He shook out the cloak, pleased by the way it had turned out. “I understand the fur goes on the inside,” he told her, draping it fur-side down on her shoulders and exposing the thick crème-colored velvet that was quite beautiful, but nowhere near as luxurious. The clasp was hammered silver and necessarily heavy to hold the substantial garment closed.
He opened the hatbox and offered it to her. “You’ll have to manage this as hats are quite beyond me.”
It was a tiny confection of matching fur and velvet with a veil that looked to be made from mist. He’d bought it with the knowledge he wouldn’t want others gawking at her when he took her to places like Bernina’s. She was his, now. Bought and paid for.
Once she’d adjusted it Edward took her hand—gloved in the finest icy white kid, which extended several inches above her elbow—and turned her toward him. Again, he could have stood and gawked for hours. Instead he said, “It suits you. Is it warm?”
She nodded and he saw her throat work with the difficulty of swallowing. “It’s lovely. Thank you, Edward.”
He turned away from her eyes, which had darkened and gave her an oddly knowing aspect. “Come, let’s not keep the horses waiting.”
❈❈❈
Nora couldn’t help feeling a bit like a princess. She’d never worn such beautiful clothes. She’d never even seen such beautiful clothing. Some of the women at Tosca’s spent every penny they made on clothes. Nora had only paid for the dresses she was required to wear and one serviceable day dress for her afternoons off.
The carriage was a different one than she’d ridden in earlier. Edward was, she realized, a very, very wealthy man. Why, the cloak alone—some type of fur that was softer than feathers—must have cost hundreds of pounds.
His own person, she had always noticed, was garbed in plain clothing but of the finest material and cut. The severe style suited his large, bulky body and enhanced the aura of power that surrounded him. Nora had often thought that it was exactly that aura—a man who was used to getting what he wanted and being obeyed without question—that had first begun to chip away at her professional wall of reserve.
“Are you London born and bred?”
The question was both abrupt and unexpected. Since when did Edward favor small talk? Not that she minded. Just because she never spoke unless spoken to with her clients did not mean she was so taciturn with her friends. But she must never, ever forget Edward was not her friend. Answer his questions; volunteer nothing.
“No, I’m from a small village about fifty miles outside of London.”
“Oh.” She heard his fingers drumming on the wooden panel, a nervous gesture she did not recall seeing before. Just what was making him nervous—where were they going?
“I suppose that explains the lack of accent—not growing up in London.” Edward’s own accent had been softened somewhat by proper speech, but she’d heard plenty of men and women who sounded like him and knew he would have come from one of the worst parts of the city.
“No, my father was the reason for the lack of accent.” The vicar had been a stickler for grammar and correct pronunciation.
They rode in silence.
“Did your parents die when you were quite young?”
Nora looked away from the window. “What makes you think they died?”
“Well, you are here—in London—working at Tosca’s. I just thought—” he trailed off.
She knew exactly what he thought: he believed she must have suffered some setback that had forced her into this life. She wondered what he’d look like if she told him the truth?
“My parents are both alive and well—flourishing, in fact.” Nora allowed herself a small smile; she knew she was bad to enjoy his stunned silence, but he held so much power that she had to take her small pleasures where she could find them.
“Do they know what you do?”
“Oh, yes.”
She heard an amazed huff of breath in the darkness. Before he could pursue the story of her downfall, the carriage rolled smoothly to a stop.
“Oh,” she said, recognizing the building immediately. “We are at Bernina’s.”
“You know of his place?”
She had to bite her lip to keep from laughing at his scandalized tone. For being such a sophisticated man of business and so unconventionally skilled in the bedroom, Edward was, she realized a rather innocent man.
“Whores talk among themselves,” she said, only partly successful at keeping the amusement from her tone.
The door opened and one of the footmen—they were all called Thomas—flipped down the steps. Edward hopped out first and then turned to hand her out.
“Pull down your veil,” he instructed, and then snorted while she complied. “Although it sounds as if I’m protecting your identity for no reason.”
“Oh, is this for my protection? I thought it was for yours.”
Rather than become offended his harsh features twisted into a rare smile as he guided her up the steps. “Perhaps you are right.”
The door opened and the whore who went by the name of Cecile ushered them in.
“Good evening, Mr. Fanshawe. It’s such a pleasure to see you again.” Cecile studiedly avoided looking at Nora. “Everything is waiting for you, just as you instructed. Right this way.”
Nora had never been to Bernina’s before, but she’d worked with several women and at least one man who’d come here. While it was true whores talked among themselves, they rarely visited other whorehouses on their brief days of freedom.
She wondered, as they followed the tall, slender madam up a staircase if Edward had realized yet that Cecile was a man who preferred to dress as a woman. In the scheme of human sexuality, Nora did not find such behavior unusual. But she knew others—non-whores, for example—were far from sanguine about such matters.
The room Cecile led them to was large and spacious, filled with chaises, silken pillows, plush rugs, and—thankfully—a raging fire. The bed loomed in the adjoining room, the ceiling above it coved and, she suspected, mirrored. Again, it all felt familiar. After today—and seeing the stark beauty of the room Edward had designed—she found the overstated luxury almost tawdry.
