His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1)

by S. M. LaViolette

  Nora had smiled and kissed his cheek. “Of course I’ll come back.” And she would, even though taking excursions was not as simple as she’d hoped. First, she had to dress appropriately (paragraph 16 in the contract) and then, after she was trussed and buttoned and shod and bundled, she had to take one of Edward’s carriages for all except the shortest journeys—that was the same paragraph that included the stipulation about a footman. Each and every time she stepped out of the house, she had to be accompanied by one of the footmen.

  Nora had known many men in her life, but never had she met such colorless, witless dolts as Edward’s footmen.

  First off, they’d been selected for their resemblance to a common type: tall, hulking, brown hair, brown eyes, and dull, incurious expressions. She thought there were as many as five of them, but it was impossible to be sure as they all looked alike and answered to the name Thomas.

  That affectation, she’d learned, came from the aristocracy. Apparently, giving all the footmen the same name was meant to display one’s complete disregard for one’s menials—to the degree that one couldn’t be bothered learning their names. The same went for John Coachman.

  Nora snorted as she stared at her reflection, taking a few steps closer and pulling back her lower lips to examine the piercing. It was clean and the swelling had disappeared quickly. Sometimes the jeweled ring caught on clothing and that could be uncomfortable, but, by and large, she felt the tiny puncture was healed.

  Just pulling aside the sensitive skin to examine it caused a wonderful friction on her clitoris. Indeed, just walking jostled the ring and kept her in a heightened state. She dropped her hands and turned away, frustrated by her body’s insistent attempts to lead her toward temptation. Late at night, when the soft muslin of her nightgown would chafe against the ring, she’d have to put her hands beneath her body to stop from rubbing or touching herself. The voice in her head, most insidious at night, would tell her there was no way he would ever know.

  And he wouldn’t—at least not until he asked her. And Nora would tell him the truth—she always did. In fact, lying was the one characteristic she could not abide in herself and others. She’d lied for the last time when she left her parents’ house at the age of fifteen, when she’d told them she’d been going to stay with her friend in Winchester but had, in truth, gone to London.

  Only when she could no longer go back had she written to tell them the truth.

  She submerged herself in the too hot water, enjoying the painful burn and shivering in anticipation with thoughts of tonight. Although she kept no journal, she recalled the last time he’d been inside her body. The last two times they’d been together he’d taken another woman instead of her. The memory of Emma’s blond head bobbing up and down in his lap and his feral grimace of passion when he’d climaxed came back to tease and taunt her nightly.

  It was part of what made her feelings for him different from any other man she’d met. The mix of jealousy and lust and humiliation was an aphrodisiac unlike any other. The emotions were so intermingled and entangled it was impossible to sort everything out. All she knew was that the more he degraded her, the more she wanted him, the harder she climaxed when he finally touched her or—like that last time at Tosca’s—even looked at her. She hated but loved to see him with another woman, using her the way she wanted to be used. It was a humiliating rejection that made her crave greater and greater debasements.

  Their association would not end well for her. But oh, how she would cherish the journey.

  ❈❈❈

  Edward cursed himself for an idiot. Why had he accepted Banks’s offer and gone to the bloody theater his first night back when all he’d wanted to do was unlock the door to his fantasies and use Nora’s body the way he’d dreamt every damned night since he’d been away?

  Instead he was here in a bloody restaurant with Banks and his mistress, Chatham and one of the actresses from the play, and Smith, who was currently monopolizing Edward’s mistress.

  Edward wanted to jump across the table and jerk Nora away from the smooth, clever, and oddly magnetic man. And then he wanted to punch Smith in the face. But he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it. Why? Because he was too mesmerized watching her—just as he’d done during the play—a play he couldn’t have named if his life had depended on it.

  She was laughing—laughing!—smiling, flirting, and talking more than she’d spoken to him the entire time they’d known each other. Just who the hell was this woman?

  “I think you might have burnt a hole in Smith’s evening coat, Edward.”

