Viscountess of Vice

by Jenny Holiday

  He led her into the building and up the stairs to his rooms. Pausing in front of his door, he pulled a key out of a pocket in his waistcoat and grinned. “How terribly dull of me to transport my key in a mere pocket. If I’d known you were paying a call, I would have hidden it somewhere more scandalous.”

  He couldn’t see her face beneath the voluminous hood but was gratified by a lilting, almost girlish laugh. Once inside, she pushed back the hood and shrugged out of her long cloak. He sucked in an involuntary breath. Though still stunning, she looked different. Gone were the silks, the scandalous bodices, the long gloves. In their place she wore a long-sleeved plum walking dress with a simple square neckline and plain white gloves. Though she still wore the heavy gold chain, none of her infamous décolletage was visible. The orange wig and feathered mask were the only hints of Lady V. It was an odd juxtaposition.

  Here, in the bright light of his rooms, her eyes shone like icy blue crystals. He wanted, more than anything, to see more. “I don’t suppose I can convince you to remove your mask?” He took her pelisse. “There’s no need to hide here.”

  She shook her head and looked around the room. Following her example, he tried to assess his plain accommodations through her eyes. His two rooms were nothing to be ashamed of. He kept them clean and tidy, and the sitting area was comfortably appointed with a sofa and two small chairs upholstered in dark blue. Together with a few landscape paintings that had been gifts from his aunt, the overall effect was rather cheery. It’s just that he never expected to be entertaining a courtesan here. Or a viscountess. Or whatever the hell she was. He moved to where the door to his bedroom stood open, the bed beyond hastily made, lumps showing. He quickly closed the door and removed his greatcoat and gloves.

  “Please, sit. May I offer you some tea?”

  She moved into the sitting area but remained on her feet. “Have you anything stronger?”

  “I’m sorry, no.” How embarrassing. What kind of gentleman didn’t have a bottle of brandy in his rooms? “And I’ve nothing to offer you to eat, either. I have a maid who comes in three times a week, but until recently I’d been in the habit of dining out for luncheon.”

  “It’s of no consequence. This isn’t a social call.” She glanced at the ceiling as if seeking divine inspiration, using one hand to squeeze and worry the fingers of the other.

  It unsettled him to see her so obviously distressed. “Is everything all right?”

  “No.” She shook her head vehemently. “No.”

  “Please, won’t you sit and tell me what is wrong? I will do whatever I can to help.”

  She turned to him without sitting. “I knew you would. I didn’t…” She began wringing her hands again. “I didn’t know what to do. I’ve been waiting outside all morning. I worried you would never come home.”

  Her stricken tone chilled him. She clearly needed to unburden herself, yet seemed reluctant to do so. Was this about those gentlemen he’d seen last night on their way into Madame Cherie’s? The thought made his stomach churn, and he had to force himself to attend her with a gentle demeanor. He placed a hand atop both of hers to quiet them. She smiled a little, and he wondered if she, like he, was remembering the occasions last night when he had also stilled her hands.

  She lifted those striking pale blue eyes and looked right at him. “Last night I met a man named Georg Biedermeier. He owns a gun works in Birmingham. In it, he employs a workforce of orphans he calls parish apprentices.”

  He nodded. The practice was not uncommon.

  She spoke quickly, almost as if she were reciting a prepared speech. “I know that child labor isn’t rare, but”—she lowered her voice—“but I don’t think he’s paying them. What is this, if not indentured servitude? Slavery, even?” As her words picked up speed, her tone rose. “I keep thinking about what you told me about those mill children, beaten and worked so hard their growth was stunted. I just…those children could belong to any of us. I can’t help but think there must be a way their lives can be improved.”

  Though he heard everything she said, his mind was stuck on her first sentence. Last night I met a man… Which of the pair he’d passed on the stairs had she entertained? She’d called him Biedermeier. It must have been the gentleman with the accent. Had she let him touch her? He had to will himself to stop imagining the scene that would have unfolded in her room under the eaves at Madame Cherie’s. Part of him wanted to scold her for exposing herself to men like this. Another, angrier, part of him wanted to ask if she had broken the rules for him, too. But it was better not to know.

