No, he had to believe she read them—all of them.
Today he would re-read the erotic letter. He’d wanted to re-read it several times, just for his own pleasure, but his cock had only recently healed to the point that even slight erections weren’t painful. He was ready to test his recovery—gently—by reading what he’d thought was a damned fine letter. Who knows? Perhaps soon he’d be ready to write a second one?
Cheered by that thought he shrugged into his robe and navigated his room by the low glow of the fire. Self-control, he knew, had always been something he’d prided himself on. But Nora had shredded that almost from the beginning.
The gas newel lights glowed dimly as he made his way down to the library.
Edward snorted at the word. Was a library really a library if it didn’t have books in it?
Oh, it had some—the books Nora had chosen when he’d finally convinced her to stock it. But she’d been thoughtful with each choice, rather than simply buying books by the foot as he would have just to get the shelves filled. It occurred to him, only now, that a library should be assembled the way Nora had done it. Books you would wish to read, even if you might not get time to read them for years.
Once inside the room he went, instead of to his desk, to the six shelves Nora had filled. Six shelves out of hundreds. He’d not really noticed them before, and had certainly not read the spines.
She’d organized them according to a system, alphabetizing by author surnames.
Hmmph. That would be helpful provided a person knew their authors.
Edward skimmed the names: Austen—five books—he squinted and his eyebrows shot up: so, a woman writer. Bronte—another woman, no, three Brontes. Several by Defoe, Dickens—even Edward had heard of him—Elliot, Fielding, Gaskell—another woman.
He read until the end—Thackery. Out of all those names, he recognized only a few. Was he that ignorant, or were her tastes that arcane? Edward suspected it was the former. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d read a book for pleasure. Oh, he read plenty, but that was all related to his projects or to develop new ideas. He enjoyed the reading he did, but it wasn’t a leisure activity.
He tried to come up with any title—fiction, not the article he’d been reading tonight about the advances in electrification—and could not think of a single one.
Well, it was bloody appalling that he couldn’t recall any book he’d read for pleasure.
Was he really that, well, obsessed? Not just with Nora, but with business? With making money, always more money.
Yes, a dry voice in his mind said. Yes, you are, Edward.
He snatched one of the Dickens books—people were always going on about him: A Tale of Two Cities. Good enough.
He chose the chair nearest the fire and opened the book.
The frontispiece was of a man sitting on a pallet in a jail cell. Edward grimaced. Really, is that what people liked to read about?
He shrugged and turned the page.
“It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief—”
“Bloody hell,” he muttered, eyeing the desk yearningly. He could always put this aside and go write his letter.
Quitter.
He groaned.
“it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light…”
❈❈❈
Edward was dreaming of Nora. They were in their room and he’d just ridden them both to shattering climaxes. He lay on his back and she’d climbed over him on all fours, naked, moving up his body until her cunt was over his face. He was—impossibly—hard again, even though it had been mere seconds. His cock ached in a way that was excruciating, but he bore it because she crouched low enough for him to open his mouth and stretch out his hard tongue, but he was distracted by the pain, and also the loud clanging and shuffling and—
Edward opened his eyes and shook his head. “Hmmm?” he muttered.
The charwoman’s head whipped around and she shrieked and flung her dust bucket in the air. Luckily it was empty and came down on the carpet—rather than the stone hearth—with a rather dull thud.
“Oh, sir,” she said clutching her chest. “I’m so sorry, I am. I didn’t see you there.”
Edward, still disoriented, realized he was holding something in his lap: a book, and it was currently shielding an erection of epic proportions.
He swallowed hard and glanced up at the fluttering servant. “Will you please go and tell the kitchen to send up some coffee, Mrs. Er—”
“Carlyle, sir.” She dropped a curtsey, wide eyed. “Right away, sir.” She snatched up her ash bucket and broom and scuttled away.
