by Jenny Brown
“Young boys know nothing about it, Eliza. Nor do elderly aunts. As a man of worldly experience, I can assure you your freckles are rather fetching. And though it isn’t the current fashion, many men are quite fond of red hair. If you gave it some attention yours could be truly beautiful. Don’t underestimate yourself.”
Eliza could feel herself blush. No man had ever spoken to her like this. But of course, theirs had been a very small village.
“On the other hand,” Lord Hartwood continued, “your gown is a fright and fits all too well with your idea of yourself as a hopeless spinster. If you are to accompany me, we will have to do something about your clothing. I can imagine nothing less mistress-like than that gray sack you’re wearing. But it is no great matter to correct that,” he assured her. “I recently had the modiste prepare a new wardrobe for Violet, one created especially for this journey. It is still here. Her taste in clothing was that of a consummate strumpet.” A nostalgic look flitted across his face. “Indeed, that was a great part of her charm for me. Perhaps some of her things might be made to fit you.”
Eliza doubted it, remembering the actress’s lush form, but she did not correct him. He had come so close to sending her away, and she knew he was still far from believing that her idea might work.
“I shall order her trunk to be brought to your room. Look through it and pick out something suitable,” Lord Hartwood ordered. “I will meet you there in an hour. See what you can do with yourself in the meantime.”
It was with mixed feelings that Eliza rummaged through the trunk filled with the clothing Lord Lightning had purchased for Violet. Piece by piece she pulled out the garments made for the woman who had really been his mistress, clothing as beautiful as Violet herself. As she examined them, she felt a burst of envy. If only she possessed a fraction of Violet’s beauty! But even as the thought flickered through her mind, she reproached herself for it. Her mother had been given the gift of beauty, and that beauty had ruined her life. It was a mercy Eliza had inherited none of it. It was far better to have been given only the gift of good sense.
Yet, as she examined each of the gaudy garments, looking for those whose color would not clash with her red hair, she wondered if good sense alone would enable her to make a selection from the bounty that emerged from the trunk. She knew nothing about the construction of a fashionable ensemble. Her aunt had prided herself on ignoring the trivial details of dress that filled the minds of lesser women and had not thought it important to instruct Eliza about them. Until now, Eliza had not felt in any way deprived, especially since on her birthday each year her aunt had most generously provided her with a new costume made of sturdy material chosen for its ability to withstand wear and perfect for those occasions when they took tea with the other maiden ladies of the neighborhood and made their weekly visits to the poor.
She had been grateful to her aunt for the thoughtfulness had freed her from having to waste her own valuable mental energy on matters of dress. But now, as she fingered the rich silks and delicate muslins, Eliza had to admit she did not find the task distasteful. It was fascinating to study the kinds of garments a woman who did fill her mind with the trivial fripperies of dress might wear. She could not but feel excitement at the thought of selecting something to wear from the wealth of garments before her.
And the trunk held so much. Gowns of the richest hue, overdresses of the thinnest voile, petticoats made entirely of delicate, sheer lace. Never before had she imagined such clothing existed. And the undergarments! They were so brazen that when she pulled out the first one she was confused at first by its shape and odd construction. Then she realized what it was—a pair of lasciviously slit scarlet drawers—and dropped it as if it had been a burning brand.
She could not imagine herself wearing such garb. But she must do it if she was to accompany Lord Hartwood while playing the role of his mistress.
With hesitant fingers, Eliza undid the buttons on her old gray merino dress. Then, even more hesitantly, she took off her shift, until she stood naked. Only after sternly reminding herself that it was essential she do this to assist Lord Hartwood with his much needed transformation did she slip on the scarlet drawers with their scandalous lace-edged slit.
The waistband was generous on her smaller waist, but not too much so. She could not help but notice the pleasing sensation she felt as the silken fabric brushed against her most secret parts. Such a garment might well awaken improper thoughts in a woman less self-controlled than she was. How fortunate that she had the maturity needed to keep from being swept away. Next she donned a lacy petticoat, pulling the strings that secured it to her waist. One of her Aunt Celestina’s eccentricities had been the belief that stays were unhealthy, so Eliza wore none. But the shapelessness of her usual garments and the thickness of their fabrics had given her no need for such an undergarment. This was not true of the pale rose mull gown she drew out of the trunk now. It was virtually transparent.
As she drew it on it occurred to her that another sort of woman might have thought twice about the consequences of dressing herself in a gown that revealed her figure so flagrantly to a man like Lord Hartwood. Again she was glad the nature of their agreement meant she need entertain no such worries. She was coming along with him to observe him, to assist. It was ridiculous to think he might find her body enticing. Though no sooner had she reassured herself that he could have no possible interest in her person, than she felt a stab of anxiety. What if Lord Hartwood was so disappointed when he saw her in Violet’s finery that he sent her away and she lost the opportunity to aid him? She must do all she could to prevent that from happening.
