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

by Beverley Oakley

  It was a relief to be back with Miss Thistlethwaite, who reminded Violet of her own kindly grandmother. Her mother’s mother, now deceased, not her father’s.

  She shivered, and Max, solicitously asking if she were cold, rested his hand protectively over the small of her back creating the most inconvenient tendrils of desire.

  “No, but I think your aunt may be,” she said more tartly than she’d intended as she moved away and bent over Miss Thistlethwaite, who was seated on a banquette in the corner.

  “You look suddenly very tired, Miss Thistlethwaite. Would you like to leave?” she asked. The festivities had been a novelty, but now Violet was as exhausted as Miss Thistlethwaite looked with the need to act a part she increasingly had no desire to play.

  It had been a joy to again inhabit a venue where she rubbed shoulders with London’s upper echelons, but painful too. She felt no concern at being recognised. That was not the cause of her growing despondency. In fact, she’d have been pleased to have met someone of her old acquaintance and for word to have filtered back home. Let her shame attach to them. To those who’d sent her on this awful journey.

  But being in Max’s company was always a pleasure—as well as a reminder that she’d have him for so short a time. Regardless of the position in society she’d once held, the fact was that Violet was a creature beyond redemption. Fallen women did not become the wives of men like Max, even if Max had been prepared to alter his plans and marry her instead of seeking adventure across the seas.

  Miss Thistlethwaite coughed delicately, began to speak, and then found she couldn’t stop coughing. “I don’t want to be a killjoy,” she finally managed. She looked grey and desperately fatigued, and Violet was worried.

  The old lady smiled. “It’s rare for the two of you to have an opportunity to be together, and I know, Violet, that you must return to your grandmother as soon as you’ve left this place.”

  It was a useful lie that Violet had perpetuated during the past few days, but now she shook her head. “You’ve been so kind to chaperone me this evening, but I assure it’ll be no hardship to take you home. Max and I have the rest of our lives to spend together and right now, I feel more than ready for my bed.”

  She glanced about the crowded foyer of the theatre. The beautiful clothes and sparkle of jewels stirred her senses. The scent that perfumed the air seemed rarefied and reminiscent of her old life. As her gaze rested on the ermine-lined bodice of a chic Worth gown—yes, she was sure it was by the designer, Worth—she felt like a creature from another planet. Not that she didn’t belong, but that she’d been in a different galaxy a very long time before being transported home.

  Yet finding a home had been her goal since she’d been banished from her grandmother’s; in fact, since she and Emily had swapped India’s warmth and colour for the grey dreariness of England following her parents’ brutal deaths.

  When Emily had been alive, Violet had been fuelled by the urgency to create one for a young and innocent sister who needed one even more than Violet. Since Emily’s death, the urgency had subsided. Nevertheless, Violet would have a place to call home one day. Perhaps a small cottage in a quiet seaside town. As long as she had security, what did it matter that the funds to purchase it derived from a line of work that depended on her beauty and her acting skills.

  Glancing from Miss Thistlethwaite to Max, she caught him looking down at her with an odd expression on his face. The moment they locked glances, his frown of slight puzzlement transformed into pleasure.

  And that familiar feeling of want and need and desire that had been her undoing all those years ago washed through her body like a king tide.

  Only this time it was so much stronger and more dangerous than before.

  She straightened, patting Miss Thistlethwaite on the shoulder, conscious of the fragile, birdlike bones beneath her hands.

  She’d grown fond of Miss Thistlethwaite, but the old lady was dying. Everything she loved died. She must remember that.

  Just as well that Max had insisted upon playing the gentleman since their last lustful encounter.

  Love could not be depended upon, and sentiment made her susceptible to unwise decisions. “Come, Max,” she said. “It’s time to take your aunt home.”

  “I was masterful, was I not?”

