If what had been intimated were true, he couldn’t have asked for Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie to have a more priceless and ironic Achilles’ heel.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Madame Chamfleur Recommends
“YOU CAN TALK TO ME, my dear. About anything. It won’t go further than the two of us, and believe me, you won’t shock me at all.”
Well, that I can certainly believe.
Itching to smile, Beatrice kept her face straight. No, she probably couldn’t shock Sofia Chamfleur in the slightest. Not after that performance she’d witnessed last night.
How nice it was to do something normal like taking afternoon tea with a woman friend. With so many outré events taking place in the past twenty-four hours, Beatrice was beginning to wonder if she’d accidentally stumbled into a strange, debauched dreamworld, perhaps a very grown-up version of Mr. Lewis Carroll’s “Alice” adventures, where Ritchie and herself were the only two characters.
But if I’m Alice, who are you, Ritchie? Surely not the Mad Hatter or the anxious White Rabbit…in fact, that entire confection seems a bit whimsical for you.
Hungry, she reached for a slice of cake before rising to Sofia’s encouragement. Unsettled by what had transpired with Ritchie this morning, and by a traumatic confrontation with Charlie later, she hadn’t been able to eat her lunch. But now she was starving, and Cook’s seed cake was one of her more successful offerings.
“I’ve done something, Sofia. Something scandalous.” Beatrice paused to chew, and the other woman’s fine eyes widened, the ostrich feather on her smart chapeau bobbing as she leaned forward. “It’s even more daring than posing for those dratted photographs. Much more so…I can’t believe I’ve done it myself, but I have.”
Sofia Chamfleur sipped her tea, not once taking her eyes off Beatrice. She was clearly dying to know what the scandalous thing was, but she wasn’t a woman to press. Unlike some of the other members of the Ladies Sewing Circle, Sofia always waited patiently for the choicest items of gossip.
“I expect you know Mr. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie?”
Sofia’s mouth curved. “Indeed I do, Beatrice. He’s a good friend to Monsieur Chamfleur and I. A fine man indeed.” Her eyes narrowed and took on a knowing cast. “I saw you talking to him last night at Arabella’s do. What did you think of him? He’s very handsome, isn’t he?”
Beatrice took another bite of cake and chewed it quickly. Anything to fortify her. “Mr. Ritchie propositioned me last night. He offered me a large sum of money, and proposed to pay off all our debts provided I’d become his mistress for a month…and…um…do anything he wanted me to…in the bedroom.”
There. It was out. And she felt so much better. Laughter bubbled up and she couldn’t help but let it out. Sofia laughed too and reached out to pat Beatrice’s hand.
“Goodness, that is rather scandalous, isn’t it?” Her brown eyes were merry, and not in the slightest bit disapproving. Not that Beatrice had expected them to be. “And you said yes, I’m assuming? I do hope so, because he’s really a decent, generous man despite his reputation, and he’ll certainly honor his word in respect of the money.”
“I did say yes.” Beatrice shrugged. “After all, what have I got to lose? Those photographs have ruined my reputation and my standing in society, so I might as well be hung for a sheep as for a lamb. And we do so need the money. I simply couldn’t refuse it.”
Sofia nodded sagely. “Well, I shouldn’t worry about society, my dear. I have a large number of friends who are much more interesting than the usual cliques of nincompoops, and I can assure you’ll get plenty of invitations.” The older woman reached for the teapot as she spoke, and played mother, topping up both their cups. “The important thing is that you like Mr. Ritchie. You do like him, don’t you?”
Do I?
“I’m not sure what I feel about him, to be honest, Sofia. He’s…he’s not like anyone I’ve ever met before. He’s very forceful. He…well, he somehow bowls one over. It’s impossible to say no to him, regardless of one’s intentions and one’s misgivings.”
Sofia Chamfleur’s eyes glittered knowingly. “Ah, you do like him. I can tell. And who can blame you. He’s very handsome and virile, isn’t he?” She winked. “If I’d never met Monsieur Chamfleur, I might be tempted to set my cap at Ritchie myself.”