  No, now was not the time for brooding. The lady needed help. Taking in her pursed lips and watery eyes, he could imagine her brow furrowed under the mask. He saw not Lady V, not an anonymous viscountess, just a woman whose heart was breaking. Impulsively, he pulled her to him and wrapped his arms around her. This was a problem he knew a great deal about. He could fix this. In fact, “this” was an opportunity he couldn’t have designed better. “Do not be so troubled, Lady V. You’ve done the right thing coming to me. I can help.”

  She gave a little sigh and rested her cheek against his chest. “I was hoping…” She shook her head. “Oh, it sounds ridiculous.”

  “Tell me,” he prodded, leaning back and looking at her.

  “You said you’re pushing your Society to concentrate its efforts more on child welfare. And you mentioned your interest in bringing education to child workers. I couldn’t help but think that perhaps you could establish a Sunday school, or something similar, at Mr. Biedermeier’s gun works.”

  She’d echoed his thoughts exactly. Except the Society couldn’t be involved. Even if he could convince them, it would take endless hours of discussion and debate before they would approve anything. “I will pay Mr. Biedermeier a call and see what I can do.”

  She exhaled a little mew of relief and sagged against him, prompting him to encircle her with his arms again. “Thank you,” she whispered. “I knew you would help.” He could feel her breath against his neck as she spoke, and, fool that he was, it caused his cock to jump. Embarrassed, he tried to turn away.

  She clung to him, wrapping her arms around him with a strength that surprised him, forcing his hips to remain against her. Because he was taller, his erection pressed against her belly. She must have been wearing only short stays in her daytime guise because, instead of the boning of the corset she’d worn at Madame Cherie’s, he felt the soft give of flesh. He could have shaken her off, but it seemed rude. So he waited, experiencing an odd mixture of discomfort and arousal. Gone was the confidence he’d felt last night. Meeting Lady V in his rooms, seeing this more vulnerable version of her, made him less bold.

  After a few more beats of stillness, she pressed her lips to his neck, using the top of her head to nudge his chin up. His pulse thundered under a slow, long kiss, exquisite and torturous. She pulled back suddenly, and before he could adjust to the loss of sensation, she stripped off her gloves. Bare hands threaded along his chest under his coat, pushed it down his shoulders, and tugged at the sleeves until the garment hit the floor behind him. She made quick work of the buttons on his waistcoat, and it fell to the floor, too. Untucking his shirt from his breeches, she leaned up for another kiss, this time on the lips. The kisses he’d had in his life—many of them stolen from barmaids in his uncle’s tavern—had been nothing like this one. Even the kiss they had shared in her rooms that first night, which had been urgent, almost frantic, was quite apart from the sensations of these slow, sensual kisses. Her soft lips were insistent, but her pace measured. It was as if she thought they had all the time in the world to stand here against the door and kiss.

  “Dr. Burnham,” she whispered against his mouth, talking and kissing at the same time.

  “Hmmm?” He had to force himself to pay attention to her words.

  “You’ll have to help with my buttons. There’s a terrible row of them down the back of this dress.” More kissing. “I didn’t plan for this.” She giggled a little, e
ven as their lips remained touching. “This is the worst dress I could have worn for such an occasion.”

  He groaned involuntarily and nudged her mouth open with his tongue. It was going to happen, but he would take his cues from her. There was no reason to hurry. “Patience,” he whispered, talking to himself as much as to her, reveling in the impossible velvety softness of her tongue as it slid over his. His hands, wanting to feel her bare skin, found her neck, his fingers brushing along and dipping just below the neckline of her dress. She sucked in a breath as he broke from her lips and lowered his mouth to join his hands, alternating kisses and little nips along the ridge of muscle that connected neck to shoulder.

  She moaned, a sound that thrilled him, and he felt almost as if it echoed in his own chest. “Please, Dr. Burnham, the buttons.” She turned in his arms and looked back over her shoulder, her eyes darkened with desire. “I want you to see me.”

