She peered through the smoke into the dimly lit room, seeking a friendly face.
“One fifty-five.” A young man. A dandy by the look of him. And cheerfully drunk. Yes. He was the one she wanted. Her heart began to pound so hard it hurt.
“One seventy-five,” came from the back of the room. A youngish man with dark blond hair pulled back severely from his face. Sprawled alone at a table, he looked more dangerous that any she’d seen so far. He had a bold face, with strong planes and hard angles and a cruel twist to his lips, and his light-colored eyes showed no emotion. He clearly didn’t care if he won or lost.
Her heart hammered against her ribs. She couldn’t drag her gaze from his beautiful features. The face of a fallen angel. The cynical mouth twisted in mockery. His piercing gaze locked with hers for a moment and he seemed to see right through to her innermost fears and take delight in them.
“Two hundred.” A coarse harsh voice. The balding man again.
She fixed her gaze on the young dandy, pleading. He shrugged.
“Three hundred guineas.”
The room fell starkly silent.
Julia whipped her head around. Who? Who had bid? The old man? The fallen angel? Someone else? Her knees trembled.
One night, one man, one hundred guineas. One night and it would all be over and her life would go on as before. Only better.
“Done,” Mrs. B. proclaimed.
Who had won the bid?
Mrs. B. gestured for her to get down. “Wait on the side until the next girl is done and I’ll take both you up.”
Julia paced the waiting area off the wings. One of those men had bid an enormous sum. Because he thought she was a virgin. Her heart sank. Whoever he was, would he be angry when they found she was no such thing?
A few seconds later, the other girl, dressed as some sort of nubile slave, hurried off the stage. “This way, girls,” Mrs. B. said.
Julia’s heart gave a hard thump. Her knees felt weak as they climbed the stairs. It was too late to turn back. She could only go forward. She wiped her palms on her tunic.
In the corridor leading off the stairs, the woman gestured the other girl to enter a room halfway along.
Then, “In there,” Mrs. B. said to Julia. “You’ll find your clothes in the wardrobe when it’s time to leave. Keep Dunstan happy and I’ll see you get extra.”
“Dunstan? You mean—”
“The Dissolute Duke. Aye. You’ll earn your money with him. But it will be worth your while.”
Julia had never seen Dunstan, but his reputation for vice was a warning to all young ladies. Even those who moved on the fringes of the ton. Which of the bidders was he? Not the dandy certainly. The old man or the fallen angel? There was only one way to find out. Her heart rose high in her throat. What would he say when he learned he’d been tricked? She swallowed hard.
The abbess gave Julia a push in the small of her back. “Go on, then.”
On a deep calming breath, she stepped inside. The door snapped shut behind her. She hesitated on the threshold. An enormous bed dominated the one end of the chamber. Candelabra ablaze on tables each side of the bed sent shadows dancing over pristine white linen sheets. An empty bed.
He must be still on his way. Should she lie down? Naked? Perhaps he would prefer the pleasure of removing her filmy tunic?
A creak sounded behind her. She swung around. Not alone after all. Beside the glowing hearth a large figure filled an armchair angled so no light fell on his face.
A tremor shook her limbs. Oh, Lord, now was not the time to show nerves. “Good evening, your grace.” She bobbed a curtsy.
“Good evening,” he replied in a deep drawl. The angel. She recognized the voice from the bidding. Tall and lean, he rose from the chair clothed in a burgundy-colored robe. The flickering flames in the fire emphasized the pitiless mouth and cynical eyes. His long hair hung loose about his shoulders, giving him an almost savage appearance. Not a man easy to please.
Her chest tightened. Breathing became a chore.
Close up he exuded an aura of power and privilege. It washed up against her. Dry mouthed, she somehow held still as he prowled around her, looking her up and down much as he might inspect a horse on the block.
Anger stirred. Hot prickles ran down her spine. The man was insufferable. Arrogant. Rude. But after paying three hundred guineas, he had the right to say and do anything he pleased.
