The wind howled, rain pounded against the shiny new window panes of Juliana’s private apartment, with a few droplets falling down the chimney to sizzle into steam on the coal fire she’d ordered to fend off a sudden late August chill. A frown wrinkling her forehead, the headmistress of The Aphrodite Academy sat curled up on her blue and green brocade sofa, staring at the glowing coals, but clearly seeing, hearing nothing.
Darius Wolfe was able to walk right up behind her, even as he wondered about his welcome. Had she missed him? Was she still flagellating herself for living all those years in a ménage à trois? But with Geoff such a strong personality, how could she have done anything else?
And then there were all the other activities—the ones his Jewel had agreed to and the ones she had not. Unwelcome visions played across his mind—the multitude of women who had pleasured Geoff, Darius, and each other, while Lady R watched, her face as set as Egypt’s Sphinx. The moments of bondage and sadism they had both watched until the sight of Geoffrey, Lord Rivenhall, basking in the exquisite agony of being tortured, forced them from the viewing gallery into the solace of each other’s arms.
A strange man, Geoff, his life wholly devoted to the sexual arts while Darius concentrated on increasing the value of the already extensive Rivenhall holdings four-fold. What had his Jewel endured when he wasn’t there to shield her from her husband’s excesses? Had she enjoyed it or been irrevocably damaged, as he was beginning to fear? Or did she simply need time to make sense of it all? To find some compromise between a world of being immersed in all aspects of sensuality and a world where “good” women were given no instruction in how to find pleasure in marriage.
And now that he was back, hat in hand, after weeks of wrestling with these questions, was he better able to understand the conflict raging inside her? Would she welcome him or thrust him away?
More likely hand him his head in a basket for frightening her half to death, creeping up on her like a thief in the night . . .
“Jewel?”
A sharp gasp as her head swung around, amber eyes large with the light of battle. How dare you sneak up on me like that? But she didn’t say it. Fright and anger drained away to something that looked remarkably like relief. Darius stifled a smile. She was his. No matter how long he had to wait.
He walked around the sofa and sat on the far end of it, leaving a goodly space between them.
“You used the tunnel,” Juliana said flatly as she eyed his perfectly dry clothing.
“I did, and bless Geoffrey for keeping it such good repair.”
“One of his many amusements.”
Darius caught the faint hint of bitterness. The first crack in the façade of Saint Geoffrey? “Indeed,” he murmured, fearing to disturb the fragility of the moment with anything more to the point. A wise man would change the subject. “You seemed lost in thought when I came in. May I know what troubles you?”
His Jewel sighed. The fireplace hissed as more raindrops turned to steam. “Arabella Pierrepont,” she said at last. “One night at Vauxhall—one night in summer, with most of the ton off to Brighton or their country estates—and I’ve had a half dozen offers for her. Some from men I did not invite to meet her.”
“Ashford?”
“Ashford has informed me he will top any other offer. Name the price and he will pay it.”
“This is what has you frowning into the night? Have you lost your wits, woman?”
“Oooh!” Juliana cried. “Miserable creature, how can you be so oblivious? Did we not quarrel over precisely this matter when it was you who maintained they should marry?”
She had him dead to rights. He had insisted Ashford and Lady Arabella could still marry, rising above the inevitable vicious gossip until a new and better scandal came along. And his Jewel had insisted it was quite impossible, the girl totally and forever ruined. And now Ashford was taking the girl as his mistress, fulfilling all her expectations . . .so why was Jewel looking as if one of her girls had died?
“You have changed your mind?” Darius inquired.
Her response was so soft he had to lean close to hear it. “No . . . but that doesn’t keep me from wishing I were wrong. Marriage would be such an excellent solution.”
“Romantic.”
His darling Jewel snorted—there was no other word for the sound he heard. “Romance is for fools. And people with such remarkable imaginations they can talk themselves into believing anything.”
“So if I said I loved you, you would scorn me as a featherbrain with no substance?”
“For heaven’s sake, Darius, we both know you’re sharp as a whip.”
“Then you accept that I love you?” Hell’s hounds! He’d promised himself he wouldn’t pursue this topic tonight. It was enough if she accepted him back into her life in the role of companion.
“No.” Cold, grim. Speak no more about it. Keep your distance. “The days when we shared a bed and a shocking array of sexual adventures are long gone. “But I fear our Belle loves Ashford,” Juliana continued, veering away from dangerous ground. “I will be doing her a great disservice if I pair the two of them. It will kill her when Ashford marries, as he inevitably must. When he fathers an heir while her children remain bastards.”
“And think of the anguish to each if you place her with another man? For clearly Ashford cares, else he would not have made the offer he did.”
“Yet they quarreled. She came back in tears from her meeting with him at Vauxhall. Not at all what I had in mind.”
“Better and better,” Darius offered with an impish grin. “With that much passion on both sides, it would be cruel to keep them apart.”
Their eyes caught and held, the message clear. Sadly, his Jewel shook her head. “Tell me, Darius, when is the Seacrest expected to arrive from India?”
He swallowed a sigh and began a full report of her far-flung investments. At least she had not demanded his immediate departure.
