Robin Schone (14 page)

encircling her.

It was not her bed.

The room Victoria rented was equipped with a sagging mattress; it had no sheets.

No light penetrated a sooty window—neither gray daylight nor golden streetlight.

A rich, sweet flavor lingered in her mouth.

Chocolate.

Memory followed consciousness.

Victoria slept in the silver-eyed, silver-haired man’s bedchamber: it did not have a window. And the rich,

sweet substance coating her tongue came from the pot
au chocolat
that had been a part of her supper.

A supper she had eaten alone.

Underneath the scent of laundry soap and starch, she could smell a faint whiff of...
him:
the musky

clean scent of masculine flesh.

Victoria had slept between the sheets that
he
had slept between. A man who called himself Gabriel.

His scent had lulled her to sleep the night before. Or was it still night?

She strained to hear ...

His breathing.

His presence.

His thoughts.

There was no sense of him.

This is a night house, mademoiselle... The walls are designed to afford privacy.

Heat flooded Victoria’s body.

The thoughts she had expressed and the questions she had asked the beautiful silver-eyed, silver-haired

man the night before flowed through her like an open tap.

Have you ever begged a woman for sexual release?. . .

No, mademoiselle, I have never begged a woman for release.

Has a woman ever begged you for release?

Yes.

Did you enjoy it?

Yes.

Did you . .. cry out. .. with your pleasure?

No, mademoiselle, I did not cry out with pleasure.

Did these women who begged you for release do so before or after you yourself.
. .
begged. . .for

release?

. . . It has been fourteen years, eight months, two week s and six days since I begged for release,

mademoiselle. I have not touched a woman since.

The darkness pressed on Victoria’s chest.

She had counted the days, weeks and months since she had been discharged from her position. The

losses and the indignities she had suffered paled in comparison to what Gabriel had experienced.

He denied the needs of his flesh, because of an act he had had no control over. And he had counted

every minute, every hour of each passing year.

Immediately Victoria remembered the streetwalker called Dolly and the folded paper she had pressed

into Victoria’s hand. For protection, she had assured Victoria.

A masculine voice laid bare the lie.

Did your friend tell you what this is?

Victoria tried to push aside the truth.

It is corrosive sublimate, mademoiselle. Did your friend tell you how to administer the tablets?

The truth would not be pushed aside.

One tablet causes violent convulsions, often followed by death. Two tablets inserted into your

vagina, mademoiselle, would most certainly bring about your death.

The pressure weighting her chest became an anvil—it dropped straight down to her lower abdomen.

Victoria threw back the bedcovers and stood up.

The wooden floor was icy against her bare feet; the air embracing her nakedness, chill.

There were no embers inside the fireplace to provide light. Heat.

Safety.

Gabriel, admitted proprietor, whore and murderer, could barge through the door at any moment and turn

on the light.

I
was
wet with desire. Because I did want you
—
a stranger
—
to touch me.

The shame that had refused to come when she uttered her confession remained curiously absent.

Victoria forcefully turned off the tap of memories.

She could not afford to feel fear. Hope.

Desire.

The eternal hunger of a woman.

Holding out her arms straight in front of her, Victoria walked into black space—and then she walked into

a black wall.

The sharp slap of flesh impacting wood exploded the pulse-pounding silence.

Not a wall. . .
She had run full-body into the armoire.

Victoria
froze,
heart palpitating.

Had he heard her?

What if he investigated the noise?

She was naked, without even a pair of stockings to hide behind.

Her dress—where was it?

The bathroom—where was
it?

Sliding her hands in rhythm with her feet, Victoria found the side of the armoire, the adjoining wall. . .

She skimmed the wall with the fingers on her left hand, right hand thrust forward to ward off attacking

furniture.

Or an attacking man.

Her fingers stubbed a wooden frame, plunged into empty space.

She had found the bathroom.

Reaching through the open doorway, Victoria lightly swept the wall with her fingertips, circling, circling

... slick enameled paint... icy metal. . .

A wooden switch.

Light blinded her. Materializing out of the glare appeared gleaming copper, the combination bath and

shower... a marble monolith, the wash basin . .. and a naked woman shrouded in dark, tangled hair.

Victoria’s gaze skidded away from her mirrored image above the marble basin.

Age-yellowed silk limply covered a wooden towel rack; shapeless flesh-colored tubes hung beside it.

Last night she had washed her drawers and her stockings before retiring, as she did every night.

Had he entered the bedroom and the bathroom while she slept?

Had he seen what no man had a right to see—a woman’s futile attempt to remain genteel when gentility

was not an option?

Her gaze unerringly returned to the mirror.

The naked, dark-haired woman within boldly stared back at Victoria.

White breasts peeked through twin streamers of dark, snarled hair—a woman stripped of earthy

possessions and prideful vanity.

I
k now you, Victoria Childers,
the man who wrote the letters claimed.

But Victoria did not know the woman in the mirror.

She did not know the woman who had undressed in front of a perfect stranger and felt no shame.

Her breasts jutted out from her chest, a proclamation of her sex.

A symbol of weakness and vulnerability.

The sin of a woman.

Desire is apart of all of us, mademoiselle.

Victoria remembered the members of the
ton
who had watched her auction off her virginity.

Men who served in parliament; women who ruled society.

Had they found the passion they sought?

A pale, slender hand rose up in the mirror.

You want to be k issed
... a familiar masculine voice murmured provocatively.

The woman in the mirror touched reddened lips.

Chapped skin pricked Victoria’s fingertips; electric sensation jolted through her.

