But this man, with his kind, earnest, blue-grey eyes, his reputation for proving himself so much more worthy than his father to run an estate so important to the livelihoods of the local district, was different.
Flicking back the dark ringlets that fell over her right shoulder, Hope put one knee on the bed and leaned over. He stirred a little as the pressure of her weight caused the mattress to dip.
Her heart ratcheted up a notch. Would he turn and open his eyes, registering horror as he realised what she’d become?
It was a very real possibility, so she must prepare herself. She hesitated. There was still time to retreat with her dignity—and her money, she mustn’t forget. Her eyes strayed to the writing desk. Could she bring herself to do as Wilfred demanded?
Shame scalded her as she considered the ramifications. If Hope carried through with her desires—her own bodily desires—then Mr Durham would realise what she’d done, albeit at Wilfred’s behest. He’d know she had betrayed him.
Yes, he’d add betrayal to her list of sins on top of his scorn and disgust.
A sliver of hope drifted through that train of thought. He would if he was in a state to register what was going on around him.
He was murmuring now. Unintelligible words. That woman’s name amongst them. Annabelle. The woman to whom he was writing. His lost love? The Annabelle Hope knew?
She leant forwards and put out her hand. He could dream he was having intimate relations with someone he’d once admired even if it was just a little for a short while—and he could attribute it to a dream, never knowing it was Hope in the flesh—or that she had taken something from his pocketbook. The note Wilfred wanted as proof that she’d discharged his mission.
Hope glanced towards the table where she’d seen a carelessly discarded leather pouch, out of which spilled a few loose coins, suggesting there was more where that came from.
But Hope was not a thief, and Wilfred could not force her to become one, for all his threats.
She hung her head. She did have some dignity. Enough, at least, to gracefully withdraw before she ran the risk of shredding her soul.
With a sigh, she rose. She couldn’t do this. One more lingering glance and she’d quietly dress herself and leave.
Carefully she extended her body across the mattress and ran her hand through the air, just an inch above the back of his head, closing her eyes as she imagined what it would feel like to touch him.
It was far too dangerous to get any closer, and she should have realised this before.
But she could dream.
Just as he could.
With an unexpected stirring to life, he rolled onto his back, his arm arcing through the air, collecting Hope’s hand along the way. It was as if he expected a woman to be there, for his beautiful mouth stretched into a smile and, although his eyes were still closed, he reached for her, gripping her hand more tightly as he drew her across the bed; tugging, sighing contentedly as he settled her on top of him. He chuckled as he skimmed his fingers down her contours, lingering over her breasts which surged out of her corset.
Hope caught her breath, suspended between the thrill of what might happen next and pure terror.
“Beautiful!” he declared, opening one eye as his hands cupped her bottom, and his mouth latched onto one of her breasts. “Delectable!” he declared, his eyes closed again as he teased out a nipple and rolled it over his tongue.
Hope could not have torn herself away if she’d tried. Since she’d met this man, she’d wanted to feel his hands gently stroking her face, his lips touching hers. She’d hoped so much, as she was taking the carriage to meet him, that this might happen.
It hadn’t, of course. And that was the reason she was here. A pragmatic bitterness encased her heart—necessary if she were to survive her calling—but there was still enough feeling there to register the deep and painful ache of loss and regret.
It was gloomy, but light enough for Hope to study the face she remembered so well as her flesh tingled at his touch. She felt him harden beneath her as he continued to knead her buttocks, and although she straddled him, she was careful to keep her distance. She did not intend this to be a grubby encounter that was finished before it was begun.
She should not let it proceed, either, but while he was enjoying himself in such blissful ignorance, she could continue a little longer.
He brought his hands up to cup her face.
And then he opened both eyes and Hope waited.
Waited for his shock, his disgust, his utter repulsion.
But after a flare of confused surprise, he simply stared at her with the most beatific smile and murmured, “I knew you’d come one day.” He sighed, a gentle shudder of pure happiness. “Now, kiss me, so that I know you’re real.”
Hope avoided kissing the men who paid for her, but she needed no urging now.
She smiled down at him, wildness at the possibilities presenting themselves surging through her. And then, with exquisite slowness, as she savoured what was about to come, she lowered her face to touch her lips to his.
He moaned softly, tightening his arms about her while his manhood strained against her belly. Yet, he made no movement to enter her. Like her, he seemed to want to prolong the exquisite prelude to the inevitable coupling.
Without warning, he flipped her over, caging her with his body, holding the side of her face with one hand as if to protect her, while the other rubbed gentle circular movements over her highly sensitised skin of her inner thighs.
The touch was like a promise met; the sensations he evoked all she’d dreamed of while his eyes bored into her. As if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing.
She arched into him, using her fingertips to contour his high, noble forehead, his fine aristocratic nose, the smoothness of his cleanly shaven jaw, before she trailed her hands downwards to explore the contours of the body she’d seen only in well-cut hunting or evening clothes.
And then, in the greatest of daring movements, she reached out to explore his maleness, that which was so terrifyingly out of bounds during the brief time they’d known each other.
