He took the hand she offered and actually laid his foul mouth on it. Thankfully she was wearing thick gloves for the chilly weather.
She waited until his broad shoulders disappeared into the house before flinging herself onto the nearest bench.
This was it, then. She was not even to have one Season before she was auctioned off like cattle.
“We simply cannot afford it, Catherine, and getting into a pelter about it won’t change anything,” her father said the night before they left for London. He’d taken a drink of the dreadful wine the steward had found in some dark recess in the cellar and grimaced. “Good God. Fish!” he yelled, even though their aged butler was right beside the table, helping clear the last course because they couldn’t afford another footman.
“Yes, my lord?” Fish asked coolly.
Her father waved the glass of wine rudely. “Don’t we have something else? Anything else?”
Fish’s expression changed so minutely only an expert in Fish-watching would have caught it. “I’m afraid not, my lord.”
“Bloody hell,” the marquess muttered.
“Blandford,” Cat’s mother chastised, but without any real heat.
They’d been dining in the gloomy cavernous dining room, just the three of them, her vile brother Ceddy having skived off somewhere, no doubt to whore and gamble and do other things that cost great gobs of money. And which she would have to pay for, with the sacrifice of her person.
When Fish and the footman departed to fetch dessert her father turned to her, his expression hard. “This will be the last time we discuss this, Kitty. I spoke with Fanshawe when he came to meet you two weeks ago and the terms he is offering are—” he sputtered, “Well, suffice it to say none of us will suffer.”
Except her.
Her mother turned to her, clearly reading her mind—and why not? She’d not wanted to marry her father, either—they loathed one another and always had. No doubt they’d move to separate dwellings the moment they received the money from selling her.
“His sort of man will expect very little, my dear,” her mother said.
“His sort?” Cat laughed without any humor. “And what sort is that, Mama.”
“The well-larded sort,” her father snapped. “You’d best mend your ways, Catherine—nobody likes a spiteful little cat—not even social climbing mushrooms.”
“Blandford,” her mother murmured.
Cat rolled her eyes. Quite truthfully, she would be grateful to get away from both her parents—and Ceddy, who’d done his part to land them all in this mess.
“He works all the time,” her father said, his level tone saying he’d relented toward her slightly. “I doubt you shall even see him most days.”
But what about at night, Papa? What about then?
Cat knew they were all thinking it—about what she would have to do to uphold her family’s part of the bargain. Cat had once seen a stable boy’s bare bottom pumping away into the body of one of their chambermaids. She’d hidden and watched the whole thing—it had been revolting. It had also left her with an annoying itch between her legs that still bothered her from time to time. Was that what she had to expect with Mr. Fanshawe? Him with his trousers around his knees, his bottom thrusting and—a small whimper escaped her mouth and drew her mother’s attention.
The marchioness smiled at Cat and patted her hand lightly, “There, there, my dear. Don’t worry. Fish says there is to be a custard for dessert.”
Chapter Sixteen
Edward rolled off Nora’s body with a deep groan of satisfaction. “God, that was good.”
It had been better than good—it had been … transcendent.
Nora felt him shift and move on the bed and knew what was coming. He spread her cheeks and pushed a well-oiled cold, stone plug into her anus. “There we are,” he said with a tone that pulsed with possession and smugness. “Shall we aim for a new record today, my Nora?” He chuckled as if he’d made a jest and then bit her sore buttock.
By record he meant the number of times in any given evening when he spent in her back entrance.
He pushed himself off the bed and made his way to the small water closet off the other side of the play room. She knew now that his chambers were on the other side: a study, dressing room, and then bedroom—and idly wondered if he would change the situation once he brought his bride home.
Nora rolled onto her back and sighed, wiggling her hips to adjust the large plug of marble. Edward had recently become obsessed with her bottom. Specifically, he’d decided he liked fucking her and then plugging her. And then fucking her again and plugging her. And so on.
“I like thinking of you filled with my spunk,” he’d told her the first time, his tone proud—as if he were the first man to think of such a thing. “I wish I could keep you filled all the time, but I know that’s not possible.” Yet he’d done a bloody fine job of trying. So far his record in one day was six times. He seemed concerned he’d not be able to top that.
Nora adored his obsessive and creative approach to sex, but his behavior had taken on a frenetic edge lately. And it concerned her. She knew the cause, of course, although she’d never said a word on the matter of his courtship: but he’d said plenty on the subject for both of them.
He came padding back into the room and crawled onto the bed, forcing apart her thighs. “Open wide for me, Nora, I want to play with my favorite toy.”
That was another of his obsessions: her piercing. Some nights he licked and fingered her almost raw.
Some nights he fucked her for an hour or more, transfixed at the sight of his body penetrating and stretching hers. “You’re so small and tight,” he’d marvel, as if he’d only then seen her for the first time. “I can’t get enough of watching you take me.”
Yes, she knew that.
And then there was his fascination with the diamond encrusted ring and the way it chafed at her exposed clitoris. “I wonder if we should get you a bigger ring,” he’d mused a few nights ago—the same night he’d decided he would see how many orgasms he could give her in a single evening. The answer to that, by the way, was a lot.