  Edward turned to Chatham, his lips already twisted into a snarl. He looked from the usually quiet, giant of a man—easily five inches taller than either Edward or Banks, both of whom topped six feet—to the actress he’d brought along, who was currently sitting captivated by Banks and almost in his lap.

  “Instead of giving me grief you should be looking to your own business.”

  Chatham cut a languid look in the direction Edward indicated and gave his version of a smile—a shift of the lips so slight you had to know the man to even notice. “Our Gideon is quite the charmer,” he said with obvious unconcern.

  Edward snorted. Banks was a whoremaster and had the most insatiable sexual appetite of anyone he’d ever met. Even three mistresses didn’t seem adequate to suit his needs. He wouldn’t be surprised if he added Chatham’s bit of muslin to his rapidly growing collection.

  “She’s very pretty.”

  Edward followed Chatham’s line of sight to Nora, who was laughing hard enough to bring tears to her eyes. Bile and envy rose inside him.

  “She lives with you?” Chatham asked.

  Edward knew the other men had been floored by that news.

  “Yes, she lives with me because it is convenient, Chatham.”

  “Nothing more?”

  “When did you become so bloody chatty?” Edward demanded. “She’s a whore, Chatham, not my betrothed.”

  The other man’s brows rose, but he remained silent.

  “I’ve got a list drawn up and will commence courtship this very week.”

  “List?”

  “Yes, all young women as pedigreed as race-horses but without a guinea between them.”

  Chatham made a noncommittal humming sound.

  “I’ll be dining at the Earl Sutcliffe’s one night and a baron and viscount’s houses the next nights. And after that, I’ve got my eye on a marquess’s daughter. I’ll keep looking until I find what I want.”

  “And what is that?”

  Edward gave Chatham a look of surprise. “Why, a wife who will forge a connection to those men who are forever beyond our reach. A woman with the blood of kings in her veins who will breed my children. With my money and the right bloodline a son of mine would be unstoppable.” He frowned. “Isn’t that what you want?”

  “Hmm.” Chatham took a drink of wine—a wine Edward knew cost a hundred pounds a bottle—and studied Nora and Smith. Smith was currently whispering something into Nora’s ear to make her smile. And making Edward vow to have words with him at the first available moment.

  Chatham shook his head and turned toward Edward. “No.”

  Edward blinked. “What?”

  “No, that’s not what I want.”

  “Oh, that.” Edward threw back the contents of his glass—at least five pounds-worth—and waived to their waiter. He would need another bottle to float him through the rest of this bloody evening.

  ❈❈❈

  Edward was very quiet on their way home. For her part, Nora couldn’t recall an evening she’d enjoyed so well. Mr. Smith was wicked and funny and irreverent, Mr. Banks the most beautiful man she’d ever seen, and Mr. Chatham reserved but courtly and polite. Only Edward had not appeared to have a good time. Of course she knew why, but his moods and jealousies were hardly her concern. Well, not unless she could get pleasure from them which, admittedly, she’d done tonight.

  Smith, also, had found his grim partner amusing.
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  “You know he will take this behavior out of your sweet bottom later tonight,” he whispered in her ear at one point.

  Nora whispered back, “I certainly hope so.” And they’d laughed like children.

  All night they’d discussed Edward without his knowledge. Oh, they’d not said anything disparaging, Nora would not have tolerated that, but Smith had told her how he’d taken Edward to Bernina’s and then mounted Emma right in front of him. He’d shared the details of Edward’s conflicted expression that night.

  Nora realized tonight, as she gossiped and played with Smith, how much she missed Charles. He could be a nosy pest, but he reminded her of Smith, only far younger. She wondered what the two men would make of each other.

  But that was not something she had time to ponder now. Right now she needed to give all her attention to Edward, who was pouting.

  He remained silent until they reached the house, waiting until he’d handed her out of the carriage and then barked, “I shall come to you in a half hour.” He said it right in front of the footman.