Her nipples were so hard they were positively painful, but all the better. She wanted to feel everything. She wanted this to remember. Her always. The culmination of her girlish hopes and dreams.
Closing her eyes, she tasted the saltiness of tears unshed in the back of her throat. This was exquisite. She wanted the moment to last forever.
He shuddered as she gripped him, then rolled her onto her side so he could pull her against him, at the same time feeling for the moistness that would leave him in no doubt as to her desire.
A great contentment edged with excitement found itself in a soft exhalation as he found just the right spot. He was perceptive enough to her needs to register it, and with a short laugh of satisfaction, he set himself to toying with that most sensitive, most private part of her.
Hope gave herself up to the growing intensity of excitement within her. It was clear he was as invested in pleasuring her as he had clearly desired a woman to give him pleasure. It accorded with the man she knew. The handsome, kindly, and honourable man who’d captured her heart. A man who clearly needed a woman right now. Her heart hitched as she thought of Annabelle. Was he thinking of her? Imagining her in Hope’s place?
It was her job, she accepted, to be proxy for all the erotic fantasies of unfulfilled reality, but if this were the only way to enjoy Mr Durham’s attention—his kisses, caresses, and pleasuring—she’d happily submit.
As she felt the pressure within her build, she gripped him harder with one hand while she clenched her other in a fist and tensed her body to maximise the wave of pleasure that would be the culmination.
“Come, my darling girl,” he whispered, increasing the speed and pressure within the moist, swollen folds between her legs. “My beautiful girl, come.”
Her breath came in short, sharp bursts. She felt the sweat break out on her forehead, and her body moved in concert with his.
“I want you…” she ground out, rolling onto her back and gripping his buttocks, exerting all her strength to bring him to her, “…inside me.”
He didn’t need much coaxing, breaching her entrance with an ecstatic cry as he began to pound his enthusiasm.
And she matched him, movement for movement, trading on his excitement to reach her own climax in a simultaneous outpouring of mutual abandonment.
Except it was more than that. Their bodies were as one. He’d worked to ensure her pleasure matched his, and now he was holding her tight, stroking her face, her back, murmuring to her.
As if he knew her intimately in mind as well as body.
As if he loved her.
When she was certain he was sleeping, Hope quietly rose and dressed. Her body pulsed with life and her mind felt reinvigorated. Mr Durham had loved her, believing her a figment of his dream, believing her to be Annabelle. And she’d been happy to be his fantasy. Until tonight, she’d never experienced sexual pleasure. Who’d have imagined it could be so satisfying.
She ran her hands down the side of her modish ensemble, pulling down the little veil of her neat, pert hat as she took a step backwards, still studying the beautiful man on the bed.
He looked peaceful, a gentle contentment replacing the tortured expression he’d worn in his sleep, before he’d opened his eyes and seen her.
The power of love, she thought as she plucked at her skirt to make the swathes and bows sit just as they ought. Perhaps he’d trade on what he’d gained from his lovemaking with Hope to make the necessary overtures to Annabelle. Maybe, on the strength of what he’d enjoyed just now with Hope he’d ask Annabelle to…what? Marry him? Forgive him?
Regardless, Hope’s job was done. She turned and put her hand on the doorknob before she remembered. But as she glanced across at the escritoire, encountering Mr Durham’s beautiful naked body along the way, she knew she had not the heart to do as Wilfred had demanded.
He’d exerted as much power over her as she ever intended he would again.
Chapter 4
Hope didn’t expect to wake the following morning feeling so renewed. It was nearly noon which was early, for most of Madame Chambon’s girls would have been up all night, including Hope. She’d climbed sleepily into bed at dawn, her body still alive to the touch of the man she loved.
Yes, loved. She realised that now that she’d had so much experience of the male sex. He’d changed something within her.
She could never have him, of course. She fully understood that. But there was a strange glee to the thought that she’d tasted him. Lain with the man of her choice, and that he’d touched her as if he truly cherished her.
But as she stared at the dancing beams of morning light playing over the walls, her glee slowly turned sour. Tears stung the back of her eyes as she acknowledged that last night’s brief moments of pleasure would likely be the only pleasure she’d ever enjoy. She was destined to live out her few remaining years of youthful promise within these walls, unless she was lucky enough to find a more accommodating benefactor than Madame Chambon.
Loneliness, ugliness, penury. These were what awaited her.
She rolled onto her stomach and buried her face in the pillow as there came a rapping on the door before it was opened by Minette bringing her the usual morning croissant and hot chocolate.
“An’ there’s a letter fer ya, too, miss,” the girl said, placing the tray on the side table. “Mayhaps it’s good news like the letter I brought Miss Marguerite from the fella proposin’ to set ‘er up in ‘er own ‘stablishment. Ain’t that what ya girls all dream of?” She handed Hope the cream envelope as she turned her attention to the grate, picking up a small black brush to begin the routine brushing and polishing.
“We have lots of dreams here, Minette.” Hope dragged herself up against the pillows and turned over the letter, trying not to feel excited for she knew the letter could not be from the only person she wished to hear from.
A newspaper clipping dropped onto her lap, and she stared at it, a clutching fear in the pit of her stomach as her sister’s name caught her eye.
