PLAYED BY THE EARL Read online

  He stood. “You’re a clever little thing, but are you trainable? You will only earn your fee if you work hard and do as I say.”

  “‘Ard at wot?” She wrapped her arms around her shins. She wanted that money. Needed it. Such a sum would solve everything. No more delays. No more nights tossing and turning worrying about her sister.

  But even after all these years, after all the disappointments and degradations she’d faced, even she had her limits. There were some things she wouldn’t do for money, not even for an obscene amount of it.

  Leaning forwards, he picked up the end of one of her ash-blonde curls, pulling it out straight.

  She slapped his hand away and the ringlet bounced back to her shoulder.

  He grinned. “Miss Netta Pickle, in order to earn your fee, you will have to become the embodiment of feminine virtue. The pinnacle of everything that is lovely and charming.”

  He hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat pockets and rocked back on his heels. “In short, my dear, I am going to turn you into a lady.”

  Chapter Six

  John closed his eyes. “Not that one,” he said for the fourth time. Truly, he was beginning to worry about the mental faculties of little Netta Pickle. For someone who had seemed clever enough to employ a stratagem at the coffeehouse, her lack of understanding of the basic functions of the dinner fork was concerning. “It’s the third fork from the right that you use for the main course, not the first. You persist in using the same utensil for each plate.”

  Netta clanged the fork in question against the china, and John snapped his eyes open. The set had been a gift from the Princess of Prussia. Perhaps until he had Netta better trained he should use the servants’ dishes.

  “I don’t see why it matters.” She flicked her hand over the row of silverware, knocking several to the carpet. She huffed and bent over. “As long as the food gets in me mouth, any fork should do.”

  She was dexterous. John had to give her that. The spoon she’d slipped into her bodice before she straightened and replaced two forks on the table made barely a whisper as it slid past the satin of her borrowed gown.

  He sighed. One would think with the promise of four thousand pounds that a woman would constrain her felonious impulses. But not Netta Pickle. Really, he didn’t know what he was going to do with her.

  Wilberforce was, if not happy, content that the ragamuffin they’d saved was safe and secure in John’s home. Robert was less sulky now that John had agreed to help him out of yet another jumble. And Netta looked as excited as a pig in a puddle of mud as she scoped out all of John’s finery that she could steal.

  It was only John who remained gloomy. He sighed again, more deeply. The things he suffered for his family and friends.

  He slouched back in his chair, a niggle of shame sliding through him. Except it wasn’t just John who suffered. Robert had done his share, too, and at John’s hand. It had been foolish to believe that he could leave his brother to fend for himself. John owed him more than he could ever repay.

  And Robert takes advantage of my guilt every chance he can.

  John pushed the uncharitable thought from his mind. Perhaps if Robert was returned the responsibility of managing one of the family smelts. Or the gunpowder mill. Perhaps this time the work would turn him into someone useful and productive.

  He cleared his throat, and the butter knife that had been inching its way towards Netta’s sleeve popped back into its place.

  “Do we ever get to actually eat with these forks, or am I to starve while staying at your house?” she asked. “I’m ‘ungry.”

  “Hungry. Say it with the H. You can do it.” Please let her be able to do it. He should have chosen one of the women he knew from The Black Rose. They were always eager for coin, and had the quality to pull off pretending to be a lady. But it had seemed such a tidy solution. He needed a pretty, young woman with easy morals. One had dropped into his lap. And besides, Netta had needed the blunt. Wilberforce would stop giving him that look, the one that implored him to make every situation right. A tidy solution all around.

  If only she was teachable.

  “‘Ungry.”

  “Hungry. It truly isn’t difficult.” The girl was being intentionally willful. She had to be. “You aren’t getting dinner until you use the eighth letter in our alphabet. And I believe it’s a lovely roast duck tonight.”