No man had ever kissed her lips.

Men did not kiss women on the streets; they merely coupled with them.

Now she understood why.

The streetwalkers possessed drawn, chapped lips—like Victoria’s lips.

Six months earlier they had been plump and soft.

Had she secretly admired the fullness of her lips and the softness of her skin?

Had her vanity been so obvious?

Your breasts .. .
the provocative masculine voice urged.

The pale, slender hand in the mirror slowly descended, trailing down a sharp chin, a corded throat, a

pulsing indentation. Warm hair blanketed the backs of the woman’s fingers.

Underneath the cover of dark hair, callused skin cupped a round breast. It was soft and plump as the

rest of Victoria was not.

A nipple peeked through the cup of her hand and the blanket of tangled hair: a dusky dark rosebud.

It did not feel like a rosebud.

It was hard. Tiny bumps—like goose bumps—pebbled it. On the very tip there was a slight depression.

Before the letters Victoria had never looked at her naked body, had never touched herself save through

a washcloth.

Had never recognized the sensuality that had been lying dormant beneath her plain wool dresses, waiting

for her to acknowledge it.

Now the silver-eyed, silver-haired man had read the letters. And he knew . . .

You want what every woman secretly yearns for.

But she didn’t want to want.

To be kissed.

To be fondled.

To be suckled.

She didn’t want to ache.

She didn’t want to hunger...

For the warmth of a touch.

For the union of penetration.

She didn’t want to ache and hunger for a man’s fingers ... a man’s penis ... a man’s
tongue.

Victoria pivoted, hand dropping, hair flying.

The last six months she had squatted over a chipped chamber pot; the luxury of sitting on a smooth

wooden toilet seat was a pleasant diversion.

It reminded her of the conveniences she had once taken for granted and the comforts she had been

cheated of.

Of the comforts that she might never know again.

Gone.

Everything was gone.

Her china trinkets. The freshwater pearl necklace; the coral earrings she had never dared wear. The

engraved silver watch that had been a gift from her first employer. Her clothes.

The room that stank of poverty and despair.

Rent was due and she could not pay it. By now someone else would have rented it.

Would they receive the letters intended for Victoria?

Would they read them and yearn for more, as Victoria had yearned?

Victoria reached for the box of tissues behind her.

The cistern flushed with a small gurgle instead of the clamoring belch of the more outdated plumbing her

previous employers had utilized.

Her drawers were still damp, her future still undecided.

She could return to bed, or she could get dressed.

She could pretend to be Gabriel’s guest... or she could be the prisoner she knew that she was.

Her choice . . .

The combination bath and shower beckoned to her.

Victoria tried to remember the last time she had acted for no other reason than for her pleasure.

She could not.

As a child, she had been afraid of her father, fearing he would revile her. And he had.

As a governess, she had been afraid of her employers, fearing they would dismiss her. And they had.

Now she was neither a child nor a governess: she was a woman on her own. Victoria had nothing left to

lose.

Neither a father’s love nor an employer’s salary.

Determinedly she padded across the cold tile floor.

Six brass cocks lined the satinwood panel on the combination bath and shower. They were plainly

marked “Hot,” “Cold,” “Supply to Bath,” “Needle Spray,” “Liver Spray” and “Shower.”

Heart in her throat, Victoria turned the “Shower” cock.

Nothing happened.

Quickly, she closed the cock.
Had she brok en it?

Long seconds passed before reason prevailed.

Tentatively she opened the “Cold” cock.

The resulting roar of cascading water did not come from the copper bathtub spout—Victoria tentatively

peered underneath the copper hood—nor did it come from the large, round, perforated copper disk above.

A small thermometer above the six copper cocks caught her attention.

It dawned on her that the cold water was going into a mixing chamber.

She opened the hot water cock.

The thermometer instantly registered an increase in temperature. Beside the thermometer, a meter

gauged the fullness of the mixing chamber. One quarter full, two quarters full, three quarters full...
Full.

Victoria hastily closed the hot and cold water cocks.

Excitement quickened her blood.

There was no lock on the bathroom door. The thought did not dampen her excitement.

Stepping into the copper tub—toes curling at the icy metal—she cautiously walked underneath the

copper hood.

Immediately, Victoria was enclosed front, sides and overhead—it was like stepping into a copper grotto.

Two smaller copper disks on either side of her were bent downward—they were hip high. A copper pipe

blended into each of the four corners; they were perforated top to bottom.

A copper-skinned woman mirrored Victoria’s movements—head turning when Victoria’s head turned,

breasts thrusting forward when Victoria’s breasts thrust forward, arm raising . ..

Victoria opened the “Needle” cock.

Instantly, warm water assaulted her—breasts, buttocks, left hip, right ankle, face, stomach, back. There

was no place on her body that the water jetting through the four perforated pipes did not target.

Her hair stuck to her shoulders and her spine; steam filled her lungs.

She turned off the “Needle” cock—the water immediately stopped. Daringly she opened the “Shower”

cock.

And was immediately rained upon.

Victoria had never felt anything like it. The force of the water pounding down on her head and shoulders

both stung and caressed.

It was like being caught naked in a summer shower.

She instinctively turned into the rain and the heat.

A recessed copper shelf contained a bar of soap and a bottle of— Victoria investigated—shampoo. The

labeling was blurred by steam. She recognized the soap by its smell—it was
his
soap.
His
shampoo.

The man who had promised to protect her.
If he
could.

Victoria used Gabriel’s soap. And then she used Gabriel’s shampoo.