Once Upon a Time

by Luna Doerr

  So he walked with a limp. Erica didn’t care. That wouldn’t matter on horseback. They had ridden together many times before he left. She missed those times. He hadn’t offered to go riding with her since he came home, but she resolved to ask him to. How could he not want to ride with her again?

  He was still fully dressed. That didn’t surprise her. But as she gazed on his sleep-wrinkled shirt and down at his partially-unbuttoned trousers, she desperately wanted to see the body underneath. To know the body underneath. Charles was a large man, solidly built, well-muscled, broad of shoulder and narrow of waist. He was a strong man—and strong-willed, too. She knew that last night hadn’t changed anything between them, other than to prove to her what she was missing. He had taken pity on her injured state and indulged her, just as he had indulged her desire to consummate their marriage.

  She knew also that he frequented a brothel. Of course he hadn’t said so, nor had his footman. Men kept those things between themselves. But she presumed. She wondered whether he touched those woman the way he had touched her last night. A flash of jealousy seared her at the thought of him putting his fingers inside another woman—or more, even. She doubted he limited himself to his fingers when he was with them. Did he kiss them on the lips, as he refused to do to her? Did they have to close their eyes or were they allowed to leave them open to enjoy the fine sight of his masculine physique?

  The jealousy burned hotter.

  Why did he need to go to them when she was at home, waiting and willing? Granted, those women were more experienced than she was and could surely do things to pleasure him she couldn’t begin to imagine. But she was willing to learn. She would learn anything she needed to meet his needs. And she would be all his, her body entirely dedicated to his pleasures. Why did he want whores who bedded she didn’t even know how many men in a day? Why wouldn’t he want her?

  She reached out a tentative hand and laid it on his scarred cheek. Then she leaned in and pressed her lips gently to his, fully expecting him to wake up and push her away. Instead he began kissing her back, though he was still asleep. His tongue pressed inside her mouth to find her own tongue and the sensation was heavenly. His strong hands gripped her body and pulled her onto him. Those hands cupped her bottom firmly and pressed her into his already hard cock. Seeing as she was still entirely without clothing, this too felt heavenly. Choir-of-angels heavenly. She softly rocked her hips against his hardness, trying to satisfy the ache that was rapidly building between her legs. His mouth released hers as his hands groped for her breasts. His hips were now rocking against her and Erica let herself go, gave herself over to the moment. She wanted another orgasm. Two in a lifetime was not too much to ask, was it? When he pinched her taut nipples, everything exploded within her and she rode the feeling with abandon, even as she knew the horse was liable to throw her at any moment.

  Beneath her, his body jerked several times and she felt a wet warmth seeping through the fabric of his trousers. His eyes flew open. He was wide awake now.

  “Damnation!” he shouted and rolled his body from beneath her. “I thought I was dreaming!” He practically leapt from the bed then, realizing he was in his own room, halted. “Cover yourself.”

  She pulled the sheet up to her neck while he put on clean trousers. He kicked the soiled ones across the room. “I’ll go get the maid to bring you clean clothes.”

  And then he was gone. Erica felt a hole open up in her chest where her heart had previously resided. Perhaps Charles had the right idea after all, denying her his body. Now that she knew what pleasure felt like, she was going to miss it for the rest of her days.

  Across the room, Alaric stirs. I quickly close the laptop. I hope he won’t be angry. I don’t expect him to use the scene, of course. I wrote it purely for myself. I am Erica, right? I need to understand the woman.

  I hurry back to the bed before he can fully awake. I climb on top of the mattress just as his shoulders rise up. He looks at me, his face the very picture of confusion, his hair sticking out every which way in the most adorable bedhead I can imagine.

  Adorable in a totally hot, sexy way.

  “Good morning,” I say. “Sleep well?”

  He rolls over and stretches his arms above his head. “Yeah. Thanks for asking.”

  Well. Tender, sweet Alaric is gone.

  “Thanks for … well, last night. I guess.”

