She was seated on the bed again. Her eyes narrowed. “You have already told me much about you.”
“I do not mean stories or jovial tales of youth,” he said heavily, dropping onto the chair. “Something I do not wish to tell. Something that few know about me.”
She hesitated and then nodded.
Josiah swallowed. He had not actually expected her to say yes, but then, perhaps it would be good for him to tell her. Maybe he needed to get it out of his system.
It was poison, this memory. He wanted it out of him.
“A few years ago,” he said in a voice he hoped would remain steady, “I met a young lady. She was charming, beautiful, and wonderful company. It amazed me every day she sought my company. She told me she only enjoyed a day if I was in it. She was…she said she loved me.”
His gaze had dropped to his hands, but he glanced up to see her expression. It was blank, but the fury had gone.
“I was courting her, half-serious of marriage, but I was young, and Monty and I—I mean my friend, Montague, we were so young. There was no need to rush into an engagement. And then she came to me in great distress. Her brother, a gentleman I met once or twice but was not intimately acquainted with, had been taken to debtor’s prison over a misunderstanding. I was sympathetic—who had not experienced a misunderstanding? I gave her five pounds.”
She was smiling now, a knowing smile.
“You cannot possibly have guessed!” Josiah protested.
She laughed. “Oh, Josiah. We have heard all the sob stories here, especially when a gentleman finds himself out of pocket.”
“And so, you call in Andrews?”
“Andrews? Oh, no. Madam has a mean right hook, and we never hear that story again.”
He laughed and shook his head ruefully. “You are all smarter than I. Over the space of a month, this woman, for I can no longer call her a lady, managed to fleece me for over four hundred pounds before I worked out the ruse.”
Hannah gasped and moved along the bed. “Four hundred pounds?”
“And it gets worse,” he said. “I told you that was a few years ago. Since then, I have courted a woman who was already married but lied to me about it, a woman who was actually far more interested in one of my friends than in myself—they are married now with a child on the way—and a woman who was the most teasing thing I have ever endured, tempting me with her looks and never allowing me to…”
When his mind caught his tongue, his voice trailed off—but not quickly enough.
She raised an eyebrow. “So, you came here?”
“It was not exactly like that,” Josiah said hastily. “That was six months or so ago. But you can see why I grew tired of all the games, the shallow talk—never saying what you wanted or what you thought! Always having to speak politely as society dictates, never permitted to do what you wanted. You cannot dance with a girl twice at a ball without her mother planning the wallpaper of your children’s nursery!”
She smiled. “It sounds like society has not changed much. Do the Bath Assembly Rooms still…”
Josiah stared in shock. Her words resonated through his mind as he tried to reconcile her words to this current situation. “You…you were in society, too, then? What happened, Hannah? How did you get here?”
She colored, ignoring his words. “Josiah, it sounds to me as though you have had a terrible run-in with women, until now.”
He hesitated. He could try and force the truth from her, to push her into admitting where she came from—but what would that gain him?
“Yes,” he said. “Women have been more of a frustration than a pleasure. Society has forgotten, I think, that gentlemen want a happily ever after, too, not just ladies.”
A shy smile broke across her face. “I had never thought of that.”
The desire to be close to her had been nagging at Josiah’s heart for almost ten minutes, and now was the perfect moment.
Moving to the bed and sitting beside her, he said quietly, “’Tis not something we are raised to be open about. Especially where I come from.”
Hannah’s gaze was fixed on him. “I…I hope one day you will find what you are looking for.”
“I have,” he whispered, leaning to kiss her.
She was wooden under his lips as they touched, but he poured all his pent-up passion into it. She melted into his arms and returned his kiss with more ardor than he expected, her lips parting, welcoming him in.
Josiah almost cried out in her mouth. God, this was heaven—the feel of her, the taste of her, the abandon he felt with her in his arms. He leaned back, and she moved with him until they were lying on the bed, fully clothed and yet desire pouring between them as he gently caressed her lips with his tongue.
A heavy knocking made them jump apart.
“Mr. Josiah, your time is up,” came Madam’s voice through the door. “Time to leave, sir.”
They both sat up hurriedly, Josiah finding it impossible to look directly at her. Trust Madam to find the most inopportune moment to interrupt them!
“You will come back?”
Her voice was low, nervous, unsure. Josiah looked at her and saw a woman still trying to understand her own feelings, and loved her for it.
“I always do,” he said quietly with a smile. “Twice a week, every week.”
She smiled, and he melted on the bed. What was wrong with him—where was his spirit, his manliness, his strength?
“I would like you to come back soon.”
He wanted to pull her into his arms again and kiss her until she could not breathe, but this was not the time.
Nodding because he did not trust his voice, he staggered to the door. He looked back.
“Madam,” he said in a strangled voice.
“Yes, Mr. Josiah?” she asked as they made it to the bottom of the stairs.
He swallowed. “I will pay again for time with Miss Hannah. I wish to stay.”
She nodded. “Perhaps I could be so bold as to recommend another two payments? Enjoy your afternoon?”
