Bloody hell. A man could go crazy playing mental games with women. Edward should have just gone to whatever bloody nest of debauchery Smith had wanted to take him to.
That thought gave him pause. He’d been too consumed with thoughts of Nora during that short carriage ride to even ask the other man where he normally went. He’d learned from questioning Louise that Smith had only come to Tosca’s twice, to her knowledge. She said he’d gone with a different woman each time, neither one Nora.
Perhaps he should find out the name of the place Smith usually patronized? Lord knows he’d gotten nothing but aggravation last night. Nor had he enjoyed the last dozen trips to the Bellaire. Perhaps if he could go someplace new he would be able to forget. And if he could forget, he could get back to his life.
Edward frowned at the direction of his thoughts: all heading to Nora. Again.
Good God. All he did was try to devise ways to forget that little bitch.
By the time he reached his large townhouse he was gritting his teeth so hard his head ached.
As he tossed his hat, coat, and cane to the footman in his foyer it occurred to him—along with a gut-wrenching surge of despair—that he might very well go mad. Or, he considered as he marched up the stairs toward his chambers, he might simply lose his mental acuity. His partners would likely reject him from the syndicate—it took the vote of all three—he would whore, gamble, or drink away all his money and still have that gaping void inside him.
Edward flung open the door to his chambers and almost slammed into Nelson, his valet, who’d obviously been about to exit.
The other man stepped back from the door. “Good morning, Mr. Fanshawe.”
“I’ll undress myself—I won’t need you until later.” God knows he didn’t need a witness to his imminent mental breakdown.
“Very good, sir.”
Edward tossed both coat and waistcoat onto the floor; they reeked of whatever bloody perfume the two whores had been drenched in. Edward positively despised scent. Nora only ever smelled of soap when she came to him.
But after she’d spent an evening with him? Well . . . His lips curled into a smile as he pulled his shirt over his head. When she left him she smelled like sweat and fucking and Edward.
You’re thinking of her again.
“Bloody hell,” Edward muttered as he realized even that brief flash of memory had caused his cock to stir. How was it possible that thoughts of her could be so potent? It wasn’t as if he’d not ejaculated in weeks, he’d climaxed last night—twice—but it hadn’t been easy or even pleasurable. In fact, if he’d been at any other whorehouse he simply would have paid and then left. The only reason he’d made the effort last night was that he loathed the thought that word might get back to Nora that he’d not been able to get it up.
He dropped into a chair and roughly toed the heel of his boot, ruining the expensive leather heels with his anger and impatience. Dammit. He should have had Nelson pull them off before he’d dismissed him.
Edward grimaced with discomfort as he stood, unbuttoned his trousers, shoving them to the floor before stepping out of them, his tumescent organ springing up at him. Even when he locked all thoughts of Nora in the back of his mind she managed to keep him in a persistent state of arousal. Edward glared at his annoying cockstand and strode to the four crystal decanters he kept in his sitting room. And that was another thing—he’d begun to drink more than he liked, and he didn’t even feel that it helped his foul mood most of the time. Yet he drank anyhow.
He poured himself three fingers of the best brandy money could buy and threw it back like it was cheap ale. He grit his teeth with pleasure at the burn and considered another before setting the glass down with a thump. No, he’d not become a sot for that woman.
That bloody woman.
It was pathetic, but what he wanted to do was close the drapes, crawl into bed, and fist himself raw with the memory of that two-second meeting he’d shared with her in the hallway.
His cock jumped at the memory—nothing but a quick glance and her pale eyes scored him like nails in the dim hallway of the whorehouse.
“Ah, Christ,” he groaned as he rose to full hardness.
❈❈❈
Edward didn’t see Smith for almost two weeks after that night at Tosca’s. He’d not been avoiding the man—although that probably wouldn’t have been a bad idea given the amount of enraged curiosity he battled about Smith’s night with Nora—but hadn’t seen him because Smith had been out of town.
