Tempting Eden

by Margaret Rowe

  It was Sunday evening. She lay in his arms. She wore a new silver collar around her neck, just tight enough so that every time she swallowed she was aware that it was there. The exterior was brushed silver, but inside it had been engraved with her name. Not her given name, but her real one. It was the most beautiful gift he had ever given to her. He had forbidden her to remove it, not that she ever would.

  “I may have to go to London for a few days. I don’t suppose your sister could spare you,” he said, wrapping a strand of her hair around his finger.

  She shook her head. “But must you go? Cannot your man of business attend to whatever it is?”

  He pinched a nipple. “Not this time. Will you miss me then?”

  “Of course. You have never left me.”

  “I have a surprise. For you. But I must handle it personally.”

  Her hand went to her throat. “But I already have this beautiful necklace.”

  “Collar,” he corrected.

  She blushed. She knew its significance. He owned her. She was his property. Like one of his old dogs.

  “I’ll leave day after tomorrow. It’s a pity I cannot take you with me. I would like to show you off. There’s a gentlemen’s club I used to belong to which we’d both enjoy.”

  “I thought ladies were not allowed in gentlemen’s clubs.”

  “This club is different. And you are not a lady. You are my whore. You are slave to my master. There are others who share our proclivities. The discipline. Wouldn’t you love to stand before a room full of men, wearing only my collar? All those pricks at attention?”

  If it made him happy, she’d do it. It was not as though she had never been watched before. Lord Blanchard had visited a few times. But he had only observed, never participated, save for when he pinched her bottom and told her what a fine little doxy she was.

  “I want only your prick, my lord.”

  “And so you shall have it, Puss.”

  Hart rubbed his eyes. He had been reading in fascinated dread for what seemed like hours. At first he had read only Ivor’s smug words, but soon he pictured what was in Eden’s mind as she smug words, but soon he pictured what was in Eden’s mind as she endured one degradation after another.

  Ivor was the ultimate unreliable narrator. Eden had not liked but had somehow endured what he had done to her. The passages were so graphic there were times when Hart simply had to stop, then skip forward. Reading each word had poured acid on his soul. What a pious fool he had been. Eden had been robbed of her innocence by a master of deception. A monster. The proof was in black-and-white, handsomely illustrated, and in his hands.

  There was one thing remaining. Pasted to the back cover was a piece of parchment paper. He unfolded it carefully, recognizing his uncle’s own elegant copperplate. It was dated on the day he died.

  It described Ivor’s thrill of holding this very book. He’d given it to Eden to read. Hart could feel her understanding and despair emanate from the evil of its pages.

  He’d had a blinding headache all day. But his excitement was palpable. It had come. Finally. The months of waiting were over.

  He untied the wrapping paper and string from the book. It was beautifully bound in red morocco; that had been a prerequisite. With trembling hands he tried to cut the pages, but he was simply too excited. He’d have to send for her.

  Eden came in quietly, and without a word disrobed as she had been instructed to do always. She sewed all her clothes herself now, making them as easy to remove as possible. He was not pleased when she fumbled and delayed his pleasure. There was a drawer full of underthings for show, but she never bothered with them.

  She sank to her knees and kissed the toe of his boot.

  He nearly stopped her in his impatience, but she was too exquisite. The marks he’d left on her body never failed to move him. The image of her earnestly poring over their book in the nude was far too tempting.

  “You may stand, Puss.”

  She rose to her feet unsteadily. He handed her the paper knife. He could see the flash of fear in her eyes.

  “You misunderstand,” he drawled. “I have a surprise for you. But first you must prepare it. You may sit.”

  She seated herself before the fire. She was cold. Her nipples were hard and her milk white skin was covered in goose bumps and long blue bruises. She made quick work of her task. The volume was not thick but large.

  She read the title out loud. The Education of a Young Lady of Doubtful Virtue . She began to turn the pages.

  Her face flushed. She skimmed the book. She recognized herself, on her knees with his cock in her mouth, on her back, a knowing smile on her face. Her round bottom, striped from the crop. Bound and gagged. Pages and pages of their perverse pleasures.

  He stood behind her, a quake in his deep voice. “It’s not only the pictures, my dear, but I wrote the prose, too. This tells the story of our union. How I turned you from schoolgirl to slut. My very own little love slave. And how happy you are to discover your true nature and obey my every command.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a private printing. The publisher didn’t want to do it at first, the prig. But my money talked some sense into him. Cost me a fortune. We’ll have to consider later how you’ll thank me for immortalizing you. Here, read a bit.”

  She went back to the first page. She was seventeen here, clothed. He had noted she had finally filled out, and despite her plain face, he was determined to seduce her. He was bored with his dull wife, buried in the country, so he set little traps.

  That was the year of her confusion. The next year was clearer. She had walked into those traps with her eyes wide open and her heart fluttering.

