The Mistress Experience

Chapter One

Tha?s’s body ached from her teeth to her arse after three days jostling about the countryside in Colin Camberwell’s carriage. The vehicle was sumptuous, as Colin’s driver had assured her, but weighed down by all her trunks—five of them, packed near to gaping—it could barely move.

Instead, it thunked along the unpaved roads and took her sit bones with it. Were her hind end not so generously padded, she might have snapped a hip.

She wished she’d packed lighter, for the sake of her sore body. But world-renowned courtesans did not slug about in daytime frocks; to provide the mistress experience Camberwell had paid for, she had to dress the part. And besides, she loved flouncing about in her high-class harlot costumes.

Over the years she’d bought a beautiful collection. Lacy underthings from Paris. Sheer peignoirs and silk chemises that clung here and floated there, begging to be torn off by desperate fingers. Daring gowns that just barely contained her tits, to provoke hungry stares at elegant suppers and sultry evening dos.

She’d also packed her favorite props. Cuffs, blindfolds, silk ropes, a dildo. Camberwell was known for seeking adventure in his bedchamber, and she liked to be creative.

Harlotry was an art she’d practiced her whole life, and she enjoyed a challenge.

But she did not enjoy this journey. Thank the screeching cats of hell it was almost over.

She looked out the window at the woods around the road. Greenery and bluebells and ancient trees. No sounds save for the clop of the horses’ hooves and the rushing of the wind in the leaves.

Dull.

She preferred bustling streets crammed with hackney cabs and market stalls and raucous laughter and men shilling evening papers. Rolling downs, burbling brooks, and fields of wheat left her bored and sneezing. If she was going to step in shit, she’d rather it be in a gutter than a barn.

Of course, for twenty-five thousand guineas, Colin could drag her wherever he liked. And his estate was known for being like a palace. Hopefully she could wander about indoors barely dressed and avoid itching eyes and lowing cows entirely.

She was blessed glad Camberwell had won the bidding. The auction room had been full of characters she’d rather not spend a month with. Old gouty fellows that no doubt smelled of farts and meat breath, and a few clench-jawed men with violence in their eyes that froze your blood. God knew she’d dealt with both types in her day, but only for a night. A month with such a character was a different horse entirely.

Camberwell would be a breeze.

The carriage lumbered out of the forest—clomp, ouch, clomp, bloody ouch—until they reached a village with a smoother road. It was tiny as a pin and pretty as a fairy tale, if you liked that kind of thing, with houses built from golden stone boasting blooming gardens. The carriage turned off down a lane, taking them away from the village over hills of sheep-flecked farmland.

They slowed in front of a hedgerow, then turned off onto a pebbled drive to a small cottage under a grove of trees.

Odd, that.

The wee house didn’t appear to be an inn for changing horses, and it certainly wasn’t Colin’s estate. It looked like a place a widow would live out her days, tending garden and reading books, God help her.

The coachman opened the door and offered Tha?s his hand to help her step down.

Step down?

She wrinkled her nose at the idea of it. She didn’t know what they were doing here, but she did know it didn’t concern her.

Besides, it was misting, which would cause her hair to frizzle. Colin had not paid a fortune for her to show up looking like she’d been romping in the rain.

“I’ll just stay here while we’re stopped, if you don’t mind,” she told the driver.

He frowned. “But we’ve reached our destination, ma’am.”

Oh. Now she understood.

It was a prank.

Colin would be waiting at a window, laughing at her dismay. Or perhaps he wanted to tumble her in this tiny house, pretending he was a farmer and she his willing wife. You never knew what fantasies a rich man would devise. She’d played everything from a mermaid to a milkmaid in her years on the divan.

She took the driver’s hand and hopped down from the carriage. The garden smelled like the roses that bloomed in a blur of colors from bushes and off trellises. Quite lovely, though she preferred them arranged in vases where there weren’t bugs or prickling thorns.

Behind her, the footman was beginning to unload her trunks.

“Oh, don’t bother with that, my boy,” she called to him. “We’re having a confusion. I’ll just go inside to have a word.”

He looked at her like she was crack-brained but set down the trunk. “Aye, miss.”

She bounded into the cottage, not bothering to knock.

“Colin,” she called. “Where are you, you joker? Am I to be your naughty shepherdess?”

He wasn’t in the parlor so she threw open the nearest door. “Camberwell,” she said to the man bent over papers at a desk, looking deep in concentration.

He started and looked up.

He was not even slightly Colin Camberwell.

He was Lord Alastair Eden—as different a man as had ever walked the earth.

“My God,” Eden said, clutching his heart. “You startled me.”

“My God,” she said at the same time. “What are you doing here?”

Lord Eden was about the furthest thing from a whoring rakehell she could imagine. She could not even imagine him knowing a whoring rakehell. He was the kind of man who would wince at the idea of knowing one. The kind of man who was pained by the ideas of whoring and rakehelldom entirely.

“Er, I rented the place, actually,” he said, like he was a guilty boy confessing to a priest.