She remained still beneath his gaze, refusing to let him see her fear, pinning a small smile on her lips.
Long, tapered fingers touched her jaw, while his light eyes glittered with cold points of light from the candles. He traced the edge of the mask where it touched her cheekbone.
“It stays,” she said. “It is part of my contract.” Mrs. B. hadn’t flickered so much as an eyelash when she’d insisted on wearing the mask in case she was recognized.
He sighed. “I wonder if beneath the mask you are worth three hundred guineas.” He trailed his finger down her throat. A not-unpleasant sensation. Indeed, it felt almost like a caress, yet his face looked too hard, too remote for it to be anything but an examination of his purchase.
She shivered.
Would he find her lacking and change his mind? She swallowed her gasp of fear. “I am sure I can convince you I am worth every penny,” she said, keeping her voice low in an attempt to hide its shake. Praying for the strength to make good on such a promise. She would never find another man tonight, and Mrs. B. would insist she return again and again, until she repaid her debt. Or call for the constable to take her to prison.
His wandering hand stilled. His silver eyes narrowed. Had he heard the fear in her voice? “You are not Mrs. B.’s usual style of merchandise.”
He didn’t like her. Why bid if he didn’t find her appealing? Did he see it as some sort of cruel joke? A way of cheating her out of her desperately needed money for his amusement? Or did he simply doubt her competence?
If so, she would prove him wrong. She must. In this situation, the one thing in her favour was the hard lessons she’d learned in her marriage. How to meet a man’s every need, no matter how distasteful.
She lifted her hand to his lean jaw. Clean shaven, smooth and warm, it flickered beneath her palm. “I promise you will not be disappointed,” she murmured.
A cynical brow climbed his forehead. He wasn’t convinced.
A knock at the door. She started.
“I ordered wine,” he said.
Her heart settled a little. Not calm, but not struggling to be free.
The servant carried in the tray and set it on the table beside the chair and left. She didn’t want wine. She needed her wits about her if she was to come out of this unscathed.
Dunstan beckoned. “Come here, you little beauty.”
Hardly little. While she didn’t quite match his height, he topped six feet, her eyes were on a level with his mouth. She moved toward him, trying to seem assured.
The planes of his face were stark in the candlelight, his expression bored to the point of exhaustion. His eyes, she saw now, were the gray of a winter sky. And just as cold.
“Do you have a name?” he asked, those silvery eyes searching her face.
“Tonight it is Hera.”
“Wife of Zeus. Hence this bird’s plumage.” He tugged at her mask. When he removed his hand, it held one of the turquoise-and-blue feathers decorating each corner of the upswept silk. He twisted it by the quill and gazed at its soft iridescence in the firelight.
“The mask stays.” She’d thought it pretty and he’d ruined it. Not a good sign. The truth better be told before he discovered it for himself. “About being a vestal virgin. It isn’t true.”
The long fingers stilled their restless twirling, though he did not look up. “It would have created something of a barrier between us, don’t you think?”
A wry joke? She stifled the urge to smile in case she was wrong. Perhaps he intended the words to cover his disappointment. She couldn’t tell from his face. S
he only knew she would not like to stand within reach of this man’s anger.
He dropped the feather on the tray with a careless flick and poured a glass of wine. “Come, sit with me.” His voice sounded cool, calm. Not at all disturbed by the revelation of Mrs. B.’s falsehood. She hoped.
Her heartbeat became a little less rapid and she swayed her hips provocatively as she joined him. She could do this. For just one night.
He sank into the chair, reached out and took her hand. A swift jerk and she landed awkwardly on his thighs. An arm came around her back.
She had been quite prepared to sit on his knee, but he seemed to prefer to control her movements. Then, she would oblige by sitting where he put her. Sitting in his lap, feeling the strength of the legs beneath her bottom reminded her of the power of his masculine body. Of the harm he could do if she displeased him.
