Polly opened her mouth to quiz him as to what exactly Mr. Ritchie’s intentions were, but no words came out, because Jamie lunged forward—and kissed her fair and square.
It was so sudden that her lips remained soft and pliant, quiescent with surprise. She blinked furiously, aware he was looking into her eyes as he kissed her, his own unwavering, but all thought of resisting him dissolved like steam from the kettle.
His mouth tasted of tea, and his tongue was bold, diving around and teasing hers without hesitation. When he pushed her back against the shabby upholstery, he settled his hand on her breast as if he’d been making free with her for months with her full agreement.
“Mr. Brownlow!” she protested, laughing, as those nimble fingers of his slid beneath her apron, searching for the buttons of her plain morning uniform.
“Miss Jenkins!” he mocked, getting a forefinger inside, probing, “Don’t you wear a corset, you naughty girl?” The exploratory digit wiggled its way to the buttoned front of her chemise and slipped inside there too.
“You try spending a day doing housework, all trussed up. Even Miss Beatrice leaves hers off when she lends a hand doing chores, and she’s a lady!”
His hand still inside her clothing, Jamie pulled back. “Miss Beatrice does housework? Now there’s a turn-up. These genteel misses usually spend their days reading and sketching and doing good works, don’t they?” With a determined push, he shoved his whole hand inside her dress, and Polly felt buttons pop and give.
“You’re pulling off my buttons, you rogue,” Polly gasped as that whole hand cupped her breast and squeezed, and Jamie pressed her back tighter against the sofa. “And yes, Miss Bea helps. This is a big house, and there isn’t a full staff. Enid’s a bit clueless, even if she means well. Cook’s got a bad back and does nothing but her kitchen duties anyway. If Miss Bea didn’t pitch in it’d be just me. And I’m her lady’s maid too, as well as answering the door and such.”
“Well, fancy that. Mr. Ritchie will be impressed. He likes a woman with a bit of backbone instead of the usual pampered beauties all the time.”
Alarm made Polly stiffen, even though the rhythmic way Jamie massaged her breast and rocked against her was making her giddy.
“So, he’s a regular ladies’ man, is he? Does he get through a lot of these pampered beauties and backboned women?”
She frowned. Jamie was kissing her again, covering her face with wicked little busses. Something had been nagging her, ever since they’d begun talking. The name
Ritchie
…
And then she twigged it, the thing that had been bothering her.
“Bloody hell, Jamie, your boss isn’t Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie, is he? I read about him in
Marriott’s Monde.
He’s a flipping degenerate, always seen out with the fastest women around the town. Isn’t he supposed to be tupping the Duchess of Ambleside, with her husband’s say-so, because the old fellow can’t get it up?”
So, it wasn’t marriage or anything straight that devil upstairs was proposing. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was notorious in the scandal papers for his amours but there had never, not once, been any hint of a finer pursuit.
Jamie laughed. “It’s all exaggeration and damned lies.” He started pulling at her skirt. “Although I think he likes having a wicked reputation, Mr. Ritchie does.”
“So he’s not servicing the Duchess of Ambleside then?” Polly placed her hand over Jamie’s and to her surprise, he halted immediately. In her experience men often weren’t so easily swayed from their purpose when there was a sniff of a bit of sauce in the air.
“Good grief, no! He wouldn’t go within a country mile of a raddled old hag like her. He’s very particular and careful, is Mr. Ritchie. It’s just that the purple press like to write juicy stories about successful men like him. And if there aren’t any truthful ones, they just make them up.”
“Don’t they just,” muttered Polly, not cross with him but with that purple press. They’d made out Miss Bea to be a loose-living strumpet, just because of those photographs. None of them would’ve been interested in the true facts of the matter and Miss Bea was too well-bred to parade them.
“Don’t you like a bit of juicy scandal, Polly?” His green eyes were sharp and shrewd, and Polly wondered how much she could trust him. Or his master. Better not say anything. Miss Bea had enough problems already, and loose talk could get her into more trouble than ever.
“Oh, I like it well enough…but how about you, Mr. Jamie Brownlow? Do you have a scandalous reputation, like your boss?” She relaxed her hand on his, a subtle signal.
“Oh worse, much worse,” he murmured, his mouth close to her neck again. “I have proclivities of my own, dear Polly. Degenerate quirks that Mr. Ritchie chooses to turn a blind eye to.”
Polly wondered. This fellow could probably charm anyone into anything if he wanted, and there was a dangerous steeliness about him too. She opened her mouth to quiz him about his quirks, but suddenly he kissed her again, hard and sweet and bossy.