  Violet smiled at Max as he rested his head against the carriage window. He was looking at her, again with that expression of curiosity and interest. And undisguised admiration. He often praised her. Her beauty and her wit. It made her forget herself sometimes and feel she was on his level. That she was the kind of woman she’d once been.

  “You’re always masterful, Max.”

  It was true. Kind and masterful. A potent combination though she wouldn’t tell him that. Just as she wouldn’t tell him a great many other things she’d have liked. Baring her heart had never been a good idea. She’d learnt that from experience.

  “However, being masterful in this instance won’t get you what you want, for all that your aunt was very acquiescent to your persuasion that you see her home first, and now we’re alone in your carriage. As I said earlier, I’m very tired.”

  “You said you were more than ready for your bed. I distinctly heard you say it.” He grinned at her, confident he’d win her over.

  She was equally confident he wouldn’t. She’d been disappointed when he’d passed up earlier opportunities to sleep with her, but now she understood that his motivation came from the same sources as hers right now—he wanted to protect himself. The chemistry of their last, unforgettable physical encounter had been dangerously unsettling.

  “It’s too late to get a room at that discreet establishment I took you to, and you won’t come to Madame Chambon’s. You’ve already made it quite clear you’ll never step over the threshold of an establishment of that nature, and I applaud your high morality”

  He cut her off. “No, not Madame Chambon’s. I shall never darken the doorstep of a place like that again.” The furrow between his eyes deepened. “When I marry, I shall have no one else. My wife deserves a man of moral conviction.”

  “And she’ll be a lucky woman. But please stop doing that, Max. You shan’t win me over with your gentle back stroking or your winning looks. I’m tired.”

  “Yes, you look quite done in, if you don’t mind me saying it.” He was undeterred, clearly in top form after an evening which had only confirmed how much freedom he had as a gentleman of high standing; the way he’d sauntered with such confidence through the throngs at a society event where he was made welcome by all. His future was assured.

  “Max, don’t! I told you!” Immediately she’d snapped out the words she was contrite. “I beg your pardon. I had no right”

  “No, I had no right.” He wasn’t smiling now. He drew back a little but, as the carriage rounded the corner to Albemarle Street, he leaned forward and tentatively extended his hand though he didn’t touch her. “Why Violet, that’s surely not a tear? Have I offended you so much?”

  “I don’t know why I should be crying, and please don’t say that it’s beyond you why a woman like me should cry over such a matter.”

  “Good God, so that is the reason you’re crying. Because I pushed myself on you?”

  “You hardly did that, Max.” Violet closed her eyes as she leant her head against the cushioned squabs of the carriage interior. “Pay me no mind. I’m being very foolish. Thank you for a lovely evening.” With an effort, she stirred but as she shifted towards the door, the horses sprang into motion and she was pushed back against the seat again and Max’s voice was intruding, loud but anxious, “Don’t look so frightened. I’m not kidnapping you, but I can’t possibly see you leave when you’re clearly upset. We can drive about while you tell me exactly what’s troubling you. Is it me? Have you lost your heart for this charade? Are there better fish to fry? Men who’ll pay you more money?”

  “How dare you!?”

  He nodded. “Good, I was hoping to see your fiery spirit return by such
a caddish remark.” He crossed his arms and regarded her steadily. “So, out with it. Why are you upset?”

  She shrugged and shook her head, not knowing how she could even explain it to herself.

  “Have I done something wrong?”

  “No, you’ve behaved with honesty and transparency. I’m not used to that. Perhaps I was crying because I don’t know when I’ll next meet a man who offers me something with no hidden caveats, or broken promises.”

  “Ah.” Despite the clip-clop of the horses’ hooves and the creak of harness, it was suddenly very quiet inside the carriage. “And you don’t expect anything beyond that?”

  “Of course I don’t! Surely you don’t imagine that I do.” She was upset he might attribute hidden designs to her.

  “I don’t. Most women in your position would, I imagine.”

  She shrugged. “It’s so easy to imagine that would be the case.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think we’re all the same. That prostitutes are all motivated by the same thing.”