Another warning thump in her chest.
No. She mustn’t think that way. She would please him. She must.
He sighed with a world-weariness she couldn’t fathom. The man had everything most only dreamed of. What a waste of privilege. It seemed almost a crime. What she could do with such wealth and power.
“Let us spend a little time getting to know each other,” he murmured against her cheek.
He wanted conversation? Her husband had never concerned himself with such niceties in the bedroom. He’d commanded her attentions, and she’d obeyed. She’d assumed all men were the same.
With his free hand, the hand not supporting her back, he stroked her thigh, never straying above the hem of her tunic or below her knee. He stroked her the way one might stroke a cat, slowly, rhythmically, and with respect. Did he fear she had claws?
She could not imagine this man fearing anything or anyone. His eyes were as hard as granite, his jaw like sculpted rock, and while she was tempted to taste those immoral lips, she had the feeling they would give no quarter. She forced herself to relax. The moment she let her tension go, he eased her against his chest.
The scent of bay filled her nostrils and traces of smoke from the room downstairs, and a deeper, more earthy scent of clean, strong maleness.
The beat of his heart drummed in her ear, a strong steady beat without the haste or confusion stirring in her own chest. The hand resting on her back slid upward and played with her hair.
Gently. Soothingly. Her heart slowly settled. A desire to stretch like a well-petted feline pulled at her limbs. How surprising.
“Comfortable?” he asked.
“Very.” Not quite the truth. Deep in her bones ran the tremble of fear she’d long ago learned to control, along with…heaven help her, something she hadn’t expected…the warmth of desire. How could that be?
He lifted a strand of her hair to his face and inhaled. “Violets.”
“Yes. Do you like it?”
He chuckled softly. “I find it intoxicating.”
She relaxed more. “I’m glad.”
Violets reminded her of long-ago springs, when she’d been carefree. And impossibly naive. She’d grown up fast during her coming-out. But that was years ago. Since then she’d learned to live day by day, taking each joy and each pain one at a time. Tonight she hoped to gain some security for her future. To be comfortable at last. But she was glad the scent pleased him.
He picked up the glass from the table. “Will you join me?”
A little wine might steady her nerves. “Shall I ring for another glass?” She made as if to rise, but his hand held her fast.
He smiled a brief flash of even white teeth. Her heart tumbled over at the change the swift smile wrought on his hard face. He looked surprisingly young, nearer her own age, and infinitely kinder.
“We will share,” he said, placing the glass against her lips. She drank, though he allowed her very little, a mere sip, and yet its warmth trickled down her throat. The dry fruity taste filled her mouth. Good-quality wine. Not what she’d expected.
Nor did she expect what he did next. He dipped his finger in the glass and traced a pattern on the back of her hand. Hieroglyphics? They gleamed damp in the firelight.
. She frowned. Greek letters. “I’m hardly a gift. You bid a great deal of money.”
He raised a brow. “My word. A bluestocking.”
She blushed. Men didn’t like females who showed superior intelligence, preferring agreeable. She should have pretended ignorance.
“You were a gift,” he said gently, as if sensing her embarrassment. “I was prepared to pay a great deal more.”
A compliment indeed from a man who could have any woman he wanted. A sense of worth flowed through her veins and gratitude for his obvious intent to be kind.
“Hold out your arm,” he said softly.
So she did.
Another word appeared on the inside of her wrist..
Not one she recognized. She sent him a questioning look.
“Violet.” He dipped his head and lapped at the faint trace of wine, before it dried.
A pleasurable little pulse beat deep in her core. A startling sensation like nothing she had ever felt before. An insistent flutter that had her shifting in his lap.
“Oh,” she gasped, shocked by the response she could not ignore. A surprisingly delicious awakening.
A man of his knowledge and experience would find her sadly lacking if she sat staring at him blankly. She raised her other wrist in challenge.
