Vice

by Jane Feather

  “And the lawyer, sir?” Elizabeth walked to the door with him.

  “Instruct Copplethwaite to call upon me in Albermarle Street as soon as the contracts have been drawn up to your satisfaction,” he said. “I will then procure a special license. The marriage should take place without delay…. Oh, and reassure the child about the marriage, will you? I won’t have her believing I would play her false.”

  “I cannot imagine how she could have thought such a thing.” Elizabeth curtsied at the door.

  “Neither can I,” he responded aridly. “Good day, ma’am.” He bowed and strode down the stairs, leaving Elizabeth at the top, looking both thoughtful and annoyed, before she turned and made her way upstairs to Juliana’s chamber.

  Juliana had discarded her hoop and was struggling with the laces of her corset when Mistress Dennison entered. “You should summon Bella to help you,” Elizabeth said.

  “I am accustomed to looking after myself,” Juliana responded, gyrating impatiently as she tugged at a recalcitrant knot. It came undone, and with a sigh of relief she pulled the garment from her, tossing it onto the bed. “Did you wish to speak with me, ma’am?”

  “His Grace bids you remain in your chamber,” Elizabeth said.

  Juliana sat on the bed in her shift and underpetticoat. “Why?”

  “His Grace was most distressed that you should have heard tales of the marriage shops,” Mistress Dennison said. “He prefers that you hear no more of such nonsense.”

  “Oh?” Juliana raised an eyebrow. “So it’s nonsense, is it, ma’am? They were making it up?”

  “No,” Elizabeth responded. “It does happen, but girls who form contracts from this house are in no danger of such a deception. And His Grace of Redmayne is a man of honor.”

  “Pshaw!” Juliana declared disgustedly. “What he’s proposing is hardly honorable, ma’am.”

  “Oh, I despair of you, girl.” Elizabeth threw up her hands. “I won’t argue with you further. Do I have your word that you’ll remain in this room until His Grace returns? Or must I turn the key?”

  “I’ll not leave,” Juliana said, falling back onto the bed and closing her eyes. “It makes no difference to me whether you lock me in or not. I’m a prisoner either way.”

  Elizabeth snorted and marched out, closing the door with a snap behind her.

  As she lay on the bed, Juliana conjured up the image of the Duke of Redmayne. He was a powerful man, one clearly accustomed to getting his own way in everything. And he’d made it clear from the very beginning that he intended to have his own way in this.

  She wondered how she would have reacted if he’d put the proposition to her in another way. If he’d asked her if she’d agree to it instead of threatening blackmail from the first moment.

  If it had been put to her differently, she might have found the proposition almost enticing. If it had been suggested as a partnership that benefited them both, she might well have considered it. It could be no worse a fate than lying night after night beneath John Ridge, bearing his children….

  Unconsciously, she moved her hands over her body outlined beneath the thin shift. That strange effervescence was coursing through her again. A jubilant, exhilarated sense of anticipation. The Duke of Redmayne was an arrogant tyrant, but when he touched her, her body took off on some weird flight of fancy over which her mind had no control. She could enjoy that, if she decided to. She could enjoy the Duke of Redmayne, if she decided to. But she didn’t have to let him know that.

  A slow smile curved her mouth.

  After Juliana’s solitary dinner Bella came in, her habitual beam on her round face. “Mistress sent ye up a right pretty chamber robe, miss.” She shook out the delicate cambric folds of a white lace-trimmed wrapper. “Shall you put it on?”

  Juliana took the garment from her. It was an exquisite froth of lace and ruffles, embroidered with tiny cream daisies. Another of the duke’s sartorial inspirations?

  “It’s for when the duke visits ye,” Bella said, confirming this unspoken assumption. “I’m to ’elp you get ready for im.

  “Now?” Despite her earlier resolutions, Juliana’s blood began to speed and her heart banged against her ribs. It was too soon. She wasn’t prepared.

