Once a Courtesan (Once Wicked Book 2)

by Liana Lefey

  His tongue cleaved to the roof of his mouth, and it was several heartbeats before he could manage speech. “Most people would have been broken by what you endured, but you’ve taken it and turned it for the good. You are the most courageous person I’ve ever met.”

  Color bloomed high in her cheeks. “If you wish someone to admire, let it be the one who saved me. Without him, I would not be here.”

  “He may have saved your life, but you chose this path,” he insisted. “I cannot imagine anything nobler.”

  Silence fell, relieved only by the ticking of the clock on the mantel—and the blood rushing in his ears. The sight of her bowed head elicited a strange, crushing sensation in his chest. He wanted to comfort her, but knew not the words. He had to settle for offering her his kerchief.

  Her fingers shook as she pressed it against her eyes, and he knew then how much this conversation had cost her. The pain in his chest intensified until it was almost unbearable. “Forgive me,” he whispered, the heat of shame creeping up from beneath his collar to sear his face. “I’ve caused you—”

  “To look at my life from a new perspective?” Looking up, she offered him a watery laugh. “To understand that rejection and ridicule are not necessarily all that await me beyond these walls? My faith in humanity is far from restored, but you give me hope that perhaps there are more good people out there than bad.”

  The sight of her shaking lips making a valiant effort to smile tore at his conscience. Don’t look to me for an example of what is good! He wanted to shout it, to dash her hope to pieces, to ensure she remained safe in the shelter of the little world she’d built around herself.

  Until coming here, his life had been nothing but battle after battle against darkness and evil, against the worst humanity had to offer. And it had left its mark on his soul just as surely as it had left those marks on her wrists.

  He’d done terrible things in the course of executing his duty. Granted, they’d been necessary, but God help him—he’d occasionally enjoyed meting out punishment on the guilty. There were times he’d even hoped a collar would be difficult just so he could exact a measure of retribution on behalf of the victim. If she knew, she’d never look at him with such trust and warmth.

  She deserves better.

  Shame sealed his lips, so he grunted a response, hoping it would be enough to appease her.

  Chapter Ten

  Jacqueline marveled at her sudden lightness of heart. Here was a good man. I daresay as good as Lord Tavistoke…

  There had been neither disgust nor judgment in his eyes when he’d looked at her wrists. The idea that her scars might not matter to him elicited a rush of warmth throughout her entire body that had nothing to do with the fire blazing in the grate.

  Except, my scars are not restricted to my wrists.

  The thought was a dash of ice water down her whip-marked back, calling a quick return to reality. Longing for the impossible was a path ending in misery. Despite knowing it, part of her still harbored a tiny spark of joy—and want.

  Stop it this instant!

  Reaching out, she took his empty teacup and saucer and placed them back on the tray. “The hour is late, and you should be getting home.” His eyes reflected surprise at her sudden change of demeanor, and she bit back a curse, gentling her tone. “Mrs. Hayton will worry if you are not home by nightfall.” And so will I.

  “Yes, of course,” he said, looking away.

  “Penny should be ready for full integration within a week,” she said as she picked up the tray. “I can keep you informed of her progress daily, if you like.”

  “I would indeed. Thank you again, Headmistress.”

  “It’s nothing. I do the same for all of my teachers.”

  “I meant for trusting me.”

  Heat unfurled in her belly at what she saw in his deep blue eyes. “Oh. Yes, of course. Well, one must begin somewhere. Good night, Monsieur Woodson. I bid you a safe journey home.”

  “Good night, Headmistress.”

  She swore she could feel his gaze settle right between her shoulder blades as she turned to go. The pulse throbbing in her veins quickened, and it was all she could do not to run. What in heaven’s name is the matter with me?

  That night, she dreamed—of the solidity of Monsieur Woodson’s chest when she’d brushed against him to give him the faire la bise. Of the surprisingly hard shoulders beneath the wool of his coat. Of the faint rasp of stubble against her cheeks and lips. Of the heat of his skin.

