by Louisa Trent
"Your conduct was childish, Mrs. Smith, and neither of us are children."
Looking up at him from her subservient pose, Harry reminded herself once again that she needed to keep this position. Truthfully, she was desperate to keep it. "Henceforth, I will take better care to maintain a professional manner, both in public and in private," she whispered.
Even when provoked, she added to herself.
"A professional manner--that is all I ask." He extended a hand. "Now, up you go. That's enough polishing for one day."
Upon the placement of her hand in his, the remembrance of the taste of his skin, over-layered with honey--salt and sweet--made Harry lick her lips all over again. Captain Kane was such an attractive man; even as an ignorant virgin, his physicality had drawn her in a carnal way. The dark-toned skin, the blue-black hair, those compelling hazel eyes shot with flecks of green, the white flash of teeth in a ready smile...
As a young maiden, that ready smile had irritated her to tears many a time.
Because she had loved him so. And in her love for him, Joshua had always seemed larger than life, and not only because of his enormous stature. She had always felt safe with him, as though nothing bad would ever happen to her when she was with him. Such faith she'd had in him!
She wished she hadn't been intoxicated on ardent spirits that night in the brothel. Perhaps things might have turned out differently. She had been such a silly goose...
Suddenly, she went dizzy. The memories, the regret, the fact she had gotten up at dawn to see to the children's breakfasts and do her chores in her brother's house, before making the journey on foot up the hill to the mansion, where she had spent the day cleaning and cooking--all done while worrying over a looming jail sentence--proved too much. When she stood, she wove back and forth on her feet.
Captain Kane steadied her, his arm about her shoulders. "You must have come up too fast."
"Yes. That's what it must have been. Sorry to impose."
"Perhaps if you were to recline on the settee..."
"It's nothing. Really. Will you please excuse me? There is something in the kitchen I must attend to." Before she broke down, she rushed away.
* * * *
The party was over, the last guest had left; Captain Kane's official entry into New Bedford society had gone off without a hitch. The soiree had been a tremendous success.
And the party organizer had gotten the boot.
A familiar itch was developing in Harry's fingers.
She carried the empty dessert tray back down below stairs to the kitchen, to be washed and put away with the rest of the silver. Later, Peg told her, she would inventory each item, the count tallied and dated. Evidently hoping to curry favor, one of the guests--namely Beth--had reacquainted Captain Kane with a certain servant's propensity for stealing silver. The thief in question now carried a letter of termination in her apron pocket. A charitable gentleman might accidentally-on-purpose forget a servant's thieving history, but when that propensity becomes public knowledge, in a roomful of snooty guests he is desperately trying to impress ... well, what's a gentleman to do? She'd been let go. Without a reference.
The itch in her fingers worsened.
Granted, she had been in Captain Kane's employ for only a few short days, and letters of recommendation were not customarily given for such a brief tenure ... but he could have at least asked if she wished him to write a reference.
No such inquiry was made.
The itch in her fingers grew stronger, more compelling.
Her employer hadn't even extended the small but meaningful courtesy of firing her in person; Peggy had delivered the letter and the agreed-upon salary. After everything was cleared away, she was free to go. Well, thank you very much!
Harry rubbed her itchy fingers against the coarse texture of her black skirts.
What with cleaning and cooking and baking for the night's festivities, she hadn't seen hide nor curly blue-black hair of the sea captain, turned wealthy ship owner. Joshua Kane was avoiding her. The sea captain didn't wish to continue her employ and didn't have the balls to tell her so to her face. She needed permanent employment, so she might request a substantial loan based on her projected earnings, money she needed to stay out of jail ... or to stay off her knees before the boots of a Boston Brahmin.
Her own fault, she was let go. It was the finger lick that did her in. What bedevilment had made her do it?