  Her enslavement had all been planned to the smallest detail. The techniques he had taught her and their order. The increments of her subjugation. How he mastered her every aspect, even without a word. How she begged for him. How he collared her.

  “Trained you like a good little bitch,” the baron said, smirking, “and no one’s the wiser. You’re a loyal and faithful whore. Why, if I told you to suck off an elephant, you wouldn’t think twice! A pity this can’t be mass-printed. I’d make a killing. It’s quite the best textbook on seduction and sexual slavery I’ve ever seen. Well, Puss, what have you to say?”

  “Thank you, Lord Hartford.”

  “You’ll have to do better than that, Puss. Words are all very well, but I want action. Pick something from the book for old times’ sake.”

  She of course conceded, pointing to a picture of herself on her knees.

  It excited him to see her utter submission. It had taken four long years, but she was his absolutely. He would come to her bed tonight. It was only Wednesday, but he wished to glove himself within her, watch her glow, feel her rise beneath him.

  “Braid your hair tonight like a schoolgirl,” he said.

  Hart imagine his uncle looking at the book in the firelight for a long while. When the bastard was satisfied that everything within was to his specifications, he wrote this short addendum and affixed it to the back of the book.

  Then locked it in his safe.

  Hart knew he could never sleep. Rising from the chair, the book falling to his feet, he began flinging random belongings into his bag. Dawn could not be too far off. At the first shaft of light, he’d return to Eden and try to make everything right.

  At the very last moment, he picked the book up from the carpet and placed it in his bag. He needed to pay a visit to Mr. Griffin of Gryphon Press. He knew now what Eden had meant when she said, “It was the only one.” He just had to make sure for both their sakes. It was crystal clear to him now what his duty was. And for once, duty might twin with his desire.

  Chapter 8

  Wearing cotton gloves and a smock, Juliet was arranging hothouse flowers in enormous crystal vases on a canvas-covered table in her conservatory. She had been nattering on about getting Eden to help her, but Eden thought she might be ill from the cloying sweetness and begged o
ff. The scent of earth and blooms was nearly overpowering. Juliet’s home, while lovely, was a riot of odors and colors which Eden found overstimulating. She longed for the simplicity of her childhood parsonage.

  They had been in town just two days, long enough for Eden to write again to Mrs. Stryker. She was hoping to hear from her this morning. But when the butler brought her a silver salver, there were two letters. Eden quickly pocketed yet another grubby note from Kempton. How could he know she was here unless he had been following her? She thought back to the stops they’d made along the way to London. Juliet Cheverly and her armed entourage were hard to miss. Eden may as well have paraded naked on a white charger. She broke the seal on the other message and wanted to cry.

  “Why the long face?” Juliet put her shears down in concern.

  “It’s a message from Mrs. Stryker’s housekeeper. It seems she’s in Italy for the winter.”

  “Capital! Now you shall have no excuse not to stay with me.”

  Oh, she had every excuse. Kempton could come for her, spoiling any chance she had of respectable employment. If he had the book, there was no escaping what she had allowed herself to become. And Hart would arrive in town any day now. He would be angry to find her still sponging off his aunt. He couldn’t find her here. And more important, Eden could not trust herself to see him again. Her display of long-pent-up emotion had terrified her and horrified him. No doubt it was a consequence of being so starved for affection most of her life.

  No one had loved her but her father and sister. Even her brother Eli had been too army-mad to act as brotherly as he should, and her mother, to put it charitably, had been limited. Hart was impossible to ignore—noble and charming and handsome. And so very far above her. There was no point in fancying herself enamored with a man who held her in utter contempt, even if his kiss was the most deliciously wicked thing she’d ever tasted.

  Hart had somehow achieved hopelessly heroic status in her eyes. It wasn’t only his looks, but his principles. Principles that she had perverted time and time again. She could hardly blame him for wanting to protect his family from the likes of her. But his rejection did not dampen her reawakened desires, and had been almost more hurtful than what she had endured with Ivor. How lucky Hart was honorable and correct at all times—except, of course, for that amazing aberration on the frozen, muddy road. The very traits that so attracted her to Hart made it impossible for him to accept her.

  It was easy for him to be good while it had been all too easy for her to be bad.

  Perhaps her attempt to become respectable was futile in any case. Why should she offer herself up to domestic service when her true calling lay elsewhere?

  What had Hart said? When you get to London, go see Mrs. Brown. She employs whores like you. You should do very well. Mrs. Brown . That was the name. A name so innocuous. So conventional. She smiled inwardly. Kempton would never think to look for her in such an establishment. It was almost too amusing. She would be hidden among the hidden, sinning among the sinners. How could he ruin her reputation when she ruined it herself? Eden wondered how she could find out how to contact this Mrs. Brown without giving herself away. Who in this household was apt to know the direction of a house of ill repute?