She felt his hot breath first and then his warm, hot tongue on her sensitive flesh. He licked her from cunt to piercing.
“I love the taste of my come on you,” he murmured. “Do you think that makes me odd?” he asked, pausing his licking to look up at her with a serious expression.
Nora could only laugh.
“I’ll take that as a no,” he said, returning to his nuzzling and licking, thrusting his remarkably hard tongue up her entrance and fucking her with it.
She looked down at his big head, his hair wild and mussed, his powerful body propped up on thick, muscular biceps. She rarely had a chance to see him so clearly, but he’d come back in the middle of the day so they’d opened the drapes on the windows, risking exposure if anyone happened to be looking in from the third floor across the street. He’d been so hard and desperate for her that he’d actually ripped part of her gown to get to her.
Something was bothering him. If they were normal lovers, she would ask. Of course if they were normal lovers, he wouldn’t share the inner details of his recent wife-hunting with her every night in this bed, before, during, and after he’d taken her.
He tugged on her sensitive piercing with his teeth and she stiffened. He laughed and then sucked her still aroused, hard nub into his mouth, his finger nudging at her opening—the one not plugged with marble.
She relaxed her body, spreading wider for him. The truth was that she couldn’t get enough of him, either. Their contract ran for a year, at which time she would leave. And she would leave, because to stay under such conditions—Edward bringing in a wife, having children—would eventually kill her. Part of her wished he’d put five years in the contract so she would have to stay with him, dying a slow death until he eventually paid the stiff forfeiture and ended their agreement early—which she knew he would.
But, unfortunately, she only had thi
s one year, less now.
She knew most people would consider her willingness to whore for a man in his house, with his new wife, unforgiveable. She would have despised herself, too if it was a normal marriage. But she’d met all but one of the women on his bloody list. He’d brought them one by one, to the dinner table and forced her to socialize, smile, and be looked down upon. Every single one of them had looked at Edward with barely veiled hatred. Nora had read their expressions as clearly as a book: none of them would care if Edward stocked his house with ten mistresses if that meant they never needed to submit to his loathsome, plebian embraces.
“Mmm,” his groan shook her from her unpleasant thoughts and she tilted her pelvis for him, focusing all her attention on his clever tongue working her aching flesh while a second and then third finger pumped her. As ever, he brought her to a shattering climax with very little effort. She didn’t always come so quickly; only with Edward.
He chuckled while holding her spasming clitoris clamped between his lips, stilling his hands and tongue to allow her to enjoy the sensation.
He released the small triangle of flesh with a vulgar pop. “Oh, Nora, I so love your cunt.”
She knew that. But why couldn’t he love her?
He pushed himself up even with her and propped his head up with his hand, looking at her while his fingers circled her nipples—also painfully sensitive. He said the same thing he always did. “I can’t decide if I’d like these pierced. Perhaps just one. But which one?” He leaned down and sucked the right one into his mouth. Sometimes Nora thought she would die from an overabundance of physical pleasure. She wondered if that was possible.
He was pressed against her hip, his thick organ already beginning to harden again. He moaned against her breast and released her, rolling onto his back.
“I just want to fuck you all day long but I have to go and check with Mrs. Loring—about the dinner.”
Yes, she knew. She also knew his plaintive tone. They’d had their first ever argument her third week with him, when he’d told her about the first dinner. Nora knew her refusal to do his bidding—for only the second time, the first when she rejected his initial offer—confounded him. And infuriated him. That was her fault for always submitting to him—he was like a spoiled child accustomed to getting what he wanted. A spoiled six-foot, fifteen-stone child.
She refused to act as the mistress of his house. He could pay somebody to decorate or arrange his bloody dinner parties. She’d signed a contract to accept dominion over her body, not to act as his wife.
“I think Lady Catherine is the one, Nora,” he mused beside her, staring up at the mirrored ceiling, at images of themselves, naked and sated. He shoved a hand through his hair, his muscular bicep bulging—the sight stirring her even though she’d climaxed not five minutes earlier. Oh, how she adored his body.
“I paid a call on the marquess’s house on Berkeley Square,” he continued, no response from her necessary. He snorted derisively, just as he always did after visiting one of these down-at-heel old houses. “What a disaster. Instead of franking that lout of son they could have fixed at least the roof. It’s even worse than their country home.” He absently rubbed his chest, the action making his muscles move in fascinating ways and making her mouth water.
Truly she was born to be a whore. But then she’d known that.
He turned to her suddenly. “What do you suppose these blokes do all day?” He appeared genuinely serious.
She shrugged. “Wake up at noon, have a leisurely meal and read the paper, spend several hour at their toilet, go eat at their club, go to some society function, pay a visit to a gambling hell or brothel or both, tumble into bed at dawn and do it all over again.”
His eyes had widened. “Did you just make all that up?”
“Yes,” she admitted.
He frowned. “But it sounds bloody plausible, doesn’t it? What a dreadful way to go on with one’s life.”
