Pearl on Cherry (2 page)

When he got to the dip above her lip, she snapped at him and bit his finger.

Then she pushed him off. “Don’t you touch me again, or I’ll be forced to draw a knife on you.”

He laughed so hard, he bent over to do it, bracing his hands on his knees. “Cherry girl, if that is something you can handle, then I should like very much to see that.” He pulled out the pearl. “I’ll tell you this—it would be worth one pink pearl.”

She swiped for it, but he was so quick, he had it pocketed again, along with his pocket watch that had been hanging at an awkward angle.

“Oh, what a horrid crowd,” Lenora said, almost flapping her way into the dressing room. She was perspiring and fanning herself, the sparkling fringe of her dress looking ridiculous as it swung about.

“Madame, I waited, and I am spent. You are to accompany me in what you are wearing,” Mr. Ferrismore said, bowing curtly at her, clicking his heels together as he went rigid.

“I will not,” Lenora said, smiling radiantly.

Clarissa turned away and rolled her eyes once more. This woman had men falling at her feet, tripping to get to that coveted spot to grovel, and yet there was nothing there worthy of note in Clarissa’s shrewd assessment.

There were other actresses more talented than her and more beautiful as well. She would never be what Maude Adams had once been, or even as sultry and charming as Camille Clifford was before the protests began.

Lenora could barely act, lacked a decent singing voice and certainly could not dance, but she had an amazing hourglass figure, lovely auburn hair and these luminescent light green eyes that men found mesmerizing.

“I will have one of my men secure your trunk. We are off . . .
now
,” Ferrismore said through his gritted teeth.

“William”—Lenora scowled at him—“I will not be hustled out the door at your whim. I must freshen up. I need to change.” She ambled through the room, adding flare to her lumbering, lazed walk as she fanned herself animatedly.

“I give you five minutes, and not a moment more.” He snapped his fingers at Clarissa. “You, ma petite, help her right this instant.”

Clarissa’s stomach inexplicably flopped at his commanding tone, then she remembered who was talking to her, and
why
, and her chest flamed with indignation.

She released the broom and let it drop to the ground with a
clunk.
No one seemed to be bothered by the loud noise.

She turned to Lenora and began helping her out of her dress.

Clarissa looked to Ferrismore, and her eyes went wide when she realized he was going to remain in the dressing room while Lenora exchanged clothing.

“Shield your eyes, at least,” Lenora told him, her tone lighthearted and flirty.

“Why should I? I shall have that dress off you within the hour anyway.” He shrugged and then leaned up against the wall, taking a spot where he had a good vantage point.

It should have made Clarissa uncomfortable, but she wasn’t the one acting like a cat in heat like these two were.

She was fully clothed.

Her foot slipped on an errant pearl for a moment, but she regained her balance and managed to avoid knocking into Lenora.

A moment later, Clarissa had unbuttoned the costume for Lenora.

As it slid off Lenora’s milk-white shoulder, Clarissa braved a glance at Ferrismore, and instead of watching Lenora, he was watching
her
.

Oh, and he wasn’t just watching—he was leering as if
she
was the one exposing her body.

She swallowed as her heart raced, and her throat constricted.

Those eyes. They bore straight into her, and it was the most licentious thing happening in this room.

Not Lenora’s exposed corset or her cleavage—Lord above,
no
. It was the melting look he gave Clarissa that had her insides on fire.

His eyes roamed over her breasts and lingered. He bit into his bottom lip in the most indecent way, and it blanched white.

It was a hunger the likes she’d never seen before.

What was this man’s delusion now? Did he fantasize about fucking the help?

Or maybe that was his favorite sport—tricking them into thinking he was unduly interested.

Well, she would not succumb or fall for these wiles.

At least, not in a way he would ever allow. She could beat
him
into submission. He needed it.

This spoiled brat had never worked a day in his life, and it showed. Definitely not at anything as repellent as cleaning something.

When she was done helping Lenora out of her dress, he barked, “Two minutes.”

Clarissa startled, and when she backed up, she sent the broom skidding over to him.

He picked it up, and the rogue fondled the handle like it was his lover.

“Oh, thank you for polishing that up for me. After using it to kill a rodent earlier, I didn’t have time to clean it properly before the play began,” Clarissa said, fighting off a smirk.

He gave a stiff nod, laughed, then slipped into French, mumbling offensive words about her.
“
Je vais te montrer comment nettoyer mon levier, ma petite. Dorénavant tu n’as plus besoin de manche à ballet pour te faire vibrer de plaisir.”

Clarissa’s cheeks heated. Did he just say he’d show her how to clean his stick, and she’d no longer need a broomstick to pleasure herself? How could he say such words without any worry?

Lenora seemed unconcerned and told him in her choppy French that he was being rude, rushing her like this.

Clarissa secured the silver beaded dress onto Lenora’s voluptuous body.

Ferrismore said something crude once more. “
Je vais écarter vos jambes si amplement que demain vous ne pourrez plus vous tenir debout sur scène sans osciller.”

Good Lord! This time he was commenting about how wide he’d spread Lenora’s legs tonight and how tomorrow she would be unable to stand on stage with steady legs? How was Lenora not turning a burning shade of red?

For the first time ever, Clarissa’s face heated completely from chin to brow. She hid it so he would be unaware that she spoke French and knew all the little secretive, salacious things he was saying.

Damn him for making her cheeks color.

She stooped over, grabbing Lenora’s shoes so he wouldn’t see what was probably a very obvious scarlet-hued blush.

