Read Online Wicked Intentions 1 by Elizabeth Hoyt - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Elizabeth Hoyt
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left. Lady Caire straightened to pour. Her hand hesitated over the teacup. “Sugar?”
“No, thank you.”
“Of course.” Her aplomb was restored. She handed him the cup. “I remember now—neither sugar nor cream.”
He raised his brows and set aside the teacup untasted. What game was she playing?
She seemed not to notice his lack of enthusiasm for the tea, resuming her languid pose with her own cup. “I hear you’ve been seen with the elder Miss Turner. Have you interest in that direction?”
He blinked for a moment, truly surprised, and then burst out laughing. “Have you decided to matchmake for me now, ma’am?”
A line of irritation appeared between her brows. “Lazarus—”
But he interrupted her, his words quick and light, belying the edge they held. “Perhaps you’ll vet and approve a select group of fillies, line them up for my inspection. Of course, it might be difficult, what with the rumors of my… proclivities flying about London society. All but the most mercenary families make sure to keep their virgins away from me.”
“Don’t be crude.” She set down her teacup with a moue of distaste.
“First rude, then crude,” he drawled. His patience had worn out. “Really, madam, it is a wonder you can stand my company at all.”
She frowned at that. “I—”
“Are you in need of funds?”
“No, I—”
“Have you any other pressing matter to discuss with me, then?”
“Lazarus—”
“No worry over business?” he interrupted. “Your lands or servants?”
She simply stared at him.
“Then I fear I must go, Lady Caire.” He rose and bowed without meeting her eyes. “I bid you good morning.”
He was already at the door when she said, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it was like.”
His back was to her, and he didn’t turn to acknowledge her before closing the door behind him.
M ARY H OPE WAS not improving.
Temperance watched anxiously as the wet nurse, Polly, tried once again to get the infant to latch on to her nipple. The baby’s tiny, lax mouth opened about the tip of the nipple, but she lay unresponsive, her eyes closed.
Polly tched and looked up, her face sad. “She’s not suckin’, ma’am. I can ’ardly feel her on me.”
Temperance straightened, wincing at a crick in her back. She’d been hovering over Polly and the baby for what seemed like hours now. Polly sat in an old armchair with the infant. The chair was the nicest piece of furniture in her little rented room—Temperance had given it to Polly when she’d hired her as one of the foundling home’s wet nurses. The wet nurses didn’t live in the home. Instead they took their tiny charges to their own homes, whatever that may be.
Since Temperance didn’t directly oversee the wet nurses, it was imperative to find women she could trust, and Polly was the best. Not much over twenty, the wet nurse wasdark-eyed, dark-haired, and rather pretty. But Polly had the pragmatic air of a woman twice her age. Her husband was a sailor, coming home only often enough to sire two children with his wife. In between his infrequent appearances, Polly fended for herself and her little family.
Besides the chair, Polly’s room held a table, a curtained bed, and a cheap print on the wall depicting gaily dressed ladies. Over the mantel of the fireplace, a round polished mirror hung to reflect what little light there was back into the room. Polly had set her few possessions on the mantel: a candlestick, a pot for salt and one for vinegar, a teapot, and a tin cup. In a corner of the wretched room, Polly’s babies played, a toddler and a child who had just learned to crawl.
Temperance returned her gaze to Mary Hope. Polly’s small room might be poor, but it was spotlessly clean, and Polly herself was neat and sober. Unlike many of the women who made their living wet-nursing, she didn’t drink, and she actually seemed to care for her tiny charges while they were with her.
That made her worth her weight in
“No, thank you.”
“Of course.” Her aplomb was restored. She handed him the cup. “I remember now—neither sugar nor cream.”
He raised his brows and set aside the teacup untasted. What game was she playing?
She seemed not to notice his lack of enthusiasm for the tea, resuming her languid pose with her own cup. “I hear you’ve been seen with the elder Miss Turner. Have you interest in that direction?”
He blinked for a moment, truly surprised, and then burst out laughing. “Have you decided to matchmake for me now, ma’am?”
A line of irritation appeared between her brows. “Lazarus—”
But he interrupted her, his words quick and light, belying the edge they held. “Perhaps you’ll vet and approve a select group of fillies, line them up for my inspection. Of course, it might be difficult, what with the rumors of my… proclivities flying about London society. All but the most mercenary families make sure to keep their virgins away from me.”
“Don’t be crude.” She set down her teacup with a moue of distaste.
“First rude, then crude,” he drawled. His patience had worn out. “Really, madam, it is a wonder you can stand my company at all.”
She frowned at that. “I—”
“Are you in need of funds?”
“No, I—”
“Have you any other pressing matter to discuss with me, then?”
“Lazarus—”
“No worry over business?” he interrupted. “Your lands or servants?”
She simply stared at him.
“Then I fear I must go, Lady Caire.” He rose and bowed without meeting her eyes. “I bid you good morning.”
He was already at the door when she said, “You don’t know. You don’t know what it was like.”
His back was to her, and he didn’t turn to acknowledge her before closing the door behind him.
M ARY H OPE WAS not improving.
Temperance watched anxiously as the wet nurse, Polly, tried once again to get the infant to latch on to her nipple. The baby’s tiny, lax mouth opened about the tip of the nipple, but she lay unresponsive, her eyes closed.
Polly tched and looked up, her face sad. “She’s not suckin’, ma’am. I can ’ardly feel her on me.”
Temperance straightened, wincing at a crick in her back. She’d been hovering over Polly and the baby for what seemed like hours now. Polly sat in an old armchair with the infant. The chair was the nicest piece of furniture in her little rented room—Temperance had given it to Polly when she’d hired her as one of the foundling home’s wet nurses. The wet nurses didn’t live in the home. Instead they took their tiny charges to their own homes, whatever that may be.
Since Temperance didn’t directly oversee the wet nurses, it was imperative to find women she could trust, and Polly was the best. Not much over twenty, the wet nurse wasdark-eyed, dark-haired, and rather pretty. But Polly had the pragmatic air of a woman twice her age. Her husband was a sailor, coming home only often enough to sire two children with his wife. In between his infrequent appearances, Polly fended for herself and her little family.
Besides the chair, Polly’s room held a table, a curtained bed, and a cheap print on the wall depicting gaily dressed ladies. Over the mantel of the fireplace, a round polished mirror hung to reflect what little light there was back into the room. Polly had set her few possessions on the mantel: a candlestick, a pot for salt and one for vinegar, a teapot, and a tin cup. In a corner of the wretched room, Polly’s babies played, a toddler and a child who had just learned to crawl.
Temperance returned her gaze to Mary Hope. Polly’s small room might be poor, but it was spotlessly clean, and Polly herself was neat and sober. Unlike many of the women who made their living wet-nursing, she didn’t drink, and she actually seemed to care for her tiny charges while they were with her.
That made her worth her weight in
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