Robin Schone by Gabriel's Woman (10 ebook reader TXT) 📕

a whore,” she said tightly.

But for whose benefit?

Shadow shimmered inside his eyes, silver turning to gray. “You auctioned off your body, mademoiselle. I

assure you, that makes you a whore.”

“And you purchased my body, sir,” she lashed back. “What does that make you?”

“A whore, mademoiselle,” he said flatly, pale face a beautiful mask. “Are you wet as well as hard?”

Shock rocketed through Victoria.

Surely he had not said what she thought he had said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Your nipples are hard, mademoiselle. I merely wondered if you were also wet with your desire.”

Victoria held her hands at her sides, suddenly, acutely aware of the wool that abraded her nipples with

each breath, each exhalation. The maroon carpet, high white ceiling and pale blue enameled walls silenced

the sounds of the patrons and prostitutes who coupled beyond them; they did not obstruct the images his

words forcibly conjured.

Of men and women.

Embracing.

Kissing.

Touching.

Naked bodies writhing.

Giving pleasure. Taking pleasure.

Engaging in all the sexual acts that respectable women did not desire to engage in. Or so she had wanted

to believe.

The last six months had taught her differently.

“My nipples are hard,” she said shortly, “because it is cold outside.”

“But it is not cold in here. Fear, mademoiselle, is a powerful aphrodisiac. Are you afraid?”

“I am a virgin, sir.” She stiffened her spine; her nipples stabbed her wool bodice. “I have never before

taken a man into my body. Yes, I am apprehensive.”

“How old are you?”

Victoria’s heart skipped a beat. Did she look older or younger than her years? she wondered.

Should she lie or tell the truth?

What did a man such as he want in a woman?

“I am thirty-four years old,” she said finally, reluctantly.

“You are not a young girl.”

“Nor are you a young boy, sir,” she retaliated.

Victoria clamped her lips together, too late, her words echoed between them.

“No, I am not a boy, mademoiselle,” he said imperturbably. “But I am very curious as to why you, at

your age, decided to part with your virginity this night, at the House of Gabriel.”

Hunger.

Desperation.

But a man such as he would not want to hear about poverty.

Victoria attempted to be coy. “Perhaps because I knew that you would be here tonight. You are very

beautiful, you know. A woman’s first time should be with a man such as you.”

The compliment fell flat. Victoria was not a coy person.

“I could hurt you,” he said gently.

There was nothing gentle in his gaze.

“I am well aware of what a man can do to a woman.”

“I could kill you, mademoiselle.”

Victoria’s heart slammed against her ribs.

“Are you that large, sir?” she asked politely.

Wanting to flee.

Wanting to fight.

Wanting the night to be over with so she could piece together the remnants of her life.

“Yes, mademoiselle, I am large,” he said deliberately, silvery gray eyes watchful. “I measure over nine

inches long. Why didn’t you take off your cloak in the saloon?”

Burning wood popped.

Over nine inches stabbed between her thighs.

The image of a man’s member—dark veins bulging, crimson crown protruding—flashed before Victoria’

s eyes. It was superimposed by an image of Lord James Ward Hunt, earl of Goulburn, home secretary. . . .

Remove the cloak , girl, and show us what you’re selling.

On Sundays the home secretary dined with her father; throughout the week he reviled abandoned

women—the “frail sisterhood”—before the House of Lords in an ongoing effort to cleanse London streets

of prostitution.

She wondered if her father knew of his friend’s nighttime activities.

She wondered if her father shared them.

Nothing was as she had thought it to be six months earlier: not so-called respectable men and women,

not the denizens who roamed London streets, certainly not Victoria.

All her life she had hidden from desire; now she could not escape it.

“I saw no benefit in flaunting my person in public,” Victoria said woodenly. “It is my virginity that is of

value, not my appearance.”

“Were you afraid that men might not find you attractive?”

She was afraid that men might recognize her.

“I did not offer beauty,” she said defensively. And bit her lips at being drawn into an emotional response.

Ladies did not publicly demonstrate emotion. Prostitutes, like governesses, were not expected to possess

them, let alone give way to them.

A former lady, governess, and now a practicing prostitute, Victoria possessed emotions. But she didn’t

want to possess them.

“You do not think you are beautiful?” he asked lightly, silver eyes probing, face and fingers starkly

elegant, the first framed by a short white collar and matching bow tie, the latter by silver-veined black

marble.

“No, I do not,” Victoria said tensely. Honestly.

Women forfeited their lives to their parents, their husbands, their children.

There was no beauty in subjugation.

“Yet you think that you are worth two thousand pounds.”

“I asked for one hundred and five pounds, sir,” she riposted. “It was you who bid two thousand.”

“Money is important to you,” he probed. Voice. Eyes.

Victoria gritted her teeth. “Money buys coal. Food. Shelter. Yes, money is important to me, as it is to all

of us.”

The money he had spent renting this room for one hour would keep her in comfort for several weeks.

“Exactly what would you do for money, mademoiselle?”

A chill ran up Victoria’s spine; it was chased by heat.

Was he asking her what sexual acts she would perform?

“I will do anything you wish.”

“You would let me hurt you.”

It was not a question.

Her heart skipped a beat, raced to catch up. “I would prefer that you did not.”

“When is the last time you ate?”

Anger knifed through Victoria.

He was playing with her. Simply because he could.

“I am