If Beatrice hadn’t been wearing her corset, she would have slumped like a badly set jelly. Sofia’s warm opinion of Ritchie was a relief. She was a shrewd woman and if she approved, he couldn’t be all that bad.
Sofia’s brown eyes narrowed and she pursed her lips. “Seriously though, Bea. I knew that Ritchie was interested in you. He has been since he saw your photograph.” Her chin came up and she gave Beatrice a very level glance. “Who do you think urged Arabella to invite you and Charles to the ball. You were asked to attend specifically in order for Ritchie to look you over.”
Beatrice frowned and took a gulp of tea. It was a bit too hot, and she felt as if she was burning up inside her layers of linen and whalebone and black silk foulard.
“You could have warned me, Sofia, although I imagine it wouldn’t have made any difference. Mr. Ritchie clearly always gets what he wants.” She paused for more tea. “But I do feel like a prize heifer that’s been paraded before the stud bull.” She put her cup aside and returned Sofia’s frank stare. “And I don’t know whether to feel insulted…or rather pleased with myself because I passed Mr. Ritchie’s inspection!”
“The London season is a cattle market even for the most prim and proper misses, Beatrice.” Sofia sat back a little, cocking her head on one side, her expression unapologetic. “At least your transaction with Ritchie is based on honesty. You both know what you’re getting out of it, with no subterfuge.”
Ah, the pragmatic view. Beatrice felt a flutter of guilt. Ritchie probably wasn’t getting exactly what he was expecting. So much for honesty.
She drew in a breath, wishing the Oolong was actually a rather large glass of sherry or Madeira.
“Ah, but I’m afraid Mr. Ritchie probably isn’t getting quite what he expected. I’m sure he thinks I’m brazen and experienced, posing like that…when in fact I’m not.”
Sofia frowned, then tapped her fingers together. “Ah, I had my suspicions. There’s a certain languid, somnolent quality about those postcards. Were you drugged? Tricked into posing?”
In another world, Beatrice might have collapsed onto Sofia’s bosom, sobbing uncontrollably and admitting all. But somehow, since last night, she wasn’t in that world and she was a very different person. Ritchie had changed her utterly. Much more so than anything Eustace Lloyd could have done to her, or even the loss of dear Tommy, when she’d lived back at Westerlynne.
The moment she’d set eyes on Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie she’d become the Siren of South Mulberry Street. Passion, and his fingers, had tempered her, made her strong and daring. The small matter of her virginity wasn’t going to prevent her from making the best of their arrangement and she certainly wasn’t about to admit she’d been drugged by Eustace Lloyd.
“Not drugged. Just a little champagne, to relax me. It was such a lovely afternoon, I think I may have nodded off.” Sofia looked dubious, so Beatrice hurried on. “But I’m still a virgin…well, technically. I’ve never had congress with a man, but I’ve had…um…feelings. And as a young woman, in the country, I rode astride a good deal, and I think that may have, well, affected me. If you get my meaning?”
Beatrice’s face flamed to what she guessed was approximately the color of Sofia’s deep rose pink walking dress.
The other woman’s smooth forehead puckered. “Well, thank goodness for that! At least you’re better prepared than most young women.” The pucker became a frown. “But this photographer… You’re absolutely sure he didn’t interfere with you?”
“No,
I’m quite sure he didn’t, he didn’t have the time. He seemed more interested in his precious plates…and—” she tripped on the words “—I certainly didn’t feel different afterward and I’m sure I would have been able to tell.”
“Good…that’s good.” Sofia leaned forward, patting Beatrice’s hand again. “You mustn’t associate the sensual act with shame and misfortune. Take it from me, it’s a source of exquisite pleasure and happiness, especially in the hands of an experienced lover like Ritchie. There’s nothing to fear. You must simply relax and keep a very open mind.”
An open mind, eh? Just what she’d deduced.