They’d had a problem at one of their cloth factories up in the North and Smith—who had methods of suppressing worker disturbances the rest of them didn’t want to delve into too deeply—had gone to contain the problem.
Edward had kept his nose to the grindstone since Tosca’s, keeping away from drink, whores, and entertainment in general. But he’d finally had enough and accepted Chatham’s invitation to cards tonight at Number 14.
It had been a good night, as far as such things went, and Smith was in an exceptionally good mood as he’d just won an obscene sum of money from some idiot with more dosh than brains.
Banks and Chatham had left much earlier, but Edward had hung about playing cards long after he wanted to be gone, just because he didn’t want to go home to his empty house. Nor did he wish to go to Tosca’s, the Bellaire, or the half dozen other establishments he knew about.
Part of his brain, he realized as the evening wore on—wore being the operative word—wondered about asking Smith—in the most casual way possible, of course—the name of the place he frequented.
He should have known that subterfuge never worked with the bloody man, who seemed to have some kind of mind-reading powers.
“I sense you are waiting for me,” he said, grinning at Edward as he gathered all his markers into a huge pile. “You look like a man who desperately needs to get his knob polished.” Before Edward could answer he pushed up from the table and summoned a nearby waiter. “Take this to Malcolm and tell him I want it in small denominations.” Malcolm was the manager of Number 14 and saw to the house’s bank.
“Of course, Mr. Smith.”
“Well, it just so happens I’m in the mood for some. . . diversion myself, Fanshawe. Want to try something new?”
Edward shrugged, determined to appear casual. “Why not?” he said as they descended the sweeping staircase and made their way to the cloakroom, where Malcolm himself awaited them.
“Good evening, Mr. Smith, Mr. Fanshawe.” The youngish, rotund manager turned to Smith. “Here you are, sir.” He handed Smith a roll of banknotes, bowed, and left them.
“How much?” Edward asked as the Smith slipped into the very plain and very expensive black cashmere wool coat a servant held out for him.
“A little over two.”
Edward gave a low whistle; two thousand pounds was a pretty haul for an evening’s work. He knew the toffs never asked each other how much they won or lost, but his business associates were men from the gutter who enjoyed sharing their successes.
Smith’s carriage was waiting for him when they stepped out into the frigid night. Edward tipped the doormen while Smith climbed inside his luxurious town coach. Like everything Smith owned the coach was black on black. He knew Smith owned a house somewhere in London, but he’d never seen it. He imagined it as a dreary cavern of a place with black floors, black walls, black—
“I have to thank you for your referral at Tosca’s,” Smith said, his voice smooth and uninflected in the darkness of the carriage.
“Oh?” It was all Edward could manage to squeeze out when what he really wanted to do was grab the man by the throat and shake the truth of that bloody night out of him.
Smith chuckled, the sound evil. “Oh, indeed. Nora turned out to be just exactly what I like.”
The inside of the coach seemed to become suffocating. Edward had to clench his jaws to keep the words back, reminding himself he didn’t want to know. That he would pay good money not to know. That—
“I had such a lovely time I stopped by again the very night I got back from Manchester. And then again last night.” Edward felt his self-control fraying like the strands of a poorly braided rope. Smith gave a low, primitive grunt and said, “I just can’t get enough of that—”
“So why aren’t you going there tonight?” Edward demanded, his pulse pounding in his temples.
“Ah, well, variety is the spice of life. Besides, when a friend waits all night for you to take him out whoring—”
“I wasn’t waiting for you,” Edward gritted out.
Smith laughed in a way that made Edward’s hands clench. “What is the name of this place?” he asked before Smith said something that made Edward kill him.
“Bernina’s.”
Edward frowned in the darkness. “I thought that closed some time ago?”
“It did, but it moved to a new home and re-opened late last year.” He paused and then added, “You might have noticed if you’d not been so . . . busy with other matters.”
Edward bit down on his retort, refusing to feed the man’s curiosity any more than he’d already done.
After a moment, Smith continued. “It’s a very small establishment that caters to unusual tastes.”
