by Erica Monroe
She was immaterial.
Her life meant nothing.
Her virtue meant nothing.
She pushed the petticoat from her legs until it balled around her. These heavy petticoats, these many layers of fabric, would not save her.
Stepping out from the skirt, she stood in her pantalettes, the last pair she owned. Perhaps she didn't even need to remove them, for they opened at the crotch, giving him access. Bile rose in her mouth, sharp and acidic.
Access. Entry. Words she'd deemed innocuous before, but now showed their true obscenity.
Her corset was next. Boned busk in the middle, spiral laces in the back. A simple construction that held her upright when she wanted to stoop. She had no lady's maid—she wasn't even qualified to be a lady’s maid—so she'd learned to lace up the back on her own. To fit the cord into each hole, locking into place this armor to ensure secrets remained impregnable.
In the past year, she'd traded three corsets back to the rag and bone shops before finding one that she could handle without heavy use of her left hand. In this corset, her breasts were plump. Shapely. She'd been proud of how she looked, until she'd glanced down at her mangled hand. Then she'd remembered she was no better than a fiend. She could have the trappings of the richest duchess and still she'd be an animal.
Gone was the corset. Reluctantly, she pushed down the pantalettes too, in case Strickland got rough. How was she to know his proclivities? In the library, he'd been frank about expecting obedience. Would he punish her if she were insolent? She’d teased him about it, but perhaps he truly would. She couldn't afford to replace the pantalettes, so she'd be practical in this. The undergarments came off.
Perhaps he would strike her. As she rolled her stockings down, she reasoned she'd already endured enough pain for three lifetimes. Anything he did would meet with emptiness from her.
Eventually she’d become so dead inside, any attack would bounce off her. It’d be her solace as she rose in the demimondaine circles: she’d feel nothing.
She didn’t fear the actual coupling in itself. No girl grew up in Whitechapel without intimate knowledge of sexual acts. In the one room flat next-door lived Molly McGee, who serviced men. From childhood on, Abigail had known exactly what the noises that filtered in through the walls were. Men were no better than rutting pigs, for the groans and grunts they made.
In chatter, a few girls at the factory had claimed the losing of their virginity was the most agonizing thing they’d ever experienced. “Just for the first bit,” one had said. “Then it gets better, but it’s over so soon.”
Abigail knew pain, and she highly doubted the push of Strickland’s prick—however well-endowed he might think himself—could compare to the agony she’d already endured at the hands of the Larkers and Clowes.
She was unclothed. Bare. In shedding fabric, she chose to believe she'd discarded her old identity, and become a new woman. No longer Abigail, but Beauty.
A properly sardonic name, for she wasn't beautiful. She was ugly to the core.
When she put those clothes back on, mayhap she'd become Abigail again. The sins of Beauty would fall away from her and she'd emerge pure as new-fallen snow. She snagged her gloves from the bed, slid them back on.
He didn’t get to see her scars.
A knock on the door broke through the quiet. She stepped toward it. Slow, dragging steps. For all she’d claimed she wanted to finish this, in the moment her throat clamped shut. This was it. There’d be no going back.
“Miss Vautille, I’ve brought you some peppermint tea,” he called, leaving her to wonder if this was some weird ritual men insisted upon before fucking. Did she need to taste a certain way to make it good for him?
She tugged open the door. Stood there in her nakedness, too damn jumbled up to care what she looked like. “I only ask one thing: that you call me Beauty.” Her voice shook, shook like her hand did, bracing the doorway for support. “Miss Vautille is no more.”
Christ.
She was naked. Completely, irrevocably naked.
The tea tray slipped from his hand, crashed to the floor. Piping hot liquid spilled out over his shoe, but he shook his foot, for a ruined shoe was nothing in comparison to this sight. His brain sputtered. All blood flow had surely gone to his cock. He was hard and ready to possess her.