Pride. A backward, self-destructive pride to be sure, but that pride had kept her going on many a bleak day. Captain Kane thought her a whore. To fulfill his poor estimation of her, she had sucked honey from his finger. And because in Harry's life it never rained unless it poured, when her brother's wife had sent her packing, done while stuffing a cream puff in her mouth, pride once again had prevented Harry from begging and pleading to stay.
Harry didn't really blame Beth for giving her the boot. Everyone speaks freely in front of servants, as if they have no ears or feelings, and Harry had heard the guffaws as she had moved among the guests with her serving tray. The laughter and crude stories circulating around Captain Kane's drawing room had simply proven too much for Beth's delicate constitution. All for the best she left; Harry would sooner die than expose the children to that sort of gossip about their aunt.
Her underarms were damp--fear always made her perspire, and she was plenty fearful now. With no place else to go, it was Ruby's place or the streets for a certain dispossessed pastry chef tonight.
To get her mind off the itch that cried out for scratching, Harry got to work cleaning up the kitchen. When the place was neat as a pin, she removed her fancy apron--it was not hers to take--and placed it in the basket with the rest of the soiled laundry for the washwoman, then headed for the service door, where she slid her cape over her shoulders and slammed her bonnet on her skull. She was pulling on her gloves when she recalled that earlier in the evening, she had left an additional dessert tray in Captain Kane's study. It would never do to leave it there! Such an oversight was a testament to slovenly work habits.
For the umpteenth time, Harry marched herself back up the stairs. She would retrieve the tray and bring it back down stairs for washing. After it was stored with the rest of the silver, then she would leave.
The study door was ajar, and Harry entered the dark room without knocking. A sliver of light from the hallway sconce directed her to the tray on the captain's desk.
Itchy-fingered panic set in before she picked it up.
What was she to do? The thought of strange men pawing her at Ruby's, violating her on the dingy bedding, made her want to upchuck. And, dear Lord, jail? She would never survive imprisonment. Nor would she be able to prove her innocence. She may not have stolen those diamond cufflinks but she had stolen the damn silverware, and that made her a thief. She could either plead guilty and throw herself on the mercy of the court, or throw herself at the feet of the Boston Brahmin...
A corner curio cabinet contained Captain Kane's collection of intricately carved scrimshaw. Oft times, whalers incised designs in whalebone or whale ivory to combat long stretches of tedium between pod hunts. Though the pieces were beautiful, they were not anywhere as valuable as the assortment of miniature porcelain pieces on the next shelf down. Even the smallest item in that display would fetch a king's ransom.
Harry lifted a lovely blue and white china vase, certainly not the largest piece in the group, but in her estimation the most finely wrought. The sale of this one item to a private collector would ensure her freedom. From jail. From a Boston Brahmin. From a whorehouse. What would she have to lose by taking it?
Nothing!
She slipped the delicate blue and white china piece carefully into the side pocket of her cape. After picking up the tray that had brought her to the study in the first place, she started for the door.
"Moving up from stealing silverware, are we?" a voice said from somewhere in the dark recesses of the room. "I must say you have exquisite taste. Of all of the items in that curio cab
inet, the piece you took is by far and away the most valuable."
Joshua Kane stepped out from the small alcove where he had hung her rain-wet wrap on the stormy night of her employment interview. Harry turned and faced the intended victim of her thievery. Though her belly was clenched in a knot, to all outward appearances she knew she appeared unperturbed; apart from her relapses of temper, Ruby had trained her well. "I could fill a ship's hold with cutlery, and still not equal the value of this little beauty. Ming dynasty, isn't it?"
Joshua's handsome jaw took a dip. He thought she was a whore, and an ignorant one, too. Mistaken on both counts! Miss Ruby had insisted she read to broaden her education, and she had, with a vengeance. "I thought so," she coolly remarked.
"Why didn't you say you were dusting it, and slipped it accidentally in your pocket?"
"Because lying is one character flaw that seems to have passed me by. I have most of the others, in various degrees, but not telling the truth is rather shabby, especially if one is found out. One tries so hard not to appear worn."
