Is that what they had? She thought of the energy that surrounded him every time they were together, the butterflies that weren’t quite fear. “Oh.”

  “It’s quite another to do the same with a man you don’t know and share no chemistry with.”

  She shivered to think of some faceless man knowing her intimately. “But what happens to me if I don’t become one of the ladies in your house?”

  He shrugged. “Most likely, I’ll position you exactly as I did Daisy.”

  The blood drained from her face. What did he mean?

  Clayton watched her go pale, her body slumping into the seat. He was off the desk in a second and lunging toward her to catch her in case she fainted.

  She didn’t. Instead, she cringed away from him, her arms pulling to her body like some meager shield.

  On instinct he dropped down on his haunches, so that his face was below hers. “Ophelia?”

  She trembled, her eyes not meeting his. “Yes?”

  “What is wrong with you?”

  “Nothing.”

  He did a quick replay of their conversation. “I know it’s something. What?”

  “Well,” she whispered, her tongue darting out to wet her lips. “It’s just that the other night you said you were going to take care of Daisy and her client, and now she’s gone…”

  It was his turn to be shocked as his eyes widened. “You think I hurt Daisy?”

  Her chin dropped to her chest, all the evidence he needed to know that she did in fact think that he’d done something to the woman.

  His fists clenched while his elbows continued to rest on his knees. “Listen to me. We are in a mutually beneficial business. No woman comes here who doesn’t want to and they leave as quickly as they can afford. I’ve no appetite for using women.”

  Her arms dropped and her lips parted. “Really?”

  “And if you want to know what happened to Daisy, I’ll tell you. She’s about to get married.”

  Ophelia’s mouth slackened, her eyes huge as tea saucers. “Married?”

  “Bode gave her client a choice—pay his debt or make an offer of marriage. I won’t lie, Bode may have used his hands a couple times to make his point, but⁠—”

  Ophelia was off her chair, sinking to the floor as her hands came to his knees. “By taking care of her, you actually meant…”

  “Taking care of her.” He leaned forward in his squat, placing his forehead against hers. “I have developed a reputation in this neighborhood as a man to be feared because I want every man out there to think twice before they are inappropriate with one of my girls. Make no mistake, Ophelia. You are mine to protect. Every woman in this place is mine to protect.”

  Her long exhale fanned his face and his hands covered hers on his knees.

  They were so close, and she stared up at him just now as though he weren’t a man but a god.

  “Clayton…”

  Jesus. His name on her lips had every muscle in his groin tightening. It was against his own damn rules, rules he had in place for good reason, not that he could remember a single one of those reasons now.

  But he wanted to kiss her again. Hell, he wanted to take her up to his bed and kiss every inch of her.

  She’d be his. All his. His little piece of the aristocracy that he’d never be given otherwise.

  Only that thought had him pulling back, creating some distance. He had a business to run and sell, and he could not afford any emotional attachment. Not ever, but especially not now.

  But moving away only allowed him to stare down at her flawless features. The lush pink of her cheeks and the tiny dark specks that added depth to the light blue of her eyes.

  “Clayton?”

  “Yes?” he asked, realizing he’d forgotten what they’d been discussing.

  “Do you really mean it? You’re our protector?”

  His body physically responded to the words, his arms snaking about her middle, lifting them both as he stood to press her body to his. He was supposed to be maintaining distance… “I am your protector.”

  Her hands splayed out on his chest. “I need your help.”

  He knew that he was wading into deep waters. He never used a woman. He was always clear, allowed them to make choices, but hearing those words from her… He wondered what he’d compromise, give up to provide for her. “With?”

  She swallowed. “I need money.”

  Ah. That. He’d had this conversation many times. “And you think you want to earn it by offering men what’s between your legs.”

  She cringed, and he’d meant for her to do so. “I…”

  “That path is not for you.” Was he saying that for her benefit or for his?

  “There must be something I could do to earn more money. My brother is rotting in Fleet Prison, and I have to help him.”

  “Fleet?” It was a prison he visited regularly. Many wives and daughters were imprisoned with their husbands but were let out during the day to work in order to pay both the original debt and the debt accrued for imprisonment.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you’re trying to earn money to buy him out?”

  She gave a tentative nod, her fingers flexing against his chest. Had he wanted to touch her skin? Just now, he wanted her hands running all over him.

  An idea was beginning to form that might suit them both. “What if you provided other entertainment?”

  She blinked back her surprise. “Such as?”

  “Singing.” Once he’d said the word out loud, the idea settled in, growing. He wanted this establishment to have class and an air of sophistication. To bring in the best clients. Ophelia at the pianoforte would surely do just that. Not only would it meet her needs, but it would also provide for his.

  Her whole face lit up. “You’re serious? Singing? And I would be paid?” Her hands fisted in his shirt, thumping softly against his chest, her excitement palpable. “You’d pay me to sing?”

  A rare smile touched his lips. “I would.”

  She nodded eagerly. “I accept. Oh, I really, really accept.”

  “Good.” He gave a nod. “And just so that we’re clear. You are not available to the clients. Only your voice is for sale.”

