Beauty and the Rake

by Erica Monroe

  “I am aware of the plight of the less fortunate,” he protested.

  She scoffed. “What pretty language you use, Inspector. If you spent a day in the rookeries—one day truly in the stews, without this palace to come home to—I doubt you would describe us so.”

  At best, his townhouse was moderately respectable. Situated on the least fashionable street in Cheapside, his grandfather had won it in a game of cards. His neighbor on the left was a merchant, and on the right was a retired naval officer. Hardly the Upper Ten Thousands.

  He surveyed Abigail curiously. “How should I describe you, then?”

  A sad smile twisted her lips. “We are creatures of malcontent, pressed further and further back into these dark corners until eventually we shall all smother each other.”

  Her speech surprised him. She was cultured, much more than he’d expected. That intrigued him.

  “Miss Vautille, surely while you are here—” He wasn't sure what he'd been about to suggest, but she'd have none of it regardless.

  “While I am your fen, you'd prefer I not discuss such unseemly matters?”

  At this rate, he’d rather her not talk at all. He frowned, biting back a response about how his father had always said women were better seen, not heard. Somehow, he doubted that would go over well.

  Her face transformed, the combativeness fleeing from her eyes. She stepped closer to him, reaching out. Her outstretched palm flat upon his chest, she leaned into him, her voice dropping to a sensual whisper that caressed his mind. “I am sorry for not remembering my place, Strickland. Do you need to punish me, as you do to all your bedpartners?”

  The very idea had him hard in a matter of seconds. He added a check to his mental list of skills she’d need as a Cyprian.

  “Saucy minx,” he growled, his hand closing upon her wrist, wrenching her palm off of him. “If you continue to talk like that, I shan't be responsible for my actions.”

  “Men of your ilk never are,” she remarked, the coolness of her eyes offset by the slow, seductive rise and fall of her chest. She leaned into him, the movement pushing her pert breasts up against the confines of her corset.

  His breeches were tight against him, uncomfortably so. This woman, this bloody vixen, with her perfect body and her wild words. He'd always considered himself a man well equipped for vulgarity, as at home in Cruikshank's hell as he was in a drawing room. Skating on the edge of two social circles, an air of debauchery clung about him; enough that innocent misses were curious about him and seasoned ladybirds sought him out in dark alcoves.

  No woman had ever spoken to him the way Abigail Vautille did, frankly and without regard to his masculine pride.

  He gripped her hand, his fingers closing around the thin planes of her wrist, guiding her closer to his lips.

  “When I'm at work, I am the man in charge.” He pressed a hard kiss against the silk of her glove, wishing that it were her bare skin. “When I come home, nothing changes.”

  “If you expect to be obeyed, you shan't find me worth the two hundred pounds you paid.” She defied him, even when her eyes clouded with desire.

  He knew arousal when he saw it, could sense the almost palpable shift in the air. Everything around them became new, possessed with a fledging fire that if stoked would become a raging blaze.

  “I'd consider you well worth the price,” he told her, his voice already too thick for these minimal touches.

  Her cheeks flushed as he continued up her wrist, kissing her open palm. Her lower lip quivered. He tasted silk on his tongue, bland yet tinged with the promise of more. This library, which had become a sanctuary to him in the past few months, swirled around him and faded into nothing.

  There was only Miss Vautille.

  “But maybe I should make you earn it.” He took a chance, drunk off her reaction. Was there a bawdy harlot inside this chaste innocent? A woman who wanted taming as much as she longed to make him submit?

  Her upper lip curved, playing skepticism like her ace. “You could try, but I doubt you'd be successful.”

  “I do so love a challenge.” He grabbed for her waist, pulling her flush against him.

  He acted on instinct, driven by the age-old need that influenced most of his decisions. He wanted her. He must have her. And so, he would, for he was a Corinthian and a rogue, and women could never resist these attributes combined in one man.