Immediately, the image of her burned into the darkest recesses of his mind: her body pink and pale, silhouetted by the dim light streaming in from the bedroom window. She wore nothing but the black gloves that reached up to her elbows. Those gloves were now emblems of carnal desire, soft satin he instantly wanted wrapped around his cock.
She said something about calling her Beauty. Her voice didn't land in his ears, but rather slid down his body as if it were honey. He'd call her anything she wanted, if she’d only stay.
She reached out, her hand falling on his shoulder. Slowly, she massaged in a circle, her hands working out the kinks in his muscles caused by hunching over his desk for too long. God, he needed this. Needed her.
He didn't think to ask if she was certain, or even question why she'd chosen to present herself to him with only those damn gloves on. He wouldn't question this gift. Following her into the room, he closed the door behind him.
His eyes traveled downward to the indent of her hips. Hips wider than really was fashionable, but damnation, he loved a woman he could truly hold on to. That thatch of golden curls leading her to cunny had him thrumming with anticipation. How would she taste, if he ran his tongue down those curls and dipped between her legs? She'd taste sweet, he guessed, better than any dessert he could devour.
He saw now the full extent of her knock-knees, what long hours in the factory as a child had wrought upon her body. But it was this imperfection that drew him to her, for it made her real. No longer was she the incorporeal spirit in his dreams, but a living woman.
God's teeth, God's hands, God's balls, and whatever other appendage of the deity that would help him get through this. She’d kill him before the night was over.
He was about to tell her just how much they were going to enjoy this when she ceased massaging him. Her hand shook. He reached for her, thinking that she was just scared. This must really be her first time. He could help her understand that after the first stab of pain, it’d all be pleasure.
Brushing his fingers along her chin, he kept his touch light. “I promise I’ll make it good for you. There’s no reason to be afraid.” He leaned in, intending to kiss her.
As he met her gaze, a tear cascaded down her cheek. That one tear turned into two, three; then those tears became a full-fledged waterfall.
He jumped away from her. Craved distance as much as he’d craved closeness. His mind reeled. God’s balls, he could track down the most elusive of thieves and interrogate a hardened criminal, but a crying woman sent him into a panic. What was he supposed to do with her now? He couldn’t train her to be a Cyprian, not when she’d transformed from a seductress into a sniveling mess.
Damn her tears, damn his hopefulness, damn the night he'd gone to Cruikshank's.
Damn, damn, damn.
He fought the urge to run from the room, as he always wanted to when a woman cried. Somehow, he doubted his usual approach of leaving her alone until she sorted out her emotions would work here.
He coughed. It was half-cough, half-desperate intake of air. “I, ah, I did not, ah, naked.”
She sniffled. He risked a glance at her. For the most part, she’d stopped crying. That was progress. He could handle snuffles. Hazarding a step toward her, he watched her judiciously for any signs of another outburst before he handed her a handkerchief from his pocket.
Accepting the cloth from him, she dabbed at her eyes. “I’m sorry. I thought I could handle this.”
“The first time is hard,” he said, with a vague wave of his hand.
“If you’ll just give me a minute to compose myself, we can continue,” she squeezed out between uneven breaths.
He took a step bac
k from her. She must be mad if she thought he’d continue with her like this. “There’s no way I’m tupping you tonight.”
Or possibly ever. Her tears were now branded in his mind. He had wanted her to desire him—to feel the same attraction he felt for her. She didn’t have to like him, but she did need to want him.
“You paid for this,” she insisted. “I have a debt to honor.”
“To hell with the debt.” He cared little about the original parameters of their agreement now. She’d thrown that all to hell when she started weeping. “I may have paid for this, but I don’t take sex from women without their consent. Christ, I’m not an absolute blackguard.”
“That remains to be seen,” she muttered. Her gloved hand fell to her hip, thrust out in a challenging pose. “What is the matter, Inspector? Do I not please you?”
He followed her hand to her hip with his eyes. There wasn't a single part of her that wasn't made for sin, but she wasn't for him.