  Max blinked. “I haven’t thought much about it at all, I have to be honest.” He looked concerned. “That paints me in a very entitled light, doesn’t it?”

  “You are entitled. That’s all right. I understand. We are all who we are because we’re shaped by our circumstances. I don’t expect enlightenment and compassion from the men who pay me.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t say things like that. You could have found a better way of phrasing it without demeaning yourself. Besides, it makes you sound far too intelligent for the work you do. If you want to know the truth, the only time I ever think of you as a—”

  “Prostitute.”

  He sighed and repeated the word grudgingly, adding, “Is when you say it yourself. So, tell me, why did you choose this path?”

  She burst out laughing. “No woman chooses this path. It chooses them! Now, the carriage has gone around the block twice; we’ve had a lovely conversation; you’ve told me all you need to in order to satisfy myself as to the kind of man you are, and you are in no doubt as to the kind of woman I am. All pretences have been laid to rest and now I must claim mine.”

  “I’m not delivering you to Madame Chambon’s just yet. I’m worried about you, Violet.” He rapped on the roof and gave the coachman directions for his own home. “Now, before you object,” he said, holding up his hand for silence, “let me assure you that I am paying you for your time, not the services you’ll feel duty bound to render me.” His determined expression was softened by a smile. “Yes, we have a contract, but that contract was quite specific in terms of you upholding a well-motivated charade that’ll keep my aunt happy.” He paused. “Not me. Last time I lapsed, but I’ll not do it again. For fear of repeating myself, I am not in the habit of paying women for sex. I can find my own willing dalliances for free, thank you very much.”

  Violet managed a watery smile. “Much too noble, aren’t you, Lord Belvedere? So now you propose to take me somewhere to talk to me because you’re concerned that I’m unhappy.” She paused and raised an eyebrow. “Yet you have no intention of doing anything else, even though you’re paying for my time because that was not in the contract.”

  He nodded. “Exactly. You’re my greatest challenge all of a sudden, lovely Violet. See, we’re at my townhouse. The servants are asleep, including the butler and manservant. There is no danger of anyone’s reputation—including my own—being compromised provided you stay quiet.”

  “Stay quiet?” She managed a sceptical laugh. “Despite the onslaught of delights with which you’ll no doubt shower me?”

  “I told you. That’s not my intention at all. We shall repair to my sitting room for a glass of champagne while we play draughts—at which I’ll allow you to win this time. And we’ll chat. Isn’t that what you women love to do?”

  She deliberately narrowed her gaze, and he raised his hands in the air in a gesture of supplication. “Yes, I’m humouring you, but if you must know, it’s only to prove to myself that I can behave like a gentleman of honour under any situation.”

  “I hardly think there’s any reason to feel embarrassed by your lapse last time.” Violet studied her fingernails. “I enjoyed it more than I usually do.” There, that should underscore the way it was between them even though it cheapened what had been, to her, a surprisingly rare and poignant intimacy.

  Instead of meeting this with bluff good humour as she’d expected, he considered her a moment. Something indefinable flashed across his expression. If she didn’t know better, she might have identified it as hurt.

  But then his smile was back, and his tone was brisk, and he was holding out his hand to help her from the carriage. “Here we are. Half an hour and then I’ll send you home. This is just to humour me, as you correctly said. Gentlemen don’t like to think they can’t live up to the expectations they’ve set themselves.”

  “Of course they don’t.” Violet didn’t trouble to hide the cynicism in her tone. This was about him, not her. She’d be a fool to imagine that last time had been any different.

  In the quiet of his private apartment on the first floor, she smiled at the draughts board already in place on the table.

  “Premeditated, I see.”

  “Not at all. I often play draughts with myself.” He positioned himself opposite her and indicated the board. “Black or white?”

  “I daresay since you are used to being both, I won’t be depriving you of a favourite if I choose white.”