  She bounced angrily in her seat, and his gaze flicked to the flesh jiggling above the low neckline of her gown. And to think he’d once believed her to be a young boy. After a good scrubbing and a change of clothes, she’d turned out to be a pretty little thing. Lush even. With the kind of curves a man liked to bury himself in. With clear skin, surprising for one living on the streets, winsome curls that sprung from her head a lustrous chestnut brown but tapered into a pale blond by the ends, and entrancing eyes that made his breath stall every time he became trapped in their gaze, Netta Pickle had the potential to distract every man in the room.

  John crossed his leg over his cock, which was becoming a mite too interested in the woman across the table. She would make a tempting prize to a man such as Sudworth. John would be wise to keep this endeavor purely platonic if he didn’t want her to distract him, as well.

  “Pleeease.” She pressed her hands to her abdomen. “Me belly is rumbling so.”

  “And all you have to say is one word, properly, to feed it.”

  She narrowed those lovely eyes and glared at him. “Hhhungry.”

  That one word was growled in an octave lower than her normal tones, and John felt it deep in his gut. The pressure against his pantaloons increased.

  Wisdom wasn’t always his strong suit.

  He cleared his throat. “How delightful. You can be trained.” He flicked his finger to the door, and the footman standing guard slipped out to tell the cook they were ready to eat. As he left, another visitor slid inside and made straight for John’s ankles.

  John picked up the cat and plopped it on the chair next to him before she could destroy his boots.

  “Now, on to other matters.” He tilted his head. “I can’t introduce you as Miss Pickle. That name just won’t do. We’ll have to come up with another.”

  “Wot’s the cat’s name?” Netta jerked her chin at the orange fluff-ball.

  “Judith.”

  Netta’s mouth widened into a perfect ‘O’.

  John’s cock throbbed. She had a delightful mouth. Wide and plush and just the right size to wrap around his—

  “You named your cat Judith?” she asked. “Wot a hhhorrible name for a cat.”

  “She’s not my cat.” The animal in question batted the air and hissed at him, apparently not liking the disdainful tone of his voice. John modulated it. “Wilberforce found her in the yard, bloody after a fight, and took her in.” He gave Netta a pointed look. “The man is wont to do such foolishness.”

  The woman had the gall to stick her tongue out at him. He blinked, his shock somewhat lessoned by images of her using that clever tongue in imaginative ways. Would she lick a man’s cock like a cream ice or would she dive right in and—

  “Well, I’m not letting you name me. Not if you thought Judith was a good name for a cat.” She plunked her elbows on the table and rested her chin on her clasped hands. “‘Ow about…ooh, I’ve always wanted to be a Miss Moulin.”

  John blew out a breath and focused his thoughts. Netta was fully-clothed, and she would remain that way. He needed to restrain his imagination. “Too showy.”

  “‘Ow about Miss Pa-pi-llon. Me mam told me that meant dove.”

  “Butterfly. And no.”

  “Fontaine?”

  He shook his head.

  “Labelle?”

  Jesus, it was like she knew the name of every French whore in London.

  Two footmen stepped through, each carrying a platter. One laid a plate before John, and removed the lid, refilling his wine glass before stepping back. The other didn’t g
et a chance to place his plate down. Netta jerked it from his hand and dug into it as though she hadn’t eaten in a month.

  John cut off a small bit of meat and fed it to the cat. “That’s not the right fork.”

  She didn’t respond, only squinted her eyes over the table at him, her cheeks bulging like a squirrel’s gorging on nuts, and continued shoveling food into her mouth with the salad fork.

  “We’ll stick with calling you Netta for now, shall we?” There was nothing delicate or proper about this woman. He still refused to call her, to call anyone, Pickle, but Netta would do well enough. “We’ll hold elocution classes in the morning, deportment in the afternoons, and lessons in dining etiquette at dinner.”

  She took a large swallow of wine. “Wot’s et-cut?”

  “To begin with, it means not eating with one’s elbows planted on the table.” He stabbed his knife in the direction of her elbows and was gratified when she slid them off the wood to her sides. “Next, instead of shoving the entire breast in your mouth, cut off a piece small enough where you need chew only three times before swallowing.”

