“I see,” she said softly, taking this in. She ran her eyes over him, as if seeing him in a new light. “What do you mean by fantasies?”
“Members would come to me with things they desired to experience that were outside the ordinary. Being ravished by a pirate or a bandit … being bound, or flogged … or being commanded to another’s will while making love …” He trailed off, for her eyes were now so wide he was worried she might faint. “I listened to what they wanted and made whatever it was come true.”
She nodded, faintly. “May I ask why?”
He shrugged. “For money. It began as something I did privately. As a young man I had a lover who had certain proclivities that I found I enjoyed. After the mines failed, I was desperate for coin, and she introduced me to her friend, a woman called Mistress Brearley, who happens to be the proprietress of the club. She hired me. And her members pay very handsomely. I made enough to be sure that my mother and Margaret were provided for in their daily needs while I tried to restore our fortunes.”
“I see,” she drawled. He could not entirely read her expression.
“Constance, I want you to know I would not have risked it had I seriously thought the truth might ever be exposed. I was honest about how I felt about you, how I hoped to marry you. That I did this doesn’t change the way I feel about you.”
“Julian,” she said softly. “I know you think I’m innocent, but I’m not upset that you’ve had lovers. Have you forgotten that I surround myself with every roué and fallen woman who will have me?”
He sighed. “You’re being kind, sweet girl. But you well know this is not simply a case of having lovers. I took their coin. I would never wish for you to be humiliated on my account.”
“You found the act humiliating?”
He bit his lip, unsure of how to answer. He didn’t want to lie to her, nor to cause alarm, but the truth was complicated. “Actually … far from it, Constance,” he said carefully. “It arouses me to give pleasure to those who crave it, and making love in that way—being a bit commanding and rough—is something I enjoy, when my lover has an interest. I’m not ashamed of what I did. But regardless of how I feel, if Henry Evesham publishes that I’ve been whoring to pay my tailor’s bill, my reputation won’t recover. My wife will suffer the consequences of such a scandal all her life. And I don’t want you to regret marrying me.”
She took his hand and squeezed it. “Julian,” she said firmly, “have I not adequately proven I have never met a scandal I wasn’t able to use to my advantage? Have you somehow failed to notice that it’s my greatest talent?” She leaned over and kissed his cheek. “If you plan to become infamous, my darling, then you’ve found the perfect woman.”
He was so relieved he laughed. She reached out and rubbed his hair. “Julian, if Henry Evesham learns your secret, I shall simply tell him mine: that I am very blessed to spend my nights beside the finest male courtesan in London.”
He crushed her to his chest. “You, Lady Constance Stonewell, are indeed the perfect woman. Why did I ever doubt it?”
She stepped back, a certain light of mischief in her eyes. “I won’t lie, though, Lord Bore. I am slightly disappointed.”
His anxiety came rushing back. “Why?”
“Well, I have just discovered I’ve been entertaining clandestine visits from one of London’s most talented boudoir entertainers, and yet, for some reason, he has not yet deigned to ravish me.”
He smiled. “Two more nights, and he will devote himself to that pursuit exclusively if you desire.”
“But by then I shall merely be your wife, and I shall never know what it’s like to be your mistress. If you’ve had a chance to be a tart, you wicked man, shouldn’t I get to try it too?”
Constance knew it had not been Julian’s intention to arouse her with his confession, but in all this talk of his secret erotic life, her wedding night seemed very far away.
She ran her fingers over his arm. “Let’s live up to your wicked past before we are dull and virtuous and married. Please. For Mrs. Mountebank. She’d so love to be proven right about us.”
He chuckled ruefully. “Darling girl, it’s very tempting. But we’ll be married in two days.”
She knew he would demur. Somehow, despite years of evidence to the contrary, he seemed to harbor a belief that she was delicate or timid simply because she was inexperienced. It was time to relieve him of that notion once and for all.
“I realize that,” she countered. “But I want you now.”
His shoulders fell and he began to laugh. He smiled up at her. “You have no idea how nice that is to hear.”
He abruptly reached out and lifted her up.
“What are you doing?”
He grinned. “Carrying my newest client to bed.”
“Wait just one minute. I have a surprise for just this occasion.”
He set her down and she dashed into her dressing room, where the dainty gold boxes from Valeria’s boutique were stored. She knew just how to assuage his fears about her. She would put on one of her brazen demimonde gowns and show him she’d been planning to seduce him all along. She was so grateful to Valeria she could kiss her.
That is, until she wrestled the thing on, and caught a glimpse of herself in the looking glass.
After several minutes, Julian tapped at the door. “Are you all right?”
“Yes,” she said, although she really wasn’t sure. This had seemed like such a beguiling idea, but now that she could see her reflection … she didn’t like it. It didn’t feel like her.
“What’s wrong?” Julian asked.
She gritted her teeth. She would not be timid about this.
“Nothing. Close your eyes.”
“Very well.”
She stepped out from behind the door, clenching her jaw. “Voilà.”
He opened his eyes, and they went wide with shock. “Oh my.”