He had to hand it to her—she knew how to fleece him for every shilling. He nodded and went back to Hannah’s room, closing the door behind him.
“Twice more?” She had evidently heard him. “What are you expecting in that time?”
He stepped across the room and sat back on the bed beside her. Could he bed her? No, not now she was a fully-fleshed person, not just a body he could lose himself in.
But by God, he would spend many an hour kissing her, embracing her, laughing with her. The time would disappear.
“First,” he said with a grin, lowering his mouth back to hers, “This.”
Chapter Eight
There was no chance of sunlight breaking through it, but Honora still looked up at the boarded window and sighed.
Five days. Five days since she had last seen Josiah.
Not that it mattered. She turned over and faced the ceiling, trying to convince herself she did not care. Why should she?
Because, said that voice inside her soul she tried to ignore, because you like him. Because you like the way he looks at you. The way he smiles. The way he kisses you.
Oh, those kisses. They were seared into her memory, and she never wanted to forget them. His arms around her, the smell of masculinity and horses, and something uniquely Josiah.
How many kisses had she given and received since she had been brought here?
It was impossible to count. She did not want to know. None of them had remained in her memory like these. Kissing Josiah was not just physical, it was almost spiritual, his soul reaching for hers. Like the hurt of his past and the hurt of her past wanted to come together and wipe away all the pain they had experienced. Like he could heal her with exquisite tenderness.
So, why, after such an encounter, which had kept her awake for hours, had he not returned?
It was Saturday today, and he always came on a Thursday. But the sun had gone down that day, and he had not come. She had been sure, then, that Friday would see him visit
her, and she had waited all day, sitting on her bed like a fool thinking he was going to arrive at any moment.
But he had not. Five days. Five long days without him. She had never needed a man like this before.
A figure in a light blue gown walked past her open door, and then the figure returned again and poked its head in. It was Mabel.
“I thought you would be with your young man,” she said archly. “All alone?”
“He has not come.” There was a laugh from the doorway, and Honora saw Mabel grinning. “You know what I mean.”
Mabel shrugged and leaned against the doorway. “Rich men are often busy. They have many claims on their time and purse, and they do not come to wait on us hand and foot. ’Tis the other way around.”
Honora knew the truth in her friend’s words, but they did not matter or mean much. “But he always visits on a—”
“Honora,” interrupted Mabel without a hint of bitterness, “do not be a fool. Do not allow yourself to be fooled.”
Honora sat up and frowned.
“They are not our husbands, or fiancés, or even brothers who we can scold, and boss about, and tell what to do,” Mabel said heavily. “They are men. Men looking for prostitutes, and that is what they find here. They do not want to be nagged. They do not want to be told. They want to be loved, unconditionally. Just don’t you forget that.”
She smiled faintly and then disappeared from the doorway.
Honora scowled. Love, indeed. The last place she would think to look for such emotion was in this place! All those hopes she had once cherished growing up, of one day walking down the aisle in the church with her father or brother to give her away to a handsome gentleman—all those hopes were dashed.
She would never be a bride. She would forever be… a courtesan. That was the nicest way she could think of it.
Lying back on the bed, she closed her eyes and tried not to think about Mr. Josiah. The way he smiled. The way he laughed. That flicker of concern, which shot across his brow each time she did not smile.
No, this was ridiculous, she had to stop thinking about him. The bell would ring, and she would go downstairs, hope not to be picked, and if she was so unfortunate, lie back and take it. Perhaps she would be able to pretend it was Josiah’s voice whispering in her ear, his hands across her body, his manhood finding its way inside her…
The echoing of the bell’s rattle broke into her thoughts, and she sighed. Saturdays were always busy, but she had never known one to be so frantic. Pausing to run a comb through her hair, she did not even bother to glance at her reflection in the looking glass as she passed it before going through the door.
All her thoughts were on the gentleman downstairs. Perhaps it would be Josiah.
But she was not surprised to see Mr. Christie licking his lips as she, Abigail, and a girl she did not recognize took their places in line. His lecherous eyes moved across them as he grinned, unbuttoning his greatcoat, so his vicar’s collar became visible.
Honora shivered. So much of the world was not as it seemed. So much of what she had thought was true and good had been torn away when she had come here.
“Now then, Mr. Christie,” Madam said in a syrupy voice that reminded Honora of honey with a wasp trapped in it. “You have here three lovely girls from which to make your choice.”
She was standing at the gentleman’s shoulder, and he turned to mutter something in her ear.
Madam glared. “Mr. Christie, you have enough coin for one. If you wanted all three, you should have brought more gold.”
Honora tried not to look disgusted. What a hypocrite.
Disappointed, he turned to stare at the three girls. Madam gestured behind his back, and Honora forced a smile and gave a slow turn to give him a view of all angles.
She turned back and stared at a point above his shoulder as the other two girls twirled in turn, and then waited in silence for him to make his choice.
Why are you not Josiah?
The reverend pointed at Abigail, who Honora saw smile nervously, reaching out her hand.
By the time Honora had returned to her room, alone, she had no other thought but one. Let Josiah come back to me. Something must have happened to him to keep him away from me so long.
