“Hello, darling.”
Charles was flipping through her canvases, which were propped against each other along one wall.
Fury leapt inside her and she took a step inside and slammed the door—hard.
Charles flinched. “Careful, luv, people are sleeping.”
“You know I don’t like you poking through my things.” By things she meant her paintings.
“I was waiting for you and got bored and just thought I’d take a look.”
“You knew where I was—why didn’t you summon me?”
“Some of these are quite striking,” he said.
Nora tried to ignore the spurt of pleasure she experienced at his words, reminding herself that she was angry with him.
“What do you want, Charles?”
He grinned. “Look who’s shirty this morning! What, did His Grace fail to measure up to your violent standards?”
Nora frowned and ignored his taunt.
He sighed heavily. “Herself wants to see you.” When Nora turned on her heel to leave again, his voice stopped her. “No, she wants you to clean yourself up.”
Nora opened her mouth to point out she’d just spent the prior eight hours being rogered six ways to Sunday by an insatiable seventeen year-old and that every part of her—inside and out—was sore.
“No, not for that, ducks. It’s for something else.” He came toward her, seeming to drift he moved so quietly and gracefully. The expression on his deceptively angelic features was, for once, not mocking. “She’s got an offer for you, sweetheart.”
Nora knew what he would say.
“From Mr. Fanshawe.”
She swallowed, the gulp loud in the room.
Charles shook his head and reached out, grazing her jaw with gentle fingers before she flinched away.
“Poor Nora,” he murmured, looking as if he meant it.
“Why poor Nora?” she demanded with more aplomb than she felt.
He just shook his head and opened the door. “Tosca says you have thirty minutes. Don’t keep them waiting.” He shut the door with a soft click, leaving Nora alone with the chaos of her thoughts.
❈❈❈
Edward drummed his fingers on the arm of a black leather chair that was the exact match to the one up in the Silesia room. It amused him that merely looking at this chair made him think of all the things he’d done to Nora in it—which made him begin to harden. Instead of purchasing a mistress perhaps he should get half-a-dozen chairs just like this and scatter them about his huge Mayfair house?
Of course it wasn’t getting aroused that was his problem. No, it was sating the incessant lust that seemed to take over more of his mind every day, not to mention leaving him wanting in his bed with a fucking full-blown cockstand every night and morning.
“Are you sure you don’t wish for something to drink, Mr. Fanshawe?”
Edward looked up at the madam’s voice. He’d forgotten she was still in the room—her study he supposed—until she’d spoken.
“No, thank you,” he said for the third time since arriving here almost an hour ago and pulled out his pocket watch.
“I’m sorry, I don’t know what is taking her so long. I could send—”
There was a soft knock on the door.
“Enter,” the madam said.
Edward had been telling himself his memories were deceptive, that she didn’t have the effect on him that he’d recalled. But he’d been wrong.
One look at her pale, narrow face was enough to twist his stomach into a knot and cause his balls to ache, his cock to lengthen and harden. Fuck. Bloody. Damn.
“Nora, finally,” Tosca said, her nervous eyes darting between Edward and the girl. “Mr. Fanshawe has come with an intriguing offer.” She paused, as if expecting Nora to greet him. But she said nothing—she hadn’t even looked at him yet. “What’s wrong with you? Greet Mr. Fanshawe.”
Edward wanted to tell the old bawd to shut the hell up, but he was too busy appreciating the flush her sharp words had caused on Nora’s cheeks. It occurred to him he might employ the madam to join their games sometime. No doubt Madame Tosca was highly skilled in the areas of sexual humiliation and degradation.
He just as quickly dismissed the idea.
No amount of blushing would make him tolerate the abrasive whore’s company.
“Leave us, Madam Tosca.”
She blinked at his cool tone and words, her eyebrows plunging. “But I’m here on Nora’s behalf.”
Edward gave her a smile he knew was not pleasant. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask her to sign anything. I wish to speak to her, first. And then you may draw up whatever paperwork we agree upon.”