The man was a fiend.

“Watch out for the protesters outside,” Clarissa told Lenora while she slipped the shoes on without her help.

“They mean nothing to me.” Lenora sniffed, patted Clarissa’s hair like she was a pet and then grabbed a mask she had lying out on the counter.

Clarissa’s stomach tightened as she fought off a laugh. This strike on the theaters was the main reason Lenora was in high demand. The mediocre had risen because the creamy elite—the eloquent and distinguished—had left the stage to balk about better wages, better conditions for actors and their help.

“I do so detest masked parties,” Ferrismore groaned.

“They’re for people like me who have a reputation to protect,” Lenora huffed, then grabbed her hat.

Without a word, Clarissa pinned it in place into the snobby woman’s loose chignon.

Lenora gathered her reticule and her fan and held tight to her mask she’d already been gripping, then moved toward the door as if being carried on an ancient Roman litter.

Her nose was so high in the air the back of her hat almost grazed her shoulders.

“You forgot something,” Ferrismore said, rolling the tip of his shoe over what was undoubtedly another pearl Clarissa had lost.

He wore a fey smile as he handed her the broom he’d still been holding and then scuffed his shoe across the pearl, scraping it toward her.

She scowled and bit back a nasty curse.

“When ere we meet again, you taxing woman, I shall do more than watch you act the part of a consummate tease,” he told Clarissa in French with a glint in his eye.

He shut the door behind them.

She muttered back in the same smooth language, “
Et vous chierez mes perles quand je les fourrerai aux fin fonds de votre gorge, espèce de porc
.”

She went about gathering every last one those beads.

They might be needed later.

She tucked the one with his boot scuffs into her corset, up against her breast. This one she would certainly
not
lose.

* * *

The Vanderbilts’ home was lit up with sparkling lights, and the trees were all aglow.

William’s hand dug into Lenora’s wrist. She was dragging on purpose.

“How long must we be here?” she asked, making it sound like this would be tedious.

“Long enough to secure what I need,” he answered, then quickened his pace.

She stumbled a few times, her heels wobbling.

The woman was nearly as tall as he was in these heels, but with her tight dress, she could barely move her legs.

“You should have worn the other dress,” he said, giving her a cutting look.

“Why in God’s name would I wear a stage costume?” She fingered her mask.

“Because it had a slit, and I plan to have at least the bottom half of your dress up to your waist, ma putain.” He inhaled deeply. God, she smelled atrocious. Like a sweating mess, covered in cloying, spicy perfume.

Now that cherry girl—she smelled good. That frustrating maid’s simple scent was extremely appetizing compared to these noxious fumes Lenora was subjecting him to.

He leaned away a bit, trying to catch a breeze of something better.

“Excuse me,” a man in a simple suit and bowler hat said, passing by them.

He was short and puny, and he walked with a funny sway.

“Why would anyone come to this party in anything other than their best costume?” Lenora asked, wrinkling her nose at the passerby.

“I failed to dress up,” William pointed out.

“Yes, but you are allowed. This is your party.”

“Indeed it is,” he said, nodding, smiling and once more, quickening the pace.

When Lenora stumbled yet again, he picked her up and glared at her. “
Vous êtes très belle. Je ne vous permettrai pas de tomber jusqu'à ce que ce soit sur mon lit.
” He rubbed the tip of his nose along the arch of her cheek.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Do not patronize me. I was too slow for your liking, and you are so randy, you cannot think of anything else but donning your sheath.” She took a breath. “I have no intention of being the place for your manhood to rut in tonight. I am here to socialize and find new friends in the business.”

“This is why I put you on that damnable stage,” he replied, giving her a condemning look, “so I would have a predictable place to ‘rut’ as you’ve so aptly put it.”

“I know, and I will give you what you want after I have seen to the production for over a week, not before.”

He dropped her to her feet. “You’ve only had two performances. You think I plan to wait five more days before I’m in that cunt?” He gripped her arms.

“I’m not a prostitute, Mr. Ferrismore—I’m an actress of the highest caliber,” she said, stiffening and straightening her spine.

He stepped into her, cupped a breast and squeezed as he snarled, “My money is paid for you to do whatever I damn well please, and that makes you the biggest tart around. I pay more for you than any call girl I’ve ever been with.”

“Then maybe you should—”

He leaned in and bit her cheek.

“Ahhhhh!” she yelped, then tried to smack him, but her reticule got tangled in her beading, and instead she fell on her curvy bottom.

She flopped around like a netted fish, screaming at him and calling him a cad.

He hovered over her with his arms crossed over his chest and smirking.

“Help me up, you miserable shit,” she said, reaching for him.

“I rather like you down there. It suits you.” He tilted his hips forward. “Since you are my tart, and I am paying you, I think I should like to test your filthy mouth out.”

“I’ll bite your cock off at the root if you try!”

He nudged her with the toe of his shoe. “Come, come . . . Be a good putain. Open up and say ‘Oh, ee, oh, ah, oh, ihhhhh,’” he sang, mocking her vocal warm-ups before she took to the stage.

“I’ve heard about you!” She pointed at him, and his stomach dropped. The blood drained out of his face. She kept going. “Yes, I know what a sick, deviant man you are! You tie women up in your garden, gag them and treat them worse tha—”

He crouched down and gripped her chin, shoving her mouth closed. “You listen to me, you little whore—I only brought you here to fuck you. I don’t care who else you use to create a temporary career out of. You keep your mouth shut, or I’ll send you back to the gutter where you belong.”

Her eyes misted.