Her Husband's Harlot

by Grace Callaway

  "He did not know it was me," Helena said through stiff lips.

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "Last night, Harteford did not know it was me. It was dark, and I did not remove my mask or wig."

  "But surely when you spoke ..."

  "I spoke in French to disguise my voice."

  "To disguise your voice ... but why?" Marianne asked.

  "Because ... because ..." Helena strove to explain the fever that had overcome her. Behind the mask, she had been a different sort of woman than her ordinary self. The sort of woman who might entice a man, who might respond to his desires with brazen wants of her own. Wants that she had not known existed until Nicholas unleashed them with his bold hands and his wicked mouth.

  A shiver ran up her legs remembering the way he had kissed her breasts at the same time that his turgid flesh invaded her. Overcome by a desperate hunger, she had pleaded for more of him; 'twas as if she was starved for his touch, on her, inside her ... Disguised by flaming red hair and paint, she had truly transformed into a harlot! The sense of freedom had been as exhilarating as it had been foreign.

  Only afterward, when Nicholas had extricated himself from her embrace and began to dress with cool efficiency, had reality returned. What had come over her? How could she have responded with such enthusiasm, such unbridled wantonness, to his caresses? Sweet heavens, what would Nicholas do if she was to expose herself to him then and there, as a doxy who had but moments ago begged him for more and more? A tide of shame and horror had crashed over her as the words of his marriage proposal suddenly echoed in her mind.

  I ask the greatest privilege of your hand in marriage. While I am undeserving of your pure and virtuous nature, I do prize it above all. I will strive to be a worthy husband, if you will have me.

  Pure and virtuous? No indeed—she was positively shameless.

  Blanching, Helena said, "I was afraid to reveal my true identity. You see, after it was over, he got up and dressed like nothing had happened. He ... he did not even look at me."

  "Well, if he thought you were a whore," Marianne said reasonably, "how else was he to treat you?"

  And there was the crux of the problem. She, Helena Morgan, the Marchioness of Harteford, had played the part of a strumpet so convincingly that she had fooled her own husband. But what if her actions had not been playacting at all? What if ... what if it was her virtue that was false? Recalling Nicholas' indifferent manner after their coupling last night, Helena shivered. Could he love her, knowing her true nature? Or would he think himself deceived? Duped, by his harlot of a wife.

  "Did he say anything to you at all?"

  "Pardon?" Helena whispered.

  "Any words conveyed. To your person," Marianne repeated impatiently.

  Squirming with humiliation, Helena admitted, "Yes. Before he left, he said, Thank you. And he ... he left a fifty pound note on the desk."

  "A fifty pound note! You shall certainly not run short of pin money this month."

  "That is not amusing, Marianne," Helena said, feeling hot pressure behind her eyelids.

  Marianne's eyes gleamed. "Oh, but I think it is. Imagine, the Marquess of Harteford paying for favors that he has already purchased through marriage. Surely you see the humor in that."

  "I most certainly do not! My husband will be most ... vexed if he was to find out." With an agitated hand, Helena dashed away the tears that had spilled over. "He will never forgive me for deceiving him in such a fashion."

  "From that perspective ..." Marianne shrugged. "Things would have been rather simpler if you had confessed yourself then and there. Why did you not?"

  Helena lowered her head. "I was afraid."

  "Afraid? After such an enjoyable coupling? I confess, my dear, you have got me quite, quite confused."

  "Marianne, when you were married, did you ever ... ever ..."

  "Yes, my dear?"

  "Respond somewhat ... with rather a great deal of enthusiasm for. . ."

  "Do speak plainly, Helena. You know I do not appreciate inane niceties."

  "Did you ever beg for your husband's lovemaking?" Helena asked in a rush.

  Marianne gave a startled laugh. "Beg? Of course not!"

  "'Tis true, then. I am a whore." Helena spoke the words with dull acceptance, though her bottom lip quivered. "Harteford will never love me now."

  "I am sure there is no need for such dramatics." Marianne reached for her tea. Grimacing after a sip, she set the cup and saucer back on the table. "If you were simply to explain ..."

