by Kelly Bowen
But she also desired him, which was a fine irony.
“He did invite us to bide here today.” Lucille smoothed thick quilts over the sheets. “Have you seen his library?”
“I have not. After supper, he brought me straight up to bed, and I confess I was happy to accompany him. Then off he went, and I’m all in a muddle, Lucille.”
“Fallen women get paid for accommodating a man’s desire,” Lucille said. “Un-fallen women aren’t immune to animal spirits. They simply know how to indulge them without being judged for it. I wasn’t always a plain-faced, pudgy old maid, you know.”
“You are not plain-faced, pudgy, or old. I have it on good authority that men like a substantial woman between the sheets.”
Thank God. Though maybe Michael Brenner preferred the golden-haired waifs and blue-eyed princesses of the Mayfair ballrooms, drat their dainty feet. Henrietta’s feet were in proportion to the rest of her. Her father had called her a plow horse of a girl, and the baron might see her as such.
“I hate this uncertainty,” Henrietta said. “I’m wondering now if men value only the women they must pay for.”
Lucille tossed the brocade pillows back onto the bed, achieving a comfy, arranged look with casual aim.
“You have it all wrong, miss, which is understandable given your situation. What the men value, what they respect, is a reflection of what we value in ourselves. You did very well in London because after Lord Beltram played you so false, you never allowed another man to rule your heart or your household. Respect yourself, and devil take the hindmost. You told me that years ago. What are you doing with your hair?”
Henrietta’s hair was a bright red abundance she’d refused to cut once she’d arrived in London. She’d also refused to hide it under a cap, and her bonnets had been more feathers than straw.
“I’m braiding it for a coronet. I used to favor a coronet, though my father said that only accentuated my height.”
“He didn’t like having a daughter nearly as tall as he was,” Lucille said. “What will you do about the baron?”
Henrietta finished with her braid, circled the plait about her crown, then secured it with plain pins.
“I’d forgotten my little speech to you all those years ago, but I was right then, and you are right now. I respect myself and will regardless of how the baron regards me. I also respect the baron, though, and hope when we part, that’s still the case. With all the other men…”
Professional loyalty to past clients warred with the knowledge that Henrietta was no longer a professional. Society might never note the difference, but Henrietta suspected that six months ago, she would not have given Michael Brenner a second look. A mere baron, merely well-fixed, merely decent.
What a sorry creature she’d been.
“With all the others,” Lucille said, standing behind Henrietta at the vanity, “your respect was tempered by the knowledge that they paid for your favors. You were compensated for putting up with them, and they knew it, and still sought you out.”
The arrangement between man and mistress was as simple on the surface as it was complex beneath. The usual bargain was complex for the mistress and simple for the man. Henrietta finished with her coronet—adding a good two inches to her height—and draped a shawl about her shoulders.
“I know two things,” she said, facing the door. “I do not want his lordship paying me for anything, and I’d rather he spent tonight with me than in his library with his books. I’m not sure what that makes me, but breakfast awaits, and I’m hungry.”
“Desire for the company of a man you esteem makes you normal,” Lucille said, tidying up the discarded pearl-tipped pins. “I daresay he’s a normal sort of fellow himself. Be off with you, and if you need me, I might be back in bed, munching scones and swilling chocolate. Or I might suggest the staff do a bit of decorating. The holidays are approaching, after all.”
Many a day, Henrietta would have regarded lazing about in bed as a fine reward for her exertions the evening before. Today, she wanted to spend as much time with Michael Brenner as she could, either in bed or out of it.
Normal wasn’t so very complicated, though neither was it for the faint of heart.
* * *
“I think I’m in love,” Miss Whitlow said, taking another book from the stack on the table beside her.
She’d spent most of the day in Michael’s library, and he—with a growing sense of exasperation—had sat at his desk, watching her write letters or read. When she looked up, he made a pretense of scribbling away at correspondence or studying some ledger, but mostly, he’d been feasting on the simple sight of her.
When he ought to have been rummaging in her valise.
She wore gold-rimmed spectacles for reading. They gave her a scholarly air and gave him a mad desire to see her wearing only the spectacles while he read A Midsummer Night’s Dream to her in bed. She favored shortbread and liked to slip off her shoes and tuck her feet beneath her when a book became truly engrossing.
Would she enjoy having her feet rubbed?
The worst part about this day of half torment/half delight was that Michael’s interest in the lady was only passingly erotic. He wanted to learn the shape of her feet and the unspoken wishes of her heart. He wanted to introduce her to his horses—which was pathetic—and memorize the names of her family members.
Heathgate would laugh himself to flinders to see his efficient man of business reduced to daydreaming and quill-twiddling.
Michael and his guest had taken a break after lunch, and he’d shown her about the house. Inglemere was a gorgeous Tudor manor, just large enough to be impressive, but small enough to be a home. The grounds were landscaped to show off the house to perfection, though, of course, snow blanketed the gardens and park.
Michael had shown Miss Whitlow his stables, his dairy, his laundry, and even the kitchen pantries, as if all was on offer for her approval.
He wanted to be on offer for her approval, and yet, she never so much as batted her eyes at him. Smart woman.