Edward relaxed against the back of his chair and forced himself to breathe, relax, and generally wait until his painful erection subsided. He thought about his servants—an annoying subject. Specifically, he thought about why his servants behaved as if they were terrified of him. Edward had no idea why. He rarely fired anyone or even verbally chastised anyone.
When he picked up the book, he saw that he only made it to page seven before falling asleep. He was pathetic. He put the book on the side table, only then realizing his robe gaped open and he wore nothing under it. No wonder the poor woman had been in such a hurry to get out.
Well, it was his bloody house, wasn’t it?
He was debating going up to his room and having his coffee sent there when the door opened and one of the Thomases entered with the various newspapers he took.
“Good morning, sir.”
Edward grunted and the footman set the papers on his desk and left.
Banks, Edward knew, had his papers ironed before he had them brought to him.
“Bloody ponce,” he muttered, dropping into his desk chair and picking up the first one his hand landed on. It was his practice to read each paper cover to cover. Not because he enjoyed death notices and wedding announcements, but because a man never knew where he might find his next idea.
He took different periodicals for different days, some focused on politics, some were liberal, some conservative, some social—he read everything, his eye constantly looking for something that might spark an idea.
He was half-way through his second cup of coffee when he saw it. At first, he just skimmed it, but the phrase Magdalen’s Daughter jumped out at him. He’d never heard it before, but the orphanage where he’d grown up had been fond of the bible and the boys had gravitated to the parts that had even a whiff of scandal. Like whores.
He’d seen the initials of some artist and hadn’t paid attention. But then a sentence had jumped out at him:
“N—H—was also, it appears, one of the reasons for the monumental settlement in the K—of T—‘s divorce.”
Edward read it again, just to be sure. Yes, it was about him, the King of Tin, the nickname Catherine had so amusingly hung on him. His eyes flickered up and widened as he began to put names with initials.
He was still staring when he heard a commotion in the hall. The door opened and a very flustered Phelps stood on the threshold.
“I’m sorry, sir. I told Mr. Smith you were—”
Smith pushed past him. “He’ll see me even if he’s in his bloody birthday attire.”
“Thank you, Phelps. You may go,” Edward said, his eyes on Smith’s face, whose eyes were on the paper he held crushed in his hands.
The door shut and Smith said. “I believe I’ve already discovered the responsible culprits.”
Edward felt an ugly smile twist his lips as he stood. “I’ll just go throw something on.”
Smith’s grin seemed to have twice as many teeth as usual. “Excellent idea. My carriage is waiting outside.”
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Nora knew that a week was more than long enough to recuperate—indeed, her body had recovered after only a few days—but she was hesitant to leave the comfort and security of Smith’s opulent, very odd house.
Besides, he’d already told her he was
keeping her a month, and that she had no choice in the matter, to consider herself kidnapped.
Charles was euphoric—as if Nora was a new puppy Smith had given him “I’m so glad you’re here, Nor. Smith works all the time,” he confided. “Those sittings with you were the most time I’ve ever spent with him during the daylight hours.”
Nora could have told him she was familiar with that type of behavior. But while she had her painting, she couldn’t help wondering what Charles had to occupy him all day, every day.
When she looked at Charles’s dressing room, she realized what he spent his time doing.
“Charles,” she’d said, not bothering to hide her horror. “Are you mad? Who needs so many clothes?” It made the extravagant selection Edward had bought her pale in comparison.
Charles, at least, had the grace to blush. “I know, I know, but he is the one who buys me most of it. He even converted this room, which had originally been a bedchamber, into my dressing room.”
“This isn’t a dressing room.” Armoires, shoes, dressing tables—two—plush divans and chaises and, yes—partly hidden by the most enormous folding screen she’d ever seen—was a huge tub in the shape of a seashell.
Nora could hardly stand for laughing. “Oh my God, Charles, it is positively vulgar.”
Rather than be offended, Charles nodded. “I know. Want to take a bath in it?”
So, that’s where they were two hours later, soapy and pruney.