“Then what am I doing here?” she asked.

He stood up and accidentally knocked a few papers off the desk.

“Ah, damn,” he muttered, bending down to gather them.

He was blushing.

Blushing?

They knew each other well enough, and she had never seen him anything but perfectly composed. They’d spent a week at the same house party the year before—courtesy of Rafe—and he’d been helpful in using his connections to smooth the way for building up the Institute. He was always stiff and reserved and perfectly dressed, with elegant manners and a dry wit.

Not the kind of man who blushed.

Now he seemed embarrassed to the point of stuttering.

“Miss Magdalene—” he bowed his head slightly “—I apologize for my rudeness. Welcome.”

“Tha?s,” she corrected. “And it’s nice to see you, but where’s Camberwell?”

He gestured to a chair. “Would you have a seat?”

She sat, hoping he wasn’t here to tell her Camberwell had reneged. Or—what?—died?

But why would Eden know if he’d given up the ghost? How would a man like Eden—a leading progressive member of the House of Lords—even know a man like Camberwell—a fopling rascal who gadded about spending his father’s money?

“You see—” Eden said, smoothing his coat. “That is—” He sighed and sank back down into his chair, like he’d lost the will to live. “Camberwell isn’t here. He didn’t pay for your time. I did.”

He looked into her eyes, clenching his jaw sideways, like he was waiting for a blow.

She cawed out a laugh.

“So this is a rig. All right, you’ve gotten me.” She looked around behind her. “Come out, Colin. You’ve had your chuckle.”

Eden winced. “He’s truly not here, Miss Magdalene. Tha?s. I’m afraid I’m serious.”

She shook her head. Enough tricks. She could take a joke, but she’d not be the butt of one.

“I watched him win the auction,” she said. “His own carriage brought me here.”

“He stood as my proxy at the auction, for the sake of discretion. We belong to the same investment club, and he owed me a favor. He was kind enough to send his carriage for the sake of verisimilitude.”

“For the sake of wot?”

“Uh, the appearance of truth. Lest others see you in my carriage and suspect the ruse.”

He looked mortified.

Another laugh burbled up out of her, and she felt guilty for it, since he seemed so miserable. But faint Jesus, the hilarity. Lord Eden, wanting a secret shag.

“I’m sorry,” she chortled, unable to stop laughing. Stopping laughing once she’d started was not one of her gifts.

“No, I’m sorry,” he said. “For the dishonesty. You may, of course, decline to stay, given the false pretenses. I’ll pay either way.”

“No, no,” she said, swallowing the dregs of her laughter. She liked Eden, formal and dry as he may be. He was quietly supportive of radical causes and kind and doting to his little sister, Anna, who Tha?s knew well. Swiving him would be more interesting than doing it with Colin, whose randy antics were predictable. She wouldn’t mind seeing what Eden was like in the throes of ravishment.

“Shall we get started, then?” she asked. “Unbutton those breeches, and I’ll see if I can fit under the desk.”

“Oh no, please!” he said, gesturing for her to remain seated. “That won’t be necessary. You see I’m—well, I have a rather specific request, and I’d hoped we could discuss it before we, er, consummate matters.”

A specific request, eh? Intriguing. Perhaps she would have use for her bag of tricks.

She leaned back. “Very well, my dear. Tell me your wish, and I’ll make it come true.”

“I was hoping for... lessons.”

Ah. She should have suspected.

“I see. You’ll play the naughty schoolboy, and me your stern governess. That’s easy enough.” It would not be the first time a buttoned-up man wished to be bent over a desk for few raps on the rump.

“Not precisely,” he said. “You see, I intend to marry soon, and I’d like to shape myself into the perfect husband. To do that, I wish to learn how to please my future wife.”

She’d credit him this: it was not a request she’d ever heard before.

“Not to undercut my skills,” she said, “but wifing isn’t what I’m known for. A fine lady would be better suited for the role. A married one who can train a proper husband.”

She’d fantasized, of late, about becoming such a person. Perverse of her, as her friends all said that marriage was a shackle. But how sweet, to be the wife of a doting man who’d cherish her for more than her looks and skills abed. Vow to keep her safe and comfortable. Put a baby in her.

But it was a rare man who clamored to sweep a whore off to the altar, especially one as infamous as her, and she’d not take just anyone. He’d have to love her like he loved life itself, and she’d have to love him back with the same vim.

Unlikely she’d ever be so blessed.

Eden laughed tightly. “I’d be called out for asking a married woman for demonstrations in what I wish to learn.”

“Why?” she asked. Seemed to her that doling out manners lessons was all most aristocratic women ever did.

“Perhaps I should be more specific,” he said. “I’d like to understand how to pleasure a woman intimately. My future wife will likely be a virgin, and I’d like to be able to welcome her into my bed with a minimum of awkwardness, and to make the matter enjoyable for us both. But I fear I have a deficit in this capacity. As of yet, that is.”

It took her a moment to cipher out the meaning of this speech.

“You’re a bad lover, you mean?”

