Miss Whitlow turned her palm up, so their fingers lay across one another. “You are very kind.”
He was a charlatan. “One aspires to behave honorably, though it isn’t always possible.”
Her fingers closed around his, and Michael felt honor tearing him right down the middle of his chest.
“I have a sense of decency,” she said, “as unlikely as that sounds. I’ve sworn off sharing my favors for coin. I’d like to share my favors with you for the sheer pleasure of it. Lucille has reminded me that the coming years will be…”
She fell silent, her hand cold in Michael’s. In another instant, she’d withdraw her hand, the moment would be lost, and he’d be reduced to asking her about Mrs. Radcliffe’s prose.
“Lonely,” he said. “The coming years will be lonely. The coming night need not be.”
Michael drew Henrietta to her feet and wrapped his arms about her. The fit was sublime, and for a moment, he pitied all the men who’d had to pay her to tolerate—much less appear to enjoy—their advances. That she’d offer him intimacies without a thought of reward was more Christmas token than he’d ever deserve.
And in return, what would he offer her?
“I’ll take a tray in my room,” she said, kissing his cheek. “You can come to me after supper, after I’ve had a proper soak.”
She’d taken a bath the previous evening, as had Michael. He suspected hers had been a good deal warmer than his.
“You don’t need to fuss and primp,” Michael said. “I don’t care if you bear the scent of books, or your hair is less than perfectly arranged. I’d rather be with you as you are.”
She drew back enough to peer at him, and they were very nearly eye to eye. “I insist on toothpowder. That’s not negotiable.”
God, what she’d had to put up with. “I insist on toothpowder too, and I generally don’t bother with a nightshirt. Shall we surprise each other with the rest of it?”
“You think you can surprise me?”
She’d had a half-dozen lovers, probably not an imaginative bone in the lot, so to speak. “I know I can.” Her patch-leaf fragrance was fainter today, as if she’d forgotten to apply it, though the aroma yet lingered on her clothes. Michael bent closer to catch the scent at the join of her neck and shoulder. “Shall we go upstairs now?”
Darkness had fallen, though dinner was at least two hours off. Michael was famished, and food had nothing to do with his hunger. He’d regret this folly, but he’d regret more declining what Henrietta offered.
And if he was lucky, Beltram’s damned book had been tossed in the fire years ago.
* * *
Henrietta stepped behind the privacy screen, aware of a vast gap in her feminine vocabulary. No man had sought to share intimacies with her for the simple pleasure of her company. From Beltram onward, all had regarded her as a commodity to be leased, though Beltram had masked his agenda as seduction.
Michael had cast her no speculative glances, assayed no “accidental” touches, offered no smiles that insulted as they inventoried. Any of those, Henrietta could have parried without effort.
His honest regard might have been a foreign language to her.
“Shall I undress for you?” She was tall enough to watch over the privacy screen as Michael added peat to the fire.
“Not unless you’d enjoy that,” he said, setting the poker on the hearth stand. “Perhaps you’d like me to undress for you? Can’t say as a lady has ever asked that of me.”
A lady. To him, she was a lady. “It’s a bit chilly to be making a display out of disrobing.” Some men had needed that from her, had needed as much anticipation and encouragement as she could produce for them—poor wretches.
“Burning peat is an art, and my staff hasn’t the way of it,” he said. “I keep the smell about to remind me of the years when a peat fire was the difference between life and death. Your hair is quite long.”
Henrietta had undone her coronet, so her braid hung down to her bum. “I might cut it. For years, I didn’t.” Because long hair, according to Beltram, was seductive. By his reasoning, ridiculously long hair was ridiculously seductive.
Though Beltram’s opinion now mattered…not at all.
“That is a diabolical smile, Miss Whitlow.”
“You inspire me, and if we’re to share a bed, you might consider calling me Henrietta.”
“I’m Michael.” He draped his coat over the back of the chair by the hearth. “After the archangel. Have you other names?”
