by Lavinia Kent
What would she do if the house did close? Could she get a little cottage by the waters somewhere and while away her remaining years? Perhaps get a cat and take up knitting? She could pretend to be a widow. If she lived quietly it was unlikely anyone would ask questions.
A snort. She was twenty-eight years old and it sounded like she was planning for her dotage. And her girls needed her. There was not another madam in London who treated her girls as well as Madame Rouge.
No, she could not quit. This was her life and she would be proud of it—and she would be happy. A week ago she had been happy. She would not let that change.
There was the murmur of voices from the hall. The creak of the front door had not disturbed her, but still customers must be arriving.
Her fingers patted the wig, ignoring the growing pain in her skull, fingering every curl into place. A quick pinch of already painted cheeks to add that extra flush of color. A sweep of her tongue across her lips to leave an extra bit of shine.
Ear bobs swinging, Madame Rouge stood and walked to the door, hips swaying.
It was time.
—
It had been a long night after a long day. Derek leaned his head briefly against the side of the hackney. His long absence had left many details to be taken care of. He needed to be ready to unload the Dawn’s Light in a day or two when she sailed into harbor and then to procure her new cargo—a cargo one of the merchants he dealt with claimed was delayed. It was not a headache he needed. Most of the rest of it was settled, fresh dyes and fine wools, but there were always odd spaces to be filled, and then there was the new weaving machine. It had arrived in London the day before and still needed to be inspected. He doubted his in-laws to be would cheat him, at least not before the ceremony, but a man could never be too careful.
And he’d promised his sister a full trunk of books. He’d purchased a dozen, but still needed at least a dozen more. Maybe Ruby would have a suggestion.
And wasn’t that the thought, asking his mistress what books to buy for his innocent sister. But Ruby would know. They might not have spent hours discussing literature, but she was definitely well read and would know what books would appeal to a young woman. She could probably suggest some other presents as well—he always felt lost when it came to scented soaps and baubles.
Women were such mysterious creatures. You give a man a bottle of fine brandy and he’d give you a hearty slap on the back. You give a woman a bottle of scent that cost more than a cow and she’d wrinkle her nose while she told you it was just fine—her eyes telling a far different story.
He probably needed a gift for Anne as well. They would have been separated for less than a week, but women always expected presents, even when they said they didn’t.
He supposed he could get her a trinket of some kind, some piece of gold or semiprecious stones. His sister liked garnets. He could only guess what Anne would like. Perhaps some pearls? Young women liked pearls, didn’t they?
Ruby would know. But, he could hardly ask her. She didn’t even know about Anne, not that there was any reason for her to. A man didn’t discuss his courting with his mistress.
Not that Ruby was exactly his mistress. He wasn’t quite sure what she was.
They’d only fucked twice. Well, they’d probably fucked a dozen times in one form or another, but it had only been two nights. That hardly made her his mistress. And he wasn’t paying for any of her support.
So what was she? His lover?
The word felt right, but still his mind refused to accept it.
A lover had rights, rights he never intended to grant any woman—not even his wife.
He reached up and rubbed his temple. His head was pounding. He should head back to his rented rooms and have an early night. Only…
Only, there was just one day left until Anne arrived. Not many more days left until the wedding. He shuddered at that thought. Not many more chances to see Ruby.
And he did need to see Ruby. His body thrummed with need, but it was more than that, some part of him deep inside that had nothing to do with his body needed her with even more urgency, needed…
He shook his head and sat up straight. He needed a good fucking, a simple fucking. That would set his thoughts straight once again.
—
There was nothing simple about this. Derek gazed about the room, trying to understand. It was filled with pillows. Big pillows, small pillows, all of multicolored silks and satins in the most fabulous of jewel tones. He’d not seen such fabrics in many years. Those thick satins were from China. He’d brought a cargo hold full of them home one year early in his youthful adventures. And those ones shot through with metallic thread—he’d seen Indian maidens draped in them, jewels at wrists and ankles. Some of the others he could not even guess at. Each seemed more exotic than the last.
There was some furniture, a few round tables, and a brass incense burner, the puff of smoke fragrancing the air. And candles, dozens of short, squat candles in heavy brass holders.
What was this?
He’d no sooner entered the house than Simms had appeared and directed him upstairs to this room at the far end of the hall. He’d expected to find Ruby—or Emma—draped across a bed waiting for him, but he should have known she would never do simple.
The woman was anything but.
So what was he expected to do? One of the tables held a tray of fruit and sweetmeats, and decanters of wine and water. Slipping out of his coat, he laid it aside and settled down beside the tray. The water drew him, clear and cold, droplets forming on the exterior of the pitcher. His mouth felt dry and needy. He poured a gobletful. His head definitely did not need wine. He’d be lucky if the incense didn’t have his brains pounding out through his eye sockets. Downing the glass, he poured another, held it out to the light, admiring the fine swirls of color. Where did Ruby get her furnishings? On his first visit, she’d put him in a room that had a fine carved bed that had belonged to a duke. This room had no bed, just all those pillows, but he wouldn’t be surprised to learn that this glass had the same origins.
