Chapter Seventeen

 

 

CHECKING HER APPEARANCE FOR the hundredth time, Elizabeth beamed into the mirror. The silvered glass threw back her reflection indifferently, not at all impressed that, for the first time, James was coming to her home.

The Elizabeth in the mirror puckered her brow. Well, to be fair, he was going to pick her up to take her somewhere, but she was still excited. A change in their routine was always welcome and, well, he would see her home.

The modest townhouse stood in a less than fashionable part of town, but it suited her needs. After Rocksley’s death, it had been understood the new Viscount, a distant cousin of Rocksley’s, would not desire his predecessor’s widow to occupy his new estate, and when it had been revealed Rocksley had been more than generous in his settlement to her, Elizabeth had found a new home and promptly decamped. It had been no hardship to leave, truth be told. The enormous Rocksley townhouse had always intimidated her, the opulence of the rooms overwhelming when first she’d arrived as a young bride, and that sense of discomfort had never dissipated.

The Elizabeth-in-the-mirror’s frown deepened. Truly strange, then, that she’d grown so comfortable in James’s home. Malvern House put her husband’s abode to shame, and yet she’d become accustomed to it rather quickly. A sudden grin tugged at her lips. Maybe she was becoming mercenary in her old age.

When she’d been considering her options, vague notions of retiring to the country had lurked in the back of her mind, but in truth she loved London too much. The fast pace of the city suited her and a return to the slower country life was not to her taste. Her parents would have been more than happy for her to return to Aylesbury, to live with them in her childhood home, but she was quite sure she would have murdered them both within a week if she’d accepted their offer. She loved her parents dearly, but they drove her insane. Her mother would poke and prod and attempt to arrange her life while her father would champion what he perceived to be “Lizzie’s Cause”. The two of them would then squabble, leaving her to sneak off somewhere quiet and wonder what had ever possessed her to return home in the first place.

Pushing a lock of hair behind her ear, Elizabeth gave herself one final grin and turned her attention from the mirror to the door. There was a thrilling air of mystery about this evening. A simple missive had arrived to inform her of the outing, the note tantalizingly brief. Little more than her name and the directive to prepare herself for an evening out had been written in James’s strong hand. The brevity of the note, and the fact that he’d signed it Malvern, had brought a smile to her lips, and she’d spent the day in eager anticipation for the fall of dark.

Carriage wheels clattered on the cobblestones outside her door. Excitement flooded her and, in a flash of skirt and petticoat, she rushed out the door. The night swallowed her, black pitch punctured with the weak pinpricks of gas lamps.

Fair stumbling in her haste, she stopped short at the sight of a disinterested hackney driver negligently holding the door open for her. With a polite smile, Elizabeth nodded her thanks to the man as he helped her in to the carriage. Where was James? She would have thought he would greet her, but it could be he was employing caution. Her neighbours had no need to be privy to the particulars of her life, and the relationship between she and James was no one’s business but their own.

The door closed behind her with a sharp thud. Perching on the edge of her seat, she searched the darkness for James. Hidden in the corner as he was, he could barely be seen. Only his legs spread before him and a cheroot betrayed his presence, the tip of the cigar glowing as he drew in the aromatic smoke.

Delight filled her as she launched herself, throwing her arms around his shoulders and kissing that delightful bit of skin below his ear, her tongue darting to taste the slight salt of his flesh. The scent of him, dark spice and smoke, wound about her and she grinned, stupidly happy. “James. I’m so glad you’re here.”

He placed his hands on her upper arms and she prepared to be pulled into his embrace, for the shape of his smile to feather her cheek. Disconcerting then, that he lifted her away, settling her on the seat opposite.

“Are you?” More disconcerting, his indifferent tone.

“Of course.” Brows drawn, she tried to catch a glimpse of his face. Hidden in the shadows, the dark kept his counsel.

However, sullen James was better than no James. Settling into her seat, she stretched her leg, the outside of her knee touching his thigh. “Where are we going?”

“To further your education.” Still his face was hidden in shadow, that cheroot now glowing almost mockingly.

