The fire blazed merrily in the grate. The first fire, Lulu thought sadly, she had enjoyed in many a week.

  “I still think the news will get out,” said Lulu, taking another sweet pastry from the basket between them.

  Samuel snorted as he sipped from the bottle of wine he had brought. Lulu had been forced to admit, a little shamefaced, that she had no wine glasses. Since then they had merely taken it in turns to sip from the bottle, which she had tried not to think too much about. It was so . . . intimate.

  Samuel offered her the bottle. “What, you have a reputation to lose?”

  Lulu took the bottle, made a great show of wiping the neck as though that would make any difference to the intimacy they were now sharing, and took a sip. The wine was heady, far more impressive than anything she had tasted before.

  But that was the benefit, wasn’t it, of being a duke? The man probably had a cellar older than her building.

  Pushing aside the thought of just how wealthy the man opposite her might be, Lulu tried to smile. “It may shock you, Samuel, but I do actually have a reputation. One I would be remiss to abandon just because a certain duke decided to knock on my door.”

  Samuel grinned. “A reputation lost can always be found, I say.”

  Lulu did not bother to disagree with him. What would be the point? The man—and Samuel being a man did make a difference here—was unlikely to understand.

  A reputation lost could always be found? Evidently he had never paid much attention to the gossip columns, either in London or here in Edinburgh. Lulu could think of three ladies, just those she had read about recently, who had lost their reputations and been unable to remain in good Society.

  In fact, one of them was prodding her memory. Had not Lady Margaret Everleigh—

  “Reputations are overrated,” Samuel was saying with a grin as he pulled what appeared to be a pork pie from the cavernous basket. “I always thought . . .”

  Lulu tried not to smile. There was a youthfulness about Samuel that belied his actual age, which she would estimate to be about thirty.

  Reputations overrated. Only a duke, a man unlikely to ever lose who he was, could think that way. Why, even a gentleman was at more risk than losing his good name than a duke.

  The church clock at the end of the street chimed. Nine times.

  Lulu’s smile faltered. She was going to miss it.

  “—as I said to Ashcott myself!” Samuel was saying. “If the woman truly did not care about her reputation, or for her brother’s, then she would surely—”

  It had taken almost two weeks to force Mr. Gregory to agree to meet her, Lulu thought wretchedly, and now she was going to miss it. Perhaps her best chance to cease the disgusting work she had been forced to carry out and make the man relinquish any hold over her.

  Her chance of freedom.

  So why did she find it so difficult to leave Samuel Dellamore, Duke of Chantmarle’s presence? Why was it somehow more important to stay here with him, a man she did not even know a month ago?

  Lulu sighed. She had a job to do, one she had agreed to. And she was not doing it. This Samuel, he was far too much of a distraction.

  “You’re not listening to me, you know.”

  Her gaze sharpened. “Yes, I am.”

  Samuel had a knowing smile about him that had at first irritated, but over time she’d discovered he only looked that way when he knew what he was talking about. Worse luck.

  “Really?” he said, his charming smile broadening. “Then what was I saying?”

  Lulu grasped about for a sufficiently vague answer that would suit. “You were talking about—about reputations?”

  “Anything more specific than that?” Samuel said, starting to chuckle.

  Lulu allowed herself to laugh with him. “No!”

  “There, I told you, you weren’t listening,” he said with a shake of his head. “Which is all to the good, I suppose. I shouldn’t really be talking about Ashcott’s private business.”

  Her ears pricked up. Private business—Ashcott? If any of her previous encounters with Samuel were anything to go by, the man would be a duke.

  Well, there was no harm in asking. “Not . . . not the Duke of Ashcott?”

  Samuel groaned. “Blast it all to hell! How much wine have I drunk?”

  “Not nearly enough to blame it on the vintage,” Lulu said with a giggle, handing him back the bottle. Their mingled laughter filled her almost bare room and made her believe, just for a moment, that this could be her new life.

