Romantic Legends

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Don’t think you can drive us away,” DeVere persisted.

  “No, Sin.” Ned reached out a hand and then let it drop again. “We won’t allow you to languish in loneliness.”

  Simon spun around with a derisive snort. “How can a man be lonely who has not been alone in six years? I was a prisoner with fifty other men, for Christ’s sake! Never a moment of solitude, never a moment of peace, not even to take a piss.”

  “You are right,” Ned agreed. “We can never have an inkling of what you suffered, but unlike thousands of others, your life was preserved. You cannot just throw it away. You must learn to live it again.”

  “You think it is as easy as all that?” Quivering with fury, he studied his oldest friends. They were the only people he’d ever implicitly trusted, but his fears and humiliation threatened to sever even that quarter-century bond.

  “Just tell us what you need, Sin,” said DeVere. “Ned and I are both willing to offer any resource at our disposal to help ease your way back. There must be something we can do for you.”

  Simon opened his mouth only to close it again. It was pointless. Hopeless.

  DeVere’s gaze narrowed perceptively. “There is something.”

  “I only wish…No. It’s impossible.” Simon closed his eyes on a curse and shook his head. He couldn’t even voice his humiliating secret.

  “Impossible?” DeVere’s bows knit. “You forget to whom you speak. Out with it.”

  Simon should have known better. DeVere loved nothing more than a seemingly unachievable challenge.

  DeVere waited, forcing Simon’s confession.

  “It’s been so long. So bloody long… since…”

  “Since what?” DeVere prompted.

  “Damn it, DeVere!” He slammed his fist on the writing table. “Since I’ve had a woman!”

  “A woman? Is that all?” DeVere gave a devilish laugh. “That wish, my friend, is easily accommodated. If the mountain will not come to Mohammed…”

  “You think to bring a woman of pleasure to me? No, DeVere. I won’t defile this house. I have caused my mother enough pain… enough shame. A bottle of brandy is one thing, a doxy is quite another. Besides, I doubt that there is any amount of spirit or opiate that will allow me to function again.”

  DeVere looked aghast. “It cannot be as bad as all that!”

  “It is! And damn you for making me say it! I cannot write. I cannot fuck. I’m completely unmanned!”

  Unlike DeVere, who’d always maintained emotional distance from women, the act of love was far more to Simon than the joining of bodies. It was akin to the merging of souls. Simon’s lovers had been his inspiration, his inner light. How could he ever explain his feelings of impotence …his sense of complete emasculation?

  “Sin, it’s like riding a horse,” Ned said. “It’s all instinct. One does not forget. Hell, I know of what I speak. I suffered three years of self-inflicted celibacy following Annalee’s passing.”

  “It’s not the same, Ned! It’s not that I haven’t tried. In Bermuda there was this beautiful mulatto, a servant in the governor’s house where I convalesced. She was willing, but I couldn’t touch her, nor could I allow her to touch me.” Simon ground his teeth in frustration. “I could only look upon her and gratify myself.”

  “Perhaps, you only need more time and the right woman to stir your passions again.”

  Simon looked away with a murmur, “My passions…are dead.”

  “No, Sin,” Ned argued, “your rather unique circumstances only require the right touch.” He looked to DeVere.

  “You may never hear this from my lips again, but for once, I agree with Ned. Stop fighting us, Sin,” DeVere said. “You know you cannot win.”

  “But how can I leave here?” The mere thought had his palms sweating. “I told you how badly I travel.”

  “Brandy.” DeVere retrieved a silver flask from his pocket and offered it. “As much as you need.”

  “But—” Simon made to protest.

  DeVere raised a staying hand. “Do you truly wish to cloister yourself like this, Sin?”

  “The pox on you, DeVere!” Simon snapped. “Do you think I have a choice?”

  “Bloody right, you do,” DeVere retorted. “My home is entirely yours for as long as you desire it. I shall take you there tomorrow. And after a suitable period of adjustment, you will begin to receive people. Just Ned and me at first, but in time, our wives and families.”

