by Louisa Trent
“You might have told me to do so. How was I to know I was supposed to bill and coo as you plundered my innards?”
A rumble rose behind her. Evidently, he found her pain amusing.
“You are incorrigible,” he barked out between chuckles. “Forgive my barbaric enthusiasm. It is my only excuse for not noticing your dryness. I just had to get in you, had to feel you around my cock again.”
He wanted her? That much?
She had not been expecting his need, his appetite, his desire. His urgency. She had only known her own.
He rolled her from the near-fetal position on her side onto her back. “I should have seen to you before we began. But you were so wet in the tomb, that I never considered the fuck would pain you.”
“I thought you were angry with me.”
“I am angry. But I am no monster. Your fear must have dried you out here.” His finger gently entered her. “You will need lubrication the first few times until your body gets used to the trespass.” He removed himself from the bed.
She made no move to cover herself but lay there naked and oblivious to the abandoned picture she must make.
“My apologies for ramming you like a randy bull. You are my first virgin. No justification, only an explanation. Nor should you take it as a sign that I will back off from you.” He gestured to his cock, which stuck out huge and inflamed from his trousers. “I cannot back off from you. But I can make the fuck better.”
She placed her arms behind her head, content to watch him stuff his penis back in his trousers and move to the door. “I am not afraid of you. Not exactly. Already the fire between my legs is receding.” She yawned. Her eyelids felt so heavy.
“Be right back,” he said and left on a rush.
She never heard the door close behind him.
*
Tegan awakened with a start to find someone bustling about the basement servant’s room. She cocked an eye in the direction of the noise, recognized the pleasantly plump shape, and said drowsily, “Mrs. Birch?”
“One and the same, luv.”
“How long was I asleep this time?”
“Round the clock. Leastwise, according to Mr. Griffin, that is. The master has been here most of the time, but work called him into the city today.”
Tegan felt so heavy, her body weighted, actually, as she sat up amid the pillows and pushed her loose hair from her eyes. “When will the master return?”
“Early evening, says he, which means you should be up and about promptly. I am sure you will wish to bathe before dining out in the city.”
“Really. I have never been to a restaurant, not in my whole entire life.”
“You will tonight.”
She looked down at her chest, covered in a prim dimity nightgown. Where was Sean Griffin getting all these nightclothes for her?
She gasped. Speaking of clothes… “May I use the flatiron? I should press my gown.”
“That gown would take more than an iron to make it fit for wearing. Covered in dust and a mass of wrinkles, the gown needs a good laundering with the washwoman. You have a rare talent with a needle and thread. Your alterations made the gown spectacular. But you will need to wear something else this evening, luv.”
Therein lay the problem—she had nothing else to wear. And to admit that would sound like whining. She would simply have to launder the gown herself. Though the heavy cloth would probably not be fully dry, she would wear it damp, if need be.
She scuttled out of bed. “I have much to do.”
“Picking out your new outfit is your first order of business. You have two choices, both hanging in the wardrobe. Make your selection, luv. I am off to see to my supper.”
The bedroom door had not yet completely closed behind the housekeeper when Tegan reached the oak wardrobe against the wall.
She saw the scarlet satin gown first. Oh my! The décolletage plunged past risqué into vice. The exaggerated width of the bustle could easily carry a tea tray. The elaborate lace overskirt looked about to take flight. Flounced underskirts, a plethora of bows, frothy ruffles, and shiny baubles—all had her cringing.
Good heavens! Add bells and whistles and the gown would be its own parade.
Tegan touched the shiny scarlet satin. When fighting a war, one must use any weapon available. But why bring out the heavy cannons when a lightweight derringer would do?
She pulled out the second gown, a soft wisp of lilac silk. The elegant couture exactly matched Tegan’s liking. The gown had a low but certainly not cleavage-revealing neckline. And though sleeveless, epaulets of pearl beads dripped from the shoulders to cover the upper portion of the arm. Vine pearl beading also trimmed the fitted faille bodice.
Tegan never imagined wearing anything as lovely. Her household budget through the years had been adequate, but nothing more. And her charitable works offered no recompense beyond the personal satisfaction of having done a good deed for others less fortunate. Extravagance only happened in the books she read.
When she spied the underpinnings, Tegan’s heart slammed against her ribs.
Petticoats! At least four, and none were horsehair crinolines. She hated those stiff, scratchy things. On further investigation, she found a chemise, bedecked with dainty colored ribbons, the fine muslin lightly trimmed with unspeakably beautiful French lace. And frilled drawers! There was also a pink corset, ablossom with miniature rosettes. Due to her recent weight loss, she need not even hold her breath for the stays to fit. The corset would easily encircle her waist without even trying. Regardless, she held her breath now, lest someone take the garments away.
At the sight of the sheer hose and pointy-toed slippers, she clutched her bosom. Had she died and gone to heaven? Or hell, dependent upon whose God was involved. Hers was the tolerant sort, not the fire and brimstone kind. He would surely pardon her drooling over pretty but essentially unimportant foolishness. Would he forgive her the rest?
Tegan let that critical self-examination pass. Really, Mr. Griffith had provided her with everything. Could there possibly be anything more?
