Love Reclaimed
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Love Reclaimed
Copyright © 2013 by Sorcha Mowbray
ISBN: 978-1-61333-493-5
Cover art by Tibbs Design
All rights reserved. Except for use in any review, the reproduction or utilization of this work, in whole or in part, in any form by any electronic, mechanical or other means now known or hereafter invented, is forbidden without the written permission of the publisher.
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Also by Sorcha Mowbray
Love Revealed
Love Redeemed
Love Reclaimed
The Market Series
By
Sorcha Mowbray
~Dedication~
To all the women who missed out on love the first time around but found their second chance.
Chapter One
Twenty years could be considered a long time to wait for any woman, in particular a whore. But, she wasn’t just any whore. Jonathan had fallen in love with her as a young man and lost her to circumstances beyond his control. The brothel called The Market had been the last place he’d seen her as she escaped the bustling London streets and slipped through the front door. The momentary glimpse wouldn’t be worth a tuppence now. She could be anywhere.
Jonathan settled back against the cracked leather squabs and tried to ignore the stench left behind from the hack’s previous occupants. Palms sweating within his gloves, he attempted to take deep, calming breaths. Flashes of a towheaded beauty with her skirts rucked up around her knees as she waded into the stream merged into the same girl kneeling by a calf whose mother had abandoned it. Refusing to give up, the girl urged the baby cow to drink the milk from the bottle she held. A bump in the road jerked him from his memories and the dark of night collapsed around him, tangling with the fog to make the evening impenetrable. Fortunately, a short carriage ride from his townhouse delivered him to The Market. The brothel’s convenient address situated it in the better section of London. Proximity to one’s clients seemed to be as important as who your clients were. Cautious of the atmospheric pea soup, he landed on the pavement to climb the steps to the already opening front door. The golden token became a leaden weight in his palm as he presented his ticket into the exclusive establishment.
The Market consisted of three row houses. The main house in the center contained the common rooms. From the street, the house on the left was for the average customer who was there to see one of the girls. The right side catered to those with less average desires and the income to indulge them. Rumor had it, kinks of all kinds could be found on the right side. Voyeurs given something to watch, floggings could be both given and received, domination abounded, and orgies were not uncommon occurrences.
Beyond the immaculate doorman lay a sumptuous interior designed to appeal to the wealthy elite of the ton. Inside dripped with pictures in gilt frames, velvets and brocades, and marble floors. And he’d merely seen the foyer. A glance into the main salon proved the men dominated the ladies two to one. Most people wore masks to hide their faces, but a few brazen men defied society and revealed their identities.
He’d long since lost all fear of society’s censure. A widower now, he lived life by his own rules, no longer beholden to his father or anyone else. Besides, what good could come of being in The Market if she didn’t recognize him? He removed his cloak, handed it off to a bewigged servant, and strode into the crowded space. He held his head high, shoulders back, and allowed the confident swagger he’d cultivated in the military to carry him into the room. The tails of his coat swished softly behind him as he turned to take in the throng.
Women in low-cut gowns with hemlines that fell short of their ankles dotted the salon. Beneath their elegant skirts, he would find silk, both man-made and the natural silk of skin. Ignoring the parade of lovelies, he remained vigilant in his quest for a slightly older version of the women arrayed before him. One brunette sidled up, her nipples on the verge of spilling over the neckline of her gown. She twitched her skirts aside and nestled closer to him as he stood leaning against a long bar.
“Hello there, my Lord. I do believe you are new to our fine establishment.” Her whiskied tone caressed him, even as she rubbed her breasts against his arm.
“I am, but I am here in search of a particular woman.” He clamped his hands on her shoulders and set her back from his person.
“Who might that be, my Lord?” Her skirts tangled around his ankles.
“Her name was Marie.” He left off her last name because it made sense she would have changed it in the course of discovering how unrelenting the world could be for a women who diverged from the normal path. No matter the reason.
The brunette paused to consider. “No, can’t say as I know any Maries at The Market.” She shook her head and pulled away from him to move on.
Undaunted by his initial foray, he determined to stay on and see if perhaps one of the older women might remember his Marie. He flagged the bartender and pointed to his empty glass. The staff seemed content he remain stone-cold sober. The bartender took care of every other patron before returning to tend his glass.
Sipping his refreshed brandy, he continued surveying the salon. Voices raised in congratulations drifted in from an adjoining parlor, which housed the gaming tables. Deciding to investigate what entertainment the room offered, he wandered in that direction. He found an amiable game of whist with modest stakes in need of a fourth.
“Baron Heartfield, come join us,” one of the masked players bade.
Despite the masks, his keen eye for detail provided him a rather good idea of who sat at the table. The three introduced themselves using monikers from popular Gothic tales: Fogg, Hyde, and Holmes moving around the table from his right. “Thank you for the invitation,” Heart agreed and took a seat. “Please, Heartfield will suffice gentlemen.”
