Lady of Pleasure

by Delilah Marvelle

  By the mercy of heaven and hell. Since when did fantasies turn into realities?

  Ronan frantically shoved his cock into his trousers and buttoned himself in a pathetic effort to shield her from looking at him. This couldn’t be happening. This couldn’t be happening. Blindfolded or not, partaking in too much champagne and cognac or not, there was absolutely no excuse. How did a man, a man of his years, deflower a virgin and not even know it?

  “Ronan?” Her somewhat concerned voice brought him back to reality.

  She was calling him Ronan. And they had just— “Shit!” He launched off the bed and stumbled onto his feet. “Shiiiit! How did you—” He froze and quieted his voice, knowing the silence around them was too vast to disguise their conversation.

  Anyone could be listening.

  He whirled back toward her. He had fucked her. Savagely. A virgin. His Caroline.

  She stared up at him hazily from where she still sat on the bed, her rose-colored muslin gown spread out and about her in a puddle of cloth. The backside of her dress, which he had ripped, was still wide open, exposing a pale blue corset and a few glimpses of pale, smooth skin swathed in a chemise. She hiccupped and winced.

  For the love of God, she was drunk. He could smell the port.

  Caroline raised her skirts from around her legs and pushed away from the bed.

  Ronan’s lips parted as one shapely leg encased in a snowy white stocking appeared in full view. A perfectly tied pale pink garter held her stocking into place just above that delectable slim knee. A knee he thought he would never see.

  Perish and plague his uncivilized thoughts.

  She settled up and onto her feet from off the bed. Fully facing him, she dropping her muslin skirts back into place and whispered, “I thought you wanted this.”

  He grabbed his head. “No. I…no. No, no, no. I…I…” He could barely speak.

  She stared unblinkingly and then scrambled to retrieve a small parchment tucked within her corset. She unfolded it and wordlessly held it out.

  He snatched the missive from her and stared at the words, ‘I acquiesce to being yours and look forward to our first night together. Come to me. I will be waiting.’ He choked. It was indeed a missive he had written, yes, but a missive he had written to Theodosia almost three years ago when he had first submitted to their association. Theodosia had actually used his missive and his own words to—

  Jesus Christ. “I didn’t write this to you.”

  Her eyes widened.

  If he had it in him, he would have cried. “I wrote it to someone else. Almost three years ago.”

  Her lips parted and her features twisted. “Who did you…who?”

  Knowing he had to say it, he managed, “Lady Danbury.”

  Tears now streamed down her face. Her gigot sleeves slipped down the length of her slim arms. The front section of her evening gown sagged forward along with it, fully exposing the straps of her chemise and a pale blue corset which pushed her more than generous rounded breasts up and into full view.

  He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to block out the view. He couldn’t breathe. Jesus. She had given herself to him. She had thought this is what he wanted from her all along. To be taken in the house of the Whipping Society in silence and no mercy.

  A sob escaped her. “So you didn’t want me,” she brokenly said. “You came here for…for Lady Danbury. Not…not me.”

  Holy God. He squeezed his eyes shut even tighter. “Cover yourself,” he begged, refusing to open his eyes lest he see breasts or nipples. “And keep your voice down. For God’s sake, keep your voice down. Anyone could be listening. I need to get dressed and so do you. Get dressed.”

  He turned away. Opening his eyes, he gritted his teeth and savagely ripped apart the missive in riled annoyance, wishing it were Theodosia’s throat he was ripping. Tossing the pieces of the note he wished to God he had never written, he scrambled toward his pile of clothes on the floor. He no longer felt the effects of cognac and champagne. Only the effects of his pounding heart.

  He frantically put on everything he could. Shirt. Waistcoat. Cravat. Coat.

  Caroline’s skirts rustled slowly from behind him as she arranged everything back into place as best she could despite her torn apparel.

  Letting his hands fall to his trousers, he realized – damn it – he hadn’t properly buttoned them. His hands violently shook as he quickly attempted to rebutton the front flap of his trousers. He deserved death for this. A slow, agonizing death.

