Lady of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  “Research?” He wagged the book at her. “For God’s sake, you aren’t old enough for this sort of research.”

  He sounded like her brother. “I beg to differ, but my age puts me at an advantage. It will take me years to record all of the words that go unnamed in a dictionary. Do you know how many pieces of obscene literature contain renditions of disreputable slang that have never been documented into the English language?”

  His lips parted. “Why the devil are you documenting disreputable words?”

  “Because it’s fascinating. It represents a facet of society no one cares to acknowledge. I plan on making a dictionary out of all the words and explaining the meaning of each one. ‘Tis never been done before and I have no doubt I could turn quite the profit. Though I suppose I should use a pseudonym. Lest I get arrested for it. Or hanged.”

  “I hate to disappoint you, but a book like that already exists. It’s called The Dictionary of the Vulgar Tongue. I own a copy.”

  She officially felt ignorant. “You do?”

  “I do.”

  She hesitated. “Is it any good?”

  “Yes. Very.”

  She perked. “I would like to see what was done with it. Might I borrow it from you sometime?”

  He widened his stance. “No. Absolutely not.”

  She sagged. “Why not?”

  “Because I don’t loan inappropriate books to girls still in the nursery.”

  She tried not to be offended. “I’m not in the nursery anymore. I’ve had my own room since January.”

  He slapped the book shut. “I don’t care. You aren’t reading this. Find another book. One more suited to your sex and age.”

  Caroline clomped down the ladder, annoyed with him for not cooperating. With her feet still on the bottom step of the ladder, she said, “And who are you to say what is or isn’t appropriate to my sex and my age?”

  “Aren’t you only thirteen?” he pressed.

  “Only? I am but five years from being a debutante and have had my menses for a whole month. I could have children if I willed it.”

  He glared. “I really didn’t need to know that.”

  She glared back. “Clearly, you do. Because you’re treating me like a child.”

  “Maybe because you are a child.” He angled toward her. “What would your father say if I told him you were reading this?”

  That sounded like a threat. She hopped off the last step of the ladder, landing onto the floor beside him, and stared him down despite his imposing height. “My father believes in liberation through proper education, for which I am endlessly grateful. He says being ignorant to the ways of men can create problems for a girl like me. There are lecherous men in our society who methodically find and seduce naïve girls under the age of sixteen and guess what, my lord? I won’t be one of them.”

  He paused and intently searched her face, but said nothing.

  Which meant, she had won this debate in a single swing. “Seeing I have left you without any further words to impart pertaining to the subject, can I now have my book please? Because I am permitted to read any book in this library as long as I can reach it. Ask my father.”

  He shifted his jaw and tapped the book. “Then I suppose this is off-limits. Because you weren’t able to reach it on your own, were you?” Tucking the book into the large pocket of his evening coat, he swung away and stalked toward the game box. Opening the box, he dug out a deck of cards.

  For a man who gallivanted with her brother well into the morning hours doing heaven knows what for a day and a half, he was incredibly tight laced. “That isn’t your book,” she called.

  “It is now,” he called back in agitation. “Confessions of a Voluptuous Young Lady, my nose. It was probably written by some lice-infested old man sitting in a cellar with his trousers around both ankles. I’ll be sure to dispose of it.”

  She gasped. “I would say by the way you tucked it into your own pocket, you plan on reading it, not disposing of it.”

  He captured her gaze. “I don’t read obscenities. It’s a waste of time.”

  She blinked, feeling a blush coming on knowing they were openly discussing inappropriate books. “What sort of books do you read?” She wanted to know.

  “Ones that inspire me to see past my nose.” With a long-legged stride that took him toward the door, he tossed over his broad shoulder, “Read Persuasion. You will never be the same.” With that, he left the room.

  She jerked toward the shelf. Her mother had read that. “Persuasion?” she echoed after him. “Isn’t that a romance?”

  He reappeared, leaning in against the doorframe with his shoulder. “Some say it is, but in my opinion it’s more of a commentary on what is possible if one’s sense of duty toward their name, their family, and society didn’t get in the way. My aunt gifted it to me a few years ago when it was first published. It’s one of my favorite books.” He paused and added, “Only don’t tell your brother I told you that or I’ll refute it.”