When they broke apart, she was breathless and dizzy-headed, but Jamie seemed in possession of every faculty.
“Oh, I’d love to have some fun with you right now.” His hand moved on her thigh, rucking up her dress and her petticoat beneath it. “I’ve been cursed, or some might say blessed, with the devil of an appetite for pleasure, and I can’t resist a beautiful girl like you.”
“You’re an outrageous dog, that’s what you are!” Polly wanted to resist. She knew she
should
resist. But she had that devil of an appetite too—and a fumble here and there with Mr. Charlie went nowhere toward slaking it.
“I know. But like I said, life’s short. You’ve got to snatch happiness when you can.” For a moment he looked serious, and glanced upwards, giving Polly the strangest feeling he was thinking about his master rather than himself. “What say you, Polly?”
Indeed, indeed. After the loss of her Sam, “live for the day” was Polly’s credo too. But Cook and Enid could be back at any moment, or Jamie’s Mr. Ritchie might conclude his dealings with Miss Bea and come back downstairs.
She took a deep breath. “Right. I might spare you a minute. But not here. Anyone could come in. Your boss, Miss Bea, or Cook and Enid. Even Mr. Charlie knows where the kitchen is, though he’s not usually awake at this hour.” Sliding off the sofa, she stood up and grabbed Jamie’s hand. “Come with me. If you don’t mind the cupboard under the stairs, we can be private there.”
“The cupboard under the stairs? How bohemian,” Jamie purred, following her lead out into the passage. “It’s been a while since I frisked with a woman in a cupboard.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Something on Account
“TAKE IT.
A little something on account. I think your, shall we say, less established creditors are only going to get more and more insistent, and less and less likely to listen to unsubstantiated promises of restitution.”
Her hand didn’t seem to have any grip in it, and she couldn’t get a hold on the bundle of money. Ritchie folded his strong hand around her fingers, and then conducted them to her pocket, so she could slip the notes inside it.
“Thank you, th-that’s most generous of you.”
Ritchie’s hand glided from her pocket to the curve of her hip where it settled, sly and confident, containing her where she stood. “This is the reality of our arrangement, Bea.” The fingers moved on, slipping over the soft cloth of her dressing gown. She wore only her nightgown beneath, and he would soon know that. “I give you my money, and you give me yourself, freely and unreservedly.” She felt him probing, searching for telltales, trying to work out what lay underneath the blue silk. “And perhaps now I can have a little on account?”
Beatrice’s heart thudded. She was bought and paid for. She couldn’t prevaricate now. Her breath came in short little gasps, even though she tried to steady it. A sensation like being on a calliope made her dizzy and excited.
She had to give Ritchie what he wanted.
She
wanted it too. It was lucky she wasn’t respectable anymore, because being a courtesan gave her
carte blanche
to indulge herself. The gates were open and delicious sensations beckoned.
And yet her head whipped around just as Ritchie’s big, warm hand cupped her bottom.
The morning-room door was unlocked and anyone could come in. Polly or Enid… Good God, what if Charlie got up early for the first time in living memory and blundered in on his sister being ravished?
“Oh, please, no…not here! Not now!”
Ritchie laughed, a rich complex sound, half benevolent, half mocking, all provocative.
“Afraid of discovery, Bea?”
“Of course I am!”
In which case, why was she pressing herself into his hold, rubbing her bottom against his fingers like a wicked little cat?
“You weren’t afraid last night when you were cavorting with me at Arabella Southern’s pile.” His grip on her changed, his fingertips curving like an arc of the devil, pressing in to make indecent contact with her through the cloth of her dressing gown and nightdress. She squeaked out loud when he rubbed to and fro, to and fro.
“This is different. This is my home and someone might come looking for me…the servants… For God’s sake, Ritchie, my brother might stroll in at any second.” It wasn’t likely, but her luck lately had been fickle. “Even you can see how unthinkable it is for him to catch sight of you making free with me. Even if I am doing it to save him from his debtors!”
“Only for that?” he whispered in her ear. He sounded amused, but she sensed asperity too. What did he want her to say? The receipt of a small fortune didn’t automatically lead to her falling madly in love with him.
But couldn’t you love such a man for nothing at all?
Where had that come from? No woman in her right mind would fall in love with Ritchie. He was only suited to wild affairs, scandal and, yes indeed, lust. His looks and his virile magnetism made that inevitable.
