Her touch didn’t do a damn thing to him. Neither did her threat. “Of course not.”
She released her hold and gave him a dismissive wave. She’d moved on already, her next client, her next wad of cash. Alex gave a mocking bow to her back, then turned and made his way into the hall. How he hated her. How he despised everything about her.
Wavers, her guard dog, shifted from his position near her door. Watching them, always watching them through those beady, black eyes. The bastard never spoke, but with a face like his, he didn’t need to.
“Wavers.” Alex brushed his fingers under his chin, a silent command to fuck off.
Ophelia’s henchman didn’t respond, but then they never did. Her muscled statues had two purposes in life: protect their lady and when her boys were behaving badly enough, beat them into submission. He’d felt the man’s fists more than once in the early years. For that, she paid them handsomely and like mutts, their loyalty was unwavering.
Feigning a nonchalance he sure as hell didn’t feel, Alex started down the hall, whistling a tune under his breath. How impressed he’d been when he’d first arrived, a lad used to living in splendor, he expected nothing less and thought he’d found a second home. The estate was beautiful, only the best. Marble floors, golden sconces highlighting the ornate scrolls hand painted on the walls. Above, gas chandeliers flickered and sputtered adding warmth and moderninity to the abode.
And there, on the outskirts, were objects meant to entice even the coldest of women. Statues of naked couples frolicking half-hidden around corners. Large tropical plants that added vitality. Warm scents meant to relax. Paintings of virile men hanging on the walls. It was a lush lifestyle meant to seduce and please, if one didn’t mind selling one’s soul.
Alex’s fingers moved to the fine linen of his shirt, buttoning that top button. He smoothed down the silk embroidered vest. Outside appearances must be kept, even if inside he fumed. The cravat that hung loose around his neck was tied as quickly as his trembling fingers would allow. Thrumming through his mind, years of teaching prevailed. Virgins tend to be skittish if you showed any skin. Yes, he’d have to tiptoe around this one, like always.
At first, he’d loved holding the upper hand, making innocent women quiver under his touch. Knowing they not only wanted him, but underneath, feared him. A powerful aphrodisiac, indeed. Now…hell, now he was damn tired of teaching them how to seduce their future husbands. Tired of their wide-eyed stares. Tired of their innocent blushes. Tired of the game.
“Another virgin?”
Startled from his thoughts, Alex paused, glancing toward the parlor. Gideon leaned against the doorframe, a scotch in hand. He’d changed in the past twelve years. Taller, broader. Those muscles, dark hair, and silver eyes made more than one woman quiver with fear and desire. But no matter how many beatings the man had endured as a youth, his stubbornness remained intact. The evidence was there…in the hardness of his face, the tenseness of his body. The idiot would get himself killed if he didn’t at least pretend to play Ophelia’s games.
Alex snatched a glass from the man’s scarred fingers and drank the amber liquid. The alcohol burned a trail down his throat, making him wince.
“Why do you have scars on your fingers, Gideon?” he’d asked him once, when he, James and Gideon had first arrived.
“None of your damn business,” Gideon had replied.
And so had been the start of a tumultuous relationship, an uneasy truce between three lads brought together. There were many things Alex didn’t know about Gideon, but there were also things he’d deduced from years of companionship.
Alex had never been one to drink; he liked to have all his wits about him when facing the Angel of Hell, as he’d dubbed Ophelia. Gideon liked to deal with life by being in a habitual state of half-drunkenness, although the man held his whiskey so well, one could barely tell. James acted as if their lives were an honored position they should be proud of. And Alex, well, he pretended. He was good at pretending. He’d had years of practice with his parents. Pretending to be someone he wasn’t, pretending to be happy, charming. And now, pretending he enjoyed pleasing women every day of the week.
“Yes, rotten luck, another virgin, unfortunately.”
Gideon merely smiled, a rarity. “At least you won’t have to worry about the pox.”
“Hmm,” Alex replied. Small condolences.
“You’re too pretty,” he said the words with disdain. “It’s why she gives you virgins. Scar your face a bit. I’d be happy to hold the knife.”
“Amusing.” Alex brushed a piece of lint from his vest. “You’re welcome to her.”
“Oh no, she’s all yours.” Gideon set the glass on a small side table. His gaze slid down the hall where Wavers still stood silently watching. The atmosphere shifted, becoming thick with tension and Alex knew what was to come.
“Did you think about it?” Gideon asked.
Alex swallowed hard and lowered his gaze to the hall runner. He felt like a coward; his thoughts jumbled when he knew he should have had a ready answer. Why? Why didn’t he immediately agree? Why did his body grow cold and clammy with thoughts of escape?
“Yes, I’ve thought about it.”
“And?”
His heart thumped madly in his chest, unease and desperation battling within. Once he agreed, he was placing his life in the hands of a man he barely trusted. Still, wasn’t being dead better than being alive here? “Do you truly believe we’ll be able to escape?”
