At every fork in the twisty road she’d traveled with Edward, she’d always chosen the path that led to their pleasure at the expense of everything—and everyone—else.
If she went after Cat now, it would be to make herself feel better—not because she believed she could do or say anything that would help her. After all, look at how things had turned out the last time Cat came to her for help?
So, for once in her dealings with Cat, Nora did something for the other woman rather than her guilt-stricken conscience: she let her go.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Catherine
Cat woke up in a bed that was not hers, but there was nothing new about that.
She lifted the blanket to see who was beside her, squinting down at auburn hair and pale, pale skin. It took a moment for her to remember: she didn’t recall her name, but it was the new girl at Bernina’s.
She stared up at the ceiling, glad there were no mirrors there, as there were in many of Cecile’s rooms. Cat didn’t look at herself if she could help it. She’d not wanted to sleep another night in this, or any other, whorehouse, but she could not seem to sleep in the huge house she’d purchased after the divorce. A house so big it made his pale by comparison.
Cat should feel a sense of triumph that she’d humiliated Edward by very publicly flaunting her infidelities during the last months of their marriage and then again by winning a divorce settlement that still made her eyes water, but she didn’t.
Besides, it wasn’t much of a triumph considering he’d never resisted even one of her demands. She could have had everything of his if that bastard Smith had not come to her.
Smith had advised—threatened, really—that she take the half Edward offered her and have done with it. She’d considered ignoring the man, but something about the insignificant looking but somehow menacing businessman—a man who didn’t even have a first name—decided her against it.
Cat had always known Smith didn’t like her. Whenever Edward had insisted on dragging her along to one of his dreary business functions Smith had always been there—along with that creepy Chatham who never spoke but looked with those probing eyes, and that disgusting leching Banks, who’d tried to fuck her every time they met.
Mr. Smith had hardly even acknowledged her, making his preference for Nora clear. The two of them had laughed and giggled like schoolgirls whenever they’d been around each other, an activity that had irritated Edward no end. So at least that had been enjoyable to watch.
Yes, Nora laughing with another man had done far more than all Cat’s infidelity and public flaunting to torment Edward. The only thing Cat had ever done to hurt him was take away his Nora.
His Nora, she snorted and shook her head, not ready to think about Nora and their last meeting just yet—not until she’d had a few drinks.
Instead of thinking about her stupid decision to dredge up old pain and old memories, Cat did what she always did on mornings after nights with too much alcohol and too much mindless sex: she tried to recall how she ended up where she was, which seemed to grow increasingly difficult.
The evening came back to her gradually. She’d gone to one of the endless string of parties she used to favor—those thrown by rich society women—her kind of women—who wanted to rub shoulders, and other things, with London’s rougher, wilder element.
After almost a year of attending such functions, the novelty had paled.
There’d been nobody there she’d wanted to talk to or fuck so she’d had her coachman take her to Bernina’s and she’d paid a lot of money to forget for a few hours.
Brief snatches of last night drifted through her mind’s eye, none of them interesting enough for her to seize and examine.
It was the same, always the same. The redhead still lying beside her had a luscious mouth and tongue and had given Cat just what she’d paid for: a string of intense but empty orgasms.
Cat knew most of the whores disliked her because she used the girls harder even than most men, making them work until their jaws probably felt close to falling off.
Not even Emma wanted to see her any longer, and Emma was the least demanding, least temperamental person she’d ever known. But the last few times Cat had asked Cecile for her, she’d been unavailable. So, there was an insult for you—rejected by a whore even though Cat knew she’d always paid Emma at least three times as any other client.
Cat shrugged to herself. Who cared? Other than a passing resemblance to Nora—which faded quickly the moment the woman opened her mouth to speak—she was no better than any of the others.
Certainly no better than her current bed partner, who’d complied quickly and without question to all of Cat’s demands.
Instead of being aroused by such submission—as she had with Nora—the girl had only irritated her. Cat kept pushing her, wondering when she’d finally say no, making the woman lick and suck her long past the point when it was pleasurable.
Cat reached between her lips and winced. She was raw and sore and knew she should forgo carnal pleasure for at least a few days—better a week. But she wouldn’t because there was a party tonight that she actually wished to go to. One of the painters Nora was known to associate with had sold a painting to one of Cat’s friends. Well, friend was pushing it. Lady Susan Metford was another woman like Cat—a duke’s daughter who’d married an obscenely rich cit who’d conveniently died in the bed of his mistress, leaving Suzie nearly as rich as Cat.
She was almost as notorious for her sexual antics and her parties often devolved—or evolved, depending on how one looked at it—into orgies. Cat never missed them.
What else was there other than parties? She was a divorcee—a notorious, wealthy slut who was no longer welcome in polite company. Or even impolite company.
Suddenly she recalled what had started her drinking so early yesterday, which she tried to avoid but increasingly couldn’t control. It hadn’t just been that disastrous visit to Nora a few days ago—it had been her mother’s telegram from Dover. Ceddy was in a hospital in Naples. He’d been stabbed and was not expected to live much longer. Her mother and father were rushing off to the Continent and had ordered her to join them.
