His throat was dry, and his fingers clenched into fists unconsciously.
Madam appeared at his shoulder. “Have you chosen?”
Her voice was a murmur, but it was deafening in the silent room. Unable to trust his voice, he nodded and pointed to the woman at the end.
It was quite a knock to his ego to see her shoulders slump, and her eyes dart toward Madam as though pleading silently for a reprieve.
His throat burned. Was he not handsome enough for her, impressive enough for her? He had never been found fault with anyone before. His Stanhope looks were more than sufficient. Even Harry had mentioned it once or twice, with a laugh; it was impossible to be ignored when one was a Stanhope.
But this woman did not know who he was and that was precisely how it must remain. Society did not censure those who visited such places—just the women inside it—but still. No one needed to know an earl was so desperate for…companionship that he was resorting to this place.
Madam nodded to the woman, who looked even more dejected. Regret teased as the edges of his emotions. At least women he had spurned in the past had been eager for his attention. Too eager, if his memory served him correctly.
Perhaps it was not too late to change his mind and take one of the other women?
But before he could say any of this, or at least try to in a way socially acceptable, the woman stepped forward and reached for his hand.
Josiah reached out, and something impossible happened. He could not walk away from her—and it would be torture if she walked away from him. In that instant, something connected them. Call it souls, call it fate, it was heavy, and Josiah bent to its will.
Had she felt it, too? She did not say anything, but her blue eyes flickered to his and then away again. She must have felt something, he thought wildly. It could not have been him alone.
Mind flooded with panic, desire, thoughts of running, and taking her with him, he stumbled forward as she led him toward the stairs. Was this even happening? Had he gone home instead after Mercia’s wedding and fallen asleep, fallen into a dream that felt so real but could not possibly be true?
He walked up the stairs in a daze, hearing but not understanding the giggles of the women he left behind him. At the top of the stairs was a corridor, and the woman who still held his hand opened the first on the left and pulled him forward.
Josiah staggered into a dark room, as she released him to shut the door.
They were alone. As Josiah’s eyes became accustomed to the gloom, the woman pointed at the bed. He was evidently supposed to go over to it, and so he did so, sitting on the soft linen and breathing in her scent.
He looked around the room, trying to ground himself in reality. Although unsure what to expect, this was not it. The room was clean, painfully clean in places, but bare. The sign of true poverty. When you had nothing else, the least you could have was cleanliness.
One candle sat on a chest beside the bed, and it was the only light in the room. The window was boarded up, and he could see she had made some effort here, covering it with a piece of beautiful cloth, muslin with a pattern of daisies. It was an attempt at hominess, but it did not make up for the distinct lack of personal possessions.
Josiah put a hand on the bed as he leaned back and felt paper. It was a magazine, a few weeks old.
Josiah opened his mouth to say something, anything to fill this silence, but he had no idea what. She was standing in the middle of the room, slowly unbuttoning the side of her gown.
“Stop,” he said quickly, discomfort overwhelming him.
Her fingers paused but stayed at the side of her gown as she looked at him with large eyes. She said absolutely nothing.
Josiah swallowed. It wasn’t supposed to be this strange, was it? If he was here for the simplicity of making love without emotional complications, why had he stopped her? Parts of him were already twitching at the very thought of what could be underneath that gown, so why stop?
But it was not that easy. Josiah had thought it would be so simple, pick a woman, pay her, possess her. But he had more heart than that. He could not just take his fill. Not like this.
“It is just…” Josiah tried and gave up immediately. He did not need to explain himself. “May we talk first?”
He sounded pathetic, but she did not seem surprised. She nodded and immediately sat on the floor, crossing her legs and staring at him without saying a word.
Josiah laughed awkwardly. God’s teeth, this was strange.
“Why don’t we start with names?” he asked, hating the echo of his voice.
She blushed and spoke in a low, soft voice. “My…my name is Hannah.”
The way she said the name, as though an unfamiliar sound, made him certain it was not her real name. Who could blame her? There was something shameful and dirty about what she was doing. Few women here, he was sure, used their real names.
Damn and blast it, what kind of fool was he? What sort of pompous twit sits here and thinks that about a woman while sitting on her bed? Wasn’t he as much a part of this whole shameful exercise?
Standing as though burned, he said hurriedly, “Miss Hannah, you must sit on your own bed—here, I will sit on this.”
There was a small stool in one of the corners of the room. He placed it by the bed and sat on it.
“Please,” he said, gesturing toward the bed.
Hannah, for want of a better name, stared warily. After a moment’s thought, she rose from the floor and seated herself on the edge of the bed.
“My name is Josiah,” he said baldly.
Hannah nodded. She evidently saw no reason to speak, and Josiah, unaccustomed to such silence in a woman, found it forced him to speak.
“And,” he said helplessly, “how are you feeling?”
Her gaze dropped to the floor as she murmured, “Fine, sir.”
He swallowed. How did one make polite conversation with a lady of the night? This was not covered in any of his etiquette lessons when a boy—though as an earl in training, he was surprised, in hindsight, Mr. Portland did not think to cover it.
