Regretfully, that splendid story was the last time she’d had funds to fritter over something as trivial as reading. But purchased or not, books were usually free to browse, and thank goodness for that, because she continued to cross paths with Sarah.
Mere weeks later, after they’d crossed paths by sheer coincidence an amazing six times, and enjoyed more meaningful conversations with each subsequent meeting, Dorothea had learned of Sarah’s profession. Though astonishment threatened to paralyze her lips, curiosity won out and Dorothea, in turn, confided about her own lackluster marriage. A few months later, Mr. Hurwell’s fondness for gambling over horse races had made him devastatingly poor—and her a not-quite-devastated widow.
Regardless of what brought Dorothea to this point, the truth was indisputable—Sarah most certainly did not look like a woman whose livelihood was dependent upon her ability to seduce men. Warm and friendly, yes. A coquette? Not that Dorothea could see.
Could that possibly bode well for her, then? If she were matched with the right man, would she, perchance, inherently possess the ability to seduce?
“There now,” Sarah complimented, “you flush prettily. That is all the gentlemen want—a woman to make blush, and one who will want them back.”
“But what if I don’t?” The unexpected praise emboldened her. Dorothea stood on her toes to confirm that no one browsed nearby. Their seclusion assured, she voiced one of her fears. “Mr. Hurwell never dwelled overmuch with things in the amorous realm.” That was an understatement. “But I sincerely doubt a man who is arranging his pleasures beforehand so they are conveniently available at his whim wants them from a cold stick with no sultry talent or sensuous airs.”
“A cold stick?”
Dorothea waved it off as she would a pesky fly. “Oh, bother it. I should not have said that.”
“Who did say that?” Sarah’s tone stated she’d brook no evasion.
Dorothea escaped toward another tower of books.
Books, soothing books, with their familiar-smelling pages, their comforting lines of text. They didn’t ridicule or belittle. They didn’t snatch dreams away and replace them with soul-stifling monotony. They didn’t scare or intimidate. Nay, books, and the words that comprised them, inspired and remained Dorothea’s one escape.
“Who?” Sarah persisted.
But not today, it seemed. “Just Grimmett. Something he said yesterday when he came to collect the rent.” Grimmett and her husband, when he’d been alive.
Sarah moved swifter than a hawk and captured Dorothea’s right wrist. “Is that all he managed to collect?” Her fingers whispered across the splash of betraying color on Dorothea’s wrist not quite hidden by the ragged lace.
Though she tried, Dorothea couldn’t quell the pressure increasing behind her blinking eyes. “Dorothea. Today is not the first time you’ve worn bruises where bracelets belong. He’s becoming more aggressive, isn’t he?”
At that, the first useless tear edged free despite her vain efforts to will it back.
“You cannot allow yourself to remain— Oh, dear, and now I’ve made you cry! Blast me, I did not mean to rouse uncomfortable thoughts. Forgive me.” Sarah pulled Dorothea into her arms for a fierce, almost motherly embrace. “I vow, together, we shall make things right.”
Dorothea returned the hug while dashing away the remnants of unacceptable tears. Had she not shed enough last night? And over the last two months when her funds depleted to nearly nothing and her efforts at finding employment continued to yield the same?
Sarah eased her hold and Dorothea stepped back. She quickly tugged her sleeve down, muffling a curse when the tattered edge tore. “He is getting rougher, I admit. But I dispatched him soon enough.”
“Soon enough to protect your virtue, mayhap, but not the growing fear.”
Feeling trapped, Dorothea raised stark eyes to Sarah. “But what if he’s harsh or cruel?”
“Grimmett? Hasn’t he already been?”
“No, I mean my new protector, assuming one is to be found. What if I fail to please him and he punishes me for it, and I’ve nowhere else to turn because he owns me? My home, my attire. Will I be at his mercy? Have I any right to gainsay him?” In truth, this mistress business seemed far more complicated than starving. More frightening on some levels, too. “Or am I being jingle-brained?”
