Vanquished

by Hope Tarr

  He bit down on the edge of her ear, not hard enough to hurt, but it got her attention. "Shall I stop now?"

  To have her prize snatched away after she'd come this far didn't bear consideration. A bead of perspiration struck the side of her neck, and she arched back, grabbing firmer hold of the metal bedposts. "No . . . oh, no, please."

  He took hold of her hips and entered her, not in one clean thrust as he had before but slowly, carefully, inch by gloriously inch. He'd been right in cautioning it would hurt but somehow the blunt pain brought other senses to life as well: the smell of their commingled sweat; the bleached bed linens pleasantly stiff beneath her knees; the slapping of flesh striking flesh. And beyond everything was the incredible first time feeling that she was beautiful, every part of her.

  "God, you're lovely," he breathed into the shell of her ear. He reached a hand around to the front of her and fondled her breasts, milking their fullness, pulling on her aching nipples, and then rolling them between his thumb and forefinger until she thought she would scream from the pleasure of it.

  "Oh, Hadrian, I--"

  His hand left her breasts and slid down the front of her. Fingers, again, two of them, found their way inside her there too, sliding inside the rawness, at once easing her and bringing her to life.

  Doubly impaled, joined to him at front and back, her senses screamed for release and yet she could do little more than moan little snatches of phrases--"please" and "dear Lord"--but mostly his name, or at least the one she knew him by, "Hadrian," again and again, her pleasure, her want building with each breathless utterance.

  He bent his head and gently bit the back of her neck. "Scream if you like. There's no one to hear you but me."

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  "The wounds I might have healed, the human sorrow and smart,

  And yet it was never in my soul to play so ill a part, But evil is wrought by want of thought, as well as by want of heart."

  --MARY LEE, South Australia Register, April 2, 1890

  Eventually hunger drove them to rummage the contents of the food hamper. Downstairs the blinds were drawn, the shop's sign turned over to CLOSED. Confident in their concealment from the outside world, Callie roamed the studio in lace-edged camisole and knee-length drawers, sipping champagne from a jelly jar while perusing works she must have seen any number of times only now viewed with fresh eyes. Eyes wide open to the possibility of passion.

  "Miss Rivers has anyone told you of late you look a picture."

  She turned away from the platinum print she'd been admiring, the one of the nude, to see a warm-eyed and smiling Hadrian coming down the stairs with a plate of bread, fruit, and cheese. Her mouth watered but not due to the food. Hair mussed and wearing only the braces and wool trousers he'd hastily pulled on, he was a glorious six feet, four inches of near-naked male; and, for the time being, he was entirely hers.

  Emboldened, she stepped forward. "In that case, take my picture."

  "I've done little else but take pictures of you these past weeks."

  Holding her glass up to his lips, she said, "Not that sort of picture but the other kind, like this one, the reclining nude."

  He choked on the sip of champagne he'd just taken. Swiping a hand across his chin, he said, "You want me to photograph you in the nude?"

  Oh God, just when she thought she was immune to humiliation, this sort at least, the old shame rose up, keener now than ever before because this time it wasn't only pride at stake, but the whole of her heart. For the first time in her life she was well and truly in love, in love with Hadrian. Though he might not love her back, not yet at any rate, the thought that she wasn't beautiful to him, that he'd made love to her out of boredom--or worse yet, charity--was altogether too bitter to bear.

  Crossing her arms over the bosom she'd forgotten to hide, she backed away, searching for a graceful means of retreat. "Never mind, it was a foolish fancy I had that's passed. Please, forget I mentioned it."

  He set the plate down on the table and crossed the room toward her. Laying warm hands atop her shoulders, he looked into her eyes and said, "I'm not about to forget and it wasn't foolish. I only want to know why the change of heart when until now I've counted myself fortunate to coax you into posing without your glasses."

