“Are you sure? Are you really sure?” Ritchie was gasping too, his voice broken as if he’d run a dozen miles without breaking his stride, “A woman like you must be capable of infinite sensuality.”
A woman like you?
As his hands withdrew with a last affectionate pat or two, Beatrice was deposited rudely back into the world of actions and their consequences with a ringing thud. She was angry with Ritchie, but angrier by far with both Eustace and herself.
Mostly with herself. For her own gullibility, and her incautious pursuit of a little affection. If she’d been more prudent, she wouldn’t even have got herself into the start of this trouble.
Finding her feet, she wriggled away, and as her skirts swished down into place again she smoothed them compulsively with her hands. But no amount of smoothing and patting could wipe away what had just happened underneath them.
“You can’t behave as if that didn’t just happen, you know.” He looked at her, long and hard, his eyes dancing. “I have the evidence.” In a slow, lascivious action, he raised his right hand to his lips, and licked the very fingertips that had stroked her so thoroughly. “Mmm … delicious. I could become addicted.”
“You’re disgusting, Mr. Ritchie.” Beatrice strode across to the sideboard, where a silver tray bore decanters and crystal glasses. It was the first time she’d ever helped herself to alcohol in the way men customarily did, but the aromatic bite of a fine brandy might calm her nerves. She stared at Ritchie over the crystal rim of the vessel, and what she noticed made her grin before she took a revivifying sip.
A vivid red bite mark adorned his neck, just above his crisp high collar, and he still sported a prodigious erection.
Serves you right! I hope it’s exceedingly uncomfortable. Because I’m not going to do anything about it.
“You could help with this.” He glanced down, following her look, his long lashes flicking. “I’m sure you know what to do.”
“Of course I do, Mr. Ritchie, but I’m afraid I’m not going to oblige you at the moment.” Clopping down the glass on the tray, Beatrice swept across the room and retrieved her forgotten fan, reticule and dance card. She half anticipated that her antagonist would intercept her with one of his preternatural bursts of speed, but he remained where he was, and when she reached the door, he even stepped aside. “You’ve had your sample, and there’ll be nothing further until I see an … an offer in writing. With no assets and no good reputation, I’ve got to be sure of what I’m getting before I give anything more in return.”
Ritchie shook his head, but the expression on his face was as much about admiration as it was of thwarted lust. “You’re a shrewd businesswoman, Beatrice.” He rubbed his neck where she’d bitten him as if silently adding a few other choice descriptors. “In your place, I’d do exactly the same. You’ll have a letter tomorrow.”
So easy? Yes, she supposed so. The formal particulars were the least of it. The very least.
“Excellent. Good. I’ll look forward to it.” She turned the key, grabbed the doorknob and swung open the door, her heart thudding. A few moments ago, this wretched man had gasped as if he’d been running, now she felt as if she’d done the fabled run from Marathon too. And probably back again. “I’ll bid you good-night, Mr. Ritchie. I think it’s time I went home. I’m feeling rather fatigued and need to rest.”
Barely pausing to accept his elaborate bow, and not wanting to see his mocking smile, Beatrice rushed out into the corridor, pulling the door closed behind her with a loud slam. Impolite behavior, she admitted, but after what had happened in that room just now, the natural boundaries of polite, acceptable behavior were redefined forever.
Would he follow? She hesitated just a second or two, but the door remained closed. Much for the best, she supposed, but in that case why did her heart sink inside her with crushing disappointment?
What have I done? Oh dear God in heaven, what have I done?
Between her thighs, right at her core, she felt his touch.
The corridor was silent, but in her head, she heard Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie laughing.
CHAPTER FOUR
In the Pale Moonlight
CHARLIE WEATHERLY BREATHED deep as he exited onto the moonlit terrace and made his way, somewhat shakily, down the broad steps that led to the garden.
His head was whirling, and his heart beating. This evening was not turning out to be satisfactory at all. Not at all. He’d spent a large part of his time avoiding a couple of fellows from his club to whom he owed a considerable amount of money, and to cap it all, instead of behaving with suitable decorum, and attempting to mend her shattered reputation and conduct herself as a suitable young lady for marriage, Bea had been quite clearly seen in conversation with that wretched ladies’ man, Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie.
The man was as disreputable as he was rich and Charlie would have been prepared to overlook the former for the sake of the latter, if Ritchie wasn’t known to be sworn against further marriages. There were mutterings about not one, but two wives lost already. Hints of mysterious circumstances and nefariousness, but all no doubt hushed up due to the blackguard’s obscene wealth.
Charlie frowned, longing for the taste of brandy, even though he was unsteady enough on his feet already. A card game would be a nice distraction too, even if he was likely to lose again.
All that remained was a cigarette. A mild vice, but it calmed his nerves all the same. Pausing to extract his silver case and light a gasper, he turned briefly and realized that, mired in his troubles, he’d walked a considerable way from the terrace and had ended up almost lost amongst a stand of laburnum bushes.
I should be looking out for Bea. I should be protecting her and sheltering her and steering her away from the likes of Ritchie, and that viper Eustace Lloyd before him. She needs a good man with a bit of money, and a proper home and children. It’s no good we two rattling around at South Mulberry Street together. The house is far too costly to maintain, and we’re getting on each other’s nerves.
Poor Bea. He loved her dearly, and his own guilt made him impatient with her. His sister’s nature was warm and wild, and he loved her for that. But it didn’t make her marriageable. Even her undeniable beauty couldn’t offset the trouble she’d got herself into, posing for those photographs. If only she’d named Lloyd in public as the photographer, they might have had some redress. But she wouldn’t do that, claiming that what was done was done. And because the pair had never been officially engaged, there was no question of breach of promise either.
And now a new set of rumors about her and Ritchie would be circulating. Charlie had seen the eyes of the gossips following the two of them, and the whispered exchanges. Women would be fluttering furiously over the china tea and shortbread during their at-homes in the next few days, and men in clubs all over London would pick over the story while they shuffled cards and consumed brandy and roast beef, weaving salacious fantasies of his sister being debauched by that whoreson Ritchie. He’d already heard murmured asides this very evening about her “moving on to pose in another bed.”
If I’d any guts I’d have shot Eustace Lloyd! One minute he’s as good as proposed to Bea, the next minute she’s not good enough because she posed naked for his camera. Goddammit, he’s the one who sold the photographs anonymously, even if he claims otherwise, and now poor old Bea’s the one who’s ended up alone and ruined.
Charlie’s cigarette tip glowed red as he stood in the shadows, dragging on the thing as if he could suck in good fortune with each breath, and then exhale his self-loathing for not defending his sister better.
After a few moments, the nicotine and the moonlight settled him, and as vague plans and resolutions circled in his head, his