  Dipping his head down, he brushed his lips over hers. A teasing kiss meant to build up passion within her. He’d test the waters, judge how much practice she had. She’d claimed to be a virgin, but she was a Whitechapel lass, so surely, she’d have to know something…

  But she didn’t kiss like a girl who knew the strength of her wares. She fumbled against his lips, unable to find his rhythm. He pressed harder and she backed off instead of picking up the pace. She lacked skill and finesse, but her innocence—and her eagerness when he began to nibble upon her lip in just the right way—intrigued him. Charmed him.

  He slid his tongue out to dampen her lips. She didn’t open her mouth to allow him entry. Her eyes popped open, and she froze in his hold. Soothing her worries, he went back to soft kisses, pressed along her jaw line.

  A breathy sigh escaped her lips, her head tilted back just slightly. Oh, this would be easier than he’d thought. The smallest sprig of hope budded within him.

  Hope promptly crushed when she pulled away from him, escaping his hold upon her waist. Left him hot and bothered. His shaft hard as granite.

  One look at her was enough to cool that ardor. Dismay splashed across her face, in the sadness of those crystal blue eyes. She might as well as have doused a bucket of cool spring water upon him.

  “It is easier for you this way, isn't it?” Gone was the silky smoothness to her tone. She no longer met his eyes. “If I pretend to play the game.”

  He had not released her wrist. She remained in his hold. Her resignation disconcerted him. Did she not want this after all? Becoming a courtesan was a logical profession for her. Hell, if she was successful and landed a position as an aristocrat’s mistress, she’d probably occupy a better social position than she had now.

  “Miss Vautille—” The question was on his lips as he released her wrist.

  “Yes?” She took a step back from him, her features schooled back into their usual detachment.

  She was new at this. But that kiss had indicated she could play the game as well as any seasoned ladybird. An efficacious demimondaine was part-actress, part-seductress. With a bit more experience, she’d take the fast set by storm.

  He dropped her wrist, proffered his arm again. “Shall we continue with the tour?”

  Strickland's dining room table was by far the most mammoth piece of furniture Abigail had ever laid eyes upon. The not-so-good inspector lounged in his mahogany slotted back chair as if it was his throne.

  She’d failed the first test earlier. When he’d tried to deepen their kiss, she should have accepted it. Acted as though she liked it. In truth, it wouldn’t have taken that much pretending. Yearning for him had splashed giddily through her like the first downpour of spring. If he was someone else—if the circumstances were different—she would have responded to that kiss with equal passion.

  His overtures had made her stomach flip precariously. She didn’t have to work as hard as she’d expected to plaster a smile on her lips. When men were so openly vulgar around her, she usually hated it. But there was something about the ease of his manner—and the handsomeness of his face—that made her hope that sex with him wouldn’t be as painful of an experience as she anticipated.

  She swore she’d do better the next time. By the end of this arrangement, she’d be so damn tempting men would line up outside her door. She’d take their money, immoral though it was. It was the only way she could support her sister without assistance.

  Gingerly, she readjusted her seat in the intricately carved mahogany chair with a red brocade cushion. She raised a polished silver fork to her mouth, feeling so out of pl
ace in all this richness. They sat at opposing heads of the table, as though they were indeed legal mistress and master of this great space. Uneasiness flipped through Abigail's stomach, and she lifted up a heavy glass goblet filled to the brim with Madeira.

  So, she was common enough for him to buy her virginity, but apparently, she still warranted being waited upon. Never mind that the butler was higher in class than she was. This had to be part of some elaborate charade. She was a status symbol to him, not a human being.

  Draining a fourth of her goblet in one sip, she swallowed quickly to keep from gasping at the unexpected burst of flavor. She'd expected wine that tasted faintly of berries and mostly of water, not drenched in sweetness and oak. Just another thing to add her growing list of ways in which this place—and this man—disturbed her.

  From across the room, Strickland's voice traveled to her. “Is the food to your liking?”