  "Because . . ." She shot a furtive glance to the photograph. All that perfection--how had she hoped to possibly compete? Yet it wasn't meant to be so much a competition as a validation that she was all right as she was; desirable, yes, but beyond that, worthy of being loved. "I know I'm not as young as she is nor nearly so lean and lovely but being with you tonight and the time before, you've made me feel . . ." The rest of her hastily assembled speech died in her throat, and she would have given the world to turn away only Hadrian wouldn't let her.

  He caught her face between his hands, turned it up until there was nowhere for her to look but at him. "Oh, Callie, my sweet foolish girl, surely you must know you're myriad times more beautiful to me than that slip of a girl could ever be? You have a bosom most courtesans would envy as well as legs worthy of a music-hall dancer. Only, Callie . . . why now?"

  "I suppose I'd like something by which to remember us. A memento I can take out of the bottom of my drawer years from now when I'm old and gray and truly on the shelf." When you've moved on, long gone from my life.

  "Even gray-headed, you'll always be beautiful."

  "You don't have to say such things to spare my feelings."

  He answered with a fierce shake of his head. "Not to spare your feelings, but because it's the truth, every bloody word." He drew her to him, shaping her body with his big, sensitive hands. "God, Callie, if only you knew how true."

  She reached up and stroked a hand down the side of his face, a measure of the new confidence returning. "In that case, take my picture, Hadrian. Make it as a remembrance of our beautiful night together, of how it was between us before the world and all its folly had the chance to intrude."

  "You're sure?"

  She didn't hesitate. "I trust you, Hadrian."

  He swallowed hard, a long ripple traveling the length of his corded throat. "In that case, I would be honored to photograph you."

  I trust you, Hadrian. The blind faith shining forth from Callie's eyes had been like a razor slashing at his heart, for wasn't it only the day before that he'd finally broken it off with Dandridge? Knowing this would be his parting gift to her, Hadrian was determined that everything should be perfect, down to the very last detail. He carried his best camera and tripod upstairs to the divan, and then spent some time arranging the scene, positioning pillows and draping fringed silk scarves, until it finally struck him that a simple backdrop would be best. One of the cardinal rules of photographic portraiture was that any props and scenery should enhance the subject, not distract from it. Looking as she did now, so lovely and so free made his heart both ache with longing for what could never be and swell with pride at how very far she'd come in just these few short weeks.

  Even so, he would keep the lighting subtle, soft, both to set her at ease and to show off to best advantage her lush curves and satiny skin. Accordingly, he went about the room turning up some lamps and turning down others, suffusing the chamber in a warm, smoky glow, then dragged over a pier glass and positioned it to the side to maximize the reflected light, all the while aware of Callie looking on.

  Once he was satisfied, he gestured for her to take her place on the divan. "Position yourself as feels natural to you."

  She came forward and sat, lifting her long legs onto the seat. Stretching out on her side, she paused and then draped one elegant arm over the furniture's serpentine back. Once she'd settled in, he made a few minor adjustments-- smoothing back a stray strand of hair, draping a colored scarf on the furniture back to achieve greater subject contrast, slipping one silky camisole strap down off her shoulder to expose that perfect curve of shoulder and high-sloped breast. Hating to leave her, he backed up to where the camera set on the stand, framing the shot in his mind's eye a
s well as between his open hands.

  She turned luminous eyes on to his face. "Is it all right?"

  He smiled at that. "I'd say it's a good deal better than all right. I wish you might see yourself now as I see you. You are beyond beautiful."

  Rather than argue as she would have done just a day or so ago, she smiled at him, a smile of such unadulterated brilliance that he felt warmed by it, not only his heart but the whole of him. Eyes alight and skin aglow, she met his gaze, the camera lens, without a hint of anxiety or hesitation. And then she did what he wouldn't have expected her to do and would never have dared request. She tented her left leg out from her body ever so slightly and slid a finger inside the open slit of her drawers.

  Slipping beneath the camera cloth, Hadrian felt as if the heat in the room had spiked several notches. Mouth dry and brow damp, he called out, "Are you sure?"

