"Aren't you the least upset that you must enter into an arrangement like this?"

Phillip shrugged. "In my social circle, marriages are always arranged. They're never made for love."

"It seems so wrong."

"But it's the way of things." She was shivering slightly, and he pulled her into his arms, running his hands up and down her back. "Get back to your fire."

"I will."

"Until tomorrow, then." He brushed a light kiss across her lips. "And, for heaven's sake, turn the key when I leave. You never know who might wander in off these London streets."

"You are right about that." She smiled then, closing and locking the door behind him. Her tread and her heart were heavy as she climbed the dark stairway back to the drawing room. It seemed strangely empty without the Earl's presence filling it up. She flopped in anguish onto the couch where only moments before Wessington had cradled her breast in the heat of passion.

"What have I done?" she asked the silent room. Shead cast her lot, she'd picked her man. What was ever to become of her?

Chapter Nine.

Margaret tapped her foot in time with the music as her eyes carefully scanned the crowd, looking for Phillip. With his height and broad physique, it was hard to miss him. He was simply one of those men who turned female heads wherever he went, and with his reputation as a scoundrel, every woman wondered in her heart what it would be like to enter the room on his arm. Even the young girls couldn't help glancing at him out of the corners of their eyes when they felt their mothers weren't looking.

Phillip, for his part, was so used to female adoration that he barely seemed to notice all the commotion he caused.

"Eat your hearts out, you silly twits, for he is mine," she muttered as she glanced at the door again. As usual, he was late, which irritated her. Their current host had added amusements upstairs. Although she was one of the few females who would be allowed, she needed Phillip's escort.

Frederick Morris was making his way toward her. A small man, with light brown hair and cold blue eyes, his cheeks were so smooth that Margaret wondered sometimes if his beard had ever begun to grow.

Although he was a few years older than Phillip, he appeared much younger. From behind, with his petite size, small hands and delicate features, he looked like a teenage boy until you stepped closer and saw the age lines around his eyes.

The whispers about Morris abounded, but he was welcomed by all members of the ton. The rumors about his sexual perversions were just that: rumors. If they were true, Margaret didnat care, and for the most part, neither did anyone else.

'Twas the lot of females to service men's wishes and desires. Margaret's own father had done so by marrying her off to a lecherous, but wealthy old man whose very touch had made Margaret's skin crawl. Once upon a time as a young girl, she'd believed in love and happily-ever-after, but her father had quickly disabused her of those notions on the day he'd announced whom he'd chosen as her husband. Life's realities were reaffirmed on her wedding night. There was no such thing as love. Each mana"or womana"had to look out for himself, because no one else was going to.

The trick was to figure out a man's weakness, then learn how to use it to gain whatever you wanted or needed. Which was exactly what she'd done. Morris was fascinated by young girls, and he'd set his sights on Emily Wessington. He was so besotted that he was willing to pay a fortune to have her. Phillip needed money. Margaret wanted Emily gone and Phillip happy. Therefore, a union between Morris and Emily was perfect.

Everybody would get what they wanted, except Emily, of course. But she was a child, and a female, so who cared what she wanted or thought about the entire affair?

"Lady Margaret," Morris greeted her as he bowed over her hand. "How nice to see you. You're looking lovely this evening."

Margaret knew she was one of the most beautiful women in the room, but still she managed to accept the compliment graciously. "Thank you, sir. It's kind of you to notice."

They chatted politely for a few minutes, until Morris gave up any pretense at social banter. "Will Wessington be here tonight?"

"He was supposed to be here already. He's late."

"I haven't heard from you in weeks. What's his thinking?"

"He's still considering your offer."

"What does that mean?"

"It means he's still considering it."

"Last time we spoke, you said you had him convinced."

"Nearly convinced, Morris. Not completely." Margaret regretted the necessity of doing business with such a disgusting little weasel, but sometimes, a person simply wasn't allowed to choose her partners. "Give me more time."

"How much more? I first approached him with the idea six months ago." Morris's voice rose slightly in agitation. He'd been wanting to get his hands on Emily for years.

"He's having trouble reaching a decision."

"Well, I'm tired of waiting. I want an answer."

"He's got the betrothal contract sitting on his desk. I've seen the papers. I think he just needs an extra push in the right direction. Perhaps if you raised the amount of the offer."

"It's already at ten thousand."

"How about twelve-five? Could you swing it?"

"Yes, but that's it. If he refuses, I can't go another pound."

"Good, I think that will bring him 'round. His financial problems may be a bit steeper than we know. A little extra cash should be just the thing to aid in the decision-making process."

"I hope you're right. I'm so tired of this uncertainty."

"Patience, my dear Morris. All good things come to those who wait. Now . . "Just then, Phillip entered the room, his presence announced by the doorman. He seemed in a heady mood, flush with color and excitement. Margaret loved to see him in such a state. He would be an animal when they were alone together later. "Look, there's Wessington. I'll speak with him, and I'll send a note 'round tomorrow."

Morris drifted away into the crowd, and Margaret stood her ground, watching Phillip make his way to her. It took many minutes, as he stopped to chat with numerous acquaintances.

"You're late." She wasn't going to mention his tardiness, but the words popped out of their own accord.

"Yes, I am. I had some last-minute business to tend to. It couldn't be helped."

It was as close to an apology as she'd ever get from him, so she didnat push it. "I'm dreadfully bored. I've been waiting to go upstairs."

