Page 10 of What a Courtesan Wants
Lucinda was relieved when evening finally came, if only because it would put an end to the mishaps that had overtaken her at every turn. The nerves making her vibrate from within would surely calm once the initial bedding had been accomplished. It didn’t escape her that she felt very much like she had on her wedding night—shaking at the thought of what was to come and knowing it would never be like this first time ever again.
She picked at an early dinner, her stomach twisted in too many knots for her to truly enjoy it. Then, she retreated to her bedchamber, where Mary waited to prepare her for Aubrey. Lucinda had informed her servants that she’d be receiving a visitor three nights a week who was to be shown to her bedchamber directly. She’d also been sure to inform them that speaking of what went on in her household would be grounds for dismissal without a character. That was a little something she’d learned from Magnus—how to throw her weight around as a countess with confidence.
“I am a powerful man, and you belong to me, so that makes you a powerful woman. It means you ought never be afraid to speak or act in my name. I’ve given it to you as a gift. Wield it wisely and proudly.”
That particular lesson had come in handy more often than she had expected, the fear of her husband working as a shield against those who had thought to treat her poorly. Now, her understanding of her own power was enough to keep her staff in line, ensuring she and Aubrey could carry on discreetly.
Mary drew her a hot bath scented with lavender and rose oils, running a comb through her hair while she soaked away the tension in her muscles. She had just left the tub and dried off, and was slipping into a dressing gown when someone scratched at the door. Mary bustled to answer it, turning back with wide eyes to announce that Lucinda’s guest had arrived.
Lucinda whirled toward the door, wondering if it could be nine o’clock already. She thought she had more time, but perhaps she’d lingered in the tub longer than she had realized.
“Let him in and then you may go, Mary,” Lucinda said, clinging to the closed lapels of her dressing gown.
The maid threw open the door, head tipping back as she stared up at the towering figure of Aubrey. He gave Mary an easy smile and murmured a friendly, ‘good evening’, which the maid returned in a high, squeaky voice before dashing out into the corridor and closing the door behind her.
Lucinda’s heart leaped into her throat as she took him in from head to toe, her reaction to his nearness proving as unsettling as it had yesterday. He was dressed in clothing tailored to an exact fit—black trousers accentuating the length of his legs, a navy blue waistcoat with black etching it in a swirling pattern, a bottle green coat that displayed the width of his shoulders, a white cravat crisp and simply tied. Evening stubble had begun to sprout along his jaw, but it only enhanced his allure, calling her gaze to his wide, plush mouth.
“How are you this evening?” Aubrey asked, his gait bringing him to her in a few strides.
For the first time she noticed that he carried a valise, which he set at his feet once he stood before her.
Her curiosity over what might be inside abated when he took her hand and raised it to kiss her knuckles as he had in Mr. Sterling’s office. Only, his eyes didn’t flash with the same molten heat as before, nor did he show any outward sign that seeing her in only her dressing gown affected him at all. It was mildly disappointing.
And that she should care at all was alarming.
“Quite well,” she replied, cursing the way her voice came out, thick and scratchy as if from disuse. “And you?”
“Well enough,” he said, his gaze traveling from her face down to where the belt of her robe was knotted at her waist.
She closed her eyes and forced a deep, slow inhale, reminding herself that she must go through with this. She’d felt dead for two years, and something had to give. She had tried taking up with some of her friends to socialize again, losing herself in books and her daily walks, but the deep melancholy had only gotten worse. Her friends were all people who had known her as Magnus’s wife, and their pitying stares only reminded her that she was now without him, which brought her full circle to grief again. If she didn’t take a step toward forging some kind of life now, she might never do it.
There must be some way to recapture the things that had made her feel alive. Aubrey wasn’t Magnus, but he was skilled and entirely hers for the duration of their arrangement. Shewouldenjoy this.
His fingers were steady and sure as he parted the sides of her robe, a shiver racing through her as his fingertips brushed the sides of her waist. He trailed his hands upward, lightly smoothing over her breasts and up her shoulders before unceremoniously pushing the garment down her arms. Her belly twisted and roiled as his dark gaze roamed over her exposed body, taking stock of every inch of bared skin.
As a younger woman, she’d been embarrassed by her proportions, particularly of the breasts that had made gown fittings a nightmare and the softness of a belly that hadn’t been flat enough for her liking. With age had come an acceptance of her figure as well as her height, and a comfort born of knowing Magnus had loved her as she was. Some of that familiar comfort washed over her now as she noted the hitch in Aubrey’s breath, the appreciative gleam in his eye, and the twitch of the organ against the front of his breeches—all signs that he liked what he saw. Her nipples hardened when his gaze moved over them like a caress, her skin breaking out in goosebumps as he fixated on the thatch of downy blonde curls between her legs.
She stiffened when he reached out, her breath coming out on a sigh when he stroked his knuckles over her naked belly.
“Stunning,” he murmured, glancing up to meet her gaze once more.
His eyes took on a honeyed glint, like a beam of light through prisms of dark amber. For a moment, she caught a glimpse of the man she had first met, the one who had looked at her with desire and masterful promise radiating from his stare. She wanted him back, and wondered if there might be something she could do to provoke him to the surface.
“Before we begin, we ought to discuss a few things,” he said, turning away far too easily for her liking.
He was still fully dressed, and aside from that momentary show of desire, he’d remained stern and detached.
He crouched to lift his valise, carrying it to the bed. When he opened it, she found a variety of familiar tools inside—restraints, plugs, clamps, a riding crop, a leather strap.
Lucinda blinked, struggling to concentrate on his words as she imagined how he might use such implements.
“I’m certain a woman with your experience already has a safe word. If you’d like to come up with a new one for our use, that would be acceptable.”
She’d gone so long without being touched, she doubted he could do anything she’d want him to stop. Nevertheless, she recalled the word with little effort.
“My safe word has always been ‘jasmine’, and I am happy to continue using it.”
“Jasmine it is,” he said, reaching into the valise.
