Chapter One
She was insane. She had to be.
Elizabeth balled her hands in her lap, training her eyes forward even as she was dying to explore the whole establishment. The brief glimpse she’d had as she’d been led to this rather benign sitting room a half hour before would inspire curiosity in even the most sedate of women.
All had been red—red walls, red hangings, red floors—and yet somehow the décor still seemed mundane.
Surprisingly, the walls sported portraits of the queen, rather tastefully framed.
It was probably meant to be ironic, and there was no doubt if Her Majesty knew of the portrait’s placement, she would be ill amused.
However, it was not as if she would ever know.
Really, who would tell a queen, especially one as obsessed with propriety as Victoria, her portrait graced the wall of this place?
Oh, but such inconsistencies were maddening. With the décor and the portraits, the hallway would not have appeared out of place in her mother’s home. This only made her want to investigate further.
After all, it wasn’t every day one found oneself in a brothel.
Elizabeth tightened her hands in her lap. Surely there must be some evidence of the purpose of the establishment, apart from the obvious. Paintings of nude women? Gentlemen walking the halls, without reason and ill at ease?
Numerous doors had lined the walls, opening to what had to be bedrooms. How were the bedrooms decorated?
Was there an illusion of gentility or were they decorated with an eye for sin?
The few women she had seen on this and her previous visit could quite comfortably have attended any societal assembly.
Was this then what men desired, the facsimile of propriety?
Why was this place called—? Sod it, she’d always had trouble with French. What on earth was it? Oh, La Belle Jeune Fille Pieuse which meant…. It meant…the beautiful, remorseful maiden. No, not remorseful, pious. Yes, the beautiful, pious maiden.
She frowned. Was it meant as irony?
Taking a breath, she looked down at her hands.
Enough. Her curiosity had gotten her into trouble any number of times.
If she didn’t curb herself, no doubt she would leap to her feet to investigate.
It had happened before and, more than like would happen again, but even she conceded one shouldn’t go wandering alone in a brothel.
Absently, she rubbed her thumb and middle finger together.
The kid leather of her gloves was still supple, though the seams were beginning to show their age.
How long could she continue to wear the gloves before they fell apart?
Rocksley had given her this pair on the occasion of their engagement, and while their marriage had not turned out to be all she had dreamt, they reminded her of a happier time, when her life was before her and so very exciting.
A smile tugged at her as she thought of those days anew.
The balls, the dancing, the stolen kisses Rocksley had pressed upon her.
Remembered excitement bubbled through her as memory touched his lips to hers once more, the brush of his mouth as sweet as the champagne she had so daringly enticed him to consume.
Her smile dimmed. Rocksley was gone now, these three years past.
The door opened. Immediately Elizabeth stood, a little too fast if truth be told, pulling the panels of her cloak together as she did so.
The ensemble was too dramatic, but really what does one wear to a brothel, at least, if one was not going to employ their services?
Well, maybe she was going to employ their services, but not in the usual way.
Then again, what did she know of the usual way?
It could be women sought their services daily.
The name of La Belle had easily been obtained, and perhaps Lady Wright’s knowledge of the place had a more intimate acquaintance than she supposed—
Stop it, Elizabeth.
Taking a steadying breath, she looked toward the door, pasting on what must undoubtedly appear a false smile. She knew why she prattled silently. Nerves were besting her, and she always blathered on when she was nervous.
A man entered instead of the madam she expected. Surprise rid her of nerves. His cold gaze raked over her and, from his lack of expression, very little about her impressed him. Unfortunately, the same could not be said for him.
He wasn’t beautiful. He was too haughty for that, but something about his bold features, his strong jaw, his jet-black hair, and ice blue eyes combined to make him absolutely compelling.
Dark hair curled gently from a centre part, shorter than most men would wear.
Even his sideburns were shorter, stopping just as his cheekbones began.
Did this display a concession to fashion, or a flaunting of it?
His garb, however, caused no such doubt.
Dressed in the height of fashion, an exquisitely tailored coat hugged his form, outlining broad shoulders and a slim waist. Pale grey trousers contrasted with the unrelieved black of his coat, exhibiting his form to perfection.
