Though she'd kept her head down during the endless lectures she'd received, beneath her lashes she'd rolled her eyes. Secretly fumed. Told herself she didn't give a damn what anyone thought—especially not her uncle and male cousins with their lofty airs and wandering hands.
She'd paid for her defiance. In one foolish moment, she'd allowed her reckless side to gain the upper hand. Her impulsiveness and pride had paved the way to her downfall.
'Twas too late now for regret. The pang in her chest was hollow, empty. She was beyond tears—had been for months. Eloping with Randall Foster had been the biggest mistake of her life, one that she would spend the rest of her days repenting. The only favor he'd ever done for her was to make her a widow six months ago. Though terror panged at the memory of his grisly death, she squelched it. Randall didn't deserve her pity. For as his final act on this earth, the scoundrel had left her indebted to notorious cutthroat Malcolm Todd.
To this day, she couldn't fathom how a man as lazy as her dead husband had summoned up the energy to gamble, drink, and whore away
five hundred pounds
.
Running from the debt was not an option. Randall had tried ... and paid dearly for his misjudgment. Thus, she'd tried every means she could think of to raise the monstrous sum. Though educated, she'd never held a paid position in her life. When she'd applied to posts for governesses, her lack of references had proven a barrier. The rare time or two that she'd been invited for an interview, she'd dressed carefully, hiding her hair beneath a prim cap and her figure beneath a dowdy gown. The lady of the house had nonetheless taken one look at her and shown her the door.
Annabel had not given up. If more respectable employment could not be had, then she'd settle for whatever honest work she could find. She'd secured a position as a seamstress, working grueling hours in a stifling garret room for shillings a week. Though her hopelessness had mounted—her wages did not cover even the interest charged by Malcolm Todd—she'd persisted out of stubbornness and blind desperation.
Until, one day, the dressmaker's husband had cornered her late at night. Bile rose in her throat at the memory of beefy hands groping up her skirt, the tongue forced into her mouth. Only a swiftly aimed knee had allowed her to escape with her virtue intact.
From there, her fortunes had rapidly declined. More fruitless interviews. More thankless jobs that worsened rather than helped her situation. 'Twas as if the predators sensed her spiraling despair, and they circled, hungry for blood. Time after time, she managed to flee, but soon she could no longer afford a roof over her head or a crust of bread to see her through each day.
Disowned, disgraced, and downtrodden, she'd seen the harsh light of reality at last. If she wanted to survive, she'd have to barter her last remaining asset. The notion of allowing herself to be used by strangers sickened and shamed her, but what choice did she have?
She'd accepted Todd's bargain. One year of selling her body in return for her freedom. The year would begin tonight.
"No more shilly-shallying," Mrs. Clive said.
Annabel stood, and her knees betrayed her resolve with a sudden wobble. "Is … is there anything else? Any parting advice?"
The bawd's lashes flickered over steel grey eyes. Hers was a keen-edged face, one that had obviously weathered much. In a voice harsh but not unkind, she said, "Let 'em 'ave what they want, dearie—but the rest? Keep that locked away."
"Yes." Annabel made a silent vow.
They can use my body, but my heart and soul will still be mine. They can't take that away from me.
"And, especially," the bawd added, "with a man like McLeod."
"Why especially with him?"
"Got eyes, 'aven't you?" Mrs. Clive snorted. "McLeod ain't like the other men who work for Mr. Todd. 'Andsome, strapping ... and a true gent besides. The
worse
sort o' temptation for females of our professional persuasion."
A tremor travelled up Annabel's spine. What did it say about her that, in spite of the situation, she
had
noticed the Scotsman's attractiveness? It had been hard to miss. His face had been pleasantly rugged, his hair a shaggy, wolfish shade of brown. His voice held the appealing hint of a Scottish lilt. Built like Atlas, he moved with a big man's grace, his stride powerful and unhindered by his slight limp.
More importantly, despite his fierce, outsized exterior, he'd treated her with courtesy—something a whore had little right to expect. His dark, coffee-colored eyes had seemed ... kind. She'd been relieved that her first encounter would be with him, given the alternatives. Shuddering, she tried to block out the tangle of sweaty, writhing bodies she'd glimpsed in the Roman Orgy.
You can't worry about that now. One night at a time.