  "Last night, Marianne, I ... I acted like a wanton! I begged my husband to—"

  "Yes, well, as I have said that is rather common in happy marriages."

  "You said you never begged for your husband's attentions," Helena pointed out.

  "That is because I have not had the privilege of a happy marriage," her friend responded tartly.

  "Oh. I—I am sorry."

  "It is of no consequence. After all, I gained a great deal from the match, including the freedoms I now enjoy." Marianne raised a delicately arched eyebrow. "Freedoms that would allow me to comment that the enjoyment of affaires is a commonplace thing."

  "But you do not understand. I truly enjoyed it. So much so that I begged Harteford to ..." Helena felt a panicked sob rise in her throat.

  "To what, Helena? You will have to tell me if I am to help."

  Helena shut her eyes. "To fuck me. I begged him to fuck me. With his ... his cock."

  "My, that is rather forward." Marianne cleared her throat. "Where exactly did you learn such words?"

  "Well, from Harteford, of course. He told me to say them last night." Helena blinked. "Where else would I learn them?"

  "And how did your lord respond when you uttered those words to him?"

  Helena paused, coloring. "He grew rather ... frantic in his movements."

  "My, my." Marianne fanned herself with her gloves. "And you found his passion enjoyable, yes?"

  "It was the most wonderful thing I have ever experienced," Helena said fervently.

  "Then why should he feel any differently about you?"

  Helena tilted her head. "I beg your pardon?"

  "Why should your husband not likewise enjoy passion from you?"

  She had not thought of it that way before. "It's just that ... before we were married, when he seemed quite fond of me, he commented often about my proper nature. In point of fact, he once praised me as a paragon of virtue. Like Caesar's wife—beyond reproach."

  Marianne rolled her eyes. "My dear, no man wishes to bed a paragon, no matter what he says. May I be frank with you?"

  "Yes, of course." Struck by the enormity of her confessions, Helena suddenly giggled. She had never talked so honestly in all her life. "After all I have confided, need you ask?"

  "Your husband married you for a reason. Despite his unfortunate origins, Harteford's fortune still caused many a matchmaking matron to fall into paroxysms of excitement. But he chose you. Why did he, do you think?"

  "Because of my family's connections?" Helena ventured.

  "Marrying into the peerage was a boon," Marianne conceded. "But then again, there were several ladies on the market with titles and dowries that surpassed your own. If it was simply blue blood that Harteford was after, why did he not pursue a greater matrimonial prize?"

  "I do not know." Without thinking, Helena reached for one of the pastries. She stopped, her fingers trembling a hair's-breadth away from the fluted buttery edge. Swallowing, she said, "But you are correct in one regard. Financially speaking, I was no prize. You know that after ... after Thomas passed, our fortunes changed."

  The clock grew louder in the silence that followed, as did the hustle and bustle of the servants as they carried on their duties beyond the drawing room doors. Helena wondered if a time would ever come when she could talk of her older brother's death without feeling the ache of emptiness. To compound the darkness of that time, Marianne had married and left for Yorkshire a month after Thomas' funeral.
/>   "Thomas was well loved by all who knew him," Marianne said quietly.

  "Yes, well, who wouldn't love him? He was perfect." Helena paused, studying her hands. "They never got over it. My parents, I mean. My father took to gaming and my mother to her bedchamber. Before long, the debts mounted. There was only one solution."

  "A daughter's duty." Marianne's voice was as hard as ice.

  "As my mother always pointed out, I had so little else to recommend me that I needed to make my behavior as amenable as possible in order to attract suitable suitors. Do you know I memorized Lady Epplethistle's Compleat Guide line by line?" Helena shrugged. "But it was for naught. I am nothing special. Not a beauty, and too plump for the current fashion. Before Harteford's proposal, my mother feared that I would end up on the shelf. It was nearing the end of my Season. My father could not afford a second."

  "You are not too plump. Men adore women with a voluptuous figure. And you are certainly not dull," Marianne said. "Modesty may be becoming, but it certainly will not help you understand your husband."