“Lady R said I could choose,” Holly chortled. “She says Lord Deverell’s a rake whose interest won’t last, but he has enough brass to make it worth giving it my all while it lasts. Or there’s this Cit whose da–father–owns a bank. He might last a good while, she says, cuz he’s not some bee like Deverell, flitting from flower to flower.”
“I suggest you wait,” Cecy declared. “There’s bigger fish in the sea. You heard Lady R say she never expected to do more than introduce us at Vauxhall. Better offers will come along.”
“What about you, Belle?” Holly asked. “I’ll wager Ashford has his eye on you. And tears or no tears, you’re a ninnyhammer if you refuse.”
“I am to meet with Lady R in ten minutes.”
Cecy clapped her hands. “It’s Ashford, I know it’s Ashford. That’s ever so romantic, do you not think so, Belle? The man who rescued you—”
“Stop!” Belle screamed the word, then clapped both hands over her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she mumbled around her fingers, “so very sorry. There is no way, simply no way, I can explain why it will never do.”
“Oh, Gawd,” Holly said, eyes wide. “You love him.”
“You poor dear,” Cecy added, eyes bright with sympathetic tears.
“I will manage,” Belle assured them. After a few moments before the mirror, adjusting her gown and her hair, pinching her pale cheeks to rosy pink, she left their sitting area for the long walk to Lady R’s office.
Not Ashford, her head insisted. Never Ashford.
And besides, after Vauxhall she must be the last female he would ever want.
But men were strange . . .
No, a thousand times no! Ashford would never insult her so . . .
In the end, after all Belle’s vows to the contrary, she accepted him. All her grand schemes gone for nothing because she could not let another woman have him. All the pain of being his mistress when she wanted to be his wife. All thoughts of using her protector to feather her nest for the future, out with the slops. Ashford would use her, leaving her with nothing but a shattered heart and soul.
Ah, no, she could not allow it! He must never know how much she cared.
And yet . . . he had made an offer worthy of marriage settlements, which assured her a comfortable living for the rest of her life. According to Lady R, Ashford had even put it in writing, in papers that would be signed before she moved into her new home. For a moment Belle’s eyes shone. She was to have her very own cottage in St. John’s Woods, not far from the Regent’s latest project, a fine new park and elegant residences north of Mayfair. Would Cecy and Holly be set up in the same area, so she would have a familiar face or two among all the other Cyprians who lived in an area not known for accommodating married couples?
A week, Lady R said. A week for the solicitors to finish the paperwork, for the cottage to be cleaned and staffed. Belle shivered. Fool! Was this not what she wanted? Her own house, her own servants, freedom to come and go as she pleased?
As long as she was ready, waiting, and willing when her lord and master deigned to pay her a visit.
Well, she would see about that. Belle Ballard might be bought and paid for. Lady Arabella Pierrepont was not.
She had been wrong, of course. Belle stared at the legal papers laid out on the desk before her. Every last page in the name of Lady Arabella Serena Pierrepont. Shame coursed through her.
“Miss Ballard?” Lady R’s voice held a hint of steel.
They were seated in the office of a Mr. Thaddeus Leath in Lincoln’s Inn Fields, with the solicitor looking even more concerned by Belle’s procrastination than her mentor. “Lord Ashford has been more than generous, Lady Arabella, I assure you,” he said. “I have, in fact, never before seen a contract which makes the female totally independent of her–ah–benefactor’s largesse.”
“Enough, Leath,” Lady R snapped. “There are nuances here which have nothing to do with money.”
Belle scarcely heard them. She thought she had come to terms with the inevitability of the moment. Of accepting the pain of becoming Ashford’s plaything instead of his wife. Balancing that pain against the wonder of having him for her own. Even if it were only for the minimum of two years specified in the documents she was supposed to sign.
“An absurd amount for two years,” Leath had muttered as he laid the papers before her.
“I believe Ashford has something more long-term in mind,” Lady R returned smoothly. “He is, however, as generous with his terms as he is with his money.”
Belle felt frozen in place, like a leaf encased in ice at the edge of a winter pond. Lady Arabella Pierrepont. Bought and paid for. Twice over. She hung her head, fighting the urge to jump up and run from the room. What was the point in becoming Belle Ballard if Lady Arabella Pierrepont must sign all those papers? With Lady R’s name appearing next to hers since she was not yet of age.
Which likely made this whole charade illegal, Belle thought, squeezing her eyes shut. Nonetheless, money would change hands. With these papers she was being sold to the highest bidder. Like a mare at Tatt’s or a cow at a village fair.
Exactly what she had agreed to all those months ago in Lady R’s office. She had no one to blame but herself.
If my students wish to live lives of power, elegance, and influence on the great men of the realm, I can take pride in having taught them how to do it. Her mentor’s words whispered through Belle’s head. Which freely translated as: Sign the documents or live in obscurity, and very likely poverty, for the rest of your life.
False pride, that’s all it was. Did it really matter if Lady Arabella Pierrepont, instead of Belle Ballard, agreed to become a whore?
Of course it did. But pride was not something she could afford. Wondering if her crushed spirit would ever recover, Belle picked up the quill and on every line indicated by Mr. Thaddeus Leath’s pointing finger, she signed with a flourish, Arabella Serena Pierrepont.
It was done. She was, irrevocably, a courtesan.
Kept woman. Fille de joie.
Whore.