by Elsa Holland
“I understand this is usually in triplicate?”
“These are our copies; yours and mine.”
“And the Hurleys?”
“The Hurleys and I have already undertaken an agreement which allows the details of this arrangement to be between the two of us. The usual conventions will apply but the proceeds will go fully to you.”
“All to me?”
“Yes, but I have also taken some liberties with the usual agreement to suit my needs.”
“I see. And what are these extra ‘liberties’?”
He was silent for a few minutes, simply looking at her.
“I want you to live here.”
She straightened her back. Collectors who did not have sexual favors housed their Painted Sisters as the Sisters preferred.
“That is impossible. I am needed at the house.”
“Your position as governess will be filled, I understand. I see no impediment to you being based here.”
The fact that what she was undertaking in its nature meant a companion was not necessary, that her reputation was irrelevant, or ruined, depending on which circles she moved in. But that wasn’t what made his suggestion an impossibility.
“I am sorry but that point is non-negotiable. The girls are my motivation for considering this arrangement. I want to stay close to them and, as I no longer have a position, agreeing to this arrangement is the only way I can see to achieve that. If this arrangement cannot give me that, it is of no value to me.”
There was a slight narrowing of his eyes.
“You are here because of your desire to stay close to your students?”
“Yes.”
There was an almost indiscernible hardening around his face.
“The access you mentioned in your note.”
“Yes.”
“And the gun?”
“It’s not to use on you.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Then for . . .?”
“Every woman needs protection Mr. Blackburn.”
“You will be under my protection, Miss James.”
“That will not be enough.”
He was silent.
“Can you shoot?” he asked.
“As well as I can fence.”
He nodded and walked over to the sideboard, withdrawing a box from inside.
Returning to the desk, he placed it down and opened it. Inside was a pistol, beautifully carved bullets and a small holster.
“It goes on the thigh.”
She grinned before she could stop herself. It was much better than she had expected.
“That will do very nicely. Thank you.”
He remained silent as she closed the lid of the wooden pistol box and drew it to her side of the desk, rather possessively.
“Yes. What else should know I about the contract?”
Tension eased out of his chest and he tugged his waistcoat, crossed his legs and began to list the contracts remaining terms.
“I will select the design and tattoo artist and you will have one last chance to veto after my preferred designs are presented. Once you accept and the design completed, your skin will be mine until your death. As per the usual agreements, on your death, the skin that bears the design work will be flayed, preserved and presented either to myself or my heir.”
Her muscles tightened at the thought. She would be dead, it shouldn’t matter, yet it was such a macabre thought. Though it was common practice for people to make skin books for their loved ones, for family bibles to be covered in a patriarch’s skin after his death, it still sounded rather unsavory.
“I will expect a showing twelve times a year . . .” Blackburn continued.
“That is excessive. Most of the girls are required to attend their collector four to five times a year. Six is the most frequent arrangement we have had to date.”
“Twelve times is my requirement and I have adjusted the payment accordingly. All expenses involved in getting you to and from the visits will be mine to cover and any trips that are further than the city limits of greater London will be coordinated one month in advance.”
He gave her time to follow along with what he was saying. There were quite a few more pages to cover.
“And?” she asked.
“I have covered the area of your sexual availability.”
Heat ran up over her chest.
“I understand that is something the Painted Sisters may choose to give or not.”
“And there is also a large sum of money for your virtue.”
“We can remove that from the contract.” Her shoulders pulled back.
“It is standard practice that the Painted Sisters are paid for their virtue and that their favors are then given freely or not as they please. The same rights are in our contract, although a separate contract would be drafted in that event.”
“I will never say yes.”
“I believe the contract makes it clear the choice is yours.”
She nodded and looked back down at the papers, reading further to check that the details were reflected in the paperwork. They were but there was something else. He voiced it before she could ask.
“There is also the verification of said virtue before completion of the contract and acquisition.”
Verification of said virtue before completion of the contract.
They were signing the contract now . . .
“Tonight? We need to verify my virtue tonight?” Tightness clamped around her chest, making it hard to breath.
There was that taut look about his jaw again. “Yes,” he said.
Her heart thudded. Medicos had examined her before; it was not pleasant but it something she would be able to do.
“It says here that you may handle the art as part of your rights.” Her head tilted in question at him.
He looked over to the door, pulled his fob out of his waistcoat pocket then looked over at her.
“Yes.”
She placed the contract down. The sums it contained would make her a very wealthy woman.
“Yes, what does that mean exactly?”
“It means exactly as it says Miss James. I will make a work of art and I would like the right to handle it as I would a Ming vase or a bronze statue.”
“But that would be me.”
“No, Miss James, that would be your skin. You would be incidental.”
Incidental.
There was a soft knock at the door and it opened with the announcement that supper was served in the dining room.
