Fair Cyprians of London Boxset: Books 1-5: Five passionate Victorian Romances

by Beverley Oakley

  Of course, she’d undressed a hundred times before. Or rather, she’d mostly been undressed. It’s what the gentlemen liked, though clearly, Mr Durham was not in a position to do anything.

  She worried at her lower lip as the fingers of her right hand toyed with the tiny top button of her cuirass. Right now, only Mr Millament knew she was in the house. She could leave and no one would be the wiser, including Mr Durham. This was business after all—and not a business she’d chosen. Mr Durham would have absolutely no idea if he had or hadn’t performed. Or, if she’d serviced him as required. Dear Lord, this could be Hope’s lucky day. The easiest money she’d ever made while enabling her to retain her pride.

  But she couldn’t bring herself to retreat. The impulse to touch him was too great, and she put out her hand.

  Then hesitated, horrified at her brazenness. Disgusted to realise that she, in fact, was the one dissipated by loose living. For didn’t she want to climb into that bed beside him and slide her naked body the length of his lean flanks as a tribute to all the ‘what might have beens’? She was past the frailty of falling in love, but that didn’t mean her body didn’t crave connection with the one human being who had made her heart beat a little faster and a little more raggedly during her brief girlhood. What a naïve innocent she’d been in those days.

  Those were the days when Hope had…well, hope. She could truly believe only good things would happen as she’d closed her eyes, half swooning in the arms of the dashing, handsome man who’d held her on the dance floor with such restraint; and who was now sleeping within inches of her seeking, tentative hand.

  A snatch of music drifted through the open window, a breeze stirring the papers on the escritoire beneath. Hope remembered that she had more than just the usual job she performed as one of Madame’s girls.

  Wilfred’s job. He’d made it clear what was at stake if she didn’t carry out his instructions.

  She tossed back her hair and grimly set to work undoing the tiny buttons that extended from just above her décolletage to her waist. If the paperwork was at Wilfred’s behest and the payment for sexual favours at Madame’s, then Hope was going to have something for herself.

  While she set to work divesting herself of her clothes, she did not drag her eyes from Mr Durham’s shapely buttocks, flanks, or handsomely constructed shoulders. He was as finely put together as any man she’d seen.

  When she’d wriggled out of her cuirass, unbuttoned her skirt, and slithered out of the heavily upholstered bustle cage, she stopped to consider her options.

  Could she really desire this? The feel of skin against skin?

  Every day of her life was a constant battle to retain what barriers she could between what she was forced to do and her inner self.

  Sighing gently, she sat on the bed, half undressed, and placed her hand on the mattress within a hair’s breadth of touching him. This couldn’t be more different. This was the man who’d once represented hope in her otherwise joyless life. Without her darling sister, Charlotte, to protect, and the gentleman of the manor about whom she could daydream, there’d been precious little else to get excited about. Nothing Hope did could satisfy Mama who never stopped harping on about the sacrifices she’d made to rear and nurture a child as ungrateful as Hope.

  The night of the Hunt Ball had represented a turning point. First, the Hunt itself, when she’d fallen and Mr Durham had galloped to her aid, and then the ball that followed in the evening, when the light in Mr Durham’s eyes, the pressure of his fingertips against her cheek, had seemed to promise so much.

  Even now, the memory was fresh of how her skin had tingled all over, and how her nipples had hardened. She’d felt embarrassed at the time. Such bodily sensations were alien to her, but the fact that Mr Durham had whispered a final urgent request to meet him in private at the church before she went to Germany was—then and still—the most thrilling thing that had ever happened to her.

  It seemed extraordinary that after that fateful carriage ride that would take her from her home forever, she’d ever see Mr Durham again. In truth, Hope never had wanted to see him again. She simply couldn’t bear to witness his disgust.

  But here she was now with that very same lovely man—only he was fast asleep and in the grips of an opium dream if she was right about the water pipe by his bed, and the lingering aroma.