  “’Is Grace will be along after tea,” Bella said. “Mistress said as ’ow I was to show ye about perfume an’ what kind of refreshments the gentlemen like.” She put a small vial on the dresser. “We jest dabs this be’ind yer ears, and knees, an’ between yer breasts. Some gentlemen care fer it in other places, too, but I daresay ’Is Grace will tell you what ’e wants. They usually does.” She smiled and nodded reassuringly. “Miss Rosamund ’ad a gentleman once what liked it between ’er toes. He liked to suck ’em.” Bella giggled. “She said it tickled summat chronic. But she couldn’t laugh in case ’e got upset.”

  Bella matter-of-factly began to remove Juliana’s shift and petticoat. Juliana was for the moment speechless as she absorbed the maid’s informative chatter. She’d heard similar discussions about adorning a prize pig for auction at the summer fair.

  “I wonder if ’n we should put a little rouge on yer nipples,” Bella mused. “I don’t know as ’ow ’Is Grace would like it. Lots of ’em do.” She poured hot water into the basin and dipped a washcloth in. “I’ll jest wash ye a bit. Freshen ye up a bit. Very fussy Mistress Dennison is about cleanliness in this ’ouse. We don’t ’ave no need of mercury treatments or Dr. Leakey’s pills ’ere.”

  “What are they for?” Juliana was prompted out of her stunned silence by this.

  “For the clap a’course,” Bella said in surprise. “Don’t ye know about the pox?”

  “Not intimately,” Juliana said aridly. “But I imagine it’s an occupational hazard, like the cart’s arse and Bridewell.”

  The sarcasm missed Bella completely as she plied the washcloth over Juliana’s naked body. “Oh, our ladies don’t worry about that, miss,” she said. “This is a respectable ’ouse. Only the best customers and the freshest pieces. We don’t dabble in the market. Don’t get no raids ’ere.”

  “You relieve my mind.” Juliana gave herself up to Bella’s attentions. The girl clearly knew what she was about when it came to preparing a harlot for a customer. She patted Juliana dry, then dabbed perfume behind her ears, at her throat, on her wrists, and behind her knees.

  “What about the rouge, then, miss?” Bella opened an alabaster pot and dipped a finger in. “Jest a touch.” Her finger approached Juliana’s breast.

  Juliana jumped back. “No,” she said, revolted. “There are some things I’ll endure, but that’s not one of them.”

  Bella looked disappointed, but she wiped her finger clean on the washcloth. “What about paintin’ yer toenails? Lots of the gentlemen likes that.”

  “No,” Juliana declared. “No paint, no powder, no rouge. Just pass me that robe.”

  Bella hastened to fetch the chamber robe and slipped it over Juliana’s shoulders. It fell in soft folds to her bare feet, caressing her sweetly fragrant skin. Bella fastened the fringed embroidered girdle at her waist and adjusted the high ruffled neckline.

  “Oh, that’s so demure, miss,”. she said in awe. “Doesn’t show nothin’ of you at all. I wonder what ’Is Grace fancies, then? Some men like the girls to dress as schoolgirls … and that Lord Tartleton likes ’em dressed like a nun.” She shook her head wisely. “None so strange as gentlemen.”

  Juliana examined herself in the mirror. Demure was certainly the word, and yet not quite. The material was so fine that her skin glowed pink beneath, and when she moved, the gown flowed over her, revealing the shapes and shadows of her body. It was a most seductive garment.

  Lord of hell, she was beginning to think like a whore! She took several steps around the room, feeling the sensuous swish of the robe, inhaling her scent as her skin warmed the fragrance. A bud of excitement grew in her belly, little rivulets of fire darting into her loins.

  “Yer ’air, miss.” Bella flourished the hairbrush.
“I’ll brush it fer you.”

  Juliana sat down on the ottoman, her head drooping beneath Bella’s strong, rhythmic strokes. Her hair crackled, springing out from beneath the brush with a life of its own. It seemed to fill the room with color. She watched in the mirror as the candle’s glow caught each vibrant strand.

  “Will I thread the ribbon through it?” Bella laid down the brush and took up an ivory silk ribbon. Juliana nodded. She hadn’t the will to make small, pointless gestures of independence tonight. They could prepare her for the duke’s bed however they thought best. She had enough to do with mental preparation.

  She watched as Bella fastened the ribbon around her forehead so that her hair was caught and held at the top but poured out in a river of fire beneath, framing her face and cascading onto the white cambric of her robe. “I look like some virgin shepherdess,” she murmured. For some reason the thought set her eyes alight with the excitement that was blooming in her belly.