  “Very much so.” There was no denying she'd enjoyed the meal. A little too much, for in a matter of minutes she'd cleared off a plate piled high with sweet rolls, partridge, fried artichoke bottoms, potatoes, sweet bread au jus, and carrots.

  “Good.” Strickland nodded his approval. “I want you to be happy here. This house is at your disposal.”

  She blinked. While she doubted he was truly concerned about how she fared in these weeks, his words surprised her. “Thank you, sir.”

  His eyes locked on hers and she was lost in his gaze. She understood now how easily he was able to flip women’s skirts. Hell, petticoats probably dissolved around him from the sheer heat of his stare. It was as if his eyes said I’ll make this the best damn night you’ve ever had, and his well-built body solidified that vow.

  Very well, then. She’d take the pleasure he promised and profit from it.

  “It is the least I can do,” he said. “Well, I suppose the very least I could have done was demand full payment, but that would've been rather rotten of me.”

  “Yes, it would have,” she agreed, the sinking pit in her stomach expanding.

  He shrugged. “I've been too long a man who does the very least. I know you don't maintain a high opinion of the Met, Miss Vautille, but contrary to popular belief I do want to be able to look myself in the eye and not cringe at what I see.”

  He wanted to respect himself, but he had no problem with purchasing her to use at his whim. He cared only for the comeliness of her body. Her soul meant nothing to him.

  What a pity he’d bought a broken ware then. When he saw her scars, he might reconsider their agreement. Best that she keep the gloves on, then.

  She took another sip of wine. “If you can afford such a luxury as self-respect, then so be it.”

  If he'd caught the undercurrent to her remark, he didn't show it. He gestured to Smithers, who stood in the corner of the room, waiting for orders.

  “More food for Miss Vautille,” he commanded. “A woman should not be skin and bones.”

  Usually, she'd bristle at such an autocratic tone, but as Smithers dished out another serving from the spread on the table, her stomach rumbled. A grin broke out on Strickland's face at the sound. She blushed, eyes downcast, her fork poised in her hand.

  “A healthy appetite is nothing to be ashamed of, especially if that appetite transfers to other proclivities,” he teased.

  The fabric of her dress was suddenly too heavy, for her body temperature had risen dramatically with his tempting tone. She bit into another currant bun and tried to compose herself. No, she wouldn’t be affected by the great Strickland charisma. She had a plan, damn it, a good plan.

  “Then your butler must be used to bringing you extra helpings of everything,” she said archly.

  He laughed. “When it comes to good food and good company, I believe money shouldn’t be an object.”

  His throaty chuckle sliced through her. She ought to thank him—this was just what she needed to harden her heart against him. No matter how bloody handsome he was, she couldn’t fall for a man so oblivious to the problems of Whitechapel’s poor.

  For Strickland, this was all a game. He need not concern himself with the starving families on Baker’s Row when he had more than enough food here.

  “I’ve taken care of your other request,” he said. “Your father won’t be allowed to gamble anymore. Mason will make sure of that.”

  Relief flooded her, until she remembered the other half of her promise. I’ll make it worth your while. He’d expect her to keep her end of the bargain. Not only would she have to copulate with him, now she’d have to submit to his other illicit desires.

  She grabbed for the wine glass, swallowing the rest of the contents. Smithers came up behind her, immediately refilling her glass. She sucked down a quarter of that one too, in hopes it might help her to feel brave.

  God had a sick sense of irony. It wasn't enough that she be forced to whore, she must whore to the very man in charge of everything she loathed. She tugged her glove up higher on her left arm. How she hated these gloves! Hated what they stood for, hiding her scars from a world that refused to confront wickedness head on. Cowards, from her father to the corrupt pigs of the Met.

  When would the suffering end? How many pieces of her soul did she have to strip away until there was nothing left? No matter how judicious her plan was, she couldn’t bring herself to relish her downfall.

  She picked at the partridge. Meat that had been so succulent moments before tasted dry, composed of dust and dirt. Strickland knew nothing of her pain. He'd finished his plate too and moved on to a third glass of wine.

