The Surrender of a Lady

by Tiffany Clare

  Was it perhaps because she felt safe here? Because she knew her son was safe in this wanton world of sex, scandal, and strange proclivities unfathomable to her as of yet?

  Coming to terms with this life felt good in her soul. She’d been unleashed from her old restrictive life and felt a strange freedom of her senses, heart, and mind.

  Now she was and would forever be Jinan.

  Ironically, this was paradise.

  Her paradise.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Recognition and Vulnerability

  1846

  Isle of Corfu

  She should have no qualms about such an innocent act. Her modesty had been stripped from her long ago, and the marble dais was not unfamiliar to her. She stood up here once a year. But she still hated looking down at her bidders like the great whore of Babylon. The most irksome thing about taking her place up here was she couldn’t wear anything aside from her jewelry and veil.

  Who would purchase her favors today?

  Jinan leaned toward her harem sister, who stood on the floor beside the dais. “Asbury talked with me earlier. As interested as he is in spending time with me, he seems to lose at every auction. Do you think he’ll try again?”

  “I’ve got my eye on Asbury, Jinan. Don’t you think of stealing his attentions.” Sana rolled her eyes and snorted under her breath, whispering, “He can’t afford you. Maybe when you’re saggy, wrinkled, and gray.”

  Jinan gave a deep laugh and shook her head; her dark hair, which hung in loose waves, tickled her backside. The small coins that edged her veil clinked together with the movement. She searched out Asbury. “Where is he, Sana? He arrived with another gentleman. I didn’t see his friend, did you?”

  “I don’t know who he is. But I’d love for him to play some games with me.” Sana stood on tiptoe and pointed to the outskirts of the room. “Handsome as the devil. But you won’t see him clearly, he’s too far off.”

  Jinan followed her sister’s finger. Sana was right; all she saw was Asbury’s outline. He turned from the man shadowed by the arched pillars and strode toward the podium. Asbury was a young tradesman with a long, thin nose that didn’t quite suit his face, but handsome enough that it wouldn’t repulse her to spend time in his company.

  As Asbury came closer, his gaze became more pensive. He would bid on her today; she could tell by the stance he took with his finger and thumb worrying his chin. It was in the way he studied her from head to toe, already imagining what he’d do to her once they were alone. He wasn’t her first choice among the men here, but he wasn’t the worst option, either.

  He looked over Sana, then turned back to her. “Looking ripe as usual, my pretty doves.”

  Jinan cocked one brow. “Yes, but the question is whether or not you’re interested enough to pay handsomely for our time?”

  “I’d be more than happy to lord over you, princess.”

  “I don’t think you’ll be testing her wares for a while yet,” Count Villieux called out, “you old goat.”

  Asbury whirled on his heel to glare at the younger man. Really, they couldn’t be more than a few years apart. “Have some respect. And pull yourself together before talking to your betters, you French swine.” There wasn’t much venom to his words. The count laughed and continued his ministrations to Maram.

  Maram was staked to Count Villieux’s groin. His jaw was squared, eyes clouded with lust, as his concentration slid back to his mistress. His hands grasped her hips, moving his rigid length within her as she leaned forward on her elbows. Maram smiled up at the podium and winked.

  Jinan shook her head and winked back. The more she flirted with everyone around her, the more the patrons would pay. The more they paid, the more Amir would tuck away for her son.

  Other men watched the auction with lovers in their laps as well. Some embraced rather provocatively, uncaring of the greater audience, others were more modest—relatively modest for such a debauched setting. Asbury found a divan close by and crossed his ankle over his knee as he settled in, waiting for the proceedings to start.

  The chairs and divans stretched out before her were filled with the evening’s pleasure seekers. Bold colors were brazenly displayed in the bolsters and throws. Animal furs cushioned the floor near the furniture; rich Turkish carpets covered the rest of the floor in various shades of reds, oranges, and browns in the center. The lively colors incited the lustiness of the patrons currently in coitus. Her first time in this room she’d thought the welcome ironic—a showy, gilded prison for the harem girls.

