He’d been a fool to ever imagine Emma was anything like her. Still, the girl would be useful to him this evening.
“Remove your robe,” he said without looking at her, unable to wrench his eyes away from the old woman’s hand sluicing water over Nora’s elevated pelvis. “And then come kneel between my thighs.”
He heard the rustle of silk, his eyes locked with Nora’s, the pulse at the base of her throat beating wildly. Edward loved that she loved watching him use other women—that she would suffer for his pleasure.
As Emma knelt between his wide-spread legs, her head bowed, he couldn’t help wondering how Nora’s aroused state would affect the piercing procedure. But Amaya didn’t seem to find anything out of the ordinary and was perfunctorily washing Nora’s swelling sex, her gnarled fingers spreading her lips to inspect her more closely. She grunted at whatever she saw and then turned to her tray, leaving her patient spread and waiting.
Edward would give Nora something to watch—it was only fair.
“Unbutton my trousers.”
Emma’s deft fingers responded without delay and Edward lifted his hips when she’d unbuttoned him all the way. His cock sprang free as she removed his drawers along with his trousers.
He bit his lower lip to hold back a groan as Nora’s pale eyes flared, her throat working beneath the cruel embrace of the necklet.
“Stroke me,” he ordered softly, his breath quickening as the old woman turned back to the tub holding the long silver blade. He saw the muscles in Nora’s taut stomach clench and flutter. Ah, so she wasn’t as untouched as she appeared. He smiled, relaxing into the pleasure of Emma’s hand.
Amaya was more skilled with the blade than Edward’s valet and cleared her mons of hair in a few deft passes. And that was when it became fascinating.
Edward laid a hand over Emma’s to still her stroking, not wanting any distraction, no matter how pleasurable, to interfere.
Amaya spread her fingers to make a V and used them to open Nora wide, exposing her delicate pink flesh. She moved more carefully, taking only one swipe for each area, clearing the hair from the tender skin around her opening in far too few strokes: Edward could sit and watch this sight for hours.
She matter-of-factly rinsed her, inspecting her work closely and manipulating Nora’s sex in a no-sense fashion before she was satisfied. She tapped Nora’s thigh and made a motion that indicated she wanted her to get up and turn to face the opposite wall. She positioned her over the hip bath, her legs spread wide by the tub, her hands gripping the high back. And then pushed her shoulders low, canting her bottom high.
She took the pitcher of warm water and poured it over Nora’s ass, spreading her cheeks and washing her thoroughly.
Edward’s twisted brain flooded with images of some other—younger, more nubile and naked—woman doing this very same thing Nora and he felt a bit dizzy.
Amaya pulled back a cheek, exposing Nora’s tight pink rose, and then soaped her, once again performing her work far too quickly before rinsing. Again she inspected closely and touched up a few spots with a flick of her razor. When she was done, she set a hand on Nora’s shoulder and muttered something. Nora stood and the old woman took a fluffy towel from the heated bricks by the hearth and proceeded to dry her using vigorous and non-erotic motions.
When she was dry, she motioned her to the chaise beside the tub, which had been strategically placed for his pleasure.
She positioned Nora like a doll. Laying her all the way back and then sliding a pillow beneath her hips. She then placed the bottoms of her feet together and opened her like a butterfly.
Edward couldn’t bear it any longer. “Suck me.”
Emma’s mouth slipped over his cock, her lips stretching wide to accommodate him. She knew her business well and didn’t stop taking him until his sensitive head bumped the back of her throat. And then she swallowed and he groaned and jerked his hips into her, grinding his balls against her chin and holding her head immobile while he ejaculated down her throat in an embarrassingly quick amount of time. But he didn’t care.
He pushed her head off him and blinked his eyes to clear the haze of lust, reaching down to pull up his bunched drawers and trousers, buttoning them as he strode toward the chaise, worried he’d missed the most important part of tonight’s show: his permanent branding of her as his possession.
