Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  Her Husband's Harlot

  (Mayhem in Mayfair, Book 1)

  by

  Grace Callaway

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  Her Husband's Harlot

  Copyright © 2011 by Grace Callaway

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  All rights reserved. Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, brands, media, and incidents are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

  License Notes

  This e-book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This e-book may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the author's work.

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  Acknowledgments

  This book was made possible by a community of amazing people. With appreciation and love, I dedicate this book to them.

  To my critique partners, Virna De Paul and Tina Folsom. Virna, your talent and generosity inspire me so much. Thank you for your support and those walks on the beach. Tina, I don't know what twist of fate led us to finding each other on that list-serv, but I thank the universe that it did! We've come a long way since our first manuscripts, haven't we? You are a true friend, a fabulous travel companion, and a writer whose talent, courage, and zeal motivate me to get to my keyboard every day.

  To my mentor, Diane Pershing. Without your keen reading and insightful feedback, my work would be at most a gem in the rough. Thank you for your generosity and for being one of the first to tell me I could write. And to my agent Ethan Ellenberg, for believing in the stories I had to tell.

  To the community of bright, warm, and gifted romance writers I have had the privilege to meet over the past few years. Members of my local San Francisco Bay Area Chapter of RWA—you rock! And fall just isn't the same without a visit to the Low Country RWA Beach Retreat and all you lovely ladies there.

  To my family. Mom and Dad, you have always taught me to reach for my dreams—and look, I have! Thank you for a lifetime of love and support; you're my inspiration. Candace, you are the sister I would have chosen for myself. Thanks, sib, for sharing the laughter and the tears along this journey. And to Stu and Renko, the parents I was lucky enough to gain: thank you for being the loving, open, creative, wonderful people that you are!

  Finally, to the two men in my life. Brendan, you may be small, but I don't know anyone who has your courage and resilience. Your smiles light my way. Love you, buddy, beyond words. And to my husband, Brian. I'll always be grateful that life led me to you, my true partner and soul mate. You are every hero I've ever written. I love you.

  ONE

  1817, London, England

  The lush burgundy carpeting deadened all noise, bestowing an eerie silence upon the corridor. Lady Helena Harteford shivered as a draft stirred the satin water-lilies pinned to her white tunic and brushed her bare shoulders in a ghostly caress. Given the capricious clime of London in the spring, her water nymph costume had perhaps not proven the wisest choice, but the impetuous nature of her plan had allowed little in the way of preparation. She stifled a sudden nervous laugh. Even if she had had more time for deliberation, would she have found the appropriate attire?

  What, after all, was the proper garment for hunting down one's husband at a high-priced bawdy house?

  An answer, she reflected, unlikely to be found in her well-worn copy of Lady Epplethistle's Compleat Guide to the Comportment of Ladies.

  In the distance, a grandfather clock tolled the hour, the twelve sonorous rings underscoring the urgency of her mission. Helena studied the dimly lit stretch ahead of her. Along both sides of the hallway, life-sized statues stood watch over a series of doors. Cautiously, she approached the first door and pressed her ear against the cool wood. No sound escaped. Indeed, the walls appeared thick and solid, designed to ensure the privacy of the activities conducted within. The very thought of her husband engaging in such activities bolstered her courage and hastened her footsteps along the corridor.

  Earlier, from a second floor balcony, she had witnessed Nicholas' arrival to the rowdy masquerade below. Under her feathered mask, jealousy had flamed her cheeks as she watched him dance with two of the "Nuns"—courtesans wearing rouge and not much else. The way the women had rubbed themselves against her husband, like hungry cats ... Startled by the loud snap, Helena had looked down to see the sticks of her fan broken in half. She'd begun breathing again only when he had departed the dance floor (thankfully, alone) and strode up the staircase. He had to be in one of the current rooms on the second floor; she meant to search him out.

