by Sara Bennett
No matter how much she wanted to.
Francesca escaped from Helen and Amy, who were already plotting visits from the modiste and various others, and set off for Aphrodite’s Club. She had promised to visit Rosie, and although Lil said the child was well and happy, Francesca wanted to see for herself.
Dobson led her upstairs to a small sitting room, where Rosie was giggling as she played with the puppy. She ran to take Francesca’s hand, pulling her across to meet the fat, roly-poly creature.
“I’ve called him Jem,” she announced, with a glance at Dobson and another giggle.
“She tells me he looks like me,” Dobson explained, with a smile.
Francesca glanced from the puppy to the man and shook her head. “I can’t see it.”
“It’s his nose, see?” Rosie placed her fingertip gently on the puppy’s pink nose. “They’re both crooked.”
“You will visit your mother?” Dobson said, when they had duly admired the puppy and Rosie’s new dress, and left her to be spoiled by Henri, the cook, who was making a cake especially in her honor.
“Yes, of course. If she isn’t too busy.”
“She is busy, but she will be hurt if you avoid her because of that,” he said. He looked as if he was going to say something more, but then he changed his mind, instead leading her in silence to Aphrodite’s little office.
Francesca was shocked.
Aphrodite looked ill. Her face had always been pale, but now it was white, with touches of hectic red on her cheekbones, and her eyes looked so bright as to be feverish. But she lit up with smiles when she saw her daughter.
“Petit chaton, but what a lovely surprise! No one told me you had come.”
“I was admiring Rosie’s puppy.”
“She is a sweetheart,” the courtesan said. “Did she tell you what she is calling him?”
“Jem, after Dobson.”
“She says they are alike.” Aphrodite laughed. “He pretends to be insulted, but he is really quite touched. He would have made a good father.”
Her words seemed to surprise her as much as Francesca, and she was silent for a moment, fiddling with the large diamond ring on one of her fingers.
“Madame…” Feeling awkward, as if she was intruding on something very private, Francesca sat down in the straight-backed chair in front of the desk. “As dear as Rosie is, I wish now I had not brought her to you.”
Aphrodite’s fingers grew still, and Francesca noticed that as usual they were ink-stained. The lines on her face seemed more pronounced. “Why do you say this? She is happy, is she not? Has she said otherwise?”
She’d said the wrong thing again. What was it about her mother that always seemed to bring out such gaucheness in her? “No, I did not mean…it is not that I think she is unhappy.”
“Oh? What is it then?”
“It has been explained to me, Madame, that by bringing her to you I have put you in danger. I am very sorry.”
Aphrodite relaxed, and her voice gentled. “I knew what I was doing when I agreed to your request, Francesca. Yes, these are dangerous people. Evil people. But I refuse to be intimidated by them. If no one stood up to evil, who would be left? Tell me, who told you that you had placed me in danger?”
“Mr. Thorne.” She tried not to show any emotion as she said it, but Aphrodite was an expert in reading such signs.
“I see,” she said, a little smile quirking her lips. “Mr. Thorne seems to be everywhere lately, does he not?”
“I’ve asked him to protect us, Madame.”
Aphrodite’s eyes widened. “Have you? That is very interesting. What did he say?”
“He said he would do it for nothing, but I insisted I would pay him.”
“He said he would work for nothing? How odd. Why do you think he would say that, petit chaton?”
“Because he does not like debts, and I saved his life in Yorkshire. On the—the moors, in a st-storm.” To her horror her voice wobbled.
Aphrodite’s gaze sharpened.
“I’m sorry, Madame. I’m all right now. Pay no attention to me.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for. Have you allowed yourself to fall in love with Mr. Thorne? I do not think it is a very good idea to love a man who leads such a dangerous life. If you must fall in love, Francesca, then do it with someone who will live to be an old man.”
Francesca gave a shaky laugh, and then couldn’t seem to stop. Horrified, she covered her mouth with her hand. The respectable Miss Greentree was coming apart. “Madame, I am so sorry,” she began again.
“Psht! Why are you sorry? You are hurting, and no doubt you have had to pretend there is nothing wrong, so as not to worry dear Amy and her horrid brother. Am I right? But you are here now. You can say anything you wish to me. Tell me your secrets, petit chaton. I am listening, and I will help you if I can.”
“I don’t know what to do,” she whispered. She bowed her head and squeezed her eyes shut, wishing the floor would open up.
She heard Aphrodite stand up and come around the desk, and then her arm came around Francesca’s shoulders and squeezed tightly. “You will talk to me, petit chaton, and then we will decide what to do together.”
“I feel ridiculous,” she murmured. “You are the last person I should be talking to.”
“But that is exactly why it should be me you talk to! It will go no further and it will not matter to you, will it, what I think? Because you do not love me as you do Amy.”
Startled, Francesca looked into her face.
Aphrodite was staring back at her with a knowing expression in her eyes. “I know this, Francesca. You cannot help what you feel, and it will make it easier for you to tell me things you would prefer others not to know.”
“Madame, I—”
“No, do not fib. You will not hurt my feelings, I promise you. Tell me what it is that troubles you over Mr. Thorne. You never know, I might be able to help,” she added, with the sort of smile that suggested she had helped many others before.