“You are in love?” he asked, rising from his desk. He probably was too, but could not say for a certainty, never having endured that affliction before.
“You haven’t merely collected books for show,” she said, hugging his signed copy of The Italian to her chest. “You chose books that speak to you, and the result is… I love books. I could grow old reading my way through this library of yours, Michael Brenner.”
Not my lord. “Have you no collection of your own?”
She set the novel aside and scooted around under the quilt he’d brought her. “I patronized lending libraries. They need the custom, and they never cared what I did for my coin. They cared only that I enjoyed the books and returned them in good condition. Perhaps, when I purchase a home, I’ll fill it with books.”
While her protectors—Michael was coming to hate that word—had treated her bedroom like a lending library. She’d been well compensated, but he still wished somebody had made her the centerpiece of a treasury that included children, shared memories, and smiles over the breakfast table.
And wedding vows, for heaven’s sake.
Michael settled in beside her on the sofa. “You’re in the market for a house?” He could help with this, being nothing if not well versed in commercial transactions. He’d searched long and thoroughly before settling on Inglemere for his country retreat.
“I’m in the market for a home,” she said. “This is another reason I’m determined to reconcile with my father. All the family I have lives within a few miles of Amblebank, but if he refuses to acknowledge me, then settling elsewhere makes sense.”
I’ll make him acknowledge you. The only way Michael could do that was by marrying her.
“Give it time,” he said, patting her hand. “Family can be vexing, but they’ll always be family.” Witness his sisters, who had no more time for the brother who dowered them than they did for Fat King George.
Miss Whitlow turned her palm up, so their
fingers lay across one another. “You are very kind.”
He was a charlatan. “One aspires to behave honorably, though it isn’t always possible.”
Her fingers closed around his, and Michael felt honor tearing him right down the middle of his chest.
“I have a sense of decency,” she said, “as unlikely as that sounds. I’ve sworn off sharing my favors for coin. I’d like to share my favors with you for the sheer pleasure of it. Lucille has reminded me that the coming years will be…”
She fell silent, her hand cold in Michael’s. In another instant, she’d withdraw her hand, the moment would be lost, and he’d be reduced to asking her about Mrs. Radcliffe’s prose.
“Lonely,” he said. “The coming years will be lonely. The coming night need not be.”
Michael drew Henrietta to her feet and wrapped his arms about her. The fit was sublime, and for a moment, he pitied all the men who’d had to pay her to tolerate—much less appear to enjoy—their advances. That she’d offer him intimacies without a thought of reward was more Christmas token than he’d ever deserve.
And in return, what would he offer her?
“I’ll take a tray in my room,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You can come to me after supper, after I’ve had a proper soak.”
She’d taken a bath the previous evening, as had Michael. He suspected hers had been a good deal warmer than his.
“You don’t need to fuss and primp,” Michael said. “I don’t care if you bear the scent of books, or your hair is less than perfectly arranged. I’d rather be with you as you are.”
She drew back enough to peer at him, and they were very nearly eye to eye. “I insist on toothpowder. That’s not negotiable.”
God, what she’d had to put up with. “I insist on toothpowder too, and I generally don’t bother with a nightshirt. Shall we surprise each other with the rest of it?”
“You think you can surprise me?”
She’d had a half-dozen lovers, probably not an imaginative bone in the lot, so to speak. “I know I can.” Her patch-leaf fragrance was fainter today, as if she’d forgotten to apply it, though the aroma yet lingered on her clothes. Michael bent closer to catch the scent at the join of her neck and shoulder. “Shall we go upstairs now?”
Darkness had fallen, though dinner was at least two hours off. Michael was famished, and food had nothing to do with his hunger. He’d regret this folly, but he’d regret more declining what Henrietta offered.
And if he was lucky, Beltram’s damned book had been tossed in the fire years ago.
* * *
Henrietta stepped behind the privacy screen, aware of a vast gap in her feminine vocabulary. No man had sought to share intimacies with her for the simple pleasure of her company. From Beltram onward, all had regarded her as a commodity to be leased, though Beltram had masked his agenda as seduction.
Michael had cast her no speculative glances, assayed no “accidental” touches, offered no smiles that insulted as they inventoried. Any of those, Henrietta could have parried without effort.
His honest regard might have been a foreign language to her.
“Shall I undress for you?” She was tall enough to watch over the privacy screen as Michael added peat to the fire.
“Not unless you’d enjoy that,” he said, setting the poker on the hearth stand. “Perhaps you’d like me to undress for you? Can’t say as a lady has ever asked that of me.”
A lady. To him, she was a lady. “It’s a bit chilly to be making a display out of disrobing.” Some men had needed that from her, had needed as much anticipation and encouragement as she could produce for them—poor wretches.
“Burning peat is an art, and my staff hasn’t the way of it,” he said. “I keep the smell about to remind me of the years when a peat fire was the difference between life and death. Your hair is quite long.”
Henrietta had undone her coronet, so her braid hung down to her bum. “I might cut it. For years, I didn’t.” Because long hair, according to Beltram, was seductive. By his reasoning, ridiculously long hair was ridiculously seductive.
