The Darling Strumpet

by Gillian Bagwell

  IT WAS IRONIC, NELL THOUGHT, SWABBING THE MAKEUP OFF HER face after another uproarious performance, that at the very time that she and Hart were no longer lovers in real life, they were a resounding success as a couple onstage. London could not get enough of them. The playhouse was doing so well with Secret Love that Killigrew had revived Dryden’s earlier comedy The Wild Gallants and an addition had been written into The Knight of the Burning Pestle parodying Secret Love, and Nell was also to give a specially written new prologue. The Duke’s house, in an effort to ride on the coattails of Nell and Hart’s success, had hastily put up a play in which Moll Davis dressed as a boy and danced, but it faltered in the face of the new sensation produced by Nell and Hart in All Mistaken.

  Nell smiled to remember how she had burned with jealousy when Dicky One-Shank had told her about Moll’s first appearance on the stage. Five years ago that had been. A lifetime, it seemed.

  A movement at the door caught her eye. The Earl of Rochester stood there. He moved forward until he stood directly behind her, his tigerlike eyes holding hers in their reflection. She found that she could hardly breathe. Without having spoken a word, he grasped her around the waist with both hands and pulled her close against him. He pulled aside the curls at the back of her head, and softly bit the nape of her neck. Nell gasped and found herself arching against him.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “Come.”

  Nell only nodded. He took her by the elbow and led her out the stage door, then handed her into the carriage that waited there. As the carriage started forward, he regarded her with a languid smile.

  “Are you hungry?”

  The question was so incongruous that Nell laughed.

  “I am, but damned if this is not the most abrupt invitation I’ve ever had, my lord.”

  “Call me Johnny.”

  The carriage was moving through Lincoln’s Inn Fields, and in a few moments it drew up before an imposing house next to the Duke’s Playhouse in Portugal Street. The door was opened by a liveried servant, and as Rochester led Nell upstairs, he called over his shoulder, “Bring up supper and leave it in the outer room.”

  Upstairs, he pulled Nell into the bedroom, kicking the door shut behind him.

  “Undress yourself,” he commanded, and watched while she obeyed. His eyes on her lit fires deep within her belly. He threw off his coat and waistcoat as she knelt and opened the flies of his breeches. She took him into her mouth hungrily, devouring him. His gasps told her that he was as inflamed as she, but after a few moments he withdrew, positioned her on hands and knees on the bed, and took her from behind, pulling her to him as he thrust deep inside her. He spent quickly, then let go and lay beside her, panting.

  “Supper,” he said. “And then we’ll do it again properly.”

  “MAYBE IT’S GOOD,” ROSE SAID. “THINK OF IT-YOU’V E BEEN WITH men for money, and then only with Robbie and Hart. You’re under obligation to no one. He has a wife, but that’s his lookout. As long as you keep your eyes open and your wits about you, what’s the harm? Does he please you?”

  “Yes,” Nell said with a shiver. “I can scarce keep from laying my hands on his tackle the moment I see him.”

  “I feel the same about my Johnny,” said Rose. “He’s a rogue, but I can’t help myself.” Ever since the night of the fire, she had been keeping company with John Cassells, the handsome stranger who had stumbled into the playhouse, and had lately moved into his lodgings.

  NELL LAY WITH ROCHESTER BESIDE HER IN THE TANGLED BED LINEN. She was utterly spent, yet felt more alive than she had ever been. Her nether regions were still humming from Rochester’s attentions. She had not known it was possible to experience a sensation quite like that his tongue had produced in her. “Tipping the velvet,” he had called it. Certainly she had never imagined anything like that inexorable build to the shattering release that had had her gasping, bucking, pulling his head to her, never wanting it to end.

  Rochester brought her back to the present with a squeeze of her right breast.

  “Fetch the wine.”

  Nell turned her head. The wine lay on the table several feet away.

  “Why me fetch it?”

  “Because I told you to.”

  She padded naked across to the table, returned with the bottle, and filled the glasses they had abandoned. Propped against the enormous down-filled pillows, she surveyed the bed and its trappings.

  “I love this bed. It’s so…”

  “This bed is your stage,” Rochester said. “From such a stage you could do anything.”