  What am I thanking him for exactly? Drawing me a bath? Sharing a few bits of personal information with me? Telling me he hasn’t been in love for over a decade?

  He sits up and I see that he has slept in his cargo shorts. I look around for his shirt. It’s draped over the back of the wingchair I was just sitting in. I bring it over to him.

  “Um, I’ll get dressed and go make coffee for everyone,” I offer.

  “Thanks. I need to go talk to Sim. I’m not having him do any more scenes with you. I’ll finish this book without him.”

  I take a deep breath as I back my way slowly toward the bathroom. “Alaric, you don’t have to do that. I can take it.”

  He stabs his arms into the sleeves of his linen shirt. “But I can’t.” He grabs his laptop and leaves, leaving behind the bottle of bourbon. I pick it up. It’s still half full. I’m going to need it if I’m going to stay. Am I going to stay?

  I don’t know.

  32

  Alaric

  In the carriage house kitchen, Sim whistles randomly and flips blueberry pancakes off the griddle. I walk in without knocking.

  “Hey. Hungry?” Sim asks, as though absolutely nothing untoward had happened the day before.

  The entire fucking day had been untoward.

  “Yeah. Thanks.” I pull out a stool at the small breakfast bar and sit down. Sim shoves a plate of pancakes under my nose, then adds a butter dish and syrup. “You can be downright civilized when you want to be.”

  “So you’re here to fire me. Is that it?” Sim plates four pancakes for himself and begins eating standing up. I keep the breakfast bar between us.

  “For this book, yes.”

  “Okay. I can deal with that. She’s cute and all, but she doesn’t really float my boat.”

  Cute and all? Caterine is way more than cute and I feel a flash of anger in her defense. But it’s not worth getting into with Sim.

  “But man, if you haven’t fucked her yet, she’s really tight.”

  I slam my fist onto the breakfast bar, rattling his plate and the butter dish.

  “It’s not like that.”

  “Whatever.” Sim shoves another forkful of pancake into his mouth, then turns away to pour more batter on the still sizzling griddle.

  “How many are you going to eat?” I ask. Shit, if I ate like Sim I wouldn’t have to worry about fucking anyone. I’d be too fat.

  “These aren’t for me. They’re for her.”

  A peace offering? An apology?

  Sim reads his mind. “It’s just breakfast. Feeding her is part of her contract, yes?”

  When I return to the main house with the plate of blueberry pancakes, Caterine has brewed a pot of coffee and is leaning against the counter drinking it. She looks for all the world like she’s deciding whether to stay or leave. Not that I could blame her if she leaves, but I really hope she is going to stay.

  I set the pancakes down and pour myself a cup of coffee. “These are for you, courtesy of Sim.”

  “How’d it go?”

  I shrug and knock back a hot slug of coffee. “He’s fine.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Don’t be, please.” I run my hand through my hair. Did I even comb it this morning? I can’t remember. Nah, apparently not, from the amused smile flitting about Caterine’s lips. “I needed someone different. You are perfect for this book. Turns out it’s Sim who’s not.”

  She licks a spot of syrup off her upper lip. “I don’t know. I can see a lot of Sim in Charles.”

  I shrug again and top off his coffee. “But this is fiction and in fiction the character h
as to change by the end of the book. I don’t see Sim changing any time soon.”

  I make for the doorway of the kitchen.

  “Are we working this morning?”

  “Yes. Whenever you’re done eating. No rush. I need you to do some research online for me today. Brothels.” I grin at her.

  She grins back. “Should be another interesting day.”

  “I’m hoping not quite as interesting as yesterday.”

  That thought lasts only long enough for me to walk to my office and boot up my laptop. When I scroll to the end of the manuscript and reread what I wrote last night in Caterine’s room, I discover that another scene has been added at the end.