This was no doubt the moment when a proper courtesan would saunter forward and say something appealingly lewd, but her nerves completely failed her. She wanted to duck out the open window.
She tugged anxiously at the gown—what little there was of it—trying to make it cover more of her, fighting the urge to dart directly back behind the door.
Julian smiled. Only not, she suspected, in the way Valeria had intended. He did not regard her like he was staring at a vixen. More like he was staring at an injured lamb.
“What is this?” he asked gently.
The ensemble in which I will die of humiliation!
“A … gown?”
He smiled, a touch of humor in his eyes. “Certainly parts of one.”
She bit her finger in dismay. “Valeria said especially vivid people like this kind of thing? I thought it would be perfect. But actually …” She tugged the lace down, trying to find an angle that did not make her feel like a naughty woodcut.
She missed her convent night rail, with its long sleeves and high neck and comforting yards and yards of fabric. She missed her court dresses the size of castle keeps.
He came and ran his fingers over the lace along her exposed ribs. “I absolutely love it,” he murmured.
“You do?”
“I do,” he said slowly. “But I don’t love that you seem to hate it.”
“You can tell?”
“You are doubled over and scratching at it like you have contracted fleas. Which, if you have, I will have stern words for Shrimpy.”
She giggled, feeling marginally better, if still rather wilted and exposed.
He ran his fingers over the contours of the gown. “Do you know what I like the most about this, Constance?”
“What?”
His fingers followed the trail of lace and landed at the cutouts, grazing against her bare skin. “The bits underneath.”
She reached down to what passed for the hemline of Valeria’s cyprian costume and drew it up over her head. When she dropped the lace and silk to the floor, he smiled and reached out and pulled her with him to th
e bed.
“You’re perfect just as you are,” he whispered.
“No, I’m quite—”
He clamped a hand over her lips. “Don’t you dare ruin this for me.”
They laughed together in the dark.
“You don’t have to wear a costume to make love, Constance,” he murmured. “Actually, the nice thing about making love is that, if you do it properly, you get to be exactly, exquisitely who you are.”
Exactly exquisitely who you are.
That, she was capable of.
“Well then,” she whispered, running her fingers over his waistcoat. “Perhaps you might dispense with this.”
She trailed her hand down to his breeches, lingering at his groin. “And this.”
He groaned, shrugging off his coat and pulling at the buttons of his waistcoat while she watched, growing impatient.
“Hurry,” she whispered. “I’ve been waiting my whole life.”
He squinted up at her, a lock of hair falling in his eyes, and grinned. “If you are impatient, perhaps you might help undress me.”
She reached up and untied his cravat, revealing his long neck.
“Kiss my throat,” he whispered. She did, rising on her tiptoes to nuzzle him under his ear.
“My shirt,” he whispered, lifting up his arms. She untucked the linen from his breeches and rose up on her tiptoes, drawing it up to reveal a torso just as lean and golden and finely muscled as the statues she’d always imagined he’d resemble.
He pulled the shirt over his head and drew her toward him, so her bare breasts touched his chest. The light dusting of golden hair tickled her nipples in a way that made her want to rub herself against him.
“Your dressmaker is wrong about your bosom, you know,” he said, taking her breasts in his hands. “I am wildly fond of your bosom.”
He put his mouth to her nipples, as she’d wanted him to do for what felt like days, weeks, years. “Oh, Julian,” she gasped. “Don’t ever stop.”
He didn’t for some time, suckling her as he drew her toward him, parting her legs with his thigh and pressing her up against his straining cock. At the feeling of it finally against her she felt a tremor rising up in her.
“Oh yes,” he whispered, sensing her arousal. He put a finger to her fleure and bit lightly at her nipples and it was too much and she widened her legs, inviting him deeper inside her.
“Oh no,” she gasped, for the death was rising up in her already. “I’m sorry—I’m going to come.”
“Come then, sweet girl,” he urged, giving her another finger. “I love to watch you.”
She did, still standing on her tiptoes. She had to wrap her arms around his neck to keep from buckling to the ground.
“I suspect I wasn’t meant to do that yet,” she whispered as she leaned against him, shuddering. He gripped her by the arse.
“Oh, you are meant to do that as many times as you can bear it,” he growled.
“We have to finish undressing you,” she said. “So that you might have a turn. Take off your boots.”
He turned and removed them, allowing her to admire the fine make of his shoulders from behind. She came closer and traced her fingertips along his narrow waist to the path of golden hair trailing below his navel.
He took her hands in his and dragged them down to the placket of his breeches. “Unbutton me.”
She did, taking her time, for she liked how he gasped when her fingers slid over his erection. When his cock was free he slid the garment to the floor with his stockings and turned around, fully nude.
He put his arms around her and hugged her tight to him. “Are you sure about this, sweet girl?”
She reached out and took his head in her hands and brought his face closer to hers, then placed a single girlish kiss upon his lips. He smiled, pulled her to her bed, and drew her down beside him, turning so they faced each other. He kissed her until they were both breathless.
“I’m dying to be inside you,” he said.
“I’m dying for that too.”