  “All innocent like,” Bella agreed. “I expect that’s what ’Is Grace fancies this evening.”

  “Do the gentlemen always make their preferences known beforehand?”

  “Not always.” Bella began to tidy up the dresser. “Sometimes the ladies ’ave to change all of a sudden like, if a gentleman ’as a change of fancy. I ’elps them, then. Me an’ Minnie.” She gathered up the basin, ewer, and washcloth. “I’ll get rid of these, miss. Then I’ll bring in the refreshments.”

  Juliana went to the window after the maid had bustled out. Dusk was falling, and the riotous sounds from the Piazza came clear on the still and sultry air. There was music, a fife and drums, rising above the general cacophony. In the street below a blind harpist sat on a box, plucking his strings mournfully in competition with a shoeblack who was hailing potential customers in a shrill singsong.

  She was watching for the Duke of Redmayne. But even as she watched, she wondered if perhaps he was already in the house. The door knocker had been sounding for the last hour, and the customary evening buzz was in the air. Hurried footsteps, giggles, rushed whispers, came from outside her door as the girls returned to their chambers for some minor repair. She hadn’t yet heard a male voice, but presumably they were still drinking tea and conversing in the drawing room as if this mansion on Russell Street was a conventional, fashionable household.

  “’Ere we are, then.” Bella staggered in under the weight of a laden tray. She was followed by a flunky bearing a tray with bottles and glasses. He set the tray on a low table before the empty grate and studiously avoided looking at Juliana in her robe of seduction. Presumably that was a rule of the house, she thought. He turned and left, again without acknowledgment, and Bella began to lay out covered dishes on the table.

  “Now, ’Is Grace is partial to the claret,” she instructed. “It’s the right year, Mr. Garston says, so we won’t ’ave to worry about that. Now, there’s lemonade for you. The girls don’t usually drink when they ’ave a gentleman. But there’s a wine glass if the duke wants ye to join ’im.” She examined the table, tapping her finger against her teeth. “Now, there’s lobster patties, an’ a little salad of sparrow-grass. ’Is Grace is right partial to sparrowgrass, dressed with a little oil an’ vinegar.”

  Juliana was not particularly fond of asparagus, and lobster brought her out in spots, but of course her own wishes were of no importance. There was also a bowl of strawberries and a basket of sweetmeats that in other circumstances might have enticed her; however, she was feeling too sick with nerves to contemplate eating anything.

  “Now, is that everything?” Bella counted on her fingers as she inspected the room in minute detail. “There’s fresh ’ot water in the jug on the washstand. Should I turn down the bed, or will ye do it, miss? It’s ’ard to know what’d be best. Some gentlemen likes to feel that they’re bein’ seduced and don’t want to come into the room and see it all ready, like. But others don’t care to waste time.”

  “Leave it as it is,” Juliana said, knowing that she could not sit and wait for the duke beside a turned-down bed.

  “Right y’are then.” Bella took one last look at Juliana, made a final adjustment to a ruffle at the sleeve of the white robe, then dropped a little curtsy. “If ye needs anythin’, miss, jest pull the bell. I’ll knock ’afore I comes in.”

  “Thank you, Bella.” Juliana managed a smile.

  “A’course I’ll come to ye as soon as ’Is Grace leaves.” The girl stood with her hand on the door. “Ye’ll be wantin’ a salt bath then, I daresay, bein’ a maid an’ all. An’ I expect ye’ll be glad of a mug of’ot milk an’ rum.” With a quick smile she whisked herself out of the room, closing the door behind her.

  Juliana stood in the middle of the chamber, arms crossed convulsively over her breasts. A salt bath! So matter-of-fact. How many virgins had Bella prepared for the loss of their maidenheads? And then it occurred to her that losing one’s virginity in this knowledgeable, comforting, female-centered house was infinitely preferable to being bedded to Sir John Ridge, carried to the bridal chamber amid a chorus of obscene jokes from drunken male wedding guests who had abandoned her to her fate at the chamber door. She’d known very little about what was in store for her. Lady Forsett had not thought fit to prepare her husband’s ward for her wedding night. She knew a little more now, but not much.