Over the next hour, he lost fifty pounds and decided luck had rather deserted him. Pushing away from the table, he bid his partner and opponents adieu. Strolling back into the main salon, he found his eyes drawn to a woman now holding court near the fireplace. His heart skipped three or four beats as his mind peeled away the layers of paint and finery, turned back the clock, and saw the young and vivacious Miss Marie Doring. Without conscious thought his feet carried him to the woman surrounded by masked admirers.
Hovering on the outer edges of the group, he found himself waiting for her to notice him.
Madame Marchander paused from the conversation to survey her packed main salon. A deep sense of satisfaction settled in her bones. Philippe had informed her most of the rooms were occupied at present, and the card room bustled as well.
Business remained excellent.
Her gaze drifted across the room and collided with the tall figure of a man who impeded her view as he stood over the small group of fawning gents arranged at her feet. Shifting directions, her gaze swept down and then up the masculine form. Arriving at his face, the blood in her head deserted her as an older but all-too-familiar face swam within her vision. Jonathan Pierce, currently styled the Baron of Heartfield according to her sources, had been her first love.
One of the men noticed her distress and patted her hand. “Madame Marchander, are you not well?”
Her head swam as the room closed in on her. Why was he there? What could he want? Was it presumptuous to assume he could be looking for her? She rose and the men parted so she could pass. “Please, I fear I am a bit warm with so many of you crowded around. I think a breath of air would be best.”
“Madame, please allow me to escort you.” Baron Heartfield slipped her hand into the crook of his arm and led her toward the French doors open onto the rear gardens.
“Do I know you, sir?” Hiding behind formality and time, she opted to continue pretending Marie Doring no longer existed.
“Baron Heartfield, Madame Marchander, or may I call you Marie as I once did?” Familiar blue eyes sparkled as he swept aside her deflection.
“Madame Marchander will do.” Anger overcame her initial distress. What brought him to The Market? Why resurrect ancient history? She had not heard he was low on funds, so it was doubtful he intended blackmail. If the gentry of Coventry learned what had become of Miss Marie Doring, it might cause a ripple of scandal, but her sisters were long married and could weather the storm. They had little contact, the occasional bit of correspondence and the annual Christmas card being all she allowed.
Her skirts brushed past the doorframe as they attained the patio. The cool air, brisk and refreshing, snapped her back after the shock of seeing him for the first time in twenty years.
“I see.” He paused. “Very well, I’ll permit you to hide behind formality for now. You look beautiful as ever.” Warm, strong fingers stroked the bare skin of her hand he held captive.
“You will permit me?” Her spine stiffened in indignation while she arched one eyebrow at the infuriating man. “My Lord, you may be a peer of the realm, but I am the queen of my domain. I could easily have you removed from the premises and refuse you entrance in the future.”
“Don’t get your feathers ruffled. It is good to see you again.”
“Is it?” Still wary, she concentrated on his words and not gripping his arm too tightly. Blaming the cold for her sensitized nipples made ignoring the heat surging through her much easier.
He chuckled. “I remember you being far more talkative when I knew you.”
“I learned quickly to guard my words. What brings you to The Market, my Lord? In all my years I have never seen you here before, nor are you a member.” Breathing at a normal rate as she waited for his answer became a herculean effort. His long, drawn-out pause was brutal to endure.
After a few minutes of silence, he cleared his throat. It sounded as though gravel had gathered there. “My wife died two years ago. I am just emerging from mourning, and with so much time to ponder, I spent a great deal of it pondering you and what happened after I last saw you.”
“Oh. Well, as you can see I am doing well.” At least she had been until he strolled into her salon and back into her life.
“Yes, I can see you have surpassed anything I could have imagined for you based on circumstances. I am glad to see you thriving.”
A foursome spilled out on to the patio on a burst of uproarious laughter as they passed a bottle of champagne around. Heartfield’s arm tensed beneath her hand, and they stopped their meandering stroll. “May we speak someplace in private? Where we will not be disturbed or overheard?”
A shudder raced down her spine. This was the moment. Once alone, he would reveal what brought him to her. Deep down, did she want to know? Perhaps the wisest course of action would be to push him off, send him on his way. But some small part of her, which still harbored Marie, yearned to know Jonathan again, to hear what he had to say. “We will not be bothered here. Those four are too absorbed in their own pursuits to notice us.” She looked pointedly at the two couples settling on a bench upon which to sample each other’s charms. Each masked man had their female partner on their lap with their bodices pulled down to expose their breasts. One avidly suckled one nipple and then the other, while the other couple kissed in a rousing show of passion as his hands massaged the plump flesh of her arse.
