by Blake,Zoe
Now she stood before him. Looking so delightfully pinned up and proper. It pleased the artist in him to see she could embody a warm free spirit one moment and exhibit a cool elegant facade the next. After admiring her plump derriere as she ran away from him, it was a pleasure to now see her lush bosom on such prominent display. It had been hidden from his view earlier by some hideous tweed jacket.
She had such creamy golden skin. The usual women of his acquaintance favored a sickly pale complexion. This woman’s skin positively glowed. He believed Mrs. Needham tried to pawn her off as being from some place exotic. Balderdash. He knew an American female when he saw one. They had such a fresh air of nonchalance. It also explained her unusual appearance and demeanor compared to the standard London miss.
“You may recognize Sophronia from the Delight cooking range illustration in the Pall Mall Gazette, Lord Warrington,” remarked Mrs. Needham.
As the proprietress droned on in the background, Pierce continued to admire the woman standing before him. After tearing his eyes from her ample bosom, he explored the slim column of her neck remembering how delicate and small it felt beneath is large hand. The sharp, defined edge of her jaw, the curve of her cheek, the blue tint of her lips…the blue tint of her lips?
“My god!” Pierce rushed forward as Sarah collapsed.
On bended knee, he captured her in his arms before she hit the floor. Despite the tense situation, he was assailed with a thousand sensations. How easily his strong arms wrapped around her tiny waist. The cool silk of her dress. The lavender scent of her perfume. The gloss of her sable hair.
“What did you say her name was, Mrs. Needham?” demanded Pierce as he gently patted Sarah’s cheek in an attempt to revive her. The irony that one moment he wanted nothing else in the world than to hear her name from her lips only to be too enthralled in studying her to hear Mrs. Needham utter it was lost on him.
“Sophronia,” answered Mrs. Needham.
“Sarah,” responded Elma, who anxiously joined Pierce on her knees next to her friend.
Pierce looked from one woman to the next as if they were both daft.
“Dammit, women! What is the chit’s name!” he shouted. Pierce was becoming alarmed. It was apparent the woman was not breathing.
“Sarah,” called out a small voice by the window. Pierce turned in that direction.
It was Florence, looking pale and worried. “Her name is Sarah.”
Pierce nodded his appreciation.
Gesturing to Elma, he commanded, “You, fetch my walking stick.”
“What should I do?” Mrs. Needham hovered over Sarah pulling at her lace handkerchief, despite her admonishments, she cared for the girl and was deeply shocked.
“I’m sure you have smelling salts somewhere.”
“I do! I do!” Mrs. Needham hurried off in a flurry, grateful to be useful.
Florence remained still and mute.
Elma returned from the entryway with his walking stick. Gently placing Sarah on the carpet, Pierce shrugged out of his frock coat and rolled it into a pillow to support her head. Grasping his walking stick, he separated the polished wood shaft from the silver handle, exposing a sharp dagger. Both young women gasped. Ignoring their reaction, Pierce grasped a handful of magenta silk material from the front of Sarah’s dress and violently slashed it with sharp point of the dagger.
“Bloody corsets,” cursed Pierce as he raised his hand to apply the dagger point to the stretched silk between the whalebone reinforcement.
“No!” called out Florence.
Pierce turned in irritation.
“This is no time for modesty. You can see she cannot breathe,” he ground out.
Florence prevaricated. “I know. I know. I could unlace her from the back,” she desperately offered. “You don’t have to ruin the corset. You’ve already destroyed the dress!”
Assuming his irritated growl was response enough, Pierce leaned over Sarah’s prostrate form, careful not to scratch the delicate golden skin he had only just admired, he placed the sharp blade against the corset and flicked it upward, cutting through the corset and chemise. He had to use more pressure than he would have liked. The material was surprisingly strong. Once he had enough of it cut, he forced both of his hands down between the materials and her skin.
