1821, April 1st; Duke of Stirkton’s residence, Mayfair, London. Being the object of someone’s ridicule might be a novel experience for Maximus Meacham, Duke of Stirkton, but it wasn’t one he cared to repeat, even if the woman laughing at his proposal spoke like a queen and looked like a goddess.
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As the Duke of Stirkton, he was well accustomed to being watched. Young pups copied his dress style. Toad-eaters mimicked his behavior in futile attempts to ingratiate themselves into his life. Conservative groups applauded his somber public behavior, while cartoonists ridiculed his straight-laced demeanor and suggested he take a mistress. Or two.
Whichever way people viewed him, no one had dared ridicule him to his face. Until this evening. The Countess had side-stepped his butler and marched into his drawing room as if an unannounced call upon an unmarried duke was something she did regularly. Max had informed her, in great detail, of the extensive search he and his cousin had undertaken to locate her and the other women. She’d huffed and rolled her eyes. Normally, his month-about- mistresses gleefully accepted his proposal because sharing a duke’s bed for a month would set them up for the rest of their lives. Apart from the financial benefits, he was a generous lover. One benefit of his abnormal upbringing had been an early and full education into what women wanted in a bed partner. Until the Countess had laughed at him, he’d never had reason to doubt his sexual prowess. In the brief time she’d been in his house, she’d challenged several of his beliefs.
“It’s the ideal solution.” And something he needed. “I will help you search my grandfather’s boxes by day and, in exchange, you’ll make yourself available to me in the evenings.” Max waited, unsure what to expect. An odd situation for a man who prided himself on reading adversaries as easily as he tallied the accounts.