Edward turned to face the madam. “Thank you, this will serve.”
Cecilia curtsied with admirable grace. “I’ve taken the liberty of having Amaya set up in the bathing chamber. Shall I send Emma up?’
Edward’s mouth curled into something that resembled a smile. Nora shivered with anticipation at the cruel glitter in his eyes and the quick glimpse of his crooked teeth. Her heart sped; oh, this man.
“Yes, do so.” He turned away from Cecile with a clear dismissal, his hands going to Nora’s throat—to the clasp. When the door shut he lifted the remarkably heavy cloak from her shoulders, his blunt fingers and broad, ugly hands clutching the white fur briefly before he tossed it carelessly over the back of a nearby chair. “One day I’m going to fuck you wearing only that,” he told her in a conversational, utterly uninflected voice that worked like an invisible tongue on her already swollen sex.
He turned on his heel and strode off toward the bedchamber. Nora took the pin from her hat with trembling fingers and set it on a nearby console beside his.
The slippers he’d purchased for her—every pair—were heeled and higher than what she was accustomed to wearing. But she wasn’t completely inexperienced with them as some of her clients had been inordinately fond of shoes and had often taken her only wearing shoes they’d brought with them. She wondered idly if Edward had such a fondness as she followed him into the next room.
The bedroom held no surprises except the bathing chamber, which was adjacent, both doors wide open. Nora had to smile as she realized why she was here tonight: here was paragraph 8.
Edward was speaking to somebody he could not see but turned when he heard the rustle of her gown. His expression was the same harsh glare as ever, but she knew him well enough by now to recognize it masked a great deal of sexual excitement.
/> “This is Amaya,” he said, gesturing to a very old, tiny woman who stood near a shaving tray and large hip bath that was full of steaming water. “I think we have reached the limit of her knowledge of English.”
The old woman smiled and Nora saw she was missing several teeth.
Edward looked over her shoulder and the evil smile she loved so much appeared. “Ah, welcome, Emma.”
❈❈❈
Edward shifted his stance slightly so that he could see Nora’s face when she saw the other woman.
Once again, his Nora surprised him. “Hello, Emma.”
If anyone was surprised it was Emma. “Nora!” Her face broke into a huge grin that exposed a missing tooth and almost demolished her resemblance to Nora. “It’s been a long time.” She embraced Nora who, he noticed with interest, responded warmly.
“You know each other?” he asked stupidly. Obviously they bloody did.
“We worked together for a while.” Emma said, still grinning. Now that they were so close together Edward realized their resemblance was rather superficial. While they shared the same hair coloring, skin tone, and general build he could see that Emma looked rather like a poor reproduction—a picture in a magazine that had been printed without enough ink.
Not only that, but she looked rather—well, there was no other word for it—thick. Instead of Nora’s intoxicating reserve, she seemed to be a rather happy, simple sort.
Edward looked at Nora to find her studying him in that way that made him mad to know what she was thinking. If only he could open her head and lay her thoughts bare the way he laid her body bare. Which reminded him.
“This woman—Amaya—doesn’t speak English,” he told Emma. “Go fetch somebody who can talk to her.”
“I speak Basque,” Emma said, smiling at the old crone and saying a few incomprehensible words.
“Basque?” he repeated; he’d never even heard of such a language.
“It is in Northern Spain—not far from the French border,” Nora volunteered.
Edward’s eyes narrowed, both at the information itself—how did she know such a thing? And also the very act of volunteering it. Had she ever told him anything he’d not dragged from her? If she had he could not recall it.
“Amaya says Nora should remove her gown and get into the tub, that the hot water makes the hairs easier to shave.” She turned from Edward to Nora and grinned. “I can attest to that. You’ll love the way it feels rubbing on your nub, Nora—and wait ‘til you feel somebody’s mouth—”
“You,” Edward said, pointing a finger at the talkative whore, “will only speak when spoken to, and will answer my questions without volunteering information. Is that understood? And you will address me as sir.”
The girl’s face immediately shifted, the amused light draining from her blue eyes and her features shifting into a blank, bland expression. “Yes, sir. Of course.” Her tone was low, modulated, with just the amount of supplication he liked.
“Ask her how this will proceed. And then ask her how long the healing will take and any limitations on Nora’s behavior.”
Emma turned to the old woman and fired off a volley of words, waiting while the woman responded.
Edward knew he could have just asked the whore to recount her own experience with the piercing, but he didn’t care to hear it. He wasn’t here to get to know her. She was a vessel for his pleasure and a prop for his performance and nothing more. Well, except now a translator.
She turned to him. “She will soak in the tub for a short time and then Amaya will remove her hair with that razor.” She gestured to a wicked looking razor that was stropped and ready on the tray beside a boar bristle brush and cake of soap. “After that, she’ll lie on the chaise.” Everyone glanced at said chaise. “She will numb the area with ice and then make a quick puncture with her needle.” Again they all turned, this time to the tray where he saw a needle in a glass of water.
The old lady spoke again.