  Well, why not? This was a man she was coming to adore, whose conversation made her smile or rail against him in a most invigorating way. He had money. Few gentlemen could turn up outside a building with a leather chair finer than any she had ever seen.

  And that was the problem, wasn’t it, a voice whispered at the back of her mind. She was all too distracted by him. Whenever she seemed to be getting somewhere with Gregory and Gillingham, Samuel was there to divert her.

  “Did you have an invitation to attend this evening?”

  Lulu focused once more on the man opposite her. “An invitation?”

  Samuel shrugged. “I should not have presumed, I know, but—”

  “You think I would be sat here talking to you if I had anywhere else I could be?” Lulu lied with what she hoped was a convincing smile.

  In truth, she should feel more disappointed she had not made her rendezvous with Mr. Gregory. She would regret it in the morning, she was certain, but right now . . .

  Right now, the only place that she wanted to be was here.

  Samuel’s smile made her heart skip a beat. “I should think so. After all, we’ve been talking for hours, yet I have barely noticed time pass. Isn’t that strange?”

  Not nearly as strange, Lulu could not help but think, as the fact that I just gave up an opportunity to be free, just to sit and drink wine with you.

  “Not so strange,” Lulu said softly.

  Samuel’s gaze was too penetrating. “You don’t come from here, do you?”

  It was a most startling change of direction, but she was starting to become accustomed to that. The duke’s mind jumped into so many different topics, their conversation had already included the weather in East Africa, just whether or not the Americas deserved to be independent, Plato, and the price of a pork pie. With anyone else, Lulu would have guessed they were being pretentious. Attempting to demonstrate their knowledge.

  With Samuel . . . it was hard to tell.

  “I’m a Londoner by birth,” Lulu found herself revealing, regretting it the moment the words were out of her mouth.

  Samuel’s interest narrowed his gaze. “Now that is interesting.”

  “Not really,” she said hastily. “I came here to be with my brother and . . . and he died.”

  She would not say his name. She would not draw near to the pain—

  “And you have never thought of going somewhere else?” asked Samuel quietly. “Somewhere different? Leaving behind the painful memories that so obviously cling to you?”

  Lulu drew a hasty breath, unsure why she had been holding it in the first place.

  How did he do it? Read her so clearly, as though she were an open book. There was no need to be curious, it appeared, if Samuel could look straight through her and into her heart.

  She shrugged as nonchalantly as she could manage, pulling apart the remains of the pastry. “Where would I go? I have no family, no friends, nowhere that has a particular tie.”

  “Not . . . France?”

  Lulu stiffened.

  It was a coincidence, she told herself firmly. France was a common topic, after all. The war had been going on for some time, and the Revolution before that, though she could barely remember it. It was a natural topic for a nobleman, certainly.

  So why were tendrils of panic starting to curl around her heart?

  “Of course not,” she said, more sharply than necessary. “Why would I go to France?”

  She met Samuel’s eye as boldly as she could manage, but perhaps it was not enough. There was a directness in his gaze, one she had only seen a few times. The first evening they had met, in the Assembly Rooms. He had looked at her and she had wondered just how dimwitted the man actually was.

  Lulu knew now, without a shadow of a doubt, not very.

  So why this sudden interest in France—or was it merely a meandering thought that would not last?

  Lulu swallowed. “I do not know anyone there. There would be no reason for me to go there. And besides, it is far too dangerous.”

  She needed to stop talking, she knew that, but she could not. Panic was rushing her mouth, tumbling her tongue in all sorts of directions.

  Get a grip on yourself, Lulu!

  “I don’t suppose you have ever been?” she asked as airily as possible.

  Samuel had not taken his gaze from her for one moment. “I think you aren’t telling me the whole truth, Lulu.”

  Lulu fought the instinct to immediately argue. She needed to think, not react. Her inclination to barrel into a conversation and escape out of it later had already led her into significant harm. The last thing she needed was to do it again!