And he had only come here for relief. If he wanted inane conversation, he had simply to visit one of the popular salons popping up all over the place, and state Byron was a bloody great poet and a gentleman. That was enough to get people’s hackles raised and tongues loose.
He had come here to bed her, and now, he was having to navigate all this social etiquette—but it was wrong, somehow, to demand a woman give her body without even knowing her.
He looked at Hannah with an appraising eye. She was beautiful and aloof, sitting there on the bed with her ankles crossed, just visible through the bottom of her gown. She would not have looked out of place in one of those stylish salons.
And yet, she was here.
“I-I saw your magazine,” he said in a strangled voice, unsure where the words were coming from but grateful that they were. “Are you enjoying it?”
Hannah did not meet his gaze. “No. I am talking to you.”
“Oh. Yes—I actually meant before you and I…met.”
“I was not reading it before you and I…met.” She matched his intonation perfectly and glanced at him with fire in her eyes.
Josiah’s fingers clenched the stool. “But it’s in your room.”
“Yes, it is.”
Irritation rose in his throat, but he swallowed it like bile. God’s teeth, but this whole thing was meant to be easier, not more difficult!
“Then why is it here?” he snapped, unable to keep the irritation from his voice.
Perhaps she saw the effect she was having on him—perhaps she liked it. Either way, she appeared to relish her silence as she shrugged.
“Look here, Hannah,” Josiah said sharply, “I am paying you, the very least you could do is talk to me!”
For the first time, she looked directly into his eyes and did not shy away. “Yes,” she said with a smile, “you are paying me. You are paying for me.”
Josiah stared in
astonishment. Her accusatory tone cut straight into his core, straight into all his fears and concerns of visiting a brothel. She continued to smile, and a tiny scar just under her chin became visible, an unseen mark until she grinned.
And that smile, there was such venom, such fury in her eyes. It was impossible to understand it. Had he not chosen her out of the three of them—surely, she had wanted to be picked? He had not hurt her, nor forced himself upon her, though he had been led to understand by some of the more unsavory nobles he had met that it was not uncommon. Not that he ever would. There were few things more disgusting.
And she was here, wasn’t she? I mean, Josiah thought to himself wildly, she was here. She knew what this place was.
Hannah was still glaring. In that glare was fire and ferocity and a desperate desire to stay alive.
It was not desire for him, but he felt his heat rising to meet hers, and he was overwhelmed by the need to stride over and kiss her, kiss her until she could not glare at him but cry out his name as he brought her to pleasure.
But that would be wrong. He could not put his finger on why, but it would be wrong.
He stood abruptly. She flinched.
“There,” he said with a growl, throwing down the six coins required onto the chest of drawers beside the bed. “I will be back.”
Chapter Four
No matter how exhausted she was, Honora found it impossible to sleep through heavy knocking if it continued—especially when accompanied by shouting.
The sound at her door did not cease, and she woke up. As was her custom, she turned over to see who was sharing her bed from the previous night.
Today it was empty.
That did not make any sense. Most gentlemen liked to stay the night, it gave them that warm glowing feeling that they could reach over at any point and demand more. But this morning, she was alone in her cavernous bed.
How had this happened?
As she sat and attempted to ignore the continued pounding on her door, the memories of Mr. Josiah came rushing back.
That scowl. How could she have forgotten it? No one had scowled at her like that for years, except Madam, who scowled so continuously you quickly ignored it. The irritation that forced him from her room after less than ten minutes in her company…
Honora smiled. By God, but it felt good to have the power for the first time in a long time. She refused to play his game, refused to even tell him her name—Mabel and Ellen alone knew her true name, and she trusted them. But he had wanted more, more power, more knowledge, and she had refused him.
Gentlemen, no matter what their background, class, wealth, or education, always had to be the most impressive person in the room. It was particularly entertaining when two or three such men were together, they could not help but try to be polite, because of breeding, but they also tried to be as cutting as they could, because of…well, breeding.
They needed to be the center of attention, a fault Mr. Josiah had in spades. Poor man. He had probably not come across a lady like her before. She decided whether she spoke or not, whether she looked at him or not—and he hadn’t liked it.
And she liked that he didn’t like it.
A shiver of pleasure made her feel more alive than anything had in months.
“Are you up yet?” Madam’s voice pierced through the door as the heavy knocking continued. “Get up, you heathen girl, get up!”
Honora sighed and pulled herself out of bed. Even when on top of the world, there was always something to remind her it was currently a small one.
The coins Mr. Josiah had left by the bed were still there, six shillings. Five for Madam. One for her.
Trying to stifle a yawn, Honora picked them up along with the twelve from her previous two gentlemen the day before, and walked over to the door, opening it.
Madam glared and then looked rudely over her shoulder to the empty bed. “Mr. Josiah already left then?”
It was a mistake to draw Madam into a conversation, especially in the morning. She perpetually awoke with a hangover from the large bottles of gin brought to her as presents by frequently returning guests—one of Mabel’s regulars brought one every Tuesday. Ruinous it may be, but Madam could not say no.