Ignoring the thread of disquiet winding through her, she exhaled heavily, disguising her apprehension with a grin even as she knew he couldn’t see. “That’s not an answer. Come now, James, tell me. Where are we going? Please?” She made the last as plaintive as possible, hoping for a smile, an amused note in his voice, something.

“You will know when we get there.” No amusement, no warmth. Nothing.

Falling back into her seat, she crossed her arms and looked out the window. Usually, he responded to her teasing. Usually, he became amusingly frustrated, almost over-exaggerated in his irritation.

Fine. If he wanted to be sullen, who was she to change his mind?

They completed the rest of the journey in silence. The carriage shuddered to a halt on a relatively quiet street and, once they stepped from the carriage, she was finally able to see him. A relief in some ways and in others, well, it was not such a relief.

He had donned that icy perfection, that elegant disdain. His garments were the very height of fashion, the black of his evening jacket contrasting sharply with the pristine white of his shirt. A rare occasion indeed, to see James dressed with such precision, such flair. More often he was casually attired in trousers and shirt. The only time he had dressed so was when…. Her mouth dried as instant lust flooded her. The only time was when they had attended the orgy.

Good Lord, was that what he’d planned tonight? Slow heat uncurled in her belly, and she shivered with the force of the lust growing within her. Oh please, let it be that.

He turned to meet her gaze, his eyes shuttered as they flicked over her before returning to the building before them. All that was politeness and correct, he held out his arm and she took it, squeezing the hard muscle of his forearm.

His gaze remained trained forward.

With a frown at his lack of response, she also turned her attention to the building before them. Surprise made her blink. “You’ve brought me to La Belle Jeune Fille Pieuse?”

No reply, not even a glance as he led her into the building with a deceptively lazy stride. Pulling the hood of her cloak forward to conceal her face, she followed, telling herself nothing was astray. James had brought her to the brothel where they had met. While it was strange—very strange—surely he had a reason. The reason was just…vague at the moment. Any number of times he’d told her nothing of their plans. Any number of times she’d been delighted by what he’d revealed. This would be the same.

James led her into the receiving room. Around them, women in various states of undress plied their trade, tempting prospective customers with wicked smiles, flashes of skin. She tried to linger, the sight rousing her curiosity, but James would not be delayed, leading her from the receiving room and through the twists and turns of the establishment, a tad too conversant with the layout for her peace of mind. Finally, he slowed and then halted.

They stood in front of a door, quite ordinary in appearance, like any other door Elizabeth had ever encountered. She waited for James to open it. To knock. Something. Casting him a glance, surprise hit her as he remained frozen before the inconsequential door, his jaw clenched as his eyes bored into the wood.

“James?” His gaze turned to her. For a moment, something lurked in the depths of his eyes, something hesitant, but it was gone before it could be deciphered.

So she offered a smile and asked flirtatiously, “Are we to enter?”

His demeanour changed, spine straightening, shoulders firming, his features seeming to harden. Opening the door, he stood back to allow her to enter, his face a study in impassivity once more. Throwing him a flirty smile over her shoulder, she walked through the door.

Her smile faltered, then died.

Two men occupied the room. One stood in his shirtsleeves, a smile of anticipation stretching his sensual mouth. The stance of his tall, rangy body tugged at her memory, the licentiousness of his gaze familiar. His palm rubbed absently against his thigh and somehow she knew, she knew, he was imagining touching her.

The other man’s gaze was trained on the floor before him. Dressed in full evening regalia, he seemed to know the moment she turned to him and arranged himself to display those attributes most desired in a man. His posture incrementally improved, his chest broadened, his shoulders straightened, but he was strangely subservient, his gaze never rising to meet hers. If it was some other time, some other place, she might have thought him attractive, but tonight…. Tonight she could only think on James and why he’d brought her to this room.

Unease slithered through her as she painted a wide smile on her face and pretended a lack of concern she didn’t feel. “James?” The slight tremble in her voice betrayed her. Damnation. Why couldn’t she have sounded braver? Stronger. Less terrified.

