Parlor Games (4 page)

She turned back to the gathering. It was just as well that he had not talked of love to her, and that she had been able to refuse him. Giving in to him would have confirmed his bad opinion of her—that she was nothing more than a whore. Not that she ought to worry over what he thought of her. He was a gentleman and she was a parlor games girl. She would never be anything more to him.

The fire had long since died away and the salon was nearly empty, but she could not go upstairs until Mrs. Erskine had given her permission. She sat at a deserted table idly shuffling cards and was soon joined by another partnerless girl. They played ecarte together halfheartedly until Mrs. Erskine finally returned to the salon and dismissed the remaining gentlemen for the night.

Her toilette was soon made and she retired to bed, but she could not sleep. Through the walls on both sides of her she could hear the muffled sounds of sex—the rhythmic creaking of bedsprings, indistinct voices, slaps and giggles, and hoarse groans of pleasure.

Whores they might be, but they did not seem to mind their chosen profession. Judging by the noises, they were positively enjoying their life of sin.

She lay by herself in the darkness, wondering what it would be like to have Tom Wilde beside her in the bed, to have his naked body lying atop hers and his member thrusting deep into her pussy.

She fell asleep dreaming of making love with Tom in the salon while the rest of the coffee house girls and their partners sat around on the sofas and watched them, and a man with a camera photographed their every position to add to Mrs. Erskine’s private collection of stereoscope images.

Tom strode back to his lodgings in a fine old temper. He had rescued his pretty daisy from the sweaty hands of Sir Richard Etheridge, and what was his thanks? To be shown the door with an erection so hard he could use it to break rocks.

Goddamn the little tart for being such a tease.

He’d wanted to take her right there in the sitting room, thrusting his throbbing cock deep into her willing cunt. Heaven knows, she was as ready as he was for a good hard fuck. Her pussy had left a wide patch of damp on his trousers. He’d thought only to save the scraps of her modesty by taking her upstairs where they could fuck in private—he’d never dreamed she would refuse him.

He should’ve stayed and played another hand of cards with her until Mrs. Erskine called the proceedings to a halt at midnight and threw all the gentlemen out. At least then he could have watched the sway of her unconfined breasts under her shift, and maybe even reached under the table and stroked her warm, wet pussy.

Dammit, he should have stayed and just
talked
with the wench. Even talking with her would have been more pleasant than going home to his empty lodgings with a cock as hard as steel and no prospect of relief.

He pulled his fob watch out of his pocket and glared at the face. It was too late to return tonight. Mrs. Erskine would never let him in at this hour.

Tomorrow, however, would be very different. Tomorrow evening he would pay a visit to Mrs. Erskine and claim the pretty Sarah as his own. Tomorrow night, wild horses would not be able to drag him out of Sarah’s boudoir until he was fully satisfied.

The following morning, almost as soon as it was light, Tom Wilde strode into Mrs. Erskine’s office. His temper was not improved from having slept badly, visions of Sarah keeping him uncomfortably hard all night. “Your new girl, Sarah Chesham. I want her.”

Mrs. Erskine laid her pen down on her blotter. “And good day to you, too, Mr. Wilde.”

Her chilly tone was a reminder for him to mind his manners, but he was past caring about such petty games as manners. “I’m serious. I don’t want her playing your games with anyone but me.”

Her gray eyes were hard as steel. “I am a businesswoman, Mr. Wilde. I do not keep the girl out of charity.”

“I will pay.”

“For what?” She studied him intently, her fingers steepled together. “I do not run a brothel, Mr. Wilde, but a house of entertainment. I will not sell her to you.”

“You cannot tell me that your girls are all virgins,” he scoffed.

“I would not be so foolish as to make that claim,” she said with a small smile. “But I have not prostituted a single one of them. If they choose to take a man up to their bed, they do so of their own free will, and it is naught to do with me.”

“Are you telling me that I cannot buy her into my bed?”

She shrugged. “Do not ask me. She is not mine to sell. You will have to deal directly with the girl herself on that matter.”

