In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa
thousand guineas for.
“Indeed I do, Mr. Ritchie, indeed I do.” Tentatively, she reached out and touched his thick fair hair. It felt like silk and, without benefit of Macassar oil or lotion, it curled waywardly.
“Ritchie,” he reminded her, straightening up, his teeth white in a wolfish smile, his dark eyes glistening. He was so far from the polished gentleman of last night that he might as well be a different species of creature entirely. Perhaps a perverse and very masculine angel had tumbled to earth in order to tantalize and goad her?
“Very well, Ritchie.” He was still holding her hand as if he owned her. Which he did, of course, now she’d signed the paper.
I’m a whore now. A fallen woman. I’ll never be respectable again and I’ll probably never marry. I’ll be an unmaidenly old maid, typing for others for the rest of my days if Charlie spends all the money.
Sobering thoughts.
“What are you pondering about, Bea?” Ritchie’s eyes were narrowed again, but his expression was paradoxically gentle. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”
“Not at all. I was merely reflecting on my new status.” She looked down at their hands. Ritchie’s was big, but elegantly shaped, and capable, as she knew from experience, of the most delicate mastery. Just thinking about how those fingers had felt between her legs made her anticipate them anew.
“And that is?” He lifted her fingers to his mouth again, the kiss more formal and courtly this time, before releasing her.
Beatrice stiffened her back, trying to ignore the melting, yearning, embarrassingly moist sensation he induced with every simple action. She cast her mind back to their conversation in the study at Lady Southern’s last night. It seemed like an aeon ago. “Well, Ritchie, as of now, I am the wicked woman that everybody believes me to be. I’m a whore.”
The declaration was exhilarating. Liberating. Like a huge rush of pleasure at Ritchie’s hand. Of course, the sensations weren’t quite the same but the excitement was comparable. She’d thrown off a set of metaphysical shackles and could now float free, do anything, feel anything, enjoy anything. Her month with Ritchie could be the grand adventure of a lifetime, if she so chose, not a shameful state into which she’d been maneuvered.
And after that? Who could tell what life might hold with twenty thousand in the bank and an annuity? She certainly wasn’t going to let Charlie get them into a horrible mess this time, that was assured.
She held Ritchie’s gaze throughout the entire revelation. Allowing him the freedom to observe her feelings was a facet of her new understanding, a new kind of power. His slow smile told her he recognized it too.
“Not a whore, Bea. I’d never say that and I’d never believe it.” He stroked his chin for a moment, and fascinated by even his smallest gesture, Beatrice admired the strong line of his jaw. “No, ours is a rational arrangement between two free-thinking adults who recognize a mutually pleasurable and advantageous situation when presented with it.” Such modern talk as he pushed back his jacket and reached into the inner pocket of his rustic jacket. “But if you must label yourself, I suggest you consider ‘courtesan.’“
Courtesan? Infinitely better!
Even to Beatrice’s relatively untutored ears, courtesanship conjured up images of luxury, decadence, sophistication and a state of willingness to be drenched in breathless, sumptuous pleasure.
Her eyes popped wide when Ritchie withdrew his hand from his pocket—revealing a thick bundle of folded white banknotes. For all her new resolve, the sight still shocked her.
But she willed her hand steady as Ritchie held out a portion of her remuneration on account.
Yes, she’d be a courtesan … and revel in it.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Below Stairs
GRITTING HER TEETH, Polly Jenkins stared up at the ceiling beyond the old airing rack.
I should have bloody well stayed up there. Made some excuse. I shouldn’t have left Miss Bea all alone with that sweet-talking bastard.
Concerned about her mistress, Polly was distracted. In other circumstances, she’d have been flirting by now. She was alone with the nice-looking brown-haired fellow who was loitering by the range, drinking tea and eating the slice of fruit cake with which Cook had plied him, and he was normally just the type she’d set her cap at. Especially as, with coast clear outside Cook and Enid had set off together for the market. Miss Bea didn’t like anyone to go out alone, so Cook went in person to haggle with stallholders for bargains now that tradesmen would no longer deliver, and Enid, who was a strapping lass, helped carry the bags.
With the coast clear inside too, Polly should have been making good headway with her handsome guest. But instead she was fretting about Miss Bea, and in danger of braining herself with the airing rack.
“Stupid thing,” growled Polly, grappling with the swinging monstrosity and getting slapped in the face by a dangling chemise for her trouble. The household was too hard up to send out its laundry but the rack was heavy and one of these days, it was going to collapse on their heads and bring the kitchen ceiling down with it.
That’s all I need. Miss Bea ravished or murdered by some high-handed stranger, and me out cold on the kitchen floor, with not even a grope from his mate for compensation.
It would never have been like this back in the happy old days at Westerlynne—a proper establishment, everyone seemingly comfortably off. Miss Bea happily engaged to her childhood sweetheart, the Honorable Tommy Hastings, and Polly herself courting his manservant, Sam. Even Mr. Charlie behaving with a bit of sense.
But here in London every new day bordered on chaos and most arrangements were topsy-turvy. Hence the shopping and washing at odd hours, and breakfast not served until Mr. Charlie rose from his bed, somewhere around lunchtime.
Polly tried to will herself into the morning room. She was a servant and should know her place, but still. Should she have insisted on waking up Mr. Charlie now? Even though she’d been told expressly not to by Miss Bea?
Not that Charlie would be any help. He was a sweet man when you knew him, but not the slightest bit of use in defending his sister’s honor. In fact he’d helped her lose it in a roundabout way. If he’d only introduced her to a decent, respectable chap with a bit of money, instead of that sod Eustace Lloyd, they might all have been nicely set up by now instead of fearing the bailiffs and worse at any moment.
Reaching for another chemise, she eyed her silent, watchful companion out of the corner of her eye.
And who the hell are you, when you’re all at home?
Was he a bailiff? A moneylender’s thug? Him and his mate had arrived together half an hour ago, with a letter for Miss Bea, and now the other fellow was upstairs, getting the answer. What a cheek, expecting that Miss Bea jump to it and reply straight away? And then insisting on going up to get the letter from her hand.
“If your mate doesn’t come down soon, I’m going up there to sort him out! It’s not right him bothering Miss Beatrice. She’s got enough to contend with as it is.” She turned on the man by the fire, who was the younger and had seemed to defer to his cohort. There was something decidedly fishy about the pair of them, and Polly had a feeling she knew the older one from somewhere. If only she’d never let Enid open the area door in the first place.
Even if she did fancy Mr. Quiet and Watchful over there.
“I wouldn’t do that, if I were you. Mr. Ritchie doesn’t like to be disturbed when he’s conducting business with a lady.”
Polly’s blood boiled. How dare he threaten her, the scallywag? He was no better than she was, and neither was his mate. She didn’t trust the pair of them further than she could throw them.
“Mr.