Page 20 of What a Courtesan Wants
A muscle in his jaw ticked, nostrils flaring as he seemed to wrestle with his anger. Lucinda suppressed a shiver as she imagined him unleashing the emotion onto her with a few well-placed slaps against her buttocks and thighs, then bending her over and fucking her until he was spent of both his passion and his wrath and lust. She cursed herself for the little flutter that occurred between her legs at the thought.
“Indeed,” he snapped, leaning against the sideboard and crossing his arms over his chest. “I would think you might at least have had the decency to tell me yourself why you suddenly find me so repugnant.”
Lucinda winced as the impact of each word fell on her like a bludgeon. Guilt she did not wish to feel lanced through her, sharp and poignant.
“It isn’t you … I asked Benedict to tell you that—”
“Because I was hardly worth the time it would take for you to tell me yourself.”
Indignation began to well up in her, but she pushed it back down, aware that the man was entitled to his feelings.
“Aubrey, I realize how you must feel—”
“No, you don’t!”
She flinched when his voiced raised slightly, the muscles beneath his clothes rippling as he pushed away from the sideboard and approached. Lucinda stiffened, but didn’t back away when he loomed over her, eyes simmering like hot coals.
“You’ve no idea how it feels to attempt to connect with someone on even the most basic and primal level and find yourself rebuffed at every turn. Or what it is to try to show someone kindness or empathy only to have them act as if they cannot be bothered with either. None of you do!”
She opened her mouth to reply, but something he’d said gave her pause.
None of you do.
Had a previous keeper treated Aubrey as she had? The notion only made her feel worse.
“It was never my intention to offend you,” she offered feebly. “As I said, the fault lies entirely with me. You did everything I asked of you, and I am grateful.”
“Yet somehow it wasn’t enough,” he muttered, shaking his head as if disgusted with her. That stung, when compared to the fire that had been in his eyes the first time they’d met. “It doesn’t matter, though, does it? I might have a fifteen-inch cock, or the stamina to fuck you until you faint, or the power to make you climax with a single touch, and still it wouldn’t be enough. Not one of you ever wants anything more than a few rough and fast tumbles so you can go whisper to your friends about all the ways you’ve had me.”
“Now wait just a minute!” Lucinda exploded. “I certainly never intended to go whispering to anyone about you. I had no knowledge of you until that night at Millicent’s party. Knowing you were an experienced master is what appealed to me, because there are so few of them here, and it had been so long since I’d …”
She pressed her lips together to stifle the rest. He did not need to be privy to just how badly she had craved the things Magnus had once given her.
“And yet for all your claiming to want an experienced dominant, you were never willing to actually submit.”
“I … I’m sorry,” she whispered, unable to think of anything else to say. It was pitiful, and she knew it, but all the other things she might say to explain herself had lodged in her throat, creating some sort of barrier. She could hardly speak as it was, nor could she overcome her shame long enough to meet his piercing gaze.
“You need not waste your breath apologizing to me,” he countered, footsteps thudding heavy across the carpet as he made for the door. “Though, you may offer your regrets to Benedict and David for wasting their time. I am done allowing you to waste mine.”
With that, he was gone—pulling the door closed with a quiet ‘click’ rather than acting on his anger and slamming it.
Lucinda released a heavy rush of breath once he was gone, collapsing into a nearby armchair. Her heart had taken up a rapid cadence, her belly churning so violently she feared her sherry might make a reappearance. Pressing a hand to her middle, she swallowed around the sensation of nausea, as well as the unspoken words she’d been unable to form. He had deserved an explanation, but she had failed. It would serve her right for him to go on thinking the worst of her when she’d given him no reason to think any different. However, a sudden determination gripped her, and she rose from her chair, needing to at least explain herself. She’d never get rid of the roiling sensation in her gut unless she made an attempt to smooth things over.
Chapter 6
“The Duchess of A was seen wearing a most beautiful ensemble to the theater last evening, along with her signature ropes of cascading pearls. And now every half-wit woman in London thinks she’d look so fine draped in so many garlands of them. In case you were wondering, ladies … no, you do not look so well in them. You are no Duchess of A.”
-The London Gossip,27 August 1819
Aubrey offered a cordial nod to the client departing from Rowland-Drake with an India shawl and two pairs of kid gloves, before turning his attention to the apprentices hoisting a heavy bolt of fabric up a ladder and into its designated wall slot. The silver muslin interwoven with gleaming silver threads had arrived along with a new shipment just that morning, so the boys had cleared a space for it to be displayed prominently in the center of the fabric wall, removing an old bolt of nearly spent striped silk.
The bell above the door rang for the umpteenth time, making Aubrey want to grit his teeth. He had the devil of a headache and his nerves were frayed beyond belief, but the sound of the bell and the constant influx of people in and out of the shop were both welcome and needed. It had taken a year to drum up this much business after their relocation from Cheapside, and there had been even more of an increase once the warehouse also began operating as a haberdasher—offering all the trimmings for garments along with the cloth to make them. At long last, Aubrey could see the fruits of his labors paying off, which offered him hope that the expansion into the neighboring building would only make the business continue to flourish. Just that morning, he’d arrived a few hours earlier than was his custom to pore over his ledgers in preparation to pay quarterly wages. To his surprise, he’d found that even after his most recent order of materials for the renovation, a fresh batch of silks and block-printed cottons, as well as a slew of accessories and trimmings, Rowland-Drake still had quite a bit of capital to see them through until next quarter.
That was, if he could keep from dipping into their profits to pad his personal finances. He was not yet confident enough to begin living on the business’ profits, thus the need for another keeper. The reminder of that had his mouth pulling into a tight frown as he thought of Lucinda. A week ago, he had thought his circumstances improved by what promised to be a long-term arrangement. Now, he was faced with finding another keeper yet again. Only this time he couldn’t muster any feeling but exasperation at the thought of having to go through it all again. Could he make himself care or even pretend to show interest in a new client? Where in the beginning he’d been willing to do whatever it took to secure Elizabeth’s future, he now found himself wondering if it was time to step away.
Perhaps Benedict was right, and all he needed was a respite. The other men often took weeks or months at a time to enjoy their freedom before inevitably being shackled to a new keeper—not that any of them seemed to mind the shackling. He was the only courtesan who had gone through so many keepers, and who seldom rested between them. Just now, he couldn’t muster the motivation to even think of taking the first step toward securing a new arrangement.
Aubrey snapped out of his reverie as one of his apprentices slipped on the ladder, nearly dropping the heavy bolt of muslin onto his companion’s head. Aubrey moved swiftly, sweeping out one arm to snatch the fabric out of the air, biceps straining as he hoisted it over one shoulder, while using his other hand to snatch the boy off the ladder and set him on his feet.
