CHAPTER FIVE
The Indecent Proposal
“MISS BEA! MISS BEA! Wake up!”
Sleep had Beatrice in its grip. Holding her down deep, it wouldn’t be shaken off and she was drowning. But not in the sea or the grimy Thames or even the lake at Westerlynne. No, she was lost in a pair of dark blue eyes.
There was no escaping them. And she didn’t want to. Swathed in her dream, and enveloped in heat and sensation, she pressed her soft body to the hard muscled form of a man.
Beatrice’s eyes snapped open as two things impressed themselves upon her.
One was that her maid Polly was leaning over her and shaking her shoulder with far more vigor than most employers would tolerate from their servants.
The second realization brought a furnace of blush to her already warm cheeks. Beneath the covers, her flannel nightgown was bundled around her hips in a twisted, tangled bunch and her right hand was pressed firmly between her thighs.
Damn the man. All his fault. He was debauching her in her dreams now. Heaven help her when …
“Miss Bea! Come on! Please wake up, there’s men in the kitchen!”
“Men in the kitchen? What in goodness’ name do you mean? What men?” Beatrice snatched her fingers from where they’d strayed. Thank heavens for the mound of bedclothes, tucked high up to her chin. She struggled to wake up properly, still blinking at her maid.
“Two men, Miss Beatrice. They just arrived at the area door and Enid let them in. You know how daffy she can be when she’s half-asleep.”
Polly looked flushed, almost as pink in the face as Beatrice imagined herself to be. The young woman’s plain morning cap was sliding awry, as it often did, and one or two wisps of her flaxen hair were already tumbling.
“Arrived for what? What kind of men, Polly?”
A succession of horrid possibilities, all alarming, presented themselves.
When the photographs had first appeared and her notoriety as the Siren had begun, a variety of gentlemen of the lower press had hung around, hoping for a sight of her, or a statement. For a while it had been quite impossible to go out. But then a new sensation had arisen, as they always did, and her journalistic followers had thankfully drifted away, only to be replaced by a threat of another flavor.
Bailiffs!
Oh no, it hadn’t come to this, had it? Just when a solution, however imperfect and insalubrious, had presented itself. And even if it wasn’t the dreaded bailiffs, there’d been some decidedly shady and tough-looking coves loitering in their street the past few days. They didn’t approach in the way the journalists had, but just looked menacing, and Beatrice sorely feared they might be the hirelings of Charlie’s many creditors.
Thoroughly rattled now, Beatrice wriggled her way into a sitting position while at the same time surreptitiously pushing down her nightgown. Erotic fancies must be set aside for the moment in order to deal with hard, cold realities. She just hoped these men could be reasoned with, and persuaded to wait until Ritchie presented his indecent proposal and some money was forthcoming. Reaching for her shawl, though, she was embarrassingly aware that her fingers were somewhat fragrant, and with a scent that Polly would no doubt recognize.
“Have you woken Mr. Charles? I think he’ll want to deal with this.”
He wouldn’t, actually. Charlie would be worse than useless in this situation, and Polly had actually done the sensible thing coming to her first. But she didn’t want to insult her brother’s manhood by coming out and saying he was hopeless.
“No, actually … they … should I say he said to speak to you, Miss Beatrice. The one in charge, that is. He’s brought a letter for you, and he says a reply is expected by return.”
“The one in charge? In charge of whom? What letter?”
Dear heaven, the offer was here already?
And there was only one “man in charge” whose face sprang readily to mind. She could have drawn it in perfect line-for-line detail this very moment. Complete with the narrow wicked smile he’d worn as he dallied with her. The same demonic yet beautiful expression that had been on his face while he’d touched her.
Polly snatched up the tiny silver correspondence tray from the chair beside the bed and presented it as a moment-by-moment memory of all that had occurred last night washed like a waterfall into Beatrice’s mind.
Ritchie’s face. His smile. His hands.
His deep blue eyes, burning like dark coals. The devil!
But even though Edmund Ellsworth Ritchie was only a gentleman of sorts, she couldn’t imagine him being content to wait in the kitchen for her answer to his own letter. Especially not with Cook blathering on at Enid, and the smoky range, and dish cloths and tea cloths all hung up to dry, and the general state of disorder that pervaded a house with not enough servants.
Beatrice grabbed the letter. She had absolutely no shred of doubt it was from him. He was just the type to demand an instant reply. The arrogance of him, all hurry, hurry, hurry, dance to his tune. He wanted to buy her body, on terms to suit him alone, and he wanted the agreement signed, sealed and delivered before she’d had time to entertain first thoughts, never mind second ones. It was a wonder he hadn’t sent a solicitor to notarize the agreement. Maybe one of these men was a lawyer? It wouldn’t surprise her.
Yet now that she had the momentous missive in her hand, she hardly dared crack open its seal, despite the fact that Polly was nearly dancing with curiosity beside the bed. To read the proposal was to make it real. Last night, at the glittering ball, she’d consorted with Ritchie, but now all that seemed like a voluptuous magic-lantern show, as phantasmagorical as the erotic dream from which she’d woken.
This letter represented the cold, sordid fact that she was selling her own flesh to get out of debt. She was an “unfortunate” who was fortunate enough to be desired by a man as rich as Croesus. And the fact that he still excited her was the most disturbing thing of all.
“These men, Poll … how long have they been here? I assume they’re servants, not gentlemen? And if they are gentlemen, what were you thinking not showing them into the parlor?”
“They arrived about five minutes ago, Miss Beatrice. Knocking on the kitchen door … Gave Cook a bit of a start, and before I could stop her, Enid had opened to them. I was going to run round next door for Fred, but it didn’t seem worth it. Either one of them would make ten of him.” Mangling her apron in her hand, Polly seemed to be struck by the same mix of excitement and anxiety that gripped Beatrice. “The fair-haired one said he wouldn’t leave until he had a reply, from your own hand!”
Fair haired? Domineering and bombastic? As the master, so the man … or perhaps one and the same?
But then again, Ritchie wasn’t exactly bombastic. More clever than that, he was a subtle, persuasive libertine, and he’d swept her into scandalous and sensual behavior by dint of making her believe that was what she wanted.
Making her accept, nay, admit that it was what she wanted.
Beatrice set the envelope down on the counterpane and tried to concentrate. What exactly had she said last night?
What did I lead him to expect? Why can’t I remember the precise words?
But it was actions she remembered clearly … and reactions. All else was a delicious, slightly alarming haze. Surely she’d not partaken of all that much champagne? Even the glass of brandy she’d so boldly dashed down had been modest.
It wasn’t the alcohol. If she’d become inebriated, surely she wouldn’t