But the old lady was just removing the ice when he came to the chaise. Nora’s breathing was slightly elevated but otherwise she appeared normal—if you didn’t notice her white knuckles grabbing the side of the chaise. Without thinking, he took one of her hands in his. Her eyes widened with surprise, and that was when Amaya used the needle.
Chapter Thirteen
Nora’s father had always told her that pride was her besetting sin. If he’d seen what she’d done in that decadent bedroom he would have changed his opinion to arrogance—or perhaps stupidity.
Nora’s body was limp and she felt utterly drained by their encounter—not to mention horrified by her continued stupidity. But his accusations had simply been too much. Could he really believe that giving her body to another man changed the way she felt about him? If he did, then she was bloody lucky. Perhaps he’d never look past his own jealousy to see what she really felt about him.
She kicked off her shoes and crawled into the soft cocoon of her bed, this one covered in silk and finely combed wool, but just as pristinely white.
It felt like only a few minutes later when some slight sound made her open her eyes. It was night outside the tall windows; she must have slept for at least several hours.
She yawned, grimaced at the stale taste in her mouth—she’d not eaten breakfast and only tea and toast at noonday. She was famished.
Something clinked in the next room and she followed the soft sounds, which were coming from the dressing room; a girl inside hanging up Nora’s few bits of pitiful clothing among all the sumptuous silks and satins.
“Oh, you needn’t do that,” she said.
The poor thing jumped and squeaked before whirling around. “Oh, Miss, you gave me a fright you did.”
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you. This carpet is so very—luxurious, it quite muffles one’s steps. I said you didn’t have to unpack my clothing—I will do it.”
The girl—for that was what she was, Nora saw now that she was closer—shook her head, her plump freckled cheeks flushing. “But that’s my job, Miss Nora—I’m your maid.” Whatever she saw on Nora’s face made her own face crumple. “Oh, Miss—please don’t send me away. I promise you, I mightn’t look like much, but I know my way around hair and clothing. If you send me away, Mr. Fanshawe,” she shivered, an expression of abject terror on her face, “Well, he’ll give me the sack.”
Nora frowned. “Has he hurt you? Been cruel to you?”
“Oh, no, no, no,” The girl exclaimed before the last word was out of Nora’s mouth. “Nothing like that at all.”
Nora sagged; thank God. Beating, degrading, or humiliating her in the bedroom—all actions she craved and schemed for—was one thing. Doing so to one’s servants, especially a mere girl, was another matter altogether.
“Well, I’m relieved to hear that, er—I’m sorry, I don’t know your name?”
“It’s Mary, Miss.” She dropped a curtsey, forgetting she was holding a handful of Nora’s ragged clothing, her painting smock among them. She wrinkled her stubby nose and held it away from her. “I think perhaps some servant’s clothing got mixed in with yours?”
Nora smiled and took the paint splattered smock. “No, this is mine.” She glanced around, her heart in her mouth as she realized the chest that contained her painting materials was nowhere to be seen, nor were her paintings, which she’d taken from their stretchers and wrapped up in old bedding. “Have you seen a trunk?”
“I dunno, Miss. The Thomases put several things in that small sunroom.”
Nora turned and went to see, her palms sweating. The painting she was planning to enter into th
e competition wasn’t in there—it was too wet to be rolled and she’d left that one and three others with Charles after he’d sworn on his life to keep them safe in his room and not let anyone else see or touch them. Still, the roll of paintings held many that were precious, like paintings of her parents and sister.
She opened the door to the sunroom and heaved a sigh of relief when she saw her trunk and paints looking forlorn in the rather large room. It was on the southwest corner of the house and her heart leapt: perhaps this would be a nice place to paint?
Her heart plummeted again when she recalled what she’d said to Mr. Fanshawe—Edward—only a few hours ago. Nora groaned. She was such a fool. She’d likely find herself out on the street in the morning.