  Rather than answer, she began moving that finger slowly in and out, back and forth. Even peering through the camera's viewing screen and positioned several paces away, he couldn't possibly miss how slick she was, how ready, and how utterly sure of exactly what she was doing.

  Feeling the ache of desire weighing between his thighs, Hadrian cried out, "Hold," and yanked the striking cord down.

  Their idyll, no matter how sweet, couldn't go on indefinitely. When upon waking late the next morning Callie regretfully told him she had to get back--the march on Parliament overlapping with the suffrage bill's final reading the day after--Hadrian knew he couldn't put off telling her any longer. Coward though he was, he waited until they were in the hansom headed for Half Moon Street before breaking the news.

  For the sake of discretion, they sat in opposing seats though the urge to touch was strong enough to have them reaching across. Callie, gaze soft, gave his gloved hand a squeeze. "It was a good of you to see me home, but you needn't have, you know."

  Swallowing against the tightness at the back of his throat, he said, "Callie, I've something to tell you, something I should have told you days ago, weeks actually, only I couldn't find the proper time or the words."

  His serious tone had her sobering. Looking up from their joined hands, she said, "Very well, then. I'm listening."

  He hesitated. Just how to tell the woman you loved that you'd accepted money to destroy her? "Why didn't you ever tell me the man you were engaged to marry was Gerald Dandridge?" It was an inelegant beginning but a beginning all the same.

  She hesitated. Taking back her hand, she reached down to pull up the carriage blanket slipping off her knees. "No particular reason. I suppose I never gave his family all that much thought."

  "Unfortunately they have given you considerable thought, or at least his father, Josiah has."

  Frowning, she waved a dismissive hand in the air. "Josiah Dandridge is nothing but an old starched shirt, a Conservative from the old school who thinks women, like children, ought to be seen and not heard. The word is that his health is poor, that he means to retire before much longer and cede his seat to Gerald not that the latter will necessarily be any great improvement. At any rate, he has been one of the more vocal of our opponents, but I doubt there's anything personal behind it."

  "On the contrary, it is personal, Callie, personal indeed. You might even say it's a vendetta."

  That got her attention. "Hadrian, what are you saying?"

  Knowing the moment of truth was upon him, he steeled himself to say, "Josiah Dandridge paid a call to my shop three weeks ago just a few hours after you and I met by chance in Parliament Square." He reached across the seat, took both her hands in his. "Callie, you have to understand I was desperate, beyond desperate really. I'd got myself into a rare scrape, ran up a large debt at a gaming hell in Bow. The proprietor sent on two of his thugs to collect, but I hadn't anywhere close to the tin to repay him. I managed to wrangle another week's grace period but after that they'd be coming for me and when they did, they'd collect their debt in blood. I was at my wit's end as to what to do when Dandridge presented himself."

  She pulled her hands free of his and sat back against the seat. "What's any of this to do with me?"

  "Dandridge hates you Callie, personally because you cried off the engagement to his son and politically because of the power you wield in bringing the suffrage issue to the forefront of the public's conscience. He means to see you ruined, shamed to the point that you'd have no choice but to retire from public life entirely. But to create scandal on that par, he needs evidence, tangible evidence he can take to the Fleet Street press."

  "Such as a photograph, you mean?" She stared at him, expression not so much horrified as frozen . . . blank.

  He nodded. "He offered me five thousand pounds, a small fortune. To earn it, all I need do was deliver a compromising photograph of you into his hands before your bill came before Parliament a final time. He paid me money to ruin you, vanquish you as he likes to call it, and until a few days ago I'd agreed to go along with his scheme."

  Turning away from him, she flung open the carriage window. Icy air rushed the interior. She stuck her head out the opening and rapped sharp knuckles against the coach's lacquered side. "Driver, pull over just there. Stop, I say. Stop!"

  "But I can't just yet, miss," he called down from the box. "We're in terrible traffic, mind you."

