‘’Everything burns.’ The woman’s face, her blue eyes heavy-lidded with anticipation, sent sparks through Peterson. ‘Every touch is balm.’
‘Like this?’
‘Yes.’ The woman sighed rapturously as Peterson pushed her shift upward. ‘Oh, I should hate it, it’s so wanton—’
‘No shame.’ Peterson couldn’t help but lean closer, his mouth a hairsbreadth from the woman’s earlobe. ‘You are unwell, no? You took something that made you feel unwell. I can provide relief.’
‘Like a doctor.’
‘Yes.’
‘Then give me relief, doctor.’ The woman reached down, her hands gently encircling Peterson’s wrists. Peterson bit back a grunt of pleasure at her touch. ‘This… this hunger is worse than any sort of pain.’
Peterson took a deep breath as he leaned back. He looked at the woman exactly as she was; flushed, breathless, near-delirious with desire as she urged him to pleasure her.
This was definitely, without a doubt, the most erotic thing that would ever happen to him. He wanted to remember it for the rest of his life.
‘Well?’ The slight touch of imperiousness in the woman’s voice only made it sweeter. ‘Will you—’
She stopped, her words melting into a sigh, as Peterson kissed her.
Relief. What would bring her to release quicker? She understood the concept, at least, even if she didn’t know the mechanics. He had to develop a stratagem, a plan—but oh, it was difficult to think at all now that the woman’s warm, yielding mouth was on his, her kiss deliciously sweet. Sweet and clumsily ardent, as if she had never known kissed beyond first exploratory pecks. Peterson gripped her thighs as he leaned into her, unable to restrain an answering sigh as his tongue brushed gently against the roof of her mouth.
‘No.’ Her frustrated tone as Peterson pulled away. ‘Do it again.’
‘Lift your thighs.’
‘Only if you do that again.’
‘Do you want to bargain, or do you want to order me?’
‘Both?’
‘You don’t seem sure.’
‘I’m not.’
‘Then lift your damned thighs, and hold your tongue.’
With a flash of excitement in her frosty blue eyes, the woman curled her thighs upward. Peterson pulled her closer, her skirts sending every paper on the desk flying into disarray, biting his lip as he took in the blonde curls at the meeting of her thighs.
‘You can see my—’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you—’
‘I’ll give you relief, you impatient chit, and quickly.’ Peterson couldn’t resist a small smile as the woman’s breathing quickened. She liked it, then—a touch of impertinence. He would remember that. ‘Now come here.’
With one impatient hand, he reached for the woman’s bodice. Curling his fingers, gripping the ribbons that tied the neckline of her gown, he pulled her into a deeper, harsher kiss.
‘Mmm.’ This time he couldn’t control the moan that left his throat. The situation was so close to dreams he’d had, to fantasies he had indulged in, that his body had begun to take the lead. The woman’s response was so ardent, so enthusiastic as she sighed against his mouth, that the sheer amount of pleasure he was feeling began to feel suspicious.
Was it a trap? If so, what was he being trapped in? Peterson didn’t have time to furnish the thought as the woman caught his wrist in her fingers, pulling his hand to her mound with a sigh that mixed anguish and bliss.
‘You are too slow.’ Her tone was passionately urgent. ‘Don’t make me command you.’ Her flesh was hot against Peterson’s fingers. ‘I wouldn’t know where to begin.’
‘Didn’t I tell you to hold your tongue?’
‘Didn’t I tell you to give me relief?’
God, he loved a fight. A commanding woman was infinitely more exciting than a thousand shy maidens. His palm thrilling at the feel of her, Peterson explored her with his fingers.
It was only as he touched her deeply, felt her wetness, that he realised all over again the gravity of what they were doing. The strangeness of it—as if they were both in the same dream. Pulling away from the kiss, his hand steady against her curls, Peterson whispered in her ear.
‘Tell me if you want me to stop.’
‘If you stop, I’ll die.’
That seemed definite enough. Breathing in the scent of her, grazing his teeth against her shoulder as a wild stab of lust shot through him, Peterson began to stroke her in earnest.