She looked like a woman who wanted to argue, but finally gave a sharp nod. “Very well. Shall a quarter of an hour suffice?”
“That will be ample.”
“I shall return in a quarter of an hour, Nora.” She glared at the unresponsive woman as she flounced from the room, her gesture a waste since Nora hadn’t taken her eyes from the carpet.
When the door shut behind her Edward said, “Look at me.”
As ever, she responded immediately to his command.
His stomach lurched as if he were on the deck of a ship. No, he’d not imagined her eyes as he’d fantasized about her these past weeks—five long weeks since their last encounter—tormenting himself imagining all the men she was servicing in his absence and how she likely enjoyed herself with at least some of them.
“I’m here to make you an offer of exclusivity.”
There wasn’t even a flicker of expression on her face. “Thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline.”
Edward had already opened his mouth to acknowledge her grateful acceptance when his brain deciphered her response. He did a double take, his eyes widening. “What did you say?” he asked.
She flinched at his soft tone.
Finally, some response!
“Thank you, sir, but I’m afraid I must decline.”
He was prepared for her answer this time, but no less stunned. Of all the responses he would have imagined, this one was not even within the realm of probability.
And then something occurred to him. “If this is your way of negotiating a higher price, you have gravely mistaken me.”
Was that a glint of humor in her eyes? “No sir, I’m not negotiating.”
Edward was at a loss—an utter loss. He was also bloody furious. “You don’t even know how much I’m offering,” he asked more heatedly than he’d have liked.
“It doesn’t matter how much you offer, sir.”
He gave a rude snort of disbelief. “Oh? And what if I were to tell you I’m prepared to offer you £1,000 a month?” He expected a flinch, a gasp, or at the very least a raised eyebrow at his outrageous—and certainly unplanned—offer. He got nothing.
“You honor me, sir. But I would still decline.”
Edward wanted to-to—hell! He had no bloody idea what he wanted to do. He surged to his feet, pettishly pleased when she stepped back.
“So, it appears you enjoy your job too much,” he sneered, refusing to make it a question—which might sound like pleading.
“I’m satisfied with my position here, sir. But I’m honored—”
Edward waved a dismissive hand. “Yes, I know, I heard you already. You’re honored by my bloody offer.”
She stood motionless, her unearthly eyes fixed on his. He could discern no smugness, no pleasure, no enjoyment of this situation in her eyes. She was, as ever, as bloody impenetrable as a castle wall.
And, as ever, it made him as hard as stone.
Edward didn’t know who he hated more in that moment—himself, or her.
He picked up his cane, which he’d set against the arm of his chair. The movement drew her eyes to the ebony stick with its heavy silver ball—a stick he’d used on her more than once—and her pupils flared, her lips parting almost imperceptibly.
Edward’s heart stuttered at the raw, primal desire that flashed ac
ross her face and he had to grab the high back of the chair to steady himself.
Never in his life had he experienced such a sudden, debilitating, wave of lust—not even with her during one of their intense sessions. He gripped the cool silver hard enough to whiten his knuckles. The gesture broke the spell and she raised her eyes to his. Only her enormous pupils gave proof to what he’d just seen on her face.
His own recovery was nowhere near as quick. His heart hammered with the violent intensity of a fist against a cell door. A shocking realization clanged in his head like a bolt securing that door: she wanted him, too, but she would not have him.
Fury—and something else, rejection?—lashed at him like the freezing wind and rain was currently rattling and shaking the building’s shutters. He looked into eyes as remote as the moon, “This, my dear Nora, is not over.”
❈❈❈
Nora stood in the center of the room, feeling as if all the hair had been singed off her body by the sheer heat of his rage. As ever, his presence left a dull, wanting ache deep in her womb.
His final words had been all the more terrifying—and arousing—for their chilling lack of emotion. He appeared calm, but inside—she knew—he burned to punish her, to possess her.
