A Second Chance for Love: A Bachelors of Bond Street Novella Read online

  “Why aren’t you working as a governess?”

  “That is also none of your affair.”

  “What are you going to do now?” he asked, undeterred, his gaze lazy as he stared through the dim light of the carriage, as if he didn’t care one way or another what happened to her.

  Oona briefly closed her eyes. God. What was she going to do? She’d sold the last four pearls to pay for Katie’s most recent semester, but that would be over soon. And here she was with no job and nothing else to sell.

  Oona opened her eyes to find he was still staring. “To answer your question, I don’t know what I’m going to do. I’ll look for something else, I suppose.”

  “I doubt LeMonde will give you a recommendation,” he said.

  “I’m accustomed to finding work without a decent recommendation.”

  “Why is that, Miss Parker? What happened to you? Why are you no longer a governess?”

  “Because I have no references,” she said, maddened by shame into answering him. “And no one would employ a woman my age without them. There,” she spat the word at him. “Are you satisfied now?”

  “Why don’t you have any references?”

  Oona suppressed a growl of frustration. “Because I am a governess who aimed too high, Mister Taylor.”

  His hooded eyes opened wider, his expression one of disbelief. Why was that somehow more insulting than him believing that she was a light-skirt? Oona refused to look away from him even though her face and head were so hot they felt close to exploding. What an insulting, obnoxious, irritating—

  “I have a position available.”

  She gave a rude snort of disbelief. “You have a job for me?”

  His lips curved into that wicked smile that made her entire body throb. “Yes.”

  “Why would you help me find a new position? We knew each other for a short time a long time ago,” Oona narrowed her eyes at him. “I’m stunned you even recognized me as you always seemed far too busy with all your—” She stopped, mortified by what she’d been about to say.

  He cocked his head. “I’m so flattered you noticed my activities. Don’t stop now—I was busy with all my . . . ?”

  Oona’s head became so hot it was a wonder she didn’t burst into flames and set the carriage on fire.

  Well, the damage was already done; she might as well finish the job. “You can mock,” she said. “But you know what I mean. None of the servants at the viscount’s house ever liked me and you were most certainly their ringleader.” His eyebrows rose and Oona stopped. What was wrong with her? He’d saved her from going to gaol. Why was she being so combative?

  “I apologize for my outburst.” Oona forced the words through gritted teeth. “I should be thanking you, not accusing you.”

  He chuckled and the sound slithered around her body like a snake. “Don’t thank me yet. You don’t know what the position is.”

  “I’m s-sorry?”

  “You heard me.”

  Oona stared at him and he stared back. She opened her mouth to ask, but couldn’t seem to manage the words. His relaxed posture told her that he was contented to watch her in silence; the only way he’d give her any further information was if she scraped up the courage to ask.

  So she swallowed convulsively and then said, “W-what kind of position?”

  The right side of his mouth pulled up slowly. “The position of mistress—my mistress.”

  Four

  The expression of shock and horror and disbelief on her face was amusing, even if it wasn’t very flattering toward Juss. Of course her body language said something else entirely. He’d seen the same reaction in women times beyond counting. Not women of his class, but women of hers. Gentlewomen who were both attracted and repelled by his physicality; women who saw him as a ‘bit of rough,’ a prospect they found physically—if not mentally—arousing.

  Justin let her squirm just a moment longer before saying, “Don’t worry, Miss Parker, I don’t mean you’d really need to become my mistress, I just need you to assume the title for a week.”

  Juss wondered if it was possible for a human jaw to come unhinged and had just begun to think she’d never speak to him again—about anything—when she said, “How much?”

  “I beg your pardon?” he asked, even though he knew exactly what she meant. He just wanted to hear her say it again.

  “How much will you pay me and for how long?” The words had icicles on them.

  “Seven hundred pounds for seven days.”

  Her gasp cut through the cold air of the carriage. “A hundred pounds a day,” she whispered hoarsely.

  Juss didn’t think it was a question so he didn’t answer. Instead he watched her from beneath lowered lids, amused that she didn’t seem to notice or care that she was showing her hand so clearly. Oh yes, she would take this position, there was no doubt about it.

  Her lips were parted and her eyes were wide, her breathing shallow and rapid. Juss knew he should feel bad about the offer because he was positive she couldn’t afford to refuse it. The truth was that as amusing as it would be to have her company, he didn’t really need her to make the venture—one he’d been contemplating for a full decade—fulfilling. But providence, it seemed, had dropped her into his lap. Who was he to reject such a gift?

  Besides, the trip North was long and tedious and he’d enjoy toying with that prim reserve of hers and seeing what was beneath it. He’d also enjoy learning just how she’d fallen off her pedestal of virtue.

  In sum, he’d enjoy having her company for a week.

  “Seven hundred pounds for seven days,” she said again, as if the words were some kind of talisman. She cut him a nervous glance. “And you say I just need to assume the title of mistress?” Her eyes flickered over his person in a way that made his breath catch. His cock was certainly interested in her, but the notion of paying any woman for sexual favors—and that included whores—was repugnant to him.

