Virgin Escapade (Virgin Series Book 2)

by Louisa Trent

  “Know what?” said the nameless third party in the ménage. “I think I should leave. You two lovebirds need to work this out alone, without an audience.”

  “No! Stay,” I said, directing my command to the unknown quantity in the room. “And your friend and I are not lovebirds.” The very idea was absurd, and needed to be corrected posthaste.

  The conman audibly gritted his teeth. “Listen, sweetheart. Being with two men will not make you feel better tonight.”

  “Why pretend to help when you had no intention of following through?” I yelled. “This is a bait-and-switch con game if ever I heard one.”

  The mattress squeaked again. “I like a little less bickering with my lechery,” announced the conman’s friend. “I wager you two can get through this better without my interference.”

  A sharp clap against manly flesh. “By the way – congratulations on finding her, Ignatius.”

  Feet padding across the floor, a door slamming, and I was alone with Ignatius.

  “See what you did?” I cried. “You singlehandedly ruined everything.”

  “Not everything. You, Miss Malone. I only ruined you. You were an innocent our first time. I knew it, and I should have stopped. Only I wanted you so badly, I even took on a virgin, and virgins ain’t nothing but trouble. Not you, though. Every moment with you made up for everything bad in my life, everything that came before.”

  I only heard one word of his declaration. “How did you know I was a virgin?”

  “You just told me, right now.”

  “You…you…conman. You tricked me!”

  “No! Never. Mine was a gut feeling, a strong suspicion that you had never been with anyone before. A man, even one who partook of too much punch, knows these things. I did. I knew it. And I could not give you up.”

  “Deliberately spoiling a virgin.” I sniffed, all for effect. “You really are a cad.”

  “But a damn sight better than your Mr. Osborn.”

  The reporter was not mine, and he never would be mine now. “Are you saying my being with you, sir, is the lesser of two evils?”

  “Yes,” he answered.

  “And that is the best argument you can make me for staying and continuing our arrangement, I suppose?”

  “You are not ready to hear anything else, not while you got this hurt festering inside you. And if this is what you need to let go of some of that hurt, then so be it. Though I would prefer holding you in my arms…”

  “Bosh! You are just trying to weasel out on this altogether. You have no interest in fucking me either.”

  “Oh, Desiree…”

  “Do not call me that, particularly not in that gentle tone,” I gulped, almost sobbed. “It is just too much.”

  “Tears help sometimes,” he said sorrowfully. “But deal with this in any way that will help you get through the night. What would help you?”

  “Sodomy,” I said grimly.

  “Christ,” he groaned. “I should have known. Gutsy as hell, all the damn time.”

  Eventually, after some delay – Had he been poised for escape and then, thinking better of it, reluctantly changed his mind the last minute out of pity? – he situated himself behind me on the bed and began nudging the demarcation between my buttocks.

  A subtle scent of vanilla wafted around us and lingered. Had he uncapped some sort of perfume during the lapse of time?

  His thoughtfulness left me nonplussed. To my mind, romance played no part here. But I supposed, he was more sentimentally disposed than myself to things like ambience…

  A moment later, when he introduced me to the illegal act by minute degrees, I understood the practical purpose of that vanilla-scented perfume. No romance, intended. He must have oiled his male member before proceeding.

  Even so, I startled.

  He stilled, rubbing his hand soothingly up and down my back, whispering untruthful inanities in my ear about my great beauty, lies that stopped just short of comparing me favorably to Cleopatra, telling me how much he wanted me, etcetera, etcetera. All nonsense, of course. One would he think he had never been with a woman this way before…

  “Are you still with me, sweetheart?”

  There was no coercion to convince me to continue. I knew there would not be. This cad could have any woman he so desired and in any position he so desired – that was a given with his handsomeness and charming ways. Why he had bothered with me in the first place, I never would understand.

  Wanting my respectability destroyed, I gave him the nod, and he began his slippery entry. His was an expert penetration, and the little discomfort there was, I horded, telling myself it was the illegality I lusted over, not him, never him.

