at herself. He could have left Charlie here. He could have let her have the painting and let his parents sort it out with lawyers. But no…he signed up for this. No one to blame but himself.
She touched his glass with her own. He still didn’t drink.
“It’s not poisoned,” she said. “Or do you not drink?”
“I don’t know what you’re planning to do with me or to me. Thought I’d stay sober to be on the safe side.”
“Scared?”
“Who wouldn’t be?” He wasn’t too proud to admit to being afraid. “I don’t know you. I don’t make a habit of sleeping with women I don’t know.”
“Then have a seat. Get comfortable. Let’s get to know each other.”
With easy grace, she draped herself on the golden chaise. Arthur started to sit in a leather tufted club chair to the right, but she shook her head and pointed at the floor.
It took a great deal of self-control to not roll his eyes. He took off his jacket and laid it over the arm of the chair he wasn’t allowed to sit in, then lowered himself on the floor, his back to Regan, his face to the fireplace.
He set his untouched drink on the hardwood by the mantel. “Why did you say—”
“Turn around, Brat. I know you’re sitting that way to spite me.”
He was. He turned to face her, feeling annoyingly young and vulnerable sitting on the floor at her feet.
“So,” he said. “Why did you—”
“Oh no, I’m asking the questions.” She took another drink. “Question one. Why don’t you use your titles? You’re a Viscount, yes? What did Charlie say? Viscount Mansfield?”
“Have you ever been to Mansfield?”
“Never.”
“Neither have I. It’s just a courtesy title. Doesn’t mean anything.”
“Means the difference between getting the best table in a restaurant and one by the kitchen door.”
“I don’t mind sitting by the kitchen door as long as the food is edible.”
“And Sandhurst?” she said. “Really?”
“Every Godwick heir has served in the British Army. Even my father in his early twenties.”
“Charlie said your father tried to talk you out of it.”
“Obviously he didn’t succeed.”
“Your father’s much more a lover than a fighter, if the rumors are true.”
“They are, but I’m not much of a fighter either. I’m planning to be a medical support officer, not a warlord.”
“Intriguing choice.”
“I love my parents but they’re…frivolous. They buy art, they sell art, they throw parties—”
“And orgies.”
“Yes, thank you for reminding me. Even my older sister is frivolous. All she cares about is Greek mythology and swanning around the Mediterranean with her husband. None of us are good for anything, really. I mean, art is lovely and all that, but no one with cancer was ever cured by a trip to a gallery. No drowning victim was ever resuscitated by a hand job—”
“Perhaps if it were a vigorous-enough hand job,” she said.
“Anyway, I want to do some good for the world. That’s all.”
She gave him a strange look, as if she saw someone or something else than she’d expected to see when she looked at him. It was there, he’d seen it, then it was gone again just as fast. Now she was looking at him as if he were a disappointment, which seemed to be her default facial expression.
“You’re a very unusual young man,” she said. “Not still a virgin, I hope?”
“No.”
“What age?”
“Eighteen.”
“Late bloomer. For a Godwick.”
“I take after my mother’s side.”
“Oh, hardly. You’re the spitting image of Lord Malcolm. Black hair. Dark eyes. Impossibly handsome. I heard he was quite well-endowed. Just how much do you take after him?”
“I would prefer not to talk about or think about the genitals of my great-grandparents, if you don’t mind.” Bad enough he had to know about his living relatives’ perversions. Did he have to think about the dead ones, too?
She sipped her whisky again. “So, how many conquests have you made? Tell me when to stop.” She held up one finger. Then two. Then—
“Stop.”
“Only two? Who was number one?”
“Wendy, my first girlfriend.”
“And the other?”
“Naledi, my mother’s PA. Former PA. Not because of me. Mum liked us dating, but she moved home to Botswana to be closer to her family.”
“How long has it been?”
He hated talking about this. Couldn’t she just push him down, get on top, and get it over with?
“Before Sandhurst,” he said. “A year? Or more?”
“Long time. You must be about to explode. I’ll be sure to put some newspapers down on the floor in case of a mess.”
“Now may I ask a question?” he said. “Please?”
“The Brat is learning