Distressed at how unnaturally cool her skin felt compared to the warmth of his hands, he redoubled his efforts. Fisting the material, he tore downward. Splitting the corset in two, exposing her breasts and stomach to his view. Now was not the time to appreciate her beautiful form.
Time seemed suspended in the little parlor. No one moved. There was no sound. Not even the ticking of the Toscano mantel clock. Was it seconds? Minutes? A moment?
Still no response.
Pierce cupped the generous bottom curve of one full breast. Silently vowing this would not be the last time he laid eyes on her alluring charms. Ignoring the shocked gasps from the other women in the room, taking his forefinger and thumb, he harshly pinched one perfectly pink nipple.
Sarah’s whole body jerked upwards on a racking breath. Pierce was there to catch her. Holding her close, careful not to compress her ribs. Stroking her now tousled hair, whispering nonsense in her ear as he caressed broad soothing strokes along her back.
Sarah’s mind was fuzzy and indistinct. The last thing she remembered was looking in to the intense stranger’s blue eyes and thinking they were the same color as the ocean she crossed to get to England. She then had the funny notion that someone with eyes the color of the ocean probably wouldn’t get a girl tossed out on her ear for saying dang out loud or allowing him to put her bonnet on. Then the lightheaded feeling increased, her head swayed, she struggled to breathe and everything went black.
“Take nice even breaths,” said a deep reassuring voice.
Brought back to the present, still in a daze, Sarah looked up to see those same blue eyes looking down at her.
“I must say you do have a flair for memorable entrances,” quipped Pierce.
As the burning ache in her lungs eased and the fog from her mind cleared, Sarah became aware of several startling things. She was lying on the parlor floor. The stranger’s arms were wrapped familiarly around her. The constricting, relentless pressure of the corset was gone. Furthermore, she could feel a slight draft drifting over the exposed skin of her belly. At this shocking sensation, Sarah hazard a glance down. Shocked to see the crisp, white linen of his shirtsleeve protecting her modesty, if that term could be used, by covering her exposed bosom.
Aghast, Sarah raised her face to his.
Pierce was pleased to see her plump lips, now pursed in an adorable “o”, had returned to a blush pink. They were such an unusual shade. Not red. Pink. He wondered what hue they would take on swollen and bruised from servicing his cock.
Leaning in close, he whispered seductively in her ear. “You cannot run from me now.”
Sarah stared into his determined gaze, feeling like a captured bird.
Before she could respond, someone cleared their throat. Ensnared in his embrace, she had forgotten the presence of anyone else in the room. Looking from the abashed gaze of Elma to the enraged one of Florence.
“Sarah, you should cover up before Mrs. Needham…” warned Elma.
“Oh my God!”
“Too late,” finished Elma lamely as Mrs. Needham flew in to the room. Horrified at the scene before her. “Lord Warrington, I am not running a house of ill-repute!”
“I am aware of that Mrs. Needham. These were extraordinary circumstances. If you would indulge me with your assistance?”
Mrs. Needham sprung forward with her ever-present handkerchief, laying it inadequately across Sarah’s exposed unmentionables. Pierce rose and collected his coat, giving the now hopelessly wrinkled material a shake. Elma gingerly helped Sarah rise, careful not to dislodge the scrap of lace keeping them all from another indelicate scene.
Drawing out his billfold from an inner pocket, Pierce withdrew several signed b
ank notes. “I believe this should cover the damages to the dress and corset.”
“Oh, no. You shouldn’t…” started Sarah, but one look from Pierce silenced her.
Withdrawing several more bank notes, Pierce continued, “This should engage her services for a photographic session of say about a week.”
Mrs. Needham stared as the pile of notes in her outstretched palm grew larger.
“Lord Warrington, are you sure you don’t want one of my more experienced girls, perhaps Victoria? You haven’t even seen her yet!”
“I want her.” His resolute tone ended the argument and sent a shiver through Sarah. “And this should allow you to give her a few days uninterrupted rest with no other engagements till I require her after week’s end,” finished Pierce as he placed yet a few more notes in Mrs. Needham’s possession. “I trust this will be sufficient to smooth over ruffled sensibilities?”