Again Francesca opened her mouth to protest but the words died on her lips. Aphrodite had spoken the truth, and what was wrong with being truthful? Far better that their relationship should be based upon honesty than any false hopes. She nodded.
Aphrodite removed her arm, but she did not move away.
Francesca took a deep breath and plunged in. “I have always sworn never to become involved, passionately involved, with a man. I don’t want to be like you, Madame. I don’t want to be the plaything of a man, of men. But now I find myself drawn to Sebastian in a way that is almost impossible to resist. I think about him all the time. I dream about him. When I am with him I feel as if I want nothing more. If I did what I long to do, and gave myself to him wholeheartedly, I believe I could be…happy. But for how long? A feeling like this cannot last—it is too intense. But if I turn away from him, I ask myself whether I will regret it all my life.”
Aphrodite’s silk skirts swished as she moved about the room. “It is a dilemma,” she said quietly. “But maybe this is not a grand passion?”
“This is my first passion, so I have no experience as to whether or not it is a grand passion.”
“I see. It is intense, though, oui? Sometimes passion such as you describe wears itself out. It cannot be sustained, and soon it dies and goes cold.”
“But now I have tasted this passion, won’t I wish for more?”
“You mean you will seek it out with other men?” Aphrodite said dryly. “You do not need a man’s love to make you whole, Francesca, but your body may crave a man’s touch. You may take lovers for that reason, but if you are a woman who loves one man, then you will find such experiences a degradation of your spirit.”
She returned to her chair and sat down, steepling her fingers under her chin. “A courtesan makes her living from the men who love her, admire her, need her to be their companion. I did love the fathers of my children, and at that time I was searching to re-create a greater love. A love that I had lost long bef
ore. But then I found it again, and now I know that without that great love—that grand passion—my life would be empty.”
“I don’t want to be like you.”
Aphrodite sighed. “Loving is not a weakness, and it need not make you unhappy. You and Mr. Thorne may finish your affaire without scars. You may find you are the better for having known him and loved him. You do love him, don’t you? You are a passionate woman. If you try to stifle that passion, then you will grow sour and bitter and lonely. As much as you might want to, you cannot change what…who you are.”
Abruptly Francesca stood up. “I must go.”
“I have not helped you,” her mother said unhappily.
“Yes, you have. I think you have.” She reached the door and then paused. “Thank you, Madame,” she said, and closed the door behind her.
Dobson was hanging around the front of the club, as if he was waiting for her. “How did you find your mother, Miss Francesca?”
“She was a little tired, perhaps.”
“I’ve asked her to take a holiday from the club, but she won’t. I’m worried about her.”
Francesca drew on her gloves. “I’m sure she’ll be fine. I can’t tell her when to take a holiday, Dobson. She wouldn’t listen to me.”
“She might,” he said quietly.
“I very much doubt it.” Dobson obviously loved Aphrodite very much. Francesca wondered whether the feeling was returned just as strongly. Her mother had said that she had found the great love of her life, but did she mean Dobson or someone else, someone who was now gone?
“You will visit again soon?” Dobson asked her, following her down the steps to the street.
“Yes.” Francesca smiled and held out her hand. After a pause, he took it. “Good-bye, Dobson, and thank you for your kindness to Rosie.”
His surprise vanished in a broad smile. “She’s a sweetheart,” he said.
He would have made a good father.
Francesca left him standing there and began to walk. She felt confused and emotional. Should she do as the courtesan said and allow this grand passion to run its course? Should she risk her heart and her future on a man? Should she place herself in the most vulnerable of positions and say, “Here I am, take me, make love to me, and then discard me”?
But the truth was that Sebastian made her heart beat faster and her throat tighten with longing. There were times when he seemed to understand her better than she understood herself. Surely that means something? she told herself, as she reached the corner.
That was when she heard the step behind her. She knew who it was—she didn’t need to glance back—and knowing that she could recognize him from his step made her want to push him away. For her own self-preservation.
“Stop following me,” she said.
“You asked me to follow you,” Sebastian replied in his deep voice.
“I asked you to look after my family.”
“Damn and blast it, Francesca, what do you think you’re doing? Are you going to stroll all the way back to Wensted Square? Alone?”
“No.”
He’d come up beside her and was frowning at her, but she wouldn’t look at him.
“Then what are you doing?” His voice dropped, became a caress.
She felt her body respond, melting, aching.
“I’m going to stroll all the way to Half Moon Street,” she said. “Will you come with me?”
Francesca knew she was burning her bridges. She was taking Aphrodite’s advice, something she once would never have imagined possible. Heart beating fast, she turned to face him.
He was staring into her eyes, reading them, reading what she was saying without words. And then he smiled and reached to take her arm. His fingers smoothed the cloth as if it were her skin. “It would be my pleasure,” he said.
Chapter 19
“Francesca…” he began, as the door to his rooms closed behind them.
“Don’t speak,” she murmured, and touched her fingertip against his lips. “I don’t want you to ask me questions or make promises. I just want to be here, with you.”