  "Just do as I say." She pulled back inside and, a hand braced to the leather-covered wall, started to rise.

  Alarmed that she meant to leap out while they were moving, Hadrian reached and grabbed hold of her wrist. Pulling her back down into her seat, he said, "Callie, what the devil do you think you're about?"

  She jerked free as though his touch had scorched her. "Don't you dare lay a hand on me. Not now and not ever again."

  The coach lurched to a halt on the side of the road. Casting a quick look out the window, Hadrian saw they had just turned the corner onto Regent Street, still a fair distance from their destination.

  Seeing her eyeing the door handle, he moved to block her. "You never let me finish. I saw Dandridge the day before last and told him our deal was off."

  "Really, how noble of you. Was that before or after you fucked me, Mr. Stone?" He thought he'd prepared himself for her inevitable anger, but the venom in her voice stung more than he might have imagined.

  Hands shaking she opened her reticule and fumbled inside. Above them, the driver barked, "In or out, what's it to be?"

  "In," Hadrian shouted. To Callie, he said in a high whisper, "There's nothing to be gained by catching your death walking home in the cold. Calm yourself and let me see you home at least."

  Ignoring him, she called, "Out."

  She had the purse open now, a fistful of paper notes in hand. Without counting it out, she threw the money at Hadrian.

  He scarcely glanced at the bills scattered across his lap, the leather seat, and the dirty floor. "Callie, what the devil? I'll pay the fare, for God's sake." He tried to hand it back, but she only shook her head.

  "The money's not for the driver, it's for you, payment for your services of last night and the time before. If it's not enough, you've only to send your bill 'round with that of the other tradesmen."

  Stunned as much by her hard-eyed stare as her words, this time when she reached for the door handle, Hadrian didn't make a move to stop her.

  After Callie stalked off, Hadrian couldn't bear facing his empty flat, where the intimate signs and scents of her recent presence would be certain to haunt him. Instead he directed the disgruntled driver to one of his old haunts, a tavern at Mile End. Only there didn't seem to be enough gin in the world to make him drunk, let alone to cut the pain knifing through him. Callie as he'd last seen her, eyes bright with held-back tears and mouth trembling, haunted him no matter how many drinks he downed.

  Eventually he left and just started walking. With no particular destination in mind, he somehow found himself standing outside the entrance to the former Madame Dottie's, the brothel he'd once called home. Now that Sally ran the place, it had a far friendlier feel. Oh,
the infamous two-way mirrors were still there for those who fancied that sort of thing . . . but Sally saw to it her girls were well fed, decently clothed, and received the regular care of a physician. Anyone who wished to leave knew she might do so freely and without fear.

  He knocked on the door. Three sharp raps, the old signal. Wearing a peach-colored peignoir and with her hair still in curling papers, Sally answered it. "Why Harry, this is a surprise."

  He saw at once by her painted and powdered countenance that this was a working night and stepped back to go. "I shouldn't have come."

  She looked him up and down. "Whatever's the matter, love? You look like death warmed over and stink like a gin palace."

  Meeting that keen-eyed gaze, he knew there was no point in dissembling. "Oh hell, Sal, you might better ask me what could possibly be right."

  They bypassed the parlor with its plush velvet settee and satin-covered wing chairs, heading through the mirror-lined hallway to the kitchen, their respite when they were children.

  Sally poured two mugs of freshly brewed coffee, stirred in liberal quantities of sugar and cream, and handed one over to Hadrian. Taking her seat across the planked table from him, she said, "Out with it. I want to hear it all."

  Hadrian stared into the well of his mug and admitted, "I don't know where to begin."

  "At the beginning, of course, and then straight on through to what brings you here. It's Callie, isn't it?"

  He shook his head, not in denial but in defeat. "Oh Christ, Sally, I've ruined everything, any chance of making things right between us."

  "Why not let me be the judge of that? We women are a forgiving lot, you know."

  "Not this time. Were I in her shoes, I don't think I could ever forgive me for what I've done."