  This time when she awakened in the dark, there was no fear-sweat, no scream in her throat. Only the pounding of her heart in her own ears and a hollow ache she’d never expected to feel again.

  Desire.

  In the darkness, a faint gleam caught her eye. It was her wrapper, draped over the bedpost. The image of a smiling, golden-haired man holding up a white gown flashed in her mind’s eye, and Jacqueline’s innards knotted. A wave of nausea swept over her, followed by a scalding rush of anger.

  Desire was the root of all her troubles and the author of her worst nightmares!

  Not everything she’d told Monsieur Woodson was a lie. Fresh from France, she’d been targeted immediately by London’s worst. The man at the inn who’d robbed her of her coin. The crone lurking in the street outside who’d referred her to Madame Boucher, a kindly woman who helps girls in situations like yours.

  Boucher. Ice crept through her veins. Monsters were real. They wore human flesh and looked out from behind the eyes of seemingly benign people. You passed them on the street every day, never knowing they’d marked you as prey until it was too late.

  Try as she might, she hadn’t been able to find honest work. Despite her good manners and perfect French, the Quality wouldn’t hire her without references. Her looks, which she’d thought an advantage, had turned out not to be in her favor. One prospective employer was blunt enough to tell her she was too pretty to be in the same house with her husband.

  In the end, she’d had little choice but to seek out Boucher. Working at a brothel would at least guarantee food, shelter, and better protection than she’d have selling her body on London’s streets alone.

  Or so she’d thought.

  You’re beautiful and unspoiled, Boucher had said after her physician had verified the latter. Far too good for a brothel whore. I’ve plenty of those upstairs. Once we put some flesh back on those bones, you, my dear, are destined for better. Destined to become a courtesan, mistress to a wealthy man willing to pay dearly for the privilege of taking her maidenhead and retaining exclusive rights to her favors.

  Jacqueline recalled thinking fortune had smiled on her at last, that it was better to lie in sin with only one man than countless, unwashed beasts. She couldn’t have been more wrong. Charming and handsome, Lord Fairford had seemed like a prince from a fairy tale. He’d garbed her in white, put her in his carriage, and whisked her away.

  Presented with rich food, beautiful clothes, and a houseful of servants to see to her every need, she’d thought herself the luckiest of women. Alone in his bedchamber that night, he’d draped ropes of pearls about her neck, following with soft kisses that had stirred a fire in her she’d never felt before.

  As expected, their first intimate encounter had been accompanied by pain—but there’d been pleasure, as well. Three weeks of impassioned lovemaking and gentle words was all it had taken to convince her they were in love and compel her to bare her heart. He’d kissed her and called her his beloved. Her heart had soared, borne on the wings of first love.

  The next night saw the fairy tale’s end.

  Light and painless at first, he’d called it “a bit of play.” Although shocked, she’d cooperated. She’d heard whispers about men who played such games. But within days the intensity of his “punishments” had increased until it was no longer a game and there was no pleasure in it.

  Her first attempt to resist him had marked the end of the charade. All thoughts of love had been quickly crushed by nights spent lying bound an
d gagged without a drop of water to soothe her parched throat while he violated and abused her in every way, venting his monstrous rage and lust upon her flesh.

  Hate swelled within her as her gaze again settled on the wrapper. Every night with him had begun with a pristine, white gown. And every night had ended with crimson stains upon it. She flexed her shoulders to ease the prickling between them. Scar tissue crisscrossing her back resisted the stretch, pulling tight.

  No one had helped her. When the servants had come to tend her wounds after their master was finished, she’d begged them to either free her or kill her. None had so much as acknowledged her pleas. Every time she’d tried to escape, they’d dragged her back.

  Not even the prospect of bearing Fairford’s child had earned her a reprieve. Immediately upon being informed of her condition, he’d brought in a surgeon to “rectify the problem”—permanently.

