Saving Lady Ilsa

by Crystal Kauffman

  Saving Lady Ilsa

  Crystal Kauffman

  Bradford Stratton needs a wife. It isn’t a tragic problem until one considers his disposition. He’d rather spend his days, and nights, with his young lover Frederick. But his father’s gently put request that he marry is nothing short of an order, and Bradford won’t settle for a silly bit of fluff. When he sees the beautiful Norwegian seamstress, he makes his decision on the spot. He has to have her, even as he knows claiming her could destroy his relationship with Frederick.

  Ilsa Bergstrom has endured all the abuse she can take from her late sister’s cruel husband. But a thirty-year-old childless woman in London’s rough Whitechapel has few options for surviving on her own, and after a horrific night of abuse at the hands of three men, she’ll never choose whoring as one of them. Yet when handsome nobleman Bradford Stratton makes a scandalous proposition, she accepts without hesitation. Bradford proves to be a gentle and generous lover. But Ilsa knows when something seems too good to be true, it usually is.

  An Ellora’s Cave Romantica Publication

  www.ellorascave.com

  Saving Lady Ilsa

  ISBN 9781419930904

  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

  Saving Lady Ilsa Copyright © 2010 Crystal Kauffman

  Edited by Grace Bradley

  Cover art by Dar Albert

  Electronic book publication October 2010

  The terms Romantica® and Quickies® are registered trademarks of Ellora’s Cave Publishing.

  With the exception of quotes used in reviews, this book may not be reproduced or used in whole or in part by any means existing without written permission from the publisher, Ellora’s Cave Publishing, Inc.® 1056 Home Avenue, Akron OH 44310-3502.

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  This book is a work of fiction and any resemblance to persons, living or dead, or places, events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters are productions of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.

  Saving Lady Ilsa

  Crystal Kauffman

  Dedication

  The work we authors do wouldn’t mean half as much if not for the magic performed by our editors, who help us tie it all together into one beautifully wrapped package. Thank you, Grace, for making revision time fun (you’ve got a lot of balls floating around in this sentence), making me laugh when you catch a silly mistake (her pussy can’t know he’s looking at it), and especially for being in my corner.

  Chapter One

  London 1859

  Bradford Stratton arranged his family jewels to a safer position as the tailor’s needle flashed in the wan light. The man hadn’t pricked him, but once again Bradford cursed Willoughby, his regular tailor, for slipping on his bloody icy stoop and breaking his bloody wrist. Willoughby knew him so well Bradford hadn’t had to stand on a tailor’s block in nearly a decade, and the brief final fittings were always done at his convenience in the privacy of his manor house.

  “That’s a bit tight there, I believe.” Bradford shifted himself again.

  “I do apologize, Lord Stratton.”

  Bradford didn’t correct the tailor’s misuse of title. He intended never to come back here and his nasty elder brother wasn’t worth bringing up.

  Mr. Kilgard gave him a broad smile and barked a command in Norwegian to the woman Bradford could see through a part in the fitting room curtains. She turned from the chair she was upholstering and hurried over with a tool Kilgard used to remove several of the stitches.

  Bradford watched her with a mixture of curiosity and pity. Not once did she lift her eyes to meet his, giving him the freedom to examine her unabashed. While his preferences lay entirely with men, in particular the handsome young man who’d been his companion for six years, Bradford could nevertheless appreciate a beautiful woman. One didn’t have to ride to appreciate the magnificence of fine horseflesh, or hang every masterwork he admired on his own wall.

  Though Kilgard was clearly a man of advancing years, his wife appeared to be much younger. Bradford had learned an appreciation for the strong bone structure of the Nordic during his time in Stavanger, and this woman did her people proud justice. Her hair was her most impressive attribute. A unique shade of wheat-gold, it gleamed beautifully even in the low candlelight of this dreary room.

  But what intrigued him most about his witness was Kilgard’s obvious hatred for the woman. Not once had she uttered a word, yet the man went forth with a string of poison in such a low, unemotional tone the calmness of his vehemence was more chilling than the words themselves. Though Bradford’s Norwegian was far from perfect, he understood almost every vicious word.

  A very young pregnant woman waddled into the workroom. She whined her desire for pickled eggs in a squeaky voice and only then did Kilgard’s words change to those of kindness.

  “Ilsa will go to Frau Leah’s to get you some when we are finished here,” he said, still in Norwegian.

  The elder woman accidentally spilled over a cup of marking chalks and Kilgard’s tone rose to reveal his anger.

  “Clumsy dolt! If Katrin could sew I would toss you out on the street. Sometimes I think I might anyway just to see the look on your stupid face.” Some of the Norwegian went beyond Bradford. “Thank God I never married you…no one will notice you gone. Useless…barren as the desert and twice as dry…”

  Ilsa hid her eyes and Bradford suspected they were filling with tears. “Bah! When my son is born I’ll need you to look after Katrin, so you are safe for now. Go! Get the eggs for her and be quick about it.”

  Bradford had assumed the girl was their daughter, but the odd statement told him something unseemly was going on here.