"I am obliged to report you to the authorities, you know." He tssked. "And you must already have a prior charge of stealing against you."
"Actually, I don't." She would not let him get the best of her. She must not lose her temper.
"Your last employer--he let you off?"
"We worked out an arrangement."
"I see. Might a similar arrangement be agreeable to you now?"
She was stunned. This was Captain Joshua Kane, a man of strict principles, and he was offering to make her a deal!
"What sort of arrangement?" she questioned, all the time suspecting what the terms of the arrangement would be. The sea captain's smile was not at all like his usual smile; the corners of his mouth were lifted, but it was a cold and calculating move on his part, done with malice of forethought. It would appear he had neither forgiven nor forgotten her hateful words of long ago. Her brother had been right about Joshua Kane; this was a man one should never cross.
"An arrangement that would benefit us both. An arrangement whereby you would serve me, and I would pay for that servicing."
"In what capacity?" she asked, though she already knew.
He indicated the same chair she had assumed during their first interview. "Please take a seat."
It was an order, not a request. As though she was off to the gallows, Harry walked stiffly to the indicated chair, and lowered herself onto the seat with a sweep of her cloak, the incriminating Ming vase a bulge in her pocket.
"Mrs. Smith, I find myself in rather a sensitive circumstance."
She would not shirk from the truth; she would not hide behind euphemism. "Are you asking me to become your mistress?" she asked straight out.
"Nothing so pretentious. What I am looking for is a whore, a prostitute, three portals for hire. In other words, I am in the market for fish. Would you care to consider such an arrangement, or would you prefer I file a proper complaint against you for thievery instead?"
She felt herself blanch. None of the instruction she had received under Ruby's tutelage, nor any of the unwanted sexual advances she had thwarted in any of her past positions, had prepared her for Joshua's blunt crudity. He had never spoken to her in this manner before; never had she known of this dark side of him.
His unpretty words touched something equally dark inside her. The prospect of having his hands on her body, especially the parts of her body he had so coarsely described, thrilled her.
Three portals...
Oh, God, yes! Let him, please let him, touch her there!
Before she lost courage, she asked the unspeakable question. "What, if anything, does the position pay?"
He tapped his fingers together. "How much do you need?"
No need to calculate; she already knew to the penny. And no time to waste on self-pity or embarrassment, either; straightening her shoulders, she told him the amount.
Her upright posture caused her cloak to gape. His glance lingered over her revealed breasts , the hot stroke singing her skin beneath the hideous black bombazine gown. "That figure would not present a problem. And you may keep the vase since you fancied it enough to steal it. You will most certainly earn it. Of course, you would first need to prove you can please me before the position is yours. Can you please me, Mrs. Smith?"
During their initial interview, he had asked her to list her exact talents. Should she tell him now that, at least in theory, she excelled in fellatio? That she had spent weeks perfecting oral stimulation? That she could deep-swallow up to ten inches? That when it came to cum, yes, she would swallow the full shot, regardless of the taste, smell or texture? Or, should she instead outline her natural ability to contort her limber body into any and all positionings?
There was always the missionary position too. Some men did prefer a wife-like demeanor in their whores. Nightgown in place, limbs barely parted, in the dark, thinking of other things--a new hat, for example. Other men only wanted to do what their wives wouldn't allow, which was virtually everything else. She was well versed in all deviant practices, particularly those practices involving the tolerance of pain. Perhaps she should relay this piece of information to him, tell him a woman who survived having her heart torn from her chest, can survive just about any physical discomfort.
"Captain Kane," she began softly, and removed one very worn black kid glove, "I know I can please you."
"How so?"
"You are a man of the world. Surely you understand my meaning?" With a downward motion, she directed his gaze to her waist, before leading his eyes lower. The desk blocked her lap from his view, lending the moment to speculation and fantasy. What is she doing? he would wonder. Where has her hand gone? Between her limbs, perhaps?