Well, perhaps, a small padded bustle. Without the understructure of a metal cage, the gown would cling to the natural contours of her derriere.
And perhaps that was Mr. Griffith’s whole point, she mused, hurrying to bathe.
Chapter Fifteen
Inside the Soho brothel, two naked female prostitutes danced and fondled and Frenched one another.
Ignoring their performance, Sean finished off his ale, set the empty glass on the red velvet tablecloth, and then turned to his business associate seated across from him.
“Nice to see you again, Tobias, but I should be on my way home.” He stood, pushed in his Chippendale chair. The establishment encouraged a wealthy clientele through rich antique furnishings and expensive whores, both of which pleased the eye.
Tobias craned his jaw up at him. “What, leaving? So soon? I thought we would try out the Berkley house. The fresh green canes are always wet there, as are the females. I understand Sally has a new whore on staff. Just turned twenty-one and, owing to her youth, yet a virgin. Sally frowns on starting girls in the trade too early. What say you to splitting the exorbitant cost of her maidenhead and doubling up on her?”
Christ. Tegan was three years younger. And Sean had already started her on the road to prostitution.
Guilt clenched his vitals. “Not this time.”
“But we always partake of the pleasures at Sally’s at the conclusion of our business meetings. I know how you feel about busting cherries, so if not the little virgin, we can share Claudette. Now there is a gal with years of experience.”
“Not this time.”
“Why ever not? Not afraid of a little clap, are you?”
“Thank Christ for vulcanized rubber, my friend. As you should rightly know, I never go in without a condom.”
Except with Tegan.
Scowling in memory, Sean said, “That reminds me. I should pick up some of those fresh green flogs before I l
eave.”
Tobias laughed. “You must have someone waiting for you at home, eh?”
“I do,” he said in bemusement. “A raven-haired beauty. And my first and only demimonde. The brat could use a sound strapping. And I do believe she would take to it. I do believe she would oink like a piglet in mud.”
Tobias wiggled his brown brows. “Sounds splendid. When do I meet her?”
If Sean were to speak from his heart of hearts, he would have said, never. Tobias was a handsome rascal, a charmer with the ladies, and Tegan, though virtuous now, was not above corruption.
And that played right into his plans.
Since Tegan’s corruption was Sean’s ultimate goal, he smiled broadly at his business associate. “You will meet her soon, after my upcoming trip to Pittsburgh. I need to make a large investment of capital in my mine holdings.”
Tobias sat up straighter in his chair. “I hope this new revenue drain will not interfere with brokering our Hell’s Kitchen deal.”
Tobias liked his pleasures of the flesh, and the strumpets at Sally’s all loved him, but when it came to business, his associate was all business. “No, our property venture is firm. The investment capital is already put aside for it. And when I return from the mines, I shall bring my new plaything round to the club to celebrate our partnership.”
“Are you saying what I think you are saying?”
“She is amenable to a threesome. I already explained to her that I occasionally partake and she would need to my indulge whims.”
“Name a date.”
“I shall have a note dropped by your residence upon my return. Keep your calendar free toward month’s end.”
“Positively. Any woman that makes you give up the single life for even one night must be a gem of the first water. And by the way, her name is…?”
“Tegan.” He near spilled his cum, just from having her name on his tongue. “I am taking her out to dine at Delmonico’s tonight, a rarity for me to go there, as I much prefer dining informally at home. All the pomp and circumstance puts me off. Pounds of flashing diamonds on the ladies, tails and top hats on the gents, ostentation of every despicable kind.”
He shook his head at the waste. “At any rate, she would appreciate all the glitter, I wager. Young ladies generally do enjoy that sort of thing. So for her…”
He waved that thought aside. “A private room too, and that is a first for me, so she can soak up the ambience without any disturbance. You know how they are there—everyone stares at everyone else. And with her beauty, the gents would never give her a moment’s peace. I will not have her discomforted. Anyway, I need to get back to her now,” he muttered to himself. “She must be lonely in the big empty house. A mansion filled with priceless furnishings is no more than an empty place without a special someone to share it with.”
Only after observing the change that came over his associate’s face, serious incredulousness joined with comic disbelief, did Sean realize he had spoken the words aloud.
Just listen to me! Sean thought with a grimace. He must end this fascination of his for the young woman before this thing, whatever the hell it was, took hold of his vitals and never let go.
With a curt nod and a stiff gait to his walk, Sean left the brothel with his associate’s raucous bellowing stinging his ears.
*
“Good evening, Mr. Griffith.” The snooty maitre d’ bowed. “Right this way to your private room.”
Private room, indeed, Tegan mused. What affluence and influence could get a person!
For a man who had so obviously grown up poor, Sean Griffith’s snobbery was beyond belief. Even in an exclusive restaurant like Delmonico’s, the man at her side refused to mingle with the lowly masses. He presumably thought himself a cut above the common riffraff millionaires who frequented this fine-dining establishment in lower Manhattan.