  Which he was quite certain Hawksford would gladly provide.

  Hawksford. Aw, hell.

  “Ronan?” Caroline’s voice was smeared with tears.

  Ever so slowly, he allowed his eyes to drift over toward where she lingered.

  She had already turned toward him, tears still streaming down her face. And as those grief stricken blue-green eyes met his, he knew everything he had hoped to keep sacred between them was sacred no more.

  Theodosia had changed everything with a flick of a malicious finger.

  The clock chimed, announcing it was a quarter past midnight. Then, there was nothing but the sound of his heart beating against his ears.

  Caroline swiped at her tears with both hands and finally gasped out, “I don’t ever want to see you again.” She turned, stumbled and bustled toward the locked door.

  No! Ronan sprinted toward, then around her. He slid to a rapid halt. Or what should have been a halt. The soles of his boots skid across the remaining length of the wooden floor until his backside slammed against the door with a loud thud.

  He winced and stilled his large frame against the door, trying to appear calm despite the fact that he was anything but. He crossed his arms over his waistcoat to keep his hands from trembling and eyed her. “You can’t just leave. Not after— We need to discuss this.”

  She didn’t meet his gaze. Instead, she glanced toward the door behind him and sobbed, “Discuss what? That you came here to debauch another and I was somehow used for entertainment?” She reached around him, trying to sloppily grab hold of the key sitting in the lock.

  Ronan shifted his body farther to the left and set himself hard against the key, almost jamming her hand, which she quickly withdrew. “It isn’t like that. It isn’t. I only came here tonight because…” He couldn’t say it.

  She held his gaze, her lips trembling. “Because what?”

  A part of him shriveled. He would no longer be what he had always wanted to be in her eyes: perfect. Oh, God. “I had to pay your father back the money I owed him. Then there was still the remaining three thousand I owed Wharton, which I couldn’t get out of. The only way I was able to do it was to forge an association with a widow who was lonely and wanted my company. Lady Danbury paid my remaining debts and I…I felt obligated toward her ever since. Tonight was supposed to be our…last night together.” He tried to soften it.

  Her trembling hand jumped to her mouth as more tears streamed down her face and onto her hand.

  He swallowed, unable to breathe knowing he was making her cry.

  She jerked toward the door and frantically tried to reach around him to escape through the closed door.

  He grabbed her arms, refusing to let her go. “No,” he ground out as calmly as knew how. “Out of all the people in my life who ever mattered to me, surely you know that you are one of them.”

  “Liar!” she choked out, her features twisting. “If I meant anything to you, anything at all, you would have told me who Lady Danbury really was to you that night in the alcove. Instead, you made a mockery of me. A fool. You made me believe you and she were ‘friends.’ And even worse? You made me believe you were in that alcove waiting for me. You made me believe those touches were for me. But it wasn’t me you were waiting for, was it? It was Lady Danbury. Your lover!”

  He felt as if she’d stabbed his soul. “I feared you would hate me if you knew. In the way you are hating me right now.”

  Her voice grew quiet. “I’m tired. Take me home.” The
port was bringing out the child in her.

  “How much did you drink?”

  Caroline dubiously stared him down, although her cheeks were steadily flushing. “Not enough to make me forget how humiliated I am.”

  Ronan struggled to remain calm, even though all he wanted to do was grab her and shake her senseless. “Why did you come? Regardless of the missive, why did you come knowing what men and women do here? Did you honestly think that I would reduce you to this? That this is what I wanted for you?”

  She glared. “You needn’t worry about what I think anymore.” She frantically fumbled to try to open the locked door again. “Because you and I are done. Done!”

  No. She was his now given what had happened. His.

  Ronan grabbed hold of her arm, spinning her back around and shoved her backside hard up against one of the doors, causing them to jolt against their hinges.

  She winced but otherwise didn’t move.