There was a light knock on the door that led out to the hallway. Before Nora could answer it, Mary was there, speaking to whomever had called in a low voice out in the hall. When she came back she was bearing a heavy tray.
“It’s a light supper from Mr. Fanshawe, Miss Nora. Where would you like to eat?”
“Oh. Well, you could put it here, I suppose.” Here was a low table in front of the study fire.
Mary proceeded to fuss with the tray’s contents, setting things out. She was enjoying herself so much Nora didn’t have the heart to tell her she was accustomed to serving herself. Instead, she pulled a few cushions onto the floor and sat down beside the table.
“Oh.” Mary frowned. “Are you sure you wouldn’t like the proper table?”
“No.” Nora smiled. “I like sitting on the floor.”
Mary made a skeptical sound but forbore commenting. She reminded Nora of a plump little bird organizing her nest.
“I don’t know what this is, Miss Nora.” She handed Nora a leather document folder that had been rolled and tied up. She knew before she opened it what it was.
There was a brief note on piece of paper affixed to the front of the contract.
“Nora, I’ve taken the liberty of having a copy made of the contract you signed. Given our conversation earlier in the day, I would like you to familiarize yourself with the document. Section 2, 7, 8, and 14 are of particular importance. You will recognize them as being areas you were required to initial. I shall expect you in my study at nine o’clock sharp. Mary has been instructed which clothing to lay out for you.”
He’d not signed it, but his handwriting was just like him: bold and aggressive and commanding.
“There you go, Miss. I’ve got your outfit for this evening picked out and will just press a bit of a wrinkle I found.” She chewed her lip, uncertain. “Mr. Fanshawe instructed me, Miss. I hope that’s all right.”
“Oh, yes. Perfectly. He is more familiar with our destination and knows what clothes will be best. Please don’t hesitate to follow his instructions to the letter. It is a relief to me not to have to concern myself with such matters.” And that was the truth. One of the things she’d like most about Tosca’s was the fact they had a uniform of sorts: the same muslin dresses for both day or night. Just thinking about the variety of outfits in that massive closet made her head ache.
Nora spooned some delicious seafood stew into her mouth and began reading the contract.
❈❈❈
By the time nine o’clock rolled around Edward had cooled down considerably. That didn’t mean he wasn’t going to carry out what he’d planned. His mouth curved into a smile at the thought of the evening ahead.
Going to Bernina’s with Nora had been a part of his plans—one of the most obsessive parts, really—but he’d not necessarily thought to go soon. Still, going tonight would actually suit him better and he could kill two birds with one stone, so to speak.
The door opened and he looked up from the messy pile of paperwork he’d been staring at and not seeing. His jaw dropped. Good. God.
He shot to his feet as she entered the room. He’d known what she would be wearing—hell, he’d bought every stitch of it—but he’d had no idea of how it would look.
“Good evening, Edward.”
His eyes settled on her mouth. Was that rouge? He frowned, not sure he liked it. Still, the glossy red color did make her mouth . . . inviting.
“Turn around,” he ordered. His groin—as ever—becoming heavy when she obeyed without hesitation, making him wonder if there was any order she wouldn’t obey. He shoved away the distracting, arousing, speculation and looked at the result of some of his labor.
The gown was a silvery white silk and the crinoline beneath it smaller and less egregious than was currently fashionable—he despised crinolines, truth be told. He knew she wore stays and stockings, also virginal white. It was more concealing than the gowns she wore at Tosca’s—which he’d like very much—but he didn’t want anyone else looking at her in such clothing. That type of garment was for him alone and up in their room.
He opened the top drawer of his desk and pulled out a large velvet box, which he handed to her. Her hesitation was almost imperceptible.
His heart beat in his ears as her slender white fingers opened the box. She stared at the contents without speaking, her face the wall it usually was. Only the fluttering of her pulse at the base of her throat gave away any emotion.
