“What are you smiling about?”
Her eyes met Charles’s in the mirror and she frowned, in no mood to engage in banter with the snake—who’d told her not long after she was with Mr. Smith that he’d cooked up that evening with Mr. Fanshawe’s strange business partner to play some sort of trick on him—using her. Nora almost never lost her temper, but she’d been furious. Charles had been groveling ever since, bringing her food, taking her laundry down with his, and other small acts designed to weasel his way into her confidences. Probably so he could sell the information to Mr. Smith.
“Who is it, Charles.” It was not a question, it was a demand.
Charles was only a few inches taller than her and with their faces side by side in the mirror she realized they looked enough alike to be siblings, although his lips were fuller, his face slightly broader, and his features prettier than hers. But the biggest difference was his eyes, which were a startling sky blue rather than her strange pale, pale gray.
“It’s Mr. Fanshawe,” he admitted, not smirking for once. “Are you going to—”
Nora whipped around, sending a button he’d been working on flying. “You have no right to ask me anything when it comes to him. You’re a snake and a traitor.”
His haughty, handsome face crumpled. “I said I was sorry, Nora, and I meant it. Christ,” he said, flinging up his hands in one of the dramatic gestures he was so fond of. “Do you never forgive people for making a mistake?”
“A mistake is borrowing my hairbrush and breaking off the handle.”
Charles gave a guilty shrug. “I apologized for that.”
“And I forgave you. But this? Telling some stranger about me—my life? Sharing the little bit of privacy I get in this room?”
He groaned, his expression genuinely remorseful—although she suspected more from being denied something he wanted, rather than from wanting her friendship very much, or regretting being a tittle-tale.
She lifted up her left arm. “If you want to be helpful you can finish buttoning me and keep your questions to yourself.” That was the most forgiveness she could muster with her mind down in Madam’s study and the man who waited there for her. She was almost relieved that he was here—finally, she could put an end to the misery of the past weeks and embrace a new kind of suffering. One that would likely destroy her.
❈❈❈
Edward had worked as if he were hooked to a plow these past weeks. True, he’d done all that work for himself rather than his partners or his other business interests.
That night with Smith at Bernina’s had been . . . well, it had been the last bloody straw. He couldn’t even blame his arousal on being cup-shot as he’d only had two glasses all night.
What the evening had done—after he’d stowed away his mortification at how much enjoyment he’d derived watching another man fuck—was motivate him to act. If he didn’t do something about this obsession with Nora he was likely to end up doing the hangman’s waltz for buggery.
So, he’d put his mind to work, locked his study door, given poor Powell a much needed two-month holiday and formulated his plan. A plan that had required the assistance of a great number of workers: carpenters, builders, and the like.
The final work he’d done himself. It had been a pleasure to work with his hands after so many years sitting behind a desk. By the time he’d finished everything, he’d gone for over three weeks without drinking, a woman, or even frigging his own bloody hand. He felt like a racehorse that had been training for Newmarket: fit, focused, and eager to test his mettle.
So, here he was, waiting in this bloody study again.
His mortification at showing up if not exactly hat in hand, then at least contract in hand, was only partially ameliorated by Madam’s joyous reception of him.
Her joy had gradually dissipated the longer they’d waited, the only sound in the well insulated room the sound of a ticking clock—and likely the sound of Edward’s blood pounding the longer he sat there.
“I don’t know what Charles could be up to.” She stood, her expression nervous. “I shall go and check.”
“Tell her if she’s not down here in five minutes I’m leaving.” Which meant he’d then need to resort to Plan B, because—this time—he wasn’t taking no for an answer.
Tosca moved from the room with more haste than grace. Relieved to be alone, he tossed his contract onto the smooth mahogany desk and stood, examining the contents of the madam’s bookshelves.
Rather than the Gothic novels he’d expected there were books on a wide variety of subjects: philosophy, science, religion, and even several books on gardening.
But none of them were interesting enough to distract him from the task at hand. He pulled out his pocket watch, gritting his teeth and praying the minutes hadn’t slipped past—and then hating himself for praying—when there was a soft knock and the door opened.
He’d anticipated feeling some shock—or other emotion—at seeing her, but he hadn’t expected this.
“What the hell happened to your hair?”
She dropped a quick curtsy. “Hello, Mr. Fanshawe.”
Edward frowned. Already she was disobeying him. “I asked you a question,” he snapped, realizing that perhaps this wasn’t the best way to start their negotiations but unable to stop himself.
“I cut it.”
Edward blinked. What the hell could he say to that? Besides, he realized as he looked at her small face fringed by surprising curls, she looked rather . . . well, good, goddammit. She looked good. Who gave a damned about hair? He’d always had his women bind theirs back so it wouldn’t interfere with what he liked to do. Now she wouldn’t need to waste time braiding it.
That’s if she’ll come.
He gritted his teeth against his traitorous, mocking inner voice and marched back toward Madam’s desk, snatching up the contract and striding back to where she was still standing. “Here, this is my offer to you.”
She took it without looking at it and then walked toward the desk.
