Robin Schone (3 page)

Some men took pleasure in power while others took pleasure in pain.

Perspiration pooled beneath her breasts, crawled down her stomach.

What did this man take pleasure in, she wondered: power... or pain?

Why would a man—a man who could surely have anyone whom he desired—pay two thousand pounds

for a woman’s virginity?

His silver gaze did not waver; the long, pale fingers did not move away from the silk cloth.

Soon he would touch her with those fingers, Victoria thought with a growing sense of unreality. He

would knead her breasts and probe her vulva.

Or perhaps not.

Perhaps he would take her leaning against the wall or bending over the marble desk with no preliminary

kisses. No caresses. Their only contact through their genitals.

The woman inside Victoria screamed for her to flee.

The pragmatist inside her warned she had nowhere to run.

An ember sparked, underscoring her decision.

Whatever happened this night, with this man, was
her
choice.

She would not back down.

Clumsily, she released the wooden buttons on her wool cloak, lips firming with resolve, reticule swinging.

Slipping her left arm free, she transferred the reticule to her left hand, and slipped the cloak off her right

shoulder. Carefully, she draped the moth-eaten wool over her left forearm as if it bore some value.

It did not.

In the last six months she had sold everything she possessed.

And it
still
had not been enough.

The silver-eyed man briefly glanced down at the hem of her brown wool dress. Dark lashes gouged even

darker shadows into his cheeks.

She knew what he saw.

The skirt puddled around her feet. Victoria had sold her bustle two months past.

Slowly, he raised his eyelids, face an alabaster mask.

Victoria saw herself as he must see her. Her face was gaunt from cold and fear and hunger, her dark

brown hair dull from no cleansing agent other than icy water.

She was not beautiful, but she had not offered him beauty; she had offered him her maidenhood.

Victoria squared her shoulders.

“What is your name, mademoiselle?” he asked pleasantly, impersonally. As if they met at a ball instead

of a tavern of ill repute.

Various names floated through Victoria’s thoughts: Chastity. Prudence.

None were applicable.

A chaste, prudent woman would not now be in her predicament.

“Mary,” she lied.

And knew he was aware that she lied.

“Put your cloak and reticule on the chair.”

Victoria sucked her lips against her teeth to quell a rising tide of anger. He could yet reject her, this

elegant man who was surrounded by beauty and comfort. And not once would he think about the hell his

rejection would condemn her to.

To her left, gold glittered on a wall of embossed leather books. Overhead, a crystal chandelier radiated

heat. To her right, blue and orange flames danced inside a black marble fireplace.

For one blinding second she hated the silver-haired, silver-eyed man for the wealth that he possessed and

the masculinity that he had been born with. She had been reduced to
this
—selling her virginity—solely

because of her sex and the power a woman’s subjugation gave men.

Victoria stepped forward and draped the ragged wool cloak over the back of the pale blue leather chair

that was her sole means of protection. Reluctantly she dropped the reticule onto the cushion, deriding her

unwillingness to part with it—the only valuable article she had left was her hymen.

And soon it, too, would be gone.

Sharpness abruptly spiked his voice. “Move away from the chair.”

Glancing up, Victoria was pinned by frigid silver eyes.

Her heart leaped up inside her throat.

The anger simmering inside her forced it back down.

She
would not
be a victim.

Not of this man.

Not of the man who had systematically destroyed her life simply because he wanted for free what the

silver-haired man was willing to buy.

Victoria deliberately stepped to the side of the chair.

“Shall I remove my dress?” she asked brashly, heartbeat drumming inside her ears, her temples, her

breasts. “Or shall I merely hitch up my skirt and lean against a wall?”

“Do you often hitch up your skirt, mademoiselle?” he asked politely, silver eyes intent.

Victoria’s head snapped back. “I am not a whore,” she said tightly.

But for whose benefit?

Shadow shimmered inside his eyes, silver turning to gray. “You auctioned off your body, mademoiselle. I

assure you, that makes you a whore.”

“And you purchased my body, sir,” she lashed back. “What does that make you?”

“A whore, mademoiselle,” he said flatly, pale face a beautiful mask. “Are you wet as well as hard?”

Shock rocketed through Victoria.

Surely he had not said what she thought he had said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your nipples are hard, mademoiselle. I merely wondered if you were also wet with your desire.”

Victoria held her hands at her sides, suddenly, acutely aware of the wool that abraded her nipples with

each breath, each exhalation. The maroon carpet, high white ceiling and pale blue enameled walls silenced

the sounds of the patrons and prostitutes who coupled beyond them; they did not obstruct the images his

words forcibly conjured.

Of men and women.

Embracing.

Kissing.

Touching.

Naked bodies writhing.

Giving pleasure. Taking pleasure.

Engaging in all the sexual acts that respectable women did not desire to engage in. Or so she had wanted

to believe.

The last six months had taught her differently.

“My nipples are hard,” she said shortly, “because it is cold outside.”

“But it is not cold in here. Fear, mademoiselle, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Are you afraid?”

“I am a virgin, sir.” She stiffened her spine; her nipples stabbed her wool bodice. “I have never before

taken a man into my body. Yes, I am apprehensive.”

“How old are you?”

Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. Did she look older or younger than her years? she wondered.

Should she lie or tell the truth?

What did a man such as he want in a woman?

“I am thirty-four years old,” she said finally, reluctantly.

“You are not a young girl.”

“Nor are you a young boy, sir,” she retaliated.

Victoria clamped her lips together, too late, her words echoed between them.

“No, I am not a boy, mademoiselle,” he said imperturbably. “But I am very curious as to why you, at

your age, decided to part with your virginity this night, at the House of Gabriel.”