He pulled his gaze back up to her face. Her tears had left salt tracks down her cheeks. The idea of sleeping with him had caused a complete emotional collapse in her. Damn it all, he'd never thought a naked woman could make him feel so shamed.
Stuffing his hands in his pockets, he leaned back, resting his weight on the balls of his feet. “Your beauty isn’t the issue. Put your damn clothes back on.”
“This discussion isn’t over.” For all her defiance, she couldn’t hide the relief that chased across her face. She spun around, the view of her backside nearly pulling a groan from him. She moved with the speed of a woman possessed, throwing her short-sleeved chemise on over her head without his approval. Skipping her stays, she had her dress back on before he could count to ten.
With her clothed, he could breathe again. Perhaps Knight was right: Michael thought too much with his cock. Or perhaps Knight could go sod off, since he'd found himself a wife that adored him while Michael traded barbs with a chit who reminded him of a feral feline, spitting and hissing whenever he neared.
“You bought me,” she stated flatly. “You can have your servants wait on me all you want, but the truth remains you paid for my time. So, you should get what you paid for.”
He gestured to the fall of his breeches, where his erection had dissipated almost completely. “I’m not the kind of man who finds pleasure in a woman’s misery. I’m afraid the moment has passed, darling.”
She watched him, her cat-like eyes flicking cagily from the door to him and back again. He didn't need to be a damn inspector to know she'd rather be anywhere but here.
Her disdain sliced through him. How addlepated he’d been to think she might remember him from his visit to the hospital. Perhaps it was better this way—that bond might have made things too personal between them.
He gulped for air; his earlier ardor doused by the red-hot ire splashed upon her face. The doxies he'd known coated their cheeks in thick rouge; Miss Vautille had enough emotion to paint her entire body cerise.
What made him so unsavory to her? Women had always raved about his attractiveness. He puffed himself up, trying to ignore the chink in his armor. Her opinion of him didn’t matter, any more than the opinion of the fourteen sergeants that worked under him.
Damn it, he was Michael Strickland, and he didn’t need anybody else. He certainly didn’t need to create more complications by telling her he’d visited her in the hospital. He’d keep her away from Clowes, and then send her on her way home.
Her lips smashed into the thinnest line possible. “You can’t have the two hundred pounds back. You purchased me. That was the deal.”
He sunk into the chair by the door, elbows on his thighs, head resting on his outstretched palms. “I thought you wanted me to agree. I’m not usually propositioned by women who think sleeping with me would be vile.”
“I had no choice,” she mumbled.
“You always have a choice,” he said. “And you should know I was quite willing to spend two hundred pounds on you, even if that’s far above the going socket money.”
Instead of preening as he’d expected, she snorted. “Am I supposed to be complimented by that?”
“Well, it isn’t an insult,” he barked. “Most women would be pleased.”
“If you believe that, then I don’t think you know women at all,” she scoffed. “And I don’t base my worth around my looks.”
She picked at the patched seam of her glove. That tattered garment was a right hook to his gut: no wonder she didn’t think she was stunning. Her scars were a permanent reminder of the blackest night of her life.
Either he could pile platitudes upon her about her beauty, or he could pretend he hadn’t glanced inside her mind. Any emotional connection forged between them had a time limit. Better not to encourage attachment, when he’d only have to break her heart later.
“Regardless, I can afford to write off the two hundred pounds. Look around you. Does it look like I'm hurting for the blunt?” He waved to the room, still decorated the way it had been when the chambers had been his sister’s. “I inherited this house outright when my father passed. Only good thing the bugger did in his whole bloody existence.”
Her lip bent in a sardonic smile. If there was one concept she understood, it was a wretched father.
“And my job as an inspector pays well enough. Not enough I'll be buying boots from Hoby's, mind you, but I'm doing fine on my own.” He didn't tell her he made a good third of his income at the hells from drunks like her father.
