“There now. Let us start over. You have, after all, paid handsomely for my time. You should use it as you see fit.” She sprawled back on the velvet settee and lifted her legs onto his lap, exposing a pair of slender, elegant ankles. Somewhere along the way she had removed her shoes.
It was a relaxed pose, not a seductive one, even though it was highly improper. But once again, the interpretation offered by his brain was not registering in other areas of his anatomy. How humiliating. She noticed and flashed him a smirk, eyes sparkling. He wished he could see the rest of her face so he might decipher her intent. Was she mock-scolding him? Trying to debauch him? He felt the need for an excuse. “A logical response to being in close proximity to a beautiful woman.”
The smirk disappeared. “How flattering.”
He had been trying to gave an excuse for his…obvious enthusiasm, but was it not needed? Did she expect that they would be intimate? “I thought you offered only conversation. Was I mistaken?”
She pulled away, slowly. The sensation of her legs sliding against his thighs was torture, exquisite agony that made him harden even more. Folding her limbs back underneath her, she shrugged. “Let’s say I could be persuaded to be somewhat flexible for the right gentleman. But if it’s conversation you want, by all means, let us converse.”
He could only stare at her mutely, unsure how to explain that conversation was what he wanted, just not of the sort she probably imagined. How could he possibly have believed this a good idea? Why had he ever thought this worldly, flame-haired beauty could tell him anything of use? He was so far from what he wanted to know that he might as well end this charade now.
He stood. “Lady V, you will forgive me, but I must go.”
“You must go?” Her mouth formed into the most alluring pink O. “But it can’t have been more than a quarter hour since we arrived. You’ve paid for two hours.”
He paused, uncertain, glancing around the room for his coat. He didn’t want to offend, but he didn’t want to remain here, either. Sitting in front of a warm fire in a comfortable room with a beautiful—and well-read—lady masquerading as a courtesan wasn’t right. This had been a mistake. He would have to concede that Mr. Phillips and the others had been correct all along. Admitting defeat seemed a small price to pay to get out of here.
“Please, Dr. Burnham.” She’d risen to join him, and a small hand slipped into one of his. Tugging him away from the fire, she pointed him toward an armchair near the bed. “It’s so warm by the fire, don’t you think? Let’s move over there. Lie on the bed and make yourself comfortable. I think it’s possible that you’ve had a trying evening thus far. You’ll forgive me. I sometimes get caught up in playing my role. It’s something that most of my…companions enjoy. If you would be so kind as to position this chair so that it faces the bed, I’ll seat myself there. You shall be quite safe.” She squeezed his hand. “And we shall spend the next hour and three quarters conversing, as advertised.”
Though it took him by surprise, her change in demeanor made him think perhaps something of the evening could be salvaged. He moved the chair as she asked, and she settled herself into it, pulling the counterpane off the bed and wrapping it around herself. Seeing her covered up, curled in the chair like a girl, made the situation seem less threatening. She was right: he’d paid for her time. He’d paid a small fortune, in fact, for answers he wouldn’t get if he left. Happily, the counterpane covered Lady V’s lovely bosom, obscuring the mysterious golden chain and making it easier to focus on his thoughts. Yes, this he could manage.
“There now.” She smiled as he sank back into the feather bed and extended his legs, which reached all the way to the foot. “What shall we talk about?”
“You.”
She turned her head and waved a hand at him, as if rejecting the idea.
“Yes,” he said, dismissing her objection. “Let’s start with how you came to be familiar with my work.”
“I’ve read all your pamphlets.”
“So I gather, but how did you learn of them to begin with?”
“A friend of mine is a patroness of the Society.”
“Truly?”
“You will recall that I’m not actually a courtesan.”
“And who is your friend?”
“Her name is Daisy. I’m sure you don’t—”
“Daisy Watson? Mrs. Robert Watson?”
She sucked in a breath and frowned. He could almost imagine creases appearing between her eyebrows, underneath her mask.
“I shan’t tell her I met you here,” he said quickly, wanting to put her at ease.
“I would appreciate that very much, Dr. Burnham. I wouldn’t want her to know that I…”
“Consider us even. I wouldn’t want her to know that I…either.”
She nodded, and graced him with a genuine smile. “Then I shan’t tell her I met you here. I admire your work too much to endanger it.”
“Then why don’t you join us? Your friend Mrs. Watson has been enormously helpful. We can publish any number of pamphlets, but having patrons among the ton is the surest way to advance our causes in Parliament.”
A corner of her perfectly pink mouth curled up, and her eyes twinkled. “Well, let’s just say that my interests have taken a different turn than Mrs. Watson’s.”
He laughed, despite himself. “Why do you do it?”
“Entertainment.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“It’s true. One can only attend so many balls, receive so many callers, have the same insipid conversations over and over again before one begins to lose one’s mind a little.”
“Haven’t you a family? A husband?” He knew the answer to the latter question, having overheard her telling that annoying young cub as much earlier in the evening, but he didn’t want to admit to eavesdropping.
“I haven’t had a husband for two years now.” She stared at him, issuing a silent warning to probe no further.
