In the Flesh. Portia Da Costa
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his laudanum-dosed model.
Which left her a virgin, even if not completely naive. Like many women, she suspected, she’d picked up a variety of hints and whispers. Polly liked nothing better than to chatter about scandal and sexual antics, Charlie was sometimes careless with certain items of clandestine literature, and even the Ladies’ Sewing Circle was unexpectedly educational. Beatrice was well aware that games were played, diverse pleasures indulged in, and that in the privacy of their bedchambers, cosmopolitan men and women savored a whole cornucopia of outré entanglements that had little or nothing to do with procreation.
And this was exactly what Ritchie wanted from her. This was what he’d paid twenty thousand guineas for.
“Indeed I do, Mr. Ritchie, indeed I do.” Tentatively, she reached out and touched his thick fair hair. It felt like silk and, without benefit of Macassar oil or lotion, it curled waywardly.
“Ritchie,” he reminded her, straightening up, his teeth white in a wolfish smile, his dark eyes glistening. He was so far from the polished gentleman of last night that he might as well be a different species of creature entirely. Perhaps a perverse and very masculine angel had tumbled to earth in order to tantalize and goad her?
“Very well, Ritchie.” He was still holding her hand as if he owned her. Which he did, of course, now she’d signed the paper.
I’m a whore now. A fallen woman. I’ll never be respectable again and I’ll probably never marry. I’ll be an unmaidenly old maid, typing for others for the rest of my days if Charlie spends all the money.
Sobering thoughts.
“What are you pondering about, Bea?” Ritchie’s eyes were narrowed again, but his expression was paradoxically gentle. “Not having second thoughts, are you?”
“Not at all. I was merely reflecting on my new status.” She looked down at their hands. Ritchie’s was big, but elegantly shaped, and capable, as she knew from experience, of the most delicate mastery. Just thinking about how those fingers had felt between her legs made her anticipate them anew.
“And that is?” He lifted her fingers to his mouth again, the kiss more formal and courtly this time, before releasing her.
Beatrice stiffened her back, trying to ignore the melting, yearning, embarrassingly moist sensation he induced with every simple action. She cast her mind back to their conversation in the study at Lady Southern’s last night. It seemed like an aeon ago. “Well, Ritchie, as of now, I am the wicked woman that everybody believes me to be. I’m a whore.”
The declaration was exhilarating. Liberating. Like a huge rush of pleasure at Ritchie’s hand. Of course, the sensations weren’t quite the same but the excitement was comparable. She’d thrown off a set of metaphysical shackles and could now float free, do anything, feel anything, enjoy anything. Her month with Ritchie could be the grand adventure of a lifetime, if she so chose, not a shameful state into which she’d been maneuvered.
And after that? Who could tell what life might hold with twenty thousand in the bank and an annuity? She certainly wasn’t going to let Charlie get them into a horrible mess this time, that was assured.
She held Ritchie’s gaze throughout the entire revelation. Allowing him the freedom to observe her feelings was a facet of her new understanding, a new kind of power. His slow smile told her he recognized it too.
“Not a whore, Bea. I’d never say that and I’d never believe it.” He stroked his chin for a moment, and fascinated by even his smallest gesture, Beatrice admired the strong line of his jaw. “No, ours is a rational arrangement between two free-thinking adults who recognize a mutually pleasurable and advantageous situation when presented with it.” Such modern talk as he pushed back his jacket and reached into the inner pocket of his rustic jacket. “But if you must label yourself, I suggest you consider ‘courtesan.’“
Courtesan? Infinitely better!
Even to Beatrice’s relatively untutored ears, courtesanship conjured up images of luxury, decadence, sophistication and a state of willingness to be drenched in breathless, sumptuous pleasure.
Her eyes popped wide when Ritchie withdrew his hand from his pocket—revealing a thick bundle of folded white banknotes. For all her new resolve, the sight still shocked her.
But she willed her hand steady as Ritchie held out a portion of her remuneration on account.
Yes, she’d be a courtesan … and revel in it.
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