How very disappointing if he wore padding, but such a form could not be natural, could it?
He could not be an employee, not with those clothes and that demeanour. Who had the madam of this establishment sent in her stead? He had to be a member of the aristocracy, nothing else would explain his appearance. Good Lord, what was Mrs. Morcom about with this?
While she was low enough in society to pass almost unnoticed no matter what her discretion, Elizabeth still had some reputation to maintain. However, she had placed her trust in the madam. She would believe Mrs. Morcom would not steer her wrong.
She refused to think anything but the best.
Unaccustomed sensations ran through her, hot, sudden and impossible to discern for their contradiction.
Excitement? Trepidation? Something about him spoke to her, and she couldn’t for the life of her understand why.
For all his seriousness, Rocksley had been quick to smile.
Even Farindon, her one descent into wickedness, had been affable, though he insisted on the facade of an unrepentant rake.
This man now before her, he was cold. Hard.
Unable to swallow past the sudden constriction of her throat, she wondered, quite insanely, what it would take to thaw him.
“You are here to see Mrs. Morcom?”
His voice rushed through her, rich and decadent, and the clipped precision of his words confirmed him as an aristocrat. How would it sound lowered and husky, whispering over her bare skin as he detailed all he would do to her?
Elizabeth blinked. What on earth had come over her? She never thought such things, and never about a stranger. In a brothel.
A brothel.
For all she had planned, the pursuit that had seemed so perfect only moments ago abruptly appeared unwise.
“Well?” Though the word implied impatience, the man himself displayed no irritation, instead continuing to regard her in that cold, hard manner.
Affecting a smile to disguise her imbecilic turn, she held out her hand to shake as a man might, attempting a sophistication she most certainly didn’t feel. “Yes, I am here to see Mrs. Morcom. I take it she is on her way?”
He glanced at her hand, then back at her.
Smile faltering, she dropped it back to her side. Humiliation began a slow burn, his disdainful gaze intimating clearer than any words how foolish she was to offer her hand.
She squared her shoulders. No one would make her feel a fool. She was bold and brave, and no one else of her acquaintance had the stomach to pursue what they wanted the way she had. Lifting her chin, she dared him to comment.
He, however, appeared to have already forgotten his slight. “Mrs. Morcom told me of your desire. I am here to fulfil your request.”
She could not have heard him correct. “I beg your pardon?”
“I assure you, I am more than qualified. If you require references, I can provide excellent recommendations.”
“No, no, I believe you.” She had the distinct feeling he was mocking her, but no matter if he was. Placing a hand over her heart, she tried to calm the racing organ. “I was under the impression my education would be verbal, conducted by Mrs. Morcom.”
His expression remained unchanged as he offered neither reassurance nor comment.
Damnation, would her stomach never cease its nervous churning!
She refused to feel nerves and indecision.
After the obscene amount of effort she’d expended to convince herself to pursue this goal, no one—not even herself— would sway her from her course.
Nothing in life was as expected. Why had she thought this to be any different?
The silence in the room was deafening. Why couldn’t she hear outside the room? Was it soundproofed? Anything could be going on, even in the harsh light of day, and no one would be the wiser—
Taking breath, she forced a stillness to her thoughts.
They stood, staring at one another.
“Remove your cloak.” His words sounded abnormally loud in the hush.
A moment passed. What should she make of such a command? She didn’t know whether to snap to obey, or be offended he expected her to comply.
Her chin lifted. No matter. She had come this far. She would not let a small thing like this man’s arrogance stand in her way. And so she complied with his command.
With narrowed eyes, he raked her from head to toe, his face ever expressionless. She felt naked without her cloak, which was patently ridiculous as she was wearing at least four layers of cloth between her flesh and his gaze, so there was no cause for these nerves.
She would conquer this anxiety.
“I believe it should be no hardship to educate you,” he said.
Inwardly, she heaved a sigh of relief. Thank the Lord, his assessment of her had finished. “That is, if you are amenable?”
“Oh. Well, I suppose….” Why was she balking when what she had sought was offered? “Yes. Yes, I am amenable.”