  It would be easy to spot her husband, despite the black silk mask that he wore. For one, Nicholas stood a head taller than most men. With his swarthy skin and powerful build, he resembled a pirate more than a lord of the realm. His short, coal-black hair topped a face more rugged than handsome, and yet she found his bold nose and broadly-planed cheekbones utterly arresting. And there were his eyes. Orbs of ever-changing grey, they were at times dark and fathomless as a well and at others the silver of fog above water.

  Even deprived of sight, Helena would have known her husband. His presence affected her in a disturbingly profound, disturbingly primal, manner. When he was near, her breath heightened, her skin quivered with almost unbearable sensitivity, and her blood pumped languid heat into unmentionable parts of her person. Just the thought of her husband stirred her secret imagination and infused her with most unladylike longing ...

  Helena swayed a little and grasped the protruding edge of a marble statue for balance. Perhaps she ought not to have partaken of the lemonade. It had tasted odd, unlike any lemonade she had imbibed before. Not only had it been lukewarm, but it had seemed to heat her mouth and insides as she drank it. But when the proprietress had offered the beverage, it had seemed ungracious not to accept. Besides, she had been thirsty, and there had been naught else to do while she waited for Nicholas to arrive.

  Steadying herself, Helena squinted in the gloom at the statue. The stone face had a beard and ... horns? Recognition dawned as she registered the lascivious expression. A satyr, she thought wonderingly, half-man, half-goat, like the drawings she had once glimpsed in a book pilfered from her father's collection.

  She looked down at the thick, long jut of stone beneath her fingers and gasped, her fingers flying free as if singed by flame.

  Merciful heavens! Her cheeks pulsed hotly against the silk-lined interior of her mask. Surely 'tis not an accurate representation. Why, it could span both my hands ...

  She swallowed, remembering the invading hardness, the sensation of unbearable stretching between her legs on her wedding night. Was that what Nicholas had tried to ... to push inside her? She had been far too afraid to look, but seeing the marble phallus now, the way it thrust resolutely forward, she released a horrified moan.

  Of course it had not worked! Why, 'twas against the very laws of nature. Despite her plump curves, her frame was quite petite, with her eye level reaching in the low vicinities of her husband's chest. It was one of the things that delighted her, feeling small and utterly feminine next to his bold, virile physique. But mayhap their difference in size contributed to a certain mismatch in other areas. Rather like trying to thread a rope through a needle.

  E
yes darting side to side, she leaned forward to take a closer peek at the statue. She knew her curiosity to be most indecent yet her hand stretched forward, seemingly of its own accord. Her index finger hesitated against the base of phallus; she noted with surprise the fruit that hung beneath. The rounded sac looked just like a summer peach, juice-swollen and dangling from a thick branch. She grew bolder, continuing her exploration upward. The marble felt cool and hard beneath her fingertip. Slowly, she traced the raised veins twisting along the shaft until she arrived at the end, which flared unexpectedly into a plump mushroom. Her fingertip paused in the peculiar indentation at the tip.

  "Right this way, milord," a female voice purred. "We are not far from the room."

  At the sound, Helena snapped to her senses, snatching her hand away. Her mind blanked in panic as footsteps approached. The glow of a candle licked the walls, dissolving the spell of the satyr. All would be ruined if she was recognized. Her instincts finally took hold and propelled her down the corridor. Her hands shaking, she grasped the brass knob of the nearest door. Locked. She raced forward, trying door after door to no avail. Her breath caught in her chest as she came to the end of the hallway. The last room. Relief shot through her as she saw that the door rested slightly ajar. She slipped inside, easing the door closed behind her.

  For a moment, Helena found herself enveloped in pure darkness. In the next moment, she heard a man's rumbled words—Goodness gracious, the room was occupied. Her hand shot to the door knob. To her astonishment, the smooth brass was already turning, twisting in her hand. A lusty laugh sounded from the other side of the door. Helena gasped, dropping to the ground. With stealth born of pure fear, she scrambled backward from the widening shaft of light. Blindly, she turned onto her knees and crawled, seeking the safety of darkness. She plunged forward, feeling her way past the spindly legs of a pianoforte and the velvet back of a settee.