  Besides, there was no possibility Samuel actually knew what he was asking about. Oh, his conversation had meandered close to the truth—a truth he definitely did not need to know.

  But that was all chance. He didn’t actually know.

  Samuel sighed and Lulu immediately flinched. There was a look of decision on his face, chilling her to the very bone.

  Well, this was it. It had been pleasant while it had lasted, but she should have known her past would come back and bite her. It hadn’t even been her mistake in the first place! If her brother, Malcolm, had just—

  “Listen, Lulu,” Samuel said softly. “I know.”

  Lulu’s heart skipped a beat. “You . . . you do?”

  How? She had been so careful, so desperate to keep the shame of the blackmail she suffered to herself. She had not even confessed to Mrs. Abernathy, who had been so kind and understanding to rent her the two adjoining rooms.

  Surely no one could know. No one in Edinburgh expect . . .

  Lulu went cold. Except for Mr. Gregory and Mr. Gillingham.

  “I mean, it’s obvious you are the victim here,” Samuel was saying. “And I admit, I feel sorry for you. This isn’t the life you would have chosen for yourself.”

  Lulu swallowed. It certainly wasn’t. “I—I never thought I would—”

  Guilt washed over her as she saw kindness in Samuel’s eyes. “I don’t suppose you did. I suppose you thought you would never lower yourself to that.”

  All of a sudden, Lulu was blinking back tears. No, she had not. The idea of doing such a thing, just to survive—she would never have thought that of herself. She was not that sort of woman. Except she was, now.

  Samuel was still speaking. “And would I prefer it if you did not have to offer your services to men—well, of course. But that doesn’t mean I think any worse of you, Lulu. If anything, I have more respect for you.”

  Lulu blinked. Something wasn’t quite adding up here. “I beg your pardon?”

  Samuel sighed. “You don’t have to hide it from me, Lulu. You’re a courtesan! Plenty of women have chosen that life in order to survive. You are no different. No worse.”

  Her ears rang with his words. Courtesan . . . courtesan . . .

  Lulu’s shoulders sagged with relief. Of course, he assumed she was a courtesan!

  Well, it made sense. There were plenty of women, Lulu knew, who had to resort to that to keep their families off the streets. It had never been something she had been forced to do, thank goodness, but perhaps in a way she had chosen a worse path.

  She would never know. And she also, Lulu realized with a sinking feeling, would not reveal the truth to Samuel. He was smiling with such acceptance, such . . . well, she would not call it love, but it was not far off.

  Lulu could not bear it if she lost that support, that affection. Though he was most understanding about the lengths a woman may go to protect and support herself, she was almost certain Samuel would think very differently about what she had actually been doing.

  That was a secret she would take to her grave.

  “I just wish . . . well.” Samuel shrugged with an awkward smile. “I wish I could take you away from all this.”

  It was all Lulu could do not to laugh. “This?”

  “This!” Samuel gestured around the room. “You cannot truly tell me you are satisfied with living like this?”

  “I have never been offered much choice,” Lulu said. “Though if you are offering . . .”

  Her voice trailed away. What was she even asking?

  Samuel appeared to notice her discomfort, and it was mirrored by his own. He silently offered her the wine bottle, appeared to think better of it, and placed it on the floor by his chair.

  “I don’t know what I am saying,” he said ruefully.

  Lulu tried to smile. All she had to do was make light of the situation. That was all! “You could offer to make me your mistress.”

  Immediately she saw she had gone too far. Though the fire had not been stirred by either of them, the room immediately blossomed with heat. Or was that her own scalding shame rushing through her?

  What would he think of her?

  Samuel bit his lip, his gaze drifting to the fire.

  Oh, if only she had kept her mouth shut! All she had to do was be silent, and it would have been a kind, considerate moment. Instead she had to go and—

  “I do not think you would enjoy being my mistress,” Samuel said quietly. “I . . . my life takes me all over the place. I’m never in one place for long.”

  Lulu’s heart constricted painfully. Was he attempting to tell her he would be leaving Edinburgh soon?