Hunger.

Desperation.

But a man such as he would not want to hear about poverty.

Victoria attempted to be coy. “Perhaps because I knew that you would be here tonight. You are very

beautiful, you know. A woman’s first time should be with a man such as you.”

The compliment fell flat. Victoria was not a coy person.

“I could hurt you,” he said gently.

There was nothing gentle in his gaze.

“I am well aware of what a man can do to a woman.”

“I could kill you, mademoiselle.”

Victoria’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Are you that large, sir?” she asked politely.

Wanting to flee.

Wanting to fight.

Wanting the night to be over with so she could piece together the remnants of her life.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am large,” he said deliberately, silvery gray eyes watchful. “I measure over nine

inches long. Why didn’t you take off your cloak in the saloon?”

Burning wood popped.

Over nine inches
stabbed between her thighs.

The image of a man’s member—dark veins bulging, crimson crown protruding—flashed before Victoria’

s eyes. It was superimposed by an image of Lord James Ward Hunt, earl of Goulburn, home secretary. . . .

Remove the cloak , girl, and show us what you’re selling.

On Sundays the home secretary dined with her father; throughout the week he reviled abandoned

women—the “frail sisterhood”—before the House of Lords in an ongoing effort to cleanse London streets

of prostitution.

She wondered if her father knew of his friend’s nighttime activities.

She wondered if her father shared them.

Nothing
was as she had thought it to be six months earlier: not so-called respectable men and women,

not the denizens who roamed London streets, certainly not Victoria.

All her life she had hidden from desire; now she could not escape it.

“I saw no benefit in flaunting my person in public,” Victoria said woodenly. “It is my virginity that is of

value, not my appearance.”

“Were you afraid that men might not find you attractive?”

She was afraid that men might recognize her.

“I did not offer beauty,” she said defensively. And bit her lips at being drawn into an emotional response.

Ladies did not publicly demonstrate emotion. Prostitutes, like governesses, were not expected to possess

them, let alone give way to them.

A former lady, governess, and now a practicing prostitute, Victoria possessed emotions. But she didn’t

want to
possess them.

“You do not think you are beautiful?” he asked lightly, silver eyes probing, face and fingers starkly

elegant, the first framed by a short white collar and matching bow tie, the latter by silver-veined black

marble.

“No, I do not,” Victoria said tensely. Honestly.

Women forfeited their lives to their parents, their husbands, their children.

There was no beauty in subjugation.

“Yet you think that you are worth two thousand pounds.”

“I asked for one hundred and five pounds, sir,” she riposted. “It was
you
who bid two thousand.”

“Money is important to you,” he probed. Voice.
Eyes.

Victoria gritted her teeth. “Money buys coal. Food. Shelter. Yes, money is important to me, as it is to all

of us.”

The money he had spent renting this room for one hour would keep her in comfort for several weeks.

“Exactly what would you do for money, mademoiselle?”

A chill ran up Victoria’s spine; it was chased by heat.

Was he asking her what sexual acts she would perform?

“I will do anything you wish.”

“You would let me hurt you.”

It was not a question.

Her heart skipped a beat, raced to catch up. “I would prefer that you did not.”

“When is the last time you ate?”

Anger knifed through Victoria.

He was playing with her.
Simply because he could.

“I am not here to discuss my appetite, sir.”

“But you
are
hungry.”

Her stomach roiled in assent.

“No,” Victoria lied. “I am not hungry.”

“But you know what it is like to be hungry.”

She would
not
admit weakness to this man whose beauty called to every feminine instinct she had ever

tried to suppress.

“I have missed an occasional meal, yes.”

Victoria had finished the crust of a quarter loaf of bread three days past.

“Would you kill for money, mademoiselle?”

Streetwalkers sometimes robbed and killed the clients whom they serviced.

Did he think she was a streetwalker?

A jagged fingernail penetrated her right palm. “I may prostitute myself this night, sir, but I am not a thief

nor am I a murderess. You need have no fear of me.”

“You have never before killed a man?” he persisted.

“No,” she said adamantly. But Victoria had wanted to.

Watching her meager savings dwindle day by day, she had wanted to hurt the man who was responsible,

as she had been hurt by his actions.

“Would you beg me, mademoiselle?”

The coldness fusing Victoria’s vertebrae settled in the center of her chest.

“No,” she said clearly. Decisively. Gaze holding his. “No, I will not beg you.” She would not beg any

man.

A burning log dropped inside the fireplace. Sparks shot up the chimney.

“Take off your dress.”

Victoria’s stomach growled, a betraying reminder of her mortality.

If he took her, she could die.

If he did not take her, she
would
die.

Of cold. Of hunger.

Or perhaps she would be killed for her cloak and shoes so that someone else might survive the London

streets another night, another week, another month.

Feeling as if she were outside her body, Victoria raised her hands to her bodice. She watched her actions

through silver eyes.

Fingers that were red and chapped released one button, two, three . . . Pale skin shone through the

widening gap of the brown wool bodice. The base of her throat. . . the valley between her breasts. . . the

curve of her abdomen, concave rather than rounded . . .

Taking a deep breath, Victoria shrugged. Harsh wool cascaded down her back, her hips, puddled around

her feet.

There was no chemise, no corset, no petticoats to hide behind.

They, too, had been sold on St. Giles Street.

She squared her shoulders, more aware of the baggy silk drawers that rode her hips and the wool

stockings that sagged about her knees and the half boots that rubbed her ankles than she was of her own

breath.

Forcibly she blanked her mind.

Heat licked at her skin while the coldness of his gaze roved over her body. Shoulders. Breasts. The silk