That had made Cat laugh. And then fire off a one-word telegram of her own: No.
That was the only consolation she’d received from her miserable marriage: her freedom.
Ceddy was a slimy worm who deserved what had happened to him; the person who’d knifed him deserved a medal.
Still, thinking of him dead made her recall when they were little—back before he’d turned into such a poisonous toad. They’d been all each other had while their parents fought loudly enough to wake the neighborhood.
But that was long ago.
Cat still burned with fury when she recalled his attempted blackmail of her and Nora.
It was too bad Edward had kept that painting of her. It really had been beautiful—and not just because it was her, but because Nora had an ability for capturing something other people didn’t see.
At the time she’d thought Nora had painted her so clearly because she’d loved Cat. But now, especially after seeing the painting of the big, handsome, and rather thick Derek, she knew that was just part of her skill. The painting of Derek had been riveting not so much because he’d only been wearing a scrap of fabric over his far too masculine body, but because you could see the person behind his façade—his acquisitive, greedy self peeking out.
Well, others could see it. Derek had simply preened as he stood beside it at that party, clearly too stupid to realize that Nora had stripped more off him than just his clothing.
While the painting had been good, she’d been more intrigued by the knowledge that Derek must have known Nora, at least a little. He’d been as stupid as he looked, and he’d also demonstrated some other traits she recognized: jealousy, anger, and a desire for revenge.
Not only had he been Nora’s model, but her lover. Cat idly wondered if Nora only painted people she fucked. Or only fucked people s
he’d painted.
She snorted. Anyhow, Derek was another victim of Nora’s perplexing siren effect on both men and women.
It was a sign of Cat’s own petty character that she hoped Derek would find some way to hurt Nora—which was something Cat couldn’t seem to manage.
It would be nice to see Nora suffer at somebody else’s hands for a change. Perhaps she and Derek could chat a bit more about his situation. Maybe—
The body next to her shifted and groaned and a smooth warm hand traveled up Cat’s naked thigh, knocking the thought of Derek from her mind.
She had to give the whore credit—she was intent on earning her money.
Cat sighed and laid back, her legs already spreading even though she knew it would be more painful than pleasurable.
Instead of thinking of the woman laboring between her thighs, however, she thought of Nora. And Derek.
Chapter Thirty-Six
It took Nora three days before she knew she would not be contacting Cat—either in person or with a letter.
That Wednesday night after Cat’s visit had been the first Edward Wednesday on which Nora hadn’t thought about him or engaged in her solo orgy of pleasure. The letter she’d so anticipated reading had remained unopened, and she’d wondered if she would ever be able to read something from him again without feeling crushing guilt at what they’d done to Catherine.
But of course she hadn’t thrown the letter away.
Instead, she’d put it back in its locked drawer.
And for three days she’d run her encounter with Cat through her head, over and over.
At least a dozen times Nora had been on the verge of calling on her. But then she decided she could explain better, and less emotionally, in a letter. And she’d even begun several letters, but none of them seemed adequate.
Nora was sorry about how she’d used her, and ashamed at her ability to treat a person she had liked so horridly.
But the truth, if Nora were honest with herself, was that she would do the same thing over again without hesitation.
That was the result Edward had on her, and visa-versa. They were like chemicals that reacted violently when mixed, and Nora would be a hypocrite to expect Cat’s forgiveness.
Nora couldn’t heal her, only time and Cat’s own efforts could heal herself. If Nora called or wrote, she would only be doing so to assuage her conscience.
That decision had taken three days, which Nora thought of as a vaguely biblical number; not that what she was about to do—finally read his damned letter—had anything holy about it. No, once again she’d had a choice to make, and she’d chosen Edward.
Today had been her last sitting with Smith and Charles, which gave her a pang of sadness although the painting, when she finished it, would be superb. She would still go to Smith’s house to complete her work, but sittings were no longer necessary. Indeed, they’d not been necessary for some time, but she’d strung them out longer because they’d been far too entertaining to curtail.
Feeling rather restless, she’d called on Helen rather than going home—an impulsive act that had led to an afternoon of unexpected pleasure. After enjoying an impromptu tea and exploring Helen’s shockingly tidy studio, Nora had accompanied her to a show. The painter was a friend of Helen’s, another woman whose work Nora had found inspiring.
She’d headed home filled with hope and excitement at making new friends—women painters like herself, rather than more self-centered men.
The afternoon had reinvigorated her and she’d begun her new painting of Smith almost immediately upon returning home, almost setting her studio ablaze with candles before deciding it would be wiser to resume in the morning.
And now, as the hour approached midnight, restlessness began to creep in.
It was usual for her to feel a certain sense of anxiety after she finished one project and moved on to another—as if she were about to embark on a journey—but the truth was her mind had settled, once again, on the letter locked in her drawer.
