Beauty Tempts the Beast

by Lorraine Heath

  “I’ll be going with you.”

  Her heart gave a little stutter. “I beg your pardon?”

  “I’ll see you to your new vocation, so I’ll know where to find you.”

  “I can simply give you the address.”

  “I want to reassure myself that it is an acceptable, respectable abode.”

  “Dear God, Griff. Look where we live now.” She flung her arm out in a wide arc. “A pigsty would be more acceptable than this.”

  He blanched as though she’d taken a gardening spade to his head. From the moment she had crossed the threshold into this sparse, cold, hideous dwelling with its faded and flaking paint, its chipped and scratched wood, its creaky water pump that tested her muscles every time she had to use the blasted thing, she had not revealed her desperation or despair that they had been brought so low.

  “There are worse places, Althea. I expect Marcus is living in one right now—if he’s living in anything at all. For all I know he’s sleeping on the street.”

  She took a deep breath, and drew her cloak more securely around her, striving to regain some of the warmth she’d lost when she’d reacted as she had. In her new residence she would be able to hang up her cloak. She would no longer be forced to walk about inside as though still outside. “I didn’t mean to sound ungrateful. It’s not your fault or Marcus’s that we are where we are. Escort me on the morrow if that is your wish, but know that no words you utter will deter me from the path I’ve chosen.”

  Into the large bag made of carpet that she’d used when they’d stolen into the night three months ago after everything else was taken from them, she stuffed what clothing remained to her, her pearl-handled hairbrush and mirror, and her small bottle of gardenia-scented perfume that she used so sparingly she doubted anyone could actually smell it, but dabbing just a bit behind each ear always made her feel as though all was not lost. She left the blankets, folded neatly in the corner, because she was certain Griffith, possibly Marcus, could make use of them. On top of the stack she placed her earnings from the Mermaid, the three sovereigns Benedict Trewlove had given her, and the few pence that remained from her two earlier attempts at employment. She knew Griffith had too much pride to take the money outright but if she left the coins there, when he came to retrieve the blankets, he would have no choice except to add them to his coffers. She felt better knowing that perhaps they might serve her brothers well.

  She didn’t even consider pocketing a few coins for the hansom cab because she knew, simply knew, she wouldn’t need them.

  When she, with Griffith at her side, stepped out of the residence, she saw that she had the right of it.

  “Good morning, Miss Stanwick,” the hansom driver who’d brought them here last night called down from his seat.

  “Good morning, sir.”

  Griffith helped her climb into the conveyance, then followed her in, holding her bag on his lap. They’d not spoken a word to each other since waking. She hated that things between them were so tense.

  She studied his profile, striving to memorize it in case they never crossed paths again. This man had been in her life since she was born, and yet she could describe Benedict Trewlove in greater detail than she could her own brother. “What are you going to tell them at the docks regarding your absence this morning?”

  “Nothing. I’m done working the docks. I’ll pick up my wages this afternoon, and then I’ll be moving on.”

  “Are you going to seek out Marcus?”

  He finally slid his gaze over to her, offered a wry grin. “Yes. I feel guilty for being so relieved . . .”

  “To be rid of me?”

  He shook his head. “Never that. But to be able to assist him. I just hope this works out for you.”

  “It will. I left the blankets for you and”—she hadn’t planned to tell him about the money but wanted to ensure he did return to the residence, did go into her room—“and all my earnings.”

  As she’d known he would, he looked less than pleased at that. “You might have need of them.”

  “I won’t. I’ll have him advance me this week’s wages, and I’ll be set.”

  “You’ve certainly placed a lot of trust in him.”

  “I’ve had no cause not to.”

  “You’ve misjudged a man before.”

  She knew he was referring to her betrothed. “That’s unfair. And we all misjudged Father.”

  That seemed to take the wind from his sails. “Yes, we did.”

  The hansom cab slowed and came to a stop outside her new residence.

  “I know this place,” Griffith said. He jerked his gaze to her. “It’s a brothel.”

  “Have you visited?”

  “No.” He swung his gaze to the building, then back to her. “Some of the chaps from work suggested it. You can’t possibly think I’m going to let you walk in there.”

  She sighed. “Ah, Griff, I’ve already been in there twice. I’m going in there to teach, not to do the . . . other thing.”

  The doors of the vehicle sprung open and she clambered out. She wrapped her fingers around the handle of her bag. “Let go.”

  Holding tightly to her bag, he leapt out and placed it at her feet. “Althea—”

  “I’m going to be all right. I promise.”

  “Shall I wait for you, sir?” the driver asked.

  “No.” Once the horse and carriage were on their way, Griffith gave her a wry grin. “I don’t think Trewlove would have paid for my return home. If things don’t work out here as you expect them to or if you should have need of us”—he pulled a scrap of paper from his pocket, placed it against her palm, closed her fingers around it—“go to that address, knock on the door, and tell the gent who answers that you have a package for Wolf that needs to be picked up straightaway. Word will get to Marcus and that night you should hear a tapping on your window. When you do, meet us outside. But only contact us if it’s crucial.”