She swallowed and he drank in the fragile musculature of her throat. She was so very different than him. Oh, not just the obvious differences—her a woman and him a man—but her delicacy, her cool, concerted way of moving.
She raised her pale eyes to his. “Opals. They are my favorite.”
“Are they?” the surprised words left his mouth before he could stop them.
Her lips curved into a slight smile. “Do you wish for me to wear it tonight?”
“Come here and I’ll put on the necklet and bracelet.”
The necklet he’d chosen was four rows of opals set in silver. He’d wanted gold as it symbolized the finest money could buy, but the jeweler had suggested silver with these particular stones, and once he’d seen them near silver he’d had to agree.
He took the necklet from the box and draped it around her throat, inhaling her hair, which smelled different. He paused. “What is that scent you are wearing?”
“It must be the soap Mary used to wash my hair.”
He took another sniff and frowned. “I don’t care for it—I like the way it has always smelled. What was that you used?”
“Whatever Madam provided for us—something very inexpensive, I would guess.”
Edward grunted. Whatever it was, he’d get some and have the rest of the bottles and jars he’d stocked her bathing room with thrown away.
He returned to his task, savoring the way the delicate hairs at the back of her neck stood up at his touch. There were ten rings on the clasp, depending on the wearer’s neck size and level of comfort. Edward brought the hook to the ring that was roughly in the middle. The necklet sagged so he unhooked it and tried one smaller. This fit well enough but was not snug as it was designed to be so he unhooked it. He had to pull the ends tight, the cool metal biting into the tender flesh, in order to hook the clasp into the next ring.
Edward stroked her throat, his fingers grazing the cool metal. “Shall I loosen it? Is it too tight?” he asked, already knowing her answer.
“No, I like it tight.”
Her answer had the predictable effect on his cock. Yes, he knew she liked it tight. He also knew they’d both be thinking of the times when he’d fastened a different collar around her elegant throat.
Upstairs, in the armoire there were half a dozen collars he’d had made especially for her.
But not for tonight.
Edward screwed in her earrings and then clasped the bracelet around her delicate wrist, leaving that much looser.
He reached for the box and she said, “There is one more piece—a tiny ring of some sort.”
He slipped the small ring into his trouser pocket before closing the box and laying it on the desk.
“Turn around.”
Edward tried not to gawk. How had he ever thought her plain? Her h
air style suited her to perfection. Her maid had swept her curls to the side and held them in place with a hairpin of some sort. Edward squinted and saw it was shaped like a tiny silver bee. It looked cheap but was effective. He would buy her something similar but more suitable the next time he went to the jewelers.
The necklet bit hard into her flesh and he could see that swallowing must be uncomfortable. He liked that, too—a great deal. In fact, it was difficult not to put his hands around her throat, bend her over his desk, and ride them both raw. But the entertainments he’d planned for tonight beckoned.
“You look beautiful,” he said, not lying. “White suits you.”
Her lips twisted slightly at that—a sardonic smile he’d not seen before. Edward realized, quite stupidly, that he knew almost nothing about this woman aside from what she liked in the bedroom. Where was she from? What had led her to whoring? Did she have family?
He shrugged those thoughts aside. There was plenty of time for that.
“Come, John Coachman will have the carriage waiting.”
They were almost to the door when he remembered something. “Hold a moment, I almost forgot.” He strode back to the low table in front of the fire and picked up a huge garment box in one hand and a hat box in the other and carried both toward her. “This one first,” he said, holding the big box toward her.
She removed of the lid and he heard a soft intake of breath.
“Just toss that onto the floor,” he ordered when she continued holding the lid.
She complied and then slowly sunk her hands into the snowy white garment, her pale fingers only a few shades darker than the white fur. His body coiled even tighter and he knew he’d likely ruin yet another pair of trousers if he didn’t take control of himself.
She pulled the garment from the box without further encouragement. The look on her face well worth the thousands of pounds the cloak had cost him.
Edward set the hatbox on the nearby console table. “Here, let me.”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 11