“My lord wishes you to be removed of your hair.”
Involuntarily, Laurette’s hand shot up to the messy coiled knot on her head.
“No, no. Not there. My English is perhaps not so good.”
“You speak better French than I do,” Laurette smiled, willing her nervousness to go away. She had only the most cursory acquaintance with the language. Her education, such as it was, had been provided tuition-free by the eccentric Trumbull sisters in Lower Conover. The spinsters ran a sort of haphazard dame school in their parlor, something that Laurette was now doing in their stead for the village girls. The Trumbulls had a dislike of all things French, even the Empire style of clothing. They gave up their wide skirts and hoops only when they were buried in their narrow coffins.
Nadia blushed beneath her brown cheeks. “I speak French, Arabic and English. A smattering now of Greek. Some Turkish, too. It was necessary to get on. Come, I will help you remove your gown.”
Laurette stood still as a doll as Nadia divested her of her clothing. She was glad her unmentionables were of the finest quality at least. And yet to be paid for. Con would know she had made a concerted effort for last night’s meeting when he marked the date on her tradesman’s bill. Had she known he’d already purchased her a complete wardrobe, she might have spared herself the trouble of the fitting with the rigorous Madame Lamarche. Laurette had not needed a new corset to complete their business deal.
She was down to her threadbare old shift. “Raise your arms, my lady.”
She was blushing now.
“You must remove all your clothing. My lord was specific. The hair under your arms, on your legs, your nether curls— all must disappear. I shall pluck your eyebrows a little, too. Should you wish privacy in your bath later, I will of course oblige.”
Laurette untied her shift and pulled it off over her head, disarranging her bundle of hair. Nadia plucked the pins out and ran her fingers through the waves. “A sultan would have paid a high price for you, my lady. Such lovely, thick yellow hair. Please to lie down.”
Laurette would not have to be in Arabia to know purdah. She was locked up right here in London, under the thumb of a wicked Englishman. But she obeyed, closing her eyes. Nadia covered her with a sheet. She heard the stirring of the pot, smelled lemon and sugar boiling. Con had been startling bare himself last night in the shadows. His member had seemed somehow larger now that it was not nestled in black thatch.
She smiled. It was, she supposed, every man’s dream to be bigger. She had no comparisons, but it seemed Con was big enough to begin with without resorting to this peculiar foreign custom.
“While the halawa cools, we shall begin to trim, my lady.”
Nadia attacked her eyebrows first, then lifted the lower portion of the sheet and began to clip bits of golden fluff. Laurette soon felt a sticky warm ball rubbed onto her skin. She bit her lip from crying out in mortification. No one save Con, Sadie and the midwife who delivered Beatrix had ever touched her there.
No, that wasn’t quite true. There had been times over her long years of celibacy when her tension was so great she had tried to replicate Con’s touches. But her fantasies had brought her only frustration when the waves crested and she found herself alone in her childhood bedroom. A spinster. A mother with no child.
Nadia applied the same substance to her legs and beneath her arms as Laurette willed herself to be still.
“Now it must dry.” The woman covered Laurette with an other sheet that had been warmed by the fire. “You are comfortable, yes? Not chilled?”
Laurette nodded, much too embarrassed to speak. She had never been especially miss-ish, and had once flaunted her body. No more, apparently.
“Good. Martine and I can bring in the rest of the water. Do excuse us.”
Laurette was alone, feeling an odd sensation everywhere the paste touched. But soon the warmth of the room and her exhaustion conspired to slip her into a light sleep.
“My lady,” Nadia whispered.
Laurette opened her eyes.
“I am afraid the rest will not be so pleasant,” Nadia apologized. She proceeded to gently scrape Laurette’s skin, discarding the resin into a paper sack. Laurette felt like her body was being combed. Some areas required a razor, some stubborn hairs were tied with thread and pulled. She had half a mind to pull Con’s long hair out by the roots tonight in retribution.