If he had to ask Sarah, then ask her he would. There was no use wasting any more minutes with Mrs. Erskine. He turned on his heel to walk out and find Sarah as the old bawd suggested, but she stopped him with a word. “Wait.”

He crossed his arms across his chest and waited.

“You can buy her time, if not her body. For a small monthly payment,” and she named a sum that made his eyes pop out of his head. “I will ensure that the other gentlemen who frequent my house understand she is not available to play with them.”

“Highway robbery,” he muttered. “I should just carry her off and be done with it.”

“The other gentlemen will no doubt be grievously disappointed if my new girl is snatched away from them before they have had any opportunity to play with her,” she continued in an even tone. “She was promisingly popular last night. Sir Richard Etheridge made a beeline for her as soon as he saw her, and he is well-known as a connoisseur of fine women.”

Sir Richard Etheridge ought to have his cock pulled out by its roots and fed to the pigs. He gritted his teeth and tossed a handful of guineas onto the blotter in front of her. “I will pay.”

“Of course, you realize that your payment only buys you her time,” she added with a malicious look on her face as she tucked the guineas away into a pocket in her skirts. “If she should choose to take another man to her bed, you must understand that it is quite out of my control.”

Sarah came down to the salon the following evening in a very different frame of mind. Earning her keep by teasing gentlemen was less fearsome than she had supposed it to be. The work was not as respectable as millinery, to be sure, but it was better than walking the streets, and it had its own compensations. While she was not saving any money, she was living splendidly, with plenty of food, fine clothes to wear, and even a bedroom to call her own. Really, she had no cause for complaint.

Maybe Tom would be there again tonight. She hoped he would be, and that he claimed her before anyone else could. Especially Sir Richard. She did not like Sir Richard, with his fat fingers and his sweaty forehead, and the way he smelled of nasty things under the heavy cologne he wore. Even though Polly had confided to her that morning that he was as rich as Midas and a very good catch, she did not want to engage his interest. Wealthy or not, he still sent shivers of disgust racing down her spine.

As soon as she entered the salon, Mrs. Erskine pulled her aside. “Your ser vices have been engaged for the month,” she said quietly in Sarah’s ear.

Her heart gave an uncomfortable lurch. “So soon?” According to Polly, a girl had to work hard at gaining a gentleman’s interest and please him very well in bed before he would pay for her exclusive ser vices. She hoped her new protector would not expect so much from her—particularly not the bed part. “Who has paid for me?”

“Tom Wilde. See to it that you treat him well.” She gave a rare smile. “You have done well. He has paid handsomely for the privilege of having you to himself.”

Some of the tension escaped from her body. Far better Tom Wilde, for all his rascally ways, than Sir Richard the fat. She could almost enjoy playing parlor games with Tom, if he did not try to take them too far.

Barely had she turned away from Mrs. Erksine than Tom was at her elbow. “Take my arm.”

Orders, even orders to do exactly what she wanted to do anyway, always rubbed her the wrong way. It was on the tip of her tongue to refuse him, until she caught sight of Sir Richard waddling her way, his piggy eyes fixed on her. Hastily she tucked her hand into the crook of Tom’s arm. “Are you always this autocratic?”

Placing his free hand over hers, he walked her toward an empty corner of the room. “Yes.”

Secretly his attitude thrilled her. “You make no apology for it?”

“I wanted you to myself. It seemed the fastest way of achieving my goal.”

“Ruthless as well as autocratic,” she muttered, completely forgetting Mrs. Erskine’s injunction to be pleasant to him.

He barked a short laugh. “And are you, Miss Sarah Chesham, always this rude to gentlemen who have paid through the nose to spend time with you?”

She shrugged, not liking to be reminded that her time, even if nothing else, was for sale. “As you are the first such gentleman, I can hardly say.”

“As you are so unaccommodating, I am hardly surprised you are not overwhelmed with admirers. Would you be as rude to anyone else in the room?”

Mrs. Erskine’s injunctions forced themselves in on her remembrance all of a sudden. “I have not been rude to you at all,” she protested guiltily, knowing that she lied.