They lay with their backs at the wide end of the shell. Whoever had built the huge shell had taken liberties with nature for the bather’s comfort.
They’d already drained and re-filled the tub three times and were discussing getting out when a voice came from behind them, making them shriek.
“Well, well, well.”
They were both silly after sharing a bottle of champagne to celebrate the first time the tub held two people, as Smith refused to share it.
Smith strode into view, crossed his arms over his chest, and leaned against the wall opposite the shell, trying hard not to smile and losing the battle. “This is a nice sight to come home to.”
“We like to call it Whores on the Half-shell,” Charles said.
“Well, it is certainly a tasty looking dish.”
Charles scooted to the far side of the shell, leaving a space between himself and Nora. “There’s room to join us.”
Smith’s dark eyes flared slightly, but he just shook his head. “No, I’ll let you two enjoy it. I’ve got a few matters to attend to in my study, and then I thought we might have a night out?” His eyes were on Nora as he said this; she’d not been out of the house in a week.
Nora experienced a twinge at the thought of leaving Smith’s secure luxury, but she had to go out sometime. Didn’t she?
Smith was almost to the door when he turned back. “Oh, I almost forgot—I had one of the footmen bring up your post and put it in your chambers, Nora.”
A thrill of excitement flashed through her; perhaps there was another letter from Edward?
“I’m getting out,” Nora announced, crawling over the side rather than attempting to stand on the slick ribbed tub surface.
Charles hooted. “Thank you for that lovely view—do you expect to get paid for it?” He swirled his almost empty glass and tossed it back. He drank almost as rarely as Nora and his eyes sparkled with champagne. “Ring the bell for me, on your way out, will you, darling? I’m going to soak for a bit more, but I’d better switch to tea or I shall be unable to be my sharp clever self tonight.”
Nora snorted as she toweled herself dry and then slipped on one of Charles’s numerous dressing gowns.
“I shall have to suggest to Smith that he put a bell closer to the tub,” he muttered as he splashed.
Smith, a mind reader even when it came to strangers, knew his lover well and a servant entered as Nora reached for the pull.
“Ah,” she said, smiling at the handsome young man, “You’re just in time. He’s in the halfshell.”
The servant grinned. “Thank you miss.”
As Nora made her way back to her room it struck her once again how smoothly and comfortably Smith’s house ran. He employed only men who shared his sexual bent. That meant he didn’t have to worry about loose lips. His servants had quarters on the fourth floor that Charles said were almost opulent.
All in all, Smith’s house, with it’s odd black on black color scheme in every room except the guest rooms—Nora’s was a very pale blue—was one of the most comfortable places she’d ever stayed.
In her chambers she found Nate, the servant Smith had assigned to wait on her personal needs, placing freshly laundered clothing in her dressing room.
“Hello, Miss,” he said as he slid a drawer closed and opened another.
“Hello, Nate.” She picked up the neat stack of letters. “Are you here to make me look pretty?”
“You don’t need any help with that, Miss Nora.”
Nora sat on the padded bench in front of her dresser, flipping through the pile of letters until she saw one with Edward’s distinctive writing. She smiled and tucked it into her dressing gown pocket. She would read it later, after she came back from her evening out. She put the others aside and looked up as Nate closed the last drawer.
“Mr. Smith says you are going out to dinner and the theater, Miss. As you did not bring any evening clothing with you, he sent me out to bring back a selection of gowns for you.” He opened one side of the wardrobe, which had been empty this morning, but was now full of perhaps a dozen dresses. Most of them were white, cream, silver, or some combination thereof, but one was brilliant scarlet velvet. Not the burgundy or reddish colors one normally saw, but the color of fresh blood.
Nora looked at the maid or valet or whatever one called a man who waited on women— “Did you choose these, Nate.”
“No, Miss. Mr. Smith did. He is quite particular in his tastes. And, if I may be so bold, he selected some lovely choices for your coloring.”