  Nell set the glass down and moved on her knees closer to him. He kissed her deeply, his tongue probing her mouth. He seized first one breast and then both of them, his fingers playing on her nipples, teasing and then pinching until she gasped.

  He looked intently into her eyes, and pinched harder.

  “Give me drink.” She held the glass to his lips and then to her own.

  “You’ve spilled.” He used a finger to wipe a drop from her breast, touched it to her lips, and then thrust it into her mouth.

  “Suck. Now use your tongue, too.” He watched her. “Good. Now stop.”

  He withdrew his finger slowly from her mouth and pulled her head back so that she had to look at him, then released her and gestured for his wine. Nell felt a curious excitement and anticipation.

  “You look pleased with yourself,” he said.

  “Should I not?” she replied. “You liked it. See, I’ve made you hard again.” She reached for his cock, but he stayed her hand.

  “Yes. But I can make you better. So good that you can leave the feel of your tongue and throat on a man’s tarse for days.”

  Nell smiled at him, catlike. “Very well, my lord. What would you?”

  She knelt between his thighs, her hand still moving lightly, her eyes looking up at him.

  Rochester shook his head, impatient. “Do you not understand? What power there is in that mouth, these sumptuous tits, that tight cunny of yours?”

  “Power to do what?”

  “Almost anything. Now you can give a man a quick ride that leaves him happy or a night of play that tires him. But there is more to learn. You can give a man such pleasure, not just in his body but in his mind, his soul, that you become a drug. So that he will crave you. So that his bollocks will ache and give him no peace until his prick is once more master of that smooth warmth. And I can train you, pretty pet. Do you want that?”

  Nell found that her heart was beating and her loins were on fire. She looked up at Rochester and found that she could hardly breathe.

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Good. On your knees. No, off the bed. For this is your god, and you must worship it.”

  He moved to the edge of the bed and stood, and she knelt at his feet. She took his cock in her hands and kissed it, then took him into her mouth slowly.

  “Look at me.” Nell didn’t lift her eyes but took him further into her mouth. Rochester grasped a handful of her hair and yanked her head back.

  “Look at me. So that I know that my pleasure is all your world.” Nell, breathless now, nodded, and kept her eyes on his.

  “Now a little harder. Good. Use your tongue. Delicately. Ah, yes, so good. The desperate softness of your tongue, and the insistent sucking of your mouth. Now a hand on the cods. Gently, gently. They are spun of pure silk, of cloud.”

  For all the times that Nell had performed this act, she felt as if she had never before truly noticed the feel of a prick in her mouth, of bollocks in her hand. Her tongue slid voluptuously around him, feeling the velvet softness.

  “Now,” said Rochester, his breath faster, “the other hand on the shaft. First lightly, then a firmer grip. Up and down. Meeting your mouth on its downward journey. Good. A little harder now. Now think of your tongue again. Look at me. Yes, and use your hand to keep the foreskin pulled back. Don’t forget the bollocks.”

  His head was thrown back, his breathing heavy. Nell marveled how she could
be giving him pleasure in so many ways at once and sought to feel each individual sensation at the same time. He looked down at her again and slowed his movements.

  “Now put a finger in my arse. Look at me. Let me see the promise of what is to come. Yes, gently, slowly. Now, take all of it in, show me you’re hungry for it. Your mouth moving, sucking hard, tongue caressing, hand on the cods. Yes. Good. Remember-I am your god. Take me as far down your throat as you can.”

  He guided her with a hand grasped in her hair, the other hand rolling and squeezing one of her nipples, which were hard as pebbles.

  “Do you love my cock?”

  Nell found that she did.

  “Do you worship it, my arbor vitae, my tree of life?”

  Yes, that, too.

  “And do you now wish for holy communion?”

  Here it was, the culminating inevitability, and Nell did wish for it.

  “Then you shall have it.” Rochester came deep in her throat, holding her head fast with one hand, the other hand pinching her nipple hard.

  “Swallow. Waste not a precious drop. Now look at me. Let me see it in your eyes. It’s the nectar of life. Sweeter than honey, more potent than brandywine. And what you crave above all else. Yes. Now, a kiss to finish. Obeisance to your lord.”