  “Wives? Families?” Simon repeated dumbly. “Even you, DeVere?”

  “Yes, Sin. I have a bride of three months…and she’s expecting.”

  “After only three months? You made bloody short work of it!” Simon retorted.

  “I had to make up for lost time.”

  “I still can’t believe this.” Simon shook his head. “So much has changed. So many years lost.”

  “It is never too late, Sin,” DeVere said.

  Ned nodded in agreement. “Indeed, DeVere’s reform alone should be tangible proof that nothing is impossible.

  We won’t allow you to languish in loneliness.

  Their compassion and sheer doggedness had finally worn him down. Simon raised his hands in surrender. “All right. You win. I’ll go to Bloomsbury.”

  “Oh Woman! All care relieving woman!

  Thou art the true physician to the sickly mind.”

  – Col. George Hanger

  Chapter Four

  DeVere House, Bloomsbury

  Salime was elated at receiving Lord DeVere’s message. Although his reply was terse, it still filled her with hope that he’d had a change of heart in taking her as his mistress. Perhaps the flames of his passion had dampened now that his wife was heavy with child? Although he’d chosen another for a wife, Salime could not deny her feelings. If only he would be willing to keep her, even as his second favorite, she could resign herself to the crumbs from his table.

  She knew he did not love her. He’d told her as much, albeit gently. He’d even tried to convince her that her own feelings were mistaken, that she confused gratitude for deeper sentiment. Of course she was infinitely grateful to him; she owed him her life, after all. He’d provided her a safe refuge when she would have been left to die or forced to earn her bread on the streets. She had sworn to repay the debt with a life of servitude, yet he’d refused to accept even that humble offering.

  Instead, he’d brought her back to England with him, where she’d chosen her present life. Establishing herself as a courtesan was little different from what she’d prepared for from the earliest age. The imperial harem housed dozens of beautiful and talented women who were trained to please the sultan’s every desire. As odalisque to the sultan’s mother, the one to whom befell the honor of choosing wives and concubines for her son, Salime had watched and learned all in the hope of being selected.

  Once that hope was destroyed, she’d embraced her training as a means of enjoying freedom she never could have experienced in her homeland. It was Lord DeVere who had suggested a veil to give her an aura of mystery. He had proven right. The English noblemen had regarded Salime as a rare and exotic flower—until Kitty had stripped away her secret.

  Given only one more year at King’s Place, she could have retired a wealthy woman, but now no man would ever want her again. Only Lord DeVere had known, had seen, and had seemingly not cared about her disfigurement.

  She’d come eagerly in reply to his summons, only to find herself alone with his servants. Now she waited, paced, and fretted for what seemed like endless hours until he finally arrived.

  “Efendi! You have come at last!” She rushed to him, kneeling and kissing his hand.

  “But of course.”

  His smile said he was pleased to see her. The knowledge warmed her. Gave her hope.

  He raised her to her feet. “You must know I could never deny you help in any time of need, Salime.”

  “But I feared with your marriage…that Khanum…” Salime sank her teeth into her lower lip.

 
“I have yet to explain your situation to Diana, as I do not have a complete understanding of it myself, but I am certain she would not have me turn my back on you.” He took her gently by the elbow. “Come, Salime, we will retire to share the hookah. Then you will tell me what is troubling you…and how I might assist.”

  For close to an hour in an apartment resembling her own, Salime sat cross-legged at his feet. She prepared the water pipe while he reclined on a divan. DeVere had acquired a taste for Opium in his travels. When they partook together, she mixed it with shisha. As they smoked, he slowly drew the story from her—the tale of her second great humiliation at the hand of a bitter rival.

  “I am sorry for your embarrassment, my dear, but in the end, you will see it is for the best.” He blew purple-cast smoke rings into the air. “You deserve much better than to be a mere plaything to rich and idle men.”

  “But it is what I was trained for, Efendi, to serve a man’s pleasure. I am not ashamed in this. Where I come from, such skills are a woman’s only means to ensure a lifetime of ease and comfort. To please the sultan and to be raised to the place of favorite mistress or haseki is the greatest of honors—only exceeded by becoming a kadin.”