She allowed herself a slight, private smile at the irony of the situation: he already did own her. It didn’t matter to her whether he put her up in a house—like a canary in a cage—or visited her once every six weeks or never again. She belonged to him.
“What happened?”
Her head jerked up at the sound of Madam Tosca’s voice.
“What happened, Nora?”
“I declined his offer.”
Nora had suspected the madam would be angry—no doubt she’d already negotiated a deal that would leave her with plump pockets—but what she hadn’t expected was how Madam’s anger would increase each day.
Even now, nine days after the interview with Mr. Fanshawe, the vindictive madam showed no signs of relenting.
Nora had just finished a grueling sixteen hour stint with insatiable identical twin brothers who’d used her mercilessly, not letting her sleep more than a few hours. It was all she could do to make her aching, sore, and bruised body climb the stairs to her small attic room.
She opened the door and closed it softly behind her.
“You know she always gets what she wants.”
Nora was too tired to even startle at the voice. Instead, she collapsed against the door. “Why are you here, Charles?” she asked in a plaintive tone.
“I’m here to tell you that she’ll kill you before she’ll give in.”
“You should have saved yourself the trip. You aren’t telling me anything I don’t know; I know she won’t stop.” Indeed, she would have to be an idiot not to realize Madam Tosca’s plan was to break her—or to have clients break her, rather.
It was standard behavior to rest a whore in between rigorous clients. And nobody’s clients were more demanding than Nora’s. Usually that meant at least a day’s recuperation, even when clients like Lord Anthony didn’t pay for it. But since that interview with Mr. Fanshawe Nora had not gone a day without working—not even her traditional Wednesday off.
She opened her eyes and pushed off the door, going to her bed and dropping gracelessly onto it. “Now if you don’t mind, I have another appointment in six hours and right now I can barely keep my eyes open.” Tonight was Lord Anthony’s monthly appointment and Nora actually enjoyed his visits and truly did not want to be exhausted for him.
“I brought you this.”
She had to force her eyelids up at his words. He’d set a plate on her small desk and it held a thick slice of buttered bread, a leg of chicken, and a bowl of custard.
Her stomach growled.
He chuckled. “Sit up,” he said, bringing her the food and nudging her over on the narrow bed. “You have to eat.”
She sighed. He was right—she’d lost at least half a stone, perhaps more, in the past week and a half. And she’d had no weight to lose to begin with.
“Eat.”
She picked up the bread and began to devour it, forcing herself to eat slowly.
He picked up a mug from the small night table and offered it to her. “Tea. Sorry, but it’s cold. I’ve been waiting here a while.”
Nora snatched it from his hand and washed down the bread, grimacing at the cool milky beverage.
“Why are you being kind to me? You’re the most self-serving person I know.”
He huffed. “I’m your best friend.”
“That doesn’t mean you aren’t selfish,” she said through a mouthful of food.
He grinned, his teeth white, even, perfect in his handsome face. “I suspect I just like to irk The Tosca however I can and she’d be pleased to see you break, so I don’t want you to break. I don’t like waiting on you hand and foot—I just like thwarting her.”
Nora gave a bitter laugh and took a bite of chicken, unable to recall the last time she’d eaten; the enthusiastic twins hadn’t stopped for sustenance.
“How long do you think you can hold out? Do you know how much he offered to—”
“Stop,” Nora said. Although it sounded more like “Schtoff,” through her mouthful of bread and chicken.
Charles raised his hands. “Fine, fine. Don’t spew food on me. I shan’t sully your virgin ears by speaking of such an obscenely huge sum of money.” He pushed off the bed and began to prowl the small room. “I was looking at some of your paintings again.” Nora snorted at his audacity, but he didn’t acknowledge her. “Several of them are very good—at least to my untutored eyes.”
As ever, even the tiniest scrap of praise was enough to make her heart beat faster with gratitude and her eyes prickle with grateful tears. Luckily she was too tired to weep.
“I understand there is some competition—a painting contest of sorts.” He cocked an eyebrow at her.