  Nell did as he told her, her lips and nose grazing the damp and delicate flesh.

  “Eyes on mine.” She looked up at him, mouth still nuzzling. He stroked her hair, smoothing the tangled curls from her flushed forehead, and nodded.

  “Do that, and there is nothing that you cannot do.”

  Nell felt overwhelmed by physical sensations-a tingling mixture of pleasure and pain, the feel of him in her mouth, and the caustic warmth of his spend still at the back of her throat-and a tumult of feelings-joyful submission, exultation, astonishment at the newness of it all. She stared up at Rochester and shook her head in amazement.

  “How ever did you learn all this?”

  Rochester gave a lazy smile as he sat on the edge of the bed and leaned back against the pillows. “That’s what Europe is for.”

  NELL WAS BOTH ELATED AND EXHAUSTED. SHE WAS PLAYING MOST days, in All Mistaken, Secret Love, The Surprisal, The Committee, The Knight of the Burning Pestle. And most nights were fevered bouts in Rochester’s bed.

  Whether anyone knew of the affair or no, Rochester’s rough and implacable wooing seemed to have sounded an inaudible chime, an alarum of desire that drew men to her as never before.

  Dorset had been several times to see All Mistaken, and each time he visited her backstage. Today, his eyes were hot as he gazed down at her, and she felt a tremor of excitement as he took her hand. Rochester had awakened in her an intense and bestial desire that would now not be quieted.

  But she forcefully thrust these sensations away. Rochester’s words had opened her eyes. Dorset, and all like him, could be her making or her ruin. All depended on how she played her hand. So she coolly accepted Dorset’s compliments. She was cordial, but no more. She gave him no special mark of favor among the other sparks who pressed around her, though inwardly she was comparing him and found that he far exceeded anyone she had ever met, except Rochester, in every quality that shouted his wealth, power, advantages, and the nobility of his birth and upbringing. All the features, she realized, that made every instinct in her incline to be intimidated by him, to want to please him, to fear the loss of his favor.

  But she resisted these impulses and refused his invitation to dine. She was still standing by herself, shaking with the effort of the part she had just played, and resolutely pushing thoughts of Charles Hart from her mind, when Betsy Knepp popped her head in at the tiring room door.

  “What’s amiss?” Betsy asked. “You look as though you’ve seen the ghost of Hamlet’s father.”

  “No. Only the Earl of Dorset.”

  “Oh, aye?” Betsy raised her eyebrows. “And?”

  “And nothing.” Nell shrugged, aiming for nonchalance. “I think he’s-interested.”

  “Good on you,” Betsy breathed.

  “I must consider what to do. I’ve sent him away.”

  “You sent him away?” Betsy giggled incredulously.

  “Yes.”

  “Well played, Nell. Excellently well played.”

  NELL WAS PREOCCUPIED WITH THE WORLD OF THE THEATER AND TOOK little notice of talk about troubles abroad. There was always some difficulty, it seemed, with France or Holland or someone else, and it had little to do with the here and now. But on the twelfth day of June, she arrived at the playhouse to find the greenroom packed with a chattering and nervous crowd, as it had been during the days of the fire.

  “Is there trouble?” she asked Lacy.

  “Trouble and plenty of it,” he said, distractedly running his hands through his hair. “The Dutch slipped up the river during the night. They’ve burned two ships that were at anchor near the Tower and captured the Royal Charles. It’s war. And we’re closed again, until the king says we’re not.”

  A cold knot formed at the pit of Nell’s stomach. Not now! Not when life was finally going her way. She had no Hart to save her now, and she had no way of riding out a long period with no work. She felt herself possessed by fear that was near to panic. She must do something, must find shelter and safety from the gathering clouds.

  NELL LOOKED OVER AT ROCHESTER. SHE’D LEARNED HIS LESSONS well, and that night she had drawn out his pleasure until he could bear it no more and finished with an explosive climax deep within her arse, driving hard, his desire fueled by her cries of ecstatic pain.

  “Johnny, you’ve heard the theaters are to be closed?” He grunted, eyes closed.