“Yes. She’s hoping our lack of fortune and lack of self-respect will bind us to her. And, of course, she’s got her men. But her trust is building. Has she not decided to take you to the Rutherford Ball when you’ve never gone before?”
True. And there would be no better opportunity to escape than at a crowded ballroom.
“And think about what would happen if they uncovered the truth…that you’ve been prostituting yourself for the past eight years.”
Ophelia’s warning whispered tauntingly through his head. The thought of his mother…his father…knowing that he was nothing more than a whore left him ill. He had no doubt, should he leave her establishment, Ophelia would post about his life in the dailies. But would the ton believe her word? “I’ll have to think on it.”
Gideon’s jaw clenched, anger hardening his pewter gaze. “And James?” he asked.
Alex floundered for a response. James was tricky, he always had been a bit naïve. Did his loyalty to Lady Lavender supersede his loyalty to them? For some reason the idiot had the insane belief that Ophelia had saved them. “I don’t know. He seems to believe he owes her.”
Gideon snorted in disbelief. His feelings toward their savoir were apparent in every glare he threw her way. Every murmured curse he whispered when she was near.
Two years ago Gideon had started dropping hints about escape. It was only in the last six months that they’d been seriously discussing the idea. Oddly, Alex didn’t feel as excited by the prospect as he’d assumed he would. It was true; Ophelia was beginning to trust him. For the past year she’d taken him along when visiting gaming hells. And only recently she’d mentioned that he would attend the Rutherford Ball. Freedom tempted him. Although escaping gaming hells would be difficult with her henchmen nearby, at a ball surely there’d be plenty of opportunity.
He raked his hand through his hair, feeling discontent, unsure, when he should have been thrilled. Even if they managed to escape this hell, what sort of life would they lead with pasts like theirs? Ophelia was right; he could never return home. Perhaps he’d known that all along, which was why he’d never tried to contact his family. He was too damned ashamed.
And what would happen when Ophelia told the world of his sinful ways? Dare he tell Gideon of Ophelia’s latest threat? No. Gideon wouldn’t care, wouldn’t understand why Alex would worry over his family’s welfare. But then how could he understand? Gideon had no idea where Alex had come from, who his family was related to.
Alex sighed. “I’ll t
alk to James, see—”
“Ahem.” Wavers cleared his throat, their warning to move on.
They’d talked longer than was deemed appropriate. Gideon narrowed those gray eyes, his hatred bitterly palpable. Lady Lavender didn’t like them to fraternize. But after being together for twelve bloody years, what did she expect?
“We’re friends, we’re all going to be great friends.”
He could still remember the words she’d spoken those years ago when she’d tempted Alex to work for her. The words had been a lie, as everything else she’d said. Here, one didn’t have friends. He barely trusted Gideon. God, he couldn’t live this way any longer. There was no other alternative. Even though sweat broke out along his forehead, with renewed determination he gave Gideon a nod. “I’m in.” And like that he’d jumped into a gray sea of churning waves, threatening to take him under.
Gideon grinned.
As far as he knew, Lady Lavender had twenty men in her control. Yet he, James and Gideon were the only three under constant watch. The only three who, as mere young boys, had been blackmailed. She hadn’t started whoring them out right away. No, she’d waited until they were sixteen, tempting them with beautiful women, teasing them with seductive possibilities.
And how eager he’d been to relent. Gads, he could still remember that first time. He’d thought that having sex with women would be an ideal way to spend his evenings and in return, Lady Lavender would keep the secrets of his family’s ancestry buried. He hadn’t realized he was selling his soul.
Gideon turned and disappeared into the parlor. Alex tipped an imaginary hat at Wavers and continued up the stairs. Taking in a deep breath, he contemplated the woman who would be waiting. It didn’t do to arrive wilted and uninterested. Yet, it had been a long time since a woman had naturally aroused him. A sweet blonde with blue eyes? Dark and exotic?
In the first few years, his cock had flared to life merely at the thought of bedding a woman. Now…hell, now it took concentration to care.
One thing was certain, she’d be a trembling mess. But he’d make her quiver for an entirely different reason. If Alex was good at one thing, it was making the innocent relax. It was his looks, he knew, the dark curls, blue eyes and dimples. He looked nothing like his Russian father, but more like his English mother. He looked like a fucking angel, or so he’d been told on many occasions.
Yes, the mothers liked his looks and they’d send their innocent daughters to him. He supposed they were being kind. They’d rather their daughters lose their virginity to someone who would be gentle and intent on pleasing. Then, on their wedding night, daughters would not cry, there would be no pain, and pig’s blood would be sprinkled upon the sheets. Husbands would leave their marriage bed happy in the knowledge that they had performed well indeed, with no idea that their wives had already lost their virginity to a whore.