He plucked a segment of orange from the tray and bit down, savoring the sweetness. The heavy nest of pillows beckoned and he lay back, staring up at the heavy swatches of drapes that hung randomly about the room. He closed his eyes; all he could do was wait.
Chapter 9
Ruby stood in the narrow corridor and peeked through the small hole in the wall, her eyes quickly becoming accustomed to the change in light.
He was asleep.
She didn’t know whether to gnash her teeth or to slip in beside him.
With care, she opened the small servant’s door from the corridor and slipped into the room, glad of the soft slippers that shod her feet. With sliding steps, careful not to shake the bells she wore, she crossed the floor and stood above him.
He was magnificent, and so much softer as sleep draped his features, not that anyone would ever call him soft. The man was one large tangle of muscle.
Sinking into the cushions across from him, she continued to observe him. She’d never really watched him sleep. On the two occasions that they had spent the night together sleep had not been a priority, and when it had claimed them they’d both been too tired merely to watch the other. At least, she assumed that was the case. It was possible that he’d lain beside her watching—but she didn’t think so. It would have been most out of character.
But then, it was out of character for her as well.
And yet…The beautiful curve of his long, dark lashes. His translucent eyelids, with the tiniest of movements sliding across. The quiver of his nostrils on each inhale. The slight flush across his cheeks. The barest growth of stubble upon that strong chin, he must have shaved close this morning—there was little reminder of the roughness of last night.
And the vulnerability.
That was the key to it all. When awake, Derek looked ready to take on anything and anyone. There was a masculine strength about him that spoke of full confidence a
nd ability. Yet, there was little arrogance. The man simply understood his own capabilities.
Her hand stretched out and glided over his skin without quite touching. She did not want to wake him, not yet. Who knew when she would get another chance such as this? Perhaps never.
It was a pity he had not changed into the weighty silk sultan’s robe she had left out for him. She would have liked to see that hard body wrapped only in the sleek covering, the definition of muscle hidden by the wafting fabric.
Had he not cared for another game? No, he probably had not even seen the thing, the deep green of the cloth blending with the pillow on which it had been set. He hadn’t even tried the wine, a deep, rich, fruity vintage. The bottles were reserved for occasion or special guests, but she’d brought them out for him.
A small yawn escaped her as she pulled up her feet and tucked them beneath her buttocks, letting her head rest against the cushions, feeling as comfortable as a robin in a nest.
She matched her breath to his and let herself enjoy his peace, let herself indulge in the simple joy of watching him slumber.
—
Where was he? Derek opened his eyes and stared about the dim chamber, waiting as memory returned. Madame Rouge’s. Ruby’s. Had he fallen asleep waiting? Even in thought the question was rhetorical, the answer clear.
And where was Ruby? Had she not come? She did run a business, little as he wanted to think about it, and he knew things could happen. Days rarely went as scheduled.
But wouldn’t she have sent a message? Or woken him herself?
He looked about the room. Everything seemed untouched. The half-full glass of water sat beside him on the low table, the small bites of food alongside. The wine had not been touched, the crystal goblets still sparkling and unused.
How much time had passed? Perhaps it had only been a few minutes?
No, the candles were definitely lower. He leaned over, reaching for his jacket, and his watch.
He saw the foot, small, dainty, high-arched.
He knew that foot—and the leg that it belonged to.
Ruby was here.
He leaned the other way on the pile of pillows, letting his gaze wander past the slender ankle, and the chain of bells that circled it, rounded calf, luscious thigh, soft silk—what was she wearing? He glanced about the room again and began to understand. He’d read Arabian Nights.
Ruby did like her games.
Well, if she wanted a sultan, that was a fantasy he could enjoy. He wouldn’t mind a harem if she was in it—although if she had to entertain him in order to live another day, he doubted it was storytelling he’d be after.
He let his gaze continue to wander up past the full hips draped in scarves and belts of jewels, past the bare belly adorned only with a single sapphire in her naval—although he did pause there with pleasure—past the short, tight shift covering those wondrous breasts, past the blond curls…
Blond?
Was she coming to him as Emma again? It did not seem likely. He’d sensed her reserve the night before, her need to keep herself separate from the game that they played. Her emotions were unlikely to have changed in the course of a single day.
Perhaps it was another wig? Another disguise? But, no. That was definitely the hair he’d seen on their first encounter when she’d come to him only as herself.
Her face was different, however. The naked, soft skin was well painted, elaborate kohl drawing up her eyes most exotically. And her lips were scarlet, deep and shiny.
Perhaps she was neither Ruby nor Emma on this night.
Perhaps she needed to escape life as much as he.
He leaned toward her. “Afya, my creature of shadows,” he whispered, remembering the name from a long-ago voyage.
—
Afya? Ruby turned in her sleep, letting the game form more fully in her mind. Afya? She could be Afya, a creature of shadow, a woman in need of her master’s pleasure. She let herself sink into character, to consider what she wanted, to consider that she had fallen asleep without pleasing her master. Concubines had been whipped for lesser infractions.
Trying not to let her fear show, she rolled toward her master, the sultan. Keeping her head bowed low, she fell to her knees on the floor at his feet. “Forgive me, master,” she whispered.