It was not easy doing up the fastenings without the help of a maid, but she did the best she could, pulling the gown over her head and twisting it around to bring the hooks to where she could reach them. Her task was made easier as the dress, like the petticoat, was a bit too large. Violet had been far more voluptuous than Eliza. But still, with a few seams taken in, it would fit. There was a packet of pins in the trunk, and with them Eliza quickly adjusted the fit of the bodice.
She stood up, appreciating the unaccustomed softness of the fabric and hearing the quiet rustle the expensive muslin made as it adjusted itself to her naked body, its decadent, slippery softness whispering of unimagined delights. It was a pale and beautiful tint that couldn’t have been worn for any length of time without immediately showing dirt. But clearly, a fallen woman like Violet did not have to worry about dirtying her clothes, not with all those other gowns to choose from. How astonishing to find herself clad in this masterpiece.
Though perhaps it was best to say “half-clad.” For the dress plunged deeply in both front and back, revealing far more skin than Eliza would have ever dreamed of displaying. Nearly her whole bosom was exposed and though Violet had been taller than she was, the dress was alarmingly short, revealing her ankle and even a good bit of leg.
She looked around for stockings, but the only ones she found in the trunk were as improper as the rest of Violet’s garments: black and lacy, with tiny pearls woven at intervals into the lace. She drew them on, securing them with a set of frivolous pink garters adorned with rosebuds.
She could barely summon up the courage to look at herself in the mirror. But in any event there was no time. A sharp knock on the door announced Lord Lightning’s presence and he strode in.
“What have you done with the quiet little seeress?” he quipped with an amused gleam in his eye. “Brazen woman! Have you hidden her in the trunk?” He made a show of peering around the room. “Well, I see no traces of her, so you must be Miss Farrell after all. But I had no idea you hid such voluptuous curves beneath your demure Quaker’s dress.”
She brushed off his attempt at wit. It was ridiculous. Her, voluptuous?
Lord Hartwood walked around her, his eye carefully appraising the effect of the new clothing. “Walk across the floor,” he commanded.
She took a few steps, still astonished at the feel of the luxurious fabric against he
r skin, but he stopped her.
“No, you walk like a Quakeress still. You must move with a more calculated air, as if your body were a magnet drawing to it the eyes of all who watch you. Here, let me demonstrate.” And with that he strode across the room, head held high, chest thrust out, aping the sinuous movement of a self-aware beauty so perfectly that Eliza could barely resist collapsing into giggles.
“You truly do belong on the stage,” she gasped out. “You are never so happy as when you are playacting.”
“It is you who have decreed that we must playact,” he retorted. “Try it again. I wish to see you walk across the room as if you were the queen of the demireps.”
Thus challenged, Eliza drew herself to her full height, pushed out her chest, and swept across the room.
“Better,” Lord Hartwood said, “but you must try to imagine this time that your magnet is drawing all masculine eyes to your magnificent bosom.” She felt her face redden, and her eyes darted down to her chest. It was hardly magnificent, at least not compared with the rounded orbs that Violet had so casually exhibited, but the scandalous dress most certainly did put what she had on display. As there was no choice but to throw herself into the spirit of the game, she reached one hand into her bodice, quite deliberately, and made a quick adjustment calculated to make the most of her endowment. Then, having assured herself that Lord Hartwood’s eyes were fixated on that most interesting portion of her anatomy, she minced lasciviously across the floor.
“Never before have I had a mistress who has responded quickly to instruction,” he told her. “But you make it clear I am not the only one of us with a penchant for playacting. Were you also born when the Sun was in Leo?”
She smiled, pleased he had shown interest in her art. “Not at all. My Sun is in Sagittarius. It is the influence of Jupiter in my Fifth House that gives me acting talent.”
Lord Hartwood’s lip quirked up in a wry smile. “So you are the little fortune-teller, still, despite the fancy new plumage. Well, that just adds spice to your character.”
Then his expression again became serious. “Despite the fact it is playacting, if we go on with this, you must take it deadly seriously. If you are to come with me to Brighton, you must remain in your role until I give you leave to stop. I cannot afford to have any more mistresses desert me, even pretend ones.” His eyes had lost their gleam of amusement. “Do you fully understand me?”
She bent her head in assent.
“I am probably making a mistake by taking you along, but you amuse me and I do need to bring a mistress with me. So hear me out: I will take the risk of bringing you with me to Brighton—but only if several things are clearly understood between us. Are you listening?”
She nodded.
“First,” Lord Hartwood said, holding up one finger, “you will do your best to behave in public at all times as if you truly were my mistress. You must be prepared to subject your person to whatever I do to convince others that is the case.” To reinforce what he meant by this statement, he approached her and languidly drew one hand down her chest until it rested within her bodice, gently cupping her bosom before stretching his hand lower and stroking the base of her abdomen in a way that sent a delicious quiver through Eliza’s entire body. She blushed, but did her best to maintain her composure as surely any real mistress would.
“Good,” he said, after withdrawing his hand. “I see we understand each other.
“Next, you must be prepared to be the butt of considerable rudeness. My mother will not welcome you. For that matter, my mother will not welcome me. She tolerates my visit because my brother’s will has given her no other choice, but she may very well take out the anger she feels toward me on you. So you must be prepared to accept her insults without any reply. Any response to her attacks is to come only from myself, as your protector. Can you manage that?”