  He stared for a moment at the woman before him, so proud, so regal. Mysterious and anonymous in her mask and, for now at least, despite his misgivings about her, his. He nodded and, starting at the top, began slowly undoing the delicate mother-of-pearl buttons that ran down her back.

  “I think you should call me James,” he whispered, willing his fumbling fingers not to shake as he slid open button after button. When he’d done enough to allow her to shrug out of her sleeves, she turned and slithered the rest of the way out of the dress, allowing it to pool at her feet. Her stays laced in front and she loosened them herself. She pulled her chemise off her shoulders, letting it slide down her body, repeating the process of stepping out from the circle of fabric, leaving a second, smaller pile next to her dress.

  Naked but for the mask, she lifted her eyes and met his regard. His gaze roamed over a shot of scarlet, vibrant against her lovely white breasts. A ruby pendant—now he knew what dangled from that chain. A lump formed in his throat. “You are beautiful.” It was all he could think to say, but it seemed wholly inadequate to capture the vision that stood before him—the lush curves, the dark red nipples, the mass of auburn curls at the V of her thighs.

  He wanted more. “Won’t you take off your mask?”

  “No.”

  “I thought you wanted me to see you.”

  “This is me.”

  “No,” he said, suddenly angry. “This is your beautiful body, but this isn’t you.”

  “I cannot take off my mask.” Her voice caught, and she cleared her throat. “But I will remove my wig.” She stared at him as if she were challenging him to object, to push her further.

  He understood then how vulnerable she was, standing before him like this, offering herself. Summoning a smile, he nodded, which prompted her to lift her hands to the mass of orange curls piled atop her head. Though the vibrant color was clearly artificial, the wig was otherwise convincing. It had been well made and well fitted, so she struggled a little with its removal. After a few moments, the fiery hairpiece joined her clothing on the floor.

  Her own hair, tucked into a tight chignon, was auburn—not unexpected, given the curls he’d seen lower down, but they had been a surprise.

  “Red hair to hide red hair?” he asked, though calling her hair red was like calling the sun luminous. Strands of copper, burgundy, and mahogany caught the afternoon light that flooded his room. She nearly took his breath away.

  Shrugging, she slid her fingers along her coiffure, locating and removing a pin. “The best lie is often the truth. Or at least some version of it. That’s one of my mottos.”

  “Like this.” He picked up the ruby and gently let it fall back against her chest. “Was this really a gift from your husband? Do you truly wear it always?”

  “Yes. I wear it on this long chain at Madame Cherie’s so as to avoid being recognized. In polite society, I’m known for this stone.”

  “So all I need do is search the ballrooms of Mayfair for the rubied viscountess.” He meant the remark in jest—they both knew he wasn’t received in the ton—but she didn’t smile. Instead, she held out a hairpin to him. He raised a cupped palm, receiving her offering. It landed in his hand like a caress, a promise of what was to come. Her eyes never left his as she repeated the ritual: search for a pin, remove it, drop it into his waiting hand. The sensation of each pin joining the growing pile wound the coil inside him a little tighter. Locks of hair began to fall around her face, past her shoulders, gentle waves tumbling almost to her elbows. He wanted to tangle his fingers in it, bury his face in it, let it fall over his eyes until he saw only red. But he stayed still, weighed down by the pins, feeling the import of letting her complete the ritual.

  Another pin joined the pile and she tipped her head forward slightly, running her fingers through her newly freed tresses. His every nerve screamed in anticipation as his cock grew impossibly, painfully hard. Satisfied that she hadn’t found any wayward pins, she straightened and cast him a smoldering look. “Dr. Burnham,” she purred in a way that called to mind the artificial, distant Lady V who had dismissed him last night. “You stand there fully clothed and here I am, growing quite cold. May I suggest you make haste and remove your own clothing so you can take me to bed and ravish me?” Her lips parted in a seductive smile.