  "But I really do not know!" Helena threw her hands up in defeat. "Other than my virtue, which we have now allowed does not exist, I am not sure what he finds appealing. I am accomplished but not extraordinarily so in the realms of art, music, and languages."

  "Oh, for God's sake. As pretty as your performance is at the piano, that is not why your husband married you," Marianne snapped.

  "I know it." Helena gave her friend a hurt look. "Why are you angry at me?"

  "Because you are blind to the fortune in front of you."

  "What fortune? Truly, Marianne, could you not be more specific?"

  Marianne pinned her with a blunt green gaze. "Have you not noticed the way your husband looks at you? I have seen the hunger in his eyes, try as he might to mask it. Dearest, he looks at you the way you have been looking at that blessed tart—like he is longing to eat you up, every last bite."

  Helena's jaw dropped.

  "Why are you shocked, Helena? Have you forgotten the night of passion you spent in your husband's arms?"

  "He thought I was another." The pain of betrayal was confusing, given that it was she who had deceived him. Yet he had broken his marriage vows; why had he seen fit to share with a stranger intimacies that he kept from his own wife? With a hitch to her voice, she said, "He lay with me believing I was a doxy at the ball."

  "Perhaps he would not be seeking a doxy if he found a warmer welcome in his home."

  Helena's cheeks flamed. "I had thought of that. I should never have listened to my mother's advice about bonnet shopping."

  At Marianne's inquisitive look, Helena explained what she had been told about conjugal duties.

  "Oh, Lord." For once, Marianne appeared at a loss for words. Her mouth opened and closed several times before she said, "Can I safely assume that last evening no bonnets were bought or sold?"

  "None whatsoever," Helena responded fervently.

  "Excellent." Marianne patted Helena's hand. "You love your husband?"

  "You know that I do!"

  "And you are certain you cannot tell him that you were the harlot?"

  "I can't," Helena whispered. "He'll despise me ... for lying to him."

  For acting like a harlot. Sweet heavens, for ... being one.

  Marianne sighed. "Very well, then, here's my advice. Find a way to seduce him, this time as his wife. Show him he has no need to return to the bawdy house."

  "Do you think I can?" Uncertainty and hope wavered in Helena's voice.

  "Of course. Men are simple creatures, my dear, and, above all, lazy. Convenience is your greatest ally. If Harteford finds everything he desires in his own home, he will not bother to stray. But remember: you are competing with a harlot, so you must use whatever means necessary."

  "Means? What means have I?"

  Marianne scrutinized her person with such intensity that Helena felt astonishingly naked despite her chemise, stays, and petticoats. She reassured herself that she specifically had her morning dress designed, like all the garments in her wardrobe, to hide her embarrassing abundance of flesh. It was one thing to mention one's plumpness and quite another for one's friend to actually see it.

  "It appears your means are quite generous, yet you somehow manage to depress them with the poor cut of your gown, enough petticoats to clothe a village, and, Oh Lord, is that a corset you are wearing?" Marianne finished in mock horror.

  "I know it is not currently de rigueur," Helena said with dignity, "but my dressmaker assures me that many ladies of the ton still rely upon them to convey a more fashionable figure."

  "I was not aware that the shape of a trussed up chicken was the rage this season." Leaning forward, Marianne poked her in the ribs. "How, may I ask, do you manage to breathe in that monstrosity?"

  "Do stop." Helena slapped her friend's hand away. "We cannot all possess naturally svelte figures like you."

  Marianne patted her skirts complacently. "Well, that is true. But why must you hide your own particular gifts?"

  "I am hiding nothing." Helena spoke through clenched teeth. "I am merely attempting to minimize my flaws."

  "In doing so, you have minimized any approximate shape to your body. Your dress has enough material to cover the both of us. And," her friend added ruthlessly, "enough lace and flounces to decorate the nation of France."

  Humiliation swelled hot and prickly in Helena's chest. Marianne was probably right. After all, Marianne always looked as if she had stepped off the pages of La Belle Assemblée.

