Her Husband's Harlot (48 page)

P. R. B.

With a wistful sigh,
Ginny reckoned that the model had been Earl Huxton's bride
—
and that the initials stood for some secret
endearment shared by the lovers.

Pretty Rich Bride?
Ginny
had mused while I'd stifled a snicker.
Well, whatever it means, you can take
me word fer it, Abby
—
'e loved 'er true,
'e did. Why else would 'e keep 'er in the lib'ry wif 'im, instead o' in the
gallery wif the other pictures? 'E wants 'er close to 'im, that's why. The
master's still a-grievin', after all this time.

 
Grieving was one
way to describe the earl's behavior. The papers overflowed with thinly veiled
accounts of his current exploits. The Tales of Lord H. (or Lord Hellfire as he
was sometimes called) delighted the Upper Crust. Apparently, the sordid gossip
provided many an anxious mama with precautionary tales for their offspring.
Young
Ladies Beware
, the articles might have begun.

A sudden surge of panic
overtook my thoughts. Certainly I was no well-born miss
—
but
Mrs. Beecher would not change her mind and turn me out for my own good, would
she?

"Please, Mrs.
Beecher, I have nowhere else to go," I said in a rush.

The housekeeper looked me
up and down. The feeling of fear intensified that she might find something
lacking. But, no: though I had little use for vanity, I had taken pains to
braid and pin my hair in a severe fashion. Not a strand of brown hung below the
starched frill of my white cap. My face was clean, freshly scrubbed as my black
maid's uniform.

As for the other thing,
the aberration beneath the surface ...

She could not possibly
know
, I tried to reassure myself.

An imperious ring came
from one of the brass bells mounted in rows on the wall. Already I had
memorized the sequence of the chimes and to which room each corresponded. This
one came from the master's bedchamber.

"Entertaining Her
Majesty tonight, are we?" Mrs. Beecher muttered. But she wiped her hands
on her pristine apron and hurried over to the counter. She added the crowning
touch to the tray: two flutes filled with sparkling champagne. She opened the
door for me and, pausing, gave me a severe look. "Well, if you're to work
here, I don't suppose I can keep you under foot at all times. Best you learn to
earn your keep. But you are an innocent, Abby
—
see
that you keep it that way. In and out, do you hear me?"

The direness of the
housekeeper's warning did not escape me, nor did the anxious flicker behind the
lenses of her spectacles. With a slight quaver in my voice, I asked, "Is
... is there something in particular I should be watchful of, Mrs. Beecher?"

"Watch
nothing
.
But whatever you happen to see ..." Pinning her lips together, she jerked
her chin, as if coming to a decision. "Well, I've never been one to
honey-coat the truth. Better to know who you're working for. And while the
master may be many things, he has always shown the staff respect. You'll be
fine, so long as you're a good girl. No more questions now. Her Highness is
waiting."

Taking the tray, I bobbed
a quick curtsy and hurried into the servant's corridor. As the door clicked
shut, musty dimness enveloped me. I tamped down my sense of disquiet and made
quick progress up the steep, narrow steps. Since my arrival here a month ago, I
had learned to navigate the maze of passageways that ran alongside the rooms on
all three floors. It hadn't been that difficult. Despite its grandeur, the
country house had a simple layout: the ground floor was split between the
kitchens on one side and the library and rooms for entertaining on the other.
The first floor boasted the master's suite and some dozen guest chambers. The
second floor held the servants' quarters on the east side and an exquisite open
gallery on the west.

The crystal glasses
tinkled against the plate of fruit, and I slowed, careful lest I make a mess of
things right on the proverbial threshold. Balancing the tray on my hip, I
released the latch that let me out into the first floor hallway. I walked down
the dark-paneled hall and tried not to pay mind to the wall sconces shaped like
gargoyle heads. Though I knew they were fashioned of stone, something about the
creatures' grins, the way the light danced behind their mischievous carved-out
eyes, stirred the pit of my stomach. 'Twas as if I was being watched by some
unseen presence, some mysterious aura that seemed to permeate the very brick
and mortar of Hope End.