  "Well, what have we here?"

  At the drawling tones, her mind emptied to a void. She could find no words to speak. Shaking, praying that her costume disguised her, she slowly twisted her neck around. But there was no one behind her, only the outlines of furniture which resembled ghostly beasts under the faint dusting of candlelight. It took a minute for her thoughts to flow again. Whoever it was, he was not addressing her. Relief stabbed her chest.

  "I found a friend, St. John. Her name is Lucy." This was another man's voice, the accents high-pitched and well-born. "And she's very friendly, aren't you, wench?"

  Lucy giggled as if to prove it.

  "The more the merrier, I always say," St. John said.

  Once it sank in that there were two gentlemen with the lady, Helena exhaled softly. Grossly scandalous as her current situation might be, at least she had not intruded upon a sexual assignation. Likely she had intruded upon a friendly supper, or perhaps a card game suited to three players. Lowering her cheek to the floor, Helena peered through the legs of the settee. Her face burned suddenly and not from the rough bristle of carpet beneath her cheek. Framed by men's boots on both sides, a pair of stocking-clad legs rose from a glimmering pool of fabric. As she watched, one curvy leg kicked aside the discarded gown and wound sensuously around the boot in front of it. At the same time, the other leg nestled into the Hessians behind.

  "Ooo, milords, it appears I am caught 'twixt a rock and a hard spot," Lucy cooed. "Why don't we sit us down and get to know one another better?"

  Helena's eyes widened as the boots and silk-covered feet advanced in her direction. Tugging desperately at her skirts, she clambered away from the settee. Her knees chafed against the coarse carpet as she pitched to the right, searching for a place to hide. Behind her, there was the soft thud of bodies falling onto cushions, followed by guttural, animal sounds. Helena moved faster, her breath a harsh wheezing in her ear.

  Surely they will hear me! Sweet heavens, what shall I do if ...?

  Then she saw it, a dark wall rising in front of her. She raised a trembling hand to touch it. The surface slid smooth and solid beneath her fingertips. A desk. She followed its perimeter and scurried into the cove beneath. Hugging her knees to her chest, Helena waited for the pounding in her ears to subside.

  "Do you like what you see, milords?" Lucy's throaty laughter seemed to reverberate within the wooden cave and sent an odd shiver over Helena's skin.

  "Yes, that's it, show your wares," the man called St. John drawled. "Lift those tits a bit higher, won't you? Yes, that's it, press them together, frig those nipples for us. Make them wet, love. Brookeston here prefers his fruit juicy."

  The other man—Brookeston presumably—groaned in agreement.

  Then came the sound of rustling, the whispered fall of something onto the carpet. Silence followed, broken by a very low sound. Helena strained to hear as her imagination raced. Lucy's mewling groan tore the quiet asunder. The voices of the men joined her, urging her on. As embers of tension heated the room, Helena felt the air in her lungs grow heavy and humid. She bit down upon her fist.

  "Now spread that sweet little cunt of yours. Hmm, very nice. Brookeston, what do you think? Would you care to examine the merchandise?"

  After a pause, Lucy moaned out a lusty, "Oh, yes", and Brookeston made a strangled sound. "God, St. John. She's wetter than the streets after a rain. I want to fuck her now."

  "Perhaps, my impatient friend, we might start off with an amuse bouche, so to speak." St. John laughed softly. "There's a love, go suck on Brookeston's cock, the monster is fairly twitching for you."

  A charged stillness followed. Helena waited with held breath. Suddenly, a loud slurping pierced the air. Then more noises, redolent of decadent feasting, of sucking succulent meat off the bone. Even to her inexperienced ears, the animal sounds conveyed a frenzied enjoyment. The lapping of wet flesh against wet flesh pulled eager cries from Brookeston. An odd tingling spread over Helena's skin. Feeling a wave of dizziness, she lowered her head to her knees.

