Intimate 02 - Intimate Surrender

by Laura Landon

  “Come in, Rafe. Join us.”

  Rafe walked across the room and sat in the empty chair. “This looks like a pleasant, although ominous, gathering,” he said, taking the glass of brandy his brother handed him. “From the expressions on your faces,” he said, scanning the four people who made up the circle, “the topic of conversation isn’t all that pleasant.”

  “It’s not as bad as all that—” Thomas started to say before Caroline interrupted him.

  “Not bad,” Caroline said, “but serious.”

  “Has something happened to Miss Bartlett?”

  His question seemed to take everyone by surprise. The frowns on their faces deepened.

  “Not really,” Caroline continued, “but what we need to discuss concerns Hannah.”

  “What? Is she seriously ill?” Waves of concern rushed through him. “Have you sent for Doctor Blains?”

  Thomas held up his hand. “Miss Bartlett doesn’t need a doctor.”

  “Then what?”

  “Hannah has gone,” Caroline said. “She left. She returned to London.”

  Rafe didn’t move. He felt as if someone had knocked the air from his body.

  “Why?” he asked, but he already knew. She’d gone back to London because their attraction for each other frightened her, because he’d gone too fast. Because he’d taken liberties he never should have taken. Liberties a lady like Hannah wasn’t used to a man taking. “This is my fault. I have to go after her.”

  He rose to his feet, but his brother’s stern voice stopped him. “You can’t.”

  Rafe studied the dark expressions on the four people gathered with him and fought the dread that washed over him. He sat back down and waited.

  The Duchess of Raeborn took a deep breath and reached for Caroline’s hand before she spoke. “The attraction between Hannah and yourself has been obvious to both Caroline and me since the two of you arrived. I mentioned it to Hannah, but she assured me that although she realized that you felt a certain…fascination for her, I didn’t need to worry. She would do everything in her power to discourage you. Instead, it was obvious that every day that attraction only seemed to grow stronger.”

  “And you object?”

  The two sisters looked at each other.

  “To me?” Rafe asked. “You object to me? You don’t think I’m good enough to pursue Miss Bartlett?”

  “No.” Caroline answered. “It has nothing to do with you.”

  “Surely you can’t object to Hannah. She’s your friend. You invited her because you said that you consider her as close as one of your sisters.”

  “We do,” both the Duchess of Raeborn and Rafe’s sister-in-law said at the same time. “Each one of us considers Hannah a part of our family.”

  “Then what? What is it you object to?”

  “There are things about Hannah you don’t know,” the Duchess of Raeborn said. “Things no one knows.”

  “What things?”

  “First of all,” she continued, “what I am about to share with you I am saying in the strictest of confidence. Hannah would not approve of me telling you—of telling anyone. She does not want anyone’s pity.”

  “Pity? Why would anyone pity her?” Rafe took a swallow of the brandy Thomas had given him. From the looks on everyone’s faces, he thought he might need it.

  “Hannah’s father is the late Baron Fentington. Perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  Rafe thought. “I vaguely remember hearing the name. If it is the same man, he was known as a religious fanatic who wore only white and focused his efforts on condemning all women for Eve’s sin.”

  “That’s him,” Caroline said. “Baron Fentington’s estate neighbored ours, and Hannah was of an age with Grace and me. The baron was beyond strict when it came to raising his daughter. He forced Hannah to her knees in prayer for hours a day and severely punished her at the slightest provocation. It was nothing for her to sneak out of the house and come to us for comfort when her father went on one of his tirades. And she most often came with huge welts from the beatings he’d given her.”

  Rafe found it hard to breathe. What kind of father would do that to his child?

  “Unfortunately for Hannah,” Caroline continued, “she grew into a beautiful young lady. Her father became more irrational where she was concerned. He was harsh and inflexible, and made her suffer for being beautiful.”