  “And some chocolate,” the young girl shrilled from behind the curtain.

  It was nearly nine. Bradford glanced through the window in the front parlor. Dusk streaked purple and gray as ugly as a bruise above the neighboring storefronts. It wasn’t safe for a woman to walk London’s streets alone at night, especially in Whitechapel. As he cursed Willoughby for the hundredth time, he tossed in a few extra choice thoughts for his friend Nickerson for recommending this wretched shop.

  Yet as Ilsa set the cup on the worktable and finally lifted vivid green eyes to glance at Bradford, a tingle raced over his flesh. Such beauty was wasted on those who didn’t appreciate it. She stopped, caught by his deliberate stare, frozen except to blink those mesmerizing eyes. The sweep of long lashes was pure sensuality.

  As awful as this shop truly was, it had revealed one blessing—Ilsa Kilgard.

  * * * * *

  Bradford departed the tailor’s in time to see Ilsa enter a small shop three blocks down the street.

  “Chapels club now, Mr. Stratton?” Buckles asked him, holding the carriage door open.

  “Drive to the corner and wait,” he told his driver. He climbed in and leaned through the window. “We’ll have a passenger.”

  Bradford’s problem was no more pressing than that of most eligible bachelors, until one considered his disposition. He suspected even those with a preference for male company wouldn’t find it terribly inconvenient to keep a wife for appearance’s sake, but Bradford didn’t want a silly bit of fluff as li
ttle more than a subservient piece of furniture.

  Though his father accepted him, albeit quietly, Bradford knew the old man’s gently presented request he take a wife was an absolute order. He knew his father had little faith in his brother for anything worthwhile, and was more inclined to see a grandchild grace their lives than he was concerned for the family title. At sixty-six, the old earl had little time left. And as they did for most old men, Bradford suspected his father’s priorities had undergone a vast transformation.

  At thirty-three years old, Bradford was now exactly the age his father was when he was born. And yet he was still unmarried. Imagine, he could be as frail and spotted as his father when his own son was exactly like him now. Not a thrilling prospect. Though he’d never had a desire for a wife, a small part of him had hoped to have a son when he was much younger.

  Frederick would suffer apoplexy when he realized what Bradford was doing. But Frederick could be so hotheaded. Such was the curse of youth, he supposed. Frederick considered himself wise beyond his years, and after all that he’d suffered, Bradford wouldn’t argue. But twenty-six was still terribly young, and the youthful tendencies he witnessed in Frederick both thrilled him and made him cringe.

  Bradford shifted in the seat, making room for the thickening of his cock, which had been half hard since deciding upon this outrageous plan. He smiled to himself alone at the thought of his young lover, and his erection bloomed fiercely in anticipation of Frederick’s return in three days.

  At the sound of her light, leather-shod footsteps returning on the sidewalk, Bradford leaned out the window. “Ilsa Kilgard.”

  She froze, an expression of alarm on her face. Her shoulders relaxed when she saw him sitting in the carriage. “Mr. Stratton, er, you startled me.” Her gaze slipped over the fine Brougham carriage, lingering on the quartet of prized matching Hanoverians harnessed in front. The horses were a source of pride for Bradford, and he regularly declined generous offers for their purchase.

  “Will you allow me to drive you the rest of the way? I wish a moment to speak with you.”

  She glanced past him. The shop was only four doors down and the carriage was headed the other way.

  “Buckles, take Miss Ilsa’s package to Kilgard’s,” he said before she could decline. “Explain her services are needed at Stratton Hall. I’ve upholstery badly in need of mending. She’ll be driven back on the morrow.”

  Buckles jumped down from the bridge and snatched the basket from which Bradford could smell the briny pickled eggs.

  Now alone on the lonely street, Ilsa ducked her head to hide the blush. “Mr. Stratton, this is most unusual.”

  “As is my proposal, I assure you.”

  “Exactly what I am afraid of.”

  He climbed out of the cab and offered his hand. Still she hesitated. Good. She was smart to be wary. She didn’t know him from Adam. He wasn’t even a long-time customer she could feel familiar with, and Bradford knew many a pretty commoner had suffered nasty abuse at the hand of the peerage.

  If only she knew how nasty his plans for her truly were.

  “I assure you, you’ll find my offer more desirable than what awaits you at Kilgard’s.”

  Her gaze snapped to his. Her eyes were deep green in the fading twilight, reflecting two pinpoints of light from his carriage lamps. She was a true beauty, he remarked again, with high, strong cheekbones and a deliciously plump lower lip. The upper was a perfect bow shape. His blood quickened as he imagined those lips spread wide around his cock.

  As her gaze slid over him, dancing across his broad shoulders and down the front of his muscular body, he knew she was evaluating him. And when she offered her hand, he knew she’d agreed to his proposal before she’d even heard it.

  * * * * *

  The carriage shifted under Buckle’s returned weight. “Where to, Mr. Stratton?”

  “Circle the street once. Miss Kilgard will have the opportunity to disembark if she chooses.”

