My Wicked Marquess Read Free Page B

condition of this place where his daughter conducted her charity work? Max did not at all approve.
    Right on schedule, just as it said in her file, she had appeared for her weekly orphanage visit at her usual time—Friday morning at nine on the nose. Apparently Daphne Starling was the kind of person who liked her same routine.
    Max liked a prompt woman. Then again, her reliable routine made it awfully easy for others around here to anticipateher arrival, and he did not like that at all.
    Myriad questions about her revolved in his mind like the spheres on an astrolabe, but his painted hostess in the brothel’s upper room was growing petulant at his lack of attention.
    â€œWhy are you watching that lady?” she demanded.
    â€œBecause,” Max said slowly, sardonically, keeping his telescope aimed out the window, “I am considering marrying her.”
    The harlot let out a laugh of surprise, then twitched her skirts at him. “You’re havin’ me on!”
    â€œNo, no,” he denied in an idle tone, though he was still not sure himself how seriously he meant it.
    â€œWell, you’ve got a strange way of wooing, don’t ye?”
    â€œOld habits die hard,” he said under his breath.
    She gave him a teasing poke in the arm, not knowing what to make of him.
    Few did.
    â€œCome, sir, no woman likes a husband who spies on her!”
    â€œI really don’t care what she likes at this point.”
    â€œCold,” she chided.
    â€œPractical,” he countered, glancing over with a cynical smile. “One wants to know what one is getting into.”
    She snorted, eyeing him. “You can say that again.”
    â€œRelax. You’ll get your money.”
    â€œBy the look of you, I’d rather earn it, love.” She sidled closer, hooking her hand over his shoulder. “Men like you don’t come in here too often.”
    He looked askance at her, wondering if she meant trained killers for an organization that did not officially exist, or dressed-down marquesses with a centuries-old title. “Perhaps you should be glad of that,” he said.
    She fell silent, scanning his closed expression with a troubled look. “Who are you, anyway?”
    Depends who you ask . He sent her a softly chiding glance. “Ah, you know better than to ask your clients that.” He nodded toward the window. “Do you know her?”
    â€œMiss Starling? Everyone ’round here knows her. Tryin’ to save souls, I reckon. Waste o’ time.” Her short, disdainfullaugh spoke volumes. “She don’t approve o’ the likes o’ me.”
    â€œI don’t suppose she does.” Damn, how long did it take to pass out a few cheap toys? Hardening himself against an echo from the distant past with a painful sense of kinship to the penniless, unloved children behind those dingy walls, he noted his growing restlessness while he waited for Daphne Starling to come out again.
    Normally he had the patience of a spider, but he had already lost so much time…Twenty years of his life sacrificed to the Order.
    He drummed his fingers on the window ledge, suppressing a growl. “How long does she usually stay?”
    â€œHow should I know?” the prostitute exclaimed, then bravely, she reached out and touched his arm. “I could entertain you while you wait.”
    Max paused; warily, he watched her make her move. It was the third-floor corner room of the brothel with its vantage point overlooking the street that he had wanted, not the woman that came with it. Nevertheless, he permitted himself a moment’s fleeting enjoyment at her caress.
    This, God help him, was what he was used to when it came to bed sport. From bored highborn adulteresses, to expensive courtesans, to the prettiest wenches in some low house of pleasure, it all boiled down to harlotry. For so long, he had had to content himself with anonymous liaisons of this sort, or for his