Edward gaped at her back, dizzy with—well, with relief and gratitude. More than three-quarters of his brain had expected her to reject it out of hand. His puppy-like joy sickened him.
“I shan’t change any of the terms,” he said to her back. “So don’t even think of requesting anything more. Indeed, my man of business almost had an apoplexy drawing up this dratted—”
Edward saw her arm—her left hand—move in a way that indicated writing.
He steadied himself on the black leather wingchair, the action giving him an odd sense of deja-vu.
“You’ll need to initial both near the—”
She flicked a page and wrote, and then flicked another page and another and another. She then put the pen in the holder, turned, and held the papers out to him. “Sir.”
Edward looked into her impenetrable eyes, searching for something. Some sign of triumph, smugness, amusement—anything. There was nothing.
“May I have tonight to pack my possessions and finish one last piece of business?”
“What—” Edward began, wanting to know what business she had to finish. Wanting to know, quite bloody honestly, every tiny, infinitesimal, insignificant thing about her. But he’d already exposed himself quite enough for one day, hadn’t he? So, he nodded sharply and strode toward the door, where he paused with his hand on the handle. “I shall send a carriage for you tomorrow at three o’clock sharp.” And then he opened the door, not bothering to shut it behind him.
Chapter Ten
Edward pulled out his watch: it was 3:01. One minute later than the last time.
“Great bloody bollocking hell.” He yanked at the watch, tearing the chain from his vest with a loud rip. And then he strode to his desk, pulled opened a drawer and threw the watch inside, slamming it shut with a satisfying crash.
There. That was better. What did it matter what time it was?
His lips began to curl up at the corners and he felt like rubbing his hands together with antic
ipation and glee: Nora had signed his contract. Signed and sealed. And if it bothered him a bit that she’d not even wished to read it, well, that was not his affair, was it? She was a woman of three or four-and-twenty—he should probably ask her age—not a girl, no matter how much she might resemble one.
He resumed his pacing, cutting frequent glances out the window, which overlooked the square below. He’d paid a bloody fortune for this spot on Grosvenor Square. And then he’d torn down the outdated old shack that had occupied the spot and put up his own house, an action he knew affronted his toffy-nosed neighbors. Well, they could lump it, he was here to stay.
He glanced around the study and grimaced; it was probably time he put some effort into filling the house with furniture, books, knick knacks, art or whatever frippery people crammed into their houses. He shrugged off that thought. There would be plenty of time for that after he got a wife, a project he could focus on now that he’d gotten Nora sorted. Yes, now that he would have her here, under his own roof where he could have access to her whenever he wished—and where nobody else could have her—he would be able to concentrate on other, more important matters: like getting a wife.
In fact, he’d celebrated yesterday’s triumph by writing a brief note to the parents of one of the ten prospects—now eight prospects as two had married while Edward was carrying out his current plan—on his marriage list. It didn’t matter that the list had shortened, he was sure there would be others if none of these eight suited his needs. Needs that were quite simple: be decorative on his arm, manage his gradual entry into society, and bear him children. He stopped in front a blank wall and frowned: and perhaps buy some bloody artwork to fill all these blank walls.
He spun on his boot heel and marched to the other end of the vast room—his study, but initially meant to be a library, which accounted for the hundreds of empty bookshelves.
Yes, his wife could live a life of luxury that many aristocratic women could no longer enjoy thanks to the plummeting fortunes most of the great houses had suffered over the past fifty years. While he wasn’t unrealistic enough to imagine himself chumming around with his father-in-law—at Whites or Boodles or whatever bastion of upper class superiority such a man was likely to inhabit in his free time—the mere fact of being related to one of these families, no matter how impoverished, would increase his standing in the world.
Edward realized he’d stopped in front of the window as he’d imagined the pleasant future now open before him. Yes, everything would fall into place now that Nora belonged to him.
❈❈❈
Nora felt deep, almost hypnotic, serenity—and had done—since the moment she’d signed his contract.
There! The voice inside her had declared. Now it is out of your hands.
And what a relief it was. She didn’t care what was in the pages she’d signed; she would do whatever he wanted and enjoy it for as long as she could. Why not? So what if she ended up crushed and broken when he tossed her aside? She was already crushed and broken from months without him. Besides, pain was part of life, and she liked pain, didn’t she?
Nora had never ridden in a coach as luxurious as the one Mr. Fanshawe sent for her. Indeed, when she had time away from Tosca’s she usually preferred to walk, to explore the city. Although she’d lived in London for ten years there were still many parts of it she had yet to see. She tried to take at least one out of every four days off and see something new. But most often she gave in to the urge to paint. After all, the luxury of painting for most of an afternoon was a rarity.
The scene outside the window subtly changed. Although Tosca’s was located in a part of town that was considered respectable, the houses they were passing now were bigger, more space between the buildings, until some houses seemed to take up entire blocks just by themselves.
She knew Mr. Fanshawe must be well-off to afford Tosca’s as often as he did, and at such a level. He’d never had anything but the best Madam had to offer. Nora smiled. Well, except her. Although he’d taken high-flyers like Monique, Louise, and Bettina—Madam’s most beautiful, skilled, and expensive women—he’d ended up with Nora.