Who had sent this? And why?
Her fingers were trembling so much she had to rest the clipping on the counterpane so she could read the announcement of Charlotte’s engagement to Lord Hartley, heir to a vast family coal empire. A gala ball was to be held the following Saturday, hosted by his Lordship’s family.
Heavens, this was a love match?
Hope’s heart began to skitter. Their father had been a poor clergyman. Hope had left the vicarage to become a governess. At the time, Charlotte had been only fourteen. A schoolgirl with long flaxen plaits and a sweet disposition. She was to follow in Hope’s footsteps. Lord! Not the one Hope had ultimately taken, but as a governess, for there would be no money to launch Charlotte with the wardrobe she’d require as a debutante.
That is unless Great Aunt Catherine had done for Charlotte what she had not for Hope. Relaxed her purse strings just a little and funded a small opportunity for the child of her long-dead brother’s daughter. It didn’t sound likely but what other explanation could there be?
But what did the whys and wherefores matter if Charlotte had found a man who loved her sufficiently to ignore her lack of position and dowry.
For the third time, Hope read the clipping, desperately trying to understand more than the words would divulge.
But as much as she exulted in this great opportunity for her sister, a dull sense of inevitability was gnawing away at her core.
Who other than Wilfred would have sent her this? He was the only person who knew Hope’s whereabouts. The clipping had been unaccompanied, but it wouldn’t be long before he would send a repeat of his menacing threats in a different form.
Hope clenched her fists as the old rebellion rose up within her. She would resist. She would not be Wilfred’s emissary of evil if it meant harm to either her sister or the man she loved. Mr Durham was an innocent. Uncorrupted and pure—unlike her. If he was tormented by his feelings for another woman, taking relief from opium was no worse than blanking out the nightmares with a few drops of laudanum. Laudanum had been Hope’s undoing but it had been a long time before she’d been able to cure her addiction. Initially, she’d used it to block out the disgust she felt at herself until she’d started hallucinating and then lost her vigour. Laudanum was most definitely not the cure-all it purported to be.
Carefully, Hope tucked the letter into its envelope and slipped it under her pillow. She had no illusions that something terrible would follow such good news.
The demand came the next day. Hope took the letter from Madame, who’d summoned Hope to her private sitting room in order to ensure the communication contained no money.
As expected, it was a threat from Wilfred which only hardened Hope’s determination that she would never be Wilfred’s plaything ever again.
When Minette entered Hope’s room at four o’ clock that afternoon to help her with her evening’s toilette, Hope was in tears.
The young servant was used to finding Madame Chambon’s girls in tears, so she just sighed and asked Hope if she’d like to lie down and she’d get her a few drops of ‘tincture’.
Hope, dressed in an apricot and cream silk dressing gown edged with lace, continued to pace between the iron bed with its elegant rose satin bedspread and the window and shook her head. “I need to think clearly; I need my wits about me.” She waved the note in her hand, not looking at Minette. “I must make an important decision.”
“Yer overset, miss. A little laudanum never did no one any ’arm.”
But although the girl loyally unstoppered the little glass vial on Hope’s dressing table and poured a few drops into a glass of water, Hope knew the danger the innocent-looking tincture of opium represented. Tempting though it was, she needed to be sharp-witted. Sharp enough to outwit Wilfred.
Yet how was she to manage this when she’d thought Wilfred had already done his worst?
With another sob, she uncrumpled the cream missive on which Wilfred had penned his evil demands, and her vision blurred by tears, she read it for the hundredth time.
It began as if he and Hope were old friends. Couldn’t she just imagine his delight at Charlotte’s engagement, and that he’d been invited to attend the grand event at Lord Hartley’s family home the following Saturday. What a sad thing it was that Hope could not go, despite the bonds that bound the younger sister to Hope who adored her so.
Wouldn’t Charlotte be devastated to learn to what depths of vice and depravity Hope had sunk? But not to fear, Wilfred would never hint at Hope’s whereabouts much less her employment.
Indeed, Wilfred would be assiduous in ensuring no taint of scandal attached to Charlotte that would blight her extraordinary matrimonial conquest.
All Hope had to do in order to rest easy on that score was whatever Wilfred told her to.
And so, outlined in Wilfred’s letter, was another demand that she return to Mr Durham’s lodgings and, by whatever means available to her, secure what she’d failed to do the first time.
“Mr Durham’s pleasure was purchased at great expense, but you failed to deliver upon your obligations, other than be the whore to surprise and delight him,” Wilfred had written. “From what I hear, Mr Durham’s addled wits at the time rendered him insensible to your true identity. This time, your visit will be at your expense for I have not the ready to outlay such an exorbitant sum for your dubious charms. But service him, you will. Otherwise, all of London society will be speaking in hushed and horrified tones about sweet, innocent Miss Charlotte Merriweather, tainted forever by the sister who can be bought by anyone with a fat enough pocketbook.”
There was no alternative, of course. Hope had explored every avenue, including disappearing into the night, but without friends and family she had no one to aid her, and the inevitability of living in the gutter before too long prevented her from leaving her current employment.
Forsaking Hope Page 3