  “By kadin you mean a wife?”

  “Yes, but the sultan has four wives,” she corrected, “and as many concubines as he is able to keep. Once a woman enters the harem as either wife or concubine, her life is secure. Here when a man takes a mistress she has no guarantees at all. When he tires of her she is as readily cast aside as a worn slipper.”

  “Even a shoe can be re-soled before it is cast aside.”

  “Such is true if one has a way to pay the cobbler. I do not.”

  “Do you need money then? Just say the word.”

  “No.” She shook her head adamantly. “I will not accept your charity.”

  “Then what will you do now?” he asked.

  “I do not yet know.” She gazed up at him almost afraid to voice the desire that burned in her heart. “As a man of exceeding virility, I had hoped that perhaps…”

  He shook his head, crushing her hope. “I’m sorry, my dear. The English ways are different in regard to wives and mistresses.”

  She arched a brow. “Not so very different, Efendi. If Englishmen did not require variety, why would such as King’s Place exist?”

  “Point taken,” he said with a tight smile. “But what I meant is that many wives do not accept a man’s philandering ways. There are some who expect, nay, demand, faithfulness to the marriage vows.”

  “Khanum, the fiery one, she is such a wife?”

  “Aye, Salime. And I have sworn my lasting devotion to her. I would not break my vow for anything. My desire is only for Diana.” He took another long draw from the pipe.

  “She is the most fortunate of women to merit such devotion.”

  “Given my exceeding virility, as you put it, my faithfulness may be a two-edged sword.” He chuckled. “Given a choice, wouldn’t you also prefer just one man?”

  Her head and shoulders dropped. “You know that choice was taken from me.” Salime ran her fingers lightly over the scar that forever marred her once-great beauty. “Even you, who I thought…”

  His gaze hardened. “Your scar has nothing to do with my decision to forego a mistress, Salime. I just explained that. Surely there is some gentleman of your acquaintance who can see the true jewel that you are—”

  “There is none!” she cried passionately. “No man would willingly look upon this face. Only a woman has eyes to see the beauty beneath the skin.”

  His lips twisted. “You think all men are so shallow?” He handed the pipe into her waiting hands.

  She returned a sad smile and then drew smoke deep within her lungs. Almost immediately she felt light of body, as if she floated, but her spirit was still heavy. After inhaling, she handed the stem back to him. The minutes stretched out as DeVere stared at the ceiling, seemingly transfixed on the colorful silk-draped canopy above them.

  “What if there was such a man, Salime? One possessed of unusual sensitivity, one capable of perceiving the greater beauty within?”

  She snorted. “What if camels could fly?”

  “You are too cynical by half, my dear.

  “I only speak what I know to be truth, Efendi.”

  “Perhaps,” he said, “but I would like very much to prove you wrong.”

  She wondered what he meant. DeVere never spoke idly. Did he know of such a man?

  The corners of his lips curved in a sly smile. “Salime, I would ask a boon of you.”

  “You know I would do anything for you,” she replied.

  “Perhaps you would hear me out first?”

  “As you wish.” She nodded eagerly.

  “I have a very dear friend, with an unusual affliction.”

  “He is in need of a physician?”

  “No,” he scoffed. “The quacks can do nothing for him. It is not truly a physical ailment.”

  “You speak in riddles. Do you mean he is touched in the head?”

  “Not exactly. He may think himself so, but I don’t believe it. Nor do I believe he’s beyond healing.”

  “I do not understand what you would ask of me. I am no healer.”

  “He is in great want of one who understands a man’s needs. I believe that you alone might be able to comfort him…to relieve his distress.”

  “Ah.” She nodded. “I begin to comprehend. You have such confidence in me, Efendi?”

  “I have every confidence in you, my dear. Should you accept my proposition, I am willing to provide you generous compensation.”

  She frowned. “It is not for money that I accept. It is only for you. You have asked this of me, so how can I refuse?”

  He returned a soft smile. “I pray, Salime, that one day you meet a man worthy of such devotion.”