Chapter 11
Supper progressed far too slowly. The food, Blackburn knew, tasted remarkable, yet it could have been gutter scraps as far as his palate was concerned. All his senses had abandoned him, except for his vision. Behind veiled lenses, his eyes took her in like a parched man taking water, as if her image was the nectar of the gods.
Miss James sat at the other end of the long dining table, eating his food, wearing the gown he had bought her, and wriggling uncomfortably on the chair he owned. And as each second ticked by on the clock, they both waited for that moment after this farce of a dinner, where she would sign the contract that would make her body his. He had to admire the fact that there was no shake in her hands, though he expected nothing less from a woman who fenced. Put a sharp implement in her hand and she would have it in position for defense.
The situation generated a perverse pleasure, watching her discomfort as she stood at a precipice. He knew that feeling, knew what it was like to stand at a life-changing fork in the road.
Miss James was fighting with her desire to run as far away from him as possible and her reasons for staying. Reasons he actually didn’t care to know about, apart from the fact that they were compelling enough for her to be here now, and perhaps, compelling enough for him to convince her to let him have her, all of her.
That was the fact of the matter. He wanted her, and not just her skin. He had seen her and, despite younger and perhaps more attractive alternatives, he wanted her.
She,
and she alone, would do.
Although any of the girls presented to him would be a successful Painted Sister, none of that would have swayed him but the woman herself.
She and she alone had sealed her fate.
He could tell himself any range of evidentiary facts, any range of sound, logical reasons why he had chosen her.
The reality was that he simply wanted her.
Miss James was holding herself stiffly, the weight of her decision clearly visible. Should he keep her on edge or help her relax? He placed his cutlery down and gave up the pretense he was actually hungry.
There was still a lot to cover tonight. Things she would struggle with.
Just this once he decided he would give her what she needed. Besides, there was a strategic advantage in letting her experience her own power, fueling and filling that core of resolve that was tapped when faced with a difficult hurdle. He would be pushing her past her comfort levels before the night was out, and given that he didn’t want her bolting on him, building her confidence was critical.
So he leaned back in his chair with a glass in his hand and quoted a decent repertoire of the romantics at his delightful Miss James and, taunted her to defend them. And defend them she did. With each verbal thrust and parry, her cheeks flushed and her breasts lifted and fell to reflect the tenor of her argument; a sight he was only able to catch in his peripheral vision.
The key to a good taunt relied on the recipient feeling that they were an opponent of equal value. He demonstrated this by holding her gaze whenever she presented her views, and replying with enough candor to make her feel he wasn’t manipulating her.
In truth, he didn’t care one way or the other the fate of the romantics, nor the other causes he teased her with, such as the social standing of women. He did care about the homeless youth but she, as well as most of those with enough funds to make a difference, held such naive views of the actualities to make discussion with them meaningless.
The thing he learned very early on that do-gooders didn’t seem to understand, was that hope got you killed, it was the biggest threat to those on the street, children in particular. It made you soft and it made you a target. The irony was that, without it, you couldn’t crawl out. So you didn’t kill your hope to survive because in doing so you killed the very thing that could pull you out into a different and better world. Yet to survive you needed to bury it deep so deep it never tripped you up when you were operating on pure instinct, yet not so far that the burning heat of it in the far hidden background kept you pushing to find something better, much better than you could possibly imagine. Anger, on the other hand, you wore on your sleeve. It got you through everything, if you used it with a clear focused mind.
For some people, it was pure luck that saved them, but in most cases, for people like him, it was anger—anger and sheer determination—that lead you out. Blackburn never let those evangelical types talk him out of the power of anger; it was a super fuel and for someone with discipline it was an endless well of focus and drive. It was ugly, it was dark and but it could make you change anything you focused your mind on. And once you got a few wins, that fuel changed to power. Power was far less volatile and a thousand times more intoxicating.
In no time, the plates were cleared and the meal service was at its end. His well of power pulsed with what was yet to come. Pleasure threatened to crease the corners of his eyes but he stilled all expression and pushed his chair back. For the first time this evening, his heart started to beat a little harder.
“Shall we, Miss James?”
He walked behind her chair. A soft fragrance that was mixed with the heat of her body filled his lungs. A power she was not even aware she had. Her chin came up as he drew the chair back for her and she rose. Pride, the inevitable hurdle. The curve of her neck, the luster of her hair and the pale beauty of her skin caused a satisfied wave to ripple under his skin. He had selected well.
Thighs tightened and his belly clutched as he led her back to his study, a coiling of muscles before a strike. Blackburn walked next to her, their shoes a strange asymmetric staccato on the marble floor.
His Miss James didn’t say anything and he didn’t fill the silence.
At the study door, they stopped.