He cupped her face, drawing her against him, and her arms slid so naturally about his neck. Was this the sort of passion she would remember all her life? Or would Sebastian be forgotten in the dozens to follow?
Francesca couldn’t imagine forgetting him, or anyone else replacing him. And yet her family history foretold that was what would happen.
His mouth brushed against hers, teasing, and she felt the heat and languor of desire begin to possess her. The kiss deepened and she closed her eyes. The clean male scent of him filled her nostrils, the woven cloth of his coat abraded her fingers, and the hard muscles of his body moved against her soft curves. She was drowning in his presence, and she didn’t care.
He dropped to his knees before her.
Francesca swayed, taken aback. He was gazing up at her, a wicked glint in his eyes and a far more wicked smile on his mouth. “I want to do something else.”
She rested her hands on his shoulders, and bent down to kiss his mouth. “Will I like it?” she murmured.
He didn’t reply, but his smile broadened.
Sebastian placed his hands oh-so-carefully on her thighs and began to gather her skirt and petticoats up. Francesca felt her excitement growing as he drew out the moment, his hands sliding under the last petticoat and finding the cotton of her drawers, and the silk ties. With one tug the undergarment fell to her ankles, and she rested her hand on his shoulder as he helped her step out of it.
His fingers were warm, knowing, as he stroked her inner thighs. She wriggled, and he knew that she wanted him to touch her there but he resisted, caressing all around, before delving into the slippery folds and making her whimper with need. And then, to her amazement, he began to use his tongue.
Shock soon gave way to pleasure. What he was doing was wicked, beyond anything she’d imagined, but it felt wonderful. She began to quiver as the unstoppable feelings of ecstasy came upon her, and then she was gasping and sobbing out his name, her legs so weak they could barely hold her upright.
She was unaware of him standing up, of him lifting her and carrying her toward the bedchamber. The sunlight glinted through the curtains, highlighting the jeweled colors of rugs and draperies. He laid her on top of his bed as if she were precious treasure.
“Does everyone feel like this, at least once in their lives?” she whispered, looking up at him through her lashes.
His teeth flashed white as he grinned. “How do you feel?”
“Ethereal.”
“Hmm. We’ll have to bring you back to earth then, my angel.”
He began to kiss her, deep kisses that made her toes curl, his body heavy on hers. The tight bodice of her dress restricted her, confined her, and her breasts were aching, longing for his touch. When he began to unfasten the back of her dress she almost wept with relief, and then he was caressing her, his mouth hot and open against her soft flesh, and the pleasure was so great that she almost reached her peak then and there.
His hands were beneath her petticoats, and she felt them on her thighs as he lifted himself over her and slid inside her.
The sunlight through the window caught in his hair, on his naked chest and shoulders—when had he undressed; she didn’t remember it. Suddenly he was more than a man. She couldn’t look away from him. It was as if he had cast a spell on her, and with each thrust of his body into hers, that spell bound her tighter.
“Darling,” he groaned. “My darling girl.”
Intense pleasure spiraled through her, making her cry out more loudly than she meant to, but she couldn’t help it. She felt him deep, deep inside, as if he wanted to lose himself in her as much as she wanted to lose herself in him. And then he was shouting her name, spilling himself inside her, his face pressed to her shoulder.
He was heavy, and hot, but she didn’t tell him to move. Francesca realized, with surprise, that she felt quite tender. She wanted to cuddle him close and kiss him. She
reached for the truant lock of hair that had fallen over his face, tucking it back where it belonged. He opened one eye and looked at her, and the wicked gleam was full of carnal thoughts.
“Francesca,” he rumbled, “you are the woman of my dreams.”
“Am I?”
“Oh yes, there’s no doubt about it.”
“Even though my nose isn’t quite straight?”
He shifted slightly, releasing her from his weight, and kissed the tip of her nose very gently. “I wouldn’t have a straight nose for any amount of gold. This is the nose for me.”
She giggled. She felt light-headed.
Downstairs, the street door slammed shut.
Sebastian’s eyes widened in shock, and then he was swearing, leaping off the bed and dragging on his clothing. “Martin,” he said breathlessly. “Damn and blast it, he’s back…”
With shaking fingers, Francesca began to try to make herself presentable. Watching Sebastian hopping around the room attempting to pull on his stockings made her giggle again, and she was still helpless with laughter when he rolled her over and began to refasten her dress. He stood her up and allowed her skirts and petticoats to drop back into place.
“Your hair,” he said, running his fingers through the heavy weight of it.
“I’ll have to pile it up under my bonnet. Unfortunately”—she narrowed her eyes at him—“my best bonnet was run over by a cab.”
He grinned. “Should happen more often. I like this one better.”
They were out in the other room now, Francesca busy with her hair. Sebastian glanced down and swore, and suddenly grabbed something up into his hands, just as the key rattled in the lock.
He turned his back, moving to the bookcase in the corner, and Francesca saw him stuff a cotton garment into a gap behind the books, and realized with a frisson of delighted horror that he was hiding her drawers.
She choked. He turned and frowned at her, and she flopped down into a chair, folding her shaking hands tightly together and composing herself as best she could.