He paused outside his door. Lady Lavender had done what she could to make the rooms void of sound, but noises seeped through…moans, whispers, groans of passion. Evening was a popular time. Vaguely he could remember waking to noises of the city— people calling out their wares, carriages over cobbled streets. Now, he woke to the sound of women being pleasured. At one time it was a magical, musical sound. Now it grated.
He gave a soft knock, just to warn his client, then wrapped his fingers around the cool, porcelain knob. Without hesitation, he pushed the door wide.
She stood near the windows. The setting sun outlined her body with a heavenly glow. Heaven in this hell, how ironic. Not blonde. Not a brunette. Not raven haired. Almost…auburn? He stepped further into the room. Yes, dark auburn, although a less astute man would have said brown. He smiled, surprised when he was rarely surprised anymore. He’d never had an auburn haired woman. Thank God for small favors. Something different in his mundane life. Softly, he shut the door, the latch giving a click.
She turned, spinning around in a flurry of brown skirts. “Oh.”
Her voice was a gasp of surprise that hardly reached him. He could barely see her face, the setting sun too bright behind her. But he didn’t need to see her features. Looks no longer mattered. She could have resembled old Bertie from the kitchen, or a perfect goddess created by the heavens and it wouldn’t have mattered.
He moved across the large room, his booted feet sinking into plush carpet, dulling any sound of footsteps. Only the best decorated Lady Lavender’s estate. The walnut four poster bed cost a pretty pence. White curtains provided a seductive haven that cocooned lovers in a pure embrace, while the baby blue walls reminded one of brilliant summer days in the country. It was luminous, beautiful, perfect for the innocent. He hated the room.
“A drink?” he asked, moving to the side table to lift the wick of the only lantern that was currently lit.
From the corner of his eye he could see her gloved hand flutter around her, before settling on her chest like a nervous butterfly on a flower. “Um, yes, thank you. I’m sorry, I didn’t get your name.”
Her voice was husky, pretty really. He poured sherry into a glass and started toward her. The drink would help her relax, as would the fire crackling in the marble hearth. Expensive French chocolates sat on the table by the bed. Everything was in place, as it should be.
“Alex.” His gaze shifted to hers and he paused for one brief moment as a shiver of awareness caressed his skin.
Rosy cheeks, pert nose slightly upturned, wide, innocent eyes not exactly blue, yet not green…. Twenty three, four? Almost on the shelf then. Yet, there was something about her that called to him… That stirred his interest. He cleared his throat and dropped his attention, scanning her form quickly, looking for something, anything to explain his sudden attraction. Brown cloak was perfectly cut, material fine, but it was serviceable. Nothing erotic.
“Alex,” she repeated softly, her voice almost a caress. “Do you have a surname?”
He had, at one time. “No. Just Alex.”
Remembering his purpose, he started toward her once more, stopping close…close enough that his heat tempted her, but not too close that she felt overwhelmed. He took in a deep breath and suddenly he was the one overwhelmed. Her scent invaded his senses; the fresh scent of spring and more…something homey…sweet…as if she’d been baking cookies.
Curious hazel eyes blinked up at him. She had a soft splattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. Hell. Her innocence screamed at him. Yet…yet, he couldn’t seem to look away. As he studied those freckles he had the sudden urge to kiss her. Truly kiss her. No pretense, no practice, but the sudden rush of lust that could only be sated with an irrational kiss. She reminded him of innocence, of a life before he’d sold his soul. A time when he’d flirted with sweet milkmaids and farm girls. A life when anything had been possible.
She frowned, a crease between her brows. “It’s hardly appropriate for me to call you by your first name.”
He laughed at her jest. But as confusion swept over her oval face, his laughter faded. Was she serious?
“Drink.” He softened his demand by smiling, his gifted, charmed smile complete with dimples. “And your name?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, refusing to take the glass and looking thoroughly disgruntled. “Since you’ve given me your first name, I now feel indebted to give you mine.”
He parted his lips to respond when she held up her hand, cutting him off.
“I insist we be on equal footing.”
He didn’t know what the hell she was talking about, but he was intrigued enough to wait for her next statement.
“Grace,” she said in a breath of air, as if admitting some great family secret. “Although it’s hardly appropriate for you to use it.”
His smile faltered. An odd virgin indeed. Damn, perhaps this wouldn’t be easy after all. She was going to be difficult. “My dear, you’re in my bedchamber; propriety doesn’t matter much.”
Her cheeks turned a charming shade of pink and although she’d met his gaze directly only moments before, she now fo
und sudden fascination with the carpet. “All the more reason to keep up morals.”
Morals? Here? Was she mad?
Grace pulled her gloves from her fingers, one by one in a slow, unconcerned movement, as if she was in complete control. She looked rather unimpressed. And maybe she was. “Sir, as much as I adore small talk, I’d rather get on with it.”
Holy hell. For not the first time that evening, Alex was shocked speechless.
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Lori Brighton, Love Letters
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