He obeyed but marveled over the enormous risk she was taking, being here like this. If she really was a highborn lady, even a widowed one, discovery would mean ruin.
“And what of you?” she asked. “What brings you here? It can’t merely be a desire to converse.”
He tried to make a jest of her question. “You said it yourself. Even social reformers get lonely.”
“I would imagine especially social reformers get lonely. Holding oneself to the impossible standards you suggest we should hold the poor to must grow tiring.”
Her words, and the sharp tone they were delivered in, stung. “I thought you said you admired my work.” He tried not to sound defensive.
“I do, but that’s not the same as saying I agree with all of it.”
Maybe she could help him. “Tell me about your life.”
“What’s there to tell? I live in a large house with lots of servants. I have many friends and admirers. I go to parties. I invite the occasional gentleman over for…conversation.” She smiled and glanced around the room. “And two nights a week I come here.”
“How much money do you make?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I paid eight pounds to be here. It’s an outrageous sum. How much of it do you see?”
“Why does it matter? I’m already rich.”
“Not you, then. The others. How much do they make? Do they have children? Does Madame Cherie treat them well? Do they work here because they haven’t anywhere else to go? To what extent do they choose this life?”
She stood. “I think I will have another drink.”
Damn it. He’d pushed too hard, barraging her with questions. She paused at the sideboard, neither moving nor speaking. He shifted, uncomfortable, unsure if he should apologize. But then she began moving again, pouring from the crystal decanter.
When she returned her eyes were blank, cold. She handed him a drink he hadn’t asked for. He sat up and set it on the bedside table. One had been enough; he needed to keep his wits about him.
“Yo
u’re writing another pamphlet, aren’t you? What’s this one to be called? Plotting Against Prostitution? Withdrawing from Whoredom?” She took a sip. “No pun intended.”
“No, of course not. I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”
“The women who work here are human beings, you know. Not problems to be solved, vices to be suppressed.”
He’d offended her, apparently quite deeply. “I know. I didn’t mean to imply otherwise. If you’ll allow me to explain—”
Still standing, she pulled him up to join her, pressing a finger against his lips. “No. Social reform isn’t on the conversational agenda this evening. In fact, I find I don’t want to converse any more at all, and yet I feel that you should get your money’s worth.”
Her short, clipped tones said she was upset, yet she moved to stand so close to him that he could feel her legs beneath her skirt, brushing against his. He felt his own spark of annoyance. She was clearly trying to unsettle him with her sudden aggression, to scare him and his questions away. Her bosom pressed against his chest and, looking down, his eyes were drawn once again to where the creamy white skin gave way to a dark chasm. To the V. Which, despite his better judgment, he very much wanted to trace with his fingertips. Or his mouth.
She tilted her head back and licked her lips. “Eight pounds is an outrageous sum.”
He had angered her, and she was punishing him, baiting him. Fine. He would not allow himself to become flustered—he could play this game as well as she. Games he understood. They had rules, and he was good at rules. But he wagered she wasn’t prepared to follow through with her teasing. “It is indeed. What do you suggest?”
Standing on her tiptoes, she placed her hands on his shoulders to steady herself. She leaned up and in, and he could feel the tickle of the mask’s feathers against his nose. Her mouth touched his, ever so lightly. “I suggest this,” she whispered.
He inhaled deeply, filling his nose with her rose scent. But there was something else there too, something lighter, a fresh scent almost completely obscured by the roses. Lemon? He couldn’t put his finger on it. She was not exactly the wanton she pretended to be. Her combative words were at odds with the tentative, almost chaste kiss she offered. She was giving him the opportunity to back away, to end things here, and she would follow his lead, but he was not a saint. And she was right about one thing: social reform was a lonely business.
He kissed her back.
Snaking his arms around her, he lifted her off her feet a little. Her kiss had been light, tentative. His, as he crushed his mouth against hers, was not. He knew it was wildly inappropriate, but he didn’t care. He wanted for one moment to possess this lovely, mysterious creature, to forget about his measurements, his statistics, his examinations and just…live.
She exhaled against his mouth, a little mew that went straight to his groin. He nudged her mouth open with his tongue, though he didn’t have to do much persuading, as hers met his eagerly, soft and demanding at the same time. He groaned. She was delicious.
And a masked lady playing the part of a whore, he reminded himself. Someone who valued her own entertainment above decorum, propriety—above what was right.
He was supposed to be here in service of a greater cause.
He disengaged and gently pushed her away, despite the angry protestations of every part of his body. It seemed he could not escape the confines of his controlling mind, after all. Forgetting was not a particular skill of his.
One of her cap sleeves had fallen down her arm, exposing a pale shoulder. Sighing, he reached out and righted it, then stroked the side of her face with the back of his hand, starting at her hairline, drifting down over her mask, and then, finally, making contact with her skin where the mask stopped below her cheekbones. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I must go.”
He half expected her to object, but she merely nodded and stepped away, clearing a path for him. Moving around the room, he collected his coat and gloves as quickly as he could and made his way to the door. He paused and turned back to where she stood near the bed, watching him. Once more, he allowed his eyes to fall to her décolletage. “What does the V stand for?”
