The Outrageous Belle Marchmain. Lucy Ashford

that she bobbed down again, to pick up more pieces of the ill-fated model. As she did so she was presenting that very pert, very rounded derrière to Adam’s narrowed eyes. Hell. He did try to look away. He despised himself for registering even the slightest flicker of interest. But a picture of her unclad appeared rather tantalisingly in his mind, and his body responded accordingly.

      Adam had decided long ago that marriage was not for him. He had neither the time nor the inclination to play the games of courtship, flattery and lies that a permanent commitment would involve. God knew he was offered enough suitable brides; they were pushed before him at every opportunity, thanks to his wealth.

      But the example of his parents’ marriage had put him off for good. Miner Tom’s only son, Charles, had been so rich he was able to choose a bride from the aristocracy, but his well-born wife—pushed into the marriage by her parents—had thoroughly despised her low-born husband and after producing two male heirs she’d embarked on a string of affairs.

      Adam had spent a good deal of his childhood trying to protect his young brother, Freddy, from their mother’s promiscuity and their weak father’s rages. Both parents had died years ago, and Adam felt not the slightest desire to emulate their unhappiness; hence his custom of keeping suitable mistresses to satisfy his own male desires.

      He treated them generously, but always Adam made the terms quite clear: ‘This ends when I say it ends. Afterwards, if we happen across each other in society, we will acknowledge each other civilly. No more and no less.’

      Most of his former mistresses knew better than to cause him any trouble; Lady Farnsworth, his latest, had been an exception. Adam had quickly wearied of the elegant widow’s clinging possessiveness and her withering contempt for any suspected rivals.

      The trouble was, he hadn’t yet chosen himself another woman for his bed. Usually they were either widows or amicably separated from their husbands and the choice was plentiful. But no one had tempted him to make an offer, since …

      Since he collided with this little minx, who’d insulted his name to high heaven one March afternoon on Sawle Down.

      The realisation struck him like a thunderbolt. No. He couldn’t have held back from singling out a new chère amie because he was thinking of Belle Marchmain. It was damned impossible! But …

      She’d come here to ask him a very big favour, but her plans—so far—had come crashing round her pretty ears. Now he looked at her again as she furiously picked up the last bits of his model from the floor.

      Her straw bonnet had fallen off and her glossy raven curls were tumbling around the slender column of her neck. ‘There! That’s all of it!’ she breathed, putting two more pieces defiantly on the table. Her face had become a little flushed. ‘Whatever you call it,’ she added rather darkly, her hands on her hips.

      Mrs Belle Marchmain looked delectable. Her pink silk jacket had fallen apart, and the brightly patterned gown that fitted so snugly to her bosom and tiny waist almost made him smile.

      What would she be like in bed? If she was, as Jarvis suggested, well practised in the erotic arts and open to offers, it might be interesting to find out …

      ‘And—and you can stop looking at me like that!’

      Her rebuke shocked him out of his reverie and Adam stopped smiling. ‘You were asking about the model you almost destroyed,’ he said. ‘It’s a miniature of a Newcomen steam engine. And that’s not quite it, Mrs Marchmain. You came to me with a problem. And I think I might have the solution.’ He’d propped his lean hips against the sideboard and watched her with cool, assessing eyes.

      Belle suddenly felt that the room was too small. Either that or this formidable man was too close. Something tight was squeezing her lungs. ‘Let me tell you now that Edward will never sell more of the estate to you and I wouldn’t ask him to. It’s his heritage!’

      ‘But of course,’ answered Adam imperturbably. ‘And your brother shouldn’t be expected to dirty his hands for a living as so many men—and women—do.’ She swallowed. ‘I also imagine,’ he went on in the same calm voice, ‘that most of the rest of his estate is entailed. You want me to drop charges against your brother for stealing my livestock, don’t you? Well, I certainly require payment. And as to what that payment shall be, I have the perfect answer. I think you do as well.’

      What? Belle paled. ‘I—I thought perhaps we could come to some arrangement, for Edward to pay his debts off gradually …’

      His lip curled. ‘Impossible, I’m afraid. But I still see no reason, Mrs Marchmain, to dismiss the obvious solution.’

      So frozen did she look that her lips could clearly scarcely frame the words. ‘What exactly are you suggesting, Mr Davenant?’

      ‘Let’s be clear. You surely realise you have only one thing you can offer in payment of your brother’s debts,’ Adam said softly. ‘Yourself. Be my mistress.’