“Nora should abstain from intercourse—” Amaya said something and then chuckled, her dark eyes glinting. “But only in her cunny.”
Edward didn’t care for the sound of that restriction. “How long?”
“Three weeks, at the least.”
The room was silent as he considered this unwelcome news.
Amaya was the one who broke it.
“Two at the minimum, if it heals quickly. She says you may touch her with your mouth and fingers but avoid chaffing the ring.”
Although Nora had not moved or changed expression, he knew she was enjoying this. Well, three weeks—two at the minimum? What of it? He could enjoy himself—and her—in plenty of other ways.
“Go on,” he said.
“She asked if you brought a ring or would like to use one of these.” There was a selection of silver rings, all similar to the ones Victoria and Emma wore.
Edward brought the small diamond-encrusted ring from his pocket and handed it to the old woman. She examined it and said a few words.
“Amaya says it is very beautiful and will look well.”
Edward didn’t need the old woman’s opinion to know that. He turned to Nora, who was merely watching and listening as if the procedure was about to happen to somebody else.
“You read the contract.”
“Yes, Edward. Shall I disrobe?”
His balls clenched so hard at her quiet obedience it was difficult to remain upright. “Emma will undress you.” He went to the chair that had been set up opposite the hip bath and placed to give him a clear view of the proceedings. Before sitting he shrugged out of his coat and pulled off his cravat. Amaya came scurrying over when he tossed them onto the cool marble floor, muttering something under her breath.
“She says it’s a shame to treat such lovely clothes in that manner,” Emma translated.
Edward snorted and dropped into the wingback chair which was large enough to support his big frame. Madam Cecile knew her business.
Emma had already unfastened the many small buttons that ran down the back of Nora’s gown. He knew the simple dresses she wore at Tosca’s had been devised for women who had no servants and needed to dress and undress themselves. Every garment he’d bought for her—including the perfectly fitting leather gloves that sheathed her arms—required assistance. He liked the thought of her being waited on hand and foot. He liked it even more because he suspected she wouldn’t like it—not that she would ever tell him.
Emma—who was even shorter than Nora—had to stand on her toes to lift off the gown, leaving Nora standing in a narrow cage crinoline and her corset, chemise, and stockings. He’d had no drawers made for her. What intelligent man wanted such a thing to get in his way?
He’d never seen her in a corset before. Madam Tosca had provided some in her arsenal of toys, but Edward disliked the thought of putting her into something made for some other woman. So he’d done without. Until now.
She was very slender but the corset, designed to fit an inch or two down the hips, had pulled her into an unexpectedly curvaceous shape. His hands itched to span her—to feel her confined, bound body.
He laid his palm over his straining cock but did not stroke himself. Nora’s eyes followed his movement, the pulse at the base of her throat, as always, giving her away.
Chapter Fourteen
Nora laid down her brush and stepped back from the canvas, squinting. There was still something not right. She sighed, her eyes flickering to the fading light outside the windows. She’d been in here for hours every day this past week.
Tonight Edward was to return from his business trip up north. Her stomach fluttered with excitement and need and longing.
She wiped her hands on the turpsy rag and then reached up to untie her smock. Beneath it she wore one of the loose gowns from Tosca’s, which she’d worn all week. Tonight she would have to wear one of the many gowns Edward had chosen for her. He’d not written her all week, but he’d left a terse note for her the morning after their night at Bernina’s. It had ju
st told her he’d be gone and would return in a week. And that he was taking her to the theater and dinner with several of his business acquaintances when he returned and she should dress accordingly.
She closed the drapes in the room and shut the door behind her. Now that he’d returned, she supposed he would have a schedule and her days spent painting and reading would be over.
She went to her dressing room without ringing for Mary, passing through it to her bathing chamber, which she loved.
While the huge tub filled with water she unbuttoned her gown, chemise, and old woolen stockings, standing in front of the massive gold-framed mirror that leaned against one wall.
The hairs had begun to grow back and were only now stopping their incessant itching, but she supposed she’d better get accustomed to shaving herself so she had purchased a razor and planned to use it for the first time this evening.
She’d not become accustomed to the look of her exposed lips, which appeared rather petulant with the silver ring protruding between them. She’d not touched herself other than to wash since Edward left. He’d told her that night, after bringing her back from Bernina’s far earlier than she’d expected, that he would abide by the instructions and that he expected the same from her—forbidding her release until he told her otherwise.
The last week had been the longest she’d gone without sexual satisfaction since—well, since she could recall. While her life as a whore had been far from perfect, she’d managed to accumulate enough clients she enjoyed—in one capacity or another—over the years and was not accustomed to such solitary days.
At first all this time had been glorious, but she could only paint so many hours in the day. His library, while huge, had been almost utterly devoid of fiction. That had been fine as she’d enjoyed spending a couple afternoons at Hatchards. She’d even gone to visit Mr. Lombard, who’d been so happy to see her, but so devastated to hear she’d left Tosca’s that it had been uncomfortable to stay too long.
“Come back again,” he’d pleaded as she left. “I will be…better the next time.”
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 12