  Though the mask obscured most of her face, he knew the smile did not light up her eyes.

  Damn her. “I don’t want Lady V,” he said, more harshly than he intended. He softened his voice. “I want you. Just you.”

  She looked to the floor. A small sigh that could have been a sob escaped. When she looked back up Lady V was gone and his auburn-haired goddess had returned. “Please, James,” she whispered. “Please.”

  Catharine was frozen. Frozen and wretched. She wore the mask to shield her identity. It provided protection, so her work as Lady V didn’t jeopardize her standing in polite society. She would be an outcast—altogether ruined—if anyone found out about her secret identity. Pleading patriotism wouldn’t help her case. Although spying was a necessary activity, it was not one that garnered any respect in the ton.

  Anyway, it would be a lie. It was nice to know she was helping her country, but she’d said yes to Blackstone because she was looking for a change, for excitement. And what did that say about her? She’d burned through half a dozen young men in the last two years, but it was never enough. And suddenly, inexplicably, here was one she wanted. Truly wanted.

  It did not appear that the feeling was mutual. She stared at his hand, still outstretched and cupping her hairpins. She’d offered herself to him—as much of herself as she’d ever offered anyone—but clearly it wasn’t enough. Or perhaps he was right, and he hesitated because he couldn’t find her. The problem was neither could she. Where did Lady V leave off and Catharine begin? There was a fine line between boldness and wretchedness, and as she stood before Dr. Burnham—James—utterly exposed, she feared she had crossed it. She would have to summon Lady V in order to make an exit with even a modicum of dignity intact.

  Plink, plink, plink. The sound of the first few pins hitting the wood floor drew her attention back to James’s hand, which he had begun to tip slightly. The gentle plinks were followed by a small crash as he suddenly threw the bulk of the pins against the wall behind him. She opened her mouth to speak but quickly thought better of it when he reached down and removed his cravat. After undoing the first few buttons of his shirt, he lifted the whole thing over his head in one fluid motion.

  He was lean and graceful. Gently sculpted muscles in his arms and torso undulated as he dropped his shirt. She imagined his strength came from long days spent walking through the city, making his studies, poking into nooks and crannies that most people pretended they didn’t see. She inhaled sharply as those strong arms she’d been admiring lifted her off her feet. With feline grace, he carried her smoothly across the room, kicking open the door to his bedchamber.

  Laying her across the bed, urgency replaced grace as he stepped back and leaned over to tug off his boots, one after the other. Cords of muscle in his neck rippled as the
shining Hessians resisted his efforts. He quickly won the battle, though, and each boot landed with a thud. Peeling off his breeches unceremoniously, and freeing his stiff member, he lunged at her. She wanted to protest that he hadn’t given her a moment to appreciate him, but his mouth covered hers. The time for talking had passed.

  She gasped as his hands found her breasts. He cupped them and pressed down firmly, kneading. Heat shot through her core like lightning, his frantic mouth and a low humming deep in his throat summoning a storm inside her. She did not want to wait, either. Earlier, when they had kissed in the other room, she’d thought their lovemaking would be slow, languid, exquisitely meticulous, and had set the pace of her kisses accordingly.

  She had been wrong.

  Needing him inside her, needing to push the ache over the edge, she wrapped her legs around him, urging him closer. He resisted, making her want to scream in frustration, as he lowered his mouth to one breast.

  There would be time for that later. Pushing against his chest with all her might, she surprised him enough that he raised up onto his knees. In a flash she was up beside him. She pushed him down on his back and straddled him, positioning him near her wet entrance.

  His eyes were wild as he reached for her hips, his touch searing as warm fingers spanned her curves. “I haven’t any protection,” he rasped.

  “It doesn’t matter.” She appreciated his concern, but nothing he said was going to stop them.

  He shook his head. “There cannot be a child.”

  “It’s not the right time for that. There won’t be.” She anchored herself by reaching behind her bottom and grasping his thighs. “I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I can’t wait anymore.” And with that, she sank onto him, his rock hard length filling her body while his groan filled her ears.