  "You taste delicious, milord." Lucy's voice purred over the words. "How enormous you are, I can hardly get my mouth around your rod ..."

  "Like being stuffed full of cock, do you now?" Brookeston crowed. "Like having me thrust into your naughty little mouth. Take some more of it then, take it deep!"

  Lucy's obliging gurgles, issued from a mouth clearly preoccupied, made Helena's heart race even faster. Her face flamed as images flooded her mind. Was it possible, what she envisioned? Her mind flashed to the statue of the satyr. This time, however, a woman knelt in front of it, her lips parted in salacious anticipation ... Was this what men desired? Was this why Nicolas avoided her bed, because he wanted this? For in all her wildest imaginings, she had never even conceived of such a notion ...

  Feverishly, she recalled the one time she had seen her husband unclothed. Over a month ago, on their wedding night. He had doused the candles, and it had been darker than a tomb. At the time, she had been grateful for the cover of darkness; it hid her altogether too plump figure and her nervousness. Trembling beneath the sheets and not knowing what else to do, she had clung to her mother's precise instructions:

  "Close your eyes, my darling, and pretend yourself elsewhere. Or better still, engaging in a pleasant activity of your choosing. I myself have always been partial to visiting the milliner. I imagine a lovely pink silk hat, embroidered with peonies and topped with an ostrich feather. Sometimes it is a rather rakish poke bonnet of green straw accented with a sprig of apple blossoms, but ..."—here her mother had patted her awkwardly on the hand—"the important thing is to lie still as can be and practice forbearance with a ladylike demeanor. Remember, you are first and foremost a lady. With any luck, before your bonnet shopping is complete, you will have done your duty and the dreadful business will be over."

  So Helena had lain in her voluminous frilled night rail, still as death, eyes closed, waiting for Nicholas to do his duty. She had peeped once, enough to see that he wore a white nightshirt with laces that had become untied at his throat. She had just glimpsed a rather intriguing patc
h of dark, curling hair when his bleak voice made her shut her eyes again.

  Be a lady, she had repeated to herself. Practice ladylike forbearance.

  "I'm sorry, Helena. I will—I will be as gentle as I can."

  For a moment, she had wondered at the starkness of his voice. Then she had felt something hard, massive, pushing between her legs. With rising panic, she had realized that he meant to pierce her there, a space too small for so large ... and then the pain, the sudden, intense hot edge of it that cut off her breath. She had not remembered to shop for bonnets or pick wildflowers for a bouquet. With shame, Helena remembered that she had shrieked aloud without any resemblance to ladylike comportment.

  Nicholas had sprung off her, a look of horror on his face.

  He had avoided her ever since.

  Oh, he remained polite, exquisitely so, the brief moments they encountered one another in the breakfast parlor or at a soiree. Inevitably, he would be leaving just as she arrived. As Helena recalled their last exchange at Lady Wetherly's ball five nights ago, a tear leaked out of one eye and trickled slowly below her mask. Her husband had bowed over her hand, his eyes impenetrable as smoked glass. He might have been a stranger and that their first introduction. He had been so different during their whirlwind courtship. Though their embraces had been few and chaste then, she could still remember the exotic male spice of his scent, the gentle brush of his lips against her hand.

  What had she done to lose his affection?

  "Has your mouth had enough of my cock? Perhaps you'd like to beg for it elsewhere, another wet, juicy hole waiting to be had."

  The man's stunning words jarred Helena back to the room. Perhaps, she thought dizzily, it had been what she hadn't done. Could her mother have been wrong? Could the conjugal act be about something other than visits to the milliner or passive acceptance of one's wifely duty?

  "Yes, yes! That's it, milord, harder, oooh, like that, how my cunny craves to be fed ..."