With a shiver, I shook
away my fanciful imaginings. I had enough of my own troubles to contend with;
the last thing I needed was to conjure up more. No, I must focus on survival
—
on completing my tasks and proving my worth to Mrs.
Beecher. Only then might she let me stay. Only then might I have a home again.

Straightening my
shoulders, I stopped before the imposing arched door at the end of the hall.

"At last," I
heard a sultry female voice say. "I thought I would expire from
thirst."

Taking that as a bid for
entry, I managed to release the handle with my elbow, and the door swung slowly
open. The blaze of blue candles assaulted my eyes so for a moment I just stood
there, dumb and blinded.

"Well, don't just
stand there like a twit," the woman's voice drawled.

I blinked as the dark
spots faded. My mouth opened in shock; quickly I lowered my eyes, my heart
spurring to a furious pace.

"Wh-where shall I
put the tray, ma'am?" I asked.

"That's
my lady
,"
she said. "And look at me when you speak, girl."

"Yes, m-my
lady." Swallowing, I lifted my lashes to the blonde goddess reclined upon
the chaise-lounge. She was entirely naked and luridly posed against crimson
velvet. Her voluptuous breasts, white and tipped with dark red nipples, swung
with indolent depravity as she eased to a sitting position. Mrs. Beecher's
advice sprang into my head, and I averted my eyes quickly. But not before I saw
the most startling thing: beneath the alabaster expanse of her stomach, her
womanly place was like that of a young girl's. Completely ... bare.

"Like what you
see?"

I was certain I had heard
wrong; my shocked gaze flew up to hers. Her full mouth, polished red, uncoiled
snake-like over her face. The glasses rattled; I hugged the tray into my
midsection to still its shaking. It was a trick of the light, I told myself. An
odd flicker that had made her eyes seem to glow with an other-worldly light.

I blinked again. Her
eyes, green but now otherwise unremarkable, narrowed to a calculating slant.

"Bring the tray over
here, girl."

I saw no choice but to do
as I was told. I held the tray out in front, keeping as much distance as
possible between myself and her. Instead of taking a glass, she pulled a grape
from its stem. I felt the
pop
of the fruit falling into her palm, and the
faint vibration lifted the hairs on my skin. Smiling, she bit into the sphere,
releasing droplets of juice. As her tongue traced the rim of her lips, my
throat clenched.

Her nostrils twitched, as
if catching the scent of my alarm, and her smile widened further. "Hand me
my dressing gown. The one on the bed."

Grateful for an escape, I
deposited the tray on the nearest table and headed to the bed. The decadent
four-poster affair occupied an entire corner of the room. I felt my face heat
as my gaze travelled from the gilded mirror on the ceiling to the disordered
bedclothes below. What my betters did was none of my business, I reminded
myself between uneven breaths. Spotting the filmy red clump, I fished it out
from amidst the rumpled navy satin.

Without warning, the
vision bore upon me. The room contracted into disorienting color, then expanded
into wavy dimensions. I felt myself falling, the world spinning ... and then I
was flung back. Like a bird dashed against glass, my thoughts flapped in wild
confusion. I grappled to find my bearings. I could see the room clearly, yet
the view seemed distorted. Off-kilter somehow, the perspective not quite usual.
Then the grisly realization gripped me.

I was looking through
eyes not mine.

Too late, terror spiked.
Like quicksand, the hallucination sucked me in. I bucked at its hold, at the
fierce, familiar panic overtaking me. But the harder I fought, the greater the
trance's power until I saw myself as Lady Priscilla, blonde and naked in the
mirror above the bed. I was purring, writhing against the dark satin. Lust
clawed through me as I feasted on my own voluptuous beauty. I wanted to touch
myself. But my limbs would not move.

I was tied.

With a hiss, I strained
against the silken ropes binding my hands and feet to the posters. But as I lay
spread-eagled upon the smooth sheets, 'twas no longer fear I felt, but ...
anticipation. I felt the mattress dip beneath a new weight, and a primal quiver
coursed over my splayed thighs. I looked up into the mirror, my teeth baring at
the sight of a large, tanned hand juxtaposed against my delicate paleness. As
the long fingers maneuvered up my leg, I caught the gleam of a signet ring
engraved with an archaic "H".