  She gave a quick nod. “Agreed.”

  He should be saving her for the perfect client, but he feared, deep down, he might be tempted to keep her for himself.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Ophelia set several plates down in front of the ladies. The morning had passed into evening, and though Clayton had told her she didn’t need to, she’d helped Mama Rose serve dinner.

  She knew Mama Rose appreciated the help and had done a great deal for her, even if it had been at Clayton’s direction. Ophelia still wished to pay the kindness back. And besides, she learned a great deal at dinner time.

  Only tonight, she struggled to concentrate. Clayton’s offer for her to sing to make money… It was like a wish coming true that she’d never even dared to make. In her heart of hearts, this had been the dream.

  It had been an impossibility as a lady, but now that she had money and no chance of a good match, suddenly, her dreams had room to grow.

  She shook her head and focused on the women seated at the table in the room off the kitchen. It had likely once been the place the servants dined, but now it served the ladies for their dinner. They ate first to make certain they were ready by the time customers began to arrive and Ophelia bustled behind them, setting plates and pouring wine.

  Several of the women gave her curious stares. Ophelia was certain that they wished to know why she was serving them rather than working with them, but they were polite enough to not ask.

  A petite brunette, very pretty, sat back in her chair, sipping her wine. “I don’t think I’m working tonight.”

  Whatever attention Ophelia had been getting was directed to the other girl.

  “Rebecca, you don’t mean it.” A blonde shook her head.

  “Did you ask The Duke?” another asked with a furrowed brow. “You know he’s trying to sell this place, which means more money for all of us, but he was clear… no nights off.”

  Rebecca stuck her nose higher in the air. “A new client came in today and he told me that I’m the prettiest thing he’s ever seen. Said he’d marry me just like Daisy’s beau is marrying her. I could be Mrs. Rebecca Simpson.”

  “You’re that good? One dance between the sheets and he’s proposing?”

  Rebecca’s nose only rose higher. “I’m that good that we didn’t even need to retire to my chamber in order for him to⁠—”

  But the women had all begun speaking at once.

  “It’s too good to be true,” one cried.

  Another babbled, “Why didn’t I take the early caller?”

  But the question Ophelia wished to know fell from her lips before she could call it back. “Did Mr. Simpson mention Daisy or did you draw the comparison?”

  Rebecca turned to look at her, her brow scrunched in confusion. “He did, new girl. Why?”

  But the babble of the other women covered the fact that she didn’t answer and Ophelia left them to return to the kitchen and fetch more bread. Clayton and Bode were already there, seated at the table, drinking ale, when Mama Rose turned back to her. “What are those hens clucking about?”

  “Rebecca says she’s not working tonight because some new client proposed to her today.”

  Clayton’s mug hit the table with a loud thump that made Ophelia start in surprise. “What?” he asked, already rising from his seat.

  Ophelia raised her hands and dropped her voice. She’d lost her fear of him personally, but she didn’t know the women that well. “Do not get me in trouble.”

  He scowled. “I’ve a house to run.”

  She stepped up closer, her chin notching. “They’ll never trust me again. Talk to her when she doesn’t come downstairs this evening.”

  His scowl grew fiercer, but he gave a short, quick jerk of his chin in assent. Relief washed through her until she turned back to the stove to find both Bode and Mama Rose staring at them.

  The thick scars that roped across Bode’s cheeks did little to disguise his curiosity. What she didn’t understand was what had sparked their interest.

  Wasn’t her request reasonable?

  Bode sat down and she reached for the pitcher, topping off his ale before setting places for them. Then, after refilling the basket, she started back for the other room.

  “I thought I told you to rest before tonight,” Clayton called after her.

  “I’ll be fine.”

  “Ophelia,” his voice rang in warning.

  “Mama Rose needs the help.”

  He made a rumbling noise but said no more, and she made her way back to the women to bring them the bread.

  But she was aware, as the door swung behind her, that every set of eyes in the kitchen was on her back.

  The moment the door swung closed behind Ophelia, Mama Rose and Bode closed in on Clayton. “What the ever-loving hell was that?” Bode spat.

  Clayton only glared back. He and Bode had been friends since they were street urchins, both sons of fallen ladies who had become whores. “None of your business.”

  “It is our business,” Mama Rose cut in. “Because you’ve gone sweet on that girl.”

  He’d been about to take another swallow of ale but slammed his mug down again, sloshing the ale over the table’s surface. “There is nothing sweet about me.”

  Mama Rose made a noise halfway between a snort and psh. “Please. When have you ever placated anyone the way you just did her?”

  “And since when do you give a direct command that any one of us just ignores?” Bode asked. “Even me and I’m older than you by a half year at least and your best friend since childhood.”

  Both observations were absolutely true. But Ophelia knew exactly when to push and when to defer and besides… “Somersworth came in shooting fire today, and after one minute with Ophelia, he went from dragon to kitten. She’s the face that will make the sale happen. I’m sure of it.”

  Both his friends fell silent at that. Mama Rose turned back to the stove. “Was she playing for him?”