Edward’s cock, which had only responded to thoughts of Nora for days and days, began to stir.
He cleared his throat. “Unusual, how?”
“Oh, a variety of ways—I wouldn’t want to spoil it for you.”
Before Edward could tell him to quit being a tosser and just tell him, the carriage rolled to a stop.
The building looked remarkably like Tosca’s, which was to say the type of place you’d never notice unless you knew where to look.
They mounted a half dozen steps and the door opened before they knocked. An exceptionally tall, thin woman stood just inside, in a very elegant foyer.
“Welcome back, Mr. Smith,” she said in a low voice.
“Ah, Cecile, how lovely to see you—it’s been a while. I understand you had family come to visit. I hope that was enjoyable.”
The woman gave a low chuckle as she and another servant—a very young boy dressed in livery—helped them with their coats, hats, and gloves.
“Ah, family. So good to see them, but even better to see the back of them.”
Smith laughed. But Edward, who’d grown up in a workhouse, failed to see the humor.
“Did you wish for your usual tonight, Mr. Smith?” Cecile asked as she escorted them up a broad flight of stairs.
“No, I think I shall try the Rose Salon.”
Cecile paused before saying. “Of course. I think you’ll be very pleased with the selection tonight.”
“What’s the usual?” Edward asked Smith as the two of them followed the madam to a set of double doors.
Smith just chuckled.
Cecile opened the right-hand door and ushered them into a large sitting room where a handful of women, all garbed in rich silk dressing gowns, were scattered about. A couple were reading, several were chatting, and one appeared to be bent over needlework close to a brace of candles.
They all stopped what they were doing when the door opened.
Edward paused, standing back as Smith smiled and greeted several of the women by name.He bestowed kisses all around and then turned to Edward. “This is my good friend Edward. He’s never been here before.”
Edward nodded at the women, pleased to see they wore very little face paint and all appeared clean and well-groomed.
Smith cocked his head and grinned. “I tell you what, Edward, why don’t I choose for you? After all, you were so kind as to choose for me that last time.” Without waiting for an answer Smith said, “Victoria, I think.”
A smallish woman with dark straight hair and exotic eyes stepped forward and offered her hand to Edward. He took it but looked at Smith who was grinning more than usual. Edward couldn’t help feeling there was something . . . off with the other man.
“Now, who shall I pick for me? Hmmmm.” He tapped his chin with one finger, as if deep in thought. “Ah, is that Emma I see hiding in the back?” The women parted to reveal a woman Edward had somehow missed seeing.
The room seemed to tilt slightly when she fixed her pale blue eyes on him.
The resemblance was astonishing: it could have been Nora’s sister. Same slight build, same pale, narrow face, same straw-colored hair. Same impenetrable expression.
“Yes, Emma,” Smith’s voice brought Edward back to himself. “I think Emma will do very well for me tonight.” The sly note in his voice pulled Edward’s eyes from the girl.
Why the devious little bastard.
Smith took the girl’s outstretched hand and kissed the back of it. Only then glancing up at Edward. “Are you quite satisfied with my selection, old man?”
Edward seethed inside, but managed a pleasant, “Excellent choice, Smith.”
Smith chuckled and led Emma toward the door. Victoria took Edward’s hand and guided him after them.
Edward had assumed Cecile would take Smith and his disturbing companion to their room and then show him to another, where he’d likely spend the night imagining the swine with Nora’s bloody look-alike.
Cecile led them to a set of doors on the third floor. She flung both open, exposing a room that resembled some eastern potentate’s harem. “Will this do?”
“This is exactly what we wanted, Cecile,” Smith said, having to stand on his toes to kiss the tall woman’s cheek. Edward saw an odd look pass between the two, but he was too distracted at the notion of sharing a room with Smith and his Nora-whore.
“Come in, come in,” Smith said, waving to the room behind him, which was filled with padded divans, chaises, and piles of cushion in lush silks and decadent colors.
When Edward hesitated Smith cocked his head. “Oh, I’m sorry—you don’t mind sharing, do you Edward? I thought we might make a party of it.”