"Could be worse, dearie. You're gettin' off easy entertainin' one gent," the bawd said. "Be grateful your first assignment ain't an auction."
"Auction?"
"Prime flesh sold off the block—no different than Tattersall's. Mr. Todd makes a tidy sum selling wenches to the 'ighest bidder." Mrs. Clive's matter-of-fact explanation made Annabel queasy. "Go now, dearie. Putting it off only makes it worse."
As she made her way to Purgatory, she counseled herself.
You can do this. You have to. Just lie there as you did with Randall—and it too shall pass.
Having been a wife, she knew the act itself wouldn't last longer than five minutes at most. A chore, she told herself, no different than scrubbing pots or stitching seams. And at least, in this instance, she would be earning her way to freedom.
At the appointed door, she drew back her shoulders, rapped quickly before she lost courage.
"Come in," the deep male voice said.
THREE
As Bella entered, Will rose from the chaise by the fire. Lust simmered in his veins at the stunning vision of her in a clinging scarlet robe, the deep crevice between her breasts exposed by the plunging neckline. Her hair spilled in a red-gold cascade down to her waist, and her eyes were dark, unfathomable. Closing the door behind her, she came toward him and dropped a graceful curtsy. He thought her knack for aping gentility quite remarkable.
"I beg your pardon." Her calm demeanor was betrayed by the slight tremor in her voice. "I hope I haven't kept you waiting."
"I haven't been here long," he said huskily.
Her gaze widened as it flitted around the chamber. He couldn't blame her—the Purgatory Suite was rather an eye-opening sight. The walls were papered in red silk damask, the furnishings painted with gilt. A massive bed dominated the chamber: it was covered with black satin, and a looking glass was fixed on the ceiling above. The velvet chaise and fur rug in front of the fire added to the debauched ambience.
For Will, however, the cherry atop the cake was the pair of life-sized statues flanking the fiery hearth: each depicted a satyr and a nymph engaged in a lascivious act. The positions of the lovers made Will's brows rise—and another part of him perked up as well. For the flames' shadows flickered over the stone flesh, giving the illusion of movement, of deep, thrusting ecstasy ...
Will's belly tautened. He reached to brush an errant curl from Bella's cheek, and the contact with her soft skin jolted him. She reacted as well, her breath hitching, a pulse fluttering near the base of her throat. The swells of her breasts rose and fell in swift surges.
The signs of her arousal heated his blood. They confirmed his earlier hypothesis that she was a sensual doxy playacting as a lady. Which suited him just fine—because making love to a lady happened to be
his
fantasy as well.
Pale blond hair and cornflower blue eyes shimmered in his mind's eye; he pushed it away with the force of habit. Laura would never be his, and thinking of her—of the life he'd left behind years ago—only made bitterness well up again. By nature, he was quick to anger and equally quick to forgive ... except when it came to betrayal.
The Scotsman in him—the
man
in him—could not abide disloyalty.
Especially when it had come as a double blow. Delivered by the woman he had loved and the man with whom he shared a father. Though he and his older half-brother Alaric had never been close—the latter being a cold, controlling bastard—Will had never guessed that his own kin could be capable of such duplicity. Through a series of deaths and misfortunes, Alaric had inherited a title and wealth, and yet that still hadn't been enough.
He'd taken the one thing Will wanted.
And Alaric had had the gall to send a letter this week. 'Twas the first contact that Will had received from his brother in years. He'd held the missive, run his thumb over the majestic Strathaven seal ... but he hadn't opened it.
Wasn't it enough for Alaric to have everything: a distinguished title, Laura, and a son and heir to boot? Why did he insist on rubbing Will's nose in those facts?
Drawing a breath, Will forced himself back to the present—which was a damned sight more appealing than wallowing in the past. He wanted nothing to do with Alaric's machinations: he'd worked hard to be his own man, independent and free. Tonight, he wanted to forget everything but the pleasure of a woman in his arms. He wanted to lose himself in earthly delights. Eyeing the beauty in front of him, he did not doubt that the oblivion would be sweet.
He offered her his hand. "Shall we get more comfortable?"