He eyed it with a glint of silver in his eyes. “What about here.” He traced his knuckle over the rise of her breast above the skimpy tunic. Her nipples tightened as if her body suddenly had a mind of its own, openly bidding him welcome, when she ought to be cautious. Her breath caught in her throat.
“All right,” she whispered, her voice scratchy.
“Would you like some more wine?”
“Perhaps a little.”
He dipped his thumb this time and it came away with a large fat drop clinging to the tip. It hung there glistening in the firelight, then he brought it to her lips and she licked it away, tasting wine and him, slightly salty, slightly musky. Definitely male.
Her toes curled.
His lips curved in sensual pleasure, a reward for her boldness. “Where were we?” he murmured.
Bravely she pointed to her chest, wondering if he could see the pounding of her heart beneath her skin.
“You, my dear, are an unexpected delight.” His voice was a soft caress on her skin and she shivered. Perhaps tonight she would learn something of pleasure at the hands of a master. Or was that too much to hope?
Once more Alistair swirled the cool wine with a fingertip. A good man would no doubt put a stop to this. A good man would ignore his lust and hustle her out of this place, for she clearly wasn’t Mrs. B.’s regular trade. Which unfortunately made her interesting to a man tired of ordinary fare. Certainly, a good man would not torment her this way.
Face it, Alistair, you aren’t anywhere near good, and finding such an elegant woman here of all places was just too tempting. Particularly since she seemed accepting of her fate.
He would enjoy himself a while longer.
He wrote “vestal” in Greek across one generous mound of creamy flesh. She tried to see what it said. He opened his mouth and sucked it clean, inhaling the scent of violets and red wine and lovely woman. He kissed his way to the valley between her high firm breasts. A shadow holding the promise of greater delights.
He curbed his lust; let her soft bottom against his groin bring him to the brink. A few deep breaths and the urgency crested, dissipated even, as pleasure surged to greater heights.
The feel of her shoulder against his chest tantalized unbearably. He drew small circles on her back and heard her indrawn gasp with satisfaction.
A bone-deep shudder took him by surprise when her fingers traced the edge of his robe where it crossed below his throat. No passive female this. No victim to the slaughter, thank the gods. Indeed, her courage delighted his jaded spirit.
Something about this woman up on the block
had stirred him in unexpected ways. Sexually, yes. But he’d also wanted to wrap her in his coat and whisk her away from the leering eyes of his fellows.
The little minx had taken it all in her stride, though. And she wasn’t an innocent in spite of the ingenue she’d projected up on the stage. He had to be glad, did he not?
A strand of her long, straight, caramel-colored hair brushed the back of his hand. He rubbed it between finger and thumb. Soft. Silky. Cool to the touch. Unlike her sweet little bottom nestled in his lap where her heat seared his skin.
His arousal spiked a new peak of demand. He breathed deep, breaking its bond.
He applied the wine on his finger to her knee, writing the word sensual.
Her eyes behind her mask grew smoky and slumberous as she waited for his mouth to work its disappearing magic. He was beginning to know her responses well, making her all the more desirable.
He watched the liquid dry.
He should let her go.
Or he could just hold her here on his lap all night, enjoy the pleasure her slender body brought him.
If he was a good man, he would do the former.
A reasonable man might do the latter.
He was neither.
He placed his hand under her calf and raised her leg high. She had delicious calves, just the right amount of curve and well-formed ankles and feet. He ran his hand along the satiny skin, then bent her upraised knee.
There was nothing about her he didn’t like, except perhaps the mask. It created the distance of strangers. On the other hand, this might not be a bad thing, since it was all they would be. He didn’t want closeness. He wanted her. Badly.
He licked her knee. Silk over hard bone. In a hot wet tasting of woman, he followed the line of his writing up the smooth flesh of her thigh to the hem of the ridiculous scrap of cloth covering her lovely figure. Delicious. Tantalizing him with the faint scent of her arousal. Altogether more than he could bear without acting on his baser urges.
One Night as a Courtesan Page 2