Free The Luckiest Lady In London by Sherry Thomas

impropriety of the subject of their discussion, but everything to do with his approval of what the world might consider selfishness on her part.
    She kept it hidden, that consideration for herself. Even her mother and her sisters did not quite understand it—they all thought her the good, self-effacing daughter who would be glad to do anything for her family.
    But he liked her that way. In fact, he seemed to like her far more for her flaws than for any virtues she might possess.
    “Then let me speak more to you of your own gains to be had. The house I will settle on you currently fetches rent in excess of five hundred pounds a year. Think of everything you can do with such sums. Or, knowing you, think of thepleasures to be had in watching your bank account grow fatter by the month.”
    She would like that, wouldn’t she? She would eagerly compute the month’s various revenues—rents and interests and perhaps dividends from prudent investments—a pleasure she’d never had in all her years of being impoverished. Then she would calculate how much her income exceeded her expenditures and giggle to herself at the cushion of comfort and security she was accumulating.
    This time she had to struggle to speak with prim objection. “My lord, the only way a man will sleep with me is by marrying me first. And you are no exception.”
    “Tempting, but alas, I have no plans for marriage,” he answered firmly. “However, are you sure I cannot entice you with a core collection to start your own library?”
    The merest of trifles, yet she felt as if she had been struck by lightning: All of a sudden she understood the game in a way she hadn’t before. To start, it
was
a game to him. He asked from her everything that was worth anything, but he had put up nothing more than—how had he phrased it earlier?—an amount that was negligible to his ledgers.
    Two, he would not consider her response today to be her final answer. He had, in fact, given himself several weeks before the end of the Season for gradually wearing down her resistance, a process he would enjoy the way the master of Château Lafite Rothschild savored his own best vintage.
    Three, there must be a way for
her
to play this game. Except she did not yet know how. She had heard his initial offer. Could she bargain for two houses? Or two thousand pounds a year?
    And more importantly, did she want to? He asked for only four weeks a year, but she was not so naive as to believe that should they become lovers, thoughts of him would not dominate her waking hours the rest of the year. Was a house anda thousand-pound annuity—or even double that—enough compensation for being in thrall to him for as far as she could see into the future?
    Don’t forget the jealousy that is certain to come
, added a voice inside her head.
You don’t suppose he would remain celibate the other eleven months, do you? He will enjoy affairs upon affairs. Not to mention, one of these days he will marry
.
    At the thought of the future Lady Wrenworth, a strange numbness spread in her chest. She could so easily imagine an accidental meeting of the three of them, which would of course take place well after he had tired of her. With an amused smile he would present his former plaything to his lady wife, who would be young, fresh, and beautiful, while Louisa would be approaching middle age, the very picture of dowdiness.
    “And have I mentioned that I am a competent and considerate lover?” said the present-day Lord Wrenworth, dangling yet another lure before her.
    “I do not doubt that,” she answered. “In fact . . .”
    Her voice trailed off.
    “In fact what?” he prompted her.
    She had very nearly mentioned those erotic thoughts that besieged her nightly. Under normal circumstances, it would have been a huge blunder. But were there such things as normal circumstances left, when Lord Wrenworth was involved?
    “In fact”—she pushed on before she could stop herself again—“I lie awake at