“Henrietta Eloisa Gaye Whitlow. Is there a warmer to run over the sheets?” Warmed flannel sheets would be a bit of heaven.
“I’ll be your warmer.”
They shared a smile, adult and friendly. Henrietta decided that her hair could be in a braid for this encounter, and to blazes with the loose cascade most men had expected of her. She’d always spent half the next morning brushing out the snarls, half the night waking because she couldn’t turn without pulling her hair loose from her pillow first.
Michael-for-the-archangel removed his clothing in a predictable order, laying each article over the chair in a manner that would minimize wrinkles. He pulled off his own boots, and used the wash water at the hearth with an emphasis on the face, underarms, privities, and feet.
He was thorough about his ablutions, and his soap—hard-milled and lavender scented—was fresh.
“You are not self-conscious,” Henrietta said. A surprising number of men were, if the gossip among courtesans was to be believed. Several men might cheerfully aim for the same chamber pot while the port was consumed, but they’d do so without revealing much of their person, or overtly inspecting any other man.
“I was one of eight children sharing a one-room sod hut,” Michael said. “Growing up, privacy was a foreign concept.”
While hard work had doubtless been his constant companion. Michael had the honed fitness that came from years of physical labor and constant activity. Some wealthy men came by a similar physique by virtue of riding, shooting, archery, and pugilism. Michael had a leanness they lacked, a sleekness that said he eschewed most luxuries still and probably always would.
“Growing up, my modesty was elevated from a virtue to an obsession,” Henrietta said. “I like looking at you.”
He wrung out the wet flannel over the basin, arm muscles undulating by candlelight. “Does that surprise you?”
“Yes.” Henrietta hadn’t chosen her partners on the basis of appearance, not after Beltram. He’d been a fine specimen, also selfish, rotten, deceitful, and lazy. She hoped whatever woman he took to wife could match him for self-absorption and hard-heartedness. He’d come by months ago to tell her he’d be wife-hunting, as if his eventual marriage might dash some hope Henrietta had harbored for years.
What a lovely difference time could make in a woman’s perspective.
Michael laid the cloth over the edge of the basin and crossed to the bed. “Won’t you join me, Henrietta?”
What need did the Irish have of coin when they had charm in such abundance? Michael sat on the edge of the bed wearing not a stitch of clothing, his arm extended in invitation. He was mildly aroused, and his smile balanced invitation with… hope?
Henrietta kept her dressing gown about her. She had no nightgown on underneath—why bother?—but neither did she want to parade about naked, and that too was a surprise.
“I’m all at sea,” she said, taking the place beside Michael on the bed. “I know how to be a courtesan. I know what a courtesan wants, how she plies her trade. But this…”
A courtesan never confided in her partner. She managed every encounter to ensure he would be comfortable confiding in her, and what a bloody lot of work that was. The physical intimacies were so much dusting and polishing compared to that heavy labor.
Michael took her hand and kissed her knuckles. “If you’re at sea, allow me to row you to shore. This is being lovers. You don’t need to impress me, please me, flatter me, or put my needs above your own. We share pleasu
re, as best we can, and then we share some sweet memories.”
“How simple.” How uncomplicated, honest, and wonderful—so why did Henrietta feel like crying?
Michael slid his palm along her jaw and kissed the corner of her mouth. “Simple and lovely. Will you get the candles? I’ll start warming up these sheets.”
How many times had Henrietta made love with the candles blazing? She couldn’t fall asleep that way—lit candles were a terrible fire hazard—though her partners had succumbed to slumber following their exertions with the predictability of horses rolling after a long haul under saddle.
She blew out the candles one by one. Michael had three sheaths soaking in water glasses on the bed table, and he’d already informed Henrietta that she was to notify him of any consequences from their encounter.
She suspected she was infertile, a courtesan’s dearest blessing, and for the first time, the idea bothered her. A baron needed an heir, not that Michael’s succession was any of her business.