Yes, she knew what he was talking about, the Royal Academy which happened every year. She’d considered entering two of her works, but the fee was quite high. And her debt payments to Tosca—for a period of time two years ago when she’d been too sick to work for a few months—barely left enough money to buy paint and supplies—not that she had any time left in her life to actually use her paintbrush these days.
Charles stopped beside the bed, looking down at her. The window was behind him and his face was in shadow. “How much do you still owe, Nora?”
Nora sighed and put the last bite of bread in her mouth, shaking her head. It was too depressing to be born.
“He would pay off the debt, you know. He’d set you up in place of your own where you’d only have his needs to serve. You’d get to keep your money and could buy more things to paint with. It is a situation we all dream of.” She could hear the envy and anger in his voice. “And then—when Fanshawe tired of you—you would be free.”
She shuddered at the sound of his name, which she rarely even allowed herself to think in the privacy of her own mind. Free? That made her laugh—which almost choked her. She grabbed the cup of cold tea and gulped down what was left in between coughs, grateful she could now blame her tears on coughing rather than her dratted, tumultuous emotions.
Yes, Mr. Fanshawe would pay off her debt and then she would be free of Madam Tosca and this place. But who, or what, would ever free her from Mr. Fanshawe once she’d given herself to him completely?
❈❈❈
“Nora?”
Her head jerked and she opened her eyes.
Lord Anthony was looking at her, his brow furrowed with concern, his glass frozen halfway to his mouth.
Nora felt her face heat under his worried look. “I am so sorry, my lord. I’m afraid my mind was wandering.”
His thin lips curved very slowly into a smile. “No, my dear, you fell asleep.”
Her face scalded.
To her surprise, he chuckled. “Look at you—blushing so charmingly.”
“I’m terribly sorry my lord,” she mumbled,
suddenly too shy to look at him.
“I sensed something was amiss earlier.”
Her head whipped up. “I’m so—”
He waved away her apology. “Oh, not that—you gave me as much pleasure as always.” His cold gray eyes kindled at the memory of what Nora thought of as their ‘greeting ritual’. “You were as obedient and responsive as ever, but I can’t help noticing you’ve lost quite a bit of weight.”
Nora glanced down at her naked chest, as if to check the truth of his words. Lord Anthony liked to eat without clothing and paid enough for coal that doing so was not uncomfortable.
“His Grace thanked me profusely for giving him a night with you,” Lord Anthony said when she didn’t respond.
Nora was glad to move the subject to his nephew rather than her weight or appearance. “I’m pleased to hear it, my lord. I, too, greatly enjoyed the evening.” She had—and also the three times after. The duke was gentle and sweet and still learning his way with a woman’s body. Although he’d taken her often during their nights, he’d been quick and undemanding.
The last time he’d come Nora had been engaged so Madame Tosca had sent him to Belinda, whom he now requested. Nora was glad. The young duke did not share her proclivities and she found it difficult to cuddle with a man. She far preferred his uncle, who needed nothing from her but the use of her body and a bit of intelligent conversation.
“I know we do not know each other—aside from our obvious enjoyment in the bedroom—but won’t you tell me why you look so . . . sad?”
Nora stared at him a long moment, both surprised at his question and her sudden need to answer it—to connect with another human.
“I’ve received an offer.”
“I’m not surprised to hear it—only that it took so long.” His eyes traveled over her exposed body. “You are a singular young woman, Nora, and I speak from decades of experience.” He topped up their glasses, his expression thoughtful. “I never married and I have no children,” he said, looking up from the bubbling liquid, his expression wry. “As the youngest son of five my contribution in that area was not necessary. While I would not have minded marrying, I discovered my peculiar propensities when I was just a boy. My brothers and I had gotten up to some mischief—I don’t recall what it was now—and were summoned to my father’s study. The duke was a stern and terrifying old man.” He gave Nora an amused glance. “No doubt you find it diverting to hear an old man speak so of another old man.”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 4