“Yes, that’s exactly what I plan to do, Sofia.” Still blushing, she felt oddly confident. “It seems to me that Mr. Ritchie is an imaginative man. Not one to confine himself to the more conventional…um…pastimes.” She fixed her friend with what she hoped was a knowledgeable look.
Sofia laughed. “He is indeed, but I’ll wager he’s met his match in you, Beatrice. I think you and he will do very well together.” The older woman nodded her head, as if making a decision. “But I think you need a little help. A little guidance. And fortunately I’m just the woman you need for that. Now let’s have another cup of tea and while we drink it, we’ll make some plans.”
Over the next thirty minutes, Beatrice’s jaw dropped a dozen times.
Madame Chamfleur, it seemed, ran an establishment for ladies who wished to learn more about all matters erotic. Furthermore, it also catered to wives who weren’t receiving adequate fulfillment in their marriage beds and were looking to obtain it elsewhere. And a good many of the Sewing Circle members were amongst Sofia’s regular patrons.
No wonder the talk there is so frisky! You sly old devil, Sofia. I do believe you run something very like a brothel for ladies. And yet you look so demure and just like a respectable married woman. Who would ever have guessed?
“You must come to our house in Hampstead for a little tuition, my dear.” Sofia beamed. “Don’t look so alarmed. I’m merely suggesting you study certain publications we have there, and perhaps view a demonstration or two.”
Demonstrations? Good grief!
“But you live in Belgravia, round the corner.”
“Ah, but I mean our other house. The one my husband owned before our marriage. It has always been his place of business since he took over the establishment from his mother.”
“It’s a family business?” Whatever next?
“Indeed, the original Madame Chamfleur, God rest her soul, was most progressive.” Sofia took out a small leather-covered notebook from her capacious handbag. “Yes, you must come on Wednesday. We’ll make a day of it. I’ll take you to my modiste and my cosmetician and we’ll have a tour of all the best stores, then retire to Hampstead for spot of late lunch and a little education.” She jotted in her book, then snapped it shut with a satisfied smile.
But when she slid the book back into her bag, she looked more solemn and pursed her lips.
“Now, that’s all settled. But I must ask you something more serious. Does your brother know what’s occurring? He will have to know sometime, otherwise how will you explain your sudden good fortune?”
Beatrice’s heart sank. This was something she’d been trying not to think about. The confrontation with Charlie over her “arrangements” had not been pleasant, but she’d been compelled into it almost immediately, because her brother had seen Ritchie leaving this morning.
“He knows. And alas, having to tell him wasn’t very nice.”
Charlie’s face had been a picture of outrage when she’d blurted out the reason for Ritchie’s visit and what she’d agreed to. He’d shouted and stormed about, looking pale and flushed by turns as Beatrice had revealed the reality of the situation to him.
“I think it was having to accept the fact that he’s let me down that hurts him the most, rather than me letting him down with such a brazen act of impropriety.” Beatrice pleated the silk of her skirt between her fingers, still seeing the bleak resignation dawning in Charlie’s eyes as she’d staunchly pressed home the fact that her solution to their terrible debts was probably the only one available. “In an ideal world, it would be kinder to him if there was some other way to salvage our finances. But alas there isn’t and he’s got to accept a more radical solution.”
“And did he?” said Sofia quietly.
“Yes, I believe so. He seems resigned. He knows he’s failed as my guardian and protector and provider, but at least he seems to have the wisdom not to resist.”
Poor Charlie, he’d looked like the survivor of a storm at sea by the time she’d finished with him, but he’d hugged her and, despite tears in his eyes, he’d thanked her for her courage.
Beatrice bit her lip. “I hadn’t the heart to tell him that I was planning to enjoy my scandalous month. It didn’t seem appropriate. He’d be even more upset. He’d probably think I’ve descended into the pit.”
“Well, he’s to blame for your financial embarrassments, Beatrice. He must accept that responsibility.”
