Rushed to the Altar (26 page)

Clarissa listened, wide-eyed in her turn. The world was full of tricksters, it seemed. And she was no better and no worse than the rest. “So, how do I achieve the opposite, Trudy?”

“Simple enough.” Trudy got to her feet. “I’ll be back in a moment.”

“Have either of you ever done that?” Clarissa asked after the other woman had left. “Pretended to be virgins?”

“Oh, I did, once,” Maddy said. “At first I wanted to laugh so hard, instead of gasping and shrieking so that
they think it hurts, but then I remembered my real first time, and that made it easier.” Her expression darkened, her usually merry eyes suddenly shadowed by memory. “He was a brute.”

Emily laid a sympathetic hand on her knee. “I was luckier. Mother Griffiths sold my virginity in an auction, but the man who bought it was a real gentleman. He kept me as an exclusive for a year after that.”

Clarissa began to wonder how she had spun her tale of hardship to Jasper so glibly when the true tales were so filled with suppressed pain and horror. She looked up with relief as Trudy came back into the chamber.

“You just use this,” she said, holding out a slim pointed object.

Clarissa took it and looked at it blankly. “What is it?”

All three stared at her. “It’s a dildo. Have you never seen one before?” Maddy asked.

She shook her head. “What does it do?”

“Use your imagination,” Trudy told her briskly. “You need to break the maidenhead . . .”

“With this?” She turned the slender object around. It was made of ivory, very smooth and cool. “I put it . . .”

“Yes, exactly,” Maddy said. “One quick thrust and it’ll be over. It’ll hurt, but at least you’ll be doing it to yourself.”

“Unless you want me to do it for you.” Trudy held out her hand. “It’ll take but a second.”

Clarissa shook her head. “No . . . no, thank you. I appreciate the offer, Trudy, but I’d rather do it myself.”

“Then we’ll leave you to get on with it.” Trudy went to the door. “Come on, ladies, Mother’s on the prowl and she’s going to want to know why we aren’t in the salon.”

The other two followed her to the door. Emily hung back long enough to murmur a whispered “Good luck” before closing the door behind them.

Clarissa examined the ivory dildo. She drank another glass of Madeira, and then she climbed onto the bed.

Chapter Thirteen
 

There was very little blood, Clarissa was relieved to discover, and really very little pain, just a quick stab. She expected to feel a sense of loss, of finality at the change she had made in herself, but amazingly she fell asleep quickly once it was done, and to her astonishment slept deeply and dreamlessly until an hour after sunrise. She awoke filled with a pleasant languor, her limbs heavy and relaxed in the featherbed, wondering why she felt a sense of anticipation, a strange thrill of excitement.

And then she remembered. She sat up against the pillows and peered at the clock on the mantel. Eight o’clock already. She rarely slept so late, but then the house was deadly quiet around her and there was still little noise from the street below, so perhaps it wasn’t surprising, particularly after the excitements of the previous night.

She got out of bed and stood up slowly, tentatively taking a step towards the washstand. She felt no different this morning, just a slight soreness, and that would be eased by a hot bath. It seemed to have been weeks
since she’d had that luxury. She contemplated the bellpull, but then thought of some poor maid hauling endless jugs of hot water upstairs to fill the copper tub in front of the fire and decided that in good conscience she couldn’t expect it. But one jug of hot water wasn’t too much to ask. She pulled the rope.

It was answered surprisingly quickly. “You rang, miss?”

“Yes.” She smiled at the young girl standing hesitantly in the doorway. “Could you bring me a jug of hot water, and some hot chocolate, perhaps, and some breakfast?”

The girl nodded and vanished, reappearing in ten minutes with a steaming jug that she set on the dresser. “I’ll fetch up that breakfast now.” She disappeared again.

Clarissa pulled her chemise over her head and poured water into the basin. She dipped the washcloth and sponged herself from head to toe. There were smears of blood on her inner thighs but no other visible evidence of her lost maidenhead. The girl came in with a breakfast tray and immediately went to rekindle the fire.

Clarissa slipped into her chamber robe and poured hot chocolate in a fragrant stream into a delicate china cup. Thirty-two King Street was undeniably a den of iniquity, but it provided a most elegant and charming environment for the sinning. She had no reason to believe that Half Moon Street would be any less so.

Her father would turn in his grave if he knew she was about to become a kept woman, the mistress of a
philandering earl, and about to keep his son and heir hidden in the earl’s love nest to boot. But there was no safer place for Francis. He would be under the earl’s protection as much as she was, although Jasper would not know whom he was protecting. Luke would never think to look for his wards under his very nose in the center of fashionable London. And the idea that his niece was the mistress of the Earl of Blackwater was so farfetched there were no circumstances in which it could enter his head.

Today had to be devoted to Jasper, to the business of becoming his mistress. The prospect sent shivers up her spine, part terror, part thrill . . . or were the two indistinguishable? However deeply she looked into her soul, she could find not the slightest reservation over the step she was about to take. Maybe she was truly a harlot at heart after all. The thought brought a grin to her face until she reflected that while she had taken care of the physical obstacle to a nonvirgin state, she had no idea how to behave, harlot at heart or not. She had no idea what a woman experienced in the ways of lust would do or say. Surely it would be obvious to any experienced man what a novice she was?

Then she told herself there was no point worrying about something she could do nothing about. She would just have to rely on instinct, and hope that some things were simply ingrained from birth and would come naturally. She had to keep her eye on the reason for this deception. One more day, and she would have Francis out of that cesspit.