Sarah’s laughter brightened their book-warmed corner. “Come now, I talk not of selling your soul to the devil or your body to an ogre. You’re still free to say yea or nay, always and with any man.” She leaned close and whispered under her breath, “I concede there are vile men walking London and some may very well be in search of a mistress, but not in my circle. The people I would introduce you to are known to me, be assured. Please, dither no more. Agree to come to the dinner party tonight and decide for yourself after you meet the man I think could answer all your prayers.”
“Oh? You’ve invited the Almighty?” she somehow managed to jest. “I didn’t know He possessed a fondness for turtle soup.”
“You wretch!” Sarah chided, but some of the worry shading her gaze fled. “Do come. Penry and I have put our heads together these last weeks and truly think we’ve found you a perfect match.”
“You’ve discussed me with your… With Lord Penry?” Sarah’s longtime protector was married with five daughters, but in the time she and Dorothea had been friends, Sarah had never indicated Dorothea might warrant being a topic between them.
“We have, dearest. From the moment I realized you were in dun territory and all alone, without—”
“I have my mice, don’t forget.”
Sarah tightened her lips against a smile but continued speaking. “All alone and struggling in your attempts to find a workable solution to your predicament.”
Ah, yes. Her predicament—widowed and penniless.
Without tact or fanfare, Dorothea had swiftly learned young women lacking practical experience or applicable references (actually, lacking any references at all) were shown the door of respectable establishments faster than the overhead bell could chime adieu.
The meager resources remaining after Mr. Hurwell’s inhospitable cousin had claimed the shop—and, by right, her living quarters above—had dwindled to a pittance since her eviction. As the only child of two only children, therefore having no family in London and no other viable choices that she could discern, Dorothea had perfected the art of frugal, solitary living. (She didn’t think one-sided discourses conducted with George and Charlotte counted; their whiskers might bob and tails twitch, but as conversationalists, they left much to be desired.)
Yet Sarah spoke of meaningful discussions. How that beckoned to someone who longed for true companionship over and above that of a bursting table. “He talks with you, your Lord Penry? About his day and such? How often does he come round?”
Dorothea knew Sarah’s benefactor paid for her lodgings and kept her flush in the pockets, and that Sarah readily traded her body in exchange for the security of her living. But never before had she considered how the two might be friends. A mere mistress and a lofty lord. It was an unexpected, exhilarating concept. One that tempted.
“Of a certainty we talk.” Surmising Dorothea had warmed to the idea, Sarah’s stance relaxed. “We touch upon everything: his day, mine, interesting on dits, what event to attend or host next, Prinny’s latest foibles, political issues facing—”
“What about Lord Penry’s family? His wife?” The words wouldn’t be contained. “Do you speak of her? Forgive me if it’s impertinent to ask, but I truly desire to know. I mean, what are the boundaries of such a union? How does one avoid crossing them?”
A flash of sadness swept across Sarah’s eyes, and then it was gone. “Nay. We do not speak of his wife and only rarely his daughters. But on other topics, I have free rein. As to you and your protector, simply let him set the pace. Like a horse to bridle, you follow his lead. Don’t frown at me like that—have you not seen how the men of the ton treat their horseflesh?”
/> True. So true. Mr. Hurwell had wasted every spare farthing attending—and wagering on—horse races, no matter that the man had never set atop one and professed no eagerness to try.
“But for now,” Sarah continued, “when I have a particular someone in mind, you may set your mind at ease for he is most certainly a gentleman, one with nary a vile rumor attached to his name.”
That brought Dorothea up short. She’d thought Sarah had been jesting earlier when she mentioned selecting someone. “You have?”
“Of a certainty. A marquis, in fact.”
A marquis? The mere possibility sent her mind spinning in a disorderly bustle. Yet Dorothea managed to respond, with a lack of sputtering she thought impressive indeed, “Perhaps you aim too high on my behalf?” Thanks to her mother’s tutelage, Dorothea knew how to conduct herself and speak with more refinement than many in her class, but she had no right to or expectations of such grandeur. “Would not a second or third son or perhaps a merchant with heavy pockets not be more suited—”
“You measure your worth in drams when you should be thinking in barrels.” Sarah sniffed as though Dorothea’s concept of a more appropriate protector was preposterous. “Whatever notions you have of unsuitability, discard them henceforth. You exhibit as much grace as any number of other women of my acquaintance and your manner is more pleasing than most. Once you’re able to fill your belly regularly, I daresay your countenance will rival that of anyone’s. Cease doubting, dear. I would never seek to place you in a situation that would cause you to wish for the gallows.”