Nora’s eyes were drawn to the red gown as though some invisible force worked on her.
“I’ll take the red one, Nate.”
❈❈❈
Nora realized, as she paused at the head of the stairs, that she’d not felt so apprehensive in clothing since that first night with Edward, when she’d dressed in garments he’d selected for her. That, she knew, had been a sensual reaction. Tonight, her nervousness stemmed from something else—something less desirable: she was afraid to go out in public. People would whisper and stare. She knew why Smith had picked out this gown, and, on one level she heartily approved. But now…well, she would not be able to hide from prying eyes.
She heard something behind her and turned.
Smith stood staring at her. If she’d wondered whether she looked well, his expression put paid to it.
His look of stunned admiration was beyond gratifying. “I have to admit I did wonder whether you would be too pale for it. But when I described you the clerk told me that if you looked good in silver, you would look good in red. You are, according to the clerk, a pale blond, not a golden blond.”
Nora’s body hummed at the warm approval in his eyes, the memory of another time when he’d looked at her that same way flickering through her mind. “Is that what I am?” she asked archly. “I confess I’d always wondered.”
He grinned and offered his arm. “Come, we’ll have to wait for at least five hours for the real beauty in our trio.
They’d just reached the second landing when Smith’s butler Felson, came up the stairs. Like his entire breed, he was marvelously impassive. But Nora sensed a problem.
“I beg your pardon, sir, but there are visitors here to see Miss Nora.”
Smith looked at her. “Are you expecting anyone?”
“Nobody even knows I’m here—unless you told anyone?”
Smith told Felson, “Tell them to come back tomorrow, at a more appropriate hour.”
“They say they are Miss Nora’s parents, sir.”
Chapter Forty
It had, Edward realized, been a very long time since he’d visited this part of London—at least at night and on foot. He’d grown up on the edge of the Dials and had run the streets with as much confidence as the big rats that scurried just at the edge of his vision.
It was an odd coincidence, he thought as he walked through the miasma of sewage and misery that hung as thickly over the area as it had twenty-five years earlier, that the pub where he was going for his meeting was on the same street as the orphanage.
The only warning he got that somebody was behind him was the mere whisper of a scrape.
But Edward’s body was ahead of his mind and he ducked and swung around. Two boys, surely no older than he’d been when he left The Dials, stood frozen with cudgels raised.
Edward grinned, pleased that he still had the reflexes needed for the rookeries. They staggered back at whatever they saw on his face.
“You’ve made a bad choice, lads. If you want to make a good one, turn up at Gateshead Brewery on Monday and I’ll have two honest jobs waiting for you.”
The boys gaped.
“The choice is yours.” Edward pulled his hand from his pocket and they began to retreat. Their expressions of fear turned to comic wonder as he sent two sovereigns flashing through the air toward them. “Use this to buy yourself a bath, a meal, a decent coat, and shoes. Or use it to buy gin. The choice is up to you.”
He turned and walked away. The act of charity, he knew, should have made him feel better, but it didn’t. Giving away a few sovereigns when he sat on hundreds of thousands of pounds was like pissing on a man dying of thirst. Edward knew many great philanthropists gave away thousands of pounds, but—and perhaps this was mere tight-fistedness on his part—he believed gifts of money achieved little.
Old Jonah, whom he’d been thinking about since writing to Nora, had said once, if he’d said a hundred times, “Give a man a fish and you feed him for a day; teach a man to fish and you feed him for a lifetime.” To be honest, Edward had wanted to crack the old bastard over the skull with a plank the fiftieth time he’d had to hear that. He’d thought it was horseshit, then. But now he believed Jonah had been right. Although there was an addendum to the quote in his mind: if you taught him to fish, there damned well had better be fish to be caught. Meaning: there had to be jobs worth having. The people who worked for the syndicate-owned businesses earned more than those who did the same job at other companies, but that was still little enough.
His Harlot (Victorian Decadence Series Book 1) Page 30