  He tightened his hold on the sleeves of her upper arms and held her savagely in place against the door, trying to ignore the softness of her body and the tantalizing scent of powder and jasmine. A scent that was entirely new to her. A scent that belonged to a woman, not the girl he once knew who smelled of nutmeg. That freckled girl he had always admired like a sister who had turned into a woman who looked nothing like a sister.

  Ronan searched her face and her eyes. “We can’t pretend this didn’t happen. Because it did. And you and I are now bound because of it. Do you understand? Whether we wish to admit to it or not, we are bound.”

  Caroline quietly stared at his brass waistcoat buttons. Her breasts rose and fell in a slow, steady rhythm, as if she were in a state of refined calmness.

  Unlike the state he was in.

  “You lied to me,” she brokenly whispered, a tear slipping down her cheek. “You said she was your friend.”

  A sense of shame bit into him. He leaned in and carefully traced away that tear, feeling his hand trembling against the softness of her skin. “How was I to confide to you that I allowed women to use me for money? And that I have been doing this well before you and I ever met? How was I to say it?”

  Caroline stared at him in anguish.

  He smoothed her hair, wishing he could erase all the women he had ever been with if only to take away her pain. He had never wanted this for her.

  The clock chimed, indicating it was half past midnight.

  Caroline froze, her pale, tear-streaked face reflecting panic. Her hands pushed at his chest. “I have to go.”

  He held her tighter against the door and himself. “No. You and I have to figure out what happens next.”

  She pushed against him and choked out, “Let me go. Because I will tell you what happens next. Alex comes home at one, is what happens next!”

  He froze. It was already half-past midnight. And her house was at least twenty minutes by carriage. Which meant…

  Ronan grabbed her hand and whisked her back and away from the doors. “We have to go. Whatever you do, don’t speak until we are in the confines of my carriage. Do you understand? You don’t want anyone hearing or recognizing your voice. Some of these men are part of your circle.” Turning the key hard, he flung the door wide open. “I’m taking you home. Now.”

  They stumbled out into the corridor.

  Glancing toward the main stairwell on the far end of the corridor, he knew the only way out of the house, given the doors were bolted, was through the servants’ quarters. He hurried them both down the stairs and toward the back of house, toward the shadowy servant’s entrance which was only a few feet away and barely lit by a few spare candles sitting on sconces.

  Several loud smacks drew both him and Caroline to an abrupt halt.

  There, between the shifting shadows and the dull light of the lit candles, was a brunette in a pale pink gown with a wooden paddle. She let it fly against the nude rear of an older gent whose hands were propped wide against their only way out. The woman with the paddle leaned toward the man, and with her other hand, pumped his stubby, protruding cock several times.

  Caroline gasped.

  This night was a goddamn nightmare.

  Ronan frantically stripped his coat, turned and yanked it over Caroline’s head to prevent her from witnessing more. He grabbed for her and gathered her tightly against his chest and marched them onward toward the man and woman blocking the door.

  He cleared his throat trying to get their attention, lest he altogether yell.

  The woman with the paddle paused and turned toward him as if she had all the time in the world. She quirked an inquisitive arched dark brow and turned in his direction. Heavy, round breasts which had been purposefully yanked out of her corset were set atop the low-cut neckline of her mauve evening gown.

  Her painted red lips spread into an acknowledging grin as she silently mouthed well enough for him to understand, ‘How are you, dearest? I haven’t seen you in a while.’

  Ronan choked. It was his uncle’s former mistress, Harriet Raddington. Or rather, Cleopatra, as she preferred to be called. For she envisioned herself ruling the world. Both men and women alike. It was where his uncle had first learned the refined art of the whip when the two had met in a brothel specializing in flagellation over on Hallam Street. Such people belonged to a secret, tight-lipped world few in London cared to acknowledge the existence of.

  Cleopatra’s dark eyes scanned Caroline who was half-hidden beneath his coat. She poked her paddle in Caroline’s direction and silently mouthed at him, ‘Who is that?’