  "It just so happens I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon with Madame Rousseau. You shall accompany me."

  "Madame Rousseau would see me and on such short notice?" Helena asked doubtfully. "It is said she clothes only the crème de la crème of Society."

  Grinning, Marianne helped herself to a tart. "She will take one look at you and declare you her greatest challenge."

  FOUR

  Nicholas woke to the sounds of muffled shouting, followed by a thunderous crash that shook the floor and reverberated through his body. Lively curses issued from the warehouse floor below stairs. Minutes later, a sweet, pungent smell drifted into the room. Recalling that a new shipment of rum had arrived yesterday from the West Indies, Nicholas groaned. He rolled over on the lumpy couch and pulled the rough woolen blanket more securely around him. At the moment, he did not want to face another day at the office.

  What he wanted to do was to fall back asleep and into the arms of the dream vixen who had been torturing him with impudent kisses. Kisses that had brought him to a throbbing morning cock-stand. With a sigh and eyes still closed, Nicholas unbuttoned his smalls. He concentrated on the dream girl's mouth, cherry ripe beneath her feathered mask. The full, luscious mouth that was planting soft kisses along his jaw and down his neck. His breath came faster as she ran her hands down the rigid muscles of his chest, and her tongue followed, licking fire against his nipples.

  She moved like a water nymph, her chestnut hair a cool silken wave over his skin. She sank naturally between his legs, as if she belonged there. Her small hands played with his stones. The gentle circular strokes made his blood roar. Then she set her mouth on him. Nicholas bit back a growl as she lapped at his balls like waves to a shore. Each tide pulled him deeper and deeper into an ocean of pleasure. Twining his hands in her hair, he guided her mouth upward and crammed himself inside. Hot, fast thrusts that blurred her words of love and lust. As he neared his climax, he reached for her mask and tore it off.

  Golden hazel eyes met his.

  "I love you," Helena whispered.

  He came in violent surges.

  Panting, Nicholas lay flat on his back on the sofa. Gradually, he became aware of the world again—the loud brass of cockney voices, the lulling splash of the tides, the marine-and-refuse perfume of the river. The physical release did nothing for his guilt, so he breathed in deeply, taking comfort in the elixir of damp salt air, tar, and coal smoke from the metal works downstream. The tang of the T
hames might make others cover up their noses, but to him the complex odors spoke of new beginnings, of possibilities open to any man with the determination and drive to improve his station in life.

  Nicholas rose, and, looking down, winced at the wet stain. He went to the cupboard to withdraw clean garments. As he changed, he looked out the large window behind his desk. At this time of morning, the Thames resembled a sunburned forest, with red ochre sails fluttering from hundreds of masts. Lighters jostled irritably against one another, vying for space within the walls of the West India Dock. Vessels fortunate enough to be moored wharf-side were being unloaded by teams of porters who moved as tirelessly as ants between dock and warehouse.

  Nicholas felt as always the pull of the river's energy. For sixteen years, he'd routinely arrived at the warehouse on the Isle of Dogs before the break of dawn and left in similar darkness. In his early years with the company, he'd heard the snickered comments of the other clerks. Toad-eater, they'd called him, disparaging his work ethic as a ploy to get in the good graces of the owner, Jeremiah Fines.

  Nicholas had ignored the jibes and worked harder. It was true that he sought to re-pay Jeremiah for giving him the opportunity to work at the company. But soon the need to please his mentor was eclipsed by something else, a deeper desire. Working became his lifeblood, success his sustaining breath. The snickers faded into the distance as he rose through the company ranks.

  But lately work had lost some of its powerful appeal. The money he made, the successes he accumulated—nothing seemed to satisfy him. As he stood looking out over the dockside world that had defined him, Nicholas did something he rarely permitted himself to do. He stopped and reflected. As he did so, a sense of emptiness began to gnaw at his gut. The feeling grew and intensified. Fragments of the past began creeping in, insidious images that pounded against his temples and dampened his palms.