  Hard to continue telling myself that was the case when rapture swept over me and I came on a hearty scream after only several tender thrusts.

  After it was done, and his ejaculate streamed from my buttocks – his was a silent orgasm, without any sign of joy or pleasure whatsoever – and I was a respectable lady no longer but a criminal in the eyes of the law, he held me in his arms, and I cried and cried, and could not seem to stop crying. It must have been hours that I went on and on like that, but he refused to leave me even when I dismissed him as if he were a common servant.

  The man was not easily insulted. Or intimidated. Not in any way, not under any circumstance. He was a rock, considerate and honorable…in his own way. Not until I said, “You may go now. Cease, I say! Do cease,” did he leave me alone on the bed.

  The sex act I had foisted on Malcolm Ignatius had not succeeded in making me feel numb. Indeed, his awful sadness permeated every fiber of my person as he quietly departed the room.

  Chapter Twenty

  In the eight weeks since my carnal initiation, the poor little rich girl – me – had learned how to assert herself.

  When the reporter came to call, I told him in no uncertain terms what I thought of him and his philandering. Then, I went onto explain that should his abuse of Sally…or indeed any other whore in the Red-light District…continue, I would personally see Mr. Osborn’s arse landed in jail.

  When one kept a team of expensive attorneys on retainer, prosecution was always swift and painful.

  Legal recourse was only a small part of my growing sphere of influence. At this late stage in my life, I had developed a laudable persuasiveness of speech. My former eloquence in the language of blackmail, the best persuader in the world, had expanded. City charities benefited from my new-found articulateness.

  The orphans of North Street would get the wing on their existing facility sooner rather than later. Money greased even the squeakiest carriage wheel, and produced a smooth ride over any obstacle in its path.

  Little Will would not join those other parentless children in the new wing. After Mr. Ignatius explained the realities of thievery to his charge, the scamp had elected to remain under his strict supervision while learning the livery trade.

  The battle of wits between us had been won.

  By all of three of us.

  As my expanding waistline would testify, I could not be more pleased with the results of my stay at the Red-light District.

  I was to have a child, the cad’s child to be certain, as he was my one and only lover. And so he would remain. I was disgracefully in love with the former thief and present do-gooder. My baby could not have a more lionhearted father.

  I would tell him so today, during his daily visit to me.

  Yes, the thief who had turned over a new leaf had begun to court me…

  An hour after I left his tenement, he had shown up at my door. Flowers, candy, scented oils – those I would save for the honeymoon – in hand. On his face, he wore such hope, a hope that mimicked my own, along with an openness and willingness to grove…

  Lord, I melted all over again.

  He certainly knew his way to a spinster’s heart.

  Also – how to break an arm.

  Not mine. Mr. Osborn’s. And in more than one place. Not to mention the reporter’s leg.


  My almost fiancé would not be holding a pen any time soon. Ambulation would take him somewhat longer. The fisticuffs had been “fair”, according to Mr. Ignatius.

  In my opinion, the concept of fair could be taken to ridiculous extremes. A fair fight, in this instance, would have had the conman tying a muscled arm behind his back.

  And here was my champion pugilist now, a gleam in his roguish eye.

  I let him in immediately. No game-playing.

  He looked me over. “Miss Malone – you are looking extraordinarily beautiful today.”

  “Healthy and happy, that would be me.” I surveyed my much plumper chest. “Also, bosomy.”

  His mouth flapped open. “Are you saying that I think you are saying?”

  “We understand one another completely, sir.”

  He lifted me off the floor – ever so carefully – and spun me around. Circle completed, he set me back gently on my feet.

  My own two feet. I knew how to stand on my own now. And if all my wealth was gone on the morrow, I would still make my way. By myself. But…

  …with the augmentation of a large and varied investment portfolio to fall back upon as well, should I need to do so.