  Why did he need to go to them when she was at home, waiting and willing? Granted, those women were more experienced than she was and could surely do things to pleasure him she couldn’t begin to imagine. But she was willing to learn. She would learn anything she needed to meet his needs. And she would be all his, her body entirely dedicated to his pleasures. Why did he want whores who bedded she didn’t even know how many men in a day? Why wouldn’t he want her?

  Now that’s interesting.

  I know for sure that I didn’t write that. I didn’t drink that much bourbon. Nor do I often write in my heroine’s point of view. The men are always the drivers of the story in my books.

  Caterine must have written this while I was asleep. If Sim had pulled a stunt like this, I’d be livid and stalking out of the office right now to read him the riot act. But I feel no anger reading Caterine’s words, in large part because they’re good.

  Damn good.

  His hips were now rocking against her and Erica let herself go, gave herself over to the moment. She wanted another orgasm. Two in a lifetime was not too much to ask, was it? When he pinched her taut nipples, everything exploded within her and she rode the feeling with abandon, even as she knew the horse was liable to throw her at any moment.

  That’s exactly what Erica would be thinking. I glance over at the empty desk where Caterine wil be sitting any minute now. She gets Erica. She really does. Sim freely admitted that he gets nothing about this book, doesn’t understand why I want to go all historical on everyone.

  Truth be told, I don’t really understand it myself. I’ve never “gone all historical” before and doubt I ever will again, but Charles and Erica have set up lodging in my brain and I want to write about them. Precedence be damned.

  And then he was gone. Erica felt a hole open up in her chest where her heart had previously resided. Perhaps Charles had the right idea after all, denying her his body. Now that she knew what pleasure felt like, she was going to miss it for the rest of her days.

  I wonder whether Caterine writes in her spare time and has been withholding that bit of information from me. That would certainly explain why a woman like her—educated, beautiful, good—would sign on for my sick, twisted job.

  The scene is pretty damn hot, too. There was that. For a woman who professes not to have much sexual experience, she has a startlingly vivid imagination.

  As if on cue, the office door opens. Caterine hesitates for a split second in the doorway, avoiding eye contact with me, before sitting down at her desk. I know she’s wondering whether I read her scene yet. She continues to avoid my stare as she turns on the computer and opens up a browser.

  “What do you want to know about brothels?” she says, still without looking directly at me.

  I lean back in the chair and lace my hands together behind my neck. “Well, how much did it cost to frequent one? How much is our dear Charles spending?”

  She begins searching online while I work on the next scene. Charles has had a taste of Erica but he’s still conflicted, and still going to the madam’s. Erica needs to realize that.

  She went looking for Charles but he was gone again. She stood in his empty study, despondent. Their night together had changed nothing. Well, that wasn’t entirely true. It had changed her. She sat down in the chair to think. Why wouldn’t he want her? Was she not enough? Was one woman perhaps not enough? Was that it? He needed more variety than a marriage afforded?

  “Um, what kind of brothel is Charles going to?” Caterine interrupts my writing.

  “A high-class one,” I reply. “In a nice mansion, discreet, all that.”

  “Okay. That affects price, of course.”

  “Of course. I suppose it would.” I flash a smile across the room at her.

  The household ledger was on top of the desk. When Charles was away, Erica had kept track of expenses and payments due on her own. Since Charles had returned, he had taken that over. Still, she had a right to know. She opened the leather-bound book and scanned the lines of figures. Charles was thorough, she had to accord him that. An unfamiliar address was appearing with increasing frequency, she noted, and always for amounts ranging from …

  I look over at Caterine, furiously scrolling through search results.

  “In a brothel with a madam, it looks like maybe ten or twenty guineas. Pounds,” she says.

  “Thanks.”

  … always in amounts ranging from ten to twenty guineas. Gracious, that was a lot of money. I’m cheaper than that, she thought.

  “Venereal disease was a bit of a problem back then, too,” Caterine offers.

  “Uh, I think we’ll gloss over that issue.”