Nora thought back to the vicious young viscount who’d hurt her so badly and had to agree. Boredom was a deadly emotion.
On an impulse, she asked him, “What do you do all day, Edward?”
He couldn’t have looked more surprised if she’d pulled out a croquet mallet and hit him in the forehead. Well, she supposed she’d not asked very many questions. She’d learned, since moving into his house, that he’d begun to open up and usually gave a good deal of himself away if one just waited and watched.
His face and neck flushed, and she knew her interest pleased him. She couldn’t decide if that made her happy, or not.
“Hmm, well. I usually spend a few hours with Simon Powell going through paperwork.”
Nora had met the quiet young secretary only once. She tended to avoid the second floor when she knew there might be others around—Edward’s associates or other businessmen. She especially avoided Mr. Powell because she suspected Edward had used him to copy the contract. The way the younger man—perhaps her age—had flushed when he’d met her had confirmed that suspicion. She could only imagine what he thought of her.
“Then I might meet with one of the others to discuss our various investments.” By others he meant his small syndicate. “Sometimes I go to check on things in person.” He paused and scratched his jaw, which was already dark with hair although it was only midday. “Like that damned brewery Smith convinced us to buy down by the London Docks.” He turned to her. “Do you know the one I mean?” he asked, clearly forgetting to whom he was speaking.
“I’m afraid I don’t possess an extensive knowledge of breweries.”
“It’s the Gateshead,” he said, not noticing the mockery in her voice. He shrugged. “In any case, I might do that and then come back here to get in a few more hours once Powell has gone home.” He cut her a quick look. “I know you haven’t met him but—”
“I have.”
He frowned, his dark eyes suddenly focusing on her in that way that exhibited total focus, like a marksman taking aim. “When was this?”
“One morning downstairs.”
Storm clouds gathered so fast in his eyes she wanted to laugh. Here he was jealous that she might speak to another man when he talked of nothing but marrying another woman—and breeding children on her!
“What were you doing on the second floor?” he asked, leaking suspicion like a cracked jar leaked water.
“Likely walking through it to get to the first.”
He blinked at her tart answer, and then, to her surprise, laughed. “Ah, Nora shows her claws.”
Oh, you’ve not even seen the tip of what I keep sheathed, Mr. Edward Fanshawe, she wanted to tell him, but of course did not.
Besides, he’d already lost interest in her, or her claws, and he turned back to the mirror. “I have to admit they aren’t the mother-and father-in-law I’d have chosen, but I think Lady Catherine is the best of the lot—and certainly the most beautiful,” he said in an admiring, covetous tone.
The “lot” being the parade of young, impoverished women and their eager but arrogant parents who’d come through the house in the past weeks. She’d known for some time he was becoming bored with the process and wanted to get things finished—just like he’d gotten Nora installed in his house—so that he could marry, impregnate his wife, and then move on to the next item on his list.
At first the thought of him marrying another—bedding another—had driven her nearly mad. She’d wanted to tear off her own head to get away from the horrific thought. But, of course, some base part of her brain had thrilled at the notion he would humiliate and debase her so thoroughly—and she would not only accept it, she would revel in it.
So, for these past few weeks they’d engaged in the most torrid, violent sex she’d ever had; it had also been the very best in her life. Neither of them could get enough—which was saying something considering they never seemed to get enough.
He’d developed his obsession for anal plugs then. For at least five or six days he’d fitted her with two plugs, which he’d kept ins
ide her with a special pair of drawers made of straps of leather.
He would ride her for most of every night. his whippings the most severe he’d ever given her because she would purposely disobey him, usually by stimulating herself to orgasm without him, and then boasting of it when he came to her, just to make him beat him harder.
Every night when he was finished with her, he’d disappear until late the next evening when he’d summon her to their room and they’d do it all over again.
That was another thing—he worked a great deal. More than anyone she’d ever known. Some nights he didn’t come for her until just before dawn. He’d use her with a franticness that both terrified and incited her, sleep for half an hour, and then head for his chambers to bathe, shave and dress and go to work.
He seemed to have no friends. Even his business partners were just that: business. He had no hobbies or pastimes, didn’t appear to enjoy gambling, drinking, buying expensive cattle—nothing except working, fucking her, and planning his upcoming nuptials.
The days leading up to the first “dinner party” with his prospective bride had led to an almost unbearable tension inside her chest, until finally, one night after he’d left her, she pulled down her small cloth bag and threw in her old clothing. She would leave—go back to work in some other whorehouse—not in London because he’d find her if she stayed. But someplace far away.
Even as she’d been packing, she’d known she could never leave him—not until he kicked her out.
And then the night had come when she’d met his first “prospect” and all her envy and jealousy had dissipated quicker than a wisp of smoke. That’s when she’d seen what a horrible, horrible mistake he was making.
The aristocrats who brought their daughters to his house, and allowed him into theirs, would never accept him. Even if he were a modest and self-effacing man, and he most definitely was not, they would hate him for recognizing their need—money—and knowing the depth of their poverty.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 15