Edward stared into Smith’s black-as-hell eyes, warning bells going off in his head at the other man’s hard, challenging smile.
He should have turned and ran.
But, idiot that he was, Edward heard himself say, “It would be a pleasure.” And then he entered the room.
Chapter Seven
Smith’s thin lips curved into a carnivorous smile. “Excellent,” he said, turning to Victoria. “I see some champagne on ice near the bed, darling. Why don’t you strip off that gown and go fetch us a glass.” Smith’s hands were already at his cravat.
Victoria tugged on her sash and shrugged out of her robe exposing a curvaceous body with full hips and a tiny waist. When she turned to lay her robe across the back of the chair Edward stared first at her luscious breasts and then at her sex. A noise of surprise escaped him at what he saw. She’d been shaved of all hair and a small silver ring glistened between her plump, smooth lips. He cut a quick look at Smith, who smiled at him.
“Lovely, isn’t she? Why don’t you show Edward your pretty little jewel, my dear.”
Victoria used her delicate fingers to spread her lips.
“Christ,” Edward muttered, as hard as a bloody pike.
Smith laughed and swatted her ass. “Drinks, my dear.” When she went trotting off, her bottom bouncing fetchingly, Smith tossed his waistcoat on top of Victoria’s robe, his eyes moving to Edward’s side. “Emma, has the same—show him, Emma.”
Edward had avoided looking at the quiet whore but now she stepped between him and Smith. She pulled the sash on her sapphire blue robe, letting it puddle on the ground. Edward sucked in a breath: her breasts were just slightly larger and her hips more rounded than Nora’s but the resemblance was uncanny. The only real difference was her sex, which was smooth and hairless with a silver ring protruding from between her lips. Like Victoria she spread herself for his viewing. Edward dropped to his haunches, mesmerized. The ring pierced the thin bit of flesh that protected her clitoris. He reached out a finger, which looked obscenely big and dark against the delicate pink of her skin, and lightly stroked the r
ing.
A shudder went through her body and he looked up to find her lids heavy over her light blue eyes.
“It feels good, doesn’t it, Emma?” Smith asked. Edward saw that he was naked as he came to stand behind Emma. He laid his hands on her shoulders and looked down at Edward. “The ring brings her pleasure when she becomes aroused.” His hands slid down Emma’s back and reemerged beneath her arms, snaking beneath them and lightly cupping her small breasts.
Edward swallowed, unable to take his eyes from Smith’s hands. His olive skin tone was more noticeable against Emma’s milky white skin, and his hands—long fingered and elegant—caressed the undersides of her slight breasts, bringing her tiny nipples to tight points.
“Go on,” he urged Edward, the nostrils of his narrow, blade-like nose flaring as he stroked. “Taste her—I don’t mind sharing.”
Edward’s mouth flooded and his eyes dropped to her pierced sex, only inches from his face.
“Open yourself to him, Emma,” Smith urged.
Edward’s heart was pounding so loudly in his ears he wondered if it would do his hearing permanent damage.
Slender white fingers pulled apart her plump lips and he sucked in a breath at the slick pinkness she exposed.
“She needs release, Edward.”
Smith’s voice was mesmerizing and compelling and Edward leaned forward and flicked the silver ring with his tongue.
The groan that issued from her small body made his head spin.
“Again,” a soft, hissing voice commanded.
Edward dropped from his haunches to his knees taking her slim hips in his hands and lowering his mouth over her engorged peak.
She shivered beneath his mouth and hands, her fingers pulling her lips wider.
It was unfortunate that she tasted, felt, and sounded different enough from Nora to keep him from slipping entirely into his fantasy, but she was responsive and her needy whimpers spurred him on. There was also the knowledge, lurking at the back of his mind, hiding in the shadows, that Smith was watching him. The disturbing thought sent a sharp arrow of arousal to his already hard cock, he seized her narrow hips hard enough to leave bruises and lost himself in her.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 7