It wasn’t an Edward Wednesday but she’d make it his night after ignoring the last.
She changed into her oldest, softest nightgown, poured herself a glass of whisky and, on impulse, brought the decanter to her nightstand and crawled into bed.
She broke the seal and unfolded the pages.
Nora:
I must confess it arouses me to think of you reading this.
Then again, you are far more likely to use this letter to wrap up a kipper carcass, which is what I deserve.
In the spirit of optimism, not to mention sexual fulfillment, I will choose to believe the former.
My second night in Glasgow I went to a brothel with Banks, who, of course, had already been there on our first night. You know Banks, you could put him down blindfolded in any city in the world and he would locate a whorehouse within the hour.
We were met at the door by the madam, a cruel-looking female of indeterminate years. She had skin as white as yours, but from heavy powder, rather than nature. She was garbed in revealing, sensual clothing intended to draw a man’s attention away from eyes that glittered with more sin and acquisitiveness than I’ve ever encountered.
She knew why we were there, courtesy of Banks, and led us to a room with a minimum of conversation.
The room was stark and spare and unlike any I’ve seen before in a brothel. It reminded me of our room in its lack of artifice but it was not as elegant or comfortable. There were no plush rugs, mirrors, or even a bed; there were just a dozen heavy chairs scattered about the large space, with men occupying all of them.
Some were alone, some in small groups, a few young, but most around my age.
They shared one characteristic: they all gave frequent, impatient glances toward the other end of the room, which was covered by a black velvet curtain, like the type you would see on a theater stage.
Banks and I were the last of the guests and, after seating us, the madam drew the curtain to expose a heavy iron frame that had the look of the hoists used in the shipyards to lift massive, heavy timbers and such. It had been altered to suit its special purpose, which was immediately apparent from the woman strapped to it.
You will probably not be surprised to hear she was naked and bound. Her arms hung together over her head while her legs were wide-spread in a way that left her exposed. Interestingly, she wore a black velvet bag over her head and face. I have to admit—”
Nora paused a moment, forcing herself to slow down. The letter covered only a few pages—at this rate she’d be done in less than five minutes. She took a few calming sips, savored the rich burn, and continued:
“I have to admit that I found the erasure of her identity arousing.
With no face—no eyes—she was simply an object for our viewing pleasure, a vessel waiting to be filled. She had a lovely body, but nothing about her was out of the ordinary. I realize, now, that she’d been chosen for her very lack of distinction. If a man were willing to use his imagination, she might be whomever he wanted her to be.
I imagined she was you.”
Nora picked up the glass with shaking hands. It had been too long since her last orgasm if she could become this stimulated by mere words.
But these were Edward’s words—fresh words at that, not the ones she hoarded, those well-used memories that she’d used time and again on her Wednesday every month.
She put down her glass and continued.
“The madam made a summoning gesture and a man entered the room—a great hulking fellow who made me look small. He was garbed in a robe that he dropped upon turning to his small audience.
I must admit the theatricality displeased me and prevented any true sensuality, but, I am happy to say, that changed once the madam left the proceedings.
Like his counterpart, the man was naked. He also wore a mask to conceal his face, although his mask allowed him to see.
He was enormous in every way.
And here is where I need to interject something.”
�
��Good. God. Are you trying to kill me, Edward?” she muttered, throwing back the rest of her drink far quicker than was wise. The alcohol warmed her throat and made a low humming noise in her head.
She refilled her glass. It was unwise, but she was alone and would only make a fool of herself in front of herself.
“After you rejected my first offer at Tosca’s I was at a low point. Smith appeared determined to befriend me, cheer me out of my doldrums. You know Smith as well as I do; he has the crookedest mind I’ve ever encountered.
I realize now that he was attempting to addle me so badly I’d focus on what I really wanted—you—and find a way to make you accept me. I daresay he enjoyed addling me. His first move was to take me to an erotic bath house, where he made sure I was primed, but not pleasured. He also exposed himself—erect—in a seemingly harmless fashion.”
Nora’s lips pulled up in a smirk at that revelation, knowing what was coming.
“I know you won’t be surprised that such a sight unnerved me.
That is not exactly true. While the sight unnerved me, I found it arousing. I worried I might be a sod. I’m ashamed to say that led to my ill-advised visit to Tosca’s with him. After that, he left me to stew on my situation for several weeks before inviting me on another jaunt. I accepted, hoping to prove my masculinity. By that time, I was half-mad and only needed a slight nudge.
This time we went to his club of choice, Bernina’s, where he’d lined up Emma. He fucked her in front of me, and, to my mortification, I not only enjoyed watching them, I enjoyed watching him.”
Nora snorted, even though she knew it was unkind to mock him. Admitting his physical response to her had doubtless been extremely difficult.
“Smith’s plan to set me on the road toward you worked very well.
His actions left a residual fear, but also the realization that I could find eroticism in a man and not be a sod.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 28