“Oh, he does…he does. And I think he’s learned his lesson.” Beatrice let out a breath, a sigh. “And I think in a strange way, he does feel better that we’ve faced our problems. In fact, I expected him to start over again when I told him about Ritchie’s disposition of our household arrangements, but instead he seemed positively perky. Especially when I told him we’d be getting a new domestic steward for a while. There’s a lot to be said for losing the weight of responsibility and the chains of all our debts.”
“Indeed there is, indeed there is,” Sophia concurred. “It’ll all work out for the best for both of you, I’m sure. And in the meantime, my dear, you should enjoy your scandalous month. It’s the chance of a lifetime. A daring, delicious adventure with a daring, delicious man.” The older woman smiled creamily. “And you should start out by preparing yourself for Ritchie’s return…anticipating him, and the pleasure he’ll give you.” Sophia gave a broad wink. “I recommend you spend some time thinking about him at night while you’re falling asleep, if you take my meaning?”
For the second time in their tea party, Beatrice couldn’t help laughing out loud.
She did take Sofia’s meaning and she was determined to “anticipate” Ritchie in exactly the way she’d suggested.
After all, it was precisely what the man himself wanted her to do.
* * *
RITCHIE THREW HIMSELF down into the armchair in his private sitting room. The Royal Northern Hotel in Leeds was well-appointed, almost a home away from home, but after a long day, it was difficult to relax. He’d exerted iron discipline over himself during his trip. Compelled himself to focus on his business affairs. It’d been a challenge, but the negotiations had gone smoothly, with exactly the outcome he’d planned for. With some investment in better conditions for the workers, the newly purchased mill would make him a considerable amount of money. He always found that people labored more productively and were more loyal when they were well paid, well fed and kept safer.
The irony of that made him laugh out loud.
Oh Beatrice, I wish you were here. Maybe I should have requested you travel with me?
Perhaps not, though. It would have been difficult to hold his own amongst hard-bargaining Yorkshire men, knowing that temptation was back at his hotel, warm and waiting. As it was, he’d had a capital expedition and achieved his goal in less time than anticipated. And tomorrow, he’d take the railway back south again to his reward.
But he hadn’t left Beatrice behind entirely. He’d charged Jamie to manage her household, and Sofia Chamfleur to amuse and entertain her in his absence; and he’d brought with him the nearest approximation to her company.
The album containing her naked poses.
With a twist of the lips, he drew it toward him on the mahogany table next to his
chair. Very well, he was obsessed with her, but he wasn’t ashamed of that. Flipping open the leather-bound cover, he exposed the pages with the same reverent finger that had stroked Beatrice the other morning. It tingled as he flipped up the translucent protective sheet and displayed his new mistress in all her luscious unclothed glory.
Mine, was his immediate thought. All mine.
But that was absurd. Nobody really belonged to anybody, and if they did, Beatrice was the least likely candidate for possession. That was what stimulated him about her, now that he knew her, as much if not more than her physical beauty.
He did want pleasure in her though. Everything. Every variation from heights of sophisticated perversion to the lusty depths of animal coupling.
The anticipation was almost too much for him, and the book of images lay unstudied. Instead, he saw Beatrice spread against a white-covered bed, her creamy body flushed with pleasure, her incendiary hair spread in a sea of wild waves across the pillow. As he plowed her, she was growling his name and gouging at his back with her sharp, hard nails. The points of pain only excited him all the more.
“You are a siren, you are, my beautiful girl,” he growled himself, throwing open his quilted robe and grabbing his cock. The heat from the well-tended fire was warm on his skin, but it wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been sitting in an icehouse. All that was important was his fantasy, and his hand.
His fingers curled around his length and he began to pump, struggling to keep the strokes long and even and not to snatch at pleasure and it be over in a moment. If only it were her delicate hand handling his flesh. He imagined the dainty touch of her slender fingertips, her hold, so light and yet so tantalizing, gliding over him. She’d find the sweetest spots, and explore and tease them as she kissed him. Her mouth would taste of champagne…or maybe tea.
Like a boy in a confectionery shop, he switched to another delicacy—her exquisite back and bottom presented to him, as she knelt, her face pressed against the pillow.
In the Flesh Page 13