  His favorite book was a romance? Written by a woman? It was like finally meeting a man who knew what he was doing. “You needn’t worry. I won’t tell him.”

  “I appreciate that.” He thumbed toward the corridor behind him with the stack of cards he held. “I have to go. I shouldn’t keep your brother waiting.”

  She tried to hide her disappointment. She didn’t want him to leave. He was far more interesting than any book she had ever read. “It was a pleasure to meet you, my lord.”

  He eyed her. “Hearing you say ‘my lord’ makes me feel old and decrepit. Call me Caldwell, will you?”

  She bit back a smile at the unexpected honor. “Only if you call me Caroline.”

  “Done.” Still leaning against the doorframe, he said, “You brightened my morning. Which I confess I needed. Thank you.”

  Her breath caught, realizing his tone was sincere. “You are most welcome. Does this mean you intend to visit with me again? Can you? Will you?”

  He observed her. “Men my age don’t visit girls your age.”

  She pulled in her chin. “I’m not asking for matrimony. Can we not be friends?”

  He gave her a pointed look. “I’m certain there are plenty of girls your own age you can be friends with. You don’t need a peep-o-day boy like me in your life.”

  What little he knew. “I don’t have friends outside of my sisters,” she miserably countered. “A peep-o-day boy would be far better than what I have now. We rarely get visitors. Society, for the most part, avoids us. They say very bad things about Mama due to her lineage and that she even once worked as a shop girl like her own Mama. Though I am quite certain you know that.”

  His rugged features softened. “I’m sorry.”

  “Oh, don’t be. I love Mama and support her independent way of thinking, but she does make things devilish awkward.” And lonely.

  He half-nodded. Still holding her gaze, he asked, “Have you ever played piquet? The card game?”

  She stared. “I have. Why?”

  “We should arrange a time to play. Are Thursdays good for you?”

  Not even her brother made time to play piquet with her. It was like this Caldwell knew she needed a friend outside of her sisters, her books and her parents. “Thursdays would be lovely. Thank you! I could have the cook make us lemonade and scones. Mama will insist on a chaperone, but if it’s Mrs. Peterson, she most likely will sit in the corner and either sleep through everything or read. Which means, we won’t be bothered much, thank goodness. Shall we plan for morning or afternoon?”

  “Afternoon. And have the cook make extra lemonade and scones, because I don’t foresee them lasting long.” He flashed her a smile. “I will see you next Thursday. And chin up. Because your mother is one of the finest women I know.” With the push of his propped arm against the doorway, he disappeared, his booted steps fading.

  Leaning a cheek against the cool wood of the ladder beside her, Caroline drifted into a soft, dreamy smile. Something whispered to her that this
dashing new friend of hers was going to be the beginning of something very, very special.

  The Hawksford Residence - 1827

  Caroline dragged the writing box over and carefully aligned it on the bed before her. Placing a crisp new sheet of parchment on its sloped, wooden surface, she smoothed a hand over it to ensure it lay flat and that it wouldn’t slide.

  Writing was an art. And so was writing one’s first love letter.

  Dipping the tip of her quill into the inkpot that was set within the corner recess of her writing box, she lowered the nib to the ivory parchment and elegantly scribed the following letter:

  There.

  Sitting up, she pinched her lips against the end of her quill, dampening the feather, and wondered if she had said too much. But then again, she knew it was better to say too much than too little. Caldwell wasn’t like the rest of the ton. He accepted her for what she was. She never had to worry what he thought about her parents or their wild ways, because he understood that while, yes, she was their daughter, she also had her own worth.

  It was one of many reasons as to why she loved him. And although he had yet to know of her love, she knew, in her heart, that the moment her love was professed, everything between them would burst into what it was meant to be: true love. He would wordlessly gaze into her eyes, gather her into his muscled arms, and kiss her slowly and ardently and heatedly, until her toes tingled and went numb, and the love he felt for her poured from his lips straight into her soul, connecting them forever and ever. Amen.