“There. It is done.” Nadia helped her off the sofa and brought her to the standing mirror. Laurette’s skin was flushed and rosy, and apparently freckled everywhere. “Beautiful, yes? Islam requires this purification, but even Christian women in the East practice the habit. It will become less difficult once your body adjusts to it. Do you wish me to stay and wash you?”
Laurette shook her head. Poor Nadia had seen quite enough of her every nook and cranny already. She would do the rest herself.
The water was deliciously hot. The round hammered brass table had been cleared of the implements of torture, and moved next to the tub, and now held pitchers of rinsing water and soap, creams and lotions. Laurette dipped her head back and relaxed.
This was one aspect of a mistress’s life she could get used to. To be pampered. For a time. It wouldn’t do to become used to the luxury, but she would enjoy it while she could.
It helped to know that it was not Berryman money that funded her position. Con had done well for himself abroad and Marianna had tied up all her funds for her son. Con’s estates had prospered in his absence and he had earned enough somewhere to assure they continued to do so.
He had returned to Lower Conover several times since he came back to England, but Laurette had managed to mostly avoid him. She knew he was still angry that she had not told him immediately about Beatrix.
It was not even dawn when he turned up at the Lodge. The wild knocking at the front door roused her from a deep sleep. Charlie! What else could he have gotten himself into?
But it was Con. He’d ridden all night from London, and the stink of horse and sweat was overwhelming. He clutched a crumpled letter in his fist, and his face was frightening.
“I understand we have a daughter, madam.”
His voice was cold. Beyond cold. Arctic.
Laurette nodded stupidly, too surprised to speak.
“You didn’t think to tell me? I’ve been back two months!”
“It’s none of your concern.”
Con towered over her in fury. “None of my concern! I am her father!”
“No, you aren’t. And I am not her mother. Go away, Con. There is nothing you can do. She’s well-provided for, and happy. Think of one of your children, for once, instead of your own selfish needs. I absolutely forbid you to see her.” She shut the door in his face and threw the bolt, waiting for the banging.
But it did not come.
He had his revenge now. She had vastly underestimated his determination to bring her low, using Charlie’s stupidity to bind her to him in this wretched bargain.
Her body might belong to Con, but she would not let him into her heart again.
She washed and rinsed her hair with the rose-spiced soap, then slathered herself with suds, scrubbing away the leftovers of her treatment. Once she was clean, she wrapped herself in a bath sheet and padded to the closets.
Con had outdone himself, despite his wicked threat to keep her unclothed. Each dress was more elegant than the next, the fabrics bright yet tasteful. The contents of the dresser revealed exquisite underthings. She was relieved she was not to be dressed as a harem girl, veiled and belly bared. But the nightgowns were so sheer she might as well be naked. There was not a virtuous white muslin night rail in sight.
Brushing the tangles from her hair, she sat on the divan and stared into the fire. Her stomach rumbled, and she was reminded of the place setting in the dining room. Six months was not so very long. It was time to dress and begin her new life.
Chapter 5
She had lunched alone. She had dined alone. Some of the food had been unfamil
iar but delicious, course after course. Laurette couldn’t possibly do justice to all of it by herself, and so had gone downstairs to the kitchens after the evening meal to compliment Cook and request modifications to her menu.
Cook was Qalhata, an extraordinary Nubian woman with a golden hoop in her nose. Laurette faltered at first, disconcerted by both the nose ring and the glacial stare the woman gave her when she invaded the kitchen. The kitchen boy, perhaps Qalhata’s son, scampered off at once, not a good sign. Laurette explained she didn’t eat everything, not because it wasn’t tasty, but that she simply didn’t have so big an appetite.
The woman had looked her up and down, then broke into a wide white smile. “Master says to fatten you up. You’ll eat. Real men don’t like skinny women.”