Again Eliza nodded. This must be that conflict with his mother she had seen on his chart, the one that arose from the natal conjunction of his Moon with angry Mars. She was quite curious to see it play out in action.
“Finally, and most importantly,” he said, fixing her with his steeliest gaze. “You are to understand that the role of mistress will remain only that—a role. I am famous for my lack of principles, but for all my depravity, I have long made it a rule to have nothing to do with virgins. I attempted to violate that principle last night, but came to my senses before it was too late.
“You have chosen to accompany me for some reason of your own. I imagine it has something to do with your poverty, or perhaps it is merely that, like most women, you find my outrageous behavior fascinating. But whatever your motivation, as long as you are with me you will be careful to do nothing—” he stabbed his finger in the air to underline the word “—absolutely nothing, in public or in private, to tempt me to violate that principle again.”
He fixed her with a stern gaze. She could see no hint of the warmth she had detected there only a moment before.
“Do you understand me, Eliza? If you tempt me to misuse you, I will turn you out onto the street without a farthing, and you will have to fend for yourself. There must be no more carnal contact between us.”
Eliza nodded again, relieved. He asked nothing of her she could not easily adhere to. She certainly had no desire to become his mistress in truth, no matter how strong the feelings might be his teasing touch called forth from her body. Yet she was somewhat mystified by the strength of the emotion that accompanied his demand. It sounded almost as if he was afraid that she would ravish him.
“There is one last thing, Miss Farrell,” he continued. “Several times now, you have shared with me your astrological insights about my character and have gone on at some length about the foolish twaddle you call love. You will cease that nonsense. There is no place for any sentimentality in our relationship.”
He assumed a pugnacious posture, as if he expected that his insistence on this last point would bring out the fight in her. But Eliza made no reply. There was no point in debating it with him. If the chart told the truth, what she saw there would unfold with or without his consent.
It seemed to take him a moment to realize that she was not going to give him an argument. Then, he let his voice drop and added, “If you play your role well, when the fortnight is completed I shall pay you generously. The fifty pounds I offered you this morning is already yours. If you are successful in playing the role of my mistress for the next fortnight, you will be rewarded with far more. But let it be clear: my money is all you will get from me. Don’t delude yourself that you can redeem me. You will not convert me into some tame Romeo. Henceforth whatever you do with me, you do entirely as a matter of business. Do you understand?”
Eliza nodded once again.
“Very well,” Lord Hartwood concluded. “I will draw up a contract formalizing the arrangement and spelling out the terms of your employment.”
“You do not trust me without such a contract?”
“I trust no woman,” Lord Hartwood said coldly. “No woman has ever given me the slightest reason to do so.”
How quickly he swung from amusement to irritation. It must be another effect of that conjunction of his Moon with angry Mars. Afflicted moons often resulted in moodiness. But even though she was disappointed that he had drawn back from the camaraderie they had shared when they had rehearsed together, she had got what she had wanted. She would have the opportunity to observe his character as she helped him through a most interesting personal transformation. But even so, there was still one question she must have answered before she could give herself fully to his scheme.
“My lord,” she asked, “why exactly is it that you must bring a mistress with you to Brighton? I know it has something to do with your receiving an inheritance, but the exact connection eludes me.”
His glance shifted away from hers and she sensed he felt some reluctance to answer. He walked over to a table and picked up a small miniature in a silver frame, gazing at it earnestly for a moment before off
ering it to her for her inspection. The painting showed a thin young man with hair much darker than Lord Hartwood’s own and eyes of a dull blue instead of his lively brown.
“This is my older brother, James,” he explained. “My late brother, James, from whom I inherited the Hartwood title. Like myself, James showed himself to be the true son of our father, an unprincipled wastrel who’d inherited much of Black Neville’s devilry. But during his final illness he appears to have undergone a deathbed conversion and repented of his sins. So before he died he drew up a very odd will. It obliges me to visit my mother for a fortnight before I can receive my full inheritance. In addition, he specified that the visit must take place within two years of his death. Until that period is complete, the portion of the estate over which he had control has been frozen. I have put the visit off as long as possible, but as the second anniversary of his death will occur within the month, I can put it off no longer.” He paused, clearly searching for words. “Because of the way James wrote his will, if I don’t bring a mistress with me when I fulfill the obligation he imposed on me, I cannot enjoy all that he has left me. Does that answer your question?”
She nodded, though it really didn’t. Why would a deathbed repentance have motivated his brother to do something so shocking as to force his own mother, a respectable noblewoman, to consort with a fallen woman? It seemed a very odd way to repent. But then, she reminded herself that having never been on a deathbed, she was in no position to judge. Perhaps as he faced eternity after ruining his own share of women, Lord Hartwood’s brother had hoped to reach out from beyond the grave and set events in train that would somehow rescue another poor fallen creature. Though if that were the explanation, she could see why it might satisfy Lord Lightning’s penchant for the absurd to bring along a faded spinster instead.
