Free Pleasure For Pleasure by Eloisa James Page A

remarkably lucky in that regard.”

6
    From The Earl of Hellgate, Chapter the Third
    I fear it will reveal my arrogance if I say that I did fulfill the command of the duchess—shall we term her Hermia? My skills I consider to be God’s providence and gift, for the duchess informed sometime later that God had pricked me out for women’s pleasure …and I have devoutly followed His directive ever since.

    T hurman walked up to the Sausage as if he’d been introduced. In a way, he felt as if they were old acquaintances. Surely if he, Thurman, actually talked to the Sausage, Darlington would come to the Convent to hear his tale. He could send him a message, telling him that he had a story Darlington couldn’t miss. Thurman felt panic at the idea of not having Darlington at his side. Not having Darlington’s witticisms and cutting observations to pass the time.
    â€œI’m a friend of Darlington,” he said by way of invitation.
    The Sausage blinked at him and then looked away, staring at the wall over his shoulder. “I would rather not be reminded of your friend’s ill-bred phrases.”
    â€œIll-bred? He ain’t ill-bred,” Thurman protested.
    She still didn’t look at him. But: “Despicable Darlington,” she said mockingly. “I vow the phrase is quite appealing.”
    Thurman scowled. What he should do is dance with the piglet. That way he could make a great story out of how she trod on his feet with her little hooves and squealed in his ear. “Would you like to dance?”
    She glanced at him for a second and then turned her entire head so she was staring at the wall again. “Absolutely not.”
    â€œWhy not? You’re desperate, aren’t you?”
    â€œYou’re some sort of fiend,” she said. “Why on earth are you being so impolite? To the best of my knowledge, we’ve never met.”
    The disgust in her voice gave him a thrill of power. It wasn’t just Darlington who could come up with cutting phrases. He could too. “I don’t mind being a fiend as long as you don’t cast me into a swine,” he said.
    â€œYou are swine,” Miss Essex said, glaring at him instead of the wall. “Oink, oink, Mr. Whatever Your Name Is. Why don’t you trot back to whatever vulgar little pen you came from?”
    Somehow his little jest hadn’t come across with the same aplomb that Darlington achieved. She was looking at him so that he— he —felt uncomfortably aware of his rounded stomach. Everyone knew that weight in a man was a good thing. Made him strong and long-living.
    But Thurman had the same quivering sense of failure that he used to have when he was called before the class to do the multiplication tables. Miss Essex had a powerfully nasty gaze. In fact, he hated her.
    She wasn’t done talking. “You are the sort of man who pinches maids,” she was saying. “I can’t imagine how you found your way into this ball.”
    Thurman felt that in his gut: he was sensitive about thefact that his family’s wealth came from running a printing press. He always laughed it off as his grandfather’s intellectual fling, but he knew his claim to the title of gentleman was fragile.
    â€œYou are the sort of woman who will never be so lucky as to be pinched,” he said, tasting Darlington’s acid tones on his tongue. He could be as cutting as Darlington. He moved a little closer. He really loathed this plump Scottish girl. If he had his way, fat Scottish girls would never be allowed into a ton party at all. “You’ll never be lucky enough to be tupped either,” he said.
    Then he just stood there, watching her. To tell the truth, he was rather surprised at himself for voicing such a thing in the midst of a society affair.
    She got a little red in the face, so she must have known what tupping was. “You are—filth,” she said.
    Her voice was