“Come to bed, love,” Michael said as candle smoke joined the scent of peat in the night air. “Mind you don’t trip over that valise.”
Considerate of him. Henrietta hefted her traveling case onto the cedar chest at the foot of the bed, then shed her dressing gown and climbed into bed with… her first lover.
* * *
Hot wax dripped onto Josiah Whitlow’s hand and woke him. He’d fallen asleep at his desk for the third time in a week, or possibly the fourth. His housekeeper had given up scolding him for leaving the candles burning.
“Candles cost money,” he muttered, sitting up slowly, lest the ache in his back turn to the tearing pain that prevented sleep. The fire in the hearth had burned down—coal cost money too—and the house held the heavy, frigid silence of nighttime after a winter storm.
“You left me on such a night,” he muttered, gaze on the portrait over the mantel. Katie had died in March, after a late-season storm that had rattled the windows and made the chimneys moan. Josiah had known he was losing her since she’d failed to rally after a lung fever more than a year earlier. She’d never quite regained her strength after the birth of their younger boy.
“He has a daughter now,” Josiah said, draining a serving of brandy he’d poured hours before. “Poor little mite is cursed with your red hair, madam.”
He saluted with his glass. “Apologies for that remark. Ungentlemanly of me. Christmas approaches and I… am not at my best.”
Every year, Christmas came around, and Henrietta did too. Every year, Josiah found some excuse to lurk in the mercantile across from the inn at Amblebank, until he caught a glimpse of his tall, beautiful daughter.
Henrietta resembled her mother, but every feature that had been pretty on Katie was striking on Henrietta. Katie had had good posture, Henrietta was regal. Katie had been warm-hearted, Henrietta was unforgettably lovely. Katie had known her Book of Common Prayer, and Henrietta—according to her brothers—quoted Shakespeare.
Accurately.
“I kept her from the books,” he said, experimentally shifting forward in his chair. “Didn’t want her to end up a bluestocking old maid.”
Josiah pushed to his feet, though the movement sent discomfort echoing from his back to his hips, knees, and feet. Not gout, except possibly in one toe. Gout was for the elderly.
“Which I shall soon be, God willing.”
Katie remained over the dying fire, smiling with the benevolence of perpetual youth. Josiah was glad for the shadows, because his wife’s eyes reproached him for the whole business with Henrietta.
Girls fell from grace, Katie had once said, when a man came by intent on tripping them. Lately, Josiah had begun to suspect that Katie’s point was not without validity, from a mother’s perspective. Henrietta had been sixteen when she’d fled to London, and Josiah had been sure she’d come home within the week, chastened, repentant, and forever cured of her rebellious streak.
Instead, she’d shamed her family, set a bad example for her brothers, and broken her father’s heart.
“She made her bed,” Josiah said, blowing out the candles on the desk. “She can jolly well lie in it. And—with a damned aching hip—I shall lie in mine. Good night, madam.”
The portrait, as always, remained silent, smiling, and trapped in pretty youth, while Josiah steeled himself for the growing challenge of negotiating the main staircase at the end of the day.
* * *
In Michael’s wildest imaginings, he could not have anticipated the sheer joy of making love with Henrietta Whitlow. She was like a cat in a roomful of loose canaries, chasing this pleasure, then that one, then sitting fixed while fascinated with a third, until leaping after a fourth.
She wanted to spoon with Michael’s arms snug around her, then she demanded to lie face to face and touch every inch of his chest, arms, face, and shoulders. Just as he was having trouble drawing a steady breath—he’d not realized his ribs were ticklish—she’d rolled to her back.
“Now you touch me,” she said, and Michael had obliged with hands, mouth, and body.
She gave him the sense that she’d never before permitted herself an agenda in the bedroom other than: Please him. Accommodate him. Make him happy. Her own wishes and dreams hadn’t mattered enough to any of the men in her bed—or she’d been that skillful at hiding them—and thus those wishes hadn’t been allowed to matter to her.
They mattered to Michael. Henrietta mattered.