“I know that, I do. I’m just…” Dorothea’s faltering dance toward another stack of books spoke for her. A tiny part of her was fascinated by the very real prospect of enjoying a man’s companionship. And if, in turn, he enjoyed her body, then what would be the harm? She groped for something to occupy her hands and reached for the nearest book.
Sarah intercepted her efforts and pressed her palms against Dorothea’s restless fingers. “Beset by nerves. ’Tis understandable, so let me tell you more of what to expect so you’ll feel as snug as a duck in a ditch.”
“Let’s hope it’s not raining then, for the duck’s sake.” She squared her shoulders and faced her fate head on. “All right. Tell me the worst of it.”
Sarah raised a beautifully arched brow. “Since you put it that way… Tonight’s party is at my home. Several of us rotate hosting duties and it is my turn for the chore. There will be approximately a dozen men present and an equal number of women. Women who, by choice or circumstance, are in the business of physically pleasing members of the ton. Several will come with their benefactors; others are looking to make new associations. Others only want to dabble and play for the night. There will…”
Sarah paused as though weighing whether or not Dorothea truly wanted to hear more.
Of course she did! This was a slice of life she’d never anticipated finding herself nudging up against. “What else? Do tell me everything so shock won’t send me swooning out the door.”
With a comforting pat, Sarah released her hand. “Good girl. I do believe you’ll do fine. Since everyone knows tonight is about partnering and pleasuring, either for the evening or beyond, don’t expect restraint. While some couples prefer to take themselves off before offing their clothes, others aren’t as circumspect.”
Dorothea felt her eyes go wide. “I’ll be expected to undress?” The question squeaked higher than the roof two floors above. “In front of everyone?”
“Most certainly not! But others may and you did say you wanted to know the worst. I’m sure you can ascertain what might come next from any pairs, or groups, who are so inclined.”
Groups?! It was a wonder her face hadn’t ignited.
In order to speak, Dorothea had to unlock her teeth, which had mashed the insides of her cheeks. “Are you quite certain this is the proper venue for me to meet this man? Would it not be”—safer for my sanity—“easier were we to meet elsewhere?” Mayhap at church?
“Ah, would that it were that simple. Lord Tremayne rarely accepts social invitations, especially now that he’s seen his younger sister married off. He’s not a man given to idle chatter from what I’ve seen. Prefers meaningful discourse to those of the flittering masses. Penry said we accomplished quite a feat, securing his agreement to attend tonight.”
Lord Tremayne. What a strong-sounding name. Dorothea wondered whether his character might be strong as well. In truth, she wondered whether his body might be, and her face flamed hotter. “Why did he?”
“To meet you, of course.”
“But I… I haven’t even agreed to come. And he knows nothing about me.”
“Ah, but we knew he was in the market for a new mistress and Penry is one of his oldest friends, so when he mentioned you, Tremayne listened.”
“So they’re of the same age?” Penry was a year or two older than Sarah; she’d let that tidbit slip one morning when she’d arrived at Hatchards late, hurried and flushed, commenting that the man’s stamina wasn’t waning with his recent birthday (and appearing rather pleased by the prospect).
“Nay. Tremayne is younger by ten years or so.” Sarah gave a saucy wink. “So he’s in his prime too. Very fit. Taller than most, and strong.”
“Heavens, Sarah, it sounds as though you’re describing a circus bear, not a man.”
Her friend’s grey eyes sparkled. “I daresay you’ll find much to admire about him. As to tonight’s gathering, dearest, do keep in mind that meeting him in such a setting ultimately protects you both.”
“Protects? From what?” All sorts of dastardly thoughts pelted her.