  When his attention turned to spearing turnips onto his fork, she assessed him. He had sandy brown hair, rakishly unkempt from when he'd swept his hand through it. An athlete in every sense, he was muscle and sinews, wide-shouldered and toned. His shirt stretched over a well-defined abdomen she imagined would feel as stone did, hard and unyielding. His body was a machine, fit and ready for whatever life threw at him.

  The only Met officer she'd met face-to-face had later married Poppy Corrigan, her old friend. Thaddeus Knight was tall and lean, with a boyish face and eyes that constantly calculated the world around him.

  Michael Strickland was not like that. Everything about him bespoke arrogance. He did not walk; he swaggered. He did not smile; he smirked. And his long, oval face, with its wide forehead, strong chin, and straight nose, was better suited to a painting than a living, breathing man.

  She hated him for his perfection. Hated him because no matter how much she resented him and all he stood for, she was attracted to him.

  His eyes suddenly turned upon her. Studying her. She couldn't understand him. Why keep up this pretense of respectability between them when he’d already bought her? It was unnerving.

  She'd not agreed to be friends with him. This was a business transaction. He'd take her body, but he'd never know her mind.

  “If you have room for dessert, Cook has prepared a delightful trifle,” he drawled, idly swirling the wine in his glass.

  Four glasses he'd had. Anymore, and he'd either fall fast asleep like Papa did, or slip into a belligerent rage like so many of the other drunkards she knew. Neither were appealing possibilities. If he slept, she'd have to go through this farce again tomorrow.

  She wanted this over. Then she could begin to construct the proper walls around her heart, retreating within herself. She'd learned how to erect barriers in the past year, and no one had managed to slip past her cold reserves.

  No one but the man who had held her hand in the hospital and told her it was all going to be fine.

  “I'm afraid I've feasted so thoroughly I haven't any space left for trifle,” she declared, proud of how level her voice sounded. This seduction would happen on her schedule. “I should like to retire for the night, Inspector. If you'd give me a few moments to prepare, you may then enter my room.”

  5

  Abigail did not light the candle. Twilight slatted in through the beveled panes of glass in the windows. This room was meant for a lady. Wallpa
per painted with tiny pink roses adorned the walls. Dainty cherry furniture littered the space. One of the little chairs drawn up to the table by the window alone would have fetched three times her monthly wages at the pawnshop.

  The bed was gargantuan, with a counterpane she assumed had to be down feathers from the softness. Sheets of satin, slick against her fingers as she ran her thumb across them, draped the mattress. She'd removed her gloves to undress, for it was hard to unfasten the hook and eye closure of her bodice with them on.

  You’re going to emerge from this stronger.

  The phantom voice had been wrong. She wasn’t stronger. She was breakable, and this act would shatter her into tiny pieces. No amount of money seemed worth this.

  But Bess’s future was. So, she’d summon up her last bit of resolve, and she’d pretend that she didn’t think this would forever separate her from her old self.

  The sheets were not red, but purple. Purple like the bruises ringing Abigail's eyes when Poppy had first come to her flat and forced her to go to the hospital. Purple like the violets her father used to sell in the market on Crispin Street. Abigail decided she loathed purple almost as much as she hated red, for purple was an in-between color, neither black nor blue, a mottled love child of both.

  Purple was a color of beatings, of gasping for air, of drowning in rage.

  She released the sheet, directing her attention to removing her bodice. Blue fabric, white sleeve puffs, the whole as dirty and tarnished as she was. Society didn't care she'd kept herself pure. That she'd waited for marriage and love. Because love couldn't exist for a woman like her, cast out and deemed worthless.

  Flinging the puffs on the floor, she slid down her skirt. The movement was not graceful. She hissed as her hand snagged on the twine cording of the petticoat underneath her skirt. Blood dotted her knuckles, the skin worn now from the twine. The outer layers of her skin were not substantial, feather thin as the stuffing of this counterpane. Her flesh blistered and bled, tore and twisted, each injury as immaterial as the next.