"I'm afraid I do not understand your meaning." His lids were heavy, his expression slightly indolent. "You will have to be more clear."
Oh, she could be very clear indeed! But as befitted a lady's refined sensibilities, she delicately phrased the indelicate situation. The tenor of the statement was no bolder than before; if anything, her voice took a dip in pitch. Female stridency is not at all attractive. "You have needs I can alleviate."
He leaned further back in his chair. "A forgone conclusion, as I only just admitted as much. "
"Forgive me if I am being presumptuous here, but you once found me desirable..." For the sake of deference, she let the remainder of the statement hang.
"I still do. But that begs the question: Can you please me? Are you worth the amount I just offered?"
Was she?
She thought not. In her opinion, if he really wished value for his money, he would keep her on as his cook. He liked her apple tart? Well, her custard pie really was absolutely melt-in-the-mouth divine, the eggs light and fluffy. Like eating a cloud, or so she had once been told. And she had received numerous compliments during the soiree about the rest of her desserts, too. But what did the good sea captain care about any of that?
Though a man might lay claim to wishing for an honest response--for example, a genuine orgasm as opposed to one that was faked--the wise woman knew reality must never intrude on the feminine bolstering of the highly vulnerable male pride. When it comes to the appeasement of carnal appetites, it is all about the creation of illusion. A man would demand his dinner, ask for seconds, but never praise the cook for peeling the onions. That is what cooks are paid to do. Similarly, whores are paid to stroke a male's conceit and his cock too, not for coming tired to bed, stinking of pungent raw vegetables. If she rose from her chair now in affronted dignity, and demanded to do honest work in exchange for an honest week's pay, with a character reference at the end of the employment, anger would thin Captain Kane's gentlemanly veneer, and he would show her the door. And where would her show of arrogance have gotten her?
Whoring in Ruby's brothel sooner rather than later, is where.
She was under no false delusions here: she might put off the eventuality, temporarily delay it, but she would not elude it altogether. Acce
pting this arrangement was tantamount to accepting she was a whore. Afterwards, when the sea captain was done with her, the future would hold nothing but more of the same. Without a character reference, there was but one occupation remaining a woman like her: prostitution.
She would avoid prison, though. Mustn't forget that! She would also avoid sinking to her knees before the Boston Brahmin.
There was something else at play here too, that dark urge she had recognized inside her. She was not aloof to this gentleman's attentions. Those compelling hazel green eyes did not leave her unaffected. They stirred her still, despite the hurt he had caused her, despite the harshness of their last meeting, despite the obscenity--or perhaps, because of the obscenity--of his proposal. She was not above succumbing to the awful pull between them, to the terrible attraction that had always been there, even when she was far too young to give that attraction a name.
She was not so young anymore.
Lust was the dark force that pulsated between them; lust had always simmered just below the surface whenever they were alone together. The sea captain had denied the pull when she'd been young, but his eyes gave him away now. As long as she controlled the incendiary sparks, manipulated the heat, was ever-vigilant not to get caught up in the leaping tongues of fire, she would walk away unscathed at the end. He would not hurt her again! This time, she would be the one to leave him without saying goodbye.
"I await your answer, Mrs. Smith."
A little delay spoke to ladylike modesty; a large delay would damn her as disingenuous. "I am worth the expenditure," she said, with an assurance that fell just short of a boast.
"How so? Tell me why you are worth such a huge sum of money. "
"Because I say I am worth it." Her bottom lip trembled.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
"As a gentleman, I find haggling over money unseemly." Leaning forward, Josh reached into his leather canister, selected a cheroot, and tapped the square-cut cigar against his thumbnail. "I am also a man of commerce. As such, I expect to receive quality merchandise in exchange for my cash, be the expenditure a useless but beautiful Ming vase, or a utilitarian, but ugly whaling vessel."