  She trembled. Did her desire make her weak? Or was weak with want a power in itself, now that she had the choice to use it as she chose?

  Here was her chance to feel what this man had silently promised through the mere pressure on her fingertips and the look in his eyes. His desire had pierced her as he’d asked her to meet him on the way to catch her train. The intensity in his gaze had left her in no doubt as to his feelings.

  Hope closed her eyes as grief welled in her breast. One lingering kiss would have been enough to have sustained her through what awaited her in a cheerless chateau in Germany, far from friends and home.

  Hope had long before accepted her fate. She was not wanted at home, but nor had she wanted much. She’d lost her heart, and any indication that one desirable man felt something for her that went beyond simple regard was to be nurtured.

  She’d nurtured it alright. Through that shameful year with Wilfred and all the men since, she’d nurtured that precious, pristine, innocent joy of a future that was different from the one that had been thrust upon her.

  She wore only her corset now. The intricacies of the unlacing required help, and usually the gentleman enjoying her charms for that evening was only too happy to oblige.

  With trembling fingers, Hope untied the laces of the final petticoat and let it slither to the floor. Now, she was naked from the waist down, two creamy mounds swelling from the top of her corset. This was not how Mr Durham would expect to see her, but then he’d never know it was her.

  And that was how it should be.

  All Hope wanted was to enjoy one physical encounter in her life that created in truth the sensations she had to simulate in order to leave a client satisfied: the show of desire, lust, craving for whoever was paying her. And, for the aftermath, just the right degree of admiration, appearance of being sated, a hint of wanting more though not to the extent he’d propose another round. Lord, not that. No adoring prince of the realm, or noble, however handsome, apparently besotted, had been worth that.

  But this man, with his kind, earnest, blue-grey eyes, his reputation for proving himself so much more worthy than his father to run an estate so important to the livelihoods of the local district, was different.

  Flicking back the dark ringlets that fell over her right shoulder, Hope put one knee on the bed and leaned over. He stirred a little as the pressure of her weight caused the mattress to dip.

  Her heart ratcheted up a notch. Would he turn and open his eyes, registering horror as he realised what she’d become?

  It was a very real possibility, so she must prepare herself. She hesitated. There was still time to retreat with her dignity—and her money, she mustn’t forget. Her eyes strayed to the writing desk. Could she bring herself to do as Wilfred demanded?

  Shame scalded her as she considered the ramifications. If Hope carried through with her desires—her own bodily desires—then Mr Durham would realise what she’d done, albeit at Wilfred’s behest. He’d know she had betrayed him.

  Yes, he’d add betrayal to her list of sins on top of his scorn and disgust.

  A sliver of hope drifted through that train of thought. He would if he was in a state to register what was going on around him.

  He was murmuring now. Unintelligible words. That woman’s name amongst them. Annabelle. The woman to whom he was writing. His lost love? The Annabelle Hope knew?

  She leant forwards and put out her hand. He could dream he was having intimate relations with someone he’d once admired even if it was just a little for a short while—and he could attribute it to a dream, never knowing it was Hope in the flesh—or that she had taken something from his pocketbook
. The note Wilfred wanted as proof that she’d discharged his mission.

  Hope glanced towards the table where she’d seen a carelessly discarded leather pouch, out of which spilled a few loose coins, suggesting there was more where that came from.

  But Hope was not a thief, and Wilfred could not force her to become one, for all his threats.

  She hung her head. She did have some dignity. Enough, at least, to gracefully withdraw before she ran the risk of shredding her soul.

  With a sigh, she rose. She couldn’t do this. One more lingering glance and she’d quietly dress herself and leave.

  Carefully she extended her body across the mattress and ran her hand through the air, just an inch above the back of his head, closing her eyes as she imagined what it would feel like to touch him.

  It was far too dangerous to get any closer, and she should have realised this before.

  But she could dream.

  Just as he could.