James ignored her. He stood there, in his pristine, fashionable evening clothes, and he didn’t look like James. The man before her was like a facsimile of James, a facsimile who had never held her, never laughed with her, never told her she was brave with conviction burning in his eyes.

Unable to bear this sudden stranger, she looked instead at the room, her gaze settling on inconsequential details. The light sconces on either side of the bed. The rich curtains. The plush carpet. Obviously, this was a room dedicated to pleasure. Draped with luxurious fabrics, the walls glowed red and gold, silver and teal. The bed—the almost obscenely wide bed—dominated, a looming presence that clearly announced the purpose of the room.

Well, at least James had gifted her with the opportunity to observe the brothel more closely. When first she’d come, she’d wanted to explore the establishment, to find what all those intriguing doors had led to, and now, lucky her, she knew. She would thank him. Then, maybe, she could calmly suggest they leave. Yes, that’s what she would do. She would laugh and say it was a fine joke and then they would remember their amusement later, when they lay entwined together, maybe even in her bed. Surely….

She was blathering again. She always blathered.

A breath, and then a second, and she could playact at calm, but then she looked at the two men and a horrible knowledge began to dawn. Surely James didn’t— He wasn’t going to suggest—

No. James wouldn’t do that.

Tongue wetting suddenly dry lips, she looked away from the sight of the two men. “James, what’s going on?”

Standing with his shoulder propped on the door jamb, he surveyed the room before returning his gaze to her. There was nothing in the depths of his eyes. No humour. No warmth. Just endless pools of cold blue. “I’m furthering your education.”

“My education?” Her muddled brain was trying to tell her something, but she stubbornly refused to believe it. He wouldn’t do this. He wouldn’t.

Gesturing to the men, he said, “They are here to cater to your every whim, my dear. They are here for your pleasure. I would suggest you utilise their particular skills.”

“What—” She couldn’t finish. She didn’t even know what she was going to say.

“What skills, you ask?” His voice contained no emotion, no warmth. “As well you might, my dear. Barton can be quite domineering, in fact he prefers to master his partners, don’t you, Barton?”

Barton. The man in his shirtsleeves. The man from the orgy. How could he be the man from the orgy? James had been jealous of him. He’d not wanted Barton to touch her. Did he not remember that?

James continued, his cold gaze levelling on Barton. “Are you imagining bonds on her wrists, Barton? Would silk or metal please you better?” Those cold eyes returned to rake over her, assessing, calculating. “I’ve always been partial to black leather straps. So versatile.”

Barton chuckled. “Now, Malvern, don’t scare the girl away. From what I’ve heard, your pupil may not be quite ready for that.” He smiled, and she knew she should think him handsome, but she couldn’t understand why he was here, why he was looking at her with such a lustful expression, as if he expected—

No. She refused to think about it. James had brought her here. She was with James. “James, what—”

“And then there is young Thomas.” James remained leaning against the door jamb. “He will do whatever you wish of him, as per the terms of his employment.” His lip curled as his gaze locked on the silent young man. “You will obey the lady’s every command, won’t you, Thomas?”

Thomas nodded, his gaze never rising from floor. “Yes, my lord.” The youth’s soft voice almost disguised the trace of cockney flavouring his words.

James returned to Elizabeth, a faint hint of mockery in his gaze. Strange she couldn’t tear her eyes away. She wanted to. She didn’t want to see him look at her like that.

“But you didn’t want anyone else touching me. Remember?” Confused…she was so confused. She couldn’t fit the pieces together, didn’t know why they had broken apart. She thought she knew him. She did, didn’t she?

“I must apologise. It was remiss of me to limit your education. And thus, our scenario.”

“But, James….” Glancing at the two men, she lowered her voice so only he could hear. “I don’t want anyone else.”

His eyes…. There was nothing there. No emotion, no feeling, nothing. “Why limit yourself, my dear?”

Time stopped. Everything fell away, until only his cold face was in sharp relief. His gaze disdainful, as if she disgusted him.