  Caroline’s voice thickened with emotion, and the duchess continued for her. “Hannah tried to make herself as unbecoming as she could, but her beauty came through no matter what she did. Instead of being proud of the woman she was growing into, her attractiveness enraged her father. He forced her to spend more hours in prayer, asking God to take away her sinful pride and vanity.”

  The duchess stopped for a few moments, as if she needed to control her emotions. Then she continued. “When Hannah was fifteen, Baron Fentington hosted a gathering of fellow clergymen. Of course, none of these men were leaders of their own congregation. They were what Hannah referred to as renegades and sanctimonious zealots. Because of their radical beliefs, no organized religion would have anything to do with them. Therefore, they roamed the area and held meetings in the homes of other extremist leaders.”

  The duchess paused, and Caroline reached for her hand and held it. “During one of their religious celebrations,” she finally continued, “one of the pious members of Baron Fentington’s gathering found Hannah alone in the barn. He raped her.”

  “No!”

  Rafe knew the voice belonged to him, but he was so livid he couldn’t control his anger.

  “When her father discovered what happened,” Caroline continued, “he, of course, blamed Hannah. He accused her of enticing a man of the cloth and charged her with tempting him the same as all wicked women tempt righteous and blameless men. He beat her within an inch of her life, then dumped her on the road with only the shredded dress she was wearing.”

  Rafe couldn’t stand to hear any more. He bolted to his feet and stormed to the window, then turned back. “Is her father dead?”

  “Yes,” the duchess answered.

  “Good,” he ground through clenched teeth.

  “Hannah crawled to our home and asked for refuge,” Her Grace continued. “Of course, our father refused because he was as unforgiving and judgmental as the baron. So…” Her Grace paused as if unable to tell the rest of Hannah’s story.

  Caroline patted her hand and took up the tale where Her Grace left off. “Grace and I carried Hannah to an elderly woman who was known as a local midwife and reputed to have the gift to heal. She took Hannah in, but after she looked at her, she told us she probably would not survive. And she nearly didn’t.”

  Rafe walked back from the window to his chair. “Is that why she left? Was she afraid I would find out about her past and think what happened was her fault?”

  Caroline and her sister shared a look of embarrassment.

  “No, Rafe,” Thomas continued for them. “Hannah didn’t leave because she thought you wouldn’t understand. There’s more.”

  Rafe sat in his chair. “Go on.”

  “Hannah recovered from what happened, but when she did, she was left with no place to go, with no one to take her in. She had no choice but to go where she could earn a living. And she thought London would provide the best opportunities for survival.”

  “You said she was only fifteen. She was merely a child. What work did she hope to get with no references or experience?”

  “She found that out after she arrived in London,” Thomas added. “To avoid starving, she turned to an occupation many young women turn to—especially women with the looks to attract men. She became a…a woman of ill repute.”

  Rafe felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. As if someone had belted him in the gut with both fists. “What?” He turned his gaze to his sister-in-law and the Duchess of Raeborn. Their downcast gazes told him he’d heard his brother correctly. “Hannah was a prostitute?”

  “Not was. Is. I
doubt that you are familiar with the name,” Thomas continued, “but have you heard of Madam Genevieve?”

  “Of course,” he said, his tone more hostile than he wanted. “There’s hardly a man who’s spent any amount of time in London who hasn’t heard of the famous Madam Genevieve. But what does that have to do with—”

  He sank onto his chair as if he’d been struck dumb. He opened his mouth to speak, but no words would come.

  The room spun around him in dizzying circles, and he couldn’t breathe. He wanted to call his brother a liar—but he couldn’t. He wouldn’t dare defame Hannah’s character with Caroline and the Duke and Duchess of Raeborn sitting there. The words had to be true, but he didn’t want to believe them.

  He rose on legs that trembled and staggered to the other side of the room. He had no purpose for going there except the need to escape the pitying looks on everyone’s faces. It was as if they realized that she was the first woman with whom he’d ever fallen in love and knew they’d just destroyed his future.

