. She smiled contentedly and slipped him her calling card showing her direction. She wanted him at that address within a day. She would spread the word to the ton that he was a forgotten nephew of hers, appearing suddenly on her doorstep from India after serving in the King’s army. Since he was family, it was deemed proper for him to stay in her home.

The countess told him she had scads of money and could easily make his life more than tolerable. All he had to do was fawn over her like a cow-eyed gallant, be a willing errand boy, and—this was going to be the hard part—hop into her bed whenever she ordered him to fuck her.