She liked the sensation of his breath on her nipples, he liked the ferocious grip she took of his hair. Then she wrapped her hand around another part of him, and Michael sat back, the better to watch her face by the firelight as she explored him.
“If women were as proud of their breasts as men are of their cocks…” she muttered, tracing a single fingernail up the length of his shaft.
“There would be more happy women, and happy men,” Michael said. “Perhaps more babies too. Would you please do that again?”
She obliged, more slowly. “You ask, you never demand.”
“I’ll be begging in a moment.”
Her mouth closed around him, and for long moments, Michael couldn’t even beg. He could only give silent thanks for these moments shared with Henrietta, while he tried to ignore the itch of guilt from his conscience.
Her valise sat at the foot of the bed, a reproach every time he opened his eyes. When Henrietta smiled up at him, he shifted over her, so she filled his vision.
“Now?” he asked.
She kissed him, framing his jaw with both hands, wrapping her legs around him. Her movements were languid and—he hoped—self-indulgent.
“I want to be on top,” she said. “This time.”
Michael subsided to his back, and she straddled him. He used her braid to tug her closer. “Like this?”
With no further ado, Henrietta tied a sheath about him, then sank down over him and joined them intimately. “More like this.”
Michael struggled to locate a Shakespeare quote, a snippet, any words to remark the occasion. “Move, Henrietta. Move now.”
She smiled down at him. “He demands. At last he demands.”
“I’m begging you.”
Her smile became tender as she tucked close and moved.
Chapter Five
All good things must end, or at least be paid for, and Henrietta the Housemaid eventually realized that her station in life had changed. I had the sense she might slip back to the shires, given a chance. I was forever finding her in tears over some draft of a letter to her martinet of a papa. No matter how often she wrote to him, he apparently never answered.
Having no recourse, when I offered to put my arrangement with her on professional footing, she accepted, and thus the career of London’s greatest courtesan had its origins in my family parlor. Delicious irony, that, but for one small detail, which I must prevail upon you to tidy up…
Michael Brenner had needed a woman.
Or maybe—Henrietta wasn’t quite awake, so her thoughts wand
ered instead of galloped—he’d needed her? Somebody with whom to be passionate, tender, funny, and honest. Maybe he’d needed a lover, an intimate friend with whom to be himself, wholly and joyfully.
Henrietta had needed him too. Needed a man who wasn’t interested in tricks and feats of sexual athleticism, who wasn’t fascinated with the forbidden, or bored with it, but still fascinated with his own gratification. Making love with Michael had been so easy, and yet so precious.
She’d been needing him for the past ten years.
To join with Michael had felt intimate, invigorating, and sweet. Surely the Bard had put it better, but Henrietta couldn’t summon any literature to mind. The hour was late, and she was abed with a lover.
Her first lover.
She reached beneath the covers and found warmth but no Michael. Her ears told her he wasn’t stirring about behind the privacy screen, which meant…
Nothing for it, she must open her eyes.
A page turned, the sound distinctive even when Henrietta’s mind was fogged with sleep. Michael had pulled a chair near the hearth and lit a branch of candles. He sat reading a small book, his hair tousled, his dressing gown half open. His expression was beautifully somber, suggesting the prose on the page was serious.
Foreboding uncoiled where contentment had been.
“You’d rather read than cuddle?” Henrietta asked, sitting up. She kept the covers about her, and not because the room was chilly. Michael’s expression was anything but loverlike.
“I’d rather cuddle, but I couldn’t bear…”
“What?” Couldn’t bear to remain in bed with her?
He closed the book and stared at the fire. “I couldn’t bear to further deceive you. I have misrepresented myself to you, Miss Whitlow, in part. I’ve also been honest in part.”
Miss Whitlow? Miss Whitlow?
“You’ve been inside me, Michael. Several times. Don’t call me Miss Whitlow.” And don’t remain halfway across the room, looking like a fallen angel on the eve of banishment to the Pit.
Respect for Christmas Page 7