Honora held out the shillings, and Madam snatched them. “And will Mr. Josiah be gracing us with his presence again, do you think?”
Flecks of spit hit Honora’s face, but she was not foolish enough to raise a hand and wipe them away. Young Daisy had got beaten for that only last week. Madam had called it ‘cheek.’
Instead, she blushed as the memory of Mr. Josiah’s last words to her resurfaced.
I will be back.
She nodded.
Madam’s frown softened. “Good, girl. And did sir have any particular…preferences I should be aware of?”
Honora’s cheeks heated. There was another word, ‘preferences,’ which meant something so different here in this disgusting world. Even Madam couldn’t get her lips around some of the situations she made some poor girls describe to her, so she could learn what their regulars wanted.
“He was very gentlemanly,” she said stiffly. “We did not actually…we did not…”
Her voice trailed off, unable to form words to describe their bizarre encounter. Perhaps he did not like ladies in his social set and had come to see whether it would be easier with a woman he did not know? Perhaps he did not like ladies altogether?
Madam’s eyebrow was raised. “You did not bed him, girl?”
Honora shook her head. Why did she feel a strange mixture of relief and disappointment? Was the fact he could not bring himself to bed her a comment on herself? Did she not please him?
“Did he want something,” Madam said in a lower voice, with uncharacteristic delicacy, “not on the menu?”
On the menu, thought Honora bitterly. Another piece of Madam’s jargon. Every girl had a menu she offered, and it was non-negotiable—most of the time. Honora knew Mabel’s menu changed depending on the size of the man’s pockets. But Honora had always stuck to her ‘menu,’ and this had twice led to arguments of biblical proportions with Madam.
“No,” she said, scratching an ankle with her other foot. “He was not…hungry.”
Madam gave her an appraising look, which Honora did not like. “You may be past it, then.”
Her matter-of-fact tone was enough to stir Honora. “I am barely twenty years of age,” she flared up. “And I will bed him next time.”
Madam’s eyebrow rose higher. “Next time? You sound very sure there will be a next time.”
Honora swallowed. Why did she feel so defiant? She had nothing to prove, not anymore. Over the last three years, she had proven she could earn her keep and had never wanted to be here in the first place—not like some of the others. Coin had brought them here, that temptation and the hope that one day, one of their gentlemen would buy their freedom and take them away from all this, as a mistress or wife.
Poor things. Just because one girl—Emma, was her name, or Emily?—had managed it, going off to be the mistress of who knows who, more and more girls turned up on their doorstep looking to make their mark on the world.
Well, the world soon enough marked them. And she had been dragged here against her will, forced to stay through confusion and beatings at first, and fear and drudgery now.
So why did she feel the need to prove herself all over again?
“He will be back,” Honora said with far more certainty than she actually felt. “He will.”
Madam laughed. “Oh, child, they all say that. Trust me on this. They all say they’ll come back.”
Without another word, she continued to chuckle and walked over to the next bedchamber, banging on the door. “Mabel, you slattern, where’s my money?”
Honora closed the door on the racket and clambered back into bed. Her conversation with Madam had disquieted her.
Mr. Josiah was strange, and spending even ten minutes in his company in this very room last night had been stranger still. He w
as a gentleman, a true one, not just what the girls here called a gentleman and what essentially meant ‘a man.’
He was well-bred and elegant, like her brothers had been. It had been so long since she had seen them, and for most of the years before she had come here, William and John had been at school, then university, and finally the army. But the memories of how to be treated courteously, as a lady, should not have faded.
Mr. Josiah—if that was his real name, for it had been clear she had not fooled him with her ‘Hannah’ routine—was cut from the same cloth. He had known wealth and education, and he had still come here.
Perhaps Madam was right. Perhaps she would not see him again, and she would not have to untangle her confused thoughts about him. He could become one of those curiosities from her past, something she would look back on and laugh at.
The bell rang. Its clatter brought about more noise as the girls on call left their bedchambers and walked down the stairs to stand in a line before the next gentlemen.
Honora smiled, luxuriating in the feeling of being in her own bed. The soft linen, undisturbed by any lovemaking the night before, felt wonderful under her toes. Madam’s girls worked mornings or evenings, not both, and as she had been on call the evening before, she could enjoy her sleep. Mabel said it was one of the few good things about this place—where she had been before, girls had to work five or six men a day.
A shiver passed through Honora. To think there were worse places out there, and Mabel had come here to get away from them. It did not bear thinking about.
“Hannah!” The screech was unmistakably Madam’s, and it was so loud, it made Honora start in her bed.
What on earth could she want? Though Mr. Josiah had not wanted her body, he had still taken her time and left the coin. Surely Madam could not want her to stand in line—there were six girls on call this morning, more than enough.
Unless a new girl had arrived. Honora shivered at the thought. The girl before Abigail had been given to Honora to care for, much as Ellen had cared for her. It had not worked out well. They said she was beaten so badly no gentleman would pay for her, and they dumped her on the street in a town a few miles away. And so, Peggy got her wish after all. She was free to starve somewhere else.
Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3) Page 3