  “Why didn’t you tell me before now?” he said in a voice that sounded raspy to his own ears.

  “We didn’t imagine that you and Hannah would be attracted to each other,” his sister-in-law said.

  “When we saw what was happening,” the duchess said, “I talked to Hannah, but she assured me she could handle it. She was certain she could discourage you.”

  “She tried,” he whispered.

  He turned to face his family. “What happened to make her leave now? She intended to stay until the two weeks were over. Why did she leave so suddenly?”

  Caroline and the Duchess of Raeborn looked at each other, then focused their gaze to where he stood.

  “Why?”

  “She discovered you are a vicar,” Caroline answered.

  For one second, Rafe’s heart stopped and he reached out to keep from sinking to the floor.

  “It’s not your fault, Rafe,” Caroline said in a voice that sounded very far away. “The two of you would never…”

  Rafe didn’t hear the rest of what Caroline said. Without a look back, he grabbed a full bottle of whiskey and went where he could be alone—and get drunk.

  Very drunk.

  Chapter 8

  Hannah made her way to her private suite of rooms on the third floor of Madam Genevieve’s and turned the key. She stepped into the room, then pressed her back against the closed door and looked around. This was her home. This was where she felt the most comfortable. Not the floor below, where she’d learned to be another person.

  Here there were no lavish bouquets of flowers from ardent admirers. There were no gifts from men seeking her favors. No perfume-scented letters overflowing with undying devotion. Here she was alone with her thoughts and the comforts of her humble upbringing.

  She walked to the table where Dalia, her friend and silent business partner, had a pot of piping-hot tea waiting for her, and poured the steaming liquid into a cup. With the cup in her hand, she walked to her burgundy brocade wing chair and sat.

  The colors of the fabric weren’t as rich as they’d been years ago when the chair was new, and the upholstery was worn in spots, but she didn’t mind. It would be several years before she’d have to think of replacing it. And perhaps she never would. Perhaps she would keep it as a reminder. The chair had been the first purchase she’d made with money she’d earned giving her body to men who wanted her favors. Money she’d earned by sacrificing her self-respect. Money she’d earned because she’d given up the life she’d always dreamed of having.

  She took a sip of her tea before it cooled, then leaned her head back. She closed her eyes, even though she knew the minute she did her thoughts would shift to him. They always did. He’d taken possession of such a huge part of her heart that it was impossible not to acknowledge him.

  She wondered what he was doing now.

  It had been nearly a month since she’d left. The house party would have ended weeks ago, and he’d no doubt gone back to the dowager house where he lived. Or perhaps returned to the parish he’d left. Or gone to a new one. He’d undoubtedly gone back to the life he’d lived before they met in an effort to wash the filth he thought clung to him through his association with a prostitute.

  She wondered if any of the females Caroline invited during the remainder of the party had piqued his interest. She hoped one of the females he met while he was there captivated him. He deserved to be married. He deserved a house filled with children. He would be too perfect a father not to have a family of his own. His capacity to love was too great not to have a wife and children on whom to shower his affection.

  She took another sip of her tea and chastised herself for letting her thoughts return to him so often. She wondered if he’d given her a thought since she’d left, and hoped that if he had, his opinion of her wasn’t too unforgiving.

  She smiled. She knew he hadn’t thought of her as often as she’d thought of him because that would have been impossible. She’d thought of him constantly—at least once an hour every hour of every day.

  She wondered if he relived the kisses they’d shared as often as she did. Or if he recalled the conversations they’d had and the details they’d learned about each other as often as she did.

  She breathed a sigh. Probably not. He undoubtedly forgot about her as soon as he realized her identity—her profession. His display of passion was something he undoubtedly wanted to erase from his memory. She was, after all, used goods.