  She cut a wedge and stuck it in her mouth. She bobbed her head with each gnash of her teeth. Counting in her head, no doubt. “Three times?” She spoke with her mouth half full. “I’m already at ten and that was a small bite.”

  “Cut a smaller piece. And don’t”—he dropped his chin and gave her the sternest look he owned—“speak when there is food in your mouth. I want you to prove a distraction, but not of the appalling kind.”

  She made a show of swallowing and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  John winced. The lovely lace cuff on her gown would never survive. “And—”

  “No. No more rules.” She slapped her palm on the table. “Do this, don’t do that. That’s all I’ve ‘eard.”

  John opened his mouth, and she rolled her eyes.

  “Hhheard,” she corrected. “It’s too much. Can’t I jus’ eat me dinner in peace?”

  He pushed his chair back and stood. He circled the table and squatted next to her. The light citrus scent from his soaps drifted off her body, along with a hint of licorice that surprised him even as it made his mouth water. He cupped her forearm and squeezed. “We don’t have much time to mold you into a lady. If I push, it is only because I believe you are capable of transformation.”

  “Truly?” She bit her lower lip, and glanced at him from lowered eyes. He knew it was a coy act, even down to that delectable waver in her voice, but knowing it didn’t stop his body from reacting.

  Oh, she was good.

  He snapped her napkin from her lap and dabbed at the grease on her chin. “Even dogs can be trained to have good manners. Why not you?”

  She snatched the napkin from him and tossed it on the table. “I’m done eating.” She pushed her plate away and stood.

  John followed her up. The aroma from her skin drew him in like a lure. He needed to change out the expensive French soaps in her toilette to something unscented.

  “Of course,” he said, and took a healthy step back. “It has been a long day. Tomorrow we will begin your speech lessons, so rest well.”

  Without a by-your-leave, she turned on her heel and scurried for the door.

  “Netta?”

  She paused, her back turned.

  John padded up behind her. His hand on her shoulder made her start. “Is there anyone I should notify? Anyone who should know you’re safe and staying with me?”

  The muscles under his fingers hardened. “No. There’s no one.”

  As he thought. If someone had cared about this woman, he wouldn’t have let her run about the London streets at night. “Well,” he said, injecting levity into his voice. “That makes it easier for me. I won’t have to worry about a disgruntled father or beau calling me out for having you under my roof.”

  She snorted, something else he’d have to train out of her. A pity; she made the indelicate noise almost sound charming.

  “You toffs are a funny lot.” Her curls scraped against the back of her gown as she shook her head. “You don’t care if something is wrong, only if you’ll be caught out.”

  “I’d say that gives us something in common with the rest of the world, instead of setting us apart.”

  “I suppose.” She sniffed. “Goodnight, then.”

  He let her take a step. “Oh, and Netta?”

  She stopped again, sighing. “Wot now?”

  Grasping her shoulders, he turned her to face him. He held up his hand, palm up. “I’ll take that spoon.”

  She rounded her mouth. Her elbows perfectly communicated shocked outrage as she planted her fists on her hips. “Well, really.”

  John fought his grin. “Indeed, really. You are not so sly as you believe yourself to be. Now, hand it over.”

  She crossed her arms over her bosom. “You’ve got a screw loose, you have. If you think…eek!”

  With a finger hooked in the top of her bodice, he reeled her towards him.

  She slapped at his hands but there was no heat in it. “Oy. Take your ‘ands off me.”

  “Last chance.” Her skin was silky smooth against his finger, and he couldn’t help but slide it up and down in the cleft of her bosom. “Hand over your ill-gotten gains or face the consequences.” A lick of excitement flicked behind his breast. He almost hoped she maintained the pretense. It had been so long since he’d felt any sort of excitement. Whatever else Netta might be, at least she was diverting.