The surroundings were opulent, and it was hard not to be impressed. As they followed the maitre d’ through the public dining room to their private room, she found herself gawking at the mirrored brilliance on the tapestry-covered walls. And the room itself, resplendent with prisms and gold velvets and a three-tier chandelier, was awe-inspiring. A steady diet of such extravagance could easily turn a person’s head, could make a person forget petty concerns, like some folks never dined on caviar, like some folks actually went to bed hungry.
The maitre d’ bowed and scraped again, as if the robber baron was royalty, and Tegan supposed in this country he was royalty, despite his modest beginnings. “Do you find the accommodations satisfactory, sir?”
“Eminently.” Sean shared a masculine smile with the maitre d’. “As always, Delmonico’s earns its reputation.”
See that, Tegan apprised herself when they were once again alone. She was nothing special. Sean was in the habit of bringing women to the restaurant, doubtlessly to this same private room. She meant nothing to the robber baron.
She had come to New York to take the Central Mine owner to task for his negligence, and since her arrival, she had been remiss in that endeavor. This was as good a time as any to remind the captain of industry of a few unpleasant truths.
She smoothed a finger over the lustrous mahogany sideboard. “Little wonder you have lost touch with the cares and woes of the common person, insulated as you are from their plight.”
He arched a brow. “I thought you said you were done with your reform work?”
She stood her ground. “It is not enough for you to agree to make changes to the mines unless you understand what those changes mean.”
“Are you suggesting I go down in the shaft with the men I employ?”
“That would be an excellent start, sir, to grasping what coal digging entails. And furthermore—”
And furthermore…she should bite her tongue before she dug herself a hole deeper than a mining shaft.
His closed-off expression, a facial cast she was beginning to recognize as symptomatic of his resistance to an idea, told her she was getting nowhere with him. The direct approach had only succeeded in making him defensive.
Changing tactics, she put aside the vinegar and took up a large bottle of honey. “And furthermore,” she said brightly, her voice sparkling like the candles overhead. “So this is Delmonico’s! I have heard so much about this restaurant. Thank you so much for taking me here. So thoughtful of you.”
He frowned darkly at her. “Yes. Right. Now what were you about to say?”
“Say? Oh, I forget.” A curl had escaped the confines of her chignon. Like a silly goose, she twirled the errant tendril around a finger. “Look at that floral centerpiece on the table. How perfectly lovely,” she said sweetly, while inside she seethed at the waste of money. The price of the imported orchids could support a family for a month, she thought in disgust, snapping the tendril of hair impatiently back into place.
He sought her eyes, seemed to bore into her very soul, and prodded her sharp memory. “You were saying something about my insulation from the common people?”
“Oh, I really cannot recall. You know us ladies, forever forgetting the train of our thoughts. Speaking of which, I read somewhere, who knows where now, that the owner of Delmonico’s imported those columns at the entrance from the ruins of Pompeii.”
“So they say,” he replied curtly.
“So they do.”
He helped her off with her coat. “I see you chose the lilac.”
“How could I resist? Lilac is my favorite color.” That remark seemed to please him for some reason, and she could not fathom why.
He smiled broadly. “Show me the gown from all sides. Spin for me.”
Holding her skirts out at the sides, she performed a pirouette.
“You look good enough to eat, Tegan—”
“Take care not to ruin your appetite, sir. I understand the food here is divine.”
“—but,” he continued, speaking over her stab at flirtation, “despite how delectable a morsel you appear—ahem—that gown is far too daring for yo
ur years.”
Damn him. There he went, completely spoiling the compliment and her attempt at sophisticated seduction. “I am not a child, sir.”
He eyed her heaving bosom. “No, you are not, but you are very young.”
Her mouth twisted and she plunked both hands on her hips. “The other gown was more daring. That neckline plunged to indecency and beyond.”
“Then you were right not to choose it. When we are in public, the last thing I want to do is give anyone the wrong impression.”
“What is the wrong impression?”
“That you and I have an inappropriate relationship.”
“We do have an inappropriate relationship.”
“That is for us to know and no one else. When we are out and about, I want you to be viewed as my ward or niece or something similarly innocent. Nothing is to be gained by publicly flaunting a private arrangement. To do so is a breach of good taste and manners.”
Poverty was an even worse breach of good taste and manners. And what of that satyr door knocker. What was that if not rubbing people’s faces in his private concerns? Ugh! What she would give to tell him off!
And if she gave into that urge to speak her mind, what she would give would be further changes in the mine. Sean Griffith was not the sort to tolerate a mouthy mistress or whore or plaything or whatever it was she was supposed to call herself.
Resentment was not a new emotion to her. Neither was justified anger. Living in a mining town, watching friends and neighbors needlessly suffer, she had felt plenty of both in her life. But keeping her grievances to herself was just what people did in her part of the country. Suddenly, though, continuing to swallow her hostility was intolerable. Her rancor boiled over, and she hissed, “Sir… You should have thought of good taste and manners yesterday at the Met before having me strip in a tomb. Before having me proposition those two museum visitors. Perfect strangers. Who knew what they thought? They might have notified the staff and had us ejected. Or worse, they might have had us jailed for indecency.”
“That was never a threat. I would never have put you in an unsafe situation.”