  She called for the coachman and gave him the address. He fixed her with a dubious look but Erica was firm in her resolve. She had to know once and for all. And she wanted to see the place for herself. Not the interior, of course, but just the street and the building. The house, unfortunately, did not disappoint. It was an elegant townhome in a fashionable part of town. A person simply driving past would not guess at its true nature. As she watched, two well-dressed gentlemen exited the front door. They were laughing and gesticulating with their hands. Erica imagined they were discussing their most recent assignations. Blessedly, neither man was Charles. But it wasn’t hard to picture Charles walking into such a place. At least he wasn’t visiting common whores on the street.

  She told the coachman to take her home. She had no desire to sit and wait for her husband to come out.

  “You could deflower a young virgin for a hundred fifty pounds,” Caterine shoots another piece of information across the room at me. “And one in five women in London were prostitutes back then.”

  “I don’t think there were a lot of ways for women to make money at that time. If you didn’t have a husband for whatever reason, you were in a bad way.”

  She falls silent after that, and I worry about what she’s thinking. I don’t view her as a prostitute. Yes, I’m paying her a sizable sum of money to have sex in front of me but that’s not the same.

  It isn’t, I reassure myself.

  For starters, Caterine is an educated woman. Easily the most intelligent assistant I’ve ever hired. I like that about her. Like it quite a bit, in fact. And that means she doesn’t have to be here with me. She didn’t need to take this job. She wanted to.

  Charles found Erica waiting for him in the study when he arrived home. Immediately she began waving the ledger in the air and speaking in a voice that was louder than usual. He hurriedly shut the door behind him so the help wouldn’t hear.

  “All this money! For whores!”

  Her eyes shone with tears but Charles vowed to remain resolute. He was far from the only man to frequent the madam’s establishment, and many of their wives were relieved that they did.

  Across the room, Caterine snorts in a most unladylike fashion, then fails miserably—charmingly—at holding back a fit of giggles.

  “Sorry,” she wheezes.

  “Brothels that funny, eh?”

  She nods, sucking in deep breaths to quell her giggles. “I found this book online. Harris’s List of Covent Garden Ladies, 1788. It’s like a guidebook to the prostitutes of London. Addresses, prices, descriptions. Listen to this one.” She begins reading from the computer screen. “Her pouting lips distil nectarious balm, a
nd thro’ the frame its thrilling transports dart, which, when parted, display a casket of snow white pearls, ranged in the nicest regularity, the neighboring hills below full ripe for manual pressure, firm and elastic, and heave at every touch.”

  I’m laughing now too.

  She continues, “The Elysian font in the centre of a black bewitching grove, supported by two pyramids white as alabaster, very delicate and soft as turtle’s down. At the approach of their favourite lord unfold and for three guineas he is conducted to this harbor of never failing delight. Add to all this, she sings well, is a very cheerful companion.”

  I’m doubled over in my chair, snorting and laughing.

  “Oh god,” I wheeze. “I might need to rewrite all the sex scenes. Black bewitching grove. That’s too good not to use.”

  “Why not me?” She slammed the ledger down onto the desk with enough force that the furniture shook. “What can they do that I cannot?”

  “Oh here’s another. ‘She has such a noble elasticity in her loins that she can cast her lover to a pleasurable height, and receive him again with the utmost dexterity. Her price is one pound one, and for her person and amorous qualifications she is well worth the money.’”

  Well, that answers that question.

  Charles thought of the morning in this very room when he had taken her over the desk. He could not do that to her—not again—much as the idea appealed to him. She was his wife and one didn’t do those things with a wife. He sighed.

  “Frederica.” He used her given name to emphasize their positions here. “I have been away at war for years. My desires have been …” He searched for the right phrasing. “Pent up. I need some time to relieve them and I do not want to force myself on you.”

  “You wouldn’t be forcing yourself. I am your wife!”

  He feared she was growing hysterical. “And as such you are not the appropriate person to relieve my needs. This will pass, darling. These pent-up desires won’t last forever. Just give me a little more time to get straight again after my time away.”