“It’s not too late to head home. Pack your suitcase and scurry away.”
Her eyes narrowed. “I don’t make my decisions lightly, Mr. Blackburn.”
Blackburn inclined his head, and a hum of satisfaction sat in his chest as he replied. “I’m pleased to hear it.”
He opened the door and his beauty walked through with all the pride and poise of the aristocracy. A quick glance confirmed the contract lay on his desk along with a pen. He closed the door behind him.
“Port?” he asked.
Blackburn walked over to the sideboard and poured them both a port while she looked at his bookcases. They did not contain the books he was most passionate about, the ones he read regularly were in his bedroom. Yet the ones here were enough for her to see that he was not an idiot. He may have crawled out of the mud, may have redefined himself so many times that who he was and where he came from was now long lost, but he had educated himself. He had reached out into the minds of others and built a world on the inside, of knowledge, of the arts of engineering, banking, science and travel, that he treasured beyond everything he owned.
“No, thank you.” Her fingers ran over the spines of gold embossed leather. He’d done that a thousand times with his first book.
Blackburn walked over to her and handed her the port. “I suggest you drink it, it will help you deal with the final tasks of the evening.”
She took it and her cheeks reddened. “The contract.”
She threw the port back, causing him to smile inwardly
He took the glasses back to the sideboard then went back to her and slipped his hand under her elbow and moved her over to his desk then pulled out the chair for her and stood there as she slowly sank down into the oversized leather chair.
She reached out, picked up his pen and played with it as she reread the papers. He looked over her shoulder; watched as those slender fingers ran innocently over the shape of the pen. From where he stood behind her, he could look, unnoticed, at her round white breasts pressed against the blue-black satin of her dress. A color that made the milkiness of her skin glow like a pearl.
Devastating.
Perfect.
Her thumb worked the cap off the fountain pen. She adjusted the sheets. Sighed and then dipped her head slightly as she signed her name and dated it. A sudden rush flew through him. His hands flexed as he fought to stop himself from touching what was almost his. Miss James proceeded to initial all the individual sheets. She pushed the chair back.
“I believe you need to sign now.”
He walked back to the sideboard and poured another glass of port. His hand shook. He put the glass down and turned back to her, making sure his face was schooled.
“I would be delighted to sign, Miss James, after we complete the final element.”
She moved around from the desk, running her hands over her skirt. “I am happy to see a physician first thing in the morning,” she said. She looked up at him and must have sensed something because she stilled.
His heart beat faster.
“I have the right to see the Canvas before I sign. Ensure it is unblemished.”
She looked at him, trying to process what he said. He knew by the absence of any red flush on her skin that she had not yet understood what he had said.
Her forehead creased.
Her head tilted and then the color came flooding over her chest up her neck and full into her face.
He curled his fingers into his palms and pushed the nails into the flesh to hold himself in place, to keep his expression exactly as it should be. Cool and disinterested.
She stepped back, the desk behind her. Her hand reached out and went to its surface, seemingly taking support from it.
“Now?” There was disb
elief in her voice, even though he had covered this before supper.
“It is a common procedure.”
“Yes, yes I know.” Her voice was a whisper.
Blackburn willed himself to move. He went to the door. Although no one would disturb them, he clicked the lock on the door closed, then dimmed the gas lights down to a shadowy glow. He moved over to her, a tightness in his chest and heat rippling through every muscle.
She turned away from him. “I don’t think I can.”
Another whisper from his usually feisty beauty. The vulnerability of it sent an ache low and deep.
He reached out to place a hand on her arm then leaned closer, careful not to crowd her.
“Let me help you.”
She stood there as his fingers worked to unlaced her. Painted Sisters were trained to overcome modesty and, of course, a Collector would want to view what they would be paying to gaze on. Every man had his own preferences and, given the money and permanency of the arrangement, it was best to check that all factors were correct before the deal went too far.
The blue dress slipped off with surprising ease.
“You have practiced this.” Elspeth stepped out of the puddle of silk at her feet.
“That’s not really important here, is it, Miss James?”
No, it wasn’t. It wasn’t her that he wanted. Not Elspeth. She was simply a canvas.
She stood in her smalls.
Blackburn started to unlace her chemise.
Her hands reached up and stilled his.
“I don’t understand, why me? I am not even prepared for this. Not even happy about it. The girls . . . they are so beautiful.”
She had felt beautiful tonight but that was all seeping away.
“Maturity is a highly underrated quality Miss James, and you are the only candidate the Hurleys were able to present. My pickings were slim.”
That sent a hard shard of reality through her. He had no choice but to select her, he had not wanted her.
“You could ask them to find someone more suitable.”
“Time is the most precious of commodities,” he replied.
“But considering what you are about to create, surely that deserves the time to find exactly what you want?”