  It was as if she’d stepped into a world of criminals and spies and intrigue. If not for their father’s actions, Marcus would have become the Duke of Wolfford. She wondered if that was the reason behind the moniker he’d chosen to use. Wolf. “That’s how you got in touch with Marcus.”

  “Only a couple of times. It’s better for him if they believe he’s turned his back on all he once held dear.”

  She did what she’d never done before. She hugged him close, hugged him as though she’d never again have the opportunity. When his arms tentatively came around her, she nearly wept. “Please take care. And if you need me, you know where to find me.”

  He stepped out of her embrace and nodded toward the building. “Go on with you.”

  Picking up her satchel, she made her way to the steps, hurried up them, placed her hand on the door handle, and glanced back to give him a final wave of farewell.

  He’d already dissolved into the crowd of passersby on their way to work, home, the shops, and appointments. She had the unsettling thought that there were a good many aspects to Griffith of which she was unaware.

  The door opened and before she could even react, the satchel was taken from her grip.

  “He didn’t seem particularly happy,” Benedict Trewlove said. She imagined him with his nose pressed to the window, awaiting her arrival, watching as she said farewell to her brother.

  She shouldn’t have been pleased with the thought that he’d been anxious for her return. Nothing of any serious nature could develop between them. He wasn’t to be part of her permanent plans, her future. He was simply the means to an end, just as she was for him. They would assist each other in achieving their goals and then they would amicably part ways and get on with their lives.

  He moved back and she stepped over the threshold. “I doubt his disgruntlement over recognizing this place as a brothel some mates had told him about will last long. He’s rid of me now, free to do as he wishes.”

  “His loss is my gain. Let’s get you settled in your bedchamber. Then we’ll leave for our appointment wit
h the solicitor to sign the agreement.” He escorted her across the large foyer, past the parlor, to the stairs. “The ladies are all abed. We close the business at six. They’re usually ravenous by then so breakfast is served before they retire. If you’re not an early riser, I can instruct the cook to prepare another meal later for you.”

  “As I’ve been getting up long before dawn in order to prepare food for Griff before he left for the docks, I suspect I’ll find myself continuing to awaken at an ungodly hour.”

  “You cook?”

  “I wouldn’t go that far in describing my skill. We ate mostly cheese, bread, and boiled eggs, anything that required little preparation.”

  “You’ll have better selections here. I could have enticed you with that.”

  “You offered more than adequate inducements.”

  He started up the stairs. “Beginning tomorrow, your mornings will be yours to do with as you please. The others sleep until half twelve or so. Luncheon is served at one. You’ll begin your lessons at two. I thought a couple of hours a day would suffice, although you’re welcome to adjust the schedule to suit you. We dine at half six. The women prepare for the night. The doors are open to customers at eight.”

  She wondered if all brothels ran with such efficiency or if this one was simply more of a reflection of its owner.

  At the landing she glanced quickly—and guiltily—down the ordinary corridor at the row of doors, behind which naughtiness occurred. Did the chambers contain large beds, mirrors, scarlet satin sheets, silk-covered chairs?

  “You can explore if you like,” he said, humor lacing his voice, making her realize she’d stopped walking while he had continued on and was now leaning on the balustrade several steps up. “They won’t bite.”

  Mortification warmed her skin. “No, I just . . . I’d rather see my room.”

  She breathed a little easier when they reached the next level.

  “My study.” He pointed to a closed door at the nearer end of the hallway. “You can usually find me there.”

  He crossed over to an open doorway. “The library. You’ll tutor the ladies in here.”

  Peering inside, she felt a contentment settle over her at the familiar musty scent and the shelves of books, so many books. “I hadn’t expected a library in a brothel.”

  “This floor isn’t considered part of the brothel. It’s considered our residence.” He glanced around. “And I like books.”

  “Are these all yours, then?”

  “Every single one.”

  They must have cost him a fortune. She couldn’t stop herself from walking over to the wide, tall bookcase that lined one wall. It contained an astonishing assortment of leather-bound volumes. She was surprised by the variety and number and how unworn so many of them appeared. “Is anyone welcome to read them?”

  “They are.”

  She crossed back over to him and smiled softly. “You probably could have gotten me for half the cost if you’d shown me this.”

  “You enjoy reading?”

  “I do, very much.”

  Her answer seemed to please him. “Meet me here tonight at ten. It’s where we’ll begin your lessons.”

  Her lessons. On seduction. She’d expected them to take place in a bed or at least near one, but she refrained from questioning him on it because she’d suddenly become unbearably warm.

  “We should move on,” he said quietly. “We haven’t much time before we need to be at the solicitor’s.”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He led her to a door at the end of the long hallway, swung it open, and indicated she should go in first. Throwing back her shoulders, she swept by him and was immediately hit with the scent of him. Sandalwood and cinnamon and something darker, richer, more enticing, a scent uniquely him. A scent that would fill her lungs if she breathed in his skin. In the library. In a bed.

  Perhaps the library was to be merely the starting point and they’d end up in here. On the four-poster bed, with the pale lilac counterpane and deep purple pillows.

