Читать книгу To Undo A Lady - Christine Merrill, Christine Merrill - Страница 8

Chapter Two

Sarah Branford was appalled with her own behavior. She had made love to a stranger on the street. Worse yet, he was a foreigner. He had caught her staring at him, as though she had cast off her ladylike manners the moment she had made the decision to fall.

But that was only because she had seen very few men like him. He appeared to be a Punjabi: strikingly handsome, with thick black hair and skin dark as well-tanned leather.

But he was, for want of a better word, elegant. His clothing was almost foppishly well tailored, and his voice as clearly English as any gentleman of her acquaintance. He seemed as at home in Covent Garden as a Londoner.

And she flattered herself when she thought of what had occurred as love. She had whored herself in the street, against a wall, with people walking scant feet from her. The dark-skinned stranger had teased her until she was wet, and then thrust his considerable manhood into her and used her shamelessly.

Perhaps she was as bad as her husband had said. He had accused her of wanting this often enough, calling her whore and worse for no reason at all. He had treated her as though she deserved punishment, until she had feared for her life and run from him.

And now she had done the worst thing she could imagine doing. Worse yet, she had enjoyed it. She had been aroused and climaxed along with her partner. She would do so again, if she thought too long on what had occurred, for the memory of it was exciting her all over again. He was still inside of her. His mouth pressed little kisses against the skin of her throat. But the movement slowed until his head rested on her shoulder, as though his ardor was fading along with his erection.

She calmed herself by thinking of the pound note, and the fact that it was more than enough money for a bed and a meal. It was cold tonight, and she was so hungry. The smell from the vendor down the way had been driving her mad all evening. She could be in her own parlor right now, with a bowl of those chestnuts in her lap, planning her Christmas house party.

She put the thoughts firmly from her mind. There would be no Christmas for her this year: no house party, no chestnuts. And the activity she’d just engaged in had not required mistletoe. When the money in her hand ran out, she would likely have to do this again, and the next man might not be as pleasant.

But at least she would not be hung for it, as she might have if she’d attempted to cut purses. And it would be quite some time before she was downtrodden enough to beg. Three days on the run had not broken her dignity to the point where she was a convincing object of pity. Those she had asked for help had suggested she do just as she had done: offer the only thing of value that she had.

It would be better to be a courtesan, she was sure. But the word would surely get back to the Earl of Sconsbury that his wife had accepted an offer of protection from another man. The consequences to that gentleman would be swift and brutal. Then Sconsbury would haul her home and make sure that she did not escape again.

She had needed to disappear completely. Anonymity would be her salvation, and what better place to be lost than on the street?

But her first customer did not seem to be in any hurry to leave. It was just as well, she supposed. He had given her sufficient money so that she did not need to seek another. And wrapped in his coat she felt warmer than she had felt in days.

He gripped her shoulder, and muttered something under his breath that sounded like approval of her height. Then he asked, quite clearly, “How much do you weigh?”

“I beg your pardon?”

“I asked you how much you weigh. If you are not sure, an estimate will be sufficient.”

Less than she had, after several days without food. But she could not think what it might have to do with the present situation. Did he mean to eat her? The thought of his teeth on her body raised scenarios that were terribly wicked. And before she could help herself, she giggled.

He ignored it and ran hands quickly over her body, as though measuring her girth. “Between eight and nine stone, I should think,” he supplied, since she had not answered. “That is just about right for my purposes.” His fingers closed on her arm, pulling her away from the wall and letting her skirt fall back into place. “Come with me.” He was pulling her farther into the darkened alley, and her excitement changed to panic.

She set the heels of her shoes into the slush and muck of the cobbles, trying to stay him. “Why?”

“I wish to talk with you.”

“Here is good enough,” she insisted. She had thought him…well, not exactly a gentleman. But he had not seemed particularly dangerous. Now she was not so sure.

He ignored her hesitance and smiled at her, releasing her arm to do up his trouser buttons. “I mean you no harm. And I have money. I wish to talk with you. In a warm room. It will take, perhaps, an hour of your time to hear me out. Then you can stay or go, as you wish.” He glanced down at her, as though he could see how empty she was. “Either way, I will give you dinner.”

Her stomach rumbled in response. Her mouth watered. Her mind ran wild with thoughts of roast goose, stuffing, sprouts and Christmas pudding. It was foolish. He’d said nothing about a feast. But any food would do. Even if he killed her, how much worse could her life become than what it had been a few days ago? When he turned and walked away, she followed him without further argument.

He led her through a doorway, up the back stairs of the theater she had been standing in front of. They passed through the gallery that led to the boxes, and higher still to a set of apartments that must be almost on a level with the cloud-painted ceiling.

He produced a key to the plain door, so she assumed the rooms were his. They were small, clean and serviceable, and quite clearly empty. Though he did not have a servant, at least he did not seem to share them with anyone. And it was good to be out of the weather. Resting on the thick rug, her feet felt much better than they had on the wet cobbles.

He lit several candles, chasing away the last of the shadows in the room, and returned to her, standing back to observe her and placing his hand thoughtfully upon his chin. “Strip, to your shift.”

She hesitated.

“If you please,” he added. “And put this on.” There was an ornate gown hanging over the back of a nearby couch, and he thrust it in her direction. “We must see if it fits you, before we go any further.”

It was a strange request. But he did not seem aroused by the idea of her nakedness. He was staring at her expectantly, as though the change in garments was some obstacle to be overcome before they got to whatever truly interested him.

What right did she have to pretend modesty, after what had just happened between them? She dropped her shawl and pulled awkwardly at her gown, letting it fall to the floor and standing before him in stays and stockings. She took the one he had indicated and dropped it over her head. “If you would help me with the lacings?” She turned her back to him.

He did them up efficiently, and then turned and admired the results. “Can you read?” he asked. And then said more to himself than to her, “I should have asked that first. For if she cannot…” He closed his eyes for a moment, as though praying that she would not disappoint him.

“Of course,” she interrupted, slightly offended that he would doubt her literacy. “What language do you wish me to read in? I can manage three, at least.”

“English will do,” he said, chastened. “And your memory. How is it?”

“I can remember that you promised me dinner,” she said, glancing around her. There was a little space in the corner of the room that he seemed to treat as kitchen, but she saw no sign of a meal laid for company.

He went to it and rummaged in a cupboard, removed an apple and a dry bit of cheese, and placed them on a plate along with a half loaf of bread and a boiled egg. “It is not much, but it will hold you until we can finish this discussion. Can you recite, from memory, if I give you the words?”

She grabbed the plate and ripped off a bite of bread. “I can manage well enough,” she said, around a mouthful. It felt as though she’d not eaten in ages and was extraordinarily good for something so simple.

“Do you dance? Sing? Juggle?” He was pouring her a glass of wine.