No. He wasn’t looking at her with disgust. He looked at her as if he had no opinion of her one way or the other.

He looked at her as if she meant nothing.

Distantly, she felt the wetness on her cheeks. Those must be tears. “James, I don’t understand.”

He shuddered delicately. “Please refrain from saying that name. It sounds coarse upon your tongue.”

She stared at him. She stared at him and a piece of her died. “I don’t understand.” Her voice was a whisper, barely audible even to her. “Did I do something wrong? What did I do?”

“You have done nothing. This is merely the next stage in your development, as stated on your curriculum.”

Her curriculum? But that was their jest. It was a jest between them. Wasn’t it?

Something was shattering inside her. She pushed against her stomach, trying to make it stop.

“Multiple partners can be quite diverting. I believe Barton and his friend will please you to no end.” Still that coldness, still that contempt. “But mayhap it’s the gender you disagree with? Would you like a woman? Perhaps two? It can be arranged.”

“Stop it.”

He continued as if he hadn’t heard. “Mrs. Morcom can no doubt recommend the perfect accompaniment to Barton. Maybe a woman of similar colouring? The possibilities are limited only by your imagination, my dear.”

Pressing hard against her stomach, she shook her head, wondering how it was she could stand, how it was she could hear his words.

“Should I call for her?” He indicated an unnoticed bell pull. “She would no doubt drop what she is doing to accommodate you. She did say it was quite a pretty sum you offered for your education. We must ensure you get the very best service.”

“You discussed me? With others?” Barton’s comment now made sense. James had discussed her with others.

She didn’t know why that hurt. Surely she couldn’t feel anything anymore.

“Of course. How else was I to determine the particulars of your education?” His gaze flicked over her. “Originally I’d thought it would be difficult to muster enthusiasm in such a bland widow, but you rallied quite nicely. You appear to be developing well, and I congratulate myself on some measure of success. I must be an excellent teacher.”

The blood drained from her face. She wondered if it looked as dramatic as it felt. From his impassive face, she would venture to say it didn’t.

“Mrs. Morcom was quite impressed by the swiftness of your tutoring. She was of the opinion extra participants should have been introduced at a much earlier instance into our love play.” Somehow, he made the phrase sound sordid. “However, now she can see the wisdom in my restraint, and she concurs the delay of such advanced measures was a stroke of genius on my behalf. Don’t you agree?”

Everything had faded, leeched of all colour. Funny, all had been so bright only moments before. Only James remained impervious, every detail perfect, every colour sharp. “Why are you saying these things?”

James exhaled. “Really, my dear, you know what you came to me for. This. Your education.”

This was not what she wanted. It had ceased being what she wanted long ago. “But—”

“But what?” The words ground from him, as if he could no longer suffer her company.

Mutely she stared at him. She couldn’t answer because there was no answer.

Turning from her, James addressed the man silently watching them. “Barton, I leave it to you. Please ensure you outdo yourself this evening.”

Without a glance, with no further acknowledgment of her presence, he left. The door didn’t make a sound as he closed it behind him.

Elizabeth stood, her hand pressed hard into her stomach, the tracks of tears stretching her skin as they dried. When had she stopped crying? She remembered trying to control the tears, control herself, but in the end she hadn’t cared anymore, the pain inside her too great, and she had stopped caring. Unheeded, the tears had fallen and James had not noticed, he had kept going, his words precise and incontrovertible. She had felt as if each tear was dissolving her, who she had been, until there was nothing but a shell. An empty Elizabeth-shaped shell that stood here now in this unknown room, her hand pressed to her stomach and her eyes staring at nothing.

What had happened to change him? He had been different but three nights ago, caring and loving and he had told her, he had said how she was special, how she was brave, did he not remember that? She hadn’t believed him, not at first, but when she had looked into his eyes, his beautiful ice-blue eyes that had burned with his conviction, he had convinced her. He’d convinced her.

Had she said something? Done something? Her greeting had been too strong tonight, she knew, but she’d been so happy to see him, and how could she restrain herself? Throwing her arms around him had been instinctual but he didn’t like emotion, she knew that. Why had she persisted in displaying too much?