  The reins snapped and the horses’ hooves sang out a clatter across cobblestone. Seated across from him, Ilsa placed a hand to the padded leather seat to brace herself, then dragged her fingers over it in a languid caress, admiring the fine leatherwork.

  “The young woman in the shop—your daughter?” he asked, even though he knew the answer.

  Ilsa crossed her hands in her lap and glanced out the window into the darkness. Again, her lashes fell in that slow, erotic sweep. She shook her head. “Dietrich’s wife.”

  The whispered response, so filled with pain, confirmed what Bradford suspected. Something unseemly was afoot.

  “You are not married to the tailor?” He hoped she heard the genuine confusion in his question, and didn’t take his question as an insult.

  “Mr. Kilgard was my sister’s husband. She died without bearing a child, but he kept me on as her replacement in the shop. Soon I was the replacement in her bed as well, even though I refused to marry him. Then Katrin came along and happily took my place in his bed. As desperate as he is for a son, he happily tossed me aside.” She paused over a sigh. “You might as well call me by my true name. Ilsa Bergstrom.”

  “Yet you do not bear him that child either, Miss Bergstrom.”

  ”No. I did not.” She stared out into the darkness as she answered. The slender cords of her neck worked as though the words were difficult but she was loath to let her voice tremble over them.

  “So the replacement finds herself replaced.”

  “Comin’ round again, sir,” Buckles called in. The carriage slowed.

  “Simply put, Miss Bergstrom,” he said in Norwegian, “I am in need of a wife.”

  She swept a sidelong glance at him, then did a double take. His use of Norwegian revealed he’d understood the filth the tailor had spat at her.

  “I want you in my bed, Ilsa.”

  Her eyes widened, in them something akin to panic.

  “My situation is unusual. I will explain more later, but for now I will tell you that you will be treated with kindness and respect in my home, and if you agree to my offer, you will be provided for quite well.”

  The carriage came to a stop.

  “But neither will I lie to you. I want you in my bed, I want your legs spread wide and your body agreeable to my demands. You will avail yourself to me whenever it pleases me, and it will please me often.”

  A mixture of anger and aghast filled her face. “I have many faults, Mr. Stratton. But I am no whore.”

  “That is precisely why I am making this offer to you, Miss Bergstrom.” He relaxed against the seat and regarded her with a half-smile. “You will never have to return to Kilgard.”

  Her green eyes flicked to the handle of the carriage door. Outside, one of the horses snorted impatiently.

  Her chest rose and fell, her bosom straining against her plain woolen dress. When she spoke, her voice was hardly a whisper. “Drive on, then.”

  * * * * *

  Even in the darkness, the impressiveness of Stratton Hall made her gawk like a silly schoolgirl. The gleaming front, with its massive columns supporting a high roof, seemed to absorb light out of the night, a beacon of white in a forest of green. She was thankful to reach their destination, having swallowed her uneasiness through a now-sore throat a thousand times during the ride.

  The carriage climbed an immense circular drive that angled to the house on the hill and stopped at a wide stone stairway leading to colossal front doors. The windows glowed, no shortage of candle wax here.

  Mr. Stratton stepped down from the cab and offered his hand. It was strong but smooth and it enveloped hers, making her feel petite even though she was anything but. She allowed him to lead her up the steps, hardly able to feel her own feet.

  This hadn’t been the first time a fine carriage stopped on the street beside her as she walked, and therefore she hadn’t been surprised to be propositioned from within. He’d seen her in the shop and fancied himself a few hours of play. There was nothing unusual about a peer interested in a d
alliance to curb his boredom. She’d never before entered a cab, though, knowing what constituted play for one could equal horror for another. She’d heard stories of the poor unfortunates who’d fallen victim to the wicked needs of the bored upperclassmen. The stories from those who didn’t mind the activities curdled her stomach just the same. She had no desire for a repeat of the terrible incident last year…

  Why she’d entered the carriage she still didn’t know. She supposed she’d been urged there by Dietrich’s excessive malice tonight. A shudder rippled through Ilsa. Bradford had understood each and every word. Perhaps it convinced him she was uniquely vulnerable as a result.

  She stopped in the wide entry, pulling her arm against his grip. “Mr. Stratton.” Her words caught as she took in the sight before her. The house was incredible, modern and luxurious like she’d only imagined. And not a sign of torn upholstery anywhere. There wouldn’t be. She already knew that was merely a falsehood to appease Dietrich.

  Bradford angled toward her and flashed a rakish smile. The man was dangerously handsome, and he knew it. That made him dangerous twofold.

  “Surely there are any number of eligible brides more suited to a man of your position than myself.”

  “There are,” he said simply, then turned and passed into a drawing room as wide and deep as a theater.

  Another chill rippled over her at the blatant reminder her purpose to him was altogether different.

  “But I’ve already told you,” he said as he poured two glasses of brandy, “my situation is unique.”

  She trailed into the elegant room. “How so?” The bride excuse was just that, and she didn’t like being lied to. She might be helpless and just a bit desperate, but she wasn’t stupid.

  He crossed the room and handed her a glass. The cut crystal felt heavy, the rich scent of fine brandy heady in her nostrils.