  She tightened her fingers around the arm of the brocade chair and called herself every kind of fool imaginable. She’d never allowed any man to lay claim to as much of her heart as he managed to possess. And he was the last man she wanted anything to do with. He was a vicar. A man of the cloth. The last man on the face of the earth with whom she would ordinarily associate.

  She wanted to hate him as she did every other pompous, overly righteous man spouting scripture and condemning her for the life she led. But she couldn’t. She’d come to care for him too much.

  It was the others she despised. The ones who thought she should have chosen death rather than turning to the only occupation left to her in order to survive.

  They didn’t know what it had been like to be so hungry you lost consciousness. They couldn’t imagine what it was like to stare death in the face and have to make a choice between dying or using your body to buy a loaf of bread. They didn’t know how helpless and terrifying it was for a young girl alone on the streets of London. Nor did they care. They saw only the choice she’d made, and judged her guilty for eternity.

  Except she couldn’t put Rafe in the same category as the rest of the men of God who stood outside the doors of Madam Genevieve’s on a regular basis, calling down fire and brimstone on anyone entering or leaving her establishment. She could never hate him. She could hate only that he consumed her thoughts and her dreams like he did, and prayed he wouldn’t intrude much longer.

  She didn’t want to relive every moment they were together. But the memories he’d given her were the best remembrances she’d had in her life. Her heart would be left with an empty chamber if she let them go.

  A knock on the door pulled her thoughts away from the sparkle in Rafe’s eyes and the broad smile on his handsome face. With a sigh, she pushed thoughts of him to the special place in her heart where she kept him.

  “Come in,” she said, setting down her tepid cup of tea.

  The door opened, and Dalia entered.

  “I thought I’d find you here,” her friend said, closing the door behind her. “You’ve spent a lot of time here since you returned from the country.”

  “Have I?”

  Dalia sat in a chair facing Hannah. “Anything you want to share?”

  Hannah smiled, then shook her head. “Someday, maybe. Not yet.”

  “Very well. But you know I’m here when you want to talk.”

  “Yes, I know. You always have been. I don’t know what I would have done without you over the years.”

  D
alia laughed. “You’d have managed. You’re a survivor. You would have found someone else who thought the same as you and had the same goals.”

  Hannah looked into Dalia’s dark eyes and smiled. Dalia returned her smile. The two of them were friends, as close as Hannah was to Grace and Caroline. Although Dalia was a few years Hannah’s senior, the prostitute still possessed her striking beauty. Hannah often told her she didn’t appear any older than the day she’d rescued Hannah from the street and brought her to Madam Genevieve’s.

  Dalia claimed the reason she didn’t age was because she was part French, part Italian, part Greek, and part Gypsy. She believed the Gypsy in her refused to age, and none of the other parts were strong enough to fight the Gypsy.

  Even though she was well past thirty, she had the figure of a woman ten years younger. Which was why Dalia was still one of the most asked-for courtesans at Madam Genevieve’s. A request she often agreed to. Something Hannah hadn’t done since she’d saved enough money to buy Madam Genevieve’s.

  She set down her cup and saucer. “What have you discovered?”

  “It’s not good, Hannah. Skinner, Flanks, and Crusher have joined forces.”

  “Well,” Hannah said, leaning back into her chair. “That’s an unlikely partnership. They must consider me an exceptionally dangerous adversary.”

  “Rumor has it they intend to destroy you. They’re tired of losing their girls to you. Alone, they haven’t been able to defeat you.”

  “But they stand a chance if they unite,” Hannah finished for her.

  “That’s the word on the street.”

  Hannah rose to her feet. She was too angry to remain sitting. “Don’t they know if they’d recruit their women from the prostitutes already in the business, I wouldn’t be a threat to them? I’m only after the innocent girls they press into service. We both know once a girl enters into the business of her own free will, it’s almost impossible to get her out. I only want to save the innocent ones who turn to prostitution rather than starve to death on the streets. Or are forced into it by men like Skinner and the others and can’t escape.”