‘Like this?’ He parted her inner lips, running his fingers over her. The heat of a woman had always left him half-undone. ‘Does this help?’
‘Yes.’ The woman’s whimper was breathless, her tone something between an order and a plea. ‘More.’
He could give more. He could, and would, give her everything she wanted. Caressing her, her curls tickling his fingertips as he explored her, Peterson gently brushed against her tightly-furled bud as the woman cried out in unmistakeable pleasure.
‘Why does—why does it feel like that?’ Her whisper after such an uninhibited cry only increased Peterson’s lust. ‘I didn’t know it—oh, do it again.’
Peterson obeyed. Obeyed once, twice, the caresses flowing from tens to dozens to a timeless, golden blur as the woman pushed against his hand, her hips rolling as she sought yet more pleasure. A quick, frenetic rhythm came from nothing, as swift and spectacular as wildfire, setting the woman on a definite path to climax as Peterson moved faster and faster still.
He was close. How could he be close to finishing without being touched? Unimportant now, irrelevant—she was on the verge of coming, he could feel it in her body, and he was damned if he’d start worrying about himself when her pleasure was paramount.
‘I shouldn’t want this.’ The woman’s shocked murmur seemed to play no part in the enthusiastic response of her body. ‘This—this is the devil’s work.’
‘If you want me to, I’ll stop. You know that.’
‘And I’ve told you that if you stop, I’ll die. Or worse, I’ll—I’ll ravage you, and I don’t even know how to do it.’
‘You can still talk. It means I’m not doing my job well enough.’ Peterson brushed his lips against hers, the feel of her like hot silk against his hand. ‘Hold your tongue, or I’ll hold it for you.’
‘I shouldn’t like it when you say brutish things. It—it must be the drink.’
‘Shut up, and take your pleasure.’ Peterson let his teeth graze against her earlobe. Lord, he had to be dreaming. ‘Or I’ll begin to think that you lied about what you drank.’
He moved faster, stroking her bud, his teeth tight on her neck with more strength than was warranted. Just a little more pressure, more swiftness, and she’d break—she was quivering now, squeezing her thighs around his hand, her cries more abandoned with every passing minute.
‘Oh, I—oh, Lord.’ The woman ground against his hand, her face the very picture of frustrated want. ‘Please—please help me.’
‘It’ll come. Give it time, and it’ll come.’
‘But I’m impatient.’
Her stubbornness was delightful. Peterson couldn’t resist a low growl of laughter as he kept his rhythm, his hand slow and exacting against her.
A devious thought struck him. ‘I can make it come quicker. Will you let me make it come quicker?’
‘Yes.’ The woman nodded frantically. ‘Yes.’
‘It’ll mean being rough with you.’
‘Then be rough with me.’ The woman’s voice shook. ‘I’m stronger than you think.’
Of that, Peterson had no doubt. With a harsh sigh, bending his head to the woman’s demurely covered chest, he pulled her bodice downward with a rip of several stitches. Ignoring the woman’s shocked gasp, lost in the ripe tumble of her breasts as they fell free, Peterson brought his mouth to one of her stiff, swollen nipples.
The woman’s thighs tightened convulsively as he sucked hard. Her cry came, high and arching, as her desire flooded his weary hand.
Swift. Frantic. Perfect.
Fighting the urge to continue, Peterson pulled away. For a long, strange moment he stared into the woman’s eyes. They were both panting, breathless, as if they had fought an unexpected war.
Then, with a snap of God’s fingers, the connection broke. Peterson pulled away, not knowing where to look as the woman jumped up, her fingers a blur as she restored herself to some semblance of order.
After several silent, uncomfortable moments, she looked as she had when she had first burst into the room. The flush at the base of her neck had faded, her skin now a pale cream as she spoke awkwardly.
‘I assume you require payment for your—your services.’
‘No.’ With difficulty, Peterson remembered where they were. ‘It’s hardly as if you booked an appointment.’
‘I insist.’
‘I insist that you don’t.’
With a final, fraught look at Peterson, evidently wishing to argue further, the woman left as quickly as she had arrived.