With a touch, he mastered
me. He blazed a relentless trail over my calf, my knee, and higher yet ... my
hips arched as he scaled the eager precipice, circling to the apex. My lips
shaped to pleas, to carnal demands until, with a commanding stroke, he
possessed the burning core of me. I mewled with abandon as his fingers swirled the
blonde curls, darkening them with something foamy and slick ... soap. Shaving
soap. The scent of sandalwood filled my nostrils.

The pungency of the smell
jolted me, gave me an instant's purchase into reality. Gasping, I released the
garment and fought to close my mind. I focused on the black tops of my
serviceable boots and tried to stem the onslaught of sensation. The flood of
images, sounds, smells. My heart contracted in fearful pulses; my blood roared
in my ears. With my chest bound in panic, I tried to anchor myself in reality.
To stave off the tide of madness crashing over my senses. To stay afloat as the
carnal undertow dragged at my soul.

Concentrate, Abigail.
Use your mind. Do not give into darkness.

I saw the precise flexing
of my aunt's lips as she read to me. Grasping onto the first poem to surface, I
clung to that stanza like one drowning.
Tyger, tyger burning bright
...
My blood was burning, raging ...
In the forests of the night
... I would
not follow the dark path, I would keep going, keep going toward the light ...
What
immortal hand or eye
...
could frame thy fearful symmetry?

I repeated the words to
myself over and over until slowly, slowly I felt the darkness ebbing. My
rational mind returned; my skin became my own. The smooth ropes wisped into
nothingness, and I was free. As I swayed upon my feet, I suddenly sensed a new
presence. Palpitations bobbed my breast. I'd been so absorbed in the battle for
self-control that I had not registered the door opening.

"Lucien,
dearest
,
you are back at last," Lady Priscilla said, her voice trickling with
honeyed sweetness. "The champagne has arrived. Brought to us by a little
country mouse."

I remained head-down,
paralyzed, wishing I could disappear.

"There's no need to
denigrate the staff, Priss." The deep, low-pitched voice slid over my
frazzled senses. "You're embarrassing the girl."

"Well, I'm
thirsty." I could hear the pout in her voice. "I know standards in
the country are different from Town's, but really, Lucien, you must take a
firmer hand with the help. I might have picked the grapes and made the stuff
myself in the time it took her to bring it here."

Belatedly, I remembered
Mrs. Beecher's instructions.
Deliver it to them. In and out.
With my
head still down, I stumbled over to the table and took hold of the tray's
handles. Footsteps approached. Into my downcast view entered masculine feet,
bare and large, coming toe to toe with my boots. Slowly, I lifted my lashes. My
gaze collided with that of Lord Lucien Langsford, Earl Huxton. An electric sensation
shot through my belly. Breath hitching, I dropped my eyes quickly.

I had seen my employer
from afar on several occasions and was well aware of his physical perfection.
Up close, however, the power of his charm slammed into me with visceral force. I
felt
his presence; it called to some dormant and alarming part of me. Of
their own accord, my eyes returned to his lean, long frame, the subtle, potent
play of muscle beneath his dressing gown. I was drawn higher, to the dark
dusting of hair above his collar and up the strong, sure line of his throat.

Mesmerized, I looked into
his face. The earl was said to be in his thirties, a man in his prime. But his
virile charisma struck me as timeless. It went beyond mere good looks
—
though he had those aplenty as well. His hair was
wavy and thick and black as night save for the bold streaks of silver. As if
chiseled by a master hand, his features radiated male grace from the straight
nose and strong jaw to the clean slash of his cheekbones. But it was his eyes
that most arrested. Vivid blue, framed by decadent dark lashes and heavy lids,
they transformed his human beauty into something altogether more powerful.

These were not the eyes
of a mortal, but a brooding archangel.

As if he sensed my
thoughts, one corner of his mouth lifted. The impact of that lazy, sensual
movement shivered through me, and my throat went dry.

Oh, he was an angel for
certain
—
the fallen kind.

I became aware of the
heated throb of my blood, a strange and painful ache that seemed to infuse my
every breath. Mayhap it was the recent hallucination and the lascivious
aftermath still humming through me. Or mayhap the foreign experience of being
in close proximity to a member of the opposite sex. But I found I could not
look away. I could not summon the strength to free myself from the spell
weaving around my senses.