She found this unlikely. He had the air of a man who was competent at everything he tried. Well, at least he had prior to today. At the moment, he seemed to wish to disappear to vapor.

“I, erm, lack the experience to say,” he said.

“Do you mean you’re a virgin?” she asked. Nothing shocked her when it came to sex, but she’d never have pinned him for an unspent lamb. He was well into his thirties.

“No,” he said. “I did have a few encounters in my youth—none particularly, er, enjoyable, I’m afraid. My fault, I think. I fear I... lack an instinct for such proceedings.”

He certainly lacked an instinct for talking about them. She felt rather soft for the poor hot-faced fellow. But she needed to know more to give him what he wanted.

“How long has it been since you fucked?” she asked, trying to make her voice more gentle and less bawdy, since he was so uncomfortable.

He shook his head grimly. “I’ve been celibate for years. Too much risk involved in casually undertaking something I don’t particularly enjoy. Pregnancy, disease, you know.”

Oh, she did, being a whore. But it was odd to hear he didn’t enjoy sex. Plenty of people didn’t, but they weren’t the sorts to hire prostitutes.

Perhaps he’d been fucking the wrong people.

“Are you sure it’s women you like?” she asked.

He nodded quickly. “It’s not a question of attraction.”

“How are the goods?” she asked. “They work?”

“Pardon?”

“Your cock. Does it get hard?”

“Uh... yes,” he affirmed in a low voice.

“And you can spill?”

He winced.

“Yes.”

“Well, then, this shan’t be all too difficult, I’d reckon,” she said brightly, wanting to cheer him up. “You’re healthy, you’re quick in the brains. Perhaps you just need a bit of practice.”

He did not seem convinced.

He cleared his throat. “I hope so. In any case, I’ve done some studying in preparation.”

“Studying what?”

He stood up and walked over to a carved wooden box sitting on a shelf of his bookcase. He took a key from his coat pocket and unlocked it, then took out a pile of books and brought them over to her.

“These,” he said.

She opened one to a random page, hoping the text would not be too dense for her to make out.

Luckily, they were the kind of books with more pictures than words.

Pictures of people rutting.

Certain pages were marked with little scraps of paper. She turned to one and found it annotated in small, neat script, along with arrows indicating how a person might move to do the deed.

Poor, earnest fellow. He was trying to learn fucking from a book. Made her want to hug him.

She snapped it shut and put the pile on the desk. “You won’t be needing these. You’ve got me.”

She took his cravat and pulled him down toward her. “Here. Let’s start with kissing.”

He reared away like she’d grabbed him by the balls and not the neckcloth.

“I was hoping we might agree on a curriculum before we begin,” he said.

“A curriculum,” she repeated, trying not to laugh. “Believe me, you don’t need a degree from university to have sex, milord.”

“No, of course not. Nevertheless...”

His eyes pled with hers.

He was nervous. She’d been paid twenty-five thousand guineas to do little more than calm a man’s nerves. Well, no problem, that. She could give him a damned list if he wanted one. Besides, she sensed he wanted to get used to her a bit. Some men needed to know a woman well before they wanted to bed her. Perhaps this was his problem.

“Very well,” she said. “We have four weeks. We can take our time.”

“Thank you.”

“No need to thank me. I’m your whore.”

That pained look returned to his face. “Don’t call yourself that, Tha?s,” he said. “You’re a courtesan.”

She rolled her eyes. “A courtesan’s a whore like any other, milord, and there’s no shame in paying for the pleasure of a cunny, whatever you call the owner of it.”

It vexed her when people danced around the nature of her work, or thought that being an expensive prostitute made her better than an alley girl. She was proud of what she was and what she did, and didn’t need to put a pretty name on it.

“Of course,” Eden said, blushing.

That blush told her they would have to start things slowly. This was not a man who dealt frankly in matters of the body, even when it came to common speech.

“Now, as to your lessons,” she said, putting on a prim tone of voice. “What say you we start with seduction? Flirting, that sort of thing.”

“Ah, give me a moment. I like to write things down, to prepare myself for study.”

He took a piece of paper from his desk and began a list in his neat hand. “One, flirting. And then?”

“Then a bit of kissing, once you have the hang of it.”

He jotted this down, nodding.

“Next?” he asked, quill poised to take more notes. She had to school her face to keep from laughing at his earnestness.

“Touching beneath the clothes,” she said with delicacy. She thought the phrasing would please him more than groping.

He nodded gravely.

“By week two the clothes come off, and we learn oral pleasures.”

“And then?”

“Consummation of the marriage.”

He blushed again but nodded, wrote it down, and put aside his pen.

“That’s not the end of the course,” she said. “Write this down.”

He picked the quill back up.

“By week four: ravishment.”

His eyes went wide. “Oh no, I would never wish to use force.”

“Not that kind of ravishment,” she chided. “The good kind. The kind that makes a woman’s head explode.”

“Make woman’s head explode,” he murmured as he wrote it down.

“And yours, of course,” she added.

He did not look at her as he scrawled and mine.