Something had changed. Something had changed to make him bring her here, to suggest she “further her education” with strangers. One who now regarded her with pity, who had lost his licentiousness and stood awkwardly as if wondering what to do. And the other who averted his gaze, who had never raised his eyes from the ground, because he had not been paid to do so.

Maybe it was her family. Always she prattled on about them, as if he knew them, as if he cared. No doubt he was bored by her descriptions, her anecdotes, by the constant stream of conversation of people he didn’t know.

Or maybe…. She swallowed painfully, her throat burning. Maybe it was her questions. Her endless barrage of questions. Maybe she should have curbed herself, like she should have her emotions. Maybe she should have accepted his tutelage without comment. Without pushing.

At the thought, the strange shape of a smile stretched her mouth. Her curiosity had ever caused her trouble.

“My dear?” The one who’d been staring at her had decided to speak, his expression caught between discomfort and concern.

The smile cracked. Yes, how did one deal with this situation? The man before her clearly didn’t know. He floundered, obviously torn between a desire to help and a desire to run. She watched as he debated. After a time, he moved toward her cautiously, his hand raised as if to give comfort. “My dear, are you all right?”

Violently she flinched from him, her arms coming up to cross protectively across her chest. “Don’t touch me.”

His hand dropped to his side. “No. No, of course not.” A sharp exhalation, and then he spoke. “Thomas, you may go. My thanks for your presence tonight.”

The one who had spoken, his name was Barton, that’s what James—no. Malvern. He was Malvern now, wasn’t he. Barton didn’t watch the other man leave. Instead, he watched her, and the fact that this man, this stranger, displayed a concern for her well-being when James had not almost broke her.

She heard the door close, Thomas obviously lacking Ja—Malvern’s delicacy.

All was silence between them, between she and Barton. Though he said nothing, she knew of his concern and she hated him for it, this stranger who had witnessed what Malvern had done.

“He can be a bastard,” Barton finally said.

She laughed and even she could hear the hysterical edge. “Oh yes, he surely can.”

“But I’m sure he…he most likely had….” Barton looked helpless, as if he knew the placating words for the lie they were.

Her laughter died abruptly, as if it had never occurred at all. Numbness settled through her. Numb was good. Numb was better. “I release you from any obligation. You may go. I am going. You should as well.”

“Allow me to escort you.” Again he tried to touch her.

“No!” She backed away, so fast she stumbled.

That was an overreaction, wasn’t it? Carefully, precisely, she straightened, folded her hands before her, the image of a demure widow.

“No,” she said in a more normal tone. “There is no need. I shall see myself home. Good evening.” And with that, she left.

The red walls that had inspired such curiosity in her that first day were now dull, lifeless. Time seemed to have no meaning, and she wasn’t sure how long she wandered. It felt like forever, and then it felt like a second, and she vacillated between the two, her hand held to her chest, trying to ease the burn that smouldered there, dull now, everything far away. She didn’t have to face it if it were far away. That was for later. When she wouldn’t fall apart.

She had spoken true to Barton, though. She should go home. Mrs. Morcom would help her. Mrs. Morcom would have a carriage. Elizabeth would pay and the madam would provide a service, as she had so ably done before.

Dully she examined each room as she passed, and finally she guessed which was Mrs. Morcom’s. Of some amazement, that her guess proved true. She tried to feel some pain when she opened the door and saw James—no, Malvern—in a state of undress, the madam draped over him, her hands roaming under his shirt. Unfortunately, her emotions, which had made her so abhorrent to him, were strangely absent and she could only observe with detachment the scene before her.

James appeared surprised to see her. The madam surely was, though she recovered quickly.

Elizabeth met James’s eyes. “I will be taking your carriage, Ja—Malvern.” When had her voice become so hollow? “I will send it back to collect you after it has taken me home.”

She thought she heard him say her name as she gently closed the door, but she was sure to be mistaken. She had thought a lot of things. She had thought he cared. That what they had was special. That he thought she was special.

But it was all a lie. Everything.