Though Beltram’s opinion now mattered…not at all.
“That is a diabolical smile, Miss Whitlow.”
“You inspire me, and if we’re to share a bed, you might consider calling me Henrietta.”
“I’m Michael.” He draped his coat over the back of the chair by the hearth. “After the archangel. Have you other names?”
“Henrietta Eloisa Gaye Whitlow. Is there a warmer to run over the sheets?” Warmed flannel sheets would be a bit of heaven.
“I’ll be your warmer.”
They shared a smile, adult and friendly. Henrietta decided that her hair could be in a braid for this encounter, and to blazes with the loose cascade most men had expected of her. She’d always spent half the next morning brushing out the snarls, half the night waking because she couldn’t turn without pulling her hair loose from her pillow first.
Michael-for-the-archangel removed his clothing in a predictable order, laying each article over the chair in a manner that would minimize wrinkles. He pulled off his own boots, and used the wash water at the hearth with an emphasis on the face, underarms, privities, and feet.
He was thorough about his ablutions, and his soap—hard-milled and lavender scented—was fresh.
“You are not self-conscious,” Henrietta said. A surprising number of men were, if the gossip among courtesans was to be believed. Several men might cheerfully aim for the same chamber pot while the port was consumed, but they’d do so without revealing much of their person, or overtly inspecting any other man.
“I was one of eight children sharing a one-room sod hut,” Michael said. “Growing up, privacy was a foreign concept.”
While hard work had doubtless been his constant companion. Michael had the honed fitness that came from years of physical labor and constant activity. Some wealthy men came by a similar physique by virtue of riding, shooting, archery, and pugilism. Michael had a leanness they lacked, a sleekness that said he eschewed most luxuries still and probably always would.
“Growing up, my modesty was elevated from a virtue to an obsession,” Henrietta said. “I like looking at you.”
He wrung out the wet flannel over the basin, arm muscles undulating by candlelight. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes.” Henrietta hadn’t chosen her partners on the basis of appearance, not after Beltram. He’d been a fine specimen, also selfish, rotten, deceitful, and lazy. She hoped whatever woman he took to wife could match him for self-absorption and hard-heartedness. He’d come by months ago to tell her he’d be wife-hunting, as if his eventual marriage might dash some hope Henrietta had harbored for years.
What a lovely difference time could make in a woman’s perspective.
Michael laid the cloth over the edge of the basin and crossed to the bed. “Won’t you join me, Henrietta?”
What need did the Irish have of coin when they had charm in such abundance? Michael sat on the edge of the bed wearing not a stitch of clothing, his arm extended in invitation. He was mildly aroused, and his smile balanced invitation with… hope?
Henrietta kept her dressing gown about her. She had no nightgown on underneath—why bother?—but neither did she want to parade about naked, and that too was a surprise.
“I’m all at sea,” she said, taking the place beside Michael on the bed. “I know how to be a courtesan. I know what a courtesan wants, how she plies her trade. But this…”
A courtesan never confided in her partner. She managed every encounter to ensure he would be comfortable confiding in her, and what a bloody lot of work that was. The physical intimacies were so much dusting and polishing compared to that heavy labor.
Michael took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you’re at sea, allow me to row you to shore. This is being lovers. You don’t need to impress me, please me, flatter me, or put my needs above your own. We share pleasure, as best we can, and then we share some sweet memories.”<
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“How simple.” How uncomplicated, honest, and wonderful—so why did Henrietta feel like crying?
Michael slid his palm along her jaw and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Simple and lovely. Will you get the candles? I’ll start warming up these sheets.”
How many times had Henrietta made love with the candles blazing? She couldn’t fall asleep that way—lit candles were a terrible fire hazard—though her partners had succumbed to slumber following their exertions with the predictability of horses rolling after a long haul under saddle.
She blew out the candles one by one. Michael had three sheaths soaking in water glasses on the bed table, and he’d already informed Henrietta that she was to notify him of any consequences from their encounter.
She suspected she was infertile, a courtesan’s dearest blessing, and for the first time, the idea bothered her. A baron needed an heir, not that Michael’s succession was any of her business.
“Come to bed, love,” Michael said as candle smoke joined the scent of peat in the night air. “Mind you don’t trip over that valise.”
Considerate of him. Henrietta hefted her traveling case onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, then shed her dressing gown and climbed into bed with… her first lover.
* * *
Hot wax dripped onto Josiah Whitlow’s hand and woke him. He’d fallen asleep at his desk for the third time in a week, or possibly the fourth. His housekeeper had given up scolding him for leaving the candles burning.
“Candles cost money,” he muttered, sitting up slowly, lest the ache in his back turn to the tearing pain that prevented sleep. The fire in the hearth had burned down—coal cost money too—and the house held the heavy, frigid silence of nighttime after a winter storm.
“You left me on such a night,” he muttered, gaze on the portrait over the mantel. Katie had died in March, after a late-season storm that had rattled the windows and made the chimneys moan. Josiah had known he was losing her since she’d failed to rally after a lung fever more than a year earlier. She’d never quite regained her strength after the birth of their younger boy.