  Ha. Juliet probably would. For all Hart’s attempts to “protect” his aunt, Eden had found the woman to be quite astonishingly liberal. The journey to London had been an eye-opener, filled with titillating gossip. Juliet seemed to know everything about everybody, and was not one bit shy about sharing information.

  “I’m grateful to you, really, but I must find employment.”

  “Why?” Juliet asked, resuming her snipping. Bits of greenery flew unheeded onto the brick floor of the conservatory. “I know Hart will offer you a handsome competence and a dowry besides once he gets his affairs in order. He was most particular that you and your sister be well settled, and now that she, poor lamb, is gone, it will be even more important to him. He’s a very honorable man, you know, my nephew. Sometimes too honorable.”

  As Eden was all too well aware. “I know. It’s just my stubborn pride. My papa always cautioned against it, but I seem unable to come to terms with it. Do you know of any employment agencies?”

  “I always used Lytton’s when I needed a new governess. Which, I’m sad to say, was a frequent occurrence when my boys were little. I suppose you might register there,” Juliet said doubtfully.

  Eden pretended to think. “I believe some of the servants at Hartford Hall talked about a Mrs. Brown’s.”

  Juliet pealed in laughter. “Oh, my dear, that is not an employment agency.”

  “What is it then? One of the maids who left us said she was going there.”

  Juliet removed her work gloves, took Eden’s hand and pulled her to the wicker sofa. “I should not speak of Mrs. Brown’s to you. A young virgin. Well, youngish anyway,” Juliet amended, her eyes twinkling, taking the sting out of the insult.

  “I am not so innocent as I look, Juliet. How am I to make my way in London if I am perceived as a green girl?”

  “I assure you, no one will dare speak to you of Mrs. Brown’s. And I should not.”

  Damn. Now was not the time for Juliet to hold her tongue. “Please tell me. I cannot bear a mystery.”

  “Well . . .” Juliet moved closer and lowered her voice. “Mrs. Brown’s is a sort of place where some gentlemen go to amuse themselves.”

  “Like Brooks’s or White’s?” Eden asked, hoping to keep a straight face.

  “Not quite.” Juliet sighed. “It is a pleasure house. Actually, I believe the correct name of the establishment is the Pantheon of Pleasure. I’m afraid, my dear, your maid went off to be a whore.”

  “No!” said Eden, feigning shock.

  “It’s true. I hear it is the most exclusive and expensive of places of that kind. Was your maid very pretty?”

  Well, at least Hart had not totally insulted her. He thought she belonged in the best whorehouse in London, the wretch. “She was quite lovely. I cannot bear to think of her in such a situation. I must find her.”

  “Out of the question! No doubt it’s much too late. She’s probably very happy there, and, anyway, you could never visit such a house, even with a platoon of footmen in your wake.”

  “Well, no, of course not. But perhaps I could write to her. Do you know the address?”

  Amazingly enough, Juliet did. She told Eden in a delaying morsel of gossip that one of her dearest friends had waited outside Mrs. Brown’s very doors in a carriage for a full week spying upon her negligent spouse. He had not failed to turn up punctually each night as she sat grimly underneath her fur cloak, sipping a flask of hot tea laced with brandy for sustenance. They were now separated and Lady Katherine was enjoying a forbidden and very satisfactory fling of her own.

  “Good for Lady Katherine, but where exactly is the place?” Eden asked, tamping her impatience.

  “I believe it’s just off Arlington Street. Quite an exclusive neighborhood. Mrs. Brown inherited the property upon her lover’s death, much to the very great chagrin of her neighbors. But I’ve heard she is the absolute soul of discretion, as are her customers. There’s never talk of drunken revelry on the street or any such nonsense. Of course I do not know the house number. But one of the footman will be sure to find it should you wish to send a note to this girl. They’ll probably all fight over which one of them is to deliver the message just for a possible glimpse of a flock of fallen women. Are you certain you wish to get entangled in this business? There is absolutely no hope that your maid has remained untouched, you know.”

  “Quite sure. Just how far away is it?”

  “Oh, not far at all. Part of its great success is its location, you know. Handy to the grandest homes and clubs. And if I know my footmen, they’ll be sprinting all the faster so they might spend more time on Mrs. Brown’s very tempting back doorstep.”

  “If you would give me the direction of Lytton’s, I shall write to them as well.”

  “Eden,
you’ve become very dear to me in the short time I’ve known you. Please don’t do anything hasty. Can you not wait for Hart to return to town?”

  Why? To be compromised by Kempton and his threats and endless demands? So Hart could cast her aside again? He’d already deemed her one of the fashionably impure. She may as well make it true. Resolved, she shook her head. “It’s best I don’t get too accustomed to all this luxury,” she said, waving a white hand at the tropical splendor of the conservatory. “You know my mother was a farmer’s daughter. I don’t really belong here.”

  “Eden! You are as much a lady as I am. Your stepfather saw to it you were raised as a gentlewoman. You have all the accomplishments, do you not?”

  You have no idea what I can do, Eden thought.