Another five days later, however, her concern had transformed into anger.
How dare he? How dare he not keep his word? His very last words to her had been that he would be back as normal, twice a week. It had been above ten days since she had last seen him.
The concern and fear for him were muted now, with fury overtaking her. Mabel had been right, all those days ago. She had no hold over him; he was not beholden to her. They were not even lovers, had exchanged no promises, and had shared naught but kisses.
She blinked back tears. But the conversations—their conversations had a greater hold on her than she had thought possible. The best she had experienced while trapped here. Whenever she was with him, she felt alive.
“I do not know why you are moping.” Ellen’s voice sounded, but she was quickly hushed.
“Leave her be,” said Mabel quietly. “She can mope if she wants to.”
Honora sighed. They were in Mabel’s bedchamber, and as Mabel had been living here a good deal longer, she had had more time to imprint her personality. Her window was boarded up, too, but Mabel had painted flowers on the wood. There was a small chest of drawers in a corner with dried flowers in a vase and a stack of letters. There was a rug, the only room which had one.
It was the homiest place in Madam’s brothel, and Honora found herself gravitating here whenever everything became too much. In Mabel’s room, you were always cared for, always heeded.
Mabel was carefully writing a letter, each word written carefully, attempting to keep the small nub of pencil steady. It was to her daughter, her true joy each month. Anything she earned went to Andrews to deliver to her daughter, and it was through trust and hope that she believed her child received every shilling.
“I am not moping,” Honora said. “I am angry.”
Ellen snorted and shook her head sadly as she stretched out on Mabel’s bed with a magazine. “What did we tell you? These are not our gentlemen, girl, to order about.”
“It is easy to fall into bad habits,” Mabel said quietly as she folded the letter. “And you know where that leads you.”
Her eyes glanced at her stomach, already starting to round under her corset and gown.
Honora’s anger dissolved. They were all so careful. The last thing they wanted was a permanent reminder of an encounter with any gentlemen.
This was Mabel’s third child. The first had been before Honora’s time and had not survived. The second, a daughter, was somewhere in the world. But what would she do when Madam found out about the third? It was not a secret that could be kept much longer. What would happen to Mabel then? She was at least five years older than the rest of them, as it was.
“I think you are better off without him,” announced Ellen. “He is a strange one, Honora, you must admit. A bit of a mooncalf for you.”
Mabel giggled as Honora said furiously, “He is not a mooncalf!”
“He is! Coming here, time after time, month after month, mooning after you and not touching you!”
Mabel and Ellen were laughing as Honora frowned with embarrassment. It had not escaped her notice that it was a strange way for a man visiting a brothel regularly to behave, and she had wondered why. Was there was a dark secret behind him?
Perhaps he was secretly a vicar, like the disgusting Mr. Christie. But even the most wealthy and ennobled reverend she had ever met did not walk about the place like Josiah did. Like he owned it.
Confidence had been bred into him, and he could not hide it, though he tried. It would not surprise her if he announced he was a baronet or even the youngest son of a duke. If he ever returned to speak to her, that is.
But none of that explained why he did not wish to bed her.
“It…it is a bit strange, really,” she
said eventually. “We spend our entire lives having to bed gentlemen we do not like and would not wish to if we had our choice in the matter. And then one turns up that you do…”
Her voice trailed away, but she did not miss the glance Mabel and Ellen exchanged. They were worried about her. Perhaps they had cause to be.
“I did not say I am falling in love with him,” she said hastily.
“You are not falling,” Ellen said quietly. “You have already fallen.”
Mabel sighed. “It happens to us all, eventually. You have done well to last this long.”
Honora swallowed. She could not be in love with him—love was between two equals, two people willing to be open with one another.
“’Tis not love,” she blustered, “it’s…infatuation. I want what I cannot have. That is all!”
But they were not deceived.
Ellen snorted. “Trust me, my girl, we know. Do you think we have not seen it before? Do you think we have not felt it ourselves, fallen into the trap?”
Honora looked at Mabel, who smiled.
“Ah, love,” she said quietly. “You are worried about him and angry at him for not being here, and still concerned about him all the same. If you are interested in all he says and amazed by all he does—and what’s more, you want him to touch you? You are in love.”
She considered Mabel’s words. It was impossible to deny she did feel those things, wanted those things. But was that love or some confused desperation to be spoken to kindly by a gentleman who was not disgusting or hypocritical? Could the need to be treated like a lady make her see a gentleman?
Perhaps her idea of what a good man was had become distorted over time. Was Josiah truly the sort of man she would wish to be vulnerable with?
“—and I told her it was fanciful to think those gloves were worth two of my shawls,” Ellen was saying. “And the look she gave me! I do not think even the Regent himself would…”
The conversation had moved on, and Honora was glad of it. She barely understood her own feelings in the matter and was not sure she could discuss it any further.
“—three now,” Mabel said proudly. “And the latest letter which Andrews brought to me said that…”
Always the Courtesan (Never the Bride Book 3) Page 7