  Grief swamped Jacqueline, threatening to drown her fury as she pressed a trembling palm against her flat, barren belly. The anger, however, was too strong for tears.

  Desire. What had it ever brought her save disappointment and pain? The false promise of love coupled with carnal yearning had made her weak and susceptible to Fairford’s manipulations. Had he beaten her from the start, she could’ve borne it better. But he’d wanted to destroy all of her, body and soul. He’d enjoyed betraying her trust and breaking her heart as much as he’d relished the sight of her blood and bruises. He’d taken pleasure in watching the hope and love die in her eyes. He’d told her so.

  Reaching out, she snatched the silk wrapper from the bedpost and cast it onto the glowing coals in the grate. A smell like burnt hair permeated the room as the silk hissed and flared bright, filling her with grim satisfaction. The waste of a perfectly good garment ought to have made her feel shame, but there was only rage.

  Toward Fairford, his servants, the world in general, but mostly toward herself. Desire had no place in her life. Neither did romance.

  It was the height of folly to think a man like Woodson would ever want someone like her for a wife. Even if by some miracle he could overlook her many physical flaws, the instant he learned the truth—and he would—he wouldn’t want anything to do with her. What esteem he harbored for her now would vanish like morning mist once he knew what she’d been.

  Desiring Monsieur Woodson wasn’t only ridiculous, it was wrong. A genuinely good man like him deserved better than, as Fairford had called her, “a worthless baseborn trull.”

  But, deep inside, the defiance Fairford had never been able to fully extinguish stirred to life. Strength flowed back into her, along with resolve.

  “I am not worthless,” she whispered to the dark. The rest of the world might think so, but they were wrong. She mattered. To each and every one of the girls here, and to those still lost.

  And they mattered. So many had been told they were without value, save as a source of labor, or as vessels for the lust of evil men. So many had been made to feel worthless, unwanted, unloved, and unlovable. It was her calling to open their eyes anew and make them see themselves differently.

  No. Carnal desire had no place in her life. There was no room for it. All that mattered was her task. I was saved so that I might help save others.

  Rising, she lit her lamps. As the dark receded, she lifted her gown and cast it aside. Looking down, she observed the scars on her wrists, arms, ribs, belly, and thighs. Some were still deep pink, others had faded. With gentle fingertips, she traced the pinkish-white lines on her arms where Fairford had cut her over and over to hear her scream and appease his fascination with the sight of her blood. She couldn’t see the marks on her back, but she felt them.

  Her entire body was covered in a latticework of hate.

  Meeting her own eyes in the tiny mirror on the wall, she took a deep breath. “I am not my scars.”

  Despite the fact it was but the fourth hour and dawn was still far away, she began to dress herself. Any romantic notions regarding Monsieur Woodson were but a momentary lapse of reason—one that wouldn’t be repeated.

  Having established a common cause and tentative friendship with him, however, she found it difficult to avoid contact. The man was everywhere.

  When she came down to join the other teachers at breakfast, he was sitting with them. While his greeting was by no means effusive, it was delivered with warm regard.

  During the morning respite he came to update her on Mr. Sharpton and the books. Discussing plans with him to further circumvent those who refused to sell her the required texts felt as if they were conspiring together against the world.

  At lunch, the only available seat at the staff table was directly across from him. Their fingers brushed as he passed the sugar bowl, and the brief contact left her skin tingling.

  He joined her outside during the girls’ free time to propose another modification to the curriculum. She found his interest in furthering his students’ skills and increasing their chances of success in the outside world admirable.

  If all of this wasn’t enough to unsettle her, throughout the day there were numerous encounters in the hall between lessons. Granted, these were no more than fleeting smiles and nods of acknowledgment, but they affected her nevertheless. A smile from him made her pulse leap. The sound of his voice made her middle tighten.

  Attraction really was a damned nuisance.

  Determined to put some distance between them, she popped by his classroom just before the last class to inform him she had to attend to the new pupil and wouldn’t be available for tea that evening. If the dulling of his eyes over this news elicited a spark of joy in her secret heart, she chose to ignore it.