  The door to her bedchamber banged open as a stampede of feet barged in, startling her into glancing up.

  Her four younger sisters, Mary, Anne, Victoria, and Elizabeth bumped into each other one by one, skidding to a unanimous halt at different heights.

  Caroline set the quill back into the inkpot of her writing box and shifted toward them on the bed with a breath. “I realize you will all miss me to no end, given I depart in a few days, but knocking on the door is still mandatory.”

  Victoria rattled two porcelain dolls at her. “Not if Lord Caldwell is here. He is downstairs in the receiving room and wishes to see you at once.”

  Caroline’s stomach flipped as her hands jumped to her head. Oh, no. Her hair was done up in braids. Braids. Of all days. Braids made her look like she was two. “Why is he here? It isn’t Thursday. Our piquet games are always on Thursday. Not Monday.”

  Victoria sighed. “He obviously lost sight of the calendar. Mama said if you keep it to twenty minutes, there is no need to call for Mrs. Peterson as long as you take the call in the parlor. Mama is a touch busy discussing the menu with the new chef who apparently doesn’t know the difference between a soufflé and a galette.”

  Oh, to have such problems. Retrieving her letter from the writing box, Caroline slid from the bed onto slippered feet and fanned the letter she had written against the air, regretting she hadn’t brought her father’s sander to dry the ink. Trying to exude a confidence she wished she felt knowing she was about to see Caldwell, she sashayed toward her sisters and paused before the doorway they were blocking. She gestured toward herself. “Aside from the braids, how do I look?”

  Anne squinted up at her, crinkling her freckled nose. “Do you want our honest opinion? Because all those pimples make it very difficult to see your face.”

  Caroline lowered her chin. “Remind me not to love you anymore.”

  Victoria leaned in with both dolls and nudged her with their straw bonnets. “Don’t listen to her. You don’t have that many. You can still see patches of skin.”

  Caroline groaned and now felt like diving under the linen. She grudgingly folded her letter, knowing her forehead and chin looked like gopher mounds. “I shouldn’t see him. Look at me. I’m going to be seventeen this summer and my face is still a mess.”

  “Oh, now, now. You look fine. And if it bothers him, he isn’t worth your spit or time.” Victoria nudged her again. “I suggest you be strategic in your attempt to beguile him. Here is what you do: sweep into the parlor and pretend you don’t care if he lives or dies. That will lend to a mystery he won’t be able to resist. Then, casually walk up to him, ask him what book he is reading, grab his face and—” Aligning both dolls, Victoria turned those frozen faces toward each other and savagely smashed their pouty painted mouths together with urgent chinks that almost chipped the porcelain off their faces. “Be sure to use your tongue. It denotes love.”

  “Ewwwwww,” Anne, Elizabeth and Mary said in unison with twisting freckled faces, as they leaned back and away.

  Caroline rolled her eyes. Victoria had recently been given ‘the talk’ and now kissing was all she ever talked about. “Our kiss, when it does happen, won’t be chipping the skin off our faces. When Caldwell kisses me, it will be beautiful and romantic. Much like the relationship between Anne Elliot and Captain Wentworth in Persuasion.”

  Anne veered in close. “The trouble is, Captain Wentworth is a figment of some lonely woman’s imagination. So you really oughtn’t compare a fictional character to a real man or a kiss.”

  Caroline reached down and affectionately tweaked that freckled little nose. “You are vastly entertaining, as always, but I must take my leave. Caldwell will be assisting me with my French, as always.” She bit back a smile at the thought of it. “You should hear him speak. It’s like listening to honey drizzle on a biscuit. Which is why…au revoir…I must go.” She wagged a single finger in their direction, which was a new signature of hers she thought rather fashionable, and promenaded past all of them into the corridor.

  “We know French, too,” Victoria called after her. “Quel temps…uh…fait-il?”

  “What did you say?” Anne echoed. “That didn’t sound French to me.”

  “It is French! Unlike you, I pay attention during all of our lessons with Mrs. Peterson. I asked about the weather. Imbécile.”