Qalhata herself was very shapely, wrapped in a brown garment that tied at the shoulder, exposing a bare arm adorned with a stack of gold bangles. Over her costume she had tied a spotless white apron. Her hair was ruthlessly braided but uncovered. Having spoken her piece, she continued to lay out the food for the staff and called out to the boy in what Laurette presumed to be the Nubian language. Laurette did not wish to delay their meal and hurried back upstairs.
What an odd household she lived in. So many languages, so many skin colors. Martine helped her undress and she dismissed her for the night. She had no idea when Con would turn up, but inserted one of the vinegar-soaked sponges she had brought with her to London. There was a limited supply. She had not expected to find herself installed as Con’s mistress, although she had been prepared for one night in his arms. She would have to ask Nadia to help her with further preventative measures.
Laurette had donned the most modest of the nightgowns folded into her drawer, but modest was a relative term. The garment was a sheer cap-sleeved violet-blue silk, scooped low. The matching robe was frivolously pointless, as it was cut even lower in front and tied with a grosgrain ribbon, easily untied. Con would have her out of it all in seconds flat.
She had time this afternoon to review their contract. Laurette knew the document itself was worthless. It had not been witnessed, and could, if it came to it, prove to be signed under coercion. Blackmail was such an ugly word, but Laurette had been its victim before. Threats from Con’s uncle and his father-in-law had kept her silent and her family fed. She doubted Con would use her shaky signature to expose her to the world, but she could not be sure. He had changed in the dozen years they’d been apart. She wasn’t sure if she knew him at all.
Sitting at her dressing table, she picked up a silver-backed brush and ran it through her hair. She saw Con in the mirror before she ever heard him enter. He had removed his boots somewhere and was barefoot on the golden carpet.
She willed herself to be cool. “Good evening, my lord.”
“Laurette.”
His voice was raspy, as though he had spoken to no one all day. Laurette wondered how he had spent his day now that his plans for her had come to fruition. He needn’t dwell on ruining her feckless brother any longer—that must free up the hours. It was clear how he would spend his night—he was already untying his cravat.
“I trust your accommodations are satisfactory?”
“Everything is very nice.”
Con made a face at her bland choice of words. Too bad. She was not going to sing the praises of her gilded cage.
“Here. Let me.”
Con was behind her, still in his shirt and breeches. He took the hairbrush from her hand. She leaned back as he drew it through her waves. An involuntary sigh escaped her. The bristles of the brush caressed her scalp as one large warm hand rested on her shoulder.
There was silence in the room save for the crackle of the fire in the hearth Martine had lit. Although it was spring, it seemed Con was always cold. Laurette had been overwarm all last night, and it was not due solely to the searing heat of Con’s passion. Nadia had explained on the tour of the house that the marquess insisted upon a fire in all the rooms of his townhouse. In this house, Laurette was to do as she pleased during the day, but her bedchamber would be prepared for Con’s comfort at night.
She met his eyes in the mirror. They were black with need. Odd how the nakedness of his desire stirred her fury. Laurette should be gratified he still found her attractive after all these years, but instead she was resentful. Why couldn’t he find some other woman to torment? He was free now, and they never would be able to mend the rift between them. He should find some innocent girl fresh from the schoolroom to lighten his heart.
A girl like she used to be.
She watched his hand leave her shoulder and dip into the bodice of her gown, palming her left breast and brushing her nipple with his roughened thumb. He continued to watch her face for signs of her arousal, but Laurette was determined to disappoint him. She had been foolish last night, foolish several times, but she had a tighter rein upon her senses now.
He placed the brush back on the dressing table and sought her other breast. Laurette closed her eyes as she felt the pressure of his fingertips.
“No. Watch me. Watch us.”
He had freed her breasts from the twilight silk, lifting them, peaking her nipples between his thumb and forefinger. He rolled his finger on the tips, turning her nipples wine-dark. He bent, his breath hot against her throat, and bit her, never stopping the caressing of her breasts.
“Attempting vampirism, my lord?”
Con chuckled. “I shall taste every inch of you tonight. Last night, I was far too hasty.”