  “She was.”

  “And he liked it?” Bode asked.

  “Like a kitten. Completely won him over.”

  Bode smiled, making his cheeks look even more mangled. “She is a beauty. And the way she arranges things—makes this table look like art.”

  Familiar jealousy filled Clayton’s chest, but it was laced with a healthy dose of…longing. He liked how she filled this place with beauty, from the sound of her voice to the way she set the table.

  He gave his head a shake. Foolish man. Ophelia came back in, carrying several empty plates and baskets. He rose, his back stiff and straight. “Ophelia, I insist. No more waiting on the other women. You need to save your strength for tonight. That is of vital importance.”

  She kept moving toward him, stopping just in front of and blinking up at him. “You really think so?”

  “I do.”

  Wordlessly she handed him a stack of plates. “But it’s too much for Mama Rose to do on her own.”

  He scowled. Mama Rose was getting older. The woman did not turn away from the pot, keeping her back to them. “What do you suggest?”

  “Let me just help for tonight. Then we can plan something else tomorrow.”

  His brow furrowed. “But you’ll be playing late.”

  “I’ll sleep in. Promise.”

  Ophelia turned away and he quickly set the stack of plates down to follow her. “Ophelia. I am the boss here, and I’ve said…”

  She walked through the swinging doors. “You know I respect your authority. I just wish to help.” She started picking up more plates, handing them to him. “And I like listening to the girls. Truly, I’m worried about Rebecca. This Mr. Simpson doesn’t seem right. And he knew about Daisy, which is odd. I didn’t even know⁠—”

  His teeth snapped together. “Did you say Simpson?”

  Ophelia nodded as she continued filling his arms. “That’s right. She said she could be Mrs. Rebecca Simpson.”

  If he got his hands on that man… He didn’t finish his thought. There was no point. “Go lie down.”

  “I’m too nervous,” Ophelia replied. “Did I tell you that in my heart of hearts, I’ve always dreamed of being a singer? It’s not proper, but then again, neither am I. Not anymore.”

  A muscle in his jaw ticked. “No. You’re not.”

  “So that’s why I’m going to help Mama Rose. I’m too excited for rest.” And then she gave him a smile. “I’ll just clear the rest of this, if you wouldn’t mind carrying those back into the kitchen.”

  Clayton was well aware that as he carried the stack of plates, he’d just cleared dishes himself, one of the lowliest tasks. And what was more, Bode and Mama Rose were most likely right. He was going soft.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Ophelia dominated his thoughts as Clayton returned to his study to finish out the books. It took him close to three quarters of an hour, but he finally forced himself to concentrate. The numbers had him wincing.

  He made a profit, a small one.

  It was enough to keep them in business save a bit. But they weren’t the sort of numbers that might make buyers jump.

  He had his reasons for lower profit margins. Most notably, he was picky.

  Clayton didn’t allow men, even very rich ones, access to the women if he thought they weren’t upstanding enough. Surely his buyers would understand that? It seemed exceptionally important to them.

  But the uncertainty made him even more sure that he needed to keep Ophelia available to help entertain them until contracts had been signed.

  He pushed back from his desk and left his office once again, looking into the large ballroom that stretched across the back of the house. Thick velvet curtains covered the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating intimacy and privacy. The room was littered with settees of all shapes and sizes, women draped across them as customers began to arrive. He took in a quick sweep of the room and noted that Ophelia had been correct—Rebecca was not there.

  His eyes briefly passed over the pianoforte, the instrument having been moved into the far corner of the larger room for Ophelia to use later tonight. He’d placed a rug under it to create ambiance, but he also wanted to make it clear that Ophelia was an island. He’d have guards stationed at the rug’s edge, making it a line not to be crossed. It had been agreed that she’d only play for half an hour, and she’d only be in the room when she played, leaving immediately after.

  With a quick check of his pocket watch, he noted there was still more than a quarter hour before she began. Turning away, he went in search of Rebecca.

  He found her in her room, draped across her bed in nothing but a silk robe.

  She was pretty enough, with brown hair and eyes and a petite frame. She was suited to the work, able to smile prettily at any man who walked by, and she gave him that smile now. “Duke.”

  “Rebecca.” He leaned in the doorway, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d met a hundred Rebeccas over the years. Hell, when his mother had run her own whorehouse, he’d even fallen in lust with a few. But that was a long time ago now.

  “Don’t be upset.” Her smile widened. “I just…”

  “You were just about to go downstairs.” He kept his voice even.

  “No.” She shook her head. “I got a better offer. I’m going to get married.”

  His brows lifted. “What’s the rule on that?”

  Her smile slipped. “I didn’t want to wait for you to negotiate.”

  His eyes narrowed. “That rule is not in place for my benefit but for yours.”

  Rebecca shook her head. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Fool,” he muttered low, but she still heard. “Rebecca, you know the rest of the rules. You are free to leave here anytime, but if you’re marrying, and not working, then you go.”

  She scrambled from the bed. “It’s just one night. He said he’d come tomorrow.”