  With an unexpected stirring to life, he rolled onto his back, his arm arcing through the air, collecting Hope’s hand along the way. It was as if he expected a woman to be there, for his beautiful mouth stretched into a smile and, although his eyes were still closed, he reached for her, gripping her hand more tightly as he drew her across the bed; tugging, sighing contentedly as he settled her on top of him. He chuckled as he skimmed his fingers down her contours, lingering over her breasts which surged out of her corset.

  Hope caught her breath, suspended between the thrill of what might happen next and pure terror.

  “Beautiful!” he declared, opening one eye as his hands cupped her bottom, and his mouth latched onto one of her breasts. “Delectable!” he declared, his eyes closed again as he teased out a nipple and rolled it over his tongue.

  Hope could not have torn herself away if she’d tried. Since she’d met this man, she’d wanted to feel his hands gently stroking her face, his lips touching hers. She’d hoped so much, as she was taking the carriage to meet him, that this might happen.

  It hadn’t, of course. And that was the reason she was here. A pragmatic bitterness encased her heart—necessary if she were to survive her calling—but there was still enough feeling there to register the deep and painful ache of loss and regret.

  It was gloomy, but light enough for Hope to study the face she remembered so well as her flesh tingled at his touch. She felt him harden beneath her as he continued to knead her buttocks, and although she straddled him, she was careful to keep her distance. She did not intend this to be a grubby encounter that was finished before it was begun.

  She should not let it proceed, either, but while he was enjoying himself in such blissful ignorance, she could continue a little longer.

  He brought his hands up to cup her face.

  And then he opened both eyes and Hope waited.

  Waited for his shock, his disgust, his utter repulsion.

  But after a flare of confused surprise, he simply stared at her with the most beatific smile and murmured, “I knew you’d come one day.” He sighed, a gentle shudder of pure happiness. “Now, kiss me, so that I know you’re real.”

  Hope avoided kissing the men who paid for her, but she needed no urging now.

  She smiled down at him, wildness at the possibilities presenting themselves surging through her. And then, with exquisite slowness, as she savoured what was about to come, she lowered her face to touch her lips to his.

  He moaned softly, tightening his arms about her while his manhood strained against her belly. Yet, he made no movement to enter her. Like her, he seemed to want to prolong the exquisite prelude to the inevitable coupling.

  Without warning, he flipped her over, caging her with his body, holding the side of her face with one hand as if to protect her, while the other rubbed gentle circular movements over her highly sensitised skin of her inner thighs.

  The touch was like a promise met; the sensations he evoked all she’d dreamed of while his eyes bored into her. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

  She arched into him, using her fingertips to contour his high, noble forehead, his fine aristocratic nose, the smoothness of his cleanly shaven jaw, before she trailed her hands downwards to explore the contours of the body she’d seen only in well-cut hunting or evening clothes.

  And then, in the greatest of daring movements, she reached out to explore his maleness, that which was so terrifyingly out of bounds during the brief time they’d known each other.

  Her nipples were so hard they were positively painful, but all the better. She wanted to feel everything. She wanted this to remember. Her always. The culmination of her girlish hopes and dreams.

  Closing her eyes, she tasted the saltiness of tears unshed in the back of her throat. This was exquisite. She wanted the moment to last forever.

  He shuddered as she gripped him, then rolled her onto her side so he could pull her against him, at the same time feeling for the moistness that would leave him in no doubt as to her desire.

  A great contentment edged with excitement found itself in a soft exhalation as he found just the right spot. He was perceptive enough to her needs to register it, and with a short laugh of satisfaction, he set himself to toying with that most sensitive, most private part of her.

  Hope gave herself up to the growing intensity of excitement within. It was clear he was as invested in pleasuring her as he had clearly desired a woman to give him pleasure. It accorded with the man she knew. The handsome, kindly, and honourable man who’d captured her heart. A man who needed a woman right now. Her heart hitched as she thought of Annabelle. Was he thinking of her? Imagining her in Hope’s place?