“Does a slave address me without being spoken to first?” his voice chided her, but not without kindness.
Perhaps there was hope.
She pressed a kiss to his booted foot. Should she offer to remove them? They could not be comfortable after the long hours her master must have ridden. No. She must wait for his command.
She hovered at his feet, praying, hoping for mercy, wishing for the chance to show him how much pleasure she could bring him.
“You may give me more water,” his voice commanded.
Still keeping her eyes downcast, she carefully lifted the heavy pitcher and refilled his glass. Trying to hide the shaking of her hands, she lifted the glass, and her eyes, just enough to bring it to his cruel, hard lips. The kindness that had touched his tone did not touch them.
Her innards froze. He was most displeased.
Her shaking grew and she watched with horror as the water swayed and splashed, a darkening stain appearing on the white of his shirt.
He grabbed the glass, downed it in a single swallow, and stood, his leather boots all she could see as she huddled.
“You must be punished for such carelessness.”
She kept her face hidden.
“Do you accept your punishment?”
Her lips felt dry. “Anything that pleases my master.”
“And how should you be punished? By the whip or crop? Should I cast you out, offer you to my men? Should I tie your hands behind your back and allow you no pleasure, even as you pleasure me?
Whip her? He wouldn’t whip her. Or share her with his men? The thought filled her soul with horror even as she felt wetness grow between her legs. Still, he must know that she was his, and only his. “I am here for whatever you desire, my master.”
“Then bare your breasts. Show me what is mine.”
Perhaps he did understand. She sat back on her heels and began to undo the tiny pearl buttons that held her chemise together. Her hands still shook and each button was difficult. She did not look up even as he shifted toward her. Was he watching her, observing each inch of pale skin as it was revealed? Did he find her attractive, her own white skin so different from the dusky-skinned beauties he must be used to?
When the last button was undone, she pulled the front open, revealing the deep cleavage between her breasts. Hesitating, she lifted her eyes as far as his knees, his thighs, his hips—he did find her desirable.
“Continue,” he directed.
Swallowing, she pulled the fabric back, letting it rub across the tips of her nipples. Would her breasts please him? Would he like their roundness, find pleasure in the delicate shading of their tips?
“Take it all the way off. I want you bare save for the golden chains around your neck—and your bells.”
With a shrug of her shoulders she let the fabric fall to the floor, leaving her breasts covered only by the golden necklaces and the paler gold of her hair.
“Touch yourself, offer yourself to me.”
She placed a palm under each breast, lifting them to him. Her own eyes locked on the lush globes and pointed peaks.
A sun-darkened hand came down. A thumb brushed across one nipple, a lightning bolt of pleasure shot through her. She bit down trying to suppress the moan of desire that took her. This was for his pleasure not her own.
“No.” His voice was curt. “Let me hear you. Your voice is mine. Let me hear you.”
This time he brushed a thumb against each tip.
The soft cry left her lips.
His hands withdrew. “Pinch yourself. Make those juicy berries grow long and swollen; prepare them for my touch.”
A palm came to rest against her cheek, tilting her head until her gaze met his. His
eyes burned. Need, desire, want, they were all there. But so was command and authority. She was his. His to do with as he wished.
“Pinch harder. Make them swell. Make them hurt. Let me see your pain.”
She pressed tight, as tight as she was able, the sharp zing of pain connecting breast and that aching space between her legs. She’d never found much pleasure in pain, but as she watched her master’s eyes grow even darker, saw the inhale of his breath, she wanted more, wanted whatever would bring him pleasure.
Turning her fingers so that the nails bit into her already-swollen flesh, she twisted and pulled, the ache growing ever stronger, more needy.
She released her grip for a moment, and then grabbed tighter, pinched harder, pulled with greater force.
Her chest rose and fell rapidly, her body betraying its need.
“Stop.”
She didn’t want to, she wanted to push further, to feel more, to offer more, but his voice left her no option. She let her hands fall to her sides.
The nipples stood out almost red in the candlelight, long and swollen and begging. They wanted more. They wanted him.
“Do you wish me to touch you, little one, little shadow? Do you wish me to soothe you and tease you, to put my lips upon you?”
Yes. Yes. Yes, her mind cried, but she held silent.
“Remember, this is your punishment, my careless one. Did you think I had forgotten?”
She shook her head feeling a tear form and then fall, catching and holding halfway down her cheek.
His thumb stroked across it, smoothing it into her skin.
Another fell. And then one more.
“God, you are beautiful.”
More drops slid down her face.
The palm stopped, turning her face up to his once more. There was question in his eyes.
Shaking her head, she tried to smile, to reassure him.
He nodded once, then his mouth grew stern again. “You understand that you are mine, mine to use as I see fit?”
She nodded, even as she felt another tear slide.
She nodded harder. The tears were beyond her understanding, but she needed him, needed this.
His hands dropped to the buttons of his breeches. A few twists and the flap fell open. His cock sprung free, thick and hard, the vein on the underside throbbing. He took himself in hand and gave a few quick strokes. A bead of pre-cum formed at the tip.