Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  “You are talking about Daisy Crumbly, of course.”

  “Yes. Daisy.”

  He sighed. “I have all the money I will ever need and lacking the belly for anymore cons, I took in no new apprentices, dismissed the ones already in my employ, tried to quietly do some good deeds in recompense for my past. Not until William tried to pick my pocket did I take on any new trainees. But what could I do? The little shit was half-starved. I could not very well turn my back on him. If I did that, guaranteed, the police would have picked him up. That was how clumsy he was at stealing. Still is.

  “As to my name, the one you find so damn funny – I had no identification when I arrived at the foundling home, and so I was assigned one along with eight other lads, all of us sharing the same one: John Smith. I legally changed mine as soon as I could. I wanted something that would belong to me alone. I figured that one would.”

  I understood his reasoning, but goodness, Malcolm Ignatius! What a grandiose name he had chosen for himself! He must have felt the need to dignify himself even back then. Who could blame him? A generic name, not even belonging solely to him! How could he help but feel less than everyone else?

  With his admission, he won my respect. As a youth, he had not indulged in self-pity. Rather he had fought back against circumstances beyond his control.

  “Desiree,” I said. “Desiree Malone.” What were my parents thinking bestowing that name on a baby?

  He thumbed his jaw. “It suits you. The other evening, you deserved something with an erotic twist. At least you did from where I was standing.”

  “Behind me,” I said ruefully. “As I recall, you stood behind me for much of the night.”

  “So I did,” he replied and offered me an easy laugh.

  I was not there yet. Laughing at myself for the other night was still beyond my reach. But I could start to forgive myself for being human for once in my life.

  “Mr. Ignatius – what exactly are the terms of this agreement between us you propose?”

  “As a woman of the world, you know what they are.”

  Indeed, I did not. I had been a virgin until that night. Of course, his inebriation, I suppose, had prevented him from catching on to that hidden truth about myself.

  “Of course I do,” I lied. “But all contracts entered into, even informal ones as ours would be, should be made clear to both parties involved.”

  “If you insist, I will spell them out for you.”

  “I do insist.”

  “A repeat of before,” he answered, spelling it out for me. “I want the same engaging woman you were in that anteroom. Those are my terms.”

  “For how long?” As he was not bribing me, this was not a negotiation. I was merely curious about how far his audacity extended. Merely intrigued. That was all. A fool’s folly to ever consider his proposition for even a moment.

  Niceness did not rub off from one person to another. And I was not all that nice. Nothing would rub off from me to him.

  “How does a week sound?” he asked.

  “Like utter madness.”

  “Aw, shucks – think of the orphan lad.”

  “We both know your little Willy has nothing to do with any of this.”

  He clutched at his chest. “You insult me. I will have you know, my willy is not so little.”

  I frowned. “Pardon?”

  “My willy. Do not taunt a man about the size of his cock.”

  His cock?

  “Huge,” he boasted. “And its size and all else about it has everything to do with this.”

  As I stared open-mouthed at him, he moved in on me, whispered, “Apparently, you have earned your parents’ bad idea for a name, hmm? Desiree. It sounds as though you are already properly debauched. Anyway – with Will gone to the stables, the house will be empty. No interruptions. No loss of privacy. No servants. I do my own cooking and cleaning up after myself afterwards. I bring my clothes over to the washer woman once a week – she never comes here. No one does. I bought the house owing to its off-street doorway. Take care, and no one will see you depart or return. No one will learn of your involvement with a former conman like me. Your reputation – the one you say is immaterial to you – will remain intact. At a future date, you can still marry into society if that is your intent. And why have you not, by now?”

  “I like men. Being with different partners appeals to me,” I lied. “I have an inheritance that supports me very well. I saw no other reason to tie myself down with only one partner. A night here, a night there – I never commit to more with a man. Shocked?”

  He shrugged. “Nothing shocks me anymore.”

  I had a visit with Mr. Osborn coming up that I meant to keep. I felt something for the newspaper reporter and I meant to explore my options, if I had any, and so I conscientiously asked, “You would allow me to leave, to come and go as necessary during those seven days?”

  “Anytime. I am counting on you not wanting to go. I am counting on you coming and coming.”

  Lord, but he was cocky. Pretense? Compensation for inadequacy?

  He was an accomplished lover. I knew without knowing how I knew this that he would take me outside myself, that I would break free of all my reserve with him. But he would not get the same benefit from me in return. Insufficient experience in the area would make me clumsy, particularly when I was naked and therefore vulnerable. Would he be disappointed in me? How did one rate male satisfaction?

  If I was to do this, I wished to do it correctly. I had to! Failing at this too would leave me feeling worse than before. But how to tell? I doubted he would present me with a score card at the end…

  I was still so ignorant about carnality. My sheltered background assured me of innocence long past the time of a woman’s usual awakening. I always thought one had to be in love and married to reap the rewards of sleeping together. Only now did I realize my body had needs apart from love and marriage, only now did I think an undercurrent of sensuality might exist between genders regardless of marital status.