  A gold-digger Mr. Ignatius was not. My fiancé was richer than myself, and we both agreed on giving the larger portion away through the years to causes in which we strongly believed.

  I scowled up at him. “I never did ascertain why you knew I would be at the soiree that night, sir.”

  “Because I never divulged the reason you,” he replied.

  I smirked. “Divulge now.”

  “Daisy Crumbly told me. Never can recall her married name, but you know who I mean.”

  “Of course. The waif you done wrong,” I nettled him.

  “She has forgiven me my transgressions many times over. And, as you know, she is no waif, not any more. What you might not be privy to is this – she is a matchmaker beyond compare. The same way you knew her husband-to-be loved another, she realized should I meet you in person, I would most definitely fall head over heels in love with you. She informed me of this many times over, right after she pulled tidbits about you from the society pages as a matter of fact.”

  I gasped. “And you told me you never indulged.”

  “I told you correctly too. Daisy read all the interviews aloud to me.”

  So, that was how he knew of me.

  “Daisy told me you were a nice woman trying hard not to be and I should make that happen. And I did try to meet you that night at the charity soiree, but a beautiful prostitute forestalled me, and I took the whore into an anteroom instead.”

  “Me!”

  “I had no idea what you looked like. No photographs of you exist.”

  “I hate having them taken.”

  “So – Daisy wished us to meet? Did you agree because you pitied me?” I asked, and held my breath. His sympathy would toll a death knell for all my hopes.

  He frowned. “For what would I pity you, sweetheart? When you walked in the door of that charitable event, defiant and brave and, unknown to me at the time, willing to go to bat for city orphans, I fell immediately in love with you. Even thinking you a prostitute, I fell in love with you.” He paused, thumbed his jaw, looked a little – all right, a lot upset. “Maybe you mean I should pity you for taking me on as your new project?”

  “Ha! As if you need my pity.”

  He took a large inhale. “Right, right. Of course not. I have been getting by for years on my own.” Then he looked straight into my eyes. “Christ, I need you, sweetheart. And I want you even more. To make a real home with, to be my family. I trust you as I have never trusted anyone. You can trust me too. I can change. I swear I can. Please do not turn me away.”

  Defiant…brave…He had seen qualities in me I had not possessed, but I was beginning to earn those qualities now because of him. And so I said, “The same applies to me. I need you too, and desire you even more. There will never be any turning away between us. And you were never a project to me.”

  Letting me see the tears shining in his eyes, he nodded solemnly.

  “And what of your friend, the one you picked as a third for our never-to-be ménage?” I asked, giving him space while he pulled himself together. Orphans sometimes needed more space than the average person. I trusted him to return to me when he did.

  He wiped at his face with his coat sleeve. “A hell of a rake is that one.”

  “So what? He could turn over a new leaf too with some coaching. Tell me his name. I believe I have a woman for him.”

  “You do?”

  I nodded. “I do. She will put a fight, but they belong together. Daisy is not the only one capable of making a love match happen for someone else. I can too. And the way I look at it – one favor deserves another.”

  “Later. I can tell you later. Right now, kiss me, sweetheart. Please kiss me. I need you to.”

  Wrapping my arms around his neck in a modified throttle, I pulled his mouth in reach of mine, and landed him a kiss that could only be called…far from nice.

  Thank you!

  I hope you enjoyed VIRGIN ESCAPADE! This is my thirty-fourth full novel, one of my Guilded Age novels.

  To check out my other books, read excerpts, and subscribe to a new release e-mail notification list kindly visit me at www.louisatrent.com.

  I appreciate all reviews, whether positive or negative, and would love to hear either way from you. Reviews help others find similar stories. Please consider leaving a review for this book or any other of mine you may already have finished.

  I write in a number of genres from historical to contemporary or futuristic, dark and brooding to light and comical, some futuristic, time travel and paranormal. My website has synopses and excerpts. If you enjoyed this novel you may enjoy the companion novel from the same period and setting, VIRGIN ENCOUNTER. Following is an excerpt.