  “In deference to your name, of course.” He turned the board so her triangle of white pieces was positioned in front of her. “My grandfather was always white, too.” He sent her a wicked grin. “So, it’s little different from what I’m used to. I’m just playing a more attractive opponent. Now, your glass, Madam.” He handed her a glass of fizzing liquid which Violet raised in salute.

  Even before her first sip she was feeling surprisingly relaxed. Foolish girl.

  His eyes sparkled at her over the top of the glass. “To what shall we toast?”

  “That we are good enough at our little deception to bring tears of happiness to your aunt’s eyes.”

  “That’s rather sweet. I like that.” He raised his glass. “To my dear aunt who, I must add, likes you very much, Violet. As do I.”

  “I know you do.” Violet sent him a look that was half suggestive, half genuine. She couldn’t decide how she felt. “Just not enough.”

  “Now, don’t spoil it. I thought you were cleverer than that. We get along famously, and I shall look back at these few weeks with great fondness.”

  “When you’re having your grand adventures shooting lions and evading headhunters in the African jungle.”

  He grinned. “Precisely. I can’t wait to go, to be honest.” Toying with one of the black pieces, he sighed. “Grandfather is dreadfully down on me for not persuading Mabel back to the negotiating table, but we’re both determined not to be goaded into this thing, for all that it makes good financial sense.”

  “You make marriage sound dreadfully unromantic.”

  “Well, it isn’t very romantic. Not for people like me.” He topped up their glasses. “I have to marry a girl who fits my grandfather’s criteria since I’m to inherit everything he has spent his lifetime safeguarding and building up. Do you know how hard it is to find a lifetime companion who won’t drive one mad and who has the approval of the family?”

  “So that’s why you’re running away to Africa?”

  “Precisely.” He nodded. “Self-preservation and to buy myself a few years. What choice do I have but to escape my family following this debacle with Mabel?” He finished his champagne and put down his glass. “I presume that’s why you’re throwing your youth and beauty into Lord Bainbridge’s hands now that he’s finally made you the offer you’ve been hoping for. He’s hardly what I’d consider a particularly fine specimen of manhood.”

  “Jealous?” Violet teased.

  Something flitted across his face again and th
en was gone. “Your turn,” he said, bending over the board and studying the placement. “I still think you could do better than Lord Bainbridge.”

  “Beggars can’t be choosers.”

  “And why are you a beggar, lovely Violet?” His eyes were bright with curiosity—or from the alcohol.

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  “No, I probably wouldn’t.” He shrugged. “You clearly have an active imagination, though. I think Aunt Euphemia was suitably distressed to hear your parents had been…what did you tell her? Murdered.”

  Violet didn’t say anything. What was there to say?

  “Your turn to play, Violet.” He waved his hand over the board, then hesitated as he was in the act of leaning back into the cushions. “I say, you’re not offended, are you?” He cleared his throat. “I understand it’s necessary for—”

  She cut him off. “For girls like me to play fast and loose with the truth? There, Lord Belvedere, I just all but decimated you. Careless. You lost three.”

  He didn’t look at the board. “Violet?” Then again, “Violet? Tell me what’s wrong. You were sad in the carriage, and I brought you here to jolly your spirits. I thought I was doing a mighty fine job until just now. I’m sorry if I offended you by making light of what you choose to tell my aunt to elicit her sympathy. Bravo to you, I say. Aunt Euphemia loves a good tragic story”

  “For God’s sake will you stop harping on my storytelling!” Violet threw up her hands. “How many times can a girl take being called a liar and still smile about it? My parents were murdered. Are you satisfied? Yes, I told your aunt, but I spared her the details, and if you value our friendship as you say you do, goodness knows but talk like this is a strange way to go about cultivating it.”

  The temper had crept up upon her before she’d even been aware of it lurking in the shadows. Violet hadn’t displayed temper since she’d been a child, so it took her by surprise. Unless this onslaught of emotion was something else altogether.

  Surely it must be.