  I suspected his cocky coming jest referred to his pleasuring me. His attitude certainly hinted at his ability to pleasure me. He had our first time, pleasured me, that is, but not to a cataclysmic degree. Could there be more?

  My whore acquaintance had filled in some blanks in my carnal education, the dressmaker had as well. Thank God women shared! But neither confidante had touched on feelings, on bodily sensations. Obviously, the prostitute did what she did for money. Not for emotion. Not for pleasure.

  Cash would not be my motivation. Wanting to know about life motivated me.

  I still had much to learn. The dressmaker had made carnality seem natural. The way she had explained it, coupling was part of life, a rich part of life.

  I looked up at him from under my lashes. “I enjoyed it all. From soup to nuts.”

  “Pardon?”

  “All the courses – from the sordid decadence of being naked with you in that small dark room, within mere feet of fully clad soiree guests milling about outside in the drawing room, to the physical pleasure. I enjoyed everything.”

  “I believe you are a submissive. Am I correct?” he asked.

  I could not get out of this one even with a lie. Way beyond the scope of my elementary understanding. My whore acquaintance had not touched on the specifics of carnality, only the general terms, and so I shrugged helplessly. “I have no idea, sir. I – I only know – I liked it. How you treated me, that is. Your overbearing attitude made me flush hot.”

  “Because you are a submissive by temperament.”

  “If you say so,” I said meekly, bowing to his greater expertise.

  “You came,” he said sharply. “But not as strongly as I would have liked. I know the difference. I liked your honesty in not trying to pull the wool over my eyes, in not screaming down the house, in not carrying on theatrically. You have promise, though. You will come again, I can tell. Not a ripple either. An earthquake. With me, you will find your ultimate release. I also can tell that
you are open to certain deviancies.”

  “Do whores practice these deviancies?”

  “If you pay for them, yes. But their reaction is usually disingenuous.”

  “Do wives practice these deviancies?”

  “No.”

  The shortness and definitiveness of his reply stunned me. “Never?”

  “Not what I want, no. With you, I sensed a genuine aptitude. It is that openness, that guileless and unprejudiced acceptance, I seek. Wives are for decent relations, for the bearing of children, for respectability.”

  Time to tell him he was bound to be disappointed in my skill level. Not good in social situations, not good in private, either…that was me. “You know, sir, I have never been wed.”

  “But you have had lovers.”

  “Oh, my, yes. Many,” I lied. “But they were all…conservative…in the boudoir. Their wants were limited.”

  “Mine are not. Neither am I conservative.”

  I bit my lip. Difficult to maintain haughtiness when one is lost in a fog.

  As a final recourse, I resorted to truth. “You may find me lacking.”

  His eyes hooded, his lips tightened. He appeared distressed. Why?

  He leaned into me. “I shan’t find you lacking Miss Malone.”

  But how did he know? How could he tell? Why was he so sure? We only had the one time together. And what did his heightened color signify? And his intensity? Why had his hands balled into fists?

  “What are your preferences?” I finally thought to ask. The formulation of even that question required all my carnal resources.

  “Erotic playfulness. Pain.”

  What he called erotic playfulness, I called lying through one’s teeth. I could do that! I was good at dishonesty. But always before it had been for a good cause. My orphans. Could I…should I…advance my untruthfulness to include carnality?

  Lying to him further struck me as wrong. And so, with the exception of revealing my prior carnal inexperience, I would make a clean breast of it with him. “I should tell you that am not very charitable. I do what I do with orphans essentially out of boredom. I should also say that I have resorted to blackmail to get what I want. All for a good cause, as they say, but still it is extortion. And I excel at it.”

  “As do I, Miss Malone. As do I. Though, not anymore. I am trying to turn over a new leaf.”

  “As am I.” And that new leaf was where he had entered my life.

  I crossed my arms around myself, hugging my ribcage. What was I getting into here with him?

  Real harm, I suspected.

  Thinking of my chances with Mr. Osborn, I blurted, “I absolutely cannot conceive from this liaison, sir.”

  Mr. Ignatius’s face went cold, his expression as frozen as a block of ice. He pushed out through nearly motionless lips, “I realize I would make a society lady unsuitable father material for an heir or heiress.”

  In my attempt at some honesty between us, I had offended him and I had not meant to. He was so very sensitive about his birth, and I had thoughtlessly said the wrong thing, revealing too much of my private thoughts.

  I let it go. Why explain? Far too complicated to do it correctly.

  Despite all my misgivings, I pushed ahead. “You see? No niceness to rub off on you.”

  “Enough to satisfy my requirements. No one is all-nice. Maybe you will find that holds true for me as well, that I am not entirely a cad. A cad is what you think me, is it not?”

  “That first night, yes. I could be dissuaded now.”

  “Will you allow me that opportunity?”

  I sighed. “When would we begin?”

  “Since you fired your maid, you would be going home to an empty house this evening…”

  He had chosen the wrong thing to say. And just when I was weakening too!

  “If you intend to intrude upon my private life with snooping, get your facts straight,” I very nearly shouted, which was so unlike me. “I did not fire my maid. She retired, a well-deserved rest from caring for me all these years.”

  “I stand corrected.”