  Simon stirred to life with a moan and an uncomfortable awareness of a raging erection wrought by a nocturnal fantasy. He’d dreamt he was in paradise, an exotic place of silken sheets and canopies, of incense perfuming the air, and scantily clad, sultry-eyed, sweet smelling women. What a heaven it was, a utopia from which he never wanted to awaken.

  Although reluctant to break the spell, he finally opened his eyes—to a canopy of scarlet silk billowing above his head just as in his dream. His gaze tracked the room in disbelief. He lay in a massive bed in an expansive chamber. A thick Turkish carpet covered the floor where a number of large and inviting silken cushions were scattered. The entire chamber resembled a sultan’s seraglio, or as close to one as Simon could imagine.

  Simon remembered little of the prior night, aside from drinking copious amounts of brandy. He had only shadowy recollections of Ned and DeVere meeting him at his door before he’d fallen into a drink-induced stupor. He vaguely recalled the cross-town journey to DeVere’s house in Bloomsbury. After that—nothing.

  He could only presume by the decadence that this was DeVere’s own bedchamber. His friend had promised Simon every comfort. By damn, he’d kept his word and then some! Simon shut his eyes again, luxuriating in his opulent surroundings. He inhaled deeply of the exotic scents of jasmine and incense, and of another vaguely familiar aroma that perfumed the air.

  His blissful reverie was soon broken by a rattle of metal and someone stirring in the adjacent chamber. His gaze flew to an arched doorway opening to what he presumed must be a sitting room. Damn it all! DeVere had assured him he wouldn’t be disturbed—that even the servants wouldn’t intrude, unless summoned.

  Simon rose in vexation, drawing a silk banyan over his nightshirt. With footsteps muffled by the Turkish carpet, he padded barefoot toward the antechamber. The aroma scenting the air grew stronger. He sniffed, at last recognizing the tantalizing smell. Coffee? It was tinged with something else he couldn’t identify. Pausing in the doorway, Simon forced a calming breath before dressing down whoever had disturbed his peace.

  She glanced up at him with a gasp and he nearly swallowed his tongue instead. Good God
in heaven! It was her! The same sultry siren who’d graced his erotic dreams. Was he hallucinating? Simon scrubbed his face, but the apparition remained.

  She dropped the small copper pot with a clatter. “A thousand pardons, Efendi. You startled me.”

  “Wh-who the devil are you?” His voice was hoarse from a throat gone completely dry.

  “I am Salime,” she replied, lowering her gaze and then sinking gracefully to her knees. Her glossy black hair cascaded in silky lengths over her shoulders and down her back, nearly touching the floor where she knelt.

  Her seductive attire left little to the imagination, let alone one so deprived…or better said depraved…as Simon’s. She wore a diaphanous tunic in a vivid shade of violet, revealing the generous swells of breasts uncontained by stays. His gaze lingered at the dusky shadows of her nipples, barely concealed by the thin fabric. His gaze drifted lower to where the tunic gathered at the hips with a girdle richly embroidered in silver and gold thread. She had gloriously rounded hips, neither hidden beneath petticoats nor exaggerated by panniers. From the top of her bejeweled headdress to the bells on the toes of her slippers, his hungry eyes feasted as if she were a banquet.

  His gaze returned to her face, partially draped from ear to ear by a silken veil that obscured her features, revealing only a shadowy outline of her mouth. The effect only emphasized her large and luminous almond-shaped eyes—eyes the golden color of topaz. Although her posture and expression were outwardly demure, she exuded mystery and sensuality.

  She met his gaze with a half-smile and sultry look that said she read his secret thoughts.

  “Who are you?” Simon repeated, struggling to recover his wits.

  She regarded him curiously. “I told you, Efendi. My name is Salime.” Her voice was soft with an Eastern inflection.

  “I don’t mean your name. What is your purpose here? You cannot be a servant.”

  “No, I am not a servant,” she replied.

  Understanding dawned, albeit belatedly. Simon’s jaw clicked shut. What an idiot he was.