“You can rest easy, Miss Vautille,” he said. “Upon my blighted father's grave, for whatever that's worth, I promise you I won't expect anything more from you. For as long as you desire, your virtue will remain intact.”
She opened her mouth to say something, but then stopped to consider. “You speak as though you suspect I'll change my mind.”
He hesitated, wanting so badly to slide into the humor that was his defense. If he made her laugh, perhaps they could move on from this strange encounter. He might forget what she'd looked like, silhouetted in the dim twilight. He might forget her tears.
So, he let the lopsided smirk that had become his constant companion slip onto his lips, and with it, he was prepared for anything. “Most women find me irresistible.”
“It must be this house,” she suggested with a hint of a smile. “It couldn't be your abundance of charm.”
“I'll have you know, I was called Sir Charm at Oxford,” he retorted. “But that is neither here nor there.”
Her nose scrunched up as she evaluated him. Apparently, she liked what she saw because she relaxed, taking a seat on the bed. “I meant to learn, you know.”
“Pardon?”
“To be a courtesan.” She let out a small sigh that affected him more than it ever should have.
His brows rose. “If that was your aim, I’d start with not crying when a man touches you.”
A tiny trace of humor shined in her eyes. “Duly noted.”
“If the concept of prostitution is so repellant to you, then why attempt it?” The question popped out before he could stop it. He knew the basic reasons, but for some reason he wanted to hear her explain her motivation.
She shrugged. “The money is good. Is there any other reason? I highly doubt women fall into vice because it sounds like a delightful way to pass the time. There’s the risk of the French disease, the fact that your clients might be too rough on you, the likelihood of bed sores…”
She enumerated each possibility on her fingers until he held up his hand to stop her. If she continued, she’d make him want to swear off doxies forever. Life was much simpler when he didn’t stop to examine why his bed partners had chosen their professions.
But he could make the best of their arrangement. As long as she wanted to bed him—whether in service of some higher goal or because she was attracted to him—he certainly wouldn’t turn her away.
“Listen, if you want to excel as a ladybird, I’ll help you,” he offered. “Teach you the tricks of the trade.”<
br />
She reflected upon this for a moment, a myriad of emotions splashing across her pretty face. Reluctance—that was her heart talking. Logic—her head. And finally, shrewdness—her pocketbook.
She nodded. “We could perhaps start with the…less sexual aspects of seduction tomorrow. I suppose my acting could use some work.”
He snorted. “You think?”
She ignored him. “Once I have that mastered, we can discuss sex.”
He had a feeling he was going to regret this, but he’d do anything if it meant she wouldn’t start crying again. “I think you should wait a few more days before deciding if you truly want to try this. We’ll spend the first few days in conversation. Maybe it’ll help if you get to know me.”
“That sounds agreeable,” she said. “Might I go home to visit my sister? I can come back in the morning.”
Without the confines of their agreement, he had no reason to keep her here, so he’d have to reveal the threat on her life. His attempts at keeping her calm had already failed. She’d cried. Of all the things she could have done, sobbing was the worst.
He hated this. Not just because it was bloody inconvenient for him, but because her pain struck some part of him he’d long locked away.
He wouldn’t linger on the past. He’d make a clean breast of this, as a man should. “There is another reason I wanted you here.”
Suspicion furrowed her brow. “And that reason is?”
“Frank Clowes has escaped.”
6
“No.”
That single word encompassed the total recoil of her mind at the very mention of Frank Clowes's name. The bastard, the bounder, the blighter. Every harsh word she could think of, she silently flung at the idea of him.
She didn’t give voice to her revulsion, her fear, her doubts. She hadn’t screamed that night when he’d tortured her, and she didn’t now. She sat there on this bed in Strickland's house and she said the simplest thing she could think of: that it couldn't be possible.
Frank Clowes was gone. He had to be. For all that Abigail had been subjected to in this past year, there could not truly be a God that hated her this much. There had to be some sort of good with the bad and she had been short on good for so long she'd almost forgotten what luck felt like.