“Why, yes! Yes, your lordship!” simpered Mrs. Needham.
“Very good.” Taking his hat from the waiting Mary, with a final bow to the women in the room he left without another word.
The women waited silently till they heard his tread down the narrow stairway and the closing creak of the old green door before there was a burst of activity and exclamation.
“My word!”
“Oh Sarah!”
“My dress!”
“Never mind that rag, Florencia,” admonished Mrs. Needham. “Go tell cook to send up some strong beef tea to my private parlor. And not the kind she buys from that tradesman, tell her to use the good kind. The Valentine’s.”
Sarah and Elma exchange looks. Lord Warrington must have given Mrs. Needham a great deal of money for her to allow Sarah in her private parlor. The girls were never allowed in their employer’s inner sanctuary.
Actually, they let rooms from Mrs. Needham on the third floor. They were converted servants quarters so of course they were cramped and sparse. They had an inner seasonality bringing the warmth of the summer and the cold of the winter right to your bedside despite all efforts. It beat a boarding house in the East End. Sarah shared a room with Elma. Florence shared one with Caroline who was currently out in the country on an engagement with a landscape artist. Victoria paid extra for her own room. There used to be two other girls, sisters. Turns out they weren’t sisters. The references they gave Mrs. Needham were false. They were just a couple of prostitutes who were propositioning her clients.
“Euphemia, take Sophronia to her room to change into a dressing gown and then bring her down to my parlor. You may stay with her and read to her the rest of the afternoon.”
“Yes, Mrs. Needham.”
Just as they were leaving, Victoria entered with a silver tray. “Mary forgot the seed cake and fresh berries on the tea tray. Did I miss anything?”
Sarah burst out laughing before clutching her sore ribs. Holding the tattered remains of the magenta dress together, she humorously informed Victoria, “Oh you know dear, just the usual boring client afternoon tea!”
She spent the rest of the afternoon gossiping with Elma about Lord Warrington. No detail was too small. The cut of his coat. The feel of his arms. The scent of his cologne. Although whenever Mrs. Needham came in to check on them, they would be dutifully sitting by the fire with Elma reading from Henry James’ Portrait of a Lady.
~*~
“Good god, you’re naked!”
“Not quite, Parker,” responded Pierce sardonically as he handed his long-suffering butler his wrinkled frock coat. He could understand his butler’s affront since it simply was not done for a gentleman to gad about in his shirtsleeves but it could not be helped. The coat was wrinkled beyond repair and covered in carpet dust.
The butler held the frock coat away from his person between two fingers as if it emitted an offensive odor in addition to offending his sight sensibilities. “Skiffins will positively take to his bed when he sees this, your lordship.”
Skiffins was Pierce’s over-excitable valet. “You’re right, of course, Parker. We don’t want a repeat of the starched collar incident of ‘96.” Parker gave a subtle shudder in response. Pierce tapped his fingers to his mouth as he thought. “Send it to Henry Poole & Co. on Saville with a note expressing my apologies of course.”
“Poole? Are you sure, my lord? He is the most well known tailor on Saville row. You do have a reputation to protect, after all.”
“The starched collars of ‘96, Parker.” Pierce reminded him flatly.
“Say no more, my lord.” Parker turned to complete his errand. Turning back, he inquired, “Were you successful in finding a subject for your latest photographic camera endeavor, my lord?”
Pierce paused in his perusal of the latest round of cards and invitations on the way to his study. “As a matter of fact, I did. You will absolutely hate her,” he replied with undisguised amusement at his butler’s expense.
“And why is that, my lord?”
“She’s American.”
Laughing, Pierce enclosed himself in his study to review some documents his overseer had sent by messenger from his estate in Surrey. Unfortunately, he was distracted by a pair of lush breasts and beautiful lips…and everything he wanted to do to them.