  It was her job, she accepted, to be proxy for all the erotic fantasies of unfulfilled reality, but if this were the only way to enjoy Mr Durham’s attention—his kisses, caresses, and pleasuring—she’d happily submit.

  As she felt the pressure within her build, she gripped him harder with one hand while she clenched her other in a fist and tensed her body to maximise the wave of pleasure that would be the culmination.

  “Come, my darling girl,” he whispered, increasing the speed and pressure within the moist, swollen folds between her legs. “My beautiful girl, come.”

  Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead, and her body moved in concert with his.

  “I want you…” she ground out, rolling onto her back and gripping his buttocks, exerting all her strength to bring him to her, “…inside me.”

  He didn’t need much coaxing, breaching her entrance with an ecstatic cry as he began to pound his enthusiasm.

  And she matched him, movement for movement, trading on his excitement to reach her own climax in a simultaneous outpouring of mutual abandonment.

  Except it was more than that. Their bodies were as one. He’d worked to ensure her pleasure matched his, and now he was holding her tight, stroking her face, her back, murmuring to her.

  As if he knew her intimately in mind as well as body.

  As if he loved her.

  When she was certain he was sleeping, Hope quietly rose and dressed. Her body pulsed with life and her mind felt reinvigorated. Mr Durham had loved her, believing her a figment of his dream, believing her to be Annabelle. And she’d been happy to be his fantasy. Until tonight, she’d never experienced sexual pleasure. Who’d have imagined it could be so satisfying?

  She ran her hands down the side of her modish ensemble, pulling down the little veil of her neat, pert hat as she took a step backwards, still studying the beautiful man on the bed.

  He looked peaceful, a gentle contentment replacing the tortured expression he’d worn in his sleep, before he’d opened his eyes and seen her.

  The power of love, she thought as she plucked at her skirt to make the swathes and bows sit just as they ought. Perhaps he’d trade on what he’d gained from his lovemaking with Hope to make the necessary overtures to Annabelle. Maybe, on the strength of what he’d enjoyed just now with Hope he’d ask Anna
belle to…what? Marry him? Forgive him?

  Regardless, Hope’s job was done. She turned and put her hand on the doorknob before she remembered. But as she glanced across at the escritoire, encountering Mr Durham’s beautiful naked body along the way, she knew she had not the heart to do as Wilfred had demanded.

  He’d exerted as much power over her as she ever intended he would again.

  Chapter 4

  Hope didn’t expect to wake the following morning feeling so renewed. It was nearly noon which was early, for most of Madame Chambon’s girls would have been up all night, including Hope. She’d climbed sleepily into bed at dawn, her body still alive to the touch of the man she loved.

  Yes, loved. She realised that now that she’d had so much experience of the male sex. He’d changed something within her.

  She could never have him, of course. She fully understood that. But there was a strange glee to the thought that she’d tasted him. Lain with the man of her choice, and that he’d touched her as if he truly cherished her.

  But as she stared at the dancing beams of morning light playing over the walls, her glee slowly turned sour. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she acknowledged that last night’s brief moments of pleasure would likely be the only pleasure she’d ever enjoy. She was destined to live out her few remaining years of youthful promise within these walls, unless she was lucky enough to find a more accommodating benefactor than Madame Chambon.

  Loneliness, ugliness, penury. These were what awaited her.

  She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow as there came a rapping on the door before it was opened by Minette bringing her the usual morning croissant and hot chocolate.

  “An’ there’s a letter fer ya, too, miss,” the girl said, placing the tray on the side table. “Mayhaps it’s good news like the letter I brought Miss Marguerite from the fella proposin’ to set ‘er up in ‘er own ‘stablishment. Ain’t that what ya girls all dream of?” She handed Hope the cream envelope as she turned her attention to the grate, picking up a small black brush to begin the routine brushing and polishing.