  True to her word, she did check on Penny’s progress. The little girl was sitting in the window seat with a book when she entered.

  “Do you know how to read?” Jacqueline asked, surprised.

  “No, miss—I mean Headmistress.” She held out the book and pointed to a line drawing of an angel sheltering a child beneath its wing. “But the pictures is nice.”

  “The pictures are nice.”

  Ducking her head, the girl repeated the phrase correctly.

  “I’m glad you like the book.” Jacqueline came and sat beside her. “Once you learn how to read, you’ll like it even more. We have a whole room full of them here.”

  “Mrs. Sloane showed me.”

  She could tell the girl wanted to say something more. “I imagine it’s all a bit overwhelming, this place. So many rooms and so many new faces.”

  “I miss me mum.”

  Jacqueline’s chest ached. “I miss mine, too.” She didn’t bother correcting the girl’s grammar again; she’d pick up proper speech soon enough.

  The child’s brows rose. “But you’re grown. Grown folk don’t need parents no more.”

  She couldn’t be more wrong. Jacqueline missed Maman daily. Before grief had robbed her of her mother, they’d been very close—another likely reason why Hélène had chosen to cut her out of her life. She’d always been jealous. I doubt she would envy me now. She shook off the melancholy thought. “Nevertheless, I still miss her company.”

  Tears welled in the little girl’s eyes. “I miss mine. Will I ever see her again?”

  “An association now would endanger her position,” Jacqueline reminded her. “But when you are older, and after you’ve made your place in the world, I don’t see why not.”

  Penny’s face filled with determination. “I’ll get the best job an’ save all o’ me coin until I’ve enough to buy a house where we can be together again. We’ll go where nobody knows us, an’ she’ll never have to work again. I’ll take care o’ her, just like she took care o’ me.”

  “An excellent goal,” Jacqueline responded with an approving nod. “I shall help you attain it.” She looked about the room. Everything was neat, not an item out of place. “Have you not played with any of the toys?”

  The girl looked down. “I was afraid—they belong to someone else.”

  “They belon
g to the school. You may play with anything you like in here. In fact, you may choose one item from this room to take with you as your own when you move into your permanent quarters in a few days.”

  A frown puckered the child’s brow. “For me own?”

  “For your very own. Is there anything in here you like especially?”

  At once, Penny’s longing gaze flew to the small rocking chair in the corner. “I think she’s beautiful.”

  Rising, Jacqueline went over and picked up the large, hand-sewn doll perched on the chair. Her brown yarn hair had been arranged in two long braids framing a face embroidered with a sweet expression. She shook the wrinkles out of the blue-checked dress and straightened the lace collar. “I think so, too. What will you name her?”

  “Has she not got a name already?”

  “Oh, no, not yet. Like you, she’s new here. In fact, you are her first friend.” Smiling, Jacqueline proffered the toy to the round-eyed child. “I think she likes you quite a lot.”

  Penny’s small hands trembled a little as she reached out reverently. “I like her a lot, too.” A tiny crease of doubt appeared between her brows. “An’ she’s really mine?”

  “She’s really yours,” Jacqueline confirmed. “No one here will take her from you, I promise.”

  Each girl was given something special of her own when she first arrived. Many chose a doll or sewn animal—those had been made by Mrs. Hayton and Miss Flanagan—or a book from among the carefully selected tales placed in here for that purpose. The stuffed toys provided gentle comfort, while the books provided an escape into a realm of hope and beauty.

  “Mum once took me to where they sells flowers to the nobs,” said Penny, breaking Jacqueline’s reverie. “The irises were me favorite. Mum bought me one. I kept it dried, but the colors all faded away after a while. I’ll name her Iris.”

  “I think that a lovely name.” Smiling, she bent and took the doll’s hand between two fingers. “I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Iris—I know you will be good company for each other.” She straightened. “Have you considered a new name for yourself yet?”