Bella gave a nod, and after a moment, her hand slipped into his. He was surprised by her chilled fingers—nerves, mayhap? Was that common for those in her trade? For though her fingers were long and slender, they had a firm, capable grasp that did not belong to a lady of leisure. The lass had clearly worked for a living.
Perhaps he—his size and appearance—disquieted her. She wouldn't be the first to find his looks intimidating. He had a Scot's hardy build to begin with, and the years in the infantry had toughened his frame. His looming exterior contributed to his success as a guard-for-hire: ruffians oft took one look at him and bolted.
As he led her to the chaise, he wondered if he was pleasing to her. The irony struck him. Clearly, he hadn't spent enough time in petticoat pursuits if he was concerned about what the
light-skirt
thought of
him
.
But that was his nature. His fantasy. He enjoyed a woman's pleasure as much as his own, and even if it was for one night, he wanted Bella to be comfortable with him.
For if she was trying to act the part of an unschooled miss, she was doing a fine job of it. She perched on the edge of the chaise, her posture stiff, her breath puffing between her rosy lips. With each inhalation, the plump inner curves of her tits pressed against the opening of her robe, and his rod took note, burgeoning with anticipation. Hell, playacting or not, she was making him randier than he'd been in a long while.
He sat next to her, and his blood sizzled at the plush press of her thigh against his. By God, she was graced with womanly charms. Crooking a finger under her chin, he tipped her head up.
"May I kiss you?" he murmured.
She grew still. Gave a stiff little nod.
Bending his head, he took what she offered.
Her kiss surprised him. Her lips were petal-soft, unexpectedly shy and sweet. Her innocent flavor spun his senses, made it easy to forget where he was and with whom. Her lips trembled beneath his—almost as if she'd never been properly kissed. As if she didn't know quite what to do and required instruction. The fantasy was irresistible. Dug deep into the heart of his desires, excavating the shards of the dreams he'd once built around Laura.
What would it be like to claim a lady of his own, to introduce her to the art of love, show her pleasure for the very first time ...
Need pounding in his veins, he cupped Bella's downy jaw in one palm and continued his exploration. He told himself to go slow—this little game of hers was far too good to rush, and she too delicious not to savor. When he licked her mouth's lush seam, her shiver shot straight to his balls.
Easing her back against the chaise, he delved into her sweetness. His hunger grew as cinnamon and woman flooded his senses. She was headier than mulled wine. When he stroked her tongue with his, she let out a gasp, a sigh. Groaning, he thrust deeply, laying claim to her honeyed cavern. He left her mouth only to sample the softness of her earlobe, her neck, the alluring dip of her collarbones.
Soon, his body clamored for more. His cockstand tented his trousers, and his bollocks were tight, pulsing with need. Her nipples poked into his chest, the stiff points tantalizing him through the thin layers that separated them. Breathing heavily, he tugged on the tie of her robe ... and felt her tense.
He gazed into her dazed eyes. Some of the soot had rubbed off her lashes, revealing their bronze tips. It made him mad to know what else lay under her paint, her clothes.
"Not afraid of me, are you pet?" he said hoarsely. "You have my word that I'll not hurt you. I'll take care of you, your pleasure."
"I thought ..." She bit her lip, her auburn brows drawing together. "That is, shouldn't
I
be the one saying that?"
Her ingenuous response made his lips twitch. By God, she seemed so adorably confused and innocent. The clever chit knew just how to arouse him—to entice him both body and mind.
Tracing her reddened lips with a finger, he said, "We play by whatever rules we choose. 'Twould give me the greatest pleasure to go on kissing you, for instance."
"You must ... do as you like. That is why we're here, after all." Her flush spread beyond the edge of her rouge. "My pleasure has nothing to do with it."
She was wrong. But he wasn't going to waste time arguing when he could demonstrate.
"There's my good lass," he said. "Lie back and let me have my way, then."
She settled against the chaise, her bottom lip caught beneath her teeth. He undid the belt of her robe, and as the silk panels parted, his jaw slackened at the unveiled masterpiece. By all that was holy, he'd never seen such splendor.
She was like a dish of strawberries and cream, a contrast of temptations. Her plump white breasts were topped with ruby berries that begged to be sampled. Her milky curves were as generous as he'd imagined and juxtaposed by a delicate, nipped-in waist. His gaze roved lower, between her sweetly dimpled thighs ...