  Ronan instinctively tightened his hold on Caroline’s slim shoulders, pressing her protectively harder against his body. He silently mouthed back, ‘I have to go!’

  Caroline struggled against him beneath the expanse of his coat, making the imprint of hands appear beneath. “I can’t—”

  “Quiet,” he hissed. The last thing he needed was Luc hunting them down. The man always needed to know everything about every woman in London. Ronan drew them to a halt behind the blindfolded gent who was still propped against the door. The man’s flat, hairy ass was covered with rising welts. As if his ass wasn’t already attractive enough.

  The man paused, as if sensing someone was standing behind him and blindly turned, stumbling toward Ronan. His stubby hard cock bobbed as he struggled with the trousers still slung around his ankles and boots.

  Ronan cringed and scrambled back, pulling Caroline – whose eyes were fortunately well shielded – back along with him. He glared over at Cleopatra who stood off to the side, tapping the tip of the paddle against her lips in a most amused manner.

  “Move him,” he whispered. “And for God’ sake, don’t mention this to Luc.”

  Harriet lowered the paddle and smiled knowingly. With her other hand, she grabbed the man’s arm and mercilessly yanked him out of the way and off to the side.

  Ronan pulled open the door, and hurried himself and Caroline into the night, praying no one was watching.

  How he got Caroline and himself into his carriage down the street, Ronan knew not. But fortunately, they were finally in a carriage and out of sight. Blowing out an exasperated breath, he sagged against the upholstered seat, kicking out a boot toward the closed door.

  As the carriage clattered forward, he paused.

  Caroline stiffly sat on the upholstered seat opposite him with his evening coat still draped over her head and shoulders as if she had no intention of facing him again.

  He dug a fist into his thigh, genuinely wanting to hurt himself with it. “You uh…you can take off my coat now.”

  She crossed her arms, causing the coat to shift. “I would rather not look at you,” she grudgingly tossed back in a muffled tone from beneath.

  He smoothed the linen sleeves against his arms in agitation, knowing he couldn’t let her hide. Not after what had happened. They had to both face this for what it was: real. “As much as I would like to oblige you, we have to talk. And I need my coat.”

  Shifting his jaw, he reached out and g
ently dragged the coat off of her head and shoulders, making sure none of the buttons had caught her hair or gown. He pulled his coat back on and around his arms and shoulders, adjusting his waistcoat beneath it and glanced at her.

  Most of her chestnut hair had escaped from their pins and lay in a mass of disheveled curls well past her shoulders. Given the hooks on the back of her gown hadn’t been latched, the sleeves of her gown had again slipped down her slender arms and exposed that pale blue corset. The outside lantern of the carriage now shined in just at the precise angle that highlighted the top part of her full breasts in a golden ray of light.

  He snapped his gaze back to her face and commenced tying his loose cravat around his throat. What he needed and wanted was a cigar. Three of them.

  She observed him with a continued indifference that announced she clearly had no idea the tops of her full breasts were on display.

  It was going to be a long night. When he finished tying his cravat, he waved a hand toward her, trying not to look. “Tidy up.”

  She blinked as if she didn’t understand.

  “The tops of your breasts are showing,” he finally admitted.

  Caroline gasped and frantically yanked the sleeves back up her shoulders, plastering the material against herself. After trying to arrange it but to no avail, she stood in the carriage and turned, exposing her corset, parts of her chemise and the open upper back of the gown. “Can you fasten it? Or is the gown completely ruined?”

  God help him.

  Her slim body swayed against the motion of the carriage, along with her chestnut curls which brushed past her bum. She looked back at him from over her right shoulder expectantly and held the back of her gown together with one hand, while pulling away long strands of her loose hair out of the way with the other. “Don’t just look at my backside,” she choked out. “Fasten the hooks. Because I can’t do it on my own!”

  He supposed he had to help. Because he damn well wasn’t going to deliver her to Hawksford with her gown still open.