But the finer, more delicate feelings? No. He was a sophisticated animal, not a creature of sentiment.
But like a splinter in her thumb, the notion was embedded now, no matter how much she mentally shook herself. Ritchie wasn’t for fidelity, conventionality, hearth and home, children, a respectable union. And the sooner she disabused herself of all that, the better for all concerned.
“You know what I mean, you devil,” she said when he increased his subversive attentions to the groove between her buttocks. “Ritchie, please stop!”
His fingers stilled but didn’t retreat. “What’s wrong, don’t you like it?” he mocked. “Be honest. You owe me the truth.”
Beatrice gasped, her chest heaving, her uncorseted breasts rising, pressing against her daring tormentor. “Of course I like it!” she cried. “But I’d enjoy it much more if you’d do me the courtesy of at least locking the door.”
Ritchie’s finely marked brows lifted and he seemed to consider the idea. “You’re right, my dear, of course,” he said softly, giving her bottom one last light squeeze. “I’d much rather have you relaxed. We’d both enjoy that more.” As if unwilling to release her, he led her by the hand to the door, where he turned the key with a firm little click. “There, that’s better. Now come and sit on my lap for a while, you delicious woman, and let’s both make ourselves at our ease.”
They took the larger of the two wing chairs. It was wide and commodious, and Ritchie flung himself down into it as if he owned the place. Which actually, he did, Beatrice supposed, as he’d no doubt paid the outstanding lease payments too. Bracing his strong thighs, Ritchie nodded at his lap, pulling teasingly on her hand.
Beatrice swallowed. There was a pronounced bulge in his trousers. The sort that a refined woman wouldn’t remark on, but which she found utterly fascinating. When she settled down onto it, it felt quite hot even through the sturdy fabric and whatever he wore beneath.
Maybe
he doesn’t wear anything underneath?
This startling thought made her heart beat even faster. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was just the sort to brook societal rules about undergarments, simply for the devilment of it. Beatrice nudged herself along his lap, trying to tell whether he was wearing drawers or not. The action produced a husky, heartfelt groan.
“That’s it, torment me with your beautiful bottom, minx. Drive me wild.” He sat back in the chair, shifting her sideways, with one arm around her waist while the other took possession of her thigh. His fingers felt just as warm as the naughty bulge beneath her did.
“I was simply adjusting my position for comfort,” she shot back at him. Pressed under her haunch, she felt the beast in his trousers stir.
“But not for mine, dear. Not for mine.”
Beatrice wriggled again. Let him suffer. The idea of tormenting him thus brought an intoxicating surge of power.
“I thought a gentleman rather liked it when a woman rubs herself against him.”
“Gentlemen do like it,” he murmured, rubbing his face against her hair, “but not when there’s no opportunity forthcoming for their relief, my sweet.”
Beatrice frowned. What was he talking about? He could have her now, if he wanted. Now that she had the notes in her pocket, he wasn’t obliged to wait, no matter how much more comfortable and opportune a bed might be. He could pluck the full flower of his new purchase whenever he wanted.
“But…um…you can have relief, can’t you?” Blood rushed furiously into her face, and into the parts of her body closely adjacent to his body. Suddenly,
she
wanted
him,
because
she
didn’t have to wait either. There was no saving her irrelevant virginity for marriage now.
I’m a fallen woman, Ritchie. Let’s get on with it. There’s no fun in being a sullied rose if I don’t get to enjoy the pleasurable parts of the sullying!
“Not today, Bea. Not today.”
Beatrice blinked and stared at him. What on earth was he about now, the insufferable man?
She pushed herself a little way away from him, searching for explanation in his face. But Ritchie gave her a brief, terse look and then glanced away, the action strangely final.
Don’t question me,
he seemed to say, his profile so hard and cool it forbade persistence.
You are a strange man, Ritchie. A very strange man indeed. You hand over a queen’s ransom for me, but now you’re in no rush to sample the goods.
But even as she pondered, she sensed yet another change in him. His body relaxed beneath her, tension releasing. When he turned back to her, he was smiling, his dark eyes playful. “I’m more interested in
your
relief at the moment, delicious one, so why don’t you tell me about it?” His warm hand cupped her chin, holding her face, so she couldn’t look away. “I know you pleasure yourself. Don’t deny it. Be forthright.”