But what if something happened to him in this one day? She felt the familiar nut of anxiety in her chest, a ripple of nausea in her belly. She couldn’t think like that. She
mustn’t
think like that. One false move today and all would be lost. She had to keep her eyes and her mind on the goal and somehow present the man who was about to become her protector with an untrammeled countenance and a light heart.

But she was no longer hungry for her breakfast when she looked at the boiled eggs and bread and butter. She could think only of her little brother making do with a small piece of gingerbread given him by a kindly itinerant packman.

One more day, Francis. One more day.
She imagined that with a sheer effort of will she could project her thoughts across London to Francis’s wretched attic. Somehow he would hear her promise that he had only to hold on for one more day.

The earl’s coachman arrived punctually at ten that morning. Clarissa was just closing her small portmanteau when Mistress Griffiths came into her chamber. “So, are you ready to leave us, my dear?”

“I believe I have everything, ma’am.” She turned to face the woman. “I thank you for your hospitality, Mistress Griffiths.”
Not that she hadn’t paid for it,
she thought, but kept the thought to herself.

“Not at all, my dear.” Nan ran an experienced eye over
her. “Good, you’re wearing the gown Jasper gave you. I would offer you the sprig muslin, but I doubt you’ll need it. Blackwater is generous to a fault, and you’ll have no need of something so plain.”

Clarissa was under no illusion that Nan would really have parted with the sprig muslin. The sale was complete and she’d been paid for her part in it; there was no need to be overly generous. The gown would remain to dress up some other innocent for the right customer. She merely smiled and adjusted the set of her hat in the mirror.

“I would like to make my farewells to Emily and the others. They were very kind to me.”

“You’ll be kind to them if you leave them to their rest,” Nan declared. “But you’re welcome to visit anytime. My door is always open to you, and if you need any advice, I am always here. Don’t hesitate should there be any issues that you are perhaps a little uncomfortable with or uncertain about. I know his lordship well and can advise you to good effect when it comes to pleasing him.”

“I don’t doubt it, ma’am.” Clarissa’s smile was neutral. “And I promise I won’t hesitate to take advantage of your kind offer should the need arise.” She picked up her portmanteau.

“And when his lordship tires of you, there’ll always be a place for you here,” Nan reassured her as she escorted her to the door. The steward took her portmanteau and carried it to the carriage. He gave it to the coachman,
who stood at the open carriage door, then offered Clarissa a half salute and returned to the house, closing the door to 32 King Street on its erstwhile occupant.

Clarissa climbed into the carriage, where a hot brick and the fur-edged lap robe awaited. The coachman put her portmanteau onto the opposite seat, closed the door, and the carriage moved off at a brisk clip. Clarissa leaned forward to look out of the window as they crossed the Great Piazza and passed through the surrounding streets of Covent Garden. She would be back, she was certain, but not as a supplicant. She would be back to attend the theatre and the opera with the rest of fashionable London. She would be back on the arm of the fifth Earl of Blackwater. Again she was aware of that little prickle of excitement along her spine.

Half Moon Street was a small, pretty street running between Curzon Street and Piccadilly. It was in the heart of fashionable London and yet seemed like an oasis as Clarissa stepped down from the carriage. She could hear the bustle of Piccadilly behind her, and see a carriage bowling down Curzon Street just ahead of her, but she stood on a quiet street lined with narrow houses. Most of the windows were graced with boxes displaying autumn greenery.

A man stepped out of a house across the street. He doffed his hat and bowed to Clarissa as he walked towards Piccadilly. A maid was polishing the brass on a house two doors down. A small boy with a nursemaid came from the direction of Green Park. He was bowling
a hoop along the side of the street and Clarissa saw Francis doing the same thing. Francis playing in Green Park, bowling a hoop, sailing a toy boat on the pond. She blinked rapidly and resolutely turned back to the door of the house, where the coachman was banging the shining brass knocker.

The door opened the instant Clarissa reached it. “Good morning, Mistress Ordway.” A young maidservant curtsied. “We was expectin’ you. His lordship said as how you’d be along afore noon.” She stepped back, allowing Clarissa entrance into a small square hall. A narrow staircase rose from the rear.

“You must be Sally.” Clarissa smiled at her.

“Aye, ma’am.” Sally was regarding her with ill-concealed curiosity. “Should I show you around the house?”

“Yes, if you please. But I should like to meet the housekeeper first.” Clarissa wondered if she should consider the conspicuously absent greeting from the woman responsible for the smooth running of the household some kind of a statement on her own parlous social position. She drew off her gloves, looking around the well-appointed entryway.

“Oh, Mistress Newby’s having a bit of a barney with the butcher, ma’am. Trying to pass off a piece of scrag end for best end of neck, he was. Should ’ave known better,” Sally confided cheerfully. “No one can put one over on Mistress Newby. I’ll just show you what’s what down ’ere, and then we’ll go upstairs. Mistress Newby’ll be along as soon as she’s told off the butcher.”

“I’ll be leaving Mistress Ordway’s portmanteau ’ere then, Sally.” The coachman set the valise down inside the door. “If that’ll be all, ma’am.” He touched his forehead in a half salute in Clarissa’s general direction.

“Yes, thank you.” Clarissa dismissed him with a smile. This was all familiar ground and she was already beginning to feel like herself again, in charge of her own establishment. She may not have known how to behave like a whore, but she did know how to conduct herself in these circumstances.