  Well, so much for his ridiculous façade that she was his niece.

  Mary was waiting for her and chattered while helping her to disrobe. Nora never let the girl remove her chemise for fear she’d faint with shock at her shaved, pierced genitals. If the girl thought her behavior odd she made no mention of it while she hung up the various garments and gathered a small pile for washing and pressing.

  “Thank you, Mary. That will be all for tonight,” she said when the girl seemed predisposed to linger, an activity she’d encouraged, but not tonight—not now that Edward was back.

  Once the door closed behind her she pulled off her chemise and went to the nightgowns in her dressing room. There were only a handful and they were rather prosaic. She suspected Edward kept far more intriguing garments in the room she thought of as his special play area.

  As if on cue, the panel door swung inward. Nora dropped the nightgown over her head and fastened the small row of buttons before padding toward the open door.

  Edward was inside, sitting on a large black leather chair that faced the fire, reading something on a sheet of paper. She watched him, enjoying this opportunity to observe him without his knowledge. He’d taken off his cravat, coat, and waistcoat and wore only his trousers and white shirt, his feet still in dark stockings. His hair, wiry and thick, was overlong and hung down over his forehead, brushing his collar.

  She allowed her heart a brief moment to appreciate his massive shoulders and how vulnerable they appeared as he hunched closer to the light to read, his posture tense.

  And then she took her love for him and bound it up with a leather cord like the type he was so fond of. Once it was nothing but a small square, she tucked it into a trunk at the back of her mind. And none too soon because he looked up.

  He wore a scowl, his skin flushed dark. “Do you know what this is?” he held up the single sheet of paper in his clenched fist.

  She went to him. “No, Edward. What is it?”

  He thrust it at her. “Read it—it’s about you, after all.”

  Nora took the page, which was filled with cramped, inelegant writing. There were dates and she realized they began the day he’d left. Each day there was a description of somebody’s activities—her activities.

  “Monday February 19: Miss N. left house at ten minutes past noon and stopped at an apothecary’s (purchased one razor, a cake of shaving soap, and various feminine items) and next went to Hatchards. Read for two hours but did not purchase anything. Next went to an address at—”

  Nora looked up when she saw it was the address for Tosca’s.

  “I want you to tell me what you did at Tosca’s,” he demanded. “And if you lie, I will find out.”

  She bristled slightly at his imputation that she was a liar when she’d never told him even the smallest fib. Of course she kept that to herself.

  “I went to visit a friend of mine there, Charles Smith.”

  She could see her answer surprised him.

  “That was all—you wished to talk to him?”

  “That and I wished to check on a couple of paintings he is keeping for me.”

  “Paintings?” he repeated, arrested.

  “Yes, I like to paint and several of the pictures were too wet to transport. He is keeping them for me until they have dried.”

  He gave a dismissive grunt, clearly not interested in the news she painted, looking oddly deflated by her answer, as if he’d expected—or hoped for—something more illicit or prurient. Nora felt almost bad to disappoint him.

  But then he sat up again, his anger returning. “And what about Thursday? Hmm? How do you explain that?”

  She glanced down and immediately saw what he meant.

  “I went to visit an acquaintance of mine who owns a bookshop—Mr. Felix Lombard.”

  “An acquaintance,” he sneered.

  “A former client.”

  He shot to his feet. “Do you not recall what you signed your name to? I’ll remind you. It is in paragraph—”

  “Seventeen,” she completed for him. “The paragraph that says I will not engage in any sexual congress other than at your direction.” It was actually far more explicit than that, and enumerated what, specifically, was prohibited. She’d considered telling him about the loophole his language left out, but decided it was not her business to be his solicitor.

  He strode toward her and grabbed the front of her nightgown with both hands and tore it in half with a deafening riiiiip.

  He was breathing hard as his eyes swept up and down her body, his lips parted, his nostrils flaring. “Where the hell did you get that vile garment?” he demanded.