“Would you be as rude to Sir Richard Etheridge, for example? He has a good deal more money than I do, and he is a baronet to boot.”

“Sir Richard the fat?” Her face crinkled in distaste. “I would not care to talk to him at all.” That at least was no lie.

He entwined his fingers with hers. “Is it just me who rouses your ire, then? Did our acquaintance start out on the wrong footing?”

She could not think of their first meeting, when he caught her with her hands under her skirts touching herself, without blushing to the tips of her ears. “You are an acknowledged scoundrel. You bring out the worst in me.”

His fingers squeezed hers affectionately as he maneuvered her through the room. “You are so pretty I cannot believe that your worst is so very bad.”

The insincerity in his voice grated on her feelings. “Do not waste your breath with empty flattery,” she said wearily, suddenly in no mood to play games with him. “It is not necessary. I will spend the evening with you regardless. You have paid for my time and Mrs. Erskine will not allow me to cheat you of that.”

Without her noticing, he had steered her to a quiet corner of the room where they could talk undisturbed. “I trust you enough to believe you would not try to cheat me.”

“What do you know about me? That I work in a coffeehouse that doubles as a bawdy house, and that I am the closest a woman can get to a whore without being one? Why should you trust me?”

“You are pretty enough to make me forget all that and trust you anyway.”

Would he not give up his condescending flattery? Could he not see that its hollowness was insulting? She took her hand out of the crook of his arm. “Then you are a fool.”

To her surprise he did not get angry with her. Instead he leaned against the wall, crossed his arms in front of him, and looked at her in genuine admiration. “You are an astute woman.”

Her irritation could not be dismissed so lightly. “What do you mean?”

“As pretty as you are, I do not trust you one whit, but I trust Mrs. Erskine to not let me be cheated.”

Even though she had goaded him into making such a bold statement, his honest words still irked her. “Why do you trust her and not me? Is she so singularly honest? Or am I so particularly untrustworthy?”

His smile spoke volumes. “It’s very simple—she has more to lose than you do. I could destroy her coffee house with one malicious pamphlet, and she knows it. I have no such hold over you.”

Uncomfortable though his words might be, she much preferred him when he was telling her the unvarnished truth instead of pacifying her with lies that a child could see through. “You are a writer?”

“I am. And a moderately successful one, too.” His pride was evident in his tone of voice. “I write the news sheets and contribute to a number of periodicals.”

His open pride in his profession surprised her. “My father always said that writing was barely a respectable way to earn one’s living.”

Tom’s brow darkened. “Your father must have been a paragon of all earthly virtues to turn up his nose at writers.”

Judging by the black look on his face, she had offended him without even trying this time. “He was a curate, a man of God.” She shrugged uncomfortably. “Things were either black or white to him.”

“And are you equally uncompromising? Do you consider me beneath your notice now that you know I am a working man, and earning my living in a barely respectable way?”

“Why should I?” She spread out her arms in a gesture that invited him to share the irony of her situation. “I am a working girl myself, and my profession is a far less respectable one.”

“You are no helpless ornament. You at least
have
a profession.”

“One I am not proud of. How could I be proud of this?”

“Earning a living is better than giving up and starving on the streets.”

“Is it?” She shot him a shrewd look. “My father, for one, would not think so.”

“And you? What do you think?”

“I am here, aren’t I?” The corner of her mouth creased in a mirthless smile. “Not starving in the streets or laboring in the work house for a pittance with no hope of ever getting out again.”

“I admire your spirit. You are brave. A survivor.”

Bravery would have been holding her head high as she died by inches in the work house. True courage would have allowed her to forget the needs of her body while she took care of her soul. Bravery was not selling her body for bread because she was afraid of hunger and cold and want. “I took the easy way out. There is nothing brave about that.”

He came nearer to her, and traced down the line of her cheek with his forefinger. “Is it so very bad, being here?”

“I am glad you have bought my time for the month,” she confessed, in the spirit of truthfulness that had overcome them both. “You are easy to talk to and you do not stare at me like Sir Richard did last night. He made me feel somehow dirty.”