For a long, silent moment, Peterson stood as still as a statue. Eventually, with a long, low whistle that did nothing to encapsulate his feelings, he sat in his chair.
Had it actually happened? Had a woman really just thrown his arms around him and demanded… well…
… and had he actually given it to her?
He was as hard as a rock, breathless, the scent of rosewater and female desire still thick in the air. Not only had it happened, it had happened with more potency and strength than almost every other event in his life.
Why wasn’t he following her? Why wasn’t he demanding her name, her surname, her address? Demanding that she stay with him?
No point in trying to prolong a perfect moment. Peterson tried to believe it—tried to forget, even as he sat rock-hard in his master’s chair. But as he reached for the newspaper with shaking hands, the memory of the woman’s skin still hot on his fingertips, he knew that he had done something unforgettable.
Rebecca didn’t wish to lie to herself. It was her honesty, almost to a fault, that had given her satisfaction in an otherwise fraught and dreary life. Which is why, with a trembling sigh that moved through every one of her bones, she admitted to herself that what had happened in the Cappadene Club had felt wonderful.
Wonderful beyond measure. To be brought to a fever-pitch through no fault of her own, and to have said fever most expertly calmed… why, only the most ferocious hypocrite would pretend that she hadn’t enjoyed what had occurred.
That did, of course, leave her in something of a quandary. Not merely a quandary—the most impressive moral dilemma of her otherwise blameless life. She had wandered the streets for some hours, desperately looking in any number of shop windows for utterly unsuitable articles, before returning home and feigning a convenient headache.
The headache had saved her the trouble of dinner, bathing, and conversation. When morning came, alas, she had to bathe, converse and eat breakfast—the coffee scalding her throat, the apple powdery and unchewable in her mouth. With her heart in her throat, knowing she needed succour, Rebecca had made her way to the house of Mary Atterson as soon as she deemed it a respectable hour.
Mary Atterson’s morning room was the most morally unimpeachable room in London. Rebecca sat amidst the violently floral furniture and vasework in silence, feeling like a rat that had managed to sneak into a dovecote as Mary took a restrained sip of tea.
She had always so enjoyed tea with Mary. The woman was wise, witty, and had a refreshingly diligent attitude to matters of morality—she was no dilettante, managing to visit the poorest areas of the city without turning a hair. Still, when it came to how she had spent the day before, Rebecca was fairly sure that what she had done could turn Mary’s hair white from root to tip.
She had to find some way, any way at all, of reducing the guilt she felt deep in her soul. They had spoken of any number in ways the Vice Prevention ladies could improve or expand the work that needed to be done in London. Perhaps, in this fallow period of silence, she could ask something a little more personal.
She cleared her throat. ‘If… if one of the ladies who attend the meetings for the prevention of vice was to do something shocking, what would be done about her?’
Mary slowly put her teacup back onto its saucer. ‘I beg your pardon?’
‘Hypothetically.’ Rebecca forced herself to speak calmly, thanking the Lord that her shawl covered the blush that was no doubt forming at the base of her neck. ‘If one of the girls who protests with us, who writes letters, who gives money to the orphanages—what would happen if they were discovered to be engaging in scandalous conduct?’
‘Scandalous conduct.’ Mary paused. Her face, normally focused with intense concentration upon whatever topic they happened to be discussing, had a new and worrying furrow in between the eyes. ‘What exactly do you mean by scandalous conduct?’
‘Goodness. Well.’ Rebecca took a sip of tea, hoping the liquid was scalding enough to spark a bright idea. Alas, it was already disappointingly tepid. ‘The—the sort of things we protest about.’
‘We protest about many things.’
‘Yes. I know.’ Rebecca looked at her friend with faint irritation; for someone who was normally such a good conversationalist, Mary was surprisingly silent in this particular case. ‘Any one of the immoral acts in question, I suppose. Drinking, or gambling, or engaging in bawdy conversation or—or—’
‘Or carnal acts.’ A flush had crept over Mary’s cheekbones. ‘Carnal acts, with someone unsuitable.’