  If Juss wanted her, she’d come to him freely.

  “I’ll secure adjoining rooms at the posting inns and we’ll certainly have our own rooms at the house where we’ll be staying. So, no,” he gave her a half-smile, “warming my bed is not part of your mistressly duty.”

  He saw relief on her heart-shaped face, but there was something else, too—regret? Or was that merely arrogant, wishful thinking? Likely the latter.

  “I don’t understand,” she said. “Why would you need me to pretend to be your mistress? Surely you can secure a real one?”

  He smiled. “That is none of your affair, Miss Parker.”

  Her eyes narrowed at his words, which echoed hers, and he knew she wanted to give him a blistering set-down. But she wanted the money more. “Starting when?”

  “I’m leaving the day after tomorrow.”

  “But—but—”

  “You sound like a hen, Miss Parker.”

  Her green eyes, which made emeralds appear dull by comparison, widened and she opened her mouth—no doubt to scold or snap at him—but then she closed it, her forehead furrowing.

  “Go on,” he said. “Ask everything you can think of right now.”

  “That doesn’t give me much time—not even a week to change my. . . well, not much time.”

  She swallowed, her expression almost tragic. In Justin’s experience only one thing made a woman look so forlorn: a lover.

  “Did you have plans next week, Miss Parker?”

  She took a deep breath and then let it out slowly. “Nothing that can’t be changed.”

  Juss’s curiosity was roused more than was good for him—or the woman across from him.

  He’d just decided to give it free rein when she said, “My clothing.” She gestured to her person, as if Juss might not know what clothing was. “I’m not prepared for a country hou—”

  “I’ll pay for clothing appropriate for my mistress.”

  “Appropriate clothing,” she repeated the words carefully, her cheeks flushing darkly.

  Juss wanted to l
augh; just what the hell was she imagining in that beautiful head of hers? Clearly something scandalous—as if he were planning to dress her in a fig leaf, or less.

  “Yes, appropriate,” he confirmed in a deliberately silky tone. “I will purchase clothing for your body that pleases me.” She jolted at the word body and it was all he could do not to laugh. Whatever act of debauchery she’d engaged in to lose her governessing job, it must have been on the tame side if the mere discussion of garments could make her so anxious. Juss smiled; this was a perk he’d not expected.

  You’re a bad, bad man, Justin Taylor.

  Oh yes, he was. But then he’d always known that. Miss Parker had probably suspected he was bad all along, and now she knew for certain.

  “How will you find clothing in such a short time?” she asked.

  “If you agree to my offer we will turn around and go shopping right now.”

  She licked her lips, the unintentionally sensual gesture causing him to stiffen. “I assume you need an answer quickly?”

  He smiled.

  “Very well, I accept.” She said the words so swiftly they all ran together. “But I shall want half the money in advance.”

  Juss could hold his laughter in check no longer: this was going to be the best damned country house party he’d ever attended.

  Five

  By the time Juss brought her back to the hovel where she lived it was after dark. He’d sent a message home from the modiste shop where he’d taken her, and his carriage had come to fetch them.

  The carriage was full of boxes and packages—clothing she would need for the journey— but the bulk of the new clothing would be delivered by the end of the day tomorrow and transported to the house party in the traveling coach that held his valet and the maid he’d engaged for her.

  “Give Charles your key and he will take up your packages,” Juss told her as they stood under the lamp glow cast by his carriage. She frowned, likely irked by his peremptory tone, but took the key from her reticule and handed it to the footman.

  It had begun to snow again around three o’clock and the temperature had turned bitingly cold as the sun went down. Juss was glad he’d insisted on purchasing the big fur muffler and fur-lined cloak she was now wearing.

  He waited until Charles disappeared inside the building before looking down at her. “I won’t see you again until I come to collect you in two days.” He could tell by her widening eyes that his words surprised—and probably pleased—her. “I want you to have tomorrow to reconsider your decision,” he said, not stopping when he heard her soft gasp. “If you are not here when I come for you, I will know your answer.”

  Her lovely lips parted, but words seemed to be eluding her. Well, he was no less stunned by his offer. But several hours spent watching her today had given him qualms. Although she’d as good as claimed to be a fallen woman, she behaved with a dignity and modesty that told him she’d not fallen very far. While taking her on this journey would not hurt her—at least not physically—it would most certainly mortify her sensibilities. So, he’d give her this last chance.

  Feeling a bit guilty, are you? The taunting voice in his head prodded. Because you’re all but pushing her away, old chap.

  Was he feeling guilty about bringing her along under a false—or at least unstated—pretext?

  The question made him uncomfortable—itself an unusual reaction for a man who never let any finer feelings concern him. Yes, she’d been the cause of his dismissal all those years ago, but did she really deserve what he had planned for her: embarrassment at best and humiliation at worst?

  “But—all this,” she said, gesturing to her new apparel, and scattering his thoughts. “Won’t you—”

  Juss gave an irritable shrug. “Keep it. What the devil would I do with it? Whatever you decide, it is yours,” he said shortly, suddenly so bloody tired he could hardly stand upright.

  That would be your guilt talking, mate.