It was true. He had fallen upon her like a starved man, and she, God help her, had been just as greedy. She watched as he pulled the ribbon on the robe and pushed down both garments, until she was exposed from the waist up, her arms bound against her. Despite the warmth of the room, a wave of gooseflesh warred with her freckles. She held her hands tight in her lap as he traced a pattern into her skin with a fingertip.
“Rise.” There was a pause. “Please.” He must have heard how imperious he sounded.
Laurette stumbled up from the bench, her knees traitorously weak. He tugged the silk away until she stood in a purple puddle.
“Turn so I may see you.”
He expelled a breath, and Laurette fought the urge to cover herself. His eyes were fastened on her perfumed, pink-skinned mound. His hand cupped her and she was branded by his heat.
“I trust this did not cause you any discomfort?”
Laurette shook her head, unable to speak. Once she had been so at ease with him, had been brazen enough to tear her clothes off in the sunshine. Now this shadowed room was still not dark enough to conceal her hesitation.
“What are you thinking, Laurie?”
“You have gotten what you wanted.”
“Have I?” He slipped a long finger into her passage and drew her closer. There had been no resistance. She was shamefully wet for him. Her nipples grazed against the fine linen of his shirt. She steadied herself, putting her hands on his shoulders.
He kissed her, his finger meanwhile working a slow, slippery glide inside her. His thumb left the surface of her newly-shorn skin and slid down to her swollen clitoris. She buckled but he held her fast against him, his left hand splayed across her back. She could feel his touch everywhere, little licks of fire on his tongue, his palm, his fingers. Even the silk at her feet added to the sensation. She had meant not to kiss him back, not make it easy for him, not fist the cambric of his shirt, not cry into his mouth as the first rapturous wave stiffened her spine and loosened her tears. She would never last six months with him. And worse, when the six months were up, how could she last the rest of her life without him?
She shook in his arms as he held her. “Don’t cry. I cannot bear to see you unhappy.” He kissed the top of her head as though she were a child, picked her up, and carried her to the golden bed. She kept her eyes shut as he moved about the room. When she opened them, he was gone.
Con cursed his boots in the hallway. What he’d give for a pair of sandals to slip on so he might disappear
into the night. He stuffed his tie in his pocket and shrugged into his coat, closing the blue door behind him with a soft thud. All along the short street, houses were alight with candles and muffled laughter. Other men were enjoying the perfumed mystery of their mistresses, while he strode along with a raging hard-on and his walking stick at the ready. He had dismissed his driver, planning to spend the night in Laurette’s arms, so was destined to walk home if he could not summon a hack.
It was not so very late. He had delayed going to her as long as he could. She had not been asleep, after all, just brushing her glorious gilt hair. If only he’d come an hour or two later, he might have slipped into her from behind as she was curled up in her bed. It might have seemed a dream.
Instead, he had made her cry.
He’d been a fool to think the finery of her new household could make up for the dozen years they had lost. But she had looked undeniably exquisite in the golden room.
As exquisite as their first time.
Every word of good-bye he had prepared himself to say to her vanished. Sunlight filtered through the leaves onto Laurette’s pale skin so she gleamed like polished ivory. Her eyes were huge, imploring. They had been careful so far, bringing each other to welcome madness, but Con had dreamed of sinking within her and losing himself for years. His nights at university had not been spent with maids or whores, but in his solitary bed, his hand working feverishly as he imagined Laurette beneath him. He watched her fingers play with the pink ribbon at the end of her pigtail. When her wavy hair cascaded down her back, he reached for her face.
She turned to kiss his palm. He brushed the tears away and set his mouth to hers. Her hands tugged at the fabric of his shirt, the placket of his breeches. He had no time to strip himself bare but fell back with her on the quilt, stroking down her body to her center. She was drenched for him. He was undeniably hard for her. He tucked her under him and plunged into her heat, catching her sob with a kiss.
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