  When she opened her mouth to tell him that he’d bought it, he raised a hand to silence her. “Never mind. You will never wear anything to this room again. Come to me naked. If I want you to wear clothing I’ll tell you. Is that understood?” he said, his eyes at the level of her pelvis. “You shaved.” It wasn’t a question. But he looked up when she didn’t answer.

  “Yes, Edward.”

  “Well don’t—I’ll do it for you.” He gave her one of his non-smiles. “Unless you don’t trust me down there with a razor.”

  “Of course I trust you.”

  He snorted. “Go lie on the bed, face up, on top of the comforter,” he said when she moved to pull back the undoubtedly expensive white leather cover.

  She complied and watched as his hand went to the neck of his shirt and he began to flick open buttons.

  “It’s only been eight days,” he said.

  She knew what he meant. “Yes, but I believe it has healed enough.”

  He gave another of his noncommittal grunts, tossing the shirt to the floor and exposing his powerful chest. He had a great deal of chest hair and it thinned to a line that ran down his belly to his groin. She loved his body hair—so unapologetically male—almost as much as she loved the muscular body it covered.

  He was out of his trousers and drawers in the blink of an eye and then crawled on to the bed, taking her ankles and spreading her legs until her hips ached. He released her, but she knew well enough to keep them spread.

  He lowered himself onto his elbows and brought his face close to her sex, his warm breath delicious on her already swollen clitoris.

  He pressed a big finger at the base of her erect peak and she sucked in a breath, her body tensing against the acute pleasure.

  “Mmm,” he hummed, stroking from the base to the entrance to her body. “You’re wet, swollen.”

  “Yes, Edward.” Her voice tremored and he looked up over her bare mound, flat belly and slight breasts.

  “Have you had an orgasm?”

  “No, Edward.”

  His lips curled and his eyelids lowered. “Good. Do you ache from denying yourself?”

  “Yes, Edward.”

  He shoved a finger into her without warning and her entire body tensed, her buttocks lifting off the bed. He moved his digit in a beckoning motion
that rubbed an exquisite spot inside her and she moaned. “Oh, yes.”

  Just as suddenly, he was gone. She opened her eyes to find him on his knees, his enormous erection jutting straight up, his smile derisive and cruel. “You like that, do you?” He gave a bark of mean laughter. “That’s too bad, because you’ll not get any relief tonight. Now get on your hands and knees.”

  ❈❈❈

  Edward loved her on her hands and knees the most. When he brought himself off, it was usually thinking of her in that position. It was such a primal, base position and fed the animal need he had for her.

  And now, with her shaved bare, he could see her more clearly—the way her lips spread as she became aroused and exposed the most delicate parts of her to his prying eyes.

  He enjoyed the sight of her submissive pose for a moment, walking around the bed to see her from all angles. Her body was flushed with arousal, her nipples sharp little points, and her thighs slick with moisture. He was more than a little aroused himself. And because he knew that he was supposed to avoid agitating the silver ring with intercourse, that was exactly what his contrarian cock wanted: her tight sheath wrapped around him, milking him.

  He leaned close behind her and thrust his tongue deep into her cunt, fucking her with it while she shivered. She tasted delicious and he wanted to let her come—make her come—but then he recalled the list he’d just read from the men he paid to spy on her every move and he stopped, pulling back abruptly.

  “I don’t want to hear you’ve been kissing another man, even on the cheek.” He swatted her arse hard enough to leave a handprint, thrilling at the sight of her skin bruising for him. He slapped her other cheek, harder. “I didn’t hear you?”

  “The contract doesn’t say anything abo—”

  He swatted her again, so hard his hand hurt. “I cannot believe what I am hearing.” It was true—he couldn’t. But he was enjoying the hell out of her rare act of rebellion all the same. “Are you saying you will disobey me?”

  His hand hovered over her arse, which was scarlet with the force of his punishing blows. His hand stung so he knew she must be suffering.

  “No, Edward.”