  Enjoy.

  Warmest regards,

  Louisa

  Chapter One

  “Tut-tut! Your actions, Miss Weatherford!”

  Recognizing Malcolm’s censorious tone only too well, I hardly breathed as my mentor in seduction stared me down.

  Now what had I done? Or not done. Or done too quickly. Or taken my own sweet bloody time doing. Or any number of complaints Malcolm was always sure to indicate about the suggestiveness – or lack thereof – in my performance.

  For sodding sure, he could not accuse me of sitting up straight. Not this time! Just as Malcolm had advised, I slouched – to minimize the fullness of my bosom. Evidently, the flat chested look was de rigueur this season. Who knew?

  Not me. Thieves had more productive things to do with their time than follow the whims of fashion. Fleecing the unwary came to mind.

  At any rate, there I was, slumped in my chair, my shoulders hunched, the rest of me statue still, as motionless as a nabbed crook before the police clamped on the shackles.

  In my line of work, I knew all about shackles. And police.

  Not to say I had a first-hand acquaintance with the hospitality of Charles Street jail. I did not! In all my years as a pickpocket, I had never once been apprehended by the coppers. My expertise centered on the avoidance end of things – not getting caught in the first place. But if ever I was escorted downtown, I knew what never to do:

  Fidget.

  Fidgeting was one sure way of making a con artist like myself look as guilty as hell. As I always was guilty as hell, there was none of this squirming and twitching nonsense for me.

  Hands posed a problem. Mine always dripped sweat during these so-called seduction lessons with Malcolm. And as nothing screamed discomfort more than perspiring fingers, I kept all of mine tucked out of sight within the luminous folds of my borrowed gown, a prop for this con. The day dress was a gold satin number, the yardgoods smooth and slippery. Like myself.

  Ordinarily.

  Alas, in the face of Malcolm’s critical stare, I was neither smooth nor slippery. Not ever. Invariably, I bumbled
and stumbled. Today, though, I’d had it with Malcolm’s condescending reproaches. Today, I would show him what was what. Today, I was calling his bluff.

  And why not?

  By trade, I was a charlatan and an imposter. Ruses were my bread and butter. My specialty?

  The grand con. Stand back! I was about to foil the best in the business.

  “My actions, sir?” Making sure the glass chandelier overhead mirrored my every pretense of haughty disdain, I tossed my head, just as I heard tell actress Letty Lind did up on stage. “What about my sodding actions?”

  “Mind your language,” Malcolm reminded me in that real snooty way he had.

  “Sorry.” I hung my head, plucked at my day dress.

  Already tired of my dreariness, I snapped back to attention. “But what about my…actions,” I said all over again, minus my favorite curse word.

  “Exactly this,” he shot back. “Your movements are far too abrupt.”

  His coolness defeated me, and I could only stutter, “Wh-what?”

  “Not what,” Malcolm exclaimed. “Pardon me!”

  “Pardon you for what, sir? Sod off! I must have missed it. No matter,” I said cheerfully. “We are all of us only human. Mistakes are inevitable in life. So, of course, you have my pardon. Besides which…”

  I stopped mid-sentence. Upon deeper reflection – and seeing exasperation screw Malcolm’s usually composed features into a bit of a wince – I realized he had been chastising my manners. Again.

  In a small little voice, and shrinking in on myself, I muttered a mortified, “Oh. Pardon me.”

  “Abrupt,” he repeated without raising either his voice or a pomaded hair on his glossy head. “Draw out each movement until the mark’s tongue hangs out of his mouth. Make him drool over you.”

  Now I was confused. Dripping drool? A spastic tongue? A presumably gaping mouth?

  Ew. Disgusting! With symptoms like those, the mark rightly belonged in a madhouse, not slobbering all over me.

  An unbidden thought crept up on me then. Could it be…was it possible…was this a test Malcolm had devised to separate the wheat from the chaff?