Chapter Four
After several days of anticipation and several hours of primping and fussing by Mrs. Needham, Sarah was standing in front of Lord Warrington’s imposing residence in Regent’s Park at York Terrace East. Climbing the high stone steps, she grasped the heavy brass lion’s head knocker and knocked three times. After what felt like an eternity, a stately gentleman with a bald head and a rather enormous nose answered the door.
“May I help you, miss?”
“I have an appointment with Lord Warrington. I am Miss Sophronia Greyson.”
“Very well. I believe you are expected. If you please.” The man stepped to the side and gestured for her to enter the dark cool entranceway. “Wait here.”
Gingerly stepping over the threshold, Sarah took in her surroundings. In keeping with the homes around Regent’s Park, it was narrow with extremely high ceilings. She could tell it was modern because of gas lighting framing the large gilt mirror. The hall was decorated in deep green and blue jewel tones. Hand-painted wallpaper depicting peacocks with their tail feathers in full regalia highlighted with gold was her favorite part. Although the center table full of fresh flowers was beautiful, too. Her only real chance to see fresh flowers were the ones on the London street carts or in the small bunches sold by the lavender girls. They always had such a down-trodden wilted look about them. Not these. They looked fresh and exotic.
Just as she was reaching out to touch one silky bright yellow petal, the butler returned. “Follow me.”
Sarah pulled back her hand like a chastised schoolgirl. Lowering her head, she dutifully followed the butler. Resisting the urge to reach out and touch any of the other wonderful tapestries, upholsteries, figurines and polished wood furniture they passed on their way deeper into Lord Warrington’s dwelling.
They walked past a drawing room, morning parlor and reception room. Sarah started to get a little nervous as they continued into the more private area of the home walking past the breakfast room. She was a modern woman and an American at that so she didn’t hold with those stuffy old traditions about chaperone's and a girl not being free to walk about where she pleased it was practically the 20th century after all, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t smart about things.
“Excuse me, sir?”
“Yes, miss.”
“Where are we going? I only ask because Mrs. Needham has strict rules about her models meeting gentleman in their private quarters even if that is where their studio happens to be.” Mrs. Needham had no such rule. It was the possibility of being alone with him again that made her crave a more public setting. She feared his presence as much as she anticipated it.
The butler turned and gave her what could only be described as a disgusted look. He refused to reply. Sarah did not repeat the question.
&nb
sp; They turned down a small hallway next to the breakfast room. Sarah was surrounded by warm, perfumed air. She briefly closed her eyes and inhaled deeply. Big mistake.
“Ow!”
Sarah rubbed her smarting nose after colliding with the butler’s back. He did not even turn.
“Lord Warrington. May I present, Miss Sophronia Greyson.”
Sarah peeked around the butler’s shoulder and let out a very un-British gasp.
“Thank you Parker. You may leave us. Miss Sophronia. Please do come in,” invited Pierce.
It was hard to take in all the splendor at once. It was a feast for the senses. Like a perfect little Eden caught under a crystal globe.
“You have your own conservatory?” asked Sarah, staring about her in wonder.
“I do.”
“In the middle of London,” she continued without even hearing him. She spun around with her arms wide, like a child.
A white ornate iron frame held large panels of glass leading to a high dome ceiling. The room was shaped like a large circle. On the side walls, every third panel was an intricate stained glass depiction of dragonflies, frogs and unique gold and orange fish. The floor was an intricate black and white tile pattern which helped emboldened all the bright lush colors. There were orange trees, pink camellias, purple Canterbury bells, blood red dahlias. She could not see them but the unmistakable scent of lilac and myrtle told Sarah the lord’s collection of flora was extensive.
Incongruently in the center of this flower-filled paradise was a table filled with strange metal instruments, bottles of chemicals and odd shaped polished wooden boxes.
“You use the conservatory for your studio?”
“It has the most light. The rest of the house is all dark corners and shadowed alcoves.”
The velvet-edge to his voice gave his benign comment a seductive feel which made Sarah shiver despite being wrapped in the temperate air of the conservatory.