  Caroline spun back toward them, knowing she shouldn’t let that one go. “Don’t insult her in French, Victoria. It’s rude.”

  Victoria set her chin. “It isn’t an insult if she can’t understand it.”

  Yet another glorious day in the household of a Hawksford. “I have to go.”

  “Can we sit and watch?” Mary called out, brightening. “S’il vous plâit?”

  Caroline eyed them. “It’s Lord Caldwell. There is nothing to watch.”

  They all huddled eagerly, their skirts rustling. “He always tells the most interesting stories. Like Papa. Only with less vulgar words.”

  Oh, dear. “This isn’t a theatrical,” Caroline tried to explain. “Don’t you all have lessons with the governess?”

  Every face sagged.

  “The governess smells of gin,” Elizabeth grouched, folding her arms.

  Caroline bit back a laugh. “And how do you know what gin smells like? Not even I know what gin smells like. Papa doesn’t keep it in the sideboards. What you smell is the woman’s foot ointment from the apothecary. Mama had it investigated.”

  Elizabeth stared her down. “Apparently, that clunch is putting ointment on far more than just her feet. She smells up the entire room during our lessons and doesn’t even have the decency to open a window. I genuinely fear we may not live to eighteen.”

  Mary, who was the youngest at ten, set small hands onto the hips of her white lace gown. “Enough about the governess and her feet. We have an entirely more pressing matter. Caroline, you need a chaperone. You’re almost at your coming out and being alone with a man for any period of time is a danger to your good name. Believe me. I should know.”

  Caroline rolled her eyes. “Wait until Papa and Mama sit you down to discuss what a good name really involves, Mary. Now if you will all excuse me—”

  “At least promise us one thing!” Victoria lowered her dolls with a flop of both hands, her green-blue eyes intent. “If you kiss him, yell for us so we can see it.”

  Caroline snorted. “If I kiss him, I’ll be too busy to yell. Now stay here. And whatever you do, don’t follow me.” Sh
e pointed at them to ensure they understood her warning and proceeded down the corridor and down the stairs toward the receiving room.

  A part of her wanted to burst into a full dash knowing Caldwell was waiting for her, but a much bigger part of her knew that, in doing so, she would be validating what everyone thought she still was: a child. And she wasn’t. She was ready to be her own person and take on the world. More importantly, she was ready to become Caldwell’s.

  Gathering her muslin gown, she lingered outside the parlor and drew in a calming breath. Seeing she would be seventeen this summer, she felt well-prepared to be everything Caldwell needed her to be. She only wished her skin would cooperate more. Dabbing her face with prescribed almond paste did nothing. Sometimes, it only made it worse.

  But love went beyond pimples. Didn’t it?

  Nervously folding and refolding the letter she had written, until it was a palm-sized square, she tucked it into her bodice, knowing she would share it with him later. When the right moment presented itself.

  She edged in into the room, regally setting her hands at her sides.

  Her pulse thundered at glimpsing Caldwell.

  Leaning forward in an upholstered chair, he propped his forearms on trouser-clad knees, scattering unusually unkempt, wavy blond hair across his forehead. He stared quietly at the floor as her cat, Lady Abigail, nuzzled a furry white head against his large leather boot, trying to get his attention.

  Reaching down, he rubbed the cat’s head, his features tired and somber. His linen cravat was crooked against his throat. Which it never was.

  She entered the room. “Caldwell?”

  He jerked toward her, glancing up.

  The cat snapped up her white tail and scampered out of the room.

  Moving closer, Caroline gently asked, “Are you all right?”

  Vivid dark brown eyes capable of melting the stockings off a girl, intently met hers. “Yes.”

  She didn’t believe him based off of his cravat alone. She quietly walked up to where he sat, leaned toward him and gathered the ends of his crooked cravat from around his throat. She adjusted the linen back into place for him. Her fingers accidentally grazed the stubble beneath the warm of his chin, causing her heart to thud. In that moment, she felt different. She felt like a wife adjusting the cravat for a husband.