Rebecca almost bit into the china of her cup as she choked on her tea. ‘Well, I—I—’
‘Things entered into in a younger, freer state.’ Mary let out a short, passionate sigh, the biscuit held in her left hand beginning to disintegrate as she held it tightly between her thumb and forefinger. ‘With someone who was terribly sinful, irredeemably bad—but who since has taken a brighter, holier path, leaving his former love languishing in his wake.’
The outburst was as specific as it was unexpected. Rebecca stared at the older women in outright shock, blinking, recovering herself with real difficulty.
Mary was thirty-six. Old enough to be definitely considered a spinster—but really, she had never questioned herself as to the contents of the woman’s early life. It hadn’t seemed relevant. Now, looking bleakly at the remaining biscuits, Rebecca wondered what on earth she had missed.
Mary clearly had a past. A sinful one, at that. It made what she herself had done with the mysterious man in the Cappadene Club slightly less shocking—but no more able to be talked about.
‘I wouldn’t know.’ She spoke as carefully as possible. ‘Something of that nature, I suppose. Or something similar. There… there would have to be public consequences, I imagine.’
‘Not necessarily.’ Mary slowly shook her head, her eyes fixed firmly on her teacup. ‘Not if the lady had privately acknowledged the gravity of the sin she had committed, and judged herself free of any chronic moral decay. Even angels fall, my dear.’
What she had done in the Cappadene Club had certainly been sinful. The fact that it had felt pleasurable—intensely pleasurable—only proved how depraved it had been. Pleasure was to be feared, not sought, in every aspect of one’s life. Rebecca, noting the sadness in Mary’s normally placid gaze, put down her teacup.
‘And she would be forgiven, of course, for that exact reason. Especially by those that love her, and are close to her.’
Mary looked up, a spark of real gratitude in her eyes. ‘Quite.’
‘But… but that would only reduce the guilt a little.’ Rebecca picked her teacup back up, the smoothness of the china offering an obscure kind of comfort. ‘What else could be done?’
‘The only solution to matters of this nature, my dear, is good works. As many good works as possible—administering help to as many poor unfortunates as you can find. It will bring one out of oneself, and encourages one’s continued adherence to a vital, necessary path. A righ
teous path.’ Mary nodded earnestly. ‘This would be my advice.’
As advice went, it was both sound and reasonable. Rebecca drank gratefully, looking at her friend with new sympathy. ‘I thank you for it.’
‘But we are not speaking of you, of course.’ Mary’s voice carried a note of warning. ‘We are speaking of a general situation.’
‘Of course.’ Rebecca swallowed. ‘Without a doubt.’
Helping people, particularly people that no-one else wanted to help, had always given Rebecca great joy. Improving the condition of London, and by extension the world, normally depended on small, unpopular acts of drudgery—and for the right cause, Rebecca could be a willing and cheerful drudge. Alas, on her afternoon of greatest possible need, none of her usual charitable causes were in need of help.
Mrs Sulbury of Tatter Street had more than enough bread, and felt no desire for more. The soldier with one leg who lived near Hyde Park had found a buxom maid of twenty years old to tend to his needs—Rebecca thought about telling the man that his new nurse was clearly hunting for a share of his military pension, but dismissed the idea as too satisfying to be truly altruistic. The shoeless child on the corner of Winpole Street had a new pair of shoes on his feet, the thin dog that haunted the jeweller’s quarter was tucking into an enormous sausage—why, it was as if London had decided to find its moral centre, right when she most needed it to be in atrocious disrepair.
There was nothing to do but return home, drink tea and look anxiously out of the window, half-expecting to see a Bow Street Runner ready to put her in gaol for crimes against decency. As her father read the paper, tutting at the state of the world, her mother looked at her with a proud, gentle smile.
‘I am so very sorry we can’t be with you tonight, dear. If only the Wilkinsons could have chosen another date! But it would have been so rude to ask them to do so…’
‘Tonight?’ Rebecca turned from the window, blinking away the memory of the man’s dark eyes boring into hers. ‘What is happening tonight?’
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