The carriage slowed and then took a right, and Nora sat closer to the window to enjoy the sight: it was a pretty little square, complete with benches, a tiny gazebo, and a path that would be surrounded by flowers when spring finally came. It was magical.
The carriage slowed before a massive gray stone house that appeared bigger and newer than the two beside it. She felt the carriage shift as the footman jumped off the back. Surely there must be some mistake? Mr. Fanshawe would not engage a house such as this for a mere mistress?
The door opened and the footman pulled down the steps before holding out a gloved hand, “Miss Hudson?”
She frowned. “I think there must be some mistake?” She paused, uncertain—should she tell the man she was Mr. Fanshawe’s mistress?
The huge black door at the top of the steps opened and Mr. Fanshawe stepped out. His frown told her that he anticipated a problem. Nora rapidly took the footman’s hand and stepped out of the carriage, turning around for her bag.
“Leave that,” Mr. Fanshawe ordered.
Nora turned at the sound of his voice.
“Thomas will bring in all your belongings and take them to your room.” He held a beckoning hand toward her. “Come, Nora.”
Nora mounted the steps without hesitation. Mr. Fanshawe hated to repeat himself and she’d just sold herself to him for the conceivable future.
When she reached the top he didn’t touch her, but ushered her inside.
“You don’t have a heavier cloak than that?” he asked as she unclasped her only cloak, a serviceable gray she’d had for as long as she could remember.
“No, sir.”
A distinguished looking man who could only be a butler took her cloak. Nora smiled at him and he nodded but did not speak.
“This way,” Mr. Fanshawe gestured toward a grand staircase, all but pushing her up the stairs, their footsteps muffled by the plush carpeting. “When you reach the landing you will continue to the next floor and then take a right.”
The house felt half-finished—as if nobody inhabited it. The walls, she noticed, were bare. The lamps, woodwork, and carpeting were all of the finest quality, but there was no sign of human habitation.
When they reached the next floor, she took a right.
“The third door down,” he said behind her, his voice sounding odd, as if he had a sore throat.
As they approached the door he stepped around her and reached for the handle. Not expecting the courtesy, Nora reached for it at the same moment and her hand landed on his. She felt his entire body stiffen and her own fairly hummed in answer. He wanted her—quite badly. She took her hand off his and he opened the door.
❈❈❈
Edward wanted to fuck her against the bloody door. It was only through a monumental force of will that he restrained himself.
He couldn’t take his eyes off her—and there something about having her here, in his own environment, that was beyond erotic. His prick was so bloody hard he could quarry stone with it.
He stood back and watched her as she took in the room, turning in a circle and stopping when she faced him, a quizzical expression on her face. Was that the first time he’d ever seen her exhibit curiosity? His chest tightened with excitement—as if he’d just discovered something precious and rare that he wanted to snatch up and hide. Like a squirrel with a nut that he could take out later and gloat over, alone.
She looked up at him. “I don’t understand? This is your house?”
He forced himself to use a dismissive and slightly admonitory tone. “If you’d read the contract—as you should have done—you would have known I was bringing you here.” If he’d hoped to chastise her into blushing or an expression of regret, he was destined to be disappointed: she merely looked at him with her strange colorless eyes. He sighed. “Yes, this is my house. This is your suite of rooms. You are Miss Nora Hudson,
my ward. The daughter of my sister who died some time ago.”
Her eyes widened and her bow-shaped mouth opened.
Edward felt like leaping up and down. Finally! Finally a bloody reaction!
“But—the servants who picked me up at Tosca’s? Surely they know?”
Edward shrugged. “If they do, they’d better keep their mouths shut or go look for another employer.”
She absorbed that, and then asked, “Did you have a sister?”
Edward almost laughed. His Nora—always one to do or say the unexpected. Most people would openly scoff at the notion of such a ridiculous charade—a twenty-four year old niece living with a bachelor uncle—but she was more interested in some fictitious sibling.
“Not that I am aware of.” He strode to the door on the right, eager to show off the fruits of his labors. “This is your study and that door on the other side leads to a small sunroom—you may explore that at your leisure” He opened the door in front of him. “This is your bedchamber,” he stepped back to let her precede him. The room had a huge bed, complete with four heavy posts. A massive fireplace raged across from it as he had noticed Nora was so slender she became cold easily. He kept walking. “Here is your dressing room,” he opened the door to an exceptionally large dressing room, which all the suites in the house contained. Edward despised paltry little rooms and had opted for fewer rooms—he had no friends to fill even one guest room—in exchange for more luxurious spaces.
He stopped and waited while she looked around at the vast number of shelves and armoires that were full of articles of clothing, shoes, hats, and other bits of feminine frippery.
Her eyes grew satisfyingly round. “But—what is all this?”
“It looks like female clothing to me.”
She appeared not to notice his sarcasm. “Is it . . . somebody else’s?”
Edward snorted.
She shook her head in obvious disbelief and he couldn’t help being pleased that he’d elicited such an unprecedented reaction from her. “But—who chose all of this?”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 9