“I’m going to go slowly. Stop me if I hurt you.”
She felt a shallow, insistent pressure and then, finally …
Him.
“How is that?” he whispered.
“Better than an apple.”
He snorted and gave her more of his cock. It did hurt then, and she sucked back a gasp. He paused, holding himself up above her in a way that, despite the twinge of pain between her legs, she could not help but admire. She kissed him against his lovely, artful bicep.
He trembled a bit at the touch of her lips, and she felt such a wave of tenderness she forgot the pain and adjusted her hips to draw him deeper. “I’m ready,” she whispered. “Please.”
He paused, raised up on one knee, and flipped them over, so she was on top. He spread his hands over her buttocks and widened her thighs, so her warmth was spread out over his cock. “This is what I was thinking about in the powdering room.”
It felt so good to hear him say that. She wanted to hear all of his confessions. All the times he’d wanted her and hidden it away.
She wanted him to make her a list.
He paused. “Are you all right, sweet girl?”
“I’m nervous,” she admitted. For if she was meant to be exactly exquisitely who she was, she supposed there was no point in pretending that she wasn’t. “I don’t know how to do this. Will you show me how?”
He took her hips in his hands and lifted her up, then thrust deeper from below her. They both gasped at the intensity of the pleasure.
“Do it again,” she murmured. “Please, please do that again.”
He buried his face in her chest. “Oh, Constance. I will take such good care of you. It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
And he did.
By the time he had finished taking care of her, she had lost track of how many deaths she’d died, and the sun was coming up. He curled himself around her and cuddled her against his chest, nuzzling her skin and her hair, whispering that he loved her. Exactly as she was.
This must be marriage, she thought as she fell asleep. Never mind the church or the law.
When she woke up, it was high noon, and he was gone.
But there was a note beside her on her pillow:
I can’t wait to be your husband, Constance.
But I’ll be your courtesan whenever you would like.
Chapter 18
Constance sipped a cup of tea in the Rosecrofts’ sunny garden with Hilary, who was, one day too late, educating her about the events that transpired in a marital bedchamber.
“You might have heard that it’s distasteful,” her cousin said in a low voice. “But it should not be. Don’t be alarmed if you bleed the first time, but after that, it should not be painful.”
“No?” Constance asked innocently, shifting in her seat, for she was ever so slightly sore from having lost her virginity at least three times the night before. She dropped her voice. “How should it be?”
Hilary smiled and rubbed her belly. “It should be gentle and affectionate and pleasant.”
Pleasant was not the word Constance would have chosen, remembering the night before.
Julian, I want you inside of me again.
I know, darling. But first, would you mind terribly if I tormented you just a little more?
After last night she felt like she could fly. Her skin was glowing and her eyes were bright and at least six times today she’d caught herself laughing, all alone, out of pure joy.
“I shall endeavor to remember that,” she said.
“Apthorp may not be terribly experienced in these things,” Hilary confided. “He clearly finds you ravishing, as recent events would attest. But he is such a proper type. He gets it from his mother. It’s why I never put any stock in those dreadful tales about him.”
Get on your knees and hold the headboard. I want you from behind.
Constance nodded solemnly.
Hilary lowered her voice. “It’s no great cau
se for concern if he’s a bit nervous at the start. He’s quite young, after all. But if you have any trouble, send him to Rosecroft.”
Constance smiled demurely. “I should hope that won’t be necessary.”
Are you sore?
No. Don’t you dare stop.
Then might I tempt you to sit on my cock?
Suddenly the terrace door flung open and Apthorp came bounding out of it. His usual golden skin tone was flushed and red, and his hair looked as if he had flown from the Strand on a broomstick.
“Lady Rosecroft, I need a word with Constance,” he said breathily.
“Julian dear, are you well?” Hilary gasped.
“Please,” he said, not looking well at all.
Oh dear. She hoped he was not suffering some attack of postconnubial guilt. She certainly wasn’t.
Is this dull for you, since you’ve had so many others?
No. It’s incomparable. I’ve fucked, Constance, but I’ve never been with anyone I love.
“Very well,” Hilary said. “I’ll be just inside.” She rose and left them with a worried look over her shoulder at Constance.
“Why, Lord Bore,” Constance said, smiling. “I missed you.”
He did not come forward to greet her. Just stood there, staring at her like he had never seen her in his life. He was pale, his forehead slightly damp, as though he was suffering with ague.
Perhaps he really was ill. “What’s wrong?” she asked, drawing near him.
He flinched and moved away. Her stomach dropped.
“What did you tell Gillian Bastian?” he asked. His voice was hoarse.
She didn’t follow. “Gillian? What do you mean?”
He closed his eyes. “Don’t trifle with me. Not about this. What in God’s name did you say to her?”
Her pulse quickened. She reached for his hand. “Julian, what’s the matter?”
He snatched his hand away. “It’s my sister. Gillian Bastian was just at my home accusing her of blackmail and threatening to send Anne to the colonies.”
She clutched his hands, trying to make him calm. “Take Anne? That’s impossible. What do you mean?”
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