  “Would you not like it if I were with you more?” He was near to snoring. Pox, he was not going to take the hint, and she would have to be blunt.

  “Johnny. I need money. It would cost you little to keep me.”

  Rochester opened his eyes, reached across her to retrieve the wine bottle, and chuckled.

  “What?” Nell prodded. “Why are you laughing?”

  “At the irony, my darling strumpet. It would be perfect but for the fact that my wife has grown tired of being alone in the country and is shortly to join me here in London. Which is not an insurmountable problem, I grant you, but it makes it less convenient for me to swive you day and night.”

  Nell waited, hoping. It had not occurred to her that he might say no.

  “What about Dorset?” Rochester said. “I know he’s been nosing around your honeypot of late. And he’s good for more ready cash than I’ve got right now, I’d be willing to wager.” Nell had not been prepared for this suggestion. A memory flashed to her mind of Dorset’s eyes hot on her and the desire it had roused in her.

  “Perhaps,” she said slowly. “But I can’t skip up to his front gate and offer myself to him.”

  “No.” Rochester considered. He had been absentmindedly playing with Nell’s right breast and now heaved himself on top of her, positioning himself between her thighs. “He’s a bullheaded fool, and would only balk and bridle if I spoke to him directly. But we have many friends in common, Charlie and I, and he’ll seize the bait like a good ’un if he but hears you’re looking for a keeper and he thinks it’s his own idea. Ask him for fifty pounds a year.”

  He grunted with enjoyment as he entered Nell, and moved slowly, his eyes closed and his head thrown back. Nell thrust up to meet him, enjoying both the sensation of him inside her and the knowledge of what pleasure she was giving him.

  Rochester opened his eyes and looked down at her intently, moving harder and faster now. She clasped him to her and tightened the muscles inside her. Rochester drew in a sharp breath, grasped a handful of her hair, and thrust deeper. He leaned in and growled into her ear.

  “No. Ask him for a hundred pounds a year.”

  AS IF ON CUE, THE NEXT DAY DORSET SENT WORD TO THE PLAYHOUSE that he would be gratified if he might wait on Nell that evening.

  He arrived on the stroke of seven, as the bells from St. Ma
rtin-in-the-Fields, St. Giles, and churches farther away sounded in the fading light of the summer evening. He was outwardly self-assured, but beneath the ease of manner, Nell could sense his desire, and that he had come with a purpose. He had taken Rochester’s hook, and it now remained only for her to pull him in gently.

  Dorset directed his carriage to the Swan Tavern in the palace yard, which was so crowded with gallants of the town that Nell felt as conspicuous as if she were onstage when they entered.

  “I’ve taken a house in Epsom for the summer,” Dorset said, eyeing her over his wineglass. “Charles Sedley’s coming. It promises to be a delightful holiday.”

  Nell smiled, her heart pounding.

  “I hope,” Dorset continued, “that the unfortunate news that the playhouse has been closed means that you might be at leisure to join us. I know that your absence from the stage would mean the loss of your livelihood, and of course I would be pleased to find a way to compensate you.”

  And now we’ve got down to brass tacks, thought Nell, watching his eyes.

  “I am prepared to offer you seventy-five pounds,” he said easily. “Which I hope will make up what you will lack from employment.”

  It was a lot of money. Far more than she had ever had the promise of. But Nell willed herself to be calm.

  “One hundred pounds, my lord,” she said, “would be nearer the mark.”

  Dorset’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

  “Indeed?”

  “Yes, sir,” said Nell. “I should not want to find myself having to return to town should the playhouse reopen of a sudden, for lack of means to keep myself.” She looked him in the eye and gave him a smile freighted with promise. “But for one hundred pounds, my lord, I shall be entirely at your disposal.”

  EVEN AS SHE HAD BEEN STRIKING HER BARGAIN WITH DORSET, AT THE back of Nell’s mind lay thoughts of Charles Hart. Her feelings for him were entirely different from those she had for Dorset, so much so that he seemed to exist almost in a different world, but now those worlds could not be kept apart. He had no claim on her, it was true, but still she felt a pang at the thought of telling him outright that she was now Dorset’s mistress.