“You silly pea goose—protects your pride. Watch.” Sarah slipped two books off a nearby stack and held them up, covers pressed together. “It’s a simple matter to engage each other as much or as little as you choose. If either of you aren’t interested in pursuing an association, you simply walk away.” Holding one in each hand, she whipped the books apart. “It’s as uncomplicated as that. Whereas if you were meeting for a tête-à-tête, awkwardness might ensue if one of you felt more inclined to proceed than the other.” Sarah slapped the two books together as though to indicate the subject was at an end. “So we’re agreed? You’ll come?”
“Might he have a pianoforte, do you think?”
“A piano?” Sarah blinked owlishly and Dorothea felt foolish for asking. “My dear, a good man will give his mistress expensive baubles as though they were bags of lemon drops. I’m certain he’ll provide you a pianoforte if the two of you decide you’ll suit.”
With every word she uttered, how was it Sarah made becoming a fallen woman sound more uplifting and enticing? And how did one learn the necessary skills to make a satisfactory go of the venture?
“How does a…a…” Dorothea walled off her nerves and shored up her courage. If she couldn’t talk about it, she seriously doubted she’d be able to engage in it. “Mistress behave? In the bedchamber, I mean. And why is it men want a mistress if they already claim a wife?”
After all, she’d been a wife. And from her experience, the occupation had little to recommend it.
“Oh, gracious. Now you’re asking questions that go significantly beyond our precious time together. I’m sure there are as many reasons as there are clouds in the sky. An unhappy marriage, an arranged one. A wife who refuses to join her husband in the marriage bed once her duty is done and she’s delivered him a son or three. As for those men unmarried, is it not safer—and more expedient—to arrange for a woman you find attractive than risk contracting pox from strumpets on the streets?”
The unsavory aspects of pleasing oneself outside of marriage had not occurred to her. Perhaps because she’d never been much pleased within marriage. “You always seem so refreshed. So joyful. As though your time with Lord Penry is not disagreeable. Do you…” Dorothea found her eyes had skittered toward the empty stairwell and she forced herself to meet Sarah’s patient expression. “Do you find true enjoyment in the bedchamber?”
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br /> Sarah’s cheeks pinkened and she looked more like a girl of fourteen than a mistress of forty. “Very much so. It has not always been the case, I confess, with each of my protectors. But I’m very happy with Penry.”
And that is when Dorothea made up her mind. Whether this Lord Tremayne indulged in risqué behavior or even told vulgar jokes, whether he changed mistresses as frequently as he did his waistcoats, she’d be a chucklehead not to attempt to find a pleasurable coexistence with such a man. And if not him, then another.
“It will do…” When the words came out hesitant, she cleared her throat and proclaimed with every show of confidence, “I believe I would very much like to find someone as you have. But I admit to fearing I’ll not please or satisfy him.”
“Lovemaking with someone new is not a race you either win or lose. It’s more like…like…” Sarah glanced heavenward, as though casting about for the perfect comparison and hoping an angel would drop it in her mind. She snapped her gloved fingers and looked at Dorothea. “Like crafting the most perfect marzipan. All you need is sugar, almonds and rosewater, but while the basic ingredients might not change from attempt to attempt, the exact amounts and how they’re prepared will vary as you tweak and refine your recipe until voilà—you land upon perfection, ambrosial bliss upon your tongue. That’s what perfect lovemaking is all about. The right man knows this and won’t expect you to dance on your head the first time you’re together. Or even the fiftieth. You’ll learn to make your own ambrosia—in your own time.” With that unfulfilling explanation ringing in Dorothea’s ears, Sarah added, “Have I convinced you? Will you come tonight?”
In the end, the image of dancing on her head while balancing marzipan on her feet was so ludicrous, Sarah’s cooking comparison shared so exuberantly, and her own situation so desperate, that Dorothea could do naught but concede. “Aye.” Though she might live to regret it, at least she’d live. “I’ll be there.”
But how? She knew better than to brave walking her neighborhood after dark. Daytime was bad enough.
Seductive Silence (Mistress in the Making Book 1) Page 4