She was silent for a long moment. “Viscountess.”
An Excerpt from Famous
Enjoy this excerpt for Jenny’s RITA-nominated contemporary romance about a pop star on the run from the spotlight.
Seven years ago
Sometimes a wedding was not just a wedding.
This one, in which Evan Winslow’s friend Tyrone pledged his eternal devotion to his girlfriend Vicky, was, in fact, a test. It looked like a normal wedding, with white funereal-looking flowers and ill-fitting tuxedos, but it was also Evan’s Hail Mary pass: one last attempt to hold on to his life in Miami, to his nascent career, to his entire freaking life.
His final experiment to measure how extensive—how permanent—the damage inflicted by his father on the Winslow family’s reputation was going to be.
Evan had laid low for the past two weeks, hoping the whole “out of sight/out of mind” adage would prove true, and now it was final exam time.
This test had one question: Could Evan attend his friend Tyrone’s wedding and not be recognized, not upstage the proceedings with his mere presence?
The answer was no. Fail. Flunk.
Which meant this was it. Today was the end of life as he knew it, which sounded melodramatic but was no less true for it. Because if Evan knew one thing with certainty, down to the dusty corners of his soul, it was that he could not live with the fame—the infamy—his father’s crimes had brought down on his head. He had already been coming around to accepting the idea that his painting career was done before it had even really started—thanks to the crimes of Evan Winslow Sr., Evan Winslow Jr. was destined to be persona non grata in the art world—but now he’d brought the goddamned paparazzi to his best friend’s wedding.
He’d tried to hedge against that prospect, and he initially thought he’d succeeded. He’d spent the night at his brother’s place. Evan’s brother wasn’t in the art world—the family business—having opted instead for life as an overgrown trust-fund baby. So he wasn’t getting as much media attention as Evan. Evan had called a cab to his brother’s house, timing things so as to arrive at the church just before the ceremony started.
But he’d miscalculated, emerging from the taxi as a limo pulled up and disgorged the bride and her attendants.
He’d held out a shred of hope that the flashbulbs that started going off were actually for the bride. But how many brides hired half a dozen photographers with zoom lenses to photograph their nuptials?
How many wedding photographers yelled things like “Were you in on it too?” and “Will you attend the sentencing hearing?”
So he’d hustled inside ahead of the bridal party and tried to make himself inconspicuous.
Which, of course, had set off a series of whispers among the guests. People talking behind wedding programs, some openly pointing at him. The bride’s mother glaring, no doubt because he had upstaged her daughter before she’d even made an appearance.
It didn’t even matter that everyone recognized him, really. The fact that he had failed his test was regrettable but not elementally important. Because even if the infamy died down, could he live with the lie? With the notion that everything he had—his luxe condo; his painting ability, honed over years of lessons from the world’s greatest artists; his expensive grad school—was all built on lies and paid for with stolen money?
The answer to that question was also no.
So it was time to go. To start over somewhere else. Pack his shit up, transfer to another college to finish his degree—say goodbye to his entire life.
He had no earthly idea how to do that, but that was a problem to be solved tomorrow, on day one of his new life. Right now, the last day in his old life, he had a wedding to attend.
Thankfully, the music changed at that moment, signaling the start of the ceremony. Everyone turned, and he breathe
d a sigh of relief. For a few moments anyway, there were people in the room who would attract more attention than he would.
He almost laughed as the first bridesmaid appeared. The dress was ridiculous. She looked like a short, puffy, pink mummy. Evan didn’t know fabrics, but he suspected that the multi-layered, shiny dress she was wearing had not been constructed from any fiber or dye that occurred naturally in this world.
And there was another one, and another. They kept coming, parading down the aisle in ascending order of height, like caricatures of bridesmaids rather than actual bridesmaids, with their identical upswept hairdos and identical pink heels.
His wrist twitched. They would make a great painting, all of them lined up like nesting dolls.
No, correction: as the final bridesmaid appeared at the top of the aisle, Evan had to revise his previous thought. They would make a great painting, but she would make a spectacular painting. He would title it Bridesmaid Number Seven.
Tall and thin with long limbs, she was the sort of person people might describe as gangly. It was like someone had taken a regular, average woman and stretched her out like taffy. But she was too graceful to be rightfully called gangly. She had an ease about her, which was rather remarkable, given the packaging and spackling she’d been subjected to.
Evan noticed those sorts of details when a painting was emerging. It was like his brain clicked into some other mode as it swept over a scene, processing, neutrally assessing everything with equal attention, waiting for the jolting spike of feeling that signified the correct take on a subject.
He was a beat behind everyone else standing for the bride because he was still looking at the last bridesmaid. She and her colleagues arrayed themselves at the front of the church and turned to watch the bride process. Her face had interesting angles: sharp cheekbones and slightly unruly brows arching high over eyes that should have been too close-set to be called pretty.
The Likelihood of Lucy (Regency Reformers Book 2) Page 32