  “But you spent—”

  “That isn’t your concern,” he snapped, distracted by the annoying voice in his head, the way her teeth caught her pillowy lower lip, and the dark flush on her pale-as-snow cheeks.

  “What about the m-money?”

  Ah, the money. Her question—and the slight stutter over the word money—made him smile. It also made him respect her even more than he already did: she was willing to demand what she wanted, even when her bargaining position was less than powerful. He had stopped at his bank before commencing their orgy of shopping, procuring a bearer banknote for the entire amount—an action which had rendered her speechless.

  “If you change your mind I trust you will dispose of the note, Miss Parker.”

  She opened her mouth, but before she could speak the footman stepped out of her building. Good, Juss hardly wished to stand here and persuade her to come on a journey that would only end in embarrassment—even if it would earn her enough money to live for several years.

  “Charles will see you to your door,” he said, giving her a brief bow before climbing back into the carriage and shutting the door, suddenly eager to put distance between them.

  Juss didn’t want to, but he turned to look out the window—just one last look. Their eyes met, and then she turned and walked away.

  Six

  The twenty-four hours that followed the shopping expedition were both the longest and shortest of Oona’s life and she was grateful that she could spend them alone.

  Without her job at Madam LeMonde’s to occupy her she had nothing but time.

  The first thing she did was write two messages: one to Katie to tell her she wasn’t coming, and one to Mrs. Landers, the headmistress at the small school, to say that her plans had changed and request that she keep Katie over this coming weekend. Oona wouldn’t send the letters until tomorrow. If she decided not to go, then she could tear up the letters and nobody would be the wiser.

  But then there was the issue of the clothing; Oona couldn’t keep such expensive items if she didn’t accept his offer. One way or another, she would make sure he received all the garments back if she changed her mind. The fur cloak alone was worth more than she made in five years, so he could either sell them or give them to his next mistress or set fire to them. But the one thing he could not do was force her to keep them.

  Not that she didn’t covet them with a ferocity that left her weak and dizzy. Oona had never thought of herself as a materialistic woman—at least not for anything but books, which she treasured above all other possessions—but these clothes certainly brought out the covetousness in her.

  As soon as he’d dropped her at home she laid everything out on her small pallet bed. It was good to have them out in the open—to remind her of what she would be giving away if she changed her mind. Oh, not just the clothing, but all the money that went along with it.

  By eight o’clock she was so exhausted from thinking about the matter she put on every stitch of clothing she owned—not the new clothing, which lay on her bed as if they were honored guests—and slept wrapped in her blanket in front of her tiny cookstove.

  By midnight there was a thick layer of ice on her water basin. By two in the morning she’d fed the last of her coals into the fire. By three o’clock it was so cold that her fingers were blue and she broke down and donned the beautiful fur-lined gloves before burrowing beneath the heavy fur cloak, taking care not to soil or damage either.

  The weather barely warmed with the rising sun and Oona knew she’d need to use some of her dwindling ‘emergency’ money to buy more coal.

  Seven nights for seven hundred pounds—that would be enough money to last for years.

  Those were the words that marched relentlessly through her head after she carefully removed all her finery and extra clothing and then shrugged into her old, tattered coat, hat, and mittens, and set out on her errand.

  Her eyes watered from the cold, the tears freezing on her lashes, as she walked beneath the iron gray sky, her empty coal scuttle banging against her leg with
each step.

  As cold as it was, the walk was good for her. Sitting at home in the tiny, freezing, dingy flat only made her mind spin faster. She could have asked the landlady to send up coal but the cost was almost double that of the old man who sold it from his wheelbarrow at the end of Petticoat Alley.

  Seven nights for Katie’s security, she thought as she handed over the small scuttle along with a sizeable portion of her coins.

  More people were already up and about on the journey back to her flat; it was a working day in her neighborhood—for everyone but Oona.

  Seven nights would secure a small cottage somewhere far away from dirty, dangerous, brutal London.

  Back in her lodgings Oona fed the hungry stove and set about preparing her usual breakfast.

  Today was day three on her tea leaves, an economy measure she’d practiced ever since moving to London, but when she looked at yesterday’s limp, frozen leaves in the bottom of her pot she decided to splurge. Why not? Tomorrow would have been shopping day—if she’d not lost her job—and there was barely enough tea left to brew a pot. Live for today.

  Fifteen minutes later, armed with tea and dry toast, she bundled up and sat in front of her pallet, staring at the beautiful garments while she warmed her hands around her chipped teacup.

  In addition to the beautiful fur-lined cloak, muffler, and gorgeous black felt and fur hat, there were two traveling costumes, two nightgowns, and numerous underthings. Most important were the brand new black ankle boots that sat swathed in tissue inside their own box.

  Oona looked down at her own battered footwear, which she’d repaired so often they looked like shoes made from patches. Her eyes drifted back to the shiny new ankle boots and she groaned. It was all so beautiful. But was that all it took to purchase her? Some beautiful garments?

  And seven hundred pounds—which means when you are finished with this week you can go to Katie and stay with her. You’ll be able to be with her at Christmas for the first time in three years.