  “I doubt it,” I fumed, my anger boiling over. “Men like you rarely learn from their mistakes.”

  He straightened up from his leaning. “Tell me, Miss Malone, what sort of man am I?”

  o“One with a chip on his shoulder. Try considering the situation from a different perspective. It would do you a world of good.”

  “You spoke of my not learning from my mistakes, and though I am trying to do just that, I concede to having a long way still to go. Please forgive my slowness. And help me get to there.”

  And with his owning up to his past, just like that, the proverbial snap of two fingers, my bluster disappeared.

  But helping him?

  That was not why I was here. Little Will was not why I remained, unable to leave, either. The prospect of carnal pleasure was why I stayed stuck in place.

  “No time to waste, Miss Malone. When you get through with me, I expect to be very nearly faultless. Like yourself.”

  He could not possibly be serious! Conning. He was conning me.

  “Best get started, Miss Malone. You have your work cut out for you with me.”

  Mine was a stiff reply, “I cannot, sir”

  “I must insist.”

  I threw my arms up in the air, the most demonstrative I could ever recall being. Strong emotions, particularly silly ones, never held sway over me. And if they had as a child, the unfortunate tendencies had been gently persuaded to leave. “I brought no valise, no wardrobe.”

  “You will have no need for clothing.”

  “Oh, very funny. I cannot be naked all the time.”

  “Why ever not?” he asked.

  “I simply cannot. There are limits.”

  “I told you as much before – the limits are all in your head.”

  “Where else would they be?” Were all men so obtuse?

  “There are no limits,” he told me, his tone stern. “Not for us.”

  Unacceptable! I clung to rules and regulations. Otherwise, what was there?

  Chaos. Anarchy. Bestial behavior. “We are not animals, sir.”

  “But we are. And you will behave like an animal with me.”

  I had lived a serene life. A relatively unexceptional life. A peaceful life. Yes, I longed to live to the fullest, to experience passion before I settled into being either a musty Old Maid or a reporter’s wife – should he ask me – but was it necessary to throw out the baby with the bathwater?

  Etiquette must be observed even during an escapade! I was stable, but I did not live in a stable. He would need to get himself another animal. Large toothed, but perhaps a woodchuck would do him…

  Correctly interpreting my resistance, his lips pursed into a moue.

  “Are you pouting?” I asked in disbelief.

  “Certainly not. Men do not pout. But I do fret over what will become of poor Will. Little bugger, exposed to a life of crime when you could have prevented it.”

  I winced. “You are playing me like a fiddle, sir.”

  “Only because you are strung so tight.”

  “Very well. I shan’t return home for my new gowns, lovely and colorful creations all of them, some of the hats with feathers, some of the gowns with décolletage. I have never worn such revealing bodices, even as a young girl in the market for a husband. They push up the bosom, making much ado from nothing in my case. You would have approved of the deception.” I rethought that. “But of course I have no plans to deceive you here.” It was only a week’s time. I should be able to keep honesty as a tenet that long.

  “You have lovely breasts. Small and firm, the nipples outrageous in their responsiveness to my hands.”

  Not only to his hands. At his words, the tips of my breasts fluttered to life, going wantonly hard.

  “You look bemused, Miss Malone. Do share your thoughts.”

  I cringed. “I could not possibly.”

  “Force yourself. Think of William.”

>   “I know what you are up to, sir. And here you said you had turned over a new leaf. This might not be financial extortion but it is emotional blackmail of the most obvious variety. Do you intend to hold the fate of that child over my head indefinitely?”

  “Only until I deem it unnecessary.”

  “Start deeming, sir. Your intimidation grows tedious.”

  “Onto other matters, then.”

  “Go on.”

  “Tits.”

  I shook my head. “Good grief!”

  “Perhaps my memory of your bosom is faulty. The only way to correct a faulty memory is with a reminder. Show me your breasts, Miss Malone. Let me judge their merits for myself.”

  “This is the kitchen. Only a Cornish game hen waiting to be stuffed show their breasts in the kitchen.”

  “In a manner of speaking, you are waiting to be stuffed. And when I issue you a direct order, I expect you to comply. Our foreplay is done here. Off with the gown.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  I complied.

  Or, at least I began to. Rome was not built in a day, and removing one’s gown could take a woman with all-thumbs that long or longer. Especially as I was being pushed from the general kitchen area to a small, well-lit pantry equipped with a sink for the washing of dishes and such while doing so.

  No complaint. A certain amount of privacy in an escapade was appreciated. What if William were to choose that particular moment to descend upon us while looking for his evening meal?

  He – the charming stranger who was a stranger no longer and not nearly as charming as before – followed me. Stalking me, actually. Because of his swift agility, I had taken him for a light stepper. And he had been before. Now, I could hear his shoes, with their metal heel caps, stamp the floor. When I glanced back over my shoulder, I saw that his lion-like eyes were narrowed as if I were prey, his attitude carnivorous.

  My unspoken acquiescence was not agreement. Not really. Rather, my cooperation had resulted from poor planning. I had not thought past the gratification of having his big hands on my bosom once more.

  A gratification that was taking far too long.