  As though it was a sin to look at the bed, to consider what might transpire there, she jerked her gaze away from it and gave the remainder of the room an intense scrutiny. The walls were papered in lavender. A winged chair of mauve brocade with violets embroidered in violet, of course, rested near the fireplace. A dark mahogany wardrobe dominated one wall. A mahogany escritoire and a wooden straight-backed chair with a padded purple cushion rested near the window. She imagined sitting there, writing letters as the morning sunlight dappled the room. If any friends or relatives remained to her who would welcome receiving word from her. But not only had all friends abandoned her and her brothers—except for Kat, who hovered on the precipice—so had every relation.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  Something regarding the reminder of her loss must have shown in her suddenly stiffening stance. Fighting it back, regaining herself, she glanced over her shoulder. He waited on the other side of the threshold, although he had set her bag on the floor inside the room. “Absolutely. The bedchamber is quite wonderful. To be honest, I’d expected little more than a bed.”

  His eyes darkened, his nostrils flared, and she couldn’t help but wonder if his viewing her with the bed behind her had him regretting his rule.

  “You’re welcome to add any personal touches, hang anything on the walls.”

  She wasn’t going to be here that long. It was unwise to do anything to make the room a place that she would miss. Still, she wanted to be gracious. “Thank you.”

  “We have two maids-of-all-work who will keep your room tidy. A footman who can haul anything up for you—packages, the copper tub, hot water for a bath. A laundress. As you can imagine, we have a lot of linens to be seen to. But she’ll also tend to your clothing. I’ll introduce them all later.”

  “You seem to have thought of everything.”

  “I very much doubt it. If there’s anything you need regarding your accommodations, you can speak with Jewel. As I mentioned before, she manages things, including the staff. Anything else you require, you may ask of me. If you’ve no questions at this point, I’ll leave you to get settled in. We’ll need to depart in no more than twenty minutes.”

  Suddenly, a bout of nervousness hit her with the realization of all that she was doing. “That’s more than sufficient time. As you can see, I haven’t all that much.”

  Something flashed across his face that she couldn’t quite identify: sadness, anger, disappointment, sorrow—dear God, she hoped it wasn’t pity. She couldn’t stand it if he pitied her.

  “Meet me in the parlor when you’re ready.”

  Then he was gone, and she could breathe again. After retrieving her bag, she set it on the counterpane. The room was nowhere near as elegant or posh as the ones in which she’d slept beneath her father’s roof at the estates or in London. But it did make her feel as though she was regaining her footing.

  Gazing out the window in the parlor, his half-finished scotch in hand, Beast fought to distract his thoughts away from images of her with the bed looming in the background. How easy it would have been to tumble her onto it. How satisfying to begin her lessons with one she’d never forget.

  He’d hovered at the doorway, not daring to step into the room, because he’d feared giving in to the temptation of her. He wondered how many times his rule would come perilously close to being broken. He couldn’t recall a single time in his life when he’d yearned for a woman more.

  Like a besotted lad still in short pants, he’d stood at this very window awaiting her arrival, and when the hansom had finally appeared, he’d had to stop himself from rushing out to welcome her. Which had turned out to be in his best interest if her brother’s balled fists were any indication of how Beast might have been greeted.

  He wasn’t convinced she understood exactly how much Griffith Stanwick did not want her in this dwelling. That she was now upstairs was a testament to her ability to cajole, or perhaps her brother’s faith in her judgment
, or the extent of his desire to see her happy, or the strength of his own need to be free to do what mattered most to him.

  What mattered most to Beast was to keep his promise not to bed her. In three months—he had little doubt she would meet that first goal—with money in hand, she might change her mind regarding her desire to be a mistress. She might realize marriage was still an option for her and he didn’t want to lessen her chances of finding happiness by taking from her something many men coveted on their wedding night. He wasn’t going to ruin her.

  He heard the quiet footfalls. Something felt different about the residence now that she was here. It seemed not quite so . . . tawdry.

  Turning, he watched as she glided into the parlor, anticipation in her eyes, color in her cheeks. He set aside his glass. “Let’s go make this agreement between us official.”

  After which, there would be no turning back.

  Chapter 8

  As they waited in the receiving room for their audience with the solicitor, Althea struggled to calm her fraying nerves. It was one thing to negotiate scandalous terms, conditions, and outcomes with Benedict Trewlove in the privacy of his front parlor. Quite another to have them put in writing by a decent man whose job it was to uphold the law, to know he would bear witness to her not only signing her signature but also condemning her soul to the eternal fires of damnation. But then according to the ton, her father’s actions had already secured that end for her simply by virtue of her being a product of his loins. Ever since yesterday, she’d begun to see the advantage to embracing the freedom his sins afforded her. She might as well embrace her own.

  “Mr. Beckwith will see you now,” the secretary said, holding open the oaken door that loomed like a great maw threatening to swallow her whole.

  Her legs weren’t quite as steady as she would have liked when she rose in tandem with Benedict, but then his hand landed on the small of her back with a surety and a strength that coursed through her and calmed all quivers.

  She preceded him into the office where a much smaller man, slender of stature, stood behind his desk. He bowed his silver head. “Miss Stanwick, Mr. Trewlove.”