"You should have gone without me."

Margaret bit back her retort. As much as she felt they were having a serious relationshipa"or as serious a one as two people such as themselves ever hada"he always refused to act as though it meant anything at all. "Let's go now, shall we?"

"Certainly."

They casually strolled through the rooms to the back of the house where a servant stood guard. With a quick nod, he stepped aside and let them pass.

Only a select number were granted entrance to the seedier side of the celebration. Most people would have been scandalized to know such things occurred just over the heads of those attending a most proper ball filled with marriageable young ladies. The goings-on were so foreign to the minds of most, especially women of delicate countenance, that even rumors of such things failed to reach their ears.

A few dozen people, mostly men but also some of the more jaded women, filled the darkened rooms. Beds were available for those who wished to engage in fornication. A Chinese opiate was dispensed for those who enjoyed the lethargy and dreams it evoked. In the middle of the main room was a small stage complete with a large bed. On it, a prostitute was busy with a well-known gentleman. Others could take turns with her later alone or in groups.

Margaret loved watching sexual displays after sampling opium, so she headed for the corner. Of late, she seemed to reach for the pipe sooner and more often, but she didnat care. The sensations it created were too delightful to pass up.

Wessington stopped her before she reached it.

"What?" she asked, wondering why he cared what she was doing.

"I want to speak to you. Privately." While you're still in a condition to listen, he thought but didnat voice his opinion.

"That's a good idea. I've something to tell you as well." She turned and walked back to the hall. Wessington led her past the row of doors until they found an empty room at the end. He bolted the door, then lay back on the bed, loosening his cravat and shirt.

"You go first," he commanded once he was comfortable.

"I spoke with Frederick Morris before you arrived."

"What did he want?"

"He simply mentioned that he hadn't heard from you about the contract."

"That's because I haven't made up my mind."

"That's what I told him. He asked me to pass on his interest, and to let you know that he's willing to increase the price."

"To what?"

"Twelve thousand, five hundred."

"He's that eager, is he?"

"Well, Emily is very lovely."

Phillip just shrugged. He'd never paid enough attention to the girl to notice. Still ... he couldn't decide. Morris would just have to wait until he could. At least now, the pressure was off to reach a hasty decision.

"I'm not going to decide now."

"I understand." She moved to the bed, lay next to him and rested a hand on his chest. "Good heavens, Wessington, you're soaking wet."

"I've been walking."

"You're joking."

"Not at all. It's lovely outside. Plus, I needed to clear my head. I had some good news for a change. It's going to be 'round town by tomorrow, so I wanted to be the one to tell you."

His attempt at dramatic effect was almost humorous. "Well, then, get on with it. What news?"

"I've decided to marry."

He stated the fact with no hesitation, as though they were discussing the weather instead of Margaret's future. The words were so far removed from what she'd expected that, at first, she felt as though he'd whispered in some exotic Arabic language she didnat understand. She sat up and looked him in the eye. "What did you say?"

"I'm marrying. I've proposed, and she's accepted."

"You can't be serious."

"I am. We're to be married in two weeks. We sign the papers tomorrow morning."

Margaret swallowed hard. While she'd just spent hours impatiently waiting for him to arrive at the blasted party, he'd been off proposing marriage to someone else! She wanted to kill him. She wanted to weep. She wanted to laugh at the absurdity of it all. "But what about us?"

"What about us?"

"I always thought that we woulda""

"That we would marry? I swear, Margaret, sometimes your thinking truly astounds me."

Margaret flushed a bright red. She'd never let the bastard know how much his remark had cut. "We suit very well."

"For an affair, yes, but I've always told you we would never wed." He noticed her agitated state. "Please, don't go hysterical on me."

"As if you'd be worth hysterics." She stepped off the bed and moved toward the fire, taking the few seconds to rearrange her features and regain her composure. "So, who's the lucky girl?"

"The heiress I told you about."

She whipped around in surprise, laughing rudely. "You can't be serious. You can't mean the one who was playing servant girl in your home?"

"The very same."

"That plain little mouse? You'll eat her alive."

"I seriously doubt it. And while we're on the subject of my new bride, I'd appreciate it if you'd keep your opinions about her to yourself. I've no desire to hear them."

"Fine, but I can't believe you're seriously considering this."

"I'm not considering it. I've made up my mind."

"But whatever are you thinking? She'll expect a husband. A real husband."

"I'll be a real husband. We're having a ceremony."

"No, you idiot. She'll expect you to play house. To chaperon her, and escort her, and make it home for supper and be there for breakfast. To spend your holidays 'round the fire with your loving family. She'll expect you to be a father to her children." Margaret rubbed her eyes and laughed again, more wickedly this time. "I can just see it: the great ladies' man, Phillip Wessington, bouncing a brat on each knee while a third tugs at his coat."

"It's not going to be like that."

"Isn't it? How can you be so certain?" She walked to the table in the corner and helped herself to a large swig of brandy. "And what about love? She'll expect love from you. Fidelity and loyalty. You've no idea how to give any of those things."

"I've no intention of giving them."

"It will begin on your wedding night when you make love to her the first time. She's just a girl, Phillip. A young, impressionable commoner who thinks that going to bed with her husband means something important. You'll touch her and caress her with the simple intent of opening her to ease your way, and she'll think she's in the beginnings of the greatest love affair of all time."

"You're reading too much into this."