  She had no ties here. Nothing, save Mr. Gregory’s and Mr. Gillingham’s blackmail to bind her. If she could just be free of that—

  Being Samuel Dellamore, Duke of Chantmarle’s mistress had to be better than the life she was leading now.

  “Perhaps I would not enjoy it,” Lulu said softly, giving him an opportunity to take it back.

  But Samuel did not take it. Settling deeper into his leather armchair, he cracked a smile. “I suppose I should not speak so lightly of taking a mistress.”

  “Better that than speak lightly of taking a wife,” Lulu shot back before she could stop.

  What was wrong with her?

  It appeared Samuel was not stunned by her words. He raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

  “Though it would take a great deal to make me marry you,” said Lulu hastily, hoping to goodness she could blame the warmth of her cheeks on the heat of the fire. “I mean, you are exhausting to be around at the best of times.”

  “Oh, I am, am I?” rejoined Samuel with a laugh.

  “And your arrogance!” she continued with a laugh, relieved to find the tension of the room dissipating. “Oh, you are unbearable!”

  “And far too charming, I suppose,” he quipped.

  Lulu giggled. “Far too charming. No, I am sorry, Your Grace, but I must absolutely refuse to marry you.”

  Samuel held her gaze for just a breath too long.

  She swallowed. It was all a game, wasn’t it? Just a bit of mischief. They were not actually speaking the truth, were they?

  “So what would it take?”

  Lulu blinked. “I beg your pardon?”

  “What would it take?” Samuel asked, his voice sounding serious. But he could not be serious. It was still a jest, wasn’t it? “To make you marry me?”

  Perhaps she had drunk more wine than she had intended. Lulu’s head was certainly spinning.

  “A scandal,” Lulu said slowly, lips curling into a smile. “I would only marry you, Samuel, if absolutely necessary.”

  Chapter Eleven

  30 April 1811

  “This is a mistake.”

  “You’ve got to stop saying that,” hissed Samuel under his breath, though he couldn’t stop himself grinning in the dark of the carriage. “Someone might hear you. Someone might actually believe you.”

  Even in the gloom, he could make out the glare Lulu shot him from the opposite side of the carriage.

  His grin widened.

  Because she was right. In a very real way, this was a mistake. This was a dangerous decision, one that could not only get him into a heap of trouble—not something he enjoyed at the best of times—but worse . . .

  He could attract the ire of Lady Romeril.

  Samuel shuddered in his greatcoat as his carriage rattled along the Edinburgh streets.

  And yet, here he was. Doing the thing Lulu had told him, resolutely, she would not consider. She thought it far too foolish. Which was why, when he had pulled up outside her building not ten minutes ago, he had been half certain she would not come down.

  He needn’t have worried. Lulu had already been standing on the pavement, waiting for him. That gold and black piped gown suited her even better in the darkness of the evening. It had been all Samuel could do not to pull her into his arms and—

  “There’s still time to change your mind,” came Lulu’s soft words, breaking through his thoughts.

  “Absolutely not.”

  “You are perhaps the most radical man in the whole of Edinburgh, you do know that?” Lulu said conversationally, as the carriage started to slow. “I mean, you must be the only person who would consider this acceptable!”

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you mean,” Samuel said loftily, though he could not help but continue to smile. “I have received an invitation. I am expected.”

  “You are expected,” Lulu pointed out, pulling her shawl closer around her shoulders. “Yes, the Duke of Chantmarle is very expected. I am sure Lady Romeril will be delighted to have you attend her ball. But a woman of low repute—”

  Samuel winced.

  He hated it when Lulu spoke of herself like that. So, she had fallen on hard times. She had found it difficult to survive and had made decisions many would consider unsavory.

  Did he particularly like the fact that she had acted as a courtesan? No. But that wasn’t who Lulu was. It was something she had done, not an intrinsic part of her. And it was Lulu, all of her, that he wanted to accompany him tonight.