  The door opened as she stood there. Her hands fell to her sides, sweat trickling down her rib cage. The Duke of Redmayne quietly closed the door behind him. He turned to Juliana. His gray gaze held hers for a minute in the charged silence, then drifted slowly down her body. He smiled and stepped lightly toward her.

  Chapter 9

  Good,” Tarquin said, taking her hands. “I’m glad to see you’re not using paint or rouge. I forgot to tell Mistress Dennison that I don’t care for it … or at least,” he added, “not on you.” He stepped away from her, still holding her hands, and scrutinized her appearance again.

  “You’re very specific about your preferences, my lord duke.” Juliana’s voice was low and flat as she tried to hide the rush of heat that suffused her skin at his narrow-eyed inspection.

  “No more than most men,” he said carelessly. “My preferences change from time to time, as I’m sure you’ll discover.”

  “I trust I’ll learn my duties quickly enough to please you, my lord duke.” She dropped her eyes, knowing that they were blazing with impotent fury.

  Tarquin caught her chin between finger and thumb and obliged her to lift her face. He chuckled. “You look ready to consign me to the fires of hell, mignonne”

  “Unfortunately, I have no pitchfork,” she snapped, unable to resist.

  “Did I offend you? I beg your pardon,” he said with such an abrupt change of tone and manner that Juliana was completely thrown off balance. And before she could recover herself, he had kissed her. A delicate, featherlike brush of his lips on hers that brought goose bumps pricking on her skin.

  “I can be a little imperious on occasion,” Tarquin said gravely, caressing her cheek with a fingertip. “It’s a consequence of my upbringing, I’m afraid. But I give you leave to take me to task at the right moment.”

  “And when would that be?”

  “Times such as this. When we’re private and engaged in …” He raised a quizzical eyebrow. “In intimate conversation.” He continued to stroke her cheek, and insensibly she began to relax, the lines of her face softening, her mouth parting, her eyes losing their fierceness.

  When he felt the change in her, Tarquin released her chin with a smile. He left her in the middle of the room and went to pour himself a glass of wine. “Do you care for claret, Juliana?”

  “Yes, please.” Maybe the members of the Dennisons’ seraglio were supposed to eschew alcohol during their working hours, but Juliana felt the need of Dutch courage. She took the glass he handed her and gulped down the contents.

  With a slight frown, Tarquin took the empty glass from her and placed it on the table. “Are you frightened, mignonne?”

&nb
sp; “No.” But her hands were twisting themselves into impossible knots against the skirt of the robe.

  He leaned back against the table, sipping his claret, his eyes seeing right through the brave denial. “Tell me what happened on your wedding night.”

  Juliana blinked. “You mean apart from nearly suffocating and then hitting my husband with a hot warming pan and killing him?”

  “Yes, apart from that.”

  “Why do you wish to know?”

  “I would like to understand certain things,” he said. “Did your husband touch you in the ways of love? Did he arouse you in any way?”

  Juliana just shook her head. Sir John had simply fallen upon her on the bed.

  “Were you naked?”

  She nodded.

  “So you know what a man’s body feels like? You know what it looks like?” He was asking the questions with an almost clinical detachment.

  “I know what it feels like to be almost suffocated,” she declared. In truth she could remember little else of that dreadful half hour. John’s body had been a great mass of sweating flesh pressing her into the bed, striving and struggling to do something that she knew he hadn’t succeeded in doing.

  Tarquin nodded. “Then let’s assume that you know nothing at all.” He set his glass down and hooked the ottoman toward him with one foot. Sitting down, he beckoned her.

  Juliana approached tentatively.

  The duke drew her between his knees and, with a leisurely movement, untied the girdle at her waist. The robe fell open, and he drew the sides farther apart so he could look upon her body. Juliana shivered. He put his hands on her. They were warm and hard and assured. She stood, his knees pressing against her thighs, her skin alternately hot and icy cold as his hands moved over her hips; his thumbs traced the sharp outline of her hipbones; his breath was warm on her belly. His hands spanned her waist, slipped up over her rib cage, gently cupped her breasts.