  She raised her chin, and the small dimple in the center caught the light. “I don’t know wot you’re on about.”

  He tutted. “You disappoint me.” He lied. She stimulated him. Before she could take her next breath, he spun her around and pressed her back against his front. He eased his hand into her bodice, splaying his fingers under her breast as he searched.

  Her heart fluttered beneath his palm. Her arse snuggled nicely right up under his groin. It was with regret that he slid the spoon free.

  He held the piece of silver in front of her face.

  “Huh.” She adjusted her bodice, plumping up her breasts with the motion. “‘Ow’d that get there?”

  “It’s a mystery,” he said dryly.

  She turned, her breasts brushing his chest. She raised her face, her mouth only inches from his. “Is there any other part of me body you want to search, or am I free to go to bed?”

  The base of his spine tingled. There were many places he’d love to search. Alas, he’d learned that mixing business with pleasure was rarely a good idea.

  He took a step back, his body cooling.

  A frown turned her lips down, the expression so fleeting John wasn’t certain he’d read it correctly.

  “That will be all.” He slapped the spoon into his palm. “Good night, Netta.”

  She dipped an absurd curtsy, the deepness of it obviously intended to mock. She wobbled and threw her hands out wide to catch her balance, and John bit back a smile.

  “My lord,” she said. Lifting her skirts, she flipped her hair and strode from the room.

  John watched the swaying of her wide hips as she disappeared down the hall. He adjusted his cock and returned to his seat. He tossed back the remains of his wine.

  Judith leapt onto his lap, her purring body a poor substitute for what he wanted.

  His brother had better show some damn gratitude.

  He scratched the cat under the chin.

  Working with Netta without touching her was going to be one hell of a sacrifice.

  ***

  Netta sank onto the lambskin rug before the fireplace in her bedroom and toed off her slippers. She curled her feet under her.

  That had been foolish. Flirting with an earl? She blew out her cheeks. Nothing good could come from that. It made no matter that he was wickedly handsome and had manners as smooth as melted butter over a scone. His very position made him a threat. No, it was best to ignore the attraction. This was busine
ss.

  Four thousand pounds. She dug her fingers in the soft wool of the rug. It was enough for a new life, on a new continent for her and her sister. She had to play this right. Taking that spoon had been a calculated risk. Summerset would expect someone like Netta Pickle to be unable to control her impulses, so she’d given him a good show. And the results had been…unexpected.

  She pressed her palm to her breastbone, her own hand a poor substitute for the pressure and heat of the earl’s. Only a blackguard would molest a woman so. She trailed her fingers over her breast, but there was no echoing tingle like when Summerset had touched her. She sighed. He had been retrieving his property. His impropriety had a cause.

  Netta nibbled on her bottom lip. If she stuck something up her skirts, would the earl—

  No. Business. That’s what she needed to concentrate on.

  Would the earl stand by his word? It sounded as though he hadn’t even figured out all the details to his scheme. What if he didn’t need her assistance? What if he asked of her something she couldn’t give?

  Netta stood. Well, she couldn’t lose a sure income, miniscule as it may be, for merely the potential of a windfall. She shoved her feet back in the slippers. She hated leaving the luxury and warmth of the earl’s townhouse, but she’d missed one performance already. She couldn’t miss another.

  She shrugged into a long coat she’d borrowed from a servant’s closet. Pretending to be a proper young miss would be the easiest job in the world. Aside from youth, something face paint would rectify, she had all the qualifications, even if the earl didn’t know it. Summerset said he wouldn’t ask her to do anything unseemly, but could she trust him? How far would he want her to go to distract a man?

  How far was she willing to go for four thousand pounds?

  A shiver coursed her body, and she pulled the belt of the coat tight.

  She didn’t think the earl was lying. She couldn’t imagine him forcing a woman to do something she wasn’t comfortable with, but she’d been wrong about men before. With four thousand pounds inducement, she might not be seeing the man as clearly as she ought.