Beatrice felt as if her face were pulsing like a beacon. Bizarre as it seemed, she felt far more embarrassed by talking about carnal acts than the prospect of performing them. How could she possibly reveal her nocturnal practices? Yet how could she not? The money…the money…
Defiantly, she met his gaze, mesmerized by the unusual blue of his eyes. It was so dense, so inky yet vibrant, with a flame deep inside. Her dilemma dried her mouth, and when she licked her lips, Ritchie sighed, and his long eyelashes fluttered, dark as his hair was fair. Against her thigh, his cock kicked again, as if she’d suddenly stroked it.
“Yes…yes, I do pleasure myself. And I know it’s not exactly the sort of thing a well brought up young woman should do, but obviously I’m a bad person. A wrong ’un, with an overly sensual nature. Which is what put me in this predicament in the first place.”
Ritchie leaned forward and dropped a single kiss on the tip of her nose, almost affectionately. “Not a predicament, remember, just a mutually beneficial arrangement, with many advantages for both parties. Now, come on, Bea, tell all. I’m agog to hear it.” His hand slid up and down her thigh, ruffling silk, and then lifted, to cup her breast through the unfortified bodice of her dressing gown. “What do you do? And what prompts you to it?”
Now
there
was a question.
“I…I don’t really know. I suppose sometimes, when I read a novel of romance, I can’t help thinking what comes after the kisses and the marriage. Or if I read of a notorious scandal in a magazine, it just pops into my head, the question. What have these people done to instigate such a sensational report? It must be something desperately sensual and addictive, for them to risk discovery and shame.”
The moment was pregnant with other questions. Ones Beatrice feared. Was he going to ask her why she’d posed for the photographic images? It was a natural enough enquiry…but there was far less shame in frolicking with him than there was in admitting she’d been duped and made a fool of by a man who’d turned out to be a horrid sneak and liar.
But he didn’t ask. Instead, as if sensing her dilemma, Ritchie pursued his point. “So you lie in bed thinking about books and articles in magazines?” He chuckled, and as the husky sound rang out, his hand closed around Beatrice’s breast, gentle, yet affirmative. His thumb flicked back and forth across her nipple, to and fro, to and fro, making her gasp. “How very quaint… Anything else?”
It was hard to think straight with that wicked little action repeating and repeating. He was barely moving, but the effect on her constitution was colossal. She wanted to move, even more than before, to grind her bottom against his thighs and his cock, and part her own thighs so she could press herself, her very self, against him.
“Yes…there is…there are certain other magazines, magazines of Charlie’s…” She buried her furiously pink face against Ritchie’s neck, but it didn’t help. His spicy masculine lotion only made her feel hotter and more excited than ever. “He’s a bit careless sometimes. He doesn’t always put away things he should put away… I’ve seen…um…gentlemen’s journals, and also albums…cabinet cards…” She paused, wanting to tear open Ritchie’s shirt and taste him, she felt so wild. “Far ruder and more salacious than the ones I posed for, by a country mile!”
There, she’d broached the issue, even if he hadn’t.
“Ah, so you’re a connoisseur of pornography, my dear Bea.” Ritchie’s arm tightened around her, almost protectively. “Nothing wrong with that, I am myself. That’s how I found you and decided I had to have you.”
That fact should crush me. Why doesn’t it?
But she felt only relief, almost thankfulness. She would never have met this man if it hadn’t been for Eustace and his sly, persuasive compliments, his talk about creating art, and his neat way with laudanum-laced Champagne cocktails. In a bizarre twist of fate, she suddenly felt grateful to her nemesis.
“That’s all well and good. But there was hell to pay when Charlie happened to obtain one of my cards in his latest selection. I don’t know what appalled him most—the fact that his sister was a naked model, or that he was forced to confront me about it and admit to his fondness for such pictures.”
“That must have been very difficult for you, Bea.” Ritchie’s voice was soft. He sounded sympathetic now, rather than teasing.
“It wasn’t exactly the most pleasant revelation of my life, but one just has to deal with these things as best one can.”
Suddenly, it almost seemed as if the pair of them were set in amber, detached from their sensual game of back and forth. “And what does he think of my indecent proposal to you? Have you told him about it? Perhaps there’s another way I could explain the money, if you’d prefer me to.”
Beatrice stared at him, round eyed. Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was the most peculiar man, and stranger with every second that passed. One minute he was a ruthless libertine, hell-bent on shocking her and breaching every decent standard. The next, he was considerate, sensitive, and as eager to please her as a bona fide suitor.
“I haven’t told him yet, but I will do today. I doubt if he’ll like it, but he’s not quite so proud and stupid that he won’t see it as the logical answer to our problems. Poor lad, though, he’s mortified that he’s failed as the man of the house.”