  Now the flashiness was just another facet of the place she considered her home.

  The room boasted a great domed ceiling with holes pierced through the roof allowing daylight to shine through. Three eunuchs blocked the only door that led to the outer palace, and scimitars flashed at their waists in warning to any man who thought to take more liberties than tolerable. The only persons permitted through that door were Amir and the gentlemen who purchased the girls’ favors. She had no desire to leave through that door, except to perhaps see the rest of the palace. She’d been content staying in the harem quarters. The eunuchs were no threat to her—not to any of the girls—only to the patrons who did not abide by Amir’s rules.

  Through the clamor of chatter, grunts and groans sounded from the pleasure alcoves, which were off to either side of the room. Silk hangings covered what took place behind, but did not stifle the sound. Not all the lords were interested in publicly displaying their libidinous acts.

  She could hear the laughter of her sisters as they flirted with the lords.

  She looked down on the melee of debauchery around her.

  Even after all these years, she still had the urge to cover her body from the men’s carnal perusal. Her hair only covered her backside. Her ankles and wrists were adorned with thick gold bracelets to complement her golden skin tone. Her hands were henna-covered in the ancient designs Laila painted on her every few months. Black kohl lined her eyes to lend them a mysterious seductive quality. Her high cheekbones, eyes, and forehead were the only parts of her face exposed. The veil covered the tip of her nose to her chin as part of her ethereal disguise.

  At least there was no touching while she stood up here. A small relief, but a relief nonetheless. She needed no reminders of her days in the slave market—the days before Amir had rescued her and given her son a second chance at life.

  There looked to be some thirty men here tonight.

  Lord Somerset, a widowed earl in his late forties, leaned forward on the divan with Laila behind him. His face was flushed, his paunch revealing a taste for things other than women. Laila’s hands were busy massaging his fat shoulders, but he was looking at the auction block with a keen eye. He was quick about rutting, then falling into slumber. She didn’t want to amuse him again, he was worse than a sweating, grunting pig above her.

  Amir spoke with the Russian in regalia next to him. Amir had his newest acquisition sitting in front of him between his opened knees with her legs tucked under her on a jaguar-skin rug. Amir’s hands never ceased caressing his Italian beauty’s breasts, bared to all.

  Jinan remembered when she had been in that position—so long ago. She missed pleasing only one man, only having to warm one man’s bed. She sighed and looked away since she couldn’t catch his eye.

  Sana leaned in closer to her, seeing where Jinan’s gaze focused. “The man he talks to came in with Chekhov. I think he’s negotiated to purchase Aysun for the next two moons.”

  Jinan twisted the gold filigree around her wrists, making the bracelets jingle together.

  The harem girls were not oblivious to the dealings of the men around them. Amir spoke freely with them, so they understood how profits were made, for the money was to everyone’s benefit. Some men preferred to settle their fees in advance.

  A gentleman she didn’t know walked around her pedestal and Sana, looking back and forth between them with equal fervor in his dark irises. She hated to look into the eyes of her bidde
rs—too much of their intentions could be read there. But it was better to know their intent than to remain naïve.

  This one wore a cruel expression, his face set in what looked like a permanent grimace, eyes troubled. She could see the promise of harsh enslavement with a leaning toward dark sexual acts in that gaze—something she was known to accommodate, because she felt nothing for these men, no matter how they treated her. He’d bid, too. She shivered in revulsion.

  She preferred the most common expression worn by the lords—carnal hunger—such as the way Villieux eyed all his mistresses. Such as the way her old Russian lover, Chekhov, devoured her with his gaze. His finger ran along the floor of the podium, carefully abiding by the house rule of no touching those who were being auctioned. It was a paid privilege to touch those who stood where she stood now. She gave him a doe-eyed innocent look.

  “You are interested this evening?”

  “Yes,” Chekhov said in thickly accented Persian, the common language in the harem. “But I’ve no time to play, my beauty. I’ve brought a friend to find company. I head out when the evening concludes.”

  “Next time, then.”

  “Yes.” He turned toward Sana. “And do you go to auction? Or will you be the house plaything tonight?”

  “No auction for me. Do you wish my company?” Sana wrapped her finger through the button on Checkhov’s vest, leaning forward so her breasts grazed his raised arm.

  He grasped her by the buttocks and pulled her into his groin. “Let’s find a pleasure alcove, my dark beauty.”

  Jinan gave a snort. Chekhov’s type was the most harmless here. The women might not live in fear for their lives day to day, but this wasn’t an existence Jinan would wish on anyone.

  She exhaled noisily, pushing out her veil with the puff. She tried to ignore the swarm of eager men at her feet.

  The man who’d been talking with Asbury earlier walked toward her. He looked familiar from this distance, his blond hair a bit too long to be fashionable. Not that she knew what fashionable was anymore locked inside the palace walls.

  Her breath hitched in surprise, and she froze, her fingers clenching the bracelet she’d been twisting. Her heart gave a great leap in her chest. She narrowed her gaze, bringing him into focus. It couldn’t be him, could it?

  Oh, it was definitely him.

  A man she’d never expected to see again. A man from her youth. A man, really, from another life altogether. Her breath caught, and all she thought—all she hoped—was that he did not recognize her. She mentally chastised the absurdity of her thoughts. Why should he recognize her? They had spent only a few weeks in each other’s company. Their laughter and budding love all those years ago under a darkened sky were too distant to hold on to. Besides, what kind of man proposed to a woman he professed to have feelings for, only to leave the next day? She doubted he would remember her. Especially in a place like this.

  Without the cover of clothes, her dark skin tone labeled her anything but English. Her areolas were painted a medium brown, her skin a deep bronze aided by the sun in the gardens. She’d taken her mother’s Spanish coloring, and right now, more than ever, she was thankful for the exotic look that had always made her unfashionable in English drawing rooms. With her altered accent and natural Persian tongue, he would never place her as English.

  The Marquess of Rothburn stared thoughtfully up at her. He didn’t study her nude body or stare at her breasts with their hennaed areolas and her painted naked mound as others had. He stared directly into her eyes. Those brandy-colored depths assessed her as his dark blond brows drew together in deliberation.

  Lord Rothburn had aged well; he must be thirty, now. His shoulders were wider and sturdier than she remembered, his waist trim, legs firm beneath tight trousers. After her perusal, something she rarely indulged in, she raised her eyes and stared back.

  His lips thinned slightly. Did he try to place her as he studied her?

  Cocking her hip to the side, she curved her palm around it to draw his eye. His gaze dropped and she breathed a sigh of relief when he turned and walked away, leaning against one of the pillars at the edge of the room. This time she could see him at a distance.

  Jinan couldn’t look at any of the other prospective buyers after seeing him. Lord Rothburn wasn’t the first man she’d recognized over the years, but he was the first man she’d fawned over—dare she say felt the first tingling of love?—as a young girl. What a foolish girl she’d been, to think he’d follow through on his offer of marriage. Yet to see him now . . .

  It was humiliating to stand before him as if she were some sacrificial lamb.

  She was being silly, of course. He would never recognize her, let alone remember her. She caught Villieux’s eye and held it in silent plea. She prayed he won her favors tonight. If Rothburn did . . . it didn’t bear thinking.

  Harry Chisholm finally came into the room, the click of his shoes echoing. He tapped his little stick to the marble dais to call attention to the auction.

  “The auction commences now. Gentlemen”—he pointed toward her—“some of you are familiar with the exotic and most luscious Jinan. You’ll find this Turkish princess most compliant for anything you wish to play. She’s trained in the darker games of submission should you so fancy. Bidding to start at a thousand pounds.”

  That amount was low, but it would buy any one of these men a week of her undivided attention. The price would climb, of course. It was always interesting to see how much profit she’d bring in for Amir. A profit that would help pay for her son’s education. Amir had promised that her son would live outside the harem with enough riches to support him when he was ready to leave.

  Asbury nodded, taking the opening bid.

  The man with the harsh gaze stepped forward. “Two thousand.”

  “Three.” This from another gentleman she didn’t know.

  “Five,” from Villieux. She exhaled in relief. He had a voracious appetite she was more than willing to appease if it meant escaping Rothburn.

  “Seven.”

  “Eight and a half.” Asbury was at his limit, his face red with anger at losing her to another yet again. She wondered if he would ever win her favors.

  Villieux looked insulted by the drop in bid increments and bumped out Asbury. “Ten.” They often bid against each other, since they shared the same taste in women.

  All was quiet. A good price. Spending the next month and some with Villieux was no hardship. He was a considerate lover.

  Maybe Rothburn hadn’t recognized her.

  All eyes were now on Mr. Chisholm. “Excellent. Well, then, gentle—”

  “Twenty thousand.”

  Heads turned away from the auctioneer and toward the deep voice. Jinan could have sworn she heard a hiss from Asbury’s direction. But she wasn’t looking at him. She was looking at the pillars straight ahead. Jinan didn’t need to see the man who had bid the outrageous sum. She remembered his voice, the deep baritone that had had many a woman swooning in her ballroom days.

  Intention impossible to decipher from his blank, unemotional look, Lord Rothburn stepped forward. Jinan’s gaze slammed into his. If she were the fainting type, now would be the ideal time. A shame that she wasn’t. How could she lie with this man? There was no bidding price great enough to make up for a broken heart. Because she well knew, the cost of lying with him was her heart.

  The smoldering stare he gave her could not be defined. It could have been a look of sexual appetite, annoyance, or anger. Perhaps it meant nothing at all. She bit her lip, knowing her display of nervousness was hidden beneath the veil. The knowledge of being purchased by him roiled uncomfortably through her body, right down to the pit of her churning stomach.

  Jinan turned to look at Mr. Chisholm with a silent question in the curious scrunch of her brow. What is this about?

  Mr. Chisholm gave his usual sneer—lifting the right side of his mouth—jolting her understanding. This deal was done long before she stood upon the dais.

 
; Strange, she hadn’t seen Lord Rothburn before now. When had he ever laid eyes upon her? And after he’d had such a short perusal of her person tonight, had recognition had time to settle in? Impossible. She was thinking too hard and took a deep breath to clear her head.

  It didn’t help. It made her more nervous.

  What more could he want than to taste the olive-skinned princess? One he would never dare enjoy among his own kind.

  The distance between them shortened faster than she was prepared for. She searched her inner thoughts for a memory of any man who was as remotely closed off in emotion as his lordship seemed. There must be some chink in his exterior, into the shield blinding her to his true intent. Did he know who she was? It was disconcerting, to say the least, and more than a little alarming that she did not know how to deal with this man, for fear of revealing her true identity.

  Her hand clutched feebly at the air before she stilled her obvious unease and fisted her hands at her sides. He stood but a handspan away. His attention was not on Mr. Chisholm but her.

  For how long would she amuse this man? Jinan, the “Whore of Paradise,” was a favorite of these lords. How long did Amir expect her to keep Lord Rothburn company?

  How terrible to be put in such a predicament. To be fair, it wasn’t as though Amir knew the whole of her past . . . her prior association with this particular lord.

  No use dwelling on it now. She made too much out of nothing. Any one of her sisters could have caught this man’s attention. His being here was happenstance, not qismet, as the Turks said. All Amir did was sell her well, probably highlighting her carnal abilities with an explicitness that made even the most salacious lord blush while bargaining.

  She would treat this lord as she did all others. And keep him at arm’s length from her heart.

  This was like any transaction of human flesh that went on within the Pleasure